Disclaimer:  I haven’t read Sheryl Sandberg‘s book, “Lean In,” although I plan to.  (Seriously.) I have read a little about her book, although I am put in mind of my friend the late and very great journalist Marjorie Williams, who said that, as a general rule, advice about parenting from very rich women is not actually relevant to my life or any other ordinary person’s life. So when I tell you that I think Sandberg is right about women lacking the self-confidence or the willingness to lean into their careers, you have to take into account the fact that I know very little about what I’m talking about.

Not that I would let that get in the way of having an opinion.

With that said — I think Sandberg is right.  I think we as women do step back. We do tend to take the seat against the wall instead of at the table, and we certainly do not raise our voices. (Because we may wind up like New York City Council Speaker and mayoral front-runner Christine Quinn, with a front page story in yesterday’s The New Your Times about her “vicious” temper. For which she does not apologize. The hussy!)

I think Sandberg is right to encourage women to speak up, and to dream big, and to ignore the old notions of what it means to be a nice girl.  I think she’s right to encourage our husbands to take on more responsibilities at home, and to encourage our older male colleagues at work to become our mentors. (I don’t know if Sandberg mentions any of the other reasons women aren’t leaning in. Like not having access to high-quality childcare, strong public schools, rational mass transit systems, comprehensive health insurance, and a living wage.) I hope my teenagers, boy and girl both, will read the book and lean in until they fall over.

Here’s what I trip over, though: things don’t always work out the way you thought they would.

I used to lean in. And I was very lucky — I had everything Sandberg says women need to lead. Both of my parents, but my father especially, had the highest expectations for all their children, their two daughters as much as their two sons. I’m at the tail end of the baby boom, freed by my older sisters in the women’s movement from diminished dreams and lowered expectations.  I went to law school without enduring the scorn of professors or students, and graduated with job offers from some of the largest and most prestigious law firms in the country — unlike the former Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O’Conner, who graduated from Stanford in the 1950s and was turned down by over 40 firms.  Partners at my firm encouraged my ambitions and all of my mentors were men. They treated me with tremendous respect and afforded me many opportunities.

Here’s an example. I worked with a partner on a big project for a Fortune 500 company.  At one point, the CEO summoned the partner to New York for a meeting. The guy said that I was coming too, at which the CEO balked.  My colleague told him that if he only wanted to meet with one lawyer, it should be me.  He said, “She’s the one who knows what she’s talking about here, not me.”  He totally stepped up for me.  And he wasn’t the only one.  My husband was then, as he is now, totally supportive. I was so totally going to make partner.

And then: biology.  I hated being pregnant. I was so unhappy I spoke with my doctors about resources for postpartum depression, certain that I would pose a threat to the baby and to myself.  But after he was born — and out of me! — I was absolutely flattened by this tsunami of love for my son (even though I didn’t know what a tsunami was at the time.) I went back to work after about four months but I was more interested in pumping breast milk than meeting with clients. The idea of being a partner in a law firm seemed as ridiculous to me as becoming a space alien.

I was sure I’d get over it.  I went to law school at night, and I worked so hard for my J.D. I was almost 40 when my son was born, and I’d been working since I was 16.  Why would I throw away that education? Who would I be if I wasn’t working? When our son was 18 months old, my husband was promoted and we moved to New Jersey.  I said I’d stay home for a couple of years.  I’d get settled, find childcare, figure out the logistics of living in a new place.

I never went back.  I couldn’t.  I didn’t want to.  I never thought I’d be the woman I’ve become, but I did.  Not because I gave in to society’s expectations.  Not because that’s all my parents ever thought I’d be.  Not because I didn’t have the right education or good mentors or a supportive husband.  Not because I was afraid to lean in.  But because I didn’t want to lean that way any more.

Sandberg says that success is making the best choices we can, and then accepting them. She’s right.