The Meetings Where I Learned to Measure Myself
I didn’t doubt my worth because I lacked it—I doubted it because the room kept changing the rules.
Workplace racism rarely announces itself.
It doesn’t usually arrive with slurs or slammed doors. It arrives dressed as professionalism. As “fit.” As feedback that sounds reasonable until you’re the one carrying it home.
I learned early that the rules were not written down.
That I needed to be excellent before being heard. That passion required softening. That confidence needed disclaimers. That mistakes would cost me more than they cost others.
So I measured myself carefully.
My tone. My pace. My facial expressions during meetings where my ideas were praised—after someone else said them.
I learned how to speak without sounding threatening. How to lead without intimidating. How to disagree without being labeled difficult.
I watched colleagues fail loudly and recover easily. I learned to succeed quietly and stay alert.
Workplace racism doesn’t always tell you no.
Sometimes it tells you almost.
Almost ready. Almost polished. Almost a good fit for leadership. Almost—but not quite—what they’re looking for.
And the moving target is the point.
I was told to be myself—just not that much.
To bring my perspective—but not my full history.
To lead authentically—as long as authenticity didn’t make anyone uncomfortable.
So I split.
The version of me that prepared twice as long. The version that documented everything. The version that stayed calm while being questioned in ways that weren’t about the work.
It’s exhausting to constantly prove that you belong in a room you were invited into.
Over time, my body started to notice what my resume couldn’t fix.
The tight jaw during performance reviews. The shallow breathing before presentations. The fatigue that didn’t come from the workload—but from vigilance.
I told myself it was just stress.
But stress doesn’t ask you to erase parts of yourself to survive.
What finally shifted wasn’t a policy change or a diversity statement.
It was clarity.
The realization that the discomfort wasn’t personal insecurity—it was structural pressure.
That needing to code-switch constantly is not growth. That over-preparing is not confidence. That shrinking is not professionalism.
Workplace racism teaches you to doubt your thirst.
To accept less recognition. To tolerate unequal standards. To normalize the ache of always being evaluated differently.
Unlearning it has been an act of self-respect.
I stopped internalizing every critique. Stopped assuming misunderstanding was my failure. Stopped treating survival strategies as character flaws.
Water doesn’t apologize for taking the shape it needs to move.
Neither do I anymore.
I still care about my work. I still show up prepared. But I no longer confuse endurance with belonging.
Belonging does not require self-erasure.
And if a room demands you become smaller to stay—that room is not measuring excellence.
It is measuring compliance.
Now, when I feel that old tightness return, I pause.
I drink water. I ground myself in what I know to be true.
My value is not conditional. My presence is not a favor. And my competence does not need translation.
This is what I’ve learned:
The problem was never my professionalism.
It was the system asking me to survive it quietly.
And choosing not to internalize that—choosing to remain whole—is its own kind of resistance.
A quiet one. A steady one. A sip at a time.