The Story I Haven’t Told (Until Now)

I was 12 years old.
Fifth grade.
And someone suggested I skip a grade.

It felt like a big deal.
A recognition of something inside me—potential, readiness, maybe even brilliance.
But my mother said no.

She had her reasons, and in hindsight, they were good ones:
I was young for my grade.
The social repercussions in a small school could be damaging.
And she knew better than to throw her daughter into a world she wasn’t ready for—just because she could.

Bravo to her for that wisdom.

But to keep me engaged, the school came up with a creative solution:
They made me assistant to the school secretary.

And that changed everything.

The Joy of Being Seen

Her name was Mrs. Roderick.
She was kind. Patient. Direct. And she gave me a glimpse into a world that felt expansive and adult.

She taught me how to type.
How to answer phones.
How to make the morning announcements (which, in retrospect, was probably my first unofficial keynote).
She trusted me with real tasks. Real responsibility.
And I absolutely loved it.

Every day, I looked forward to that one period in the front office.

It was my first taste of what it felt like to be seen for who I was becoming, not just who I was.

The Comment That Changed Me

We didn’t eat dinner as a family often—my mom ran a restaurant, my dad worked shifts at the paper mill—but one night, we were all around the table.

And I was glowing.
Excitedly sharing stories about my time with Mrs. Roderick.
How I was answering the phones, doing announcements, typing memos—beaming with pride.

And then came the response:

“Don’t you think you’re getting a little too big for your britches?
You know the other kids don’t get to do this.”

I was stunned.

The air left the room.
The joy left my body.
And in that moment, I learned something that would shape me for years to come:

It’s safer to keep the good stuff to yourself.
Because your light might make someone else uncomfortable.

The Imprint We Carry

That night at the dinner table wasn’t dramatic.
There was no yelling, no punishment.
Just a passing comment—one of those subtle, seemingly small moments that sink deep.

And like so many high-achieving women I now coach, I carried that imprint forward:

• Celebrate quietly.
  
  
• Don’t outshine anyone.
  
  
• Diminish your joy to protect other people’s comfort.
  
  

It would take decades—and a whole lot of unlearning—to reclaim my full voice.

What Story Shaped Yours?

We all have a story like this.

A moment when we were too much.
Or too fast.
Or too proud.
A moment when someone we loved or looked up to couldn’t hold our shine—and we learned to turn the dial down.

But here’s what I want you to know:

Your voice is not a liability. It’s your leadership.

And the stories that shaped your silence don’t have to write your future.

So I’ll leave you with this:

What story shaped your voice?
And what would it look like to reclaim the part of you that got quiet too soon?

Hit reply. Share it with me. Or simply write it down for yourself.

Because the moment you name it…
You start to take your voice back.

And there’s nothing “too big for your britches” about that.