Proud of Me (And Her)

I wasn't always the person who could walk into a room, shake hands, make conversation, and speak up with confidence.

In fact, I used to be the opposite. As a kid, I was happiest in the corner, doing puzzles by myself, perfectly content with my own company. And then, in the early 2000s, I moved to New York for an internship, expecting Friends but instead finding myself in a real-life social experiment called networking for a living.

Back then, you didn't hear many British accents bouncing around New York, especially not mine. I'd barely landed when I got thrown into my first networking mixer, the kind where everyone confidently introduces themselves while balancing a cocktail and a business card. My boss, this very New Yorker type, loud, fast-talking, the kind of guy who'd probably make a great real estate agent one day (which, fun fact, he did)—gave me exactly one piece of direction:

"Go speak to people."

That was it. No training, no safety net, just me, a room full of strangers, and the creeping realisation that I hated this.

I tried. I really did. But it was loud, the kind of loud where you're practically yelling but still not being heard. I'd open my mouth, say something (probably awkward), and get drowned out by the sheer volume of the room. And the thing that really struck me? Nobody needed to talk to me. What did I have to offer?

After about 15 minutes of what I'd generously call "networking," I went and hid in the toilets. Just stood there, staring at my reflection, thinking, I hate this job. I want to go home.

But back then, you didn't get to opt out.

This was long before people cared about introverts in the workplace, or creating psychologically safe spaces, or making accommodations for different communication styles. You were either loud enough to be heard, or you weren't.

And if you weren't? 

Learn. Or sink.

So, I learned.

Not immediately. Not without many, many more painfully awkward conversations. But I figured out how to introduce myself, how to hold my own, how to find my way in rooms where I didn't naturally belong. I didn't become a confident person overnight. I built it, one uncomfortable interaction at a time.

And now? Now I need this voice to do my job.

But here's the truth: it's still a muscle I have to flex. It's still a skill, not something that just magically exists.

Because even now, as I am iChicago for work this week, there are moments when I feel that flicker of doubt.

When the room is loud, when the voices are fast and sharp, when I know my perspective is different from the dominant one, I still get that 15-30 second window—the moment where I weigh up whether to say something.

It's not fear exactly. It's more this urge to make sure I'm not misunderstood, to be crystal clear, to land my point in a way that actually resonates. Because there is nothing worse than being dismissed with a casual 

'I don't get what you're saying'.

And the truth is, nobody in the room probably even notices this internal back-and-forth.

But I do.

Because it still takes work.

That's why, sitting here in Chicago, I keep thinking about that younger version of me. The one who hid in the New York bathroom, who didn't know how to raise her voice over the crowd, who had no idea what she was doing.

She is still a part of me.

But the difference is, I don't let her stop me anymore.

I'm proud of her for pushing through, even when she didn't have a manual.

And I'm proud of me for still doing it now.