​Hoodie in a Boardroom

The lift smells like aftershave and panic./ My badge flips the wrong way round. Of course it does./ I’ve got a hoodie on under a blazer/ like I’m trying to smuggle myself past security./

Boardroom: glass table, iced water nobody drinks,/ that one plant that’s been surviving out of spite./ Everyone’s laptop is already open like they’re braced for impact./ Someone says my name like it’s a question./

I can feel the hoodie strings on my wrists/ when I reach for the clicker./ Tiny reminder: hi. still you./

They start with the usual—/ “alignment”/ “narrative”/ “moving parts”/ like we’re building a spaceship/ and not just trying to sell a thing without dying inside./

And I’m sitting there thinking,/ if I say “yeah” instead of “yes, absolutely,”/ does my career evaporate?/

A guy’s pen keeps clicking./ Not even angry clicking./ Just… metronome clicking./ Tick-tick-tick, like time is money and I’m spending it wrong./

Someone says, “Love the energy.”/ Which is corporate for: we’re watching you./

Someone else says “culture fit”/ and I swear the air tightens by half a degree./

I know the game. I do./ I can speak their language if I have to./ I can iron my voice flat,/ fold up my jokes,/ pretend I’ve never texted “lol” in my life./

But the hoodie is there like—/ nah./ Not today./

Because here’s the thing:/ this hoodie has seen me through nights when I was broke-broke,/ through interviews in borrowed shoes,/ through that phase where success was just:/ “eat something. answer one email. don’t disappear.”/

So yeah, I’m in a boardroom now./ But I didn’t get here by becoming a smaller person./ I got here by being hard-headed enough to keep going/ when nobody was clapping./

I start my deck./ My slides look clean. My hands don’t./ I talk anyway./

Halfway through I almost say, “This part is kind of fucked,”/ catch myself, reroute to “messy,”/ and then I think—why am I acting like the word “fucked”/ is what would make this idea wrong?/

They ask questions in that calm, surgical tone./ Good questions, honestly./ But every question has that little side-dish of:/ and are you safe? are you manageable?/

My brain does that fast math:/ If I soften, I lose respect./ If I sharpen, I’m “difficult.”/ If I’m myself, I’m “a risk.”/ If I’m not myself, then what am I even doing here?/

And then—this is the moment—/ I stop trying to win their permission./

I say, plain:/

I’m not taking the hoodie off./ I’m not sanding my edges down/ so the room can stay comfortable./

I’m here to do good work./ And I do good work as the person I actually am./

Quiet./ Not dramatic quiet./ Just… the kind where you can hear the building./

The pen stops clicking./

And I can feel my heart going absolutely feral,/ like: girl what are we doing??/ But underneath that, there’s this steady thing./ Like my spine finally remembered its job./

They keep talking./ Because of course they do./ The meeting doesn’t turn into a movie montage./ Nobody stands up and goes “bravo.”/

But something shifts./

One person starts asking about the idea/ instead of my tone./ Someone nods like they’re actually listening./ I catch a tiny smile from the person who hasn’t smiled once./ Like: okay. okay. I see you./

When it ends, everyone does that polite/ chair-scrape shuffle./ “Great session.”/ “Let’s follow up.”/ “Really strong.”/ All the usual./

I pack up, and I’m still sweating./ Still tense./ Still buzzing like a live wire./

But I walk out with my hoodie still on,/ my name still whole in my mouth,/ and this stupid little thought in my head:/

Maybe the point isn’t “fitting” in the room./ Maybe the point is bringing enough of yourself/ that the room has to get bigger./