For much of my career, I have walked into meeting rooms where I was one of only a few women.
Sometimes, I was the only woman.
You notice.
Early in my career, I noticed every single time. I noticed who was sitting around the table. I noticed who spoke first and who seemed comfortable challenging an idea. I noticed who already knew one another and who seemed to have relationships outside the room.
And I was always aware of myself.
Did I belong here? Had I earned this seat? Did the other people around the table think I had?
Those questions followed me into more rooms than I would like to admit.
I prepared carefully. I thought about what I wanted to say before I said it. I learned how the room worked. I paid attention to when people spoke, how they disagreed, and whose opinions seemed to carry the most weight.
There were times when I questioned whether I belonged. There were other times when I knew I belonged but wondered whether everyone else in the room believed I did.
Those are two different things.
For years, I thought succeeding in those spaces meant learning how to fit into them.
I was wrong.
LEARNING THE ROOM
When you are one of the few, you learn to read a room.
I learned when to speak and when to listen. I learned how to disagree without immediately becoming defensive. I learned how to hold my ground. I learned that asking a good question often mattered more than having a quick answer.
Some of those lessons came from strong leaders who trusted me, challenged me, and gave me opportunities before I felt completely ready for them. Others came from experiencing leadership I knew I never wanted to repeat.
Plenty came from getting things wrong myself.
Over time, something shifted.
I stopped seeing my difference as something I needed to overcome. I stopped believing success meant becoming more like everyone else sitting around the table.
My job was not to blend in.
My job was to bring my experience, my perspective, my questions, and my voice into the room.
That sounds simple to me now. It did not feel simple when I was younger.
There is a lot of freedom in realizing the thing that makes you different from everyone else in the room might also be one of the reasons the room needs you.
WHAT I STARTED TO NOTICE
Being one of the few also taught me to pay attention differently.
Because I spent so many years aware of my own place in the room, I became aware of how other people experienced the room too.
I noticed who spoke and who stayed quiet. I noticed whose ideas received attention and whose were quickly passed over. I noticed who walked into a meeting already connected to the people around the table and who seemed to be standing outside those relationships.
I noticed who looked comfortable.
And I noticed who looked like I used to feel.
That changed something in me.
When you know what it feels like to question whether your voice matters, you recognize that hesitation in someone else. When you remember what it felt like to wait for an invitation, you start thinking differently about your ability to extend one.
Eventually, the question I asked when I entered a room changed.
I spent less time asking, “Do I belong here?”
I started asking, “Who is missing?”
That might be one of the most important shifts in my leadership.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR ACCESS?
Once I started asking who was missing, I started thinking differently about my own access.
A seat at the table is more than recognition of the work you have done. It gives you access to people, information, relationships, conversations, and opportunities that someone else does not have yet.
The question is what you do with that access.
For me, the answer became personal.
It changed who I mentor. It changed whose name I bring forward when an opportunity becomes available. It changed who I encourage to apply even when she is not sure she is ready. It changed who I introduce to someone, who I invite into a conversation, and whose work I talk about when she is not there to talk about it herself.
I know how much one introduction matters.
I know what happens when someone says your name in a room you have not entered yet.
I know the difference between someone telling you, “You should do this someday,” and someone saying, “I think you are ready. I’m putting your name forward.”
Those are small acts of leadership with significant consequences.
If you have access to a room someone else does not, do something with your access.
Bring another name into the conversation. Make the introduction. Extend the invitation. Recommend someone for the opportunity. Ask whose perspective is missing before the decision gets made.
Pull out the chair.
THE SEAT WAS NEVER THE END GOAL
Earlier in my career, getting into the room sometimes felt like the accomplishment.
I understand why.
When you have spent years being one of the few, earning your place feels significant. I am proud of the seats I earned. I am proud of the work behind them. I am proud that I learned how to walk into rooms where I once felt intimidated and trust that I belonged there.
But getting into the room was never the end of the work.
Getting into the room gave me an opportunity.
What I did once I got there would say far more about my leadership.
Being one of the only women in the room taught me resilience. It taught me courage. It taught me to prepare. It taught me to trust my experience and find my voice. Over time, I also learned that confidence rarely comes first. Courage does.
But perhaps the most important lesson came later.
Leadership is not always about making sure your voice is heard.
Sometimes leadership means noticing whose voice has not been heard yet.
THE ROOM LOOKS DIFFERENT TO ME NOW
After more than three decades, I still walk into rooms where women are underrepresented.
I still notice.
I notice differently now.
I no longer spend much time wondering whether I have earned my place there. I have enough evidence behind me to know I belong.
So I have more capacity to look outward.
I listen. I pay attention to the dynamics around the table. I notice who has not spoken. I think about who should have been invited but was not. I ask whether we are hearing different perspectives or simply hearing different versions of the same one.
And I try to remember something I wish I had understood earlier in my career.
Once you have a seat, your responsibility gets bigger.
You get to decide whether your access ends with you.
I worked hard for my seat at the table. I will never minimize what it took to earn it.
But I do not want my leadership story to end with the fact that I got in the room.
I want it to include the women who walked into the room after me.
The women whose names were mentioned.
The women who received the introduction.
The women who were encouraged before they felt ready.
The women who eventually stopped wondering whether they belonged there too.
I fought for my seat.
Now I look around and ask:
Who else needs one?
A QUESTION TO CARRY WITH YOU
Think about the rooms, relationships, and opportunities you have access to because of the years you have invested in your leadership.
Whose name are you bringing into the room with you?
More on this: the Global Community of Women in High School Sports
STAY IN THE CIRCLE
If this reflection stayed with you, I’d love to keep in touch. Occasional reflections on courage, belonging, and the real work of leading. Sent when I have something worth sharing.
Jen Brooks writes about courage, belonging, and the real work of going first. More about Jen →
