There were long stretches in my career where I convinced myself that staying focused on the work was the right approach. I told myself that if I delivered, if I solved problems, if I became someone people could rely on, everything else would follow. It felt disciplined. It felt professional. It felt like the right way to earn credibility in environments where I was often the only woman in the room.

There was a point in my career when I started to understand that visibility mattered. Not in a performative way, and not in a way that required me to become someone I wasn’t, but in a way that directly impacted the opportunities I was given… or not given.

Last week, I talked about the work no one sees. The behind-the-scenes effort, the problem-solving, the responsibility that never quite shows up in a way that others can fully understand. For a long time, I believed that was the issue. I thought if I could just make my work more visible, everything would change. If people could see what I was actually doing, the opportunities would follow.

There was a point in my career when things stopped making sense. Not early on, and not when I was still trying to prove myself. That part felt straightforward. Work hard. Deliver results. Take on more. Learn quickly. Earn trust. I understood how to operate in that environment, and I built my career in aviation and aerospace by doing exactly that. 

There are seasons in life where you don’t recognize yourself anymore. You’re still showing up, still doing what needs to be done, still moving forward. From the outside, it looks like everything is intact. But internally, something has gone quiet. The part of you that feels connected, energized, and clear about who you are and why you’re doing what you’re doing starts to fade into the background. That’s where I’ve been.

There comes a point in many careers when authority stops being granted automatically. Not because capability disappeared. Not because judgment weakened. But because the environment changed how it reads experience.

There is a pattern in organizations that many people sense but few know how to describe. As careers progress, experience doesn’t simply accumulate. It gets interpreted. And those interpretations shape who is trusted, who is promoted, and who quietly stops being considered.

There’s a moment that happens to many people later in their careers that no one prepares you for.

You’re no longer told you lack experience.  You’re no longer told you need to grow. Instead, you’re told—directly or indirectly—that you’re too senior. Not in a celebratory way.  Not in a “we value what you bring” way. In a way that quietly closes doors.

For most of my career, experience was my currency. 

It opened doors. 
It anchored decisions. 
It gave me credibility before I ever spoke. 

One of the most seductive lies I encountered in 2025 was the idea that reentering corporate life required reinvention. 

Not reinvention in the dramatic sense. Not a complete overhaul or a rejection of who I had been before. The quieter kind. The subtle kind. The kind that shows up as adjustment, accommodation, and self-editing. 

No one warned me that reentry would be as much about identity as it was about work. 

In 2025, I expected the technical adjustment. I expected the learning curve. I expected the discomfort of unfamiliar systems and new organizational rhythms. What I did not expect was how profoundly destabilizing it would feel to be new again after decades of being established. 

In 2025, one phrase followed me more persistently than any other. 
“You’re starting over.” 
It was usually said kindly. Sometimes admiringly. Occasionally with a note of sympathy. People seemed to mean it as encouragement, as if beginning again were inherently brave or noble. 
But every time I heard it, something in me resisted. 
Because I wasn’t starting over. 
I was reentering. 

In 2025, I walked back into a corporate environment after years of working outside traditional organizational structures. Consulting. Advising. Building. Leading. Failing. Rebuilding. Watching entire companies rise and fall. Carrying responsibility that didn’t show up neatly on a résumé. 

As we turn the page on the year, there’s something sacred about this in-between space.
Not quite done with what was.
Not quite ready for what’s next.
It’s here, in the quiet, that the real transformation happens.
Not in the big announcements or public wins.
But in the small, daily choices no one sees.

This is the time of year when we’re told to look back with gratitude — And we should. But let’s be honest: Some of us are also looking back with frustration. With grief. With quiet disappointment.

As the year comes to a close, most conversations focus on goals, resolutions, and what’s next. But before we rush ahead, there’s a more powerful question worth sitting with:

What are you still carrying that no longer belongs in your next chapter?

December always invites reflection.

Not the surface-level recap we share in holiday newsletters, but the deeper kind—the kind that asks, Who am I becoming? What have I learned? And what truth am I finally ready to embrace?

Every woman I know who has weathered storms in male-dominated industries carries a moment—the moment she thought it was over.

The dream.
The career.
The version of herself that had it all figured out.

For most of my career, I thought resilience meant surviving anything.

There’s a particular kind of silence that follows the words, “Your position has been eliminated.”
It’s not just the loss of a job—it’s the loss of identity, belonging, routine, and sometimes, purpose.