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.

There’s a moment, after the blow lands, when the air leaves your lungs.
When the shock sets in.
When you can’t tell whether you want to scream, cry, or just sit in silence and disappear.

In male-dominated industries, women are often fed a dangerous lie: “If you want to rise, you’ll have to choose—either focus on your own climb or slow down to help others.”

It’s framed as an either/or decision: selfish or selfless. And for decades, many of us have internalized that message.

When I first started out in aviation, I thought success was a solo climb.

Head down. Work hard. Prove yourself.
Don’t ask for help. Don’t show weakness.
If you’re strong enough, smart enough, tough enough—you’ll eventually rise.

When you’ve worked in male-dominated industries long enough, you’ll notice a pattern.

Some people climb the ladder of success—and then immediately pull it up behind them. They think: I had to work twice as hard for half the recognition. Why should anyone else have it easier?

Others become the ladder itself—lying flat, letting others step on them, carrying the weight of everyone else’s advancement while their own careers remain stalled.

When most of us hear the word mentorship, we picture something pretty traditional:
A senior leader with decades of experience, offering wisdom and guidance to someone just starting out. The mentor gives. The mentee receives.

I can’t count the number of times in my career when I was told, “You’d be such a great mentor.”
Or, “We need you to help coach the new person.”
Or even, “You’re so good at bringing people together—we need you in this meeting to keep the peace.”

There’s a moment many women in aviation and aerospace know too well:

You walk into a room — a boardroom, a briefing, a hangar, a meeting — and you’re the only one who looks like you.

Let’s be honest: Most of us weren’t taught how to make powerful decisions. We were taught how to weigh the risks. How to avoid rocking the boat.How to protect what we’ve already earned.

Stop Shrinking to Make Others Comfortable

You’ve probably done it without even realizing:

• Softened your tone so you wouldn’t come across as “intense.”

• Held back a brilliant idea so you wouldn’t “outshine” a colleague.

• Taken on more work without credit — just to keep the peace.

• Smiled through something that made you uncomfortable — because pushing back felt risky.

There’s a myth we’ve been sold.

That if you just work hard enough, keep your head down, and don’t make waves — someone will eventually notice.
They’ll tap you on the shoulder.
They’ll offer you the promotion.
They’ll finally say what you’ve known all along:
“You’re ready.”

There’s a particular kind of burnout that doesn’t get enough airtime.

It doesn’t come from working too hard. It comes from needing to prove why you deserve to be in the room at all.

It’s not physical fatigue—it’s identity fatigue.

Have you ever noticed how being the “go-to” person feels like both a compliment and a curse?

People come to you with questions, problems, and crises because they trust you. You’re the one who gets it done. The one who knows the details, the processes, the pitfalls. You’re the fixer, the helper, the steady hands everyone relies on.

There’s a lot of noise in leadership circles right now about what companies “should” be doing when it comes to gender diversity.

When was the last time you looked up from the demands of your day and asked yourself:
“Where is this actually going?”

There's a moment in flight when the wheels lift from the runway -- when the rumble beneath you fades, the ground falls away, and everything suddenly becomes still. 

There’s a certain kind of loneliness that doesn’t come from being physically alone. It comes from being surrounded—yet completely unseen.

That’s what it feels like to be the only woman in the room.