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.

Retaliation is the workplace consequence of courage. It’s what can happen after someone does the right thing: speaks up, reports harm, participates in an investigation, or advocates for fairness.

In aviation, we train for the unimaginable. We rehearse engine failures, electrical fires, catastrophic decompressions—not because we expect them, but because we know they might happen. Culture in the cockpit is not a perk—it is a prerequisite for safety.

Last week, I asked a question that sparked a flood of quiet nods and thoughtful messages:

“Have you ever quietly wondered if it’s time to leave your aviation/aerospace career?”

There’s a moment many of us women in aviation and aerospace face, though few of us speak it aloud:

👉🏼 Can I keep doing this?
👉🏼 How much more can I take?
👉🏼 Is it time to go?

What draws a woman into aviation?

Sometimes, it’s the spark of childhood wonder—a paper airplane tossed across a classroom. A commercial jet seen up close on a family vacation. A school project on Amelia Earhart that somehow turned into a lifelong obsession.

I’ve been in this industry for more than three decades. And in that time, I’ve weathered plenty of ups and downs—reorgs, buyouts, shutdowns, layoffs, rebrands, shifts in leadership, and changes in “strategic direction.”

This morning, the media exploded with headlines: “Historic all-female Blue Origin flight takes off!” It’s true—six women boarded New Shepard’s suborbital vehicle and successfully completed an 11-minute flight, crossing the Kármán line and experiencing a few minutes of weightlessness before safely returning to Earth.