Who does she think she is?

Because maybe the boss bitch was never the dream.

I sat my university exams 10 days before giving birth. At nineteen.

Still living with my parents. No plan. Just a baby, and a gut-deep knowing that I have to keep going.

I packed my bags thinking that I needed to get away from something.

Toddler on my hip.

Duvet covers and pillows smashed against the window.

Toys.

My pride and my fear.

The need to prove something.

I had arranged to meet with an agency to pick up the keys to a rental in Dublin. An envelope of cash in my bag for the deposit. I hoped they’d show up.

But I drove anyway. From Waterford to Dublin. Did they even have a motorway back then? I don’t remember. Maybe it was the 3-plus hours on the tiny, windy Irish roads.

Anyone remember Ireland before the M9?

I started my masters degree in Dublin. I dropped off my baby boy to a creche attached to college. I went to lectures. Everyone else would hang after classes, go for a pint. I went to playgrounds. It was going fine.

No one clapped. No one said “you’re amazing” or “this is so brave”. I think some were quietly waiting for me to fail. So I’d move back home to Waterford. So they could tell me we told you so.

Who does she think she is?

I grew up with messages that success was for someone else. Someone not like us.

We’re never going to be the bosses. We’re from Eastern Europe. We’re outsiders. They’re not like us. We’re not like them.

So I got good. I got better. I fixed, I achieved, I resolved, I led. I looked like confidence. I doubled my salary in the first three years of my professional career. Made six figures. Bought my dream sea-view apartment. Travelled. My baby boy learned that geysers stink like rotten eggs in Iceland, that it’s kind of uncomfortable to sleep in the Sahara desert in Morocco, and sand gets in everywhere, and that the God of Party is chillin’ there on top of Parthenon in Athens — not from textbooks. He wore Mickey-Mouse gloves in Disneyland, and to everyone's surprise asked for chicken teriyaki in Japanese in Osaka. Was it hard? It was fucking hard. Impossible, some said.

Who does she think she is?

Every time I got a new job, a bigger pay, I’d call my parents, excited. And the first thing I’d hear? “But what if they fire you?” Even with all my proof that I can do it, all on my own, there was still that undertone. That fear.

We’re never going to be the bosses.

Is this where the need to be the bosses came from? I wonder. Is this something I had to prove to them? To my family? To every immigrant kid who got handed a smaller dream. To every woman who got told that they can never be the CEOs, the leaders, the executives. Bossy but not the boss.

Fuck that. I’ll be the boss. I made it!

Was it my upbringing? I built this shell of boss bitch around me and I didn’t let anyone in. I was fierce. I was strong. Confident. Successful. Someone told me that I was the strongest person they know. The CEO. Not just bossy, but the boss!

How do you even find your true identity? What are you really? When there’s nothing to prove. When you don’t care about being in the 30-under-30 or 40-under-40, or whatever-club anymore. When your job title all of a sudden means nothing to you — and it’s just a fucking title. Who cares? How do you know who you are?

My LinkedIn title still says ‘Co-founder & CEO’. I don’t know what to change it to. Like if I delete it, I’ll disappear too.

Coach? Mentor? Exec coach? Life coach? Coach-slash-mentor? Business-whatever coach? Coach-slash-mentor-slash-some-lady-with-a-Substack? Open to suggestions (DM me)?

What I really want to write is:

Currently unbecoming everything I thought I had to be. But Linkedin doesn’t have a title for that.

But what will people say? She failed.

Who does she think she is?

We told you so.

I still haven't told my mom that I am not doing my startup anymore. What would be the point? She won’t read this. She knows I started a coaching course, but I framed it as a side-hustle. Something I am exploring. I even told her about ikigai. About building a life that actually feels good. She won’t get it. Maybe I don’t want her to.

What will people say? Who does she think she is?

I watched The Art of Being Yourself by Caroline McHugh just last week. ‘Darlin’ just be yourself’, she says. We’re great at being ourselves when we’re kids and when we’re old. When we’re kids, we don’t care what people think. And when we’re old, we stop giving a damn. It's the in-between years. The Who does she think she is? years.

Interviewer: Are you nervous you’re going to perform after her?

Jill Scott: Hahahaaa hahaaaaaaa. Have you ever seen me perform? 👇 Watch from 12:00

How do you become like Jill Scott?

When you’re neither a kid nor old enough to not care? When you're right in the middle of Who does she think she is.

Who does she think she is?

Let them keep wondering. I’ve got other things to do.