Winging it

Why I'd rather fly solo than work in corporate

Photo courtesy of Laura Segrist via Dupe Photos.

Last spring, I was at a corporate networking event hosted by an old vendor I’d stayed in touch with from my last company. It was at this chic, industrial event space in the city with exposed ceilings and velvet couches. I’d wanted to go not just because I’d been invited, but because I thought it would be a good place to source new clients. The impostor syndrome, however, consumed me. Would it be weird to attend as a freelancer and not someone officially in the corporate world? Not at all, my vendor contact assured me. The friend I’d invited said the same, and so we went.

Walking in, we were greeted by a large table full of name tags and my impostor syndrome resurfaced. What would mine even say: Lauren Scott The Freelancer? They hadn’t asked me what I’d like to put on it. In fact, I’d needed the host to register me for the event since I didn’t have an answer for the “company” field on the form. When I saw the tag, I knew it wasn’t going to be good. It had the name of the Instagram handle I use for my calligraphy and home design stuff, albeit sporadically. To be fair, I’d had my website of the same name listed on my LinkedIn post-layoff to show that I was at least doing something.¹ They’d clearly grabbed it from there and taken it at face value. I kicked myself for never removing it once I started getting contract work. I didn’t know how I would talk about it if someone asked, it didn’t apply to what I was doing now. But what was I doing now? Suddenly, I didn’t really know. It felt slippery and illegitimate. And I felt like I didn’t belong.

My heart started pounding as we descended the stairs from the lobby into the event space. It’ll be fine, I tried to tell myself. We were fashionably late, so there were already several people there. There was a cocktail hour before the content started, so my friend and I each grabbed a plate of small bites as sustenance for making small talk with the other attendees. A young woman approached us before we left the buffet table and I started mentally stitching together my elevator pitch, but there was no need. I watched her eyes travel from my name tag to my friend’s. I then listened as she proceeded to introduce herself not to us both, but solely to my friend, brazenly edging me out of the conversation as if I didn’t exist — all because I didn’t have a recognizable company name listed under my own.²

For a moment, I was stricken. The company this woman had seen on my friend’s name tag was the same one I had gotten laid off from two years before. My impostor syndrome morphed into red-hot resentment and I proceeded to gain next to nothing from the remainder of the event. I listened half-heartedly to the panel of presenters, but I’d learned everything I needed to know from that single interaction. It had solidified something I’d already been thinking: corporate isn’t for me.

My therapist said the same thing when I recounted the experience to her. She pointed out the difference between my mindset and that of the other attendees. “You know, Lauren,” she said, “imagine how different the experience would have been if you had been, say, at a conference for writers or therapists versus corporate marketers.” She was completely right. She mentioned how I’d likely be met with listening ears and thoughtful conversation rather than callousness. “You don’t have to fit yourself into that space,” she said. “You can simply find one that’s a better fit.”

When I thought about it, that was exactly what I had been doing for years. I’d been trying to squeeze myself into corporate’s confining expectations. I was working a nine-to-five even though my soul screamed for freedom. I was staying at a company that barely moved me up the ladder despite all my hard work. At the same time, I’d been trying to force it into mine. I was the same self at work as I was at home, and I expected corporate to respect that. After all, they referred to employees as family. But what I thought was authenticity, was in fact my Achilles’ heel.

Bringing my authentic self to the office meant I was sensitive. It meant work impacted me on an emotional level. It meant I didn’t have a poker face. It meant managers unfit for their leadership roles took advantage of me. And it meant that to a degree, I let them.

There was one manager in the revolving door of terrible managers who was particularly awful. I was her only direct report, and because I was a few rungs below her, she treated me like a personal assistant. She turned our one-on-ones into trips to the market to get food for her family for dinner. She gave me arbitrary side projects and kept me out of conversations with anyone else. I see now, in retrospect, that she was a fraud, and the fact that I was an intelligent employee was a threat to her façade. She put on a front to compensate for the powerlessness she felt in other (all) aspects of her life, and she exerted whatever power she could over me to make herself feel better. It was classic bully behavior. At the time, however, I thought I was crazy. She was a Gemini, a Jekyll and Hyde. She wasn’t consistently condescending, only in small doses that she’d offset with a synthetic sweetness. I thought the frustration I felt was just the growing pains of having a new manager.

Belittling me to mask her own insecurity was really just the half of it. She also had quite the penchant for vocalizing her unfiltered thoughts. We’re talking comments about people’s bodies and age, statements on political issues, and several racist remarks, some complete with an egregious accent imitation. Where she chose to vocalize these thoughts was one thing she didn’t discriminate against. They would happen in our one-on-ones, in the elevator, or blatantly in the middle of the office.

Every time, I was aghast. If it happened in public, I would look around waiting – begging – someone to say something. They never did. Whether it was shock, fear, or the bystander effect, I’ll never know. What I do know is that it triggered the absolute hell out of me. The problem was I was trapped. As bullies (and abusers) do, she had isolated me and gaslit me to the point where I questioned myself and my reality. Was what I was experiencing real? It was hard to tell. The few friends I’d told believed me, but no one else was in my same position and no one was acting on anything they saw from the outside.

Ultimately, she was reported to HR for a comment she made to the same friend of mine who attended the networking event with me years later. I was listed as one of several witnesses of the event and was summoned to speak on it. Finally, action was being taken. I felt validated. I marched myself into that HR meeting with my chin up, ready to present my evidence and plead what I was sure would be an open-and-shut case.

Again, my Achilles’ heel got the best of me. I overestimated corporate. I assumed bad behavior was bad behavior. I neglected to remember that a company is a business, and firing is expensive. When asked what my “ideal outcome” from the situation was, I said I didn’t want her to be my manager at the very least. After weeks of hemming and hawing, HR informed me that she was still employed and would still be my manager. I – stupidly – felt blindsided. I asked how they could prevent retribution and they merely said they never disclosed the names of the people they talked to, she wouldn’t know I was involved.

But she did, of course, and the situation only got worse. She didn’t think I was onto her before. I had matched her mask well enough to make her less of a threat than she could be. Now it had slipped. She knew that I knew.

We had a one-on-one scheduled and I was beside myself. I didn’t want to face this foe head on, especially now that I knew HR wouldn’t be of any help. I consulted my then therapist, and together we concocted a plan.

It was clear I had to play the corporate game, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t add my own flair. What did I have that she didn’t? That was easy, emotional intelligence. What could I do for 30 minutes that would require little to no talking? That was also easy, play a video.

So that’s what I did. When it came time for our meeting, I walked into the room, sat down, and projected my computer screen. It was a YouTube video of researcher Brené Brown titled The Anatomy of Trust.³

“Today, we’re watching a 20-minute video about trust,” I declared, setting a pad of sticky notes and a pen in front of her. “In the last ten minutes, you will write down three things you learned and share them.”

I didn’t wait for her to respond before I pressed play.

To the corporate eye – the one that glazes over everything – it was simply an exercise in “managing up,” i.e. setting expectations with a manager. But to me, it was taking my power back. It was me using my resources and skills to create a space I wanted to be in. One of accountability, trust, and decency. (With just a hint of salt. You know, for spice 🤌.)

Ultimately, looking back, my days in corporate were numbered after that. Whatever affinity I’d once felt for this faceless, emotionless entity had vanished. By the time the layoff came around, it was a blow, but it was also the nudge out of the nest that I needed. It was the catalyst that helped me spread my wings, and moments like the networking name tag are just reminders of how damn good it feels to fly.

1. Fun fact, I intended to turn it into a fully-fledged blog, one where I would post content and make money from advertisements and all that jazz. Needless to say, it didn’t pan out like I’d hoped. But it’s ok, because now I have Substack and you, my readers, don’t have ads. 🙌

2. She didn’t either, ironically lol.

3. Sadly, it seems only the abridged (8-min) version still exists.