When Your Story Runs the Meeting

I sat in the department meeting, composed on the outside – posture straight, expression neutral, hands resting quietly in my lap.

But inside, it was chaos.

My heart was pounding. My mind was racing. My ears buzzed with the high alert of a nervous system scanning for the reason I felt so uncomfortable. I wasn’t checked out – I was hyper-attuned. Watching. Calculating. Trying to decipher what was expected of me, how I was supposed to act, what I was supposed to know, so I would prove that I belonged in the room.

I had something to say – something meaningful. But I didn’t speak.

Not because I didn’t know what I was talking about, but because the fear of saying something that would sound stupid, land wrong, be misunderstood, or confirm that I didn’t belong here, had a vice grip on my voice.

It’s not that I appeared small. I appeared reserved. Controlled. I held my cards close to my chest, like I always had. I even took up space as if I were confident and had something to say – shoulders squared, presence composed, tone steady. But inside, I was shrinking, because I had learned that playing small kept me safe.

It was a survival strategy that started in childhood. In a home where unpredictability ruled and emotional abuse taught me to scan every moment for danger and anticipate others’ actions before they became explosive, silence became protection, and invisibility felt safer than being seen.

Over time, I internalized a narrative – I have no value. I have nothing of value to contribute. And, taking up too much space was dangerous. So I learned to make myself smaller – physically, emotionally, intellectually.
Shrinking became my shield. Withholding became my way of staying safe.

And this story found fertile ground in the systems I entered.

From public school to higher education to professional spaces, I was constantly navigating institutions that were not designed for me. Spaces where I was one of the only. Where whiteness, maleness, and class privilege were the default. Where no one said “you don’t belong here,” but everything else did – the way I was overlooked, the absence of mentors who looked like me, and the subtle but constant sense that I was being assessed for how well I conformed.

So I learned to read the room before I ever said a word. I paid close attention to who held power, who was listened to, and what kinds of voices were rewarded. I second-guessed my instincts, edited my language, softened my edges. I shared just enough to sound competent, but not so much that I’d draw too much attention. Enough polish to pass, but not enough presence to be seen as a threat.

This is what happens when your story runs the meeting.

The Stories We Bring to Work

We don’t leave our narrative created in our childhoods at the office door.

The stories we tell ourselves – don’t make waves, don’t be too much, earn your worth – don’t disappear when we land the job and earn a seat at the table. Instead, these narratives show up in our leadership style, our communication habits, our willingness (or refusal) to take up space.

These trauma-rooted patterns may have protected us once. But in professional settings, they often become the very barriers that keep us from leading with authentic presence, embodied power, and a voice that creates change.

Let’s break this down.

Personal Trauma in Professional Spaces

Childhood wounds don’t just live in the past – they live in our bodies, shaping the way we move through professional spaces without us even knowing it. They travel with us – into our nervous systems, our belief structures, and eventually, into our workplaces. What we learned as children to feel safe, we often continue to do without realizing it. The child who felt abandoned becomes the professional who never asks for help, who overfunctions and overdelivers to prove they’re worth keeping around. The one who felt invisible becomes the team member who hesitates to speak up in meetings, who doubts whether their ideas matter, who fears being seen as “too much” for taking up space. The child who never felt good enough grows into the adult who chases perfection, who says yes to everything, running on empty to feel worthy. And sometimes, those same wounds lead to the opposite strategy – armor instead of appeasement. You might find yourself leading with control, defensiveness, or hyper-independence because your body still believes you have to protect yourself to survive.

Systemic Oppression as Collaborating Author

Now add another layer – the system.

If you're a woman, a person of color, queer, neurodivergent, disabled, or otherwise marginalized, you’ve likely been met with both spoken and unspoken messages that you don’t fully belong. Messages that remind you that your presence is conditional. That your mistakes won’t be forgiven the way others’ are. That you’re being watched, judged, and held to a different standard. You learn that your competence must be indisputable, your performance flawless, and your emotions regulated. You begin to feel the weight of representing more than just yourself – your words are no longer just yours, they’re perceived as speaking on behalf of your entire community. So you overprepare, overfunction, and overcorrect. And still, there’s a whisper underneath it all – Don’t mess this up. Don’t let them see you struggle. Don’t give them a reason to doubt why you’re here. These messages don’t just impact how we see ourselves, they define how we move – or don’t move – through spaces of power, limiting the risks we take, the truths we speak, and the leadership we embody.

When Your Boss Becomes Your Parent

We experience the stories we carry in our bodies. And many of them are trauma stories, inherited, lived, or absorbed through years of navigating unsafe environments. These stories don’t just appear in our inner dialogue; they also manifest in how we respond to people in the present.

You might freeze when your supervisor offers feedback, not because the feedback is harsh, but because it echoes the voice of a parent who never approved of you. You might avoid difficult conversations with colleagues, not because you lack communication skills, but because conflict feels unsafe. You might find yourself over-apologizing, over-explaining, or taking on emotional labor that no one asked you to carry, because your body still believes that maintaining harmony is your responsibility.

In a trauma state, your nervous system can’t always tell the difference between a current workplace challenge and a past relational wound. Your reaction might feel “too big” for the moment, not because you’re broken, but because your body remembers what it was like not to be safe.

The Cost of Story-Driven Leadership

When we lead from unexamined stories, we don’t truly lead; we survive. And survival can be incredibly sophisticated. It can look like competence. Like composure. Like control. But beneath the surface, it’s reactive, constrained, and often driven by fear.

We play small in moments that call for boldness, because we've been conditioned to believe that taking risks is dangerous. We often make decisions out of fear rather than vision, trying to avoid mistakes instead of imagining possibilities. We micromanage, resist feedback, or stifle innovation because growth often requires vulnerability, and vulnerability has never felt safe. We struggle to set boundaries, speak the hard truth, or trust our instincts because somewhere along the way, we learned that self-protection mattered more than self-expression.

This is survival-based leadership. It’s exhausting. It’s limiting. And it comes at the cost of our energy, our clarity, and our impact.

Authentic leadership looks different. It doesn’t ignore the stories as we have carried them for a reason, but it refuses to let them drive our decisions. It acknowledges the lived experience, the trauma we’ve experienced, as well as the coping strategies we have created to navigate them.  Authentic leadership doesn’t let our stories run the show. It interrupts the old narrative in real time.

A Story Recognition Toolkit

So how do you know when your story is running the meeting?

Start here.

1. Name the Story

Begin by noticing the moment your body contracts – when you tighten up, shrink, snap, hesitate, or suddenly go silent. That’s your cue that a story might be running the show. Ask yourself: What am I telling myself right now? Maybe it’s, “If I speak up, I’ll sound stupid,” or “I have to prove I belong here,” or “They’ll think I’m too (fill in the blank).” Naming the story helps you bring it from the unconscious into the light, because you can’t change what you can’t see.

2. Trace the Roots

Once you’ve named the story, ask: “Where did I learn this?” or “When and where did I first experience this?” Did it come from childhood – an unspoken family rule? A teacher who shamed you? A toxic workplace? A culture that told you who gets to belong and who doesn’t? Tracing the roots helps you understand that your reaction didn’t come out of nowhere, but came from a reasonable need to protect yourself.

This step helps you depersonalize the moment. You’re not “bad at conflict,” you’re reacting from an old wound, an old story.

3. Check the Facts

This is where you separate the past from the present. Ask yourself: “Is this fear grounded in what's actually happening now – or is it an echo of something I’ve lived before?” Is your current team truly unsafe, or are you responding to historic harm your body still carries? This step brings clarity. It reminds you that you’re not back there. You’re here. And here, you get to choose differently.

4. Interrupt the Pattern

Once you recognize the story, you can disrupt the cycle in real time. Take a deep breath. Feel your feet on the ground. Silently name what’s happening inside you: “My heart is racing. I feel afraid to speak.” Then, say one thing you know for sure – even if it’s small. Maybe it’s: “I care deeply about this topic,” or “I’ve thought a lot about this and want to contribute,” or simply “I’m here, and I have something to offer.” Pattern interruption doesn’t require you to be fearless or polished – it only asks that you stay present, even when presence feels vulnerable.

5. Practice Self-Compassion

This is the most radical move of all. When you catch yourself shrinking or spiraling, don’t meet that moment with shame. Meet it with kindness. Say to yourself, “Of course I want to shut down. That was the safest thing I knew how to do.” Self-compassion doesn’t erase the pain, but it softens the grip of judgment and creates space for choice, healing, and power. Self-compassion interrupts shame and opens the door to choice.

You Are Not the Story

The goal isn’t to erase your story. It’s to recognize when it’s running the show, and consciously choose a different script. That day in the department meeting? I recognized my story. I met with understanding and compassion.  I chose to speak because, despite my story, I found the courage to share my truth.

Coming Next…

Once you can see how your personal stories and systemic experiences shape your professional presence, you're ready for the next chapter – taking ownership of your workplace narrative (Month 2) and consciously authoring your leadership style (Month 3).

We’ll go there together.

Because your leadership doesn’t have to be born from fear.
It can be rooted in truth.
In wholeness.
In you.