Boardroom Battles: Surviving the Rooms That Break You

Have you ever walked into a room - full of people - and felt like everything about you was wrong? That rush of nervousness flooding your body, the wave of separateness crashing over you, leaving you convinced you don’t belong?

It wasn’t always this way for me. But over the last two decades, that feeling has grown louder, rattling my confidence, making me feel like the imposter in the room.

I remember being no more than eight years old, gathering trinkets and books that meant little to me but might hold value for someone else, and knocking on doors in my neighbourhood. A quarter here, a dollar there - offered to any kind soul who saw worth in what I carried. My parents didn’t give allowance, so I gave myself a job. I had watched salesmen pitch soda machines, vacuums, candles, cosmetics - it didn’t look hard. So I tried. Each knock was a lesson. Each “no thank you” a challenge to refine my pitch. And when a door finally opened to a “yes,” I felt the thrill of freedom jingling in my purse of coins. A Slurpee, a poster, a mug - small treasures bought with money I had earned myself.

By my teens, that ambition had sharpened. Homeschooled and restless, I printed resumes and handed them out to local businesses. Every interview turned into a job offer. Rejection didn’t touch me. I was unstoppable - because I believed I was.

Adulthood only magnified that drive. I had the gift of gab, landing sales roles without training, fighting for wins day after day, becoming a force inside organizations. Tenacious. Hungry. Unafraid to step on toes. At home, I felt unseen, like a failure. But out in the real world, I was somebody. And that recognition fed me in ways nothing else had.

So how do you go from that level of confidence to being terrified to open your mouth? From unstoppable to silenced? From sure-footed to second-guessing every word?

Abuse.

Not just at home, but at work. It came from all sides, relentless. Long hours under a manager who harassed and abused me. Nights at home where I was told I was incompetent, incapable, a mistake - and then the beatings began. I stopped eating. I drank. And when the pain became unbearable, I cut myself. I wanted to punish those who hurt me, but I couldn’t. I needed the paycheck. I needed the roof. So I endured. I numbed. I traded my truth for theirs.

At home I was “dumb,” “incapable,” “an idiot.” Soon, that became my reality in the office too. I knew the facts, studied them, memorized them - but when I spoke, I lost faith in myself. My boss talked over me, treated me like an object, and I began to believe that’s all I was. My skills shrank under the weight of their words.

When you stop believing in your own truth and accept the one forced on you, reality warps. Up feels down. Down feels up. You lose the ability to discern what’s real.

I share this not for pity, but because I am not an exception. I am one of many whose confidence has been fractured by words and actions that leave scars. Trauma doesn’t just sting in the moment - it embeds itself, chronic and lingering, even after therapy, even after years of healing.

I left my marriage. I left that workplace. I clawed my way back through therapy, sobriety, personal development. And yet...the imprint remains.

Even now, I walk into rooms knowing the facts, knowing where I can add value while preferring to write instead of speak. Staying quiet because speaking feels excruciating. Wondering if what I said was brilliant or foolish, right or wrong. Wondering if I am simply wrong, flawed beyond repair, undeserving of presence.

And still - I show up.

It takes bravery to wake up, get dressed, and walk into those rooms. To make eye contact when I want to look at the floor. To smile when I don’t have it in me. To speak when I don’t trust my own voice. To lead while second-guessing myself a hundred times a day. To wrestle with hyper-vigilance and still step forward in faith, holding my breath until validation comes.

You don’t escape it. You don’t erase it. You learn to carry it. To dismiss the wounded voice and act anyway. To step forward even while scared. To speak even while anxious. To lead even while doubting. Because I am not a victim anymore. I survived.

“Be kind. For everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle,” wrote Scottish minister, Ian MacLaren And how true it is. We judge too quickly. We scan for flaws, waiting to pounce, forgetting that every person carries scars none of us can see. Battles unwitnessed. Bruises hidden. And most of us walk through life simply wanting to be recognized - not for the wounds, but for the strength it took to keep walking.

Keep walking into those rooms. Breath by breath - even broken - you survive them.