I Earned That Fucking Picture

At work, I was recently asked to represent my division on a large-scale project. I’m not going to get into the specifics, but I’m not worried about the work itself. This aligns perfectly with my expertise and a lifetime of experience.

The project represents significant change, and people tend to fucking hate change. But I’ve been pretty supportive of it as a goal and as an institutional direction. I agree with where we’re trying to go. That doesn’t mean I haven’t had my fair share of arguments over what I see as the logical path forward versus the egoistic path forward.

Because this thing is being driven by leadership, and inevitably mixed into that are people appointed to boxes on organizational charts who, quite frankly, aren’t fucking leaders. They’re managers. There’s a difference. Leaders inspire. They motivate. They bind people together behind a common cause and convince them that what they’re doing fucking matters. Managers manage.

And the worst of them are driven by one fucking thing: ego.

They want to be first out of the gate. They want to be first to get acknowledged by actual leaders. They want their picture on the homepage. They want their name heard in meetings. They want everyone to know that they were responsible for whatever great fucking thing just happened.

They could give two fucks about the actual success of the project. They only care about the perceived success of the project. And there’s a huge fucking difference.

My division understands the importance of getting this right. This project will help dictate the direction of the institution for the next twenty years. It will dictate how we do things for the next two decades. It lays the groundwork for future business operations.

Failure isn’t an option.

Failure means wasting the next five years failing and another fucking decade correcting everything we got wrong because somebody wanted to move fast enough to get their name attached to it.

And look, in my world, I’ve been the expert in many of the positions I’ve held. I’ve acquired a wealth of knowledge over the years. More importantly, I’ve questioned things. I understand why we do the things we do. I understand why we do them the way we do them. And that fucking matters.

The office overseeing this project, though, consists primarily of the ego-driven crowd I mentioned earlier. One of their folks recently reached out asking for a picture and a bio.

Okay. Easy enough. I had just done a professional photo shoot with Dawna, Nyx, and the New Mexico sky. I have fucking pictures. I have a fucking bio. So I wrapped everything up in a nice little electronic package and hit send.

Several days passed.

Then yesterday afternoon, I received a request to change my photo. It was too unprofessional.

And this shouldn’t piss me off as much as it fucking does. But it does. Because the thinking behind that statement is exactly the kind of thinking that produces managers instead of fucking leaders. I was chosen for this role because of my abilities. Not because of the clothes I fucking wear.

This person suggested that I send the profile picture I still have up on Teams. That picture is a fucking decade old. I don’t look like that anymore. More importantly, I don’t want to look like that anymore.

I don’t fucking care about appearances the way I once did.

I care about actions and content. Character and competence. Authenticity and accountability. Integrity and ideals.

You know, the fucking ingredients of leadership.

I was chosen for this role because my division wants this project to succeed, and they know I have a history of making things fucking work. A proven history. And perhaps more importantly, I have a backbone when ego challenges the logical choice.

Yeah, I fucking stand up for what’s right.

Couple all of this with decades of marginalization, of being told what I’m supposed to look like, how I’m supposed to dress, how I’m supposed to behave, how I’m supposed to fucking exist in order to make somebody else comfortable, and suddenly you’ve got a very pissed-off Kate sitting on a request for a new fucking picture.

Because here’s the thing: I earned that fucking picture.

I don’t look like I did ten years ago. I’ve aged. I’ve changed. I’ve been broken and sewn back together. I’ve died three fucking times. I’ve crawled back from the wreckage of a motorcycle accident that damn near killed me. I’ve spent decades learning my craft. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve learned from them. I’ve accumulated knowledge that only comes from fucking doing this shit year after year after year. And somewhere along the way, I earned every fucking stripe on my shoulder.

I earned my seat at the fucking table.

So I’ll be goddamned if somebody early in their career is going to tell me how I’m supposed to present myself to the fucking world. Because people have been doing that to me my entire fucking life. You’re too masculine. You’re too feminine. You’re too loud. You’re too opinionated. You’re too aggressive. You’re not professional enough. Wear this. Don’t wear that. Smile. Blend in. Make everybody else comfortable.

Present the version of yourself that we find acceptable.

No. I’m fucking done with that.

I’m not interested in presenting a ten-year-old version of myself because somebody thinks she looks more fucking corporate. That woman doesn’t exist anymore. This one does.

The woman in that picture is the woman my division selected. She’s the woman who knows the work. She’s the woman who’s going to sit in those meetings. She’s the woman who’s going to challenge bullshit when bullshit threatens the success of the project. She’s the woman who’s going to stand her ground when somebody’s ego gets in the fucking way.

She’s the woman they fucking asked for.

And she’s the woman who’s going to let the wind wash the stress away as she rides Nyx into the sunset each night.

So, in the immortal words of our sailing hero Popeye: I am what I am, and that’s all that I am.

The picture fucking stays. Or don’t put me in the newsletter. It’s really that fucking simple.

I’m not here for the acknowledgment.

I’m here to do the fucking job.