I’ve Always Preferred the Shadow
I’ve always gravitated toward the shadow role. I love watching people succeed—especially when I’ve coached them, challenged them, or quietly cleared the path. I’ve never needed to be the loudest voice or the one out front. It feels more natural—more right—when the spotlight is earned.
But I’ve learned the hard way that generosity doesn’t always protect you.
I’ve seen others get promoted—sometimes people two levels below me—based on work I helped shape from start to finish. I set the vision, got into the details, coached through the messy bits, and stayed through delivery. I wasn’t just around—I was central. These were systems I designed. Strategies I helped bring to life. And still, I’d find myself wondering: should I have put my name on it? Claimed it more directly? Was I too modest in a world that rewards presence over impact?
And then—my advocates, sponsors, and supporters would leave the company. Again. And again. I’d find myself starting over, needing to rebuild trust and visibility all over again. That’s the part no one really tells you: visibility isn’t just about how you show up. It’s about having someone who knows your history—your work, your intent, your impact—and who keeps your name in the conversation after you’ve left the room. That kind of sponsorship matters. When those people leave, especially for those of us in underrepresented groups, it can feel like being reset to zero.
What They Don’t See in the Shadows
And that reset hits differently for women of colour. We’re already working against norms that don’t recognise our leadership style, our communication cadence, or our cultural instincts as the default. We’re often unseen—or seen for the wrong reasons. Too quiet. Too bold. Too collaborative. Too reserved. Without advocates who truly get us and can carry our story forward, staying visible becomes double the labour.
That feeling stuck with me. And when I zoomed out, I realised part of it was cultural too. Especially in places where, over time, I became invisible.
Some of that’s cultural. I was raised in a traditional Indian household in the U.S. where the message was: don’t draw attention, don’t be too loud, don’t stand out. Even laughter had rules. And now I live in Australia, where tall poppy syndrome means people who shine too brightly often get cut down. It’s a strange in-between space—where Western workplaces reward boldness, but cultural roots tell you to stay small. I’ve always had to navigate that tension.
Early in my career, a manager once told me I was “like a fly in the room.” Not disruptive. Not unhelpful. Just… invisible. I hated hearing that. But I approached it like a design problem. I observed what others did. I tried summarising meetings, asking questions, repeating ideas to show I was engaged. Some of it stuck, but a lot of it felt performative.
What took longer to realise was this: invisibility isn’t just about presence—it’s systemic. I eventually found out I was being paid significantly less than peers doing similar work. That hit hard. But it clarified something I carry with me now: if you’re not visible, people assume your impact is small—even when it’s not.
And I’ve seen it happen to others, too. Brilliant designers who believed great work speaks for itself. It should. But in most companies, it doesn’t.
Visibility isn’t vanity. It’s context. And too often, it’s protection.
I’ve also seen the flip side—leaders taking credit for work they didn’t do. So where’s the line? When does a leader rightfully get credit for enabling work, versus claiming it? Is hiring someone great enough? Or is it about coaching, unblocking, editing, and shaping the outcome together? I still don’t have a perfect answer. But I ask those questions more often now.
What I’ve learned is this: you can be generous and clear about your own contributions. You can grow others and still speak up for your own work. It’s not a tradeoff—but it does take intention.
Lighting the Path Forward
I’ll never forget one moment that really brought this home for me.
I was at a Microsoft strategy offsite—an invite-only event for the top 1% of performers. During one session, someone asked the CTO if Microsoft planned to invest more in design. He said, “Tell me where the talent is—I’ll hire them.”
I raised my hand.
“Eric,” I said, “we have some of the best designers in the industry in-house. It’s not about hiring more. It’s about giving them a voice.”
Then I looked around and asked, “How many designers are in this room?”
No hands went up. Just mine.
After the session, CVPs came up to talk—curious, supportive, even a bit surprised. That comment sparked a truth. And that moment reminded me: finding your voice isn’t about being loud. It’s about saying the thing that needs to be said—especially when no one else is saying it.
If I could speak to my younger self now, I’d say: take up more space. Talk about your work. Don’t let someone else speak for you. Advocate for yourself the way you’ve always advocated for your team. And if you’re in a system that refuses to see you—leave. That’s not yours to fix.
Owning the Spotlight
These days, my voice is more direct. More intentional. I say the hard things when they need to be said. And I also know when to let silence do the work. That’s experience. And sometimes, it means deciding to leave a company that has made me invisible—or where I simply can’t be seen, no matter how much I give. That’s clarity.
You don’t have to choose between humility and visibility.
But you do have to choose to be heard.