When I first started in the auto industry, I didn’t even have a seat at the table. Mostly because no one thought to pull one up for me. I was the “social media girl,” which in dealership language roughly translates to “the one we run away from when she pulls her phone out and asks ‘Can I borrow you for two seconds’? ”
I remember sitting in meetings surrounded by men who could name every car on the lot but had no idea what a click-through rate was. They’d talk about how much money they made on their last deal and how many cars they had out for the month and then glance at me like they couldn’t really pinpoint what I did.
At first, I laughed it off. I told myself it was temporary. Almost like hazing but in a passive aggressive kind of way. But if I’m being real – no matter how far I climbed in my career, there was an assumed assistant hat somehow followed me.
I could be the strategist, the department head, the CMO, but still, I was the one asked to “grab the lunch order,” “set up the Zoom,” “take notes,” “make sure everyone got the link,” “check in with the vendor,” “remind him about his wife’s birthday.”
And I did it.
Not because I had to, but because I knew if I didn’t, no one else would and something important would fall through the cracks. And somehow, I felt like that was my burden to carry.
So I wore the hat. I did my job and everyone else’s emotional labor, too. I built the marketing strategy and made sure the meeting started on time. I launched the ad campaign and kept the peace when men pounded their chests in meetings. I spoke the language of leadership, but I also understood when someone just needed to be gently reminded to do their job.
Somewhere between the test drives and the TikToks, I became the youngest Chief Marketing Officer in the room. And the rooms got bigger.
The men didn’t always get smaller, but they started to listen differently. I noticed the shift when they’d pause before interrupting me, or when my “marketing ideas” turned into their “business strategies.” I’d sit through the same kind of meetings different tables, same energy.
Even when I had 3 letters in my title, I was well aware of the math in the room. How many women. How many not. How many times I’ve had to restate something to be heard. How many times a joke landed flat when I said it, but got a laugh two seats later.
There’s a kind of fatigue that comes with being “the only.” Not dramatic, not bitter just constant. The small corrections, the invisible labor, the mental checklist of how you’re coming across. You learn to read the room before you speak, to measure every tone and pause. It’s like working two jobs: the one they hired you for, and the one you inherited the moment you became “the only woman here.”
But I can’t lie. There’s pride in this too. Pride in knowing I can hold my own in a space that wasn’t built for me. Pride in watching younger women walk in and look at me like proof that it’s possible. Pride in the quiet wins when the numbers go up, when the team listens, when someone finally realizes I wasn’t lucky, I was prepared.
Some days I still catch myself shrinking out of habit. Making myself small so no one feels threatened by my presence, my title, or the fact that I actually know what I’m talking about. Other days, I take up space on purpose. I speak slower. Louder. I let my ideas hang in the air instead of rushing to justify them.
And you know what I realized? Both the shrinking and the standing tall remind me of what it took to get here. Every uncomfortable meeting, every time I was called “sweetheart” in a strategy session, every quiet win that no one clapped for.
Being the only woman in the room isn’t a headline, it’s a mirror. It reflects how far you’ve come, and how much further the space around you still has to go.
The cool part? I keep walking into those rooms. Not because it’s easy, but because I earned the right to. And because somewhere, another woman is watching.
And maybe she’s still the “social media girl.” Maybe she’s just trying to be heard. Or maybe she’s wondering if there’s space for her in an industry that doesn’t always make room.
There is.
Because I’m here.
And I’m not leaving.
