The Years I tried to Disappear

When I worked in banking, I had always wanted to dress a certain way. This was before Instagram took flight and when Facebook could only be joined if you attended a university.

I remember watching TV shows where women in “corporate America” wore tight skirts and high heels, confident, polished, and unapologetic. I wanted to emulate that. I’ve always been someone who loves color, and I wanted that to show in my wardrobe too.

I mention this because I had a good friend at the time, someone who started as a peer but was later promoted into a compliance role. I was genuinely happy for her; it felt like such a natural fit.

My attire, however, had become a topic of conversation for many. I was told more than once that my color choices were “loud” or “flashy.” I was never out of dress code, but one night over dinner, that friend told me something that stopped me cold.

She said that in a larger meeting, my name had come up. And then she repeated what someone said about me:

“Her skirt is just the right kind of tight, but the top could be a little lower — if you know what I mean.”

I remember freezing. The world blurred for a moment, and I couldn’t process the rest of the conversation. She tried to backpedal after realizing my reaction, maybe the cocktails had loosened her words but the damage was already done.

That night I went home and stared at my closet, wondering what I had done wrong. I didn’t know it then, but what I was feeling was shame.

The next morning, I dressed as “modestly” and “toned down” as I could. Later that day, my District Manager called and wanted to meet. I don’t remember much of that conversation, but I do remember the word “flashy.” I left the meeting thinking I had done something wrong.

For years afterward, I changed how I dressed —no heels, no colors, no skirts or dresses. Just pants. I tried to disappear.

Looking back, I see now how much time I wasted trying to fit into someone else’s narrative of how I should look. They had sexualized me, and I carried the shame as if it were my fault.

But it was never me who was the problem.

Over time, I’ve learned that how I dress is no one else’s business. It’s not my responsibility if someone feels offended by my presence. I don’t carry that weight anymore.

Even now, I still feel a flicker of that old shame when someone comments on my outfit, good or bad. Maybe I always will. But each day, I get to choose how I respond.

I hold my head high. I thank them — whether the comment is positive or negative.

Because that is my truth.