The promotion meeting at AWS wasn’t just loud—it was suffocating. Managers spoke over one another, their voices sharp and unrelenting, each one desperate to outtalk the next. It wasn’t about collaboration or progress; it was about control, about proving who belonged at the top of this hierarchy.

I was the only woman in the room. That wasn’t new, but it never felt normal. It carried its own quiet weight, a constant reminder that I wasn’t just representing myself—I was representing the possibility of women belonging here at all.

The arguments swirled around me like a storm, but I didn’t move. I listened. Observed. I wasn’t just hearing what they said—I was mapping their dynamics, watching the subtle power plays: who interrupted whom, who avoided eye contact, who leaned in to assert their point. It wasn’t chaos to me—it was a system.

Then my laptop lit up with a message.

“Speak up!” my manager typed. The urgency in his words hit me like a shove.

I stared at the message for a moment, then back at the screen, where the conversation continued to spiral.

Another message followed. “Say something!”

I could feel his panic, his need to push me into the fray, as though my silence was the problem here. He didn’t understand. Timing wasn’t about jumping into the noise—it was about waiting for the moment when my voice could shift it.

The conversation shifted to one of my employees—a high-performing team member who didn’t have a degree.

“He’s consistent, but he doesn’t have the qualifications,” one of the managers said, his tone clipped and dismissive.

Another voice chimed in. “Without a degree, how do we justify this promotion?”

The tone of the room hardened. A degree wasn’t even a requirement for the role, but they didn’t care. This wasn’t about what was fair—it was about protecting their worldview.

My manager messaged again: “This is your chance. You need to speak now.”

I typed back, deliberate and steady. “I will when I have something to say.”

The pressure in my chest wasn’t just from the room—it was from the weight of my manager’s expectations, layered on top of the dynamics I was already navigating.

The noise in the meeting built to a crescendo, circling the same arguments, louder and more certain with every pass.

Then I moved.

“I understand why degrees matter in some roles,” I said, my voice clear and deliberate.

The noise stopped immediately. Heads turned.

“But this isn’t one of those roles,” I continued, calm and deliberate. “A degree isn’t a requirement here. What matters is performance—and this employee has consistently delivered.”

I paused, letting the words hang in the air. The tension in the room didn’t ease—it sharpened.

“In my experience,” I added, meeting their gazes, “the strongest push for degrees often comes from those who value them as validation for themselves.” I let that settle before finishing, “For those who don’t know, I don’t have a degree either. And yet, here I am.”

The room stayed still, the weight of my words pulling the focus back to where it belonged: performance.

Both of my employees were promoted.

But the meeting wasn’t just about the promotions. It was about survival—mine and theirs.

Being the only woman in this room wasn’t just a detail; it was a constant, unspoken reminder that I was playing a game I wasn’t supposed to win. Every move I made, every word I spoke—or didn’t—would be judged not just as mine, but as a reflection of whether women belonged in spaces like this at all.

And my manager’s messages? They were a reminder of the pressure to not just exist in the system, but to conform to it. To speak when they expected me to, to play by their rules, as though my voice needed their permission.

But I’ve never worked like that. Growing up, I learned early that words could shift a room or tip the balance, but only if you understood their weight. I don’t speak to fill space. I speak to change it.

And the system? It wasn’t built for me. It wasn’t built for women. These men weren’t malicious—they didn’t have to be. They were simply protecting the structures that validated their authority while piling extra weight on women.

At AWS, I saw the patterns everywhere.

Programs marketed as “empowerment” for women in security are presented as opportunities to learn, grow, and connect. They’re described as:

• Mentorship programs designed to guide women in navigating male-dominated fields.
• Panels and talks celebrating women’s achievements and sharing their stories to inspire others.
• Networking events to help women build relationships and create visibility for future opportunities.
• Workshops teaching women how to rise in their careers, with practical advice and strategies.

On the surface, it all sounds promising. And to be fair, there are women who find value in these spaces—they meet peers, share experiences, and gain insights.

But when you look deeper, the patterns emerge. These programs aren’t just happening in isolation—they are part of a system designed to maintain the status quo while looking like progress. They shift the weight of change onto women, keeping the power structures intact.

Here’s how it unfolds:

• Mentorship programs turn into assignments where women are expected to coach others, often “fixing” problems they didn’t create, while men aren’t held to the same standard of lifting others.
  Example: Women are praised for mentoring struggling female colleagues, but the same expectation isn’t placed on male leaders.
• Panels and talks often become spaces where women are asked to share their struggles and trauma, creating the appearance of awareness while leaving the system unchanged.
  Example: A panel on women’s challenges highlights personal horror stories but leads to no actionable changes or accountability for systemic issues.
• Networking events keep women busy connecting within their own circles, while the real decision-makers—typically men—are absent or disengaged.
  Example: A women’s lunch looks like progress on the surface, but the key power conversations still happen elsewhere.
• Workshops focus on teaching women how to adapt to the system rather than challenging or changing the rules themselves.
  Example: Sessions on “negotiating like a man” or “managing workload” subtly reinforce that the problem lies with women, not the structures that overburden them.

These aren’t accidents. The system is designed this way—to look like progress while reinforcing its own foundations. These programs keep women busy solving problems they didn’t create, making it harder to notice that the real barriers haven’t moved.

The system isn’t broken. It’s working exactly the way it was built to.

And most people don’t see it—not because they’re ignoring it, but because it’s woven into everything so seamlessly that it feels invisible to those it benefits.

For me, stepping away from these programs wasn’t about rejecting community or support. It was about recognizing that the weight I was carrying wasn’t shifting anything. I wasn’t solving problems—I was being handed more.

So now, I move differently. I don’t mistake busy for progress, and I don’t play by the rules of a system that wasn’t built for me.

Because words don’t have to shout to create change. The power isn’t in their volume—it’s in what they leave behind: clarity, space, and the possibility for something to move.