How My Daughter Taught Me to Speak Up and Stand Out
White House Internship Photo — Class of 2012

My 8-year-old daughter is nothing like me. I love reading and writing, she loves science and math. She loves fashion and nail painting. At her age I spent most of my time biting my nails and playing sports with my brothers. As you can imagine, this makes choosing mommy/daughter activities quite the challenge.

One of the most blatant differences between us is our feelings about being seen — being in the spotlight. My daughter is extremely precocious and brave; she is always seemingly happy to be center stage while I prefer to lurk quietly behind the curtain.

It’s a fact about myself that I didn’t really notice or acknowledge until my daughter pointed it out to me one day in the most directly indirect fashion.

It was a typical snow day in Philadelphia; you know, the kind where the school district decides to cancel classes at the last minute. My boyfriend and me had both started new jobs a few months prior so neither of us could afford to take a day off to be at home with my daughter. So, I told her to pack her tablet, some games and snacks, and I brought her with me to my job in the public relations department at a local University.

When we arrived, my colleagues seemed excited to have a little person visiting the office. They all said their hellos, showering her with compliments; my daughter stood proudly in the center, eating it all up. She blushed a little but never sought refuge from the sudden onslaught of attention as I might have had I been in her position.

A few personal photos that I’d brought in weeks earlier were the only real décor in my messy little cubicle which was covered with piles of papers, magazines, newspaper clippings and books.

Once my daughter settled into the space I’d made for her, she skipped right over my selection of books (much to my chagrin) and began browsing the photos I had on display. There was a photo of my boyfriend and me celebrating my birthday at one of my favorite restaurants. There was a photo of my daughter hugging me after my undergraduate graduation. And then there were two photos from my internship at the White House.

It was one of my proudest achievements. In 2012, I’d survived several rounds of interviews and vetting and somehow managed to surpass hundreds of qualified candidates from Harvard, Yale and the like to become an intern for the first black President of the United States. I’d spent six months working in the White House Office of Communication and it was better than anything I could have ever dreamed. At the end of the internship, we were rewarded with the best gift a young student could hope for: a group meet-and-greet and photoshoot with First Lady Michelle Obama and President Barack Obama.

I cherished those pictures. To me they represented how far I’d come from being a college dropout to working in one of the highest political offices in the land. When my daughter looked at the photos, she saw something else entirely.

White House Internship Grouup Photo with First Lady Michelle Obama

Her: Is that Michelle Obama? Me: Sure is. Her: You met her? Me: Sure did. Her: Why are you all the way in the back? Me: Huh? Her: In both of the pictures…you’re all the way in the back. Why?

The question caught me completely off guard. I struggled to find a response.

Me: Um… I don’t know. I guess I wanted to be nice and let the other people stand in the front. Her: …you should stand in the front next time; you could’ve been right next to Michelle Obama, girl!

I sat quiet for a minute, watching my daughter as she put her headphones on and resumed watching a Netflix show on her tablet, completely oblivious to how her words had just shaken my whole world.

Here I was, semi-bragging on what I thought was the greatest moment ever and with one comment, my daughter had shown me how the moment could’ve been made even better had I just stepped forward. Her words sent questions swirling around in my head.

Was I afraid of standing in the front?

That couldn’t be right. I was a communication major, a talker, and often, the life of any party. I’d gotten a little jittery in some unfamiliar social settings but I was by no means afraid to socialize. My stubborn resolve told me this could not be true. Then suddenly, I got the urge to find proof; I needed evidence that my little 8-year-old was wrong.

Fully distracted from my work, I began browsing photos from some of my biggest accomplishments and sure enough, in almost every group picture, I was about as difficult to find as Waldo.

How long had I been doing this? Why was I doing this?

The questions made me panic, like I’d forgotten all of the answers on the day of a big test.

Part of me reasoned that I’d stood in the back because I’m tall. It is fairly common for group photos to be arranged with the tallest in the rear and the shortest in front. Perhaps I’d just gotten used to being positioned there?

But another part of me knew my daughter was right. This was not a fluke. Those photos were a microcosm of my life. At parties and family functions, I’d volunteer to be the designated photographer (to practice, I’d say) but it was actually an easy excuse to be behind the camera instead of in front of it. Family and friends had come to know me as the pusher; if there was ever something they wanted to achieve, I’d be there giving advice, encouraging and sometimes even shoving them directly into the spotlight to get their due applause. For some reason, I never felt comfortable receiving the attention that I’d so readily encouraged them to enjoy.

Later that week I revisited a book that I’ve read several times before: A Return to Love by Marianne Williamson. Over the years it had become my go-to book for finding clarity whenever I felt lost; this time was no exception.

As I flipped through the pages, I landed on a passage that I’d read and heard many times before. But this time, it took on a whole new meaning.

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, Our presence automatically liberates others. — Marianne Williamson

Every part of the passage spoke to the fears that had kept me in hiding for most of my adult life; fear of being judged; fear of people seeing my flaws; fear of being viewed as pompous; fear that if I stood in the front someone would surely put me in my place because I didn’t belong there.

Marianne’s perfectly eloquent words had delivered the same message my sassy 8-year-old had intended: standing in the front doesn’t make you arrogant or rude, and standing in the back doesn’t make you nice or humble either. When you’ve worked hard, when you’ve earned it, when it’s your moment, it’s okay to shine.

My daughter is nine now; we still have very little in common. We struggle to find activities that we both enjoy. As of late we’ve found somewhat of a compromise in reading books that have gone to film; I love the reading part, she prefers watching the movie.

I continue to admire her confidence and I’ve begun to revere her advice on nail polish colors, music, fashion and everything in between. When she’s older, I hope she’ll follow the advice she so easily gave me.

And whenever I take my next group photo, I look forward to standing tall, front and center.
['Queen Muse']
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