I remember sitting in a room where everyone knew better.
You could feel it.
Not confusion.
Not lack of understanding.
Everyone knew.
The numbers didn’t make sense.
The direction wasn’t right.
The decision being pushed… wasn’t going to end well.
But no one said anything.
Because in that room… leadership didn’t lead with clarity.
It led with fear.
Fluorescent lights hummed over an oval table filled with leaders who dreaded being there. You could see it on their faces every single morning. They dreaded the meeting. They dreaded each other. And most of all… they dreaded the one person you did not cross.
Not always loud fear.
Sometimes it was aggressive.
Sometimes it was passive.
And sometimes…
it was silent.
The kind of silence that lets you know:
You can speak… but there will be a cost.
And I had seen what that cost looked like.
People being shut down.
People being pushed out.
People being made examples of.
When I stepped into environments like that, people would warn me:
“Just stay out of their way.”
“Don’t get on their bad side.”
“Just do what they say.”
And for a long time… I tried.
I tried to move the way they wanted.
Tried to stay in alignment.
Tried to shrink just enough to survive.
But no matter how small I made myself…
it was still wrong.
Because here’s what they don’t tell you about shrinking:
It doesn’t protect you.
It just makes you easier to disappear.
I learned that the hard way.
I remember a meeting — a big one. A client on the line. A CEO I admired. A strong woman of color sitting across the table with power and presence and a question that deserved a real answer.
We had rehearsed. We knew what we were going to say. Our SVP had directed every word.
And then… she threw the ball to me.
“Nikki, you’ve done something. What did you and your team do?”
She knew exactly what she was doing.
She had tied our hands.
We couldn’t do anything.
And she knew that.
So I did the only thing I could do with integrity in that moment — I told the truth. Carefully. Professionally. But honestly.
And I got the business for it.
Escalated. Made an example of.
That was supposed to be the moment I learned to shut up.
It did not shut me up.
It merely pissed me off.
Because God has never required that I be nice.
Kind, yes.
But nice? Nice is a survival strategy.
And I was done surviving.
Here’s what I know now that I didn’t fully understand then:
Speaking up in corporate can cost you everything you’ve built.
Your reputation.
Your opportunities.
Your peace.
And for women — especially women of color — the math is even harder.
Shine. But don’t shine too bright.
Speak up. Be direct. Be concise.
But don’t have an attitude.
Show up strong. But not too strong.
Be confident. But make sure your confidence doesn’t make anyone uncomfortable.
We are judged in ways that have nothing to do with our work.
Minute to minute.
Hour to hour.
Day to day.
Year to year.
Walking into rooms where no one looks like you.
Carrying the weight of your work and the weight of every bias stacked against you.
Navigating all of it… with grace… while being held to a standard no one else in the room has to meet.
That is not a small thing.
That is everything.
And still — we show up.
So when I sat in that room…
knowing what I knew…
feeling what everyone else felt but wouldn’t say…
I had a decision to make.
Stay quiet…
or say something.
I spoke.
Not for attention.
Not to be right.
But because what was happening was going to impact more than just me.
And that’s when I learned something that changed the way I lead forever:
You know it’s time to speak up… when you’re not just speaking for yourself.
When what you’re fighting for improves, protects, or elevates others —
that’s not just courage.
That’s leadership.
Not titles.
Not control.
Not fear.
Responsibility.
I have a daughter. She’ll be four in July.
She doesn’t understand boardrooms yet.
She doesn’t know what it means to be undermined in a meeting or made an example of in front of a client.
But she watches me.
She watches how I move.
How I stand.
How I speak.
How I don’t fold.
And I speak up for her — without hesitation — every single time.
Because I don’t just want her to be kind.
I want her to be courageous.
Courageous enough to walk into rooms where no one looks like her…
and speak anyway.
Courageous enough to know that her voice was never meant to be managed.
Because here’s the truth about people who lead through fear:
They need your silence more than you need their approval.
The moment you stop providing it…
the whole performance falls apart on its own.
You don’t have to expose them.
You don’t have to fight them.
Just don’t hide the truth to protect them.
One person’s fear cannot stop what’s meant to move.
That’s part of my Herformation.
And maybe… yours too.