DON’T BE AFRAID OF ME, I CAN’T REACH THE TOP SHELF

I have perfected the art of the non-threatening smile.

The soft upward lip curve, relaxed shoulders, good posture, eyes softened to show I am open, approachable… safe. I turn on the megawatt smile as soon as I'm through the lobby door, in the elevator, even walking to the toilets. Internally screaming: Please don't do a biased psychoanalysis before I've uttered good morning.

I'm 5'1. On a generous day. Every group picture, there I am in the front. I have to find the courage to ask coworkers younger than me to reach something on the top shelf. And yet, every room I walk into, everything stops. Shoulders tense. Eyes flicker. They calculate. Assess.

I am small. But apparently, also a potential threat.

After months of training and shadowing, I was given something real. My own project. A technical report. Not just contributing—leading. My name at the top. My vision. My research.

Three weeks. Late nights. Weekends. The kind of focus where you forget to eat lunch and suddenly it's dark and your screen is the only light. I interviewed companies, tested live environments, wrangled data from teams who didn't want to share it. I shaped the narrative until it actually said something worth saying. I was proud. The quiet, tired pride you don't announce because you're waiting for someone to notice on their own.

Then the meetings start. How do I get them to invest? I do what any humble person does: ask a senior for advice. Let's call him Steve. Corner office Steve. Been to every branch Steve. Steve who, in the first thirty seconds, asked my two coworkers if it was their work.

"Who's the lead on this? I have comments but want to direct them to the right person."

I stared at my screen.

Who's the lead on this?

My name was in the email signature. My name was at the top of the document. My name had been on the project tracker for three weeks. I am the only woman on this project. Who else could it possibly be?

And still. Who's the lead?

"Behind a successful man is a woman. Behind every successful woman is herself."

I kept repeating that from Cruella de Vil at lightning speed. Once again, my existence was neither here nor there.

I said, quietly, carefully, "That's me. I've been leading it. Happy to talk through the structure."

He looked at his screen. Then past me, at another senior. "Steve #2, were you involved in this?"

Steve #2 shrugged. "Nah, Liana's been owning it."

A pause. Steve blinked. Looked back at me. "Right. Great. Okay, so… go on then."

Go on then. Like I'd been let in. Like I'd been granted permission to speak in a room I'd called.

I think about the office thermostat a lot. Not the actual temperature—though that's a whole other essay about who gets to be comfortable at work. But the metaphor.

I am always being adjusted.

Too hot: when I forget to smile. When I wear my natural hair out. When I accidentally speak loudly. When I advocate for my work the way men do. Direct. Confident. No apology. They say the key is to have a white man's confidence. What if it's still not enough?

Too cold: when I'm quiet. Focused. Tired of performing. Someone asks if "everything's okay" because my face reads as a problem. As something to be managed. As a complaint I haven't made yet.

I am constantly reaching for an impossible Goldilocks zone. Warm enough to be palatable. Cool enough not to threaten. Small enough to fit.

On that call, I was warm. I explained the methodology. I thanked them for their feedback. I made the changes they asked for, even the ones that made the report redundant, because pushing back would have been "difficult." Would have been "aggressive." Would have been hot.

I submitted the report on time. Steve sent a team-wide email congratulating "the team" on a job well done. Didn't name me. Didn't name anyone.

But I noticed... I always notice.

The next week, I didn't smile in the elevator. It was 6.30 pm. I'd stayed late hyper-fixating on my code. Tired. Head down. All I need is a warm shower and a bed. Definitely a bed. The doors opened on the third floor and a man got in. Senior. Greying hair. Suit. Seen him around but never spoken. He did the thing: the double-take. The flicker of assessment. The slight tensing, like bracing for impact.

I didn't perform.

I just looked ahead. Neutral face. No smile. No nod. Just a woman, going home, too tired to be safe. He stood on the other side of the elevator. Checked his phone. Shifted his weight. Got out on the ground floor without a word.

It still felt terrifying. The voice in my head—trained, conditioned, earned—was screaming: You should have smiled. Now he thinks you're angry. Now he'll remember you as difficult.

But also, it felt like the first deep breath I've taken in months.

I still need help with the top shelf. That hasn't changed. I still stand on my toes reaching for a cup and come up short.

But I'm starting to wonder if that's the point. The top shelf is theirs. The physical one, sure. But also, the metaphorical one. The easy recognition. The benefit of the doubt. The who's leading this? that gets answered with someone else's name.

I can't reach it. Maybe I never will.

But the whole damn building? I'm learning to take up space in it. Not by being louder. Not by being hotter, colder, warmer, or smaller. Just by being here. By not performing my harmlessness. By letting my existence make them uncomfortable.

That's how I win.