There's a strange cocktail of pride and panic that comes with being the youngest in the room. On one hand: wow, you made it. On the other: who gave you the mic, and are you really supposed to speak?
First, the Obvious Looks
You walk into a room full of experience and instantly feel like a fresh-out-of-college intern who accidentally wandered into the boardroom. Your brain goes:
- "Should I keep quiet and observe?"
- "Will they take me seriously if I speak up?"
- "Wait — did someone just call me 'kiddo' in a meeting?"
Then Comes the Overcompensation
You speak faster. Sharper. Louder. With more numbers. With more slides. Because God forbid someone thinks you're not prepared. So you over-prepare. You over-deliver. You try to sound like a Harvard case study wrapped in TEDx confidence. And some days… it works. But some days, it backfires.
You Start Playing a Role
You adopt a tone. You mimic phrases. You swap out "I think" with "It is clear that" — as if declaring certainty makes you older. Until you realise: the room doesn't need another voice trying to sound like the oldest. It needs a real one that brings something new.
Finding My Volume
Over time, I learned that being the loudest isn't about speaking the most. It's about saying what matters. Even if it's uncomfortable. Even if it's different. I learned to:
- Ask the questions no one else was asking
- Call out what didn't make sense, even if it ruffled feathers
- Back my ideas with work, not just words
Turns out, credibility doesn't come from age. It comes from insight.
I still walk into rooms where I'm the youngest. But I'm no longer trying to be the oldest. I'm just trying to be the most me. And if someone still calls me a "kid" — I smile. Because honestly? This kid gets things done.