Women in Marketing: We Have Nothing to Prove

I was 18 the first time I gave up writing. It was my first writing class at a community college. We sat in a circle, avoiding eye contact, as the professor read our work aloud with scathing commentary. It was a stuffy spring day, or maybe it was my racing heart. When he got to my poem, he snickered. "This is so sugary sweet," he said. "I'm going to have a diabetic attack. I can't go on." I froze. The girl beside me passed me a note that said, "What an a**."

I NEVER SAW HER AGAIN.

She was among the few he praised, but she knew he wasn't worth her time. I kept going back and taking the hits, determined to prove to this professor, and myself, that I was a writer. On the last day of class, he read my piece aloud and said, "Maybe there's some hope for you after all."

Before college, teachers and peers praised my writing – it was what got me through a lot of trauma. But I allowed this one professor to convince me I was mediocre, that I had no business calling myself a writer. I transferred to a four-year university, where I tried and failed to get into their selective creative writing program. My peers had big vocabularies and chiseled prose. I was all raw emotion with no technique – because I was never taught technique. I had to be self-sufficient from a young age. My high school years were work, riding buses, and running around the streets, goofing off with friends. School was an afterthought, a place that wasn't built for daydreamers like me.

I'M THANKFUL FOR THOSE EARLY SETBACKS.

If I'd gotten accepted into that writing program, I would've never switched my major to Film and Digital Media. I might not have ever fallen in love with the art of visual storytelling. I'm not sure I would've had the same fire.

Early in my career, I was eager to become a video producer and storyteller. But I'd graduated shortly before the Great Recession. There was no clear path or entry-level role with a benefits package waiting for me. I moved to Vegas, where those of us who couldn't afford LA went. I dealt with seedy production house owners who cared more about my looks than my skills. I was often the only woman in the place, laughing off my discomfort. It was easier to get jobs when I was agreeable. I was still learning the difference between being liked, or tolerated, and respected.

At 25, I was hired to teach art theory, graphic design, and photography at a local college. I've always looked younger than I am (a blessing, some say, and a curse). I had never done public speaking, much less led a class before. My students ate me alive. They asked why a high school student was hired to teach them. One day, my boss came in to observe me. After class, he looked me straight in the eye and said, "Tara, they are walking all over you. You need to be meaner." That word really stuck with me..."meaner." I took his feedback to heart. A few weeks later, he said a couple of students complained that I was too abrasive. Again, I was asked to correct my behavior.

IT WAS AROUND THIS TIME THAT I FOUND OUT I WAS NEURODIVERGENT.

Reading and understanding social cues never came naturally to me. Figuring out the right way to communicate in social situations took me far longer than others. One thing I've always had going for me is my determination. I might quit for a while, but I don't give up.

At 28, I did what those college professors said I couldn't. I sold a book to Macmillan and became a published author. There was no magic to it. I simply kept trying until I became a more effective writer.

I spent years honing my craft and creating for others. I found a steady career in marketing. But the more experience I gained, the more I wanted new challenges. I wanted to lead. And each time I was told, "Yes, but you're so good at creating content" or "Yes, but you're the only designer that gets me," that fire in me grew stronger.

BY THE TIME I HIT MY 30S, I STOPPED SAYING YES SO MUCH.

I stopped being so agreeable. The more I created, the more confident I became. Conflict, that thing I'd spent so many years avoiding, became unavoidable. I became my own best advocate. Instead of being asked to be "meaner," I was told I was too ambitious and direct.

I'm a leader at heart. I can be strong-willed. I'm easygoing about some things and strongly opinionated about others. I'm both calm and anxious. I'm a risk-taker when it's something I believe in, but you'll have to put me out to get me on an airplane. I accept who I am and that I'm not for everyone. I'm at my happiest when I can help others share their story, when I can help others do what they love.

My story isn't unique. I talk to other women in marketing every day who are sidelined, talked over, or told they're too bossy or aggressive. We walk a tightrope, a balancing act of being confident but not arrogant, firm but not aggressive. All too often, we find ourselves apologizing when we don't even know what we're apologizing for.

But we all have a voice and a life full of stories to share. We have stories in us that could change someone else's life. We are connected through these shared feelings.

And while our individual stories may differ, there is a common thread: the constant pressure to prove ourselves. It's the subtle (and not-so-subtle) requests to justify our decisions, the questioning of our authority, the endless cycle of demonstrating our competence. It's exhausting.

IT'S TIME WE STOPPED PROVING OUR VALUE AND STARTED OWNING IT.

If you find yourself relating to these experiences, here’s the advice I have:

Stop Apologizing: We're not sorry for being ambitious, having ideas, or taking up space.

Speak Up and Be Curious: Don't wait to be invited. Share your insights, ask bold questions, and utilize your expertise. At the same time, be curious about others' perspectives. The more you understand others, the easier it is to feel empathy instead of frustration.

Embrace Your Unique Voice: You have something valuable to say. Find your authentic voice and use it.

Create Content Only You Can Create: Create content that showcases your expertise, thought leadership or even your life experience. This could be articles, videos, or a podcast. Not a video person? I get it. A podcast is a flexible platform. Create an immersive story-like experience or simply be you, talking real with a mic and a cup of green tea. Creating doesn’t just give us a voice - it helps us heal.

Choose Your Community: Surround yourself with supportive people and choose employers that believe in your abilities. Find mentors and allies who can help you rise. Don’t waste your time on people or employers that make you feel bad about yourself - it only slows you down. I get that sometimes leaving a bad employer isn’t an option (I’ve been there) - but know there is a better situation out there for you. Maybe it’s a company you create.

MY FELLOW MARKETING MAVENS, I SEE YOU.

I know the struggle of being a woman in marketing leadership. You're not alone in feeling underestimated or having your ideas dismissed. But know this: you are capable, you are valuable, and you have the power to change the narrative. Never stop learning, growing, and connecting with others who share your ambition.

At Podfly, we understand the power of storytelling and the importance of building a platform for individual voices. Because even company podcasts are about the humans behind them. We help women marketing leaders like you create engaging podcasts and other content that showcase your expertise, build your authority, and help you connect with your audience in meaningful ways.

Remember, you have nothing to prove. Your value is inherent. But you do have a story to tell, a message to share, and a whole lot of impact to make.