Some Rooms Remind You Who You Are — And Some Make You Forget
How I Stay Grounded When a Room Tests My Worth (A Gentle Guide for Myself)
There are rooms — dinner tables, parties, friend circles, or even a single person’s presence — where you feel like you can shine. You feel fully yourself — centered, confident, and at ease. The people in them reflect that ease back to you; they see you clearly — and they see your light, too. These are the spaces where your laughter rings true, your words flow freely, and you feel entirely at home inside your own skin. You leave feeling filled up, held, and anchored deeply in your enough-ness.
And then, there are other rooms. Even the most grounded, self-assured person can feel themselves shrink a little there. I’ve felt it — in the company of a single person whose sharpness makes me question myself, in spaces where I wondered if my accomplishments or status stacked up, at gatherings where that one magnetic woman seems to steal the show, or when someone’s big personality swallows the air before I can find my voice and leaves me feeling small. Every now and then, I catch myself over-explaining, second-guessing, and seeking approval — all to make up for the simple truth that these just aren’t my people. It’s draining and leaves me feeling dejected. You walk out replaying your words, carrying a faint ache that maybe you didn’t quite belong.
Most of the time, it’s not even about the people themselves. It’s about old echoes — traces of doubt that sometimes tap my shoulder when I’m not in my element. And then I remind myself: I know exactly who I am. I trust myself. And I know where and how I shine.
This is part of why my Substack is called A Room of Her Own. I believe every woman deserves spaces — literal and metaphorical — where she feels worthy, safe, and wholly herself. No performing. No proving. No hustling for place.
But life has a way of placing us in rooms that stretch us, refine us, and show us where old triggers still live — so we can soften them, heal them, and come home to ourselves again.
I’ve learned to treat this awareness as an act of self-love — and I’ve created a quiet guide I can lean on whenever old triggers surface. Maybe it will help you too:
I don’t have to go — and if I do, I don’t have to stay. Not every room deserves me. Not every table needs my chair. Choosing the joy of missing out, or stepping away when I feel my sense of self unraveling, is not weakness — it’s self-respect. I’ve left parties early for this very reason and felt my self-worth return with every step I take further away from the noise.
I pause before I cross the threshold. Sometimes, in the car or just outside the door, I remind myself: I am already enough, just as I am tonight. I belong to myself, no matter the room. Whether I click with everyone there or feel a little out of step, I am whole. Sometimes I even picture a newborn — precious and complete simply because they exist, a reminder that we’re all born whole before we learn to doubt it.
I find my safe person. If I feel off in a room, I gravitate toward the person who feels warm and genuine. I linger in conversations that feel easy and true. I let my energy settle there instead of spinning. Some nights, I end up beside the same person most of the time — not because I’m closing myself off, but because their company brings out my best. Confidence, for me, isn’t about charming a room — it’s about protecting my peace.
I let quiet be my power. If I grow silent, I trust that silence. It’s usually my body’s way of telling me I’m out of alignment with the space or the energy around me. It isn’t that I have nothing to say — it’s that my quiet has its own wisdom. I know my soft voice and calm demeanor don’t always land in loud spaces. That’s not a flaw; it’s just not my stage. In the right room, my words pour out.
I recalibrate at home. I come back to myself — fully. If I want to wash the day away, I soak in a lavender bath, then slip into my softest loungewear — my first, simplest act of care after a draining gathering. I light a candle, put on a good podcast, and curl up with my favorite snack. If shame creeps in, replaying moments and making me question myself, I remind myself it’s just one voice — not the whole truth. I let myself rest and enjoy comfort without guilt. I let my home hold the version of me that needs no audience at all.
Here’s what I know for sure: the right rooms — and the right people — will never ask you to prove your worth or make you feel small. When you find those rooms, or build them from scratch, stay as long as you like. Fill them with your laughter, your light, your steady voice, your calm confidence — your whole, worthy self.
And when life places you in other rooms, carry that worthiness with you. It never belonged to the room in the first place. It has always belonged to you.
x Crystal
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