Rooms That Weren’t Meant for Me
Reflections on belonging, isolation, and finding my voice
Today, as cameras flashed and the director called action, I felt myself leave my body. Not because I’m some incredible actor—this was my first time being in a sketch—but because I realized, surrounded by people, I was completely alone.
I walked into the space, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, nervously ready to immerse myself in something new. And then I heard it: “You must be the student here to help.” My heart sunk, the excitement in my chest collapsing under the weight of those words. I chuckled awkwardly, “No, no, I’m talent,” and moved on, but the comment stuck with me. Moments later, my friend Helen entered the space and was asked, “Do you teach at Mizzou?”
While this was my first time acting, it wasn’t my first time performing. I’ve been performing my whole life—laughing off comments, brushing aside assumptions, and walking into rooms like I belong, even when I’m not sure I do. It’s a role I’ve perfected, though it’s one I never auditioned for.
My work in transportation advocacy often mirrors moments like today. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve been asked, “Are you the student journalist?” “Are you here for class credit?” or, worst of all, “Are you lost?”
The truth is, I already feel lost in these spaces.
Lost because I’m constantly navigating rooms where I don’t see anyone who looks like me.
Lost because I’m searching for belonging in spaces that have no intention of including people like me.
Lost because I still feel like the little girl pretending—not the woman I’ve grown into today.
And when someone asks, “Are you lost?” it feels like they’ve reached into the deepest part of my insecurity and pulled it out for the world to see. It’s not just a question—it’s a reminder that, to them, I don’t belong here.
The director called action, but I wasn’t fully there. I stood in front of the camera, yet it felt like I was watching myself from above. From that distance, I could see myself: standing in a room where I didn’t belong, the only person who looked like me.
I saw the way I was standing, performing, smiling (I’m always smiling) through it all. And I kept asking myself: Why do I keep showing up to spaces that make me feel this way? Why am I trying so hard to belong in rooms that weren’t meant for me?
What good is a seat at the table if I’m the exception to the rule?
Professionally, I can grit my teeth and justify it. It’s for the greater good, you know? My presence matters. But in moments like this, surrounded by my peers, it feels different. What good is a seat at the table if I’m the exception to the rule?
I want to be in rooms where I’m not questioned. Rooms where I am welcomed and celebrated. Rooms where people like me are so deeply woven into the fabric that even when I’m absent, I know our voices, our values, and our presence remain.