I work in a small office where everyone knows everyone’s business, and gossip moves faster than email. But they all act as if they’re too busy to notice. You can practically hear the tension in the air when someone’s Slack goes off during a meeting.
…gossip moves faster than email.
We’re only about 25 people on the floor, and yet every minor personality quirk gets magnified over time, like dust collecting on glass.
I’m Brittany. I’m 29, and I’ve been at this company for around two years now.
I’m not flashy. I do my work well, and I try not to step on toes.
For the past two years, there has been one person who’s regularly made me wonder if I’m losing my mind.
Her name is Joan.
I do my work well, and I try not to step on toes.
Joan is 32, and one of those women who operates as if she’s in a Netflix dramedy about tech startups.
She’s always smiling and performing niceness as if she’s in an audition. Joan dresses sharply, but not too much in your face. She wears perfectly neutral blazers, delicate gold necklaces, and those shoes that click authoritatively down the hallway. You know the type.
My colleague has mastered being “nice” in a way that cuts.
She’s always smiling and performing niceness…
For instance, she’ll compliment you on your shoes, then slip a pin under your skin, like taking credit for your idea.
She’ll laugh at your joke, then cut you off in a meeting as if you’re the intern who wandered into the wrong room. But the most infuriating thing? The thing that made me question whether I was losing my mind?
She kept “forgetting” my name — but only in meetings.
It started subtly.
She kept “forgetting” my name — but only in meetings.
One meeting, she looked right at me and said, “Could you send that file over, um… what’s your name again?” while the room went quiet.
That first time, I laughed awkwardly and said, “Brittany.”
“Goodness! I struggle with recollection,” she’d say, flashing that tight little grin of hers. “It’s my brain’s fault!”
The thing is, Joan’s desk was 10 feet from mine!
“Goodness! I struggle with recollection.”
We’d been on the same product team throughout my time there.
We’ve worked on the same client and even shared documents.
She once borrowed my charger for an entire week!
So when it happened again the following Tuesday, I corrected her and got the same “Oh my god, I’m terrible with names!” routine. But when it happened again two weeks later, all in front of colleagues, I knew it wasn’t about memory.
“Oh my god, I’m terrible with names!”
And yet, every single time she did it, it was only when others were watching — never in private. Always after I had made a point, shared a report, or corrected an error. It was like clockwork.
I’d speak, she’d smile, and then she’d follow it up with: “Oh yes! I totally agree, honey. What’s your name again?”
If I shared an idea, she’d repeat it, then call me “girl,” as if we were at brunch instead of work!
I started dreading meetings.
And yet, every single time she did it…
I’d practice what I was going to say ahead of time and still feel that cold twist in my stomach when it got to my turn.
It wasn’t just that she “forgot” my name. It was how easily it made me feel invisible. Like, I didn’t matter in the room.
Our team consisted mostly of men rather than women, and somehow, Joan always remembered the men’s names. Always.
Never once did I hear her hesitate before addressing Steve, Mark, Tyler, or even Kyle, the new hire who joined three weeks ago! But me? I became “sweetheart” or “you there.”
It wasn’t just that she “forgot” my name.
I tried being grown and direct. I pulled her aside calmly after a Thursday morning meeting.
“Hey, Joan,” I said quietly. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”
“Of course!” she chirped, swinging her water bottle as if she were on a walk with a friend.
“I just wanted to mention… my name is Brittany. It’s been months, and you’ve happened to forget my name a lot lately. I wanted to ask that you please use it in meetings. I know you know it, and it matters to me.”
Her eyes widened as if I’d accused her of arson.
I tried being grown and direct.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry! Seriously, that’s on me. I have ADHD, and sometimes my brain just blanks on the spot! I totally see how that could appear, though. But I promise it’s not intentional!”
She smiled, over-apologized, and then acted as if we were best friends again.
I let it go for a bit. I mean, I didn’t want to make a thing out of it.
I even believed her for a while — until the following week, when she introduced a brand-new contractor by full name, title, and alma mater in front of the entire room as if she were hosting a panel!
I let it go for a bit.
“Everyone, this is Leo (she also gave his last name)! He’s a super sharp guy!”
Meanwhile, she still “blanked” on me in emails! No full greeting by name, just “Hi, can you take care of this?” followed by a wall of instructions.
Her own sign-off, of course, included her full name, title, and an italicized quote from Maya Angelou. I wish I were kidding!
It started to feel intentional. Not petty exactly — just calculated. As if she wanted to be the only woman in the room who took up space.
The only woman who was memorable.
It started to feel intentional.
The worst part was how subtle it all looked from the outside!
If I’d brought it up again, it would sound as if I were overreacting, making a big deal out of nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. Repeatedly poking a bruise results in pain that persists even after the poking stops.
Then came the quarterly review with our leadership.
Joan had prepped for it for weeks as if she were going on Shark Tank!
But it wasn’t nothing.
She mentioned wanting to impress the director and ask for a promotion, and ensured everyone knew.
She’d pace the hallway practicing lines like, “We need to move the needle,” and “I’m passionate about scaling our roadmap.” Joan rehearsed buzzwords and jokes, too!
It was insufferable — but honestly, kind of impressive. She was aiming high, and this review with the director, David, was her big moment.
She’d pace the hallway practicing lines…
David came in from the West Coast office for the meeting.
It was held in the conference room. The area smelled like coffee and nervous ambition. Joan took the seat beside David, of course, while I settled in on the opposite end, next to Tyler and Naomi.
During the gathering, Joan laughed a little too hard at the director’s jokes and dropped references to their shared LinkedIn connections.
I just wanted to get through the meeting without grinding my teeth down to powder.
Joan took the seat beside David…
Joan kicked things off with a bang!
She launched into her slides with practiced confidence, referencing statistics and metrics with flair, pausing for effect, doing everything short of jazz hands.
When my turn came, I took a breath and presented my project. I shared our team’s numbers, results, and progress on the analytics overhaul.
It was a clear, organized, clean, and concise delivery.
David nodded. He even asked a follow-up about user churn, which I answered easily.
Then Joan struck.
It was a clear, organized, clean, and concise delivery.
“Great point,” she said brightly and loud enough for everyone to hear. She turned toward me with her rehearsed smile. “What’s your name again?”
The room froze. I felt the heat rise to my cheeks, my throat tightening as if I were about to cough.
Joan was still looking right at me. And that’s when I made a decision.
I smiled. Not forced or sarcastic — just calm.
“Dear Joan, it’s the same name as the last 20 times. ‘Brittany.’ I’m surprised you can remember every man’s name in this room but not mine.”
“What’s your name again?”
You could have heard a pin drop!
Joan’s smile cracked, just slightly. Her eyes widened again, but this time there was no innocent sparkle behind them. David turned his head toward her slowly, his expression unreadable.
He said, flat and low, “Yeah… that’s not a great look.”
That was it. No lecture, no fury. Just those words, dropped like a stone in a still pond!
Joan opened her mouth. “I — I have ADHD. I swear it’s just — when I’m overwhelmed—”
But the moment had already passed. No one was buying it now!
“Yeah… that’s not a great look.”
I turned back to David and said, “Anyway, we’re aiming for a 10 percent reduction in bounce rate next quarter. We’ve already outlined the steps for testing.”
And that was that.
The rest of the meeting felt surreal.
Joan barely spoke. She didn’t make eye contact with anyone. Her usual chirpy interruptions and carefully placed laughs vanished. I didn’t gloat or smirk. I just kept going because the work mattered.
And she didn’t get to make me small.
Joan barely spoke.
When it wrapped up, everyone filed out quietly. No one said anything about the moment, but they didn’t need to. The silence spoke volumes.
Tyler gave me a nod in the hallway, a kind of nonverbal “good for you.” Naomi touched my arm lightly before heading to her desk. And David? He sent me a follow-up later that day — only to me — requesting analytics support.
It was addressed directly to me, with my name!
The silence spoke volumes.
Joan, on the other hand, made a beeline for me after the meeting.
I was pouring myself coffee in the break area when I heard her heels click sharply behind me.
“You embarrassed me,” she said in a low hiss.
I turned slowly, met her eyes, and said just as softly, “Good. Now stop.”
Her mouth opened again, then shut. Her face twisted in something between disbelief and insult.
Then she turned and walked away.
“You embarrassed me.”
From that day forward, Joan never once forgot my name!
She also stopped using pet names like “girl” or “honey.” And maybe most surprising of all, she stopped talking to me altogether — unless she had to!
There were no more fake smiles. No backhanded compliments. Just silence.
Honestly? It was a relief!
There were no more fake smiles.
Our team dynamic shifted.
Naomi started speaking up more in meetings. Joan didn’t cut her off anymore! Tyler took over a lead role on a sprint project, and when he brought up one of my ideas during planning, he credited me by name without missing a beat!
The weirdest thing was how quickly it all changed.
Joan still had her favorites. Still worked the room. But she no longer tried to erase me in public.
And that small shift — that reclaiming of space — meant more to me than I expected!
Joan didn’t cut her off anymore!
I started volunteering to present more. I pitched a tool integration that saved us hours of manual reporting. I stopped shrinking. Not because I had something to prove to Joan. But because I didn’t feel as if I had to prove I existed anymore.
A few weeks later, I bumped into David in the elevator.
“Hey, Brittany,” he said. “Just wanted to say — great job in that last review. You handled yourself really well.”
“Thank you,” I said, smiling. “I just figured it was time.”
He chuckled. “It was overdue.”
“You handled yourself really well.”
There’s no slow-clap ending here.
No dramatic demotion or public apology. Joan’s still at the company, still rehearsing lines, and still walking as if she owns the place. But now, when she walks past me in the hallway, she doesn’t pretend I’m invisible.
She knows my name.
And more importantly, I know my worth.
She knows my name.