Being the ‘Good Girl’ was my Full—Time Job. Not anymore.
- Apr 7
- 4 min read
By Denislava Zlatanova
I didn’t have the cinematic “step into power” moment. No thunderclap, no overnight reinvention, no dramatic haircut announcing a new era. Now, in my late twenties, I kept waiting for that a‑ha scene to arrive with fanfare as I prepared to bury the last decade and cross into my third one. What actually happened was quieter and, honestly, more uncomfortable: I realized that playing small wasn’t my personality. It was a habit I’d rehearsed so well it started to feel like the truth. Like one of my favourite high–school teachers used to say: once you repeat a lie ten times, it comes to life.
Once you see it, you can’t unsee it. Actually, you feel it first. That little hard ball lodged in the middle of your throat, the hellish rush of thoughts sprinting through your mind at 200 km an hour, your pulse suddenly doing too much. Those are the early symptoms of shrinking yourself. They show up right there where that careful sentence died on your tongue, that idea you sand down so it doesn’t sound “too much,” the compliment you deflected because owning it feels consequential.
I wish I could say I stopped dimming myself from one day to the other, closed the chapter, and never looked back.
I didn’t. I still have the wobbly days when I wake up and interrogate everything – my work, my character, my right to take up space. There are mornings I rewrite a simple email three times, removing any sentence that might sound “too direct,” and then catch myself wondering why. But the noise is quieter now, and that, for me, is measurable progress. I can feel it in the way my shoulders sit lower, the way my voice doesn’t rush to apologize before making a point.
When I struggle, I use a very simple test. I stop whatever I’m doing, close my eyes, and ask myself: would my 10‑year‑old self be proud of me? Not of my resume, not of my LinkedIn summary, but of me. The woman who kept pursuing her real dreams – the ones I felt in my chest, not the ones other people had drafted for me. The woman who let failure sting without letting it rewrite the story of her worth. Every time I picture that little girl, knees bruised, head full of improbable plans, I know she’d think I’m the coolest person ever. Not because I’m flawless, but because I didn’t abandon her. In that tiny pause, that private check‑in with my past self, I’m teaching my brain a new pattern: we don’t play small here. Not anymore.
My real turning point was painfully unglamorous: I stopped organizing my life around other people’s expectations. Family, friends, colleagues, the aunt you see twice a year who still serves unsolicited opinions about what a young woman should do. Forgive me – must do. For years, I treated those “musts” like binding legislation. Good women must be agreeable. Good professionals must be grateful. Good daughters must not make people uncomfortable.
At some point, my body started protesting. Anxiety before harmless meetings. Exhaustion that sleep didn’t fix. My gut – this quiet, persistent inner compass, kept tapping me on the shoulder. I only started hearing it when I allowed myself to sit still, to breathe, to stop performing long enough to feel what was actually true. That’s all intuition is: data your body collects when your brain finally stops people‑pleasing.
Professionally, I’ve built a career in rooms where confidence is currency. EU institutions, communications, diplomacy, newsrooms, you name it. I wasn’t always confident. Not because I was bad at my job, but because, deep down, I knew with every fiber of my body that I did not belong, especially in spaces where everyone is busy performing a role. Pleasing the right people, laughing at the right jokes, flattering whoever happens to hold the power that week. I could definitely play that part, but it felt like wearing a blazer two sizes too small. And most importantly – it felt wrong. The moment you know what you stand for, you stop negotiating with your own voice. You may still be scared, but you don’t outsource your decisions to other people’s comfort.
If you can take one piece of advice from this article, allow me to say this: you don’t need to be liked at work. You need to be respected. Liked is a mood; respected is a boundary. The day I understood that, my emails became shorter. My “No” stopped needing a three‑paragraph explanation and a smiley face. Dimming myself was teaching people how to treat me. Every time I swallowed my opinion, laughed off a slight, or minimized my ambition, I was writing a manual for my future self. I’m not interested in that manual anymore.
I want to be the woman who shows up, does the work, and speaks plainly. The one who doesn’t have to be the loudest to be the clearest.
The one who understands that leadership and power isn’t a “vibe” – it’s a decision you make again and again, especially on the days you feel like crawling back into invisibility.
I haven’t graduated from this lesson yet. I will still seldom catch myself mid‑sentence, softening a truth that deserves to stand on its own. But I stop, take a breath, and do my best to say it clearly. No buffers, no word salad and beating around the bush. That instinct act of persistence – that’s what power looks like.
Ladies, your power doesn’t need permission. It needs practice.
Connect With Denislava
Email: hello@dennyslava.com
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