Wouldn't It Be Silly if This Were a Bad Title

"'A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.' 'Not if you called them "stench blossoms".'" - The Simpsons

In my twenties, I worked as an administrative assistant for the library director at a small university. I loved it and I was good at it, for reasons I couldn't name at the time.

I anticipated the Director's needs because I thought like a director. I organized and scheduled flawlessly because I saw project arcs and anticipated curveballs. I could be trusted to make decisions on the fly because I took accountability for the outcomes, not just the logistics. I had what I now know to be strategic pattern recognition, a trait prized in leaders.

I thrived in this administrative assistant role for years until I started a family and became a stay at home parent. I loved running a household and I was good at it, for reasons I couldn't name at the time.

I anticipated needs, managed competing timelines, coordinated logistics across multiple people, and protected the energy and attention of everyone in the house. I tracked patterns, adjusted workflows, prevented burnout, and translated big-picture values into daily decisions. I built a system that held together because I understood the people inside it and what they needed to function. I had what I now know to be applied relational intelligence at an executive level of competence.

Over the next two decades, I continued performing in roles for which I was paid little to nothing. Volunteering at high levels in non-profits, managing offices and businesses for minimum wage, handing out "deliverables" left and right that I should have priced at market value. Each position offered experience and connections that were priceless; but not one of them afforded me a title representative of what I actually did within these organizations and businesses.

"Titles don't mean anything," I told myself so I could be clothed with humility. "My value lies in my character, in what I give away freely."

As I near my fifties, I no longer need to be liked in order to survive. So now I can do what my younger self never could: I call bullshit.

Because you know what every organization and business I worked for always had? A white, gender-conforming, able-bodied man or woman at the helm, bearing the title "Executive Director" or "CEO" and getting paid accordingly.

Titles don't mean anything except perceived authority. Titles don't bring anything except proportionate financial compensation. Titles aren't anything except one more boundary in a system designed to extract and obscure your human value.

In recent years, I've opened my eyes to the power of a title: are you an office assistant, or a chief of staff? A graphic designer or creative director? A social media manager, or a digital strategist? For those of us who've downplayed our contributions for years, this can sound like a silly and shallow "fluffing up" of our resumes. But once you compare average salaries between the titles, it starts seeming less silly and more necessary (in this economy?) to call yourself what you actually are.

This week I'm focusing on invisible labor and how to make it visible. I'm kicking off with this blog post because language is a key tool for revealing how toxic systems take from you without your consent.

Between you and me, bestie, I'm writing this because other people have mastered the language of power and use it to thrive in positions I'd much rather you had.