The Invisible Tightrope

February 11, 2023

Today, the sun danced. And so did I, Sofia Ortiz, right there in the kitchen, with cumbia blasting from my phone. My laugh boomed—a full, grateful sound that reminded me of my abuela’s kitchen in Mexico City. I got the job. I reached the top. They saw my work. They chose me.

I wasn’t just happy. I was whole. Every part of me spoke the same joyful language. My heart didn’t just beat; it played drums.

I never thought Latinas like me were allowed this kind of ambition. I was wrong. There is no ceiling. I’m relocating to Switzerland!

April 14, 2023

My limbs are heavy from the move, but my heart is light. Tomorrow, I walk in as an Executive Director. This body, this voice, these hands—they are not for shrinking. I can do this.

April 18, 2023

It’s not just my job on the line. People keep telling me, “You’re the first Latina at this level. Many are watching.” It feels like I’m carrying my abuela and my whole neighborhood on my back. They didn’t mention this in the offer letter.

May 27, 2023

After my presentation, my boss Dana said, “That was surprisingly structured and… good.” What was she expecting? Maracas? A dramatic telenovela performance instead of a business plan? I’m sure her words were intended as praise. Yet, ‘surprising’ lingered, stinging. She hadn’t expected competence from me, and that cut deeper than any criticism. I thought competence was the standard, but now I see the first mark is proving it, despite who I am.

July 15, 2023

A colleague I’d just met for coffee said, “Can I give you some feedback? Your energy is very... intense.” This from a man who is praised for his “commanding presence.”

The second mark is to be confident, but not too confident. Where is the line? No one will draw it for me.

August 29, 2023

Beatrice pulled me aside. “I saw you at lunch. Looked like a heated discussion!”

“We were just deciding where to order pizza,” I said.

She smiled tightly. “It’s just… you’re very expressive. People might read it as emotional.”

My face is now a problem. My laughter, my expressions—it’s all ‘too much.’ They want passion, but no visible aliveness. I force myself to present an unreactive face, my jaw clenching in a silent protest. The third mark is to be present yet invisible, expressive but controlled.

September 23, 2023

No one corrected me today. They didn’t have to. I did it myself. I sat up straight. I stayed quiet. I didn’t react. The world feels muffled, like I’m watching everything through a thick panel of glass.

October 14, 2023

Six months in. Every single conversation feels like a correction—not of what I say, but of who and how I am.

A constant, low-level buzz of vigilance runs under my skin. It’s the feeling of being prey in an open field. I feel my spirit curl up into a tight, hard ball in my chest. It’s trying to make a smaller target.

November 14, 2023

Carlos from the Mexico office called. “¡Felicidades, Sofia! You did it! You really made it. How did it happen? What’s the secret?"

I held the phone, his voice full of genuine pride. How could I tell him I only made it on paper?

The conversation was so lively. I miss the sound of my own unfiltered laughter.

December 15, 2023

I found myself staring at a crack in the pavement, envying its simple, unobserved existence. No one expects anything from it.

January 15, 2024

Spent the meeting filtering my thoughts to sound ‘less emotional,’ ‘more palatable.’ By the time I spoke, the moment had passed. My words were a ghost.

February 10, 2024

The project was launched—under budget and ahead of schedule. It was perfect. This must be the final mark. I hope it was worth it. It costs a piece of my soul every time I hold back.

February 11, 2024

It still wasn’t enough.

Dana said, “Your work is impeccable. The level of organization… absolutely top-notch.” She paused. “You know, with skills like this, you would have made a phenomenal executive assistant.”

The words hung in the air. In her mind, I am an assistant, not a director—someone to look down at.

March 15, 2024

Laura, a colleague, told me Dana said I lack “executive presence.” It means that, regardless of my title, I don’t look, sound, or behave like the image in their mind. Will I ever be regarded as a peer? Is it even possible? Should I even try?

April 14, 2024

It’s my anniversary. I sat by the photocopier, in the dark, just to have a few minutes where I am not ‘on.’ Where my posture doesn’t matter. Where my face can just... be.

May 20, 2024

Fuck it! I did it. I have frozen the eleventh and twelfth muscles of my face. The corrugator supercilii and procerus—the muscles of frustration and concentration. An investment in my career.

May 28, 2024

Dana commended me. “You seem so much more composed. Settled. Whatever you’re doing, it’s working.”

I smiled softly. My eyebrows stayed in place.

“What did you do?” she asked, genuinely curious.

I held her gaze—the only part of my face that still felt like my own—and said, “Botox.”

Her smile faltered. She looked away. She had asked for a change, and I had given it to her. I solved their criticism with a neurotoxin, and it worked.

This is the win. It tastes like poison.

June 20, 2024

“The team thinks you are a perfectionist,” Dana said. “You need to learn to let go of the small things.”

I had eliminated every possible criticism. My vigilance, born from the knowledge that any mistake would be magnified, was now itself the problem. My throat feels tight, like I’ve been holding back a scream all day.

July 20, 2024

Dana is unhappy with my work, even though I met all the objective goals. She said she is not the only one with that opinion. I pressed for names, details, or examples. There were none. It’s not about fixing anything. She can’t articulate what is ‘wrong’ because ‘less passionate’ and ‘less intense’ is just code for ‘less me.’

September 24, 2024

Laura left and offered me a role at her new company. She is an ally, a temporary safe house. I accepted. The job is one level up. I should be happy, but I can’t remember the last time I let an emotion run uncontrolled through my body. Every sentence feels pre-scripted, like I’m an actress who has forgotten her character’s motivation.

October 15, 2024

My last day. No party. No card. Not everyone deserves a goodbye.

October 21, 2024

First week at the new job. I’m hopeful, but my body is already ‘en garde.’ Will I get the benefit of the doubt?

October 23, 2024

A new joiner, like me, said, “I was scared of you when we met. But you’re surprisingly nice.”

She smiled. It was meant as a compliment.

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t ask why. I displayed my practiced, Botox-smoothed smile and said, “I’m glad I could put you at ease.”

I know this road. I know every pothole. The first mark has already been placed.

October 25, 2024

I stand alone in my apartment. I read the first entry when I moved here, but this time there was no music, no laughter. But in the quiet, I found myself swaying softly, as if embracing a memory of joy long gone. It was a reminder of what was lost—my unfiltered vitality—and the enduring spirit that refuses to be erased.

I never thought people like me were allowed to be ambitious. I was wrong, but not in the way I thought. There is no ceiling. Not one you break. Instead, there is a tolerance limit—an invisible line that shifts without warning. And ambition, for people like me, is not about rising. It is the relentless, exhausting work of hypervigilance. It is the balance of a tightrope walker, every single day, making sure you never, ever sway too far.