There was a time in my twenties when I thought “professional” meant pencil skirts, clicking heels, and women who carried briefcases that probably smelled like ambition and leather conditioner. I wanted to be that woman—the one striding through life with coffee in one hand, confidence in the other, and zero signs of Cheeto dust anywhere near her outfit.
Spoiler: I was never that woman.
Even before kids, I couldn’t pull it off. I’d try, though. I’d buy the fitted blazer, attempt a sleek ponytail, and tell myself, This is it. This is the version of me who has her life together. Then I’d spill coffee down the front of my shirt before 9 a.m. or realize halfway through the day that my skirt was tucked into my tights. That was more my brand—ambitious chaos with a side of self-deprecation.
Now, years later, my wardrobe looks more like “Mom on a mission” than “Corporate powerhouse.” My suits are leggings, my power shoes are sneakers, and my briefcase is a giant tote bag that contains everything from fruit snacks to a random action figure missing an arm. But sometimes I still think about that woman in the gray flannel suit—the one who seemed so… together.
I see her in other people now. The mom at pickup who looks polished even in 90-degree Miami humidity. The woman at the café typing away on her laptop, sipping her latte like it’s her sidekick. And part of me wants to ask, “How? How do you do that? How do you look like an adult who didn’t just survive a Nerf gun ambush before breakfast?”
Then again, maybe she’s faking it too.
Because here’s the thing—I used to think professionalism was a look. That if I could just look the part, I’d be the part. But now I think it’s more of a feeling. It’s that little moment when you handle something hard without falling apart. When you speak up, even if your voice shakes a little. When you do the work—whatever your work looks like—and own it.
Motherhood taught me that professionalism doesn’t always come in suits and schedules. Sometimes it looks like sending an email with a toddler on your lap. Or juggling school drop-offs and conference calls and remembering to thaw chicken for dinner. Sometimes it’s saying no to one more thing on your plate, even when you feel guilty about it.
I used to envy the women who seemed effortless. Now, I just respect anyone who shows up—messy bun, mismatched socks, and all—and keeps going. That’s its own kind of grace.
There’s still a small part of me that misses that fantasy version of myself, the one in the gray suit with crisp edges and calm energy. She had good posture, a tidy desk, and probably didn’t find crayon art on her tax documents. But then I look at my life now—sticky hugs, loud dinners, love that fills every messy corner—and I think, maybe she’s not who I wanted to be after all.
My “office” is my kitchen table. My “meetings” involve negotiations over bedtime and snack rights. My “power lunch” is usually whatever I can eat standing up between tasks. And still, I’ve never worked harder or cared more about the things I’m building.
So maybe the woman in the gray flannel suit was never the goal. Maybe she was just one version of strength—the polished one. And I’m the other kind. The barefoot, spilled-coffee, hair-in-a-claw-clip kind. The one who’s still figuring it out but keeps showing up anyway.
And honestly? That feels pretty professional to me.