Introduction: The Power of One Question

Several years ago, my colleague Carolina and I were debating a career opportunity that would have evolved the work that I'd been doing to have a more global reach. It was an expanded role that would have undoubtedly propelled my career to new leadership heights and the type of professional advancement that I had visualized for quite some time. Yet instead of being fully excited, I sat there listing all of the reasons-or more accurately, all of the excuses-why it was not a sound strategic move for me at that time. I felt a heaviness that robbed me of my freedom to get excited and feel truly joyous about the opportunity.

As I relentlessly added to the list of negatives, Carolina asked me in a very direct and deliberate manner, "Nellie, who in your past has made you believe that you are not good enough?" Her stare was piercing and somewhat intimidating. Although I knew in my heart that her question came from a genuinely good place-she was a team member who reported to me and we'd known each other for quite some time at that point-my mind immediately went to, "What did she just have the audacity to ask me? Seriously, why would she ask me that?"

I paused for a moment, hoping that my body language adequately concealed my defensiveness. With conviction and a serious attitude, I replied, "Absolutely no one." I was not willing to be exposed, and I wanted my reply to end the conversation. I redirected the conversation towards other topics we needed to address. But as decisive as my answer was, I couldn't deny the unpleasant sting that resonated inside of me. It was obvious that she had touched a nerve.

At home that evening, I still could not shake off the discomfort of Carolina's question. I tried to shift my attention to my normal evening routine. I turned on the news for some distracting noise and tore through the kitchen, flinging open the refrigerator and cupboards to quickly cook dinner, but none of it helped. With every dash of seasoning I shook into the pot, I could, in almost perfect synchronization, hear myself repeat each word from that provocative question: "Who. Made. You. Believe. You're. Not. Good. Enough?"

I knew it was time to stir one of the pots on the stove, but I was too distracted to do so. One by one, faster and faster, memories from my childhood flooded my mind. Those moments, experiences, and incidents that had impacted me deeply and shaped my beliefs vividly reappeared, accompanied by a swirl of emotions. The questions of self-reflection came in quick succession. Had I subconsciously been showing up as if I were not good enough? If so, had this belief inadvertently affected or slowed down my career progression or personal brand? What opportunities have I missed along the way as a result? Have I been too passive or too complacent because I subconsciously don't believe myself to be good enough? I was feeling anxious, and angry, but also curious. I knew that no matter how uncomfortable, I needed to dig deeper and find the answers.

My Early Days

I learned very early in life how to make myself virtually invisible to those who did not look like me. Standing in the elevator of an apartment complex that my parents worked hard to get us into, my mother's orders rang loudly in my young ears: "Be still. Be silent. No talking, laughing, or acting silly. No eye contact with anyone." My sister and I did exactly as we were told whenever we entered the lobby of our building. In the elevator, I almost felt like I was holding my breath as I watched the floor numbers ascend. By the time we finally reached the 23rd floor, I could barely wait to get into our apartment, where the outside world no longer mattered, and we were free to be our authentic Nuyorican selves.

It was the mid-'70s, and my parents had managed somehow to secure a North Bronx apartment in a massive complex with very few minority families at the time. My parents felt incredibly fortunate to raise their daughters in such a good and safe neighborhood, but they also had no delusions about the real world. My mother's lobby rules weren't given out of meanness or malice. They were intended to protect our innocence from conceivable prejudices, from people we assumed would not embrace minorities, while also teaching us not to feed into others' biases and perceptions about minority children.

My parents were both raised in a small town in Puerto Rico called Juncos, but they did not meet one another until they were young adults living in New York City, trying to navigate a better life. Both were bright and smart, but each had limited resources. My dad was recruited from Puerto Rico at the age of 17 to pick tomatoes at a farm in New Jersey. My mother left Puerto Rico right after high school due to the lack of opportunities at the time and began her working career as a seamstress in a factory. My father went on to enroll in the military, where he served in the army. I was born in Manhattan, and we lived in the city until I completed first grade, which is when my parents decided to go back to Puerto Rico.

My strong sense of fairness began to emerge during those early years and continued to develop throughout my life. I didn't know a word of Spanish when we moved to Puerto Rico because we were raised speaking English in New York. I was supposed to be in the second grade, but because I didn't know Spanish, they held back my progress by placing me half day in the first-grade class and half day in the second-grade class. From that very young age, I found myself in an environment where I did not feel smart. One day the teacher asked me in Spanish to look at a page in the math book. I didn't understand her instructions, so she hit my hand with a ruler. It was all very confusing for me. Eventually, school did get better, and I learned Spanish. But when I was in sixth grade, my parents suddenly decided to move us back to New York, and of course I had forgotten all of my English by that time.

Upon moving back, I had to go to a junior high school in the Bronx, which was very different and challenging for me. I was a skinny little girl with long, wavy, thin hair and big glasses. As with most girls that age, I grappled with my self-confidence. There were days that I thought I was the cutest thing on earth and other days when I struggled to find even one good quality about the girl in the mirror. Because I didn't know any English upon returning to New York, they placed me in a special education class instead of an English as a Second Language (ESL) class. I was in a classroom with kids who had behavioral issues and I felt intimidated every day. I couldn't understand what others were saying, so I would just sit there and mimic what the other students were doing. I saw kids drawing on a desk, so I drew on a desk, too. But I'd be the one who got sent to the principal's office. The principal's secretary, a white woman who understood a little bit of Spanish and would speak with me while waiting for the principal, was the only one who realized that I was in the wrong class. She told the administrators that I did not belong in special education, and they moved me into a mainstream class.

Things remained challenging, though. One day, I got up the courage to raise my hand and try to say something. The teacher said to the class, "Can someone explain to Nellie how we speak in this country?" It was so humiliating at the time, but it infuriates me now. She said "this country" as if Puerto Rico isn't a commonwealth of the US. As if I'm not an American citizen. If I had been fluent in English, I probably would have given that teacher a much-needed lesson about US territories.

I became aware of bias and prejudice outside of school as well. At the time, my father worked at the US Postal Service. It was a huge deal for him. Getting a government job with a pension was a significant step towards financial security. There weren't many minorities working at the postal service in the late '60s and early '70s. There was a lot of racial tension and my father experienced racism firsthand. Being called derogatory names like "spic" was commonplace. But my father learned to tolerate the ignorance because he understood the bigger goal of providing for his family. He learned to lay low, not draw attention to himself, and simply do his job. I often wonder how much he was forced to endure and what inner struggles he dealt with while doing so. My dad was larger than life in my eyes, an avid reader, and the smartest person I knew.

My mom had her own strengths as well. Her skills as a seamstress were unparalleled. She would design patterns and sew beautiful clothes for my sister and me. She had endless potential, but her reality was limited to factories in the garment district of New York City, where the working conditions were far from desirable. Once, while I was in college, I tried to surprise her at work. I had never been to her job before, but I was going to be in the area, so I decided to go see her at the factory on 14th Street. As the doors opened to my mother's floor, I was saddened by the number of people crowded together working with almost no personal space. Huge fans blew dust from the fabrics around in the air. I saw my mom and told the man at the door that I was there to see her. In a very intimidating manner, he demanded to know why. I was so thrown off by his aggression that I just left without speaking to my mom.

At home, the nurturing was always on...