Ooooh!

Hey, it's Sunday Morning.

The lobby felt like a cathedral. Marble floors, high ceilings, glass walls. You could hear the clank-clank of your steps. It held the white noise of an episode in Black Mirror. The kind of space that makes you check your posture before you sit down.

David and I walked in laughing, confident, ready. We'd dressed the same: blue suits, no ties. But David is British, silvered, tall, well-spoken. Kind. People gravitate toward him when he speaks. I knew this. I'd seen it a hundred times.

We sat. Tibor Kalman's 5 PM clock on the wall. The head of marketing came in. David leaned forward immediately, doing his thing. Winning her over.

I watched. Nodded when it seemed right. Told myself: Yes, this is better. He's got this. Don't get in the way.

At some point, the conversation turned to ownership. She'd assumed David was the sole owner. He corrected her. "We're partners," he said. "Victor owns a sizeable part of the business."

She looked at me. Her eyes went wide.

"Oooohh!"

It hung in the air. I didn't know what it meant. Surprise? Delight? Oh shit?

I said "yes" and smiled.

The meeting moved on. But I stayed in that sound.

We kept the business. Later, I found out she wasn't judging or incredulous. She was impressed.

But that sound, and my reading of it, stayed inside me for longer than I'd like to admit. I still carry it sometimes. When I tell my origin story, people are generous and give me flowers. But even then, I often hear "Oooohh!" in my mind. The incredulous kind, not the impressed one.

Here's what I've learned: that sound was only real because I was the one who wasn't impressed. That sound doesn't exist unless I let it.

A few weeks ago, a client, a brilliant and accomplished executive, sat across from me and said, "I give so much, but everyone always leaves me." We'd been working together for weeks. I asked her if she gives assuming something in return. She went quiet. Then: "Oooohh. I've been expecting my whole life!"

I heard the conference room again. But this time, I knew what the sound meant.

Belonging doesn't begin with someone else's permission. It begins when you stop waiting for their "Oooooh!" of approval. When your ears are attuned to the sound of recognition, not surprise. When the question shifts from "How did you get here?" to "Oh, I've been here all along."

I still hear the "Oooohh!" sometimes. But now I choose what it means.

That's not failure. That's fluency.