The Skill That Kept Me Alive

Choosing calm so you don’t get labeled “too much” was containment, not strength.

For most of my life, I thought control was strength. I learned it young, though I didn’t have language for it then.

In the batter’s box, I would steady my shoulders, lock my eyes on the pitcher’s hand, slow my breath. Loosen my grip. Don’t flinch. Don’t chase bad pitches. Wait. And only if it’s good — swing.

That ritual followed me everywhere.

In the Marines, on the firing range, breath control wasn’t optional. Calm wasn’t personality — it was precision. You steady your body. You slow your pulse. You relax. You don’t let adrenaline own your hands.

Breathe in.

Hold it.

Slowly squeeze.

Later, as an instructor, I taught other people to do the same. Calmness wasn’t softness. It was authority. It was safety. It was control.

In corporate conference rooms, I used the same ritual again. When something made me furious. When I was interrupted. When I was underestimated. Shoulders loose. Eyes steady. Breathe. Wait. Choose when to speak.

For a long time, it worked.

I got very, very good at it.

I thought that was strength.

And it was.

But somewhere toward the end, something shifted.

The breath still came. The shoulders still dropped. The ritual was still there.

But the containment started to feel heavier.

Harder to maintain.

There were moments I didn’t smooth it over. Moments I didn’t swallow fast enough. Moments my face said what my mouth did not.

And moments when my mouth did say it.

I told myself I was slipping.

That I needed to tighten up.

Be more disciplined.

Be more strategic.

Breathe in.

Hold it.

Slowly squeeze.

Now I see something else.

I wasn’t getting worse at control.

I was getting less willing to disappear.

But here’s what I didn’t see for decades: I wasn’t just regulating myself for performance. I was regulating myself to survive.

There’s a difference.

Choosing calm in the batter’s box is power.

Choosing calm so you don’t get labeled difficult, emotional, aggressive, too much — that’s containment.

For decades, I had internalized the idea that composure was always the right answer. That shrinking my reaction made me strategic. That swallowing anger made me mature. That being the steady one in every room was leadership.

And sometimes it was.

But sometimes it was erasure.

Sometimes it was me folding myself smaller so the room would stay comfortable.

Sometimes it was me proving I could endure anything without making anyone else uneasy.

That skill kept me alive in systems that were not built for women like me.

I don’t regret learning it.

I regret how long it took me to realize I didn’t have to use it all the time.

Control is still a strength.

Breath is still a tool.

Calm is still mine.

But I don’t need to apply it to my own expansion anymore.

I don’t need to steady myself before taking up space.

I don’t need to shrink the flare of my anger so someone else can stay comfortable.

For almost sixty years, I thought mastering myself was the goal.

Now I understand something different.

The goal isn’t self-containment.

It’s self-possession.

I am keeping the skills, but I am releasing the cage.

And I don’t need permission to do that.

-Lily Ann