Where your value is undermined, walk away.
This piece came from a tender place.
A recent conversation reminded me what it feels like to be diminished—subtly, professionally, and personally. I’m naming the feeling, because I know I’m not the only one who’s been there. So this one is for anyone who’s ever had their worth questioned, their work undervalued, or their presence reduced to convenience.
Let this be a reminder that discernment is not bitterness. It's clarity. And you’re allowed to walk away from what insults your spirit.
There’s a particular ache that comes from being underestimated by someone you trusted to see you clearly.
It doesn’t matter how far you’ve come, how much you’ve grown, or how hard you’ve worked to earn your seat at the table—when someone makes you feel like you still don’t belong, it stings. It hits that soft place inside of you that remembers every time you’ve been told you were not enough.
Sometimes the hardest part isn’t what’s said outright—it’s what’s implied. The way someone questions your rates, your expertise, or your right to be in the room. The way they nod while you speak, then dismiss your work as a hobby. The way they pretend they’re helping you by pushing your boundaries, when really, they’re crossing them.
This week, I was reminded of what it feels like to have your worth quietly eroded in the name of business. And maybe that’s the lesson: not every collaboration is rooted in respect. Not every shared history is meant to shape your future.
Sometimes, walking away is the most dignified thing you can do.
Not with resentment. Not with a long explanation or a pointed exit. Just a grounded decision to stop shrinking to fit someone else’s expectations.
Because the truth is, your value isn’t up for negotiation. Your work isn’t a favour. Your art, your insight, your skill—these things are hard-won. And you don’t need to over-explain or convince someone to see your worth when you’ve already embodied it.
There’s power in knowing when a door isn't just closed—it’s beneath you.
There’s peace in saying: “This dynamic no longer serves me.”
There’s healing in remembering: the people who get it will never ask you to prove it.
So if you’re reading this and feeling the residue of being overlooked, dismissed, or devalued—this is your reminder. You don’t need to twist yourself into someone else’s version of palatable. You don’t need to stay where your presence is tolerated but your gifts are questioned.
You can leave.
And you can do so with your head held high, knowing that integrity will always cost more than approval—but it pays you back in peace.
Where your value is undermined, walk away. There’s better ahead.
And when someone stands beside you, fiercely and lovingly, never take it for granted.
This week, I watched my partner—in life and in business—draw a line where one was overdue. With grace, clarity, and an unwavering sense of fairness, he reminded someone that my work, my voice, and my contributions are not invisible, not optional, and not up for debate.
In a world that often minimizes women’s labour—especially when it’s emotional, creative, or collaborative—it meant the world to be defended, not because I needed it, but because I deserved it. His words weren’t just about protecting me—they were about honouring the truth of what we’ve built together. The vision, the hours, the emotional labour, the unseen mental load behind every polished deliverable.
Partnership isn’t just about love. It’s about being witnessed, and respected. Especially in the rooms where others might pretend you’re not there.
Mon amour, que je t’aime, et merci. For every quiet defence. For making room. For saying it plainly when others wouldn’t. For reminding me—and anyone profiting—that my value is not invisible just because someone chose not to see it.
And then, there’s the grief no one warns you about.
The grief of losing a friendship—not all at once, but piece by piece. Not in some dramatic fallout, but in the slow erosion of trust and the weight of unspoken disappointment. It’s the kind of grief that lingers in your chest and shows up in your silence. The kind that makes you wonder if you were ever truly seen.
Mixing business with friendship is complicated. When it works, it’s beautiful. Energizing. Aligned. But when it doesn’t, the fracture runs deep—because it’s not just about money or creative control. It’s about feeling disposable in a space where you were once cherished. It’s about realizing that what you thought was mutual respect may have been conditional all along.
And it hurts.
It hurts to witness someone you once rooted for reduce your work to a price tag. It hurts to be met with coldness where there was once warmth. It hurts to realize that the very thing you poured your heart into became the wedge that broke something sacred.
Grieving that loss is real. Even if you're the one walking away. Even if you know you're better off now. Even if they never admit what was done or left unsaid.
You can grieve and protect yourself. You can miss the history and reject the current dynamic. You can honour what was without excusing what is.
This too is part of discernment. This too is part of healing.
If this piece resonates, I explore more moments of clarity and self-trust on my podcast Lessons in discernment, and in Surviving 101: A Map Back to Self, my free digital resource for survivors of emotional abuse.
You can also find me on Instagram, where I share messy truths, and embody the courage it takes to keep choosing yourself.
You’re allowed to walk away, and you’re allowed to thrive after.