Refusing to Shrink
If you caught the ending of the South Carolina’s lopsided defeat of UConn in the NCAA women’s basketball semifinal recently, you likely saw the now-infamous moment between head coaches Geno Auriemma and Dawn Staley during the handshake line. He came at her (which was highly inappropriate), and she didn’t back down! I found myself at home, unexpectedly invested—yelling at the screen as if Coach Staley were a member of my own family and I was ready to go to war with her. Across sports media and social platforms, much has already been said about the exchange, via conversations about sportsmanship, being a “sore loser,” shifting power differentials and the embedded racial and gender inequities that are evident. What stayed with me most was a line from an article in The Athletic: “Dawn Staley built her own galaxy.”
That line names something deeper than the moment itself, which is why it lingered. It speaks to presence, authority, and a manner of leadership that doesn’t wait for permission or recognition. Even amid the charged dynamics, none that she instigated, Coach Staley refused to shrink. Her unique blend of swagger, humility, skill, and fierceness is deeply affirming in general, but was especially so in that moment. It reflects a way of being that resists confinement to what keeps others comfortable, and refuses to play nice with “respectability politics.”
In moments like these, I’m learning that when women refuse to shrink, choosing instead to occupy the space they’ve earned without apology, it does more than reshape a single interaction. It expands what others believe is possible. It invites them not only to dream (future tense), but to see differently in the present. These women don’t merely make room for themselves; they create space for others to find their stride, their voice, and their lane. In doing so, they carry forward what was sacrificially made possible for them by many who’ve gone before. And yet, a presence anchored in wise tenacity and grace, and grounded in competence comes with tension. Our world struggles to properly receive women who arrive without apologies or accommodations, and who possess hard-earned credentials to boot. We prefer them to quietly shrink into the corners of life, like mice searching for crumbs scattered across the floor.
In many ways, fitting neatly into a box is something I simply can’t relate to. I’ve always been a loud, highly expressive, slightly rowdy, bossy girl who asked too many questions—and I thank my mama for that, along with the village of women who raised me: elder church mothers, adopted beauty shop aunties, and teachers who recognized my potential and nurtured my abilities in their earliest, raw forms. This isn’t something I had to discover later in life; it is what I’ve always known best. Nevertheless, the spoken and unspoken messages about how women should govern themselves are as numerous as the day is long. We’re often burdened with navigating the perception of being “too much” while also being treated as inherently inadequate—too bold, yet not patient or polished enough. We’re told to calm down, to be more measured and empathetic. It is often implied that our productivity comes at the cost of being brash.
I’m reminded of Wicked actress Cynthia Erivo’s words, which help quiet the external chaos and the internal voice urging us to constantly edit, adjust, or explain ourselves to accommodate others’ shortcomings: “Being more—even a little more than other people are comfortable with—is seldom easy…But if we’re going to live up to our full humanity and become our complete and unabridged selves, allowing ourselves to be the most we can be is absolutely necessary.”
So, how do we stay rooted in ourselves within the paradox of being “too much” and, at times, still not feeling like enough?
Here are some of the self-talk anchors I reference repeatedly:
Integrity is not about diminishing who I am. Dimming the light God has given me to illuminate darkness is nonnegotiable. I’m not responsible for what others refuse to work out on a therapist’s couch or in their prayer closet. The point is to own all of who I am—the good and the messy parts still under construction. This means accepting compliments while rejecting comments I never asked for. It means learning not to deflect, while also being accountable for my missteps. I want to actively recognize that I am not the center of the universe, nor am I always right. Along with that, I will champion that it is damaging to become someone I’m not for the sake of fake peace or dysfunctional belonging.
I don’t need to be understood by everyone in every situation. At some point, we must accept that resistance and conflict are part of life—period. There will always be people who misunderstand us, label us, or feel uneasy with our words, persona, background, or strategies. While some degree of social conformity or adaptation is appropriate, it’s not the same as defending or explaining ourselves to no end. There is a quiet power in continuing to do what is ours to do, buoyed by those who came before us and by communities of women and men who lovingly push us to be our better selves.
Living fully means giving up the illusion of protection. For some of us, shrinking has felt like a form of protection: “If I stay small, maybe I won’t be criticized. If I stay quiet, maybe I won’t be rejected.” The truth, however, is that cocooning ourselves or burying our heads in the sand doesn’t protect us from pain—it only limits our capacity to experience the fullness of life where we are and to continue growing into who we’re meant to become.
Being myself does not eliminate rejection, but it offers a compass for learning, growth, and alignment.
As I continue to reflect, I find myself holding this question in different ways: “What would it look like to show up wherever I am without trying to make others comfortable at the expense of what matters most to me?” For some of us, this work is not about becoming more. It is, rather, about refusing to become less.