I’m Not a Wounded Bird: Navigating Infantilization at Work
Before my grandmother died, she gifted each of her grandchildren a porcelain doll from her collection as a symbol of how she saw us. I received a child bride. I intuitively understood her symbol; even though I wasn’t a child bride, I was still a child to her. It neatly fit into a lifelong pattern of denying of my age, intellect, and autonomy.
My family’s infantilization is a ritual annoyance that succumbs to joke fodder between my husband and me. But, the workplace coddling got to me as it systematically harmed and stripped my impact.
“You Look Like…”
At 23, I joined a corporate stalwart and quickly became the baby of the team. Older colleagues took me under their wings, saying things like, “You remind me of my daughter.” At first, I saw it as a privilege. I come from neither wealth nor family trade — I longed for those wings. But I expected the treatment to dissipate as I aged, only it didn’t.
Over the years, I’ve collected a strange anthology of comments tied to my appearance. The current favorite is “Disney Princess” and the most recent is “Midwestern homemaker.” A woman seeking executive mentorship couldn’t get past my appearance and mannerisms. She insistently proposed I make it a YouTube schtick, despite gentle reminders that I’m neither a homemaker nor from the Midwest.
Long hair. Rosy cheeks. A soft voice. Dresses. Kindness. These traits neatly place me in a box devoid of authority and maturity, just a child bride doll wrapped in tissue and plastic. It defines the way others interact with me.
The Cost of Looking Soft
Whilst my leadership style — curious, compassionate, collaborative — has earned me executive roles, it’s also provoked infantilization.
Against greige office walls and motivation posters, I emerge as someone to protect, dismiss, or parent — not as someone with agency. The ongoing denial of my experience based on visage means my voice carries less weight, my authority is wanting, and I’m beholden to others’ expectations.
Infantilization feels like waking up in that white brick home with my parents down the hallway ready to pounce with criticism and commentary.
In practice, infantilization looks like:
1. “Don’t Worry Your Pretty Little Head”
There’s no amount of experience or cleverness that makes up for looking the part of someone’s daughter. I’m subjected to circular unsolicited advice and overdrawn explanations as though I am not a functioning, sentient human. I can smile through that drivel.
But if someone thinks you’re incapable of caring for yourself that leaches into how they perceive your capabilities or knowledge. It’s difficult to be seen as a driver of strategy or someone who navigates grueling situations.
2. Benevolent Misogyny
In refusing to attribute strategy direction or decisions to me, I also get to wear paradoxical armor. Neither bad nor good outcomes are placed on me.
When I make mistakes, I’m shielded with grace not coached. My managers can be coddling, attributing my blunders to naivety or trusting the wrong person. When others give valid criticism, they dismiss it. The worst I’ve heard is that I’m fragile.
This leaves me holding a higher bar for myself than others hold for me. Even when I’m mediocre, it’s a delightful surprise to others.
This safety vest stunts my development — and undermines my agency. Without accountability, I’m not responsible for anything, even the good. This protection chips away at professional dignity, even if well-intended,
3. The Cold Shoulder
And that protection is fickle. The potency of infantilization is that the benefits exist only as long as you’re playing the child. Sometimes people latch onto my warmth because it makes them feel safe or powerful. So when I assert myself, it disrupts their sense of control.
Resembling someone’s daughter grants me an inheritance of subservience.
I’m on the receiving end of condescension, scolding, and babying. It’s expected that I eat and swallow all these criticisms to maintain power dynamics. It’s assumed that I won’t challenge others or set boundaries. When I do, it’s an “uncharacteristic” betrayal. My punishment is wrath from the one parenting me.
That wrath writhes into forms like a reversed halo-effect, being cut out of decisions or information flow, and snubbing. My “defiance” craters a gap between who they thought I was and who I am.
4. The Disney Princess Effect
The psychological impact relegates me to a concept instead of a person. People feel they know me; they tell me who I am by telling me who I look like whether it’s their daughter, an actress, or a caricature. My intelligence and ingenuity are carved off and replaced by gullibility and vapidness.
And so what if I might burst into song in a field with a menagerie of animals, why does that sever the possibility that I have depth? Being infantilized steals the space for authenticity. I perpetually feel like the fool.
What Literature Tells Us About the Fool
In The Great Gatsby, Daisy Buchanan in conversation about her daughter opines — “I hope she’ll be a fool, that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world.” The underestimated Daisy is anything but naive; she chooses to be seen as hollow. That invisibility grants her a warped kind of power.
The workplace version? The “Lovable Fool.” Harvard Business Review calls them likable but incompetent. I’ve been told to be one — literally. Told not to be too smart or too right around men. Upon hearing this I conjured Daisy in my mind. There’s a cleverness in letting yourself be misunderstood in favor of palatable attributes. You get away with things.
When people assume you’re harmless, they drop their guard. When they see you as someone to protect, you gain access others don’t. Daisy’s manipulation flies under the radar because it’s assumed she’s too innocent to wield that power. I see the infantilization around me, and I know it’s mine to brandish should I desire.
It would be easy to spend my currency and manipulate like Daisy. I’m provided the opportunity to do so again and again. Whenever I fail, colleagues look to place blame on those around me, because I couldn’t possibly be capable of that kind of access or influence. It’s part and parcel of the burden: navigating a system where your perceived innocence is both a weapon and a liability, depending on how you choose to play it.
But playing the part of a perfectly palatable person is exhausting and isolating. A warm and familiar appearance affords me privileges but it also reduces the scope of humanity available to me. I’m not allowed to show anger, aggression, or emotional instability.
One crack in the façade, and the whole illusion falls apart.
Rewriting Leadership, Without Permission
When I broach the topic of infantilization with others, they fling out quick fixes like a blazer, bourbon, or a deeper voice. As if I wash in masculinity then all my woes would go away.
I’ve stubbornly declined all those, because I’d rather question why someone who looks and acts soft is not credible for leadership. Isn’t the root issue the inherent sexism of who gets to be a leader?
Because I match the societal image of femininity so precisely, people assume that’s all I am. Like I stepped out of a Disney movie and into a boardroom. The closer I get to the caricature of womanhood, the further I seem from legitimacy. As though leadership and femininity can’t coexist.
There’s endless more that could be unpacked on the topic of who gets to be a leader; this is only a slice. My leadership path is a daily act of rebellion. I’ll keep being warm, collaborative, and open. I’ll keep repeating myself until it lands. I’ll keep leveraging my work “parents” for the collective good. I’ll do it because one day I want my flavor of leadership to be one of the many valid ways of leading.
Love it or loathe it, my path to leadership was paved through those “mentors” who saw me as their daughter or sister. But it’s not lost on me that this safety is tied to something fleeting.
The Ending No One Talks About
There’s something unnerving about succeeding in a system that’s never really made space for you. I’ve spent years navigating this strange dynamic — where people underestimate me, infantilize me, or project onto me. And somehow, I’ve still managed to lead, influence, build, and earn trust.
But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t afraid of what happens next. I’m both annoyed by the way I’ve been treated but also scared to lose it. I don’t even know how to exist in the corporate world as an aged Disney Princess.
Because while I’ve been underestimated for looking young and soft, I’ve also been protected and included because of it. When I no longer look like someone’s daughter, will I still be extended grace, charm, and palatability?
Or maybe I’ll just be a free bird instead of someone’s wounded one.
References
- Fitzgerald, F. Scott. The Great Gatsby. Scribner, 1925.
- Casciaro, T. and Sousa Lobo, M. Competent Jerks, Lovable Fools, and the Formation of Social Networks. Harvard Business Review. June 2005.
Hi, I’m Courtney. I’ve spent over a decade in tech companies as a Head of People and startup fixer working directly with founders. My founders have been featured in Fast Company, Fortune, Inc. People, and more.
