WALKING INTO THE ROOM ANYWAY: Steven Jensen | Charlotte
This past year changed me more than any win ever did. Not because of success, but because of what it cost.
Partnerships fell apart. Financial hits showed up that I didn’t see coming. There was the kind of legal and reputational noise you don’t really get to explain without sounding defensive or dragging other people down with you. At different points, I had every opportunity to fight louder, to tell my side, to make sure everyone knew exactly what happened.
A younger version of me would have done exactly that, with vigor. I used to feel this constant need to be understood, to be liked, to make sure no one walked away with the wrong impression. If someone misunderstood me, it felt urgent, almost personal, like something I had to fix.
This year taught me that’s a losing game.
You can exhaust yourself trying to manage everyone’s opinion and still lose. Some people will believe whatever version of you fits their story. No explanation changes that. So I stopped trying — not out of defeat, but out of clarity.
Sometimes defending yourself just creates more damage. And sometimes the people you love end up standing in the blast radius while you’re busy proving you’re right. At some point, being right starts to matter a lot less than being steady and present.
So I took some hits. I let things go. I allowed some people to misunderstand me. It wasn’t heroic. It was necessary. What surprised me most wasn’t the stress or the public noise — it was watching what all of it did to the person I love.
They didn’t sign up for any of this. Not the uncertainty, not the late nights, not the constant feeling that another shoe might drop. They signed up for me, and somehow they ended up carrying the weight of my storms too.
Seeing that broke me a little.
That’s when you realize your battles aren’t just yours. The stress lives in their body too — in their sleep, in the quiet fears they don’t always say out loud. For the first time in my life, I understood scarcity. Not the obvious money scarcity, but emotional scarcity. The fear of losing stability. The fear of everything collapsing at once.
Once I allowed myself to really see that, something shifted.
Most of the choices I made this year weren’t about pride, ego, or being liked. I wasn’t trying to win anymore. I was trying to protect the person who stayed. Loving someone forces you to grow up fast. Less ego. More accountability. More “how do I protect what matters?”
It’s not flashy growth. It’s adult growth.
The other day, I walked into a place and felt a wave of panic for no real reason — just the thought that someone might recognize me or already have a one-sided version of me in their head. For a moment, I turned around and left. I sat in my car and called someone I trust. I needed to hear out loud what I already knew.
Why am I still shrinking? Why am I still trying to be liked by everyone?
Nothing had actually happened. Life was just moving forward.
And it hit me that this is what growth really looks like — small, quiet moments where you choose not to run. Where you stop punishing yourself. Where you learn to like who you are without needing applause or permission.
You’re never too old to learn yourself.
In the real world, the only opinions that matter belong to the people who sit at your table at night — not the ones whispering across the room.
If you’re lucky enough to have someone who stays when things get messy, not when you’re winning, but when it’s uncertain and heavy and unglamorous, that’s your person. That’s the one you invest in. That’s the one you protect. That’s the one you don’t let go. For me, its her.
These days, strength looks different to me. It’s quieter. It’s taking responsibility for how the people around you experience you. It’s carrying what you have to carry and protecting the people you love.
And in the end, it’s having the courage to walk into the room anyway.
— Steven Jensen, Charlotte NC