Good morning,
I attended a dinner last week.
Not the kind with rosé and gossip. Twelve men at the table—finance, real estate, CEOs. The kind of men who sit on boards and fly private. Two women. I was one of them.
At some point the conversation drifted, as it does, to a disgraced public figure. Someone wondered aloud how a man like that keeps his influence.
I offered what felt obvious to me. Charisma. Perceived power. The ability to make people feel chosen.
A string of pointed questions came from a man I didn't know.
How did I know? Had I met him? Worked with him?
He added that he had done deals with him—spoke of his brilliance, almost fondly. As if flexing proximity was power.
What he fired at me wasn’t disagreement. It wasn’t debate.
It was dismissal.
I drove home annoyed.
How quickly a woman’s opinion is treated as if she isn’t entitled to one.
How easily proximity becomes authority.
How fast the room tilts.
Who gets to define the story in the room?
That’s why we’re launching a new series about women whose achievements were buried with them. And that’s why I wrote about Landman this week—about who gets drawn as complex and who gets flattened.