How I learned to speak up with confidence

From ScienceMag:

It was 4:45 p.m. and I was watching the clock as closely as the slides. Day care closed at 5:30. Our project meeting had already gone past the hard stop. We were circling around a disappointing set of results: The data did not fully support the conclusion we had hoped to make. One senior colleague wanted to run more experiments; another thought we should submit the manuscript with a more conservative conclusion. I didn’t feel experienced enough to cast my vote. But the tension was mounting, and we were no closer to a resolution. Meanwhile, my son was surely going to be the last child at day care. “Let’s make a decision before we leave today,” I blurted out. The room went quiet.

For years, I had assumed authority belonged to people who spoke quickly, answered without hesitation, and never appeared uncertain. I was none of these. In meetings with senior researchers and administrators I often had an observation that could have moved a discussion forward, but I held back because it did not sound polished enough. A few minutes later, someone would make a similar point with greater confidence and the conversation would move on without me.

Then, a senior leader told me, “You need more gravitas.”

At first, I thought gravitas meant sounding more certain than I felt. I overprepared for everything, from weekly check-ins to presentations for senior leaders, and rushed to answer questions before they had fully been asked, hoping speed would read as competence. During one presentation, a senior leader started to ask about the methodology I’d used to measure materialism in young children. I cut in with a polished response I had rehearsed because I expected to be challenged. I later learned I should have waited: The leader was trying to express support for my methodology. At other times, I said nothing because I did not have a perfect answer. Neither approach worked. Rushing kept me from listening; staying silent made me disappear.

Becoming a parent changed the stakes. I still cared about doing good work and earning the respect of accomplished researchers. Speaking up before my ideas were fully developed was still uncomfortable. But being late to collect my son from day care, or arriving home too depleted to be fully present with him, felt far worse.

In that meeting, I didn’t provide a brilliant answer to any of the questions on the table, or suddenly become the most persuasive person in the room. I merely named the issue we had been avoiding: Which risk were we more willing to accept—delay submission in pursuit of a stronger claim, or move faster with a more limited contribution? It was one of the first times I had spoken up in this way, and it felt really good.

I began to understand gravitas differently. It’s not about confidence, charisma, or having the most polished answer. It’s about clarifying a discussion and moving it forward. Over time, I came to think of gravitas as embodying five qualities and practices: remaining steady, trustworthy, and anchored; navigating complexities; and being decisive. When discussions grow heated or disorganized, I strive to stay steady, helping the group step back from disagreements and refocus. I show I am trustworthy by speaking clearly about what the evidence does and does not show. I keep the conversation anchored to the issue at hand and navigate competing priorities and perspectives people bring to the table. And, whether answering questions during a presentation or guiding a meeting to end on time with clear next steps, I have learned to be decisive.

I’m still not the person who has the loudest voice, or who speaks first or most frequently in a meeting. I still feel the urge to wait for perfect words. But I have become more willing to offer my voice. The clock didn’t make me braver; it made the cost of staying silent clearer.

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