Actually, scratch that. Let me back up and tell you about ALL the times I’ve wanted to retreat to my car at family gatherings. Because if you’ve ever walked into a family dinner with news about your promotion/business milestone/career breakthrough only to watch everyone suddenly become fascinated with the mashed potatoes, this letter is absolutely for you.
I cannot even count the number of times I’ve felt completely dismissed for my ambition, my goals, and my desire to build something meaningful with my work. Not by strangers on the internet (though that happens too). Not by colleagues or competitors. By my actual family. The people who are supposed to be your biggest cheerleaders, right?
(Spoiler alert: They’re often not. And wow, does that sting.)
The Twelve-Year-Old Who Didn’t Get The Memo About “Staying In Her Lane”
Picture this: I’m twelve years old, living on this island off the coast of Maine—we’re talking 10,000 year-round residents, the kind of place where if you sneezed on one side of the island, someone would say “Gesundheit!” on the other side.
And there I was, this chubby, nerdy, very serious kid with inexpensive clothes that got made fun of in the elementary school classroom, coming from a ton of relational trauma and public shame—because at that point, my biological father (who I’m estranged from), his terrible choices and hurting of people was already known across the island. But I still was telling anyone who would listen that I had made up my mind: it was going to be the Ivy League or bust for me, and I declared that to anyone who asked.
The reactions? Well, they ranged the gamut, but by and large, they were not supportive.
Some people literally laughed out loud. Others did that condescending head-tilt thing with the fake-concerned voice: “Well that’s nice, honey, but what about your safety schools?” My guidance counselor suggested I be “more realistic.” People would exchange looks—you know the ones—signaling that what I had to say was unrealistic, but they weren’t going to say it out loud.
Here’s the context they were working with:
Neither of my parents had gone to college. I come from a long line of blue-collar workers, and that aforementioned family member who tried to be a professional but ended up destroying companies multiple times because of criminal activity. My public school was decent but definitely wasn’t churning out Ivy League students like some kind of academic factory…
The underlying message was clear: It’s a bit of a pipe dream. Be prepared for it not to happen.
Well, screw that.
I became valedictorian of my high school class. I got into Brown. And I walked through those gates as the first in my family to attend college, let alone an Ivy League institution. I took two degrees there. You’d think this would be cause for celebration in the family unit, right? Accomplishments! Cycle breaker! What Annie Wright sets out to do, she accomplishes! Overwhelmingly positive feedback!
But that certainly wasn’t the case…
The Million-Dollar Phone Call That Went Exactly How You’d Expect
Fast forward through the Peace Corps in Uzbekistan (where my childhood trauma history caught up with me—more about that in future essays), through recovery, through graduate school, through building my career. By 2017, I’d carved out substantial thought leadership space in relational trauma recovery. I was literally one of the first people in my generational cohort to write extensively about it. Media coverage, a very large mailing list, the whole nine yards.
Then in 2022, my boutique trauma-informed therapy center, was thriving beyond anything I’d imagined.
I’ll never forget the day my business broke the million-dollar mark. I knew the stats—that less than 2% of female entrepreneurs ever break the million-dollar mark. And we had crossed that top-line revenue number in October or November of that year. I was so proud of myself, so thrilled.
And I did what took me a long time to learn not to do: I picked up the phone and called one of my close family members.
The reaction I got?
“Oh, well, that’s nice. Now let’s talk about [my daughter’s name]—that’s what’s really important.”
I sat there holding the phone, anger surging up in me, reminded time and time again, kicking myself for going back to the hardware store for milk—aka seeking support and nourishment from a source that couldn’t or wouldn’t give it to me.
That’s nice. THAT’S NICE? I wanted to say, “Do you have any idea how hard I worked for this? Do you know what it took to build this from nothing? With no safety net, no family money, no connections?”
But I didn’t. I just made an excuse to get off the phone.
The Double Whammy of Success AND Truth-Telling
Here’s where my situation gets extra complicated (and by complicated, I mean layered as anything). And I realize this is very unique and not applicable to most. I haven’t just built a successful business—I’ve built it on talking about the very things families (especially some members of mine) don’t want to talk about. Relational trauma. Family dysfunction. Abuse. The wounds we carry from childhood.
So not only am I threatening because I’m successful, I’m threatening because I’m successful at shining light into corners my family would very much prefer to keep dark, thank you very much.
The number of family members who have:
- Unsubscribed from my email list after a particularly revealing essay
- Suddenly become “too busy” to maintain contact after I started writing more publicly
- Made passive-aggressive comments about “people who air dirty laundry”
- Actually estranged themselves from me (and my husband) entirely
…I’ve literally lost count.
The Invisible Career Phenomenon (Or: “So What Do You Do Again?”)
Want to know something that used to make me absolutely frustrated on the flight home from family gatherings? I could visit extended family—both my side and my husband’s—and not once, not a single time, would anyone ask about my career.
Not. Once.
Meanwhile, Cousin Bobby’s new dog would be talked about for hours. So and so’s kids’ sports would dominate literal hours of questions and stories? My career that I pour my heart and soul into? The thing I spend the majority of my waking hours building? The thing that I truly believe helps lots of people?
Complete silence.
It was like my professional life was this secret we all agreed not to mention.
My husband (diplomatic saint that he is) would gently point out on those frustration-filled drives home that if they asked about my Forbes features or my growing team or the rates I command or my client waitlist, it might trigger their own feelings about their jobs. It might bring up stuff they’d prefer not to feel. Embarrassment. Regrets. Feeling not good enough.
“But that’s THEIR problem, not mine!” I’d protest in those early days, probably too loudly, definitely while gesticulating wildly.
He was right, of course. (Don’t tell him I said that.) But it took me years—YEARS—to accept it.
