The Long-Term Effects of Growing Up With a Narcissistic Mother — And What It Does to Ambitious Daughters

RELATIONAL TRAUMA & CHILDHOOD WOUNDS • April 12, 2026

LAST UPDATED: APRIL 2026

SUMMARY

Growing up with a narcissistic mother creates a specific, lasting wound — one that’s especially complicated for driven, ambitious daughters who learned early that performance was the safest form of love. This post explores the neuroscience of maternal narcissism, the long-term effects that follow daughters into adulthood, and why the culture still struggles to name what happened to them.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. The Promotion She Couldn’t Celebrate
2. What Is Maternal Narcissism?
3. How a Narcissistic Mother Rewires Her Daughter’s Brain
4. How This Shows Up in Driven Daughters
5. The Long-Term Effects: A Full Catalogue
6. Both/And: You Can Love Her and Still Name What She Did
7. The Systemic Lens: Why We Protect Mothers From Scrutiny
8. A Path Forward: What Healing Actually Looks Like
9. Frequently Asked Questions

The Promotion She Couldn’t Celebrate

Sarah called her mother from the parking garage. She’d just gotten the news — partner track, ahead of schedule, the thing she’d been working toward for six years. Her hands were still shaking when she dialed.

Her mother picked up on the second ring. Sarah told her. There was a pause.

“Well,” her mother said, “I hope you won’t become one of those women who forgets about her family.” Then she pivoted to talking about Sarah’s younger sister, who’d just redecorated her living room. The conversation lasted four minutes.

Sarah sat in her car for a long time after she hung up. She didn’t cry. She knew better than to cry by then — she’d learned that somewhere around age nine. She just sat there with a familiar hollow feeling in her chest, the one that had been following her since childhood, wondering why no success ever felt like enough.

If you grew up with a narcissistic mother, you know this feeling intimately. Not because you’re broken. But because you were shaped by a relationship that should have been your safest harbor and wasn’t. And for driven, ambitious daughters in particular — women who learned early that achievement was the closest thing to love they were going to get — the effects of that shaping run very, very deep.

In my work with clients, I see this pattern consistently: a woman who has built an impressive external life, who functions at the highest levels professionally, who looks — from the outside — completely fine. And underneath, a quiet devastation she can barely name. This post is for her.

What Is Maternal Narcissism?

Before we go further, it’s worth being precise about what we’re actually talking about. “Narcissistic mother” has become a phrase that floats around the internet with varying degrees of accuracy, and I want to offer some clinical grounding.

DEFINITION MATERNAL NARCISSISM

A pattern of parenting characterized by a mother’s inability to recognize and respond to her child’s emotional needs as separate from her own. Rooted in narcissistic personality features — including an excessive need for admiration, lack of empathy, and a tendency to use relationships instrumentally — maternal narcissism typically involves the child being experienced as an extension of the mother rather than as an autonomous individual. As described by Karyl McBride, PhD, licensed marriage and family therapist and author of Will I Ever Be Good Enough? Healing the Daughters of Narcissistic Mothers, these mothers are emotionally unavailable in a specific way: present enough to need something from their children, absent enough to never truly see them.

In plain terms: Your mother wasn’t absent — she was often very present. But her presence was always, somehow, about her. Your achievements were her bragging rights. Your struggles were her inconveniences. Your autonomy was a threat. You weren’t really a daughter to her; you were a supporting character in her story.

It’s also important to distinguish maternal narcissism from paternal narcissism — not because one is worse, but because the wound is different. Mothers, in most families, are the primary attachment figure. They’re the ones who hold us first, mirror us earliest, and shape our most foundational beliefs about whether we’re lovable, whether we’re safe, and whether the world is a place that will meet our needs.

When that primary figure is also unable to see you clearly — when the very person who was supposed to be your first safe harbor is the source of confusion, competition, and conditional love — the developmental impact is profound. It’s not just relational damage. It’s a disruption at the root of the self.

If you suspect this describes your own mother, the posts on recovering from narcissistic parenting and growing up with a covert narcissist parent offer additional context. And if you’re not sure whether what you experienced qualifies — keep reading. The effects often speak louder than the diagnosis.

How a Narcissistic Mother Rewires Her Daughter’s Brain

This isn’t metaphorical. A narcissistic mother doesn’t just create emotional wounds — she shapes the actual neurological architecture of her daughter’s developing brain.

Allan Schore, PhD, clinical psychologist at the UCLA David Geffen School of Medicine and one of the foremost researchers on right-brain development and affect regulation, has documented extensively how the early mother-child relationship literally sculpts the infant’s right hemisphere — the part of the brain responsible for emotional processing, self-regulation, and the ability to read and respond to social cues. The mother’s face, her attunement, her responsiveness: these aren’t just emotionally meaningful. They’re neurologically formative. When that attunement is inconsistent, self-focused, or conditional, the developing brain adapts accordingly — toward hypervigilance, toward reading subtle emotional shifts in others, toward suppressing its own needs in favor of tracking and managing the primary caregiver’s state. (PMID: 11707891)

In other words: the driven, ambitious daughter who seems to have an almost uncanny ability to read a room, to anticipate what others need, to perform under pressure — she didn’t develop those skills by accident. She developed them to survive.

Judith Herman, MD, psychiatrist at Harvard Medical School and author of Trauma and Recovery, has written about how chronic relational trauma — the kind that happens not in one catastrophic event but across thousands of small interactions over years — produces lasting changes to the nervous system, to identity formation, and to a person’s capacity for intimacy and self-trust. The daughter of a narcissistic mother often fits this profile exactly: not a single identifiable trauma, but a chronic atmosphere of unpredictability, conditional approval, and emotional danger that shaped her from the inside out. (PMID: 22729977)

Karyl McBride, PhD, licensed marriage and family therapist and author of Will I Ever Be Good Enough? Healing the Daughters of Narcissistic Mothers, identifies the core wound in daughters of narcissistic mothers as a profound disruption in the development of a stable, authentic self. When your sense of self was formed in relationship to a mother who couldn’t truly see you — who needed you to be a certain way in order for her to feel good about herself — you don’t get to discover who you are organically. You discover who you have to be.

For many daughters, that discovery looked like this: performance is rewarded. Achievement brings (brief, conditional) approval. Being small, uncertain, or needy brings criticism, withdrawal, or competition. The logical conclusion, formed in a child’s brain before she has language for it, is: I am only safe when I am succeeding.

DEFINITION ENMESHMENT

A family dynamic in which psychological boundaries between individuals — particularly between parent and child — are blurred or absent. In enmeshed relationships, a child’s emotional life, identity, and sense of self become entangled with the parent’s needs and feelings. The child may struggle to distinguish their own desires from the parent’s, or may feel responsible for managing the parent’s emotional state. Enmeshment is a hallmark feature of narcissistic family systems, where the child is experienced not as a separate individual but as an extension of the parent.

In plain terms: You didn’t know where she ended and you began. Her moods were your emergency. Her disappointments were your fault. Her victories were yours to celebrate — but yours weren’t allowed to eclipse hers. You grew up with no real permission to have a self that was separate from what she needed you to be.

The oscillation between enmeshment and emotional abandonment is one of the most destabilizing features of having a narcissistic mother. She pulls you in when she needs you — when she wants to bask in your accomplishments, when she needs emotional support, when she wants to present a certain image to the world. And she withdraws when you threaten her — when you succeed in ways that outshine her, when you set a boundary, when you dare to have a life that’s truly your own.

This pattern of intermittent reinforcement — the unpredictable cycling between closeness and coldness — is neurologically addictive. It creates exactly the kind of anxious attachment that keeps daughters returning, hoping this time will be different, this time she’ll finally see me. If you’ve ever caught yourself, as a grown adult, still trying to win your mother’s genuine approval, this is why. It’s not weakness. It’s the nervous system doing exactly what it was conditioned to do.

To understand more about the broader landscape of childhood emotional neglect and how it intersects with narcissistic parenting, that post offers additional clinical context.

RESEARCH EVIDENCE

Peer-reviewed findings that inform this clinical framework:

• Maternal overprotection positively associated with vulnerable narcissism (b = 0.27, p < .001) (PMID: 32426139)
• Indirect effect of fathers' narcissism on children's narcissism through overvaluation: β = 0.06, p = 0.03 (PMID: 32751639)
• Child-reported maternal hostility at age 12 predicts overall narcissism at age 14 (β = .24) (PMID: 28042186)
• NPD prevalence 0-6.2% (average 0.8%); 4+ ACEs increase risk for NPD (PMID: 39578751)
• Total maternal narcissistic traits score negatively correlates with daughters' total emotional balance (r = -0.441, p<0.001; R²=15.9% variance) (PMID: 40746460)

How This Shows Up in Driven Daughters

Understanding the neuroscience is one thing. Seeing it live — in the specific, textured reality of a driven woman’s actual life — is another. Let me introduce you to Sarah.

Sarah is a 38-year-old healthcare executive. She runs a regional hospital system. Her colleagues describe her as visionary, unflappable, extraordinarily competent. She’s the first person in her family to hold a graduate degree, and she’s built her career with a focus and discipline that most people around her find slightly intimidating.

In our early sessions, Sarah had trouble answering the question “What do you actually want?” Not in some abstract, philosophical sense — I mean in the concrete, day-to-day sense. What does she want for dinner. What does she actually enjoy. What would she do on a weekend if she didn’t feel the need to be productive. She’d look at me with a kind of polite blankness, as if the question were being asked in a language she’d never been taught.

She knew how to want things for other people. She knew how to want outcomes — better metrics, a successful fundraising campaign, a resolved staffing crisis. But want something for herself, just for herself, with no instrumental purpose attached? That circuitry had never really been developed. Because in her family of origin, her desires hadn’t mattered. What mattered was whether she was performing well enough to keep her mother stable.

Sarah’s mother had been — and remains — intensely focused on Sarah’s accomplishments, but in a way that has always felt slightly off. She introduces Sarah to strangers with a litany of credentials before Sarah has said a single word. She forwards articles about women’s leadership to Sarah without comment, as if to say: here’s what you should be. She calls whenever Sarah is profiled in industry publications, not to say “I’m proud of you” but to say “I saw the piece — you looked tired in that photo.”

When Sarah got the partner-track news — the story I opened with — her mother’s pivot to the sister’s living room wasn’t accidental cruelty. It was a deeply ingrained reflex: when Sarah shines too brightly, her mother dims her. It had been happening since Sarah was seven years old and won the county spelling bee, and her mother spent the drive home talking about how the other mothers had been dressed.

What I see consistently in driven daughters like Sarah is a very specific profile: relentless external competence wrapped around an internal life that feels perpetually provisional. She achieves, but doesn’t feel the achievement. She succeeds, but waits for it to be taken away. She’s surrounded by people who admire her, and she trusts almost none of them. The performance is real. The rewards are real. The feeling of safety never quite arrives.

This is what a narcissistic abuse syndrome looks like when it’s been successfully sublimated into a career. It doesn’t look like dysfunction. It looks like ambition. Which is part of why it’s so hard to recognize — and so hard to treat.

The Long-Term Effects: A Full Catalogue

The effects of growing up with a narcissistic mother don’t resolve at eighteen when you leave home. They travel with you. They show up in your relationships, your body, your internal monologue, and the specific ways you hold yourself back even as you’re pushing yourself forward.

Here’s what I see most consistently in my work with daughters of narcissistic mothers:

Chronic imposter syndrome that no amount of achievement can cure. When your worth was always conditional — contingent on your mother’s mood, on whether you were performing well enough, on whether you were being useful to her image — you internalize the belief that your competence is always on the verge of being exposed as fraudulent. The external achievements pile up. The internal certainty never comes. You can make partner, win awards, lead hundreds of people, and still feel like you’re one bad quarter away from being revealed as the fraud you secretly believe yourself to be.

Profound difficulty trusting women. If your first experience of a woman’s love was conditional, competitive, and unreliable, you carry that template into every subsequent relationship with women. Female friendships can feel dangerous — women are potential rivals, potential critics, potential sources of the same devastating withdrawal your mother weaponized. Many daughters of narcissistic mothers describe feeling most comfortable with male colleagues and most guarded around other women, without quite knowing why.

A complicated relationship with your own body. Narcissistic mothers frequently have fraught relationships with appearance, femininity, and female bodies — and they transmit that to their daughters in ways that can be explicit (“you’d be prettier if you lost weight”) or subtle (the way her eyes move over your body when you enter a room). Many women I work with trace their patterns with emotionally immature parents directly to embodied experiences: chronic disconnection from physical sensation, difficulty feeling safe in their own skin, using exercise as punishment rather than pleasure.

Perfectionism that is never about excellence — it’s about safety. There’s a particular kind of perfectionism that lives in daughters of narcissistic mothers. It’s not about doing things beautifully. It’s about doing things without flaw, because flaws invite criticism, and criticism from someone who should love you unconditionally is unbearable. This perfectionism doesn’t feel like a high standard. It feels like a low-level terror that never quite turns off.

The “golden child who still feels invisible” paradox. Many daughters of narcissistic mothers were, in a sense, favored — celebrated, pushed, held up. But the celebration was never really about them. It was about what they represented to their mothers. Being the golden child doesn’t mean you were seen. It means you were used as a mirror. And growing up as someone’s mirror is its own particular kind of lonely.

Difficulty with intimate relationships and a tendency toward emotional self-sufficiency to the point of isolation. When you learned early that expressing need brought withdrawal or criticism, you learned to need nothing — or to appear to need nothing. This becomes its own kind of prison in adult relationships. Partners experience you as walled off, self-contained to the point of unreachable. You want connection desperately. You’ve never learned to allow it safely.

Grief that has nowhere to land. The particular grief of having a mother who was present but never truly there — this is one of the most underacknowledged forms of loss. You can’t mourn it the way you’d mourn a death. She’s still alive. She might even, in her way, love you. But you’re grieving the mother you needed and never had, and that grief is complicated by guilt, by loyalty, by the cultural insistence that whatever she did, she’s still your mother.

What Clarissa Pinkola Estés, PhD, Jungian analyst and author of Women Who Run With the Wolves, captures in this line is something I see in daughters of narcissistic mothers constantly: a woman who has constructed a life of extraordinary external achievement but who has, somewhere along the way, lost the thread back to herself. The drivenness, the ambition, the relentless forward motion — these aren’t the problem. They were, once, the solution. They were how she survived. The question that brings these women into my office is: what do I do when survival stops being enough?

The intersection between these long-term effects and betrayal trauma is significant and worth naming. There’s a particular kind of betrayal in having the person who was supposed to protect you be the source of the wound. If you’re reading this and recognizing yourself, that recognition is already important.

Both/And: You Can Love Her and Still Name What She Did

Here is where I want to slow down, because this is where things get complicated — and where the oversimplifications of internet discourse about narcissistic mothers can do real harm.

The framing that tends to dominate online conversations about narcissistic parents is binary: either she was a monster, or she wasn’t really that bad. Either you cut her off completely, or you’re in denial. Either your pain is valid, or you’re being disloyal.

In my work with clients, that binary almost never maps onto reality. The reality is almost always both/and.

She may have been a genuinely wounded woman — someone who was herself raised by a parent who couldn’t see her — and she may have caused you real, lasting damage. Both things can be true. She may love you, in the way she’s capable of loving anyone — and that love may be insufficient, conditional, and sometimes cruel. Both things can be true. You can grieve her. You can be furious at her. You can miss the mother you never had while also being clear-eyed about the one you did have. All of that is allowed. None of it cancels the rest.

Let me introduce you to Elena.

Elena is a 43-year-old architect. She runs her own firm. She’s brilliant, visually arresting, slightly terrifying to work for in the best way. She came to therapy not because she felt like she was falling apart — she wasn’t — but because she’d recently had a daughter of her own and found herself seized with a fear she couldn’t articulate: What if I become her?

Elena’s mother is not a cartoon villain. She made Elena’s Halloween costumes by hand. She came to every school play. She also told Elena, at age fourteen, that she was “becoming too pretty” and that it was “starting to be a problem.” She also took a job at the same company where Elena was doing a summer internship at age twenty and told her colleagues, before Elena could introduce herself, that she’d basically gotten the internship because of her mother’s connections — which was entirely fabricated. She also, when Elena got engaged, spent the entire engagement period subtly undermining Elena’s fiancé in ways that were deniable enough that Elena spent years wondering if she’d imagined them.

Elena loves her mother. She grieves her mother. She is furious at her mother. She sees her mother’s own wounds — a childhood of genuine deprivation, a marriage that suffocated her — and she has compassion for them. She also knows, with a clarity that took her years to arrive at, that her mother’s wounds were not Elena’s fault and were not Elena’s responsibility to fix. That her mother’s competition with her was not love, however much it was tangled up with love.

Holding that both/and isn’t a sign that Elena hasn’t fully processed her anger. It’s a sign that she’s arrived at something more complex and more honest than anger alone. It’s a sign of psychological maturity — the kind that takes real work to develop when the early relationship made complexity feel dangerous.

The fear Elena carried — of becoming her mother — is one of the most common things I hear from daughters of narcissistic mothers who go on to have children of their own. I want to say directly: the fact that you’re asking that question is itself meaningful. Narcissistic parents, by definition, don’t ask it. The self-awareness that makes you afraid of repeating the pattern is the same self-awareness that will allow you to do something different. This is something trauma-informed therapy can support directly.

The Systemic Lens: Why We Protect Mothers From Scrutiny

If you’ve ever tried to name what your narcissistic mother did to you, you’ve probably encountered some version of the wall. “But she’s your mother.” “She did the best she could.” “You only get one mother.” “Think about everything she sacrificed for you.” “You’re so hard on her.”

This isn’t accidental. It’s cultural. And understanding it as a systemic phenomenon — not just a personal one — is important for daughters who have spent years wondering if they’re being unfair, if they’re too sensitive, if they’re imagining things.

Motherhood in Western culture carries an extraordinary weight of idealization. Mothers are supposed to be selfless, nurturing, endlessly patient — and the cultural narrative around motherhood makes it deeply difficult to hold the more complicated truth that some mothers are harmful. Not because they’re evil, but because they’re human and wounded and operating from a place of psychological limitation that their children could not afford to acknowledge and survive.

This idealization has a gendered dimension that’s worth naming explicitly. When fathers are harmful — cold, absent, critical, controlling — we have a cultural vocabulary for it. The “difficult father” is a recognizable literary and social archetype. The “difficult mother” is something the culture still treats as an almost taboo accusation. Women who name their mothers as sources of trauma frequently find themselves discredited in ways that men naming difficult fathers rarely do. They’re accused of ingratitude, of disloyalty, of “therapist talk,” of blaming their mothers for their own failures.

There’s also a class dimension. For many driven, ambitious daughters — especially those who grew up in households where the mother’s image as a good mother was central to her social identity — the family system actively organized around maintaining that image. Daughters in these families learn early that the family’s coherence depends on not naming what’s actually happening. The price of naming it is being cast as the troublemaker, the ungrateful one, the one who’s making it all about herself.

Karyl McBride, PhD, licensed marriage and family therapist and author of Will I Ever Be Good Enough?, has written extensively about what she calls “the legacy of distorted love” — the way daughters of narcissistic mothers are trained to maintain the mother’s false self at the expense of their own authentic development. This isn’t a personality flaw. It’s a survival adaptation to a system that required it.

The systemic lens also asks us to consider what it means that so many driven, ambitious women — disproportionately represented in certain fields and at certain levels of professional achievement — carry this wound. There’s a real and under-discussed relationship between maternal narcissism and the production of extraordinarily capable women who don’t know how to receive love, can’t tolerate not being productive, and are privately convinced that their worth is entirely conditional on their output. This isn’t a coincidence of individual psychology. It’s a pattern that deserves a wider conversation.

If you’ve experienced the particular complexity of Mother’s Day as the daughter of a narcissistic mother, that post speaks directly to the cultural pressure that makes this wound so difficult to hold.

A Path Forward: What Healing Actually Looks Like

I want to be careful here, because healing from a narcissistic mother is not a linear process with a clear endpoint, and I don’t want to offer you a tidy seven-step framework when what you actually need is honest company on a long and complicated road.

That said, there are some things I know to be true from my clinical work, and I want to share them directly.

The first step is naming it accurately. Not dramatizing it, not minimizing it — naming it. She was a narcissistic mother. What she did created lasting effects. Both of those things are true, and you don’t have to choose between loving her and seeing her clearly. The clarity is not an accusation. It’s a form of self-respect.

Grief is not optional. One of the most important — and most avoided — parts of healing from this wound is grieving the mother you needed and never had. Not the mother who exists, but the mother who should have been there: the one who could have been delighted by you without needing to compete with you, who could have held your pain without making it about her, who could have said “I’m so proud of you” and meant it the way it should be meant. That mother didn’t exist. Grieving her is real work, and it’s worth doing.

You have to learn to tolerate your own needs. Daughters of narcissistic mothers are often excellent at meeting everyone else’s needs and catastrophically bad at acknowledging their own. This isn’t a character flaw — it’s a learned adaptation. And it can be unlearned, slowly and with support, in a therapeutic relationship that offers something you may never have had: a consistent, non-competitive, genuinely curious presence that wants to know what you actually feel.

The ambition isn’t the enemy. I want to say this clearly, because sometimes the path toward healing can feel like it requires dismantling the very drivenness that kept you alive. It doesn’t. What’s worth examining is not whether you’re ambitious — ambition is fine, ambition is yours, ambition doesn’t need to be explained — but whether the ambition is still running entirely on the old fuel. Whether you’re still performing for a woman who’s never going to see you the way you need to be seen. That particular fuel is worth replacing. Not with passivity. With genuine desire.

Relationships with women can heal what a woman damaged. This is something I’ve seen repeatedly in my clinical work and something I find genuinely moving: the women who do the deepest healing from this wound often do some of it in connection with other women — in therapy, in close friendship, in community. The original wound was relational. The repair is relational. And despite the distrust that daughters of narcissistic mothers often carry toward other women, the experience of being truly seen and valued by a woman — without competition, without condition — can be profoundly reparative.

Therapeutic support matters. I’m not going to pretend this work is easy or that it can be done entirely alone. The impact of a narcissistic mother is layered — neurological, relational, identity-level — and unpacking it benefits enormously from a skilled, trauma-informed therapeutic relationship. If you’re ready to explore that, working with a trauma-informed therapist can provide the consistent, boundaried relationship that heals what was damaged in relationship. For women navigating this alongside demanding professional lives, trauma-informed executive coaching can bridge the gap between the internal work and the external demands.

For women who aren’t ready for one-on-one support yet — or who want to begin the process before taking that step — Fixing the Foundations, my signature course on relational trauma recovery, offers a self-paced entry point. And the Strong & Stable newsletter is a weekly conversation about exactly these themes — the kind of honest, non-toxic conversation that daughters of narcissistic mothers rarely got to have in their own families.

You deserved a mother who could hold your brightness without flinching. You deserved to be celebrated, genuinely, without the celebration being redirected back to her. You deserved to grow up knowing that your worth wasn’t conditional on your performance. You didn’t get that. It’s not your fault that you didn’t get it. And the life you’ve built in the absence of it — the one that looks so impressive from the outside — can become, with time and real support, a life that actually feels as good as it looks.

That’s the work. And it’s worth doing.

If you’re somewhere in the middle of recognizing this pattern — not quite ready to call it what it is, but feeling the pull of something true in these pages — you’re not alone. What I see consistently, across years of working with driven women healing from this wound, is that the recognition itself is a kind of homecoming. The moment a woman says “I think this is what happened to me” is the moment something begins to shift. You don’t have to have it fully named. You just have to be willing to keep looking.

Related Reading

• McBride, Karyl. Will I Ever Be Good Enough? Healing the Daughters of Narcissistic Mothers. New York: Free Press, 2008.
• Herman, Judith. Trauma and Recovery: The Aftermath of Violence — From Domestic Abuse to Political Terror. New York: Basic Books, 1992.
• Schore, Allan N. The Science of the Art of Psychotherapy. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2012.
• Estés, Clarissa Pinkola. Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype. New York: Ballantine Books, 1992.
• Van der Kolk, Bessel. The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma. New York: Viking, 2014.

About the Author

Annie Wright, LMFT

LMFT · Relational Trauma Specialist · W.W. Norton Author

Helping ambitious women finally feel as good as their résumé looks.

Annie Wright is a licensed psychotherapist (LMFT #95719) and trauma-informed executive coach with over 15,000 clinical hours. She works with driven, ambitious women — including Silicon Valley leaders, physicians, and entrepreneurs — in repairing the psychological foundations beneath their impressive lives. Annie is the founder and former CEO of Evergreen Counseling, a multimillion-dollar trauma-informed therapy center she built, scaled, and successfully exited. A regular contributor to Psychology Today, her expert commentary has appeared in Forbes, Business Insider, Inc., NBC, and The Information. She is currently writing her first book with W.W. Norton.

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