There’s something surreal about becoming the main character in a place that hoped you’d quietly disappear. Some of you reading this may remember me from somewhere: the field, the fashion runway, the ballot, a random bar in a random coastal country, school, work, maybe the whispers, or a fallout. Or maybe you just recognize my name. Doesn’t matter.
Because this isn’t about you. It’s about me. And how I turned exile into empire.
But let’s zoom out for a second.
For the rest of you: Hi. I’m Sheridan. I’m a native Midwesterner with an adopted East Coast sass. I’m a writer, a founder, and soon a patented inventor. I once got knocked out cold on a soccer field by a team of girls who didn’t like that I told the truth about a coach. That was after I’d already switched schools. I’d already left the original one because they wanted to avoid a bullying lawsuit. After the girls I grew up with, who used to braid my hair and sleep over on weekends, turned cold and cruel the moment I stopped pretending to fit in.
By then, I’d already been the girl who was too ambitious, too expressive, too difficult to ignore. I was getting asked questions by adults that no teenager should have to answer. I was sitting in meetings meant for lawyers, defending my own safety like a junior attorney. I was scouted by modeling agents but was told, more times than I can count, that I was too fat, too short, too ugly.
I was designing business flyers for my first venture while other kids were sneaking into bonfires. I skipped prom and ran errands for seniors in my town instead. I dodged classmates in the Walgreens aisles like they were walking paparazzi landmines, legitimately snapping photos of me to post online for clout. I watched my mother lose the mayoral race by inches, again and again, and each time we got anonymous letters from town elders demanding we leave.
And by then, I had already survived enough whispers, side-eyes, and backhanded
compliments to last a lifetime. I left my hometown concussed, disillusioned, politically scorched, and still, somehow, undefeated.
When I first moved away, people were astonished by how gracefully confident I was in being myself, out loud for the world to see. I wasn’t afraid of being seen, judged, or perceived by any number of people. I found victory in sharing vulnerabilities, and used everything I went through as an honest badge worn on my heart and sleeve.
I wasn’t trying to prove anything other than that I am capable of anything I decide. I just knew that hiding had never protected me, so I stopped pretending it ever would. I shared my story before anyone could weaponize it. I aired the truths that others were too afraid to name. Vulnerability, for me, wasn’t weakness; it was armor. It was control. And it worked. I didn’t build my voice out of vanity; I built it because silence had nearly killed me.
And over time, I turned every insult, every dismissal, every rumor into material. Into fuel. Into proof. That I could survive a place that tried to bury me and still be kind-hearted. Still dangerous in my own way.
That’s the thing: they never expected me to stay soft. Or strategic. Or to reappear in their inboxes years later with a following, a company, a patent, and a platform. They never expected I’d make a life where my honesty, the very thing they tried to punish, would become my power.
Since then, I’ve built startups. I’ve closed them. I’ve built again. I’ve advised investors. I’ve led campaigns. I’ve closed runway shows and was the face of magazines, to then leave the modeling world behind. I’ve made it through things I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, and designed a life that no one thought I could have.
Now, I lead with that same honesty, because if I don’t, who else will?
I don’t write these things to impress anyone. I write because someone, somewhere, needs to hear it. Some girl or boy who’s just now realizing the cafeteria whispers are going to follow them into math class. Some young woman working a job that makes her question if speaking up is worth the backlash. Some kid who hasn’t yet learned that being different is a gift, because no one around them has survived enough to say it out loud.
I feel as though I have nothing to prove, and I’m finally letting myself rest. It feels powerful. In the stillness, I’m building again. Quietly. Strategically. With the kind of fire that doesn’t scream, more of a subtle simmer. I’m not telling you what I’m building. Not yet. But let’s just say: you’ll wish you had invested. I’m writing new poems and revisiting the thousands of old ones I have hidden away, to be published on my sites soon.
I’m not here to be palatable. I’m here to be proof. That you can walk away from a place that tried to shrink you, and never look back, except to wave and for the occasional wedding invite.
Because the truth is, I didn’t get here by playing nice. I got here by being cutthroat with the world about what I wanted and what I deserved. And that’s the most dangerous thing a woman can do, be fully herself, unwatered down, with a fucking plan.
The easy moments were rarely there. And still, some days when the weight of it all creeps in, I think about how many parts of myself I’ve had to fight to keep intact. I’m focused. I still care deeply. I still laugh too loudly. I still love way too hard. And I still believe there’s room for more, more of me, and what I have to share with you.
So now I live as if I owe it to every past version of myself who didn’t know if she’d make it out sane, and sometimes alive. I create for her. I work for her. I build for the girl who got knocked down eight times and still walked off the field with her name intact.
I lead for the ones coming up behind me. The ones who haven’t yet been bruised by the world, or who have, and are still figuring out how to rise. If I can leave a trail that makes their climb less lonely, I will. I already am.
That’s the plot twist. Not just that I made it, but that I’m not done. That I still write. That I still speak. That I still open doors, even the ones I’m told I’m not welcome through.
It was never just about making it out. It was always about making it matter.
xo,
Sheridan Guerrette
WhatSheridanSaid.com
Life Behind the Artist: Wed at 9/8C
