“Why Are You Here?” How Sexism, Bias and Assumption Can Turn You into a High Performance Powerhouse
How someone else's bias against you can end up working in your favour, long after they are relevant to you.
“Why are you here?”
That’s what the club captain asked me on my first away trip.
I was new. I think we were in France, though that part isn’t especially important. What I remember far more clearly is how conspicuous I felt. I only had one branded T-shirt. My bag didn’t have a squad number on it like everyone else’s. I was travelling with a group of players who had known each other for years and understood the unspoken rules of that environment instinctively.
There was only one other woman on the trip and, in my eyes at least, she had long since proved that she belonged.
So when he asked me why I was there, I assumed he meant in the corridor. Then he repeated himself, adding, “here, in France,” and I realised what he was really asking.
Why had I come at all?
For a split second I was completely thrown. He explained that previous press officers hadn’t travelled, which I knew wasn’t true, but that detail was almost irrelevant. The subtext was what hit me. My presence required justification.
It’s strange how quickly your body reacts in those moments. I felt the heat rise in my face. I remember becoming acutely aware of how visible I was. I respected him enormously, which made it worse. Doubt from someone you admire carries greater weight.
I don’t remember exactly what I said in reply. Something calm, I think. Something about it being part of the role and necessary for post-match responsibilities. What I do remember is going upstairs afterwards and crying. It was the first and last time I cried at that club.
Not because I thought he was right.
But because I realised that no one was going to hand me certainty. If I wanted to feel like I belonged, I was going to have to build that belief myself.
That moment was a turning point.
It forced me to accept two things. First, that in that environment I would have to work harder than some others simply to remove doubt. Second, that confidence was not something that would arrive once everyone approved of me. It had to exist before that.
So, I made a quiet decision. I would become undeniably competent. I would prepare properly. I would stay calm under pressure. I would pay attention to detail. I would let my work speak where I chose not to.
Over time, it did.
Looking back now, what stands out isn’t the confrontation itself, but what it revealed. In elite sport, you are constantly being tested. Not always directly. Sometimes socially. Sometimes culturally. Sometimes subtly. The question is rarely just about logistics. It is about whether you will hold your ground.
Believing in yourself in those environments is not loud. It is not dramatic. It is steady...and necessary. It is choosing to stay when leaving would be easier. It is continuing to do the job well, especially when you feel scrutinised.
And it is understanding that confidence is built through evidence, not emotion.
Over time, certain principles kept proving themselves true whenever the pressure increased.
Discipline beats motivation.
You cannot rely on feeling confident. You rely on preparation. When the moment comes, you fall back on what you have practised, not what you hope will happen.
Pressure reveals preparation.
High-stakes environments don’t create weaknesses; they expose them. If something unravels under pressure, it usually points to a gap in structure, not a gap in potential.
Small habits compound faster than intensity.
Confidence is rarely built in one dramatic moment. It is built in the daily standards you keep when no one is watching.
Failure is information, not identity.
Early mistakes do not define you. They refine you. Every uncomfortable moment becomes data for how to handle the next one better.
None of these are glamorous.
All of them are structural.
And what strikes me now is how often capable people try to solve insecurity with more effort rather than better foundations. More hours. More ‘proving’. More visible busyness.
The gap is rarely ability.
It is usually clarity and structure.
Do you know what your role truly requires?
Do you know what good actually looks like?
Do you know how you will respond when you are questioned?
That captain probably never realised how significant that conversation was for me. For him, it may have been a passing remark. For me, it forced a decision.
Shrink or solidify.
I chose the latter.
And that choice shaped how I think about performance to this day.