Someone Made Room for Me
From Fast Food to Female Leadership: How Women Supporting Women Changed My Life
If you had told 17-year-old me—standing behind the counter at a fast-food chain, taking orders, filling drinks, and cleaning bathrooms—that one day I would be a nurse, a leader in health, a business owner, and Chair-Elect of my local Chamber of Commerce, I probably would have laughed at you.
Actually, I definitely would have laughed at you.
There was no master career plan. No perfectly mapped-out path. I worked. I learned. I screwed up. Repeat. Eventually, I grew. And somewhere along the way, some incredibly strong women saw things in me that I hadn't quite figured out how to see in myself yet.
Looking back, I realize I wasn't born an influential woman.
I was raised by one. I was mentored by them. At one of the hardest points in my life, I was carried by them.
And somewhere along the way, I became one, too.
Sometimes It Starts With Someone Saying, “You Should.”
At 18, I started working for a medical group as a phone operator. Eventually, I moved to the front desk reception of an urgent care.
That's where healthcare got me.
I was surrounded by strong nurses, and I admired the hell out of them.
They were smart. Confident. Compassionate. They could handle chaos while making the person in front of them feel like they were the only patient who mattered.
One of those nurses started encouraging me to go to nursing school.
“You should become a nurse.”
It was probably a simple statement to her.
It wasn't simple to me.
She saw something.
Thankfully, for once, I listened.
I eventually started working in an emergency department as an ER tech while finishing nursing school. After graduation, I transitioned into nursing, continued advancing, and eventually helped launch a new urgent care.
That's when another woman changed the direction of my career.
I saw how much my manager had on her plate and asked what I thought was a pretty innocent question:
“What can I take off your plate?”
Be careful what you ask for.
Instead of simply giving me a few more tasks, she started teaching me how to do hers.
And more.
And then a little more.
She saw potential in me and began preparing me for leadership. Other female leaders continued that investment, teaching me how to write policies, manage employees, handle disciplinary issues, and have difficult conversations.
They didn't guard what they knew.
They shared it.
There is something incredibly powerful about a woman who is secure enough in her own abilities that she isn't threatened by helping another woman grow.
I've never forgotten that.
Then I Had to Lead the Women Who Taught Me
Eventually, I found myself supervising nurses who had once trained me.
I had roughly ten years of nursing experience at that point, but some of these women had twice that.
Talk about humbling.
They already trusted me as a nurse. They trusted me as a colleague. What I had to earn was something different: their trust in me as their leader.
I learned very quickly that receiving a leadership title does not magically make you the smartest or most experienced person in the room.
Some of those nurses knew things I didn't know. They had experiences I hadn't had. They simply didn't want to be in management.
I did.
My job wasn't to suddenly act like I knew more than they did. My job was to respect what they brought to the table, listen, make the decisions I was responsible for making, and become a leader they could trust.
Those women had taught me how to be a nurse.
Without realizing it, they were now teaching me how to lead, too.
Apparently, We Were All Going to School
My education didn't happen according to some perfect timeline either.
At 36 years old, with two kids who were also in school, I decided to go back and earn my bachelor's degree.
Because apparently working multiple jobs, raising two children, and managing normal life wasn't keeping me busy enough.
There were nights when everyone in my house had homework—including me.
Going to school at 36 is different than going to school at 18. At 18, school can be your main responsibility. At 38, school gets shoved somewhere between work, kids, dinner, laundry, bills, family responsibilities, and whatever unexpected disaster Tuesday decides to throw at you.
There were plenty of reasons I could have waited.
I was busy.
I already had a career.
My kids needed me.
I could always do it later.
But “later” has a funny way of continuing to move.
So I did it anyway.
Earning my bachelor's degree at 36 taught me something I wish more women believed:
There is no expiration date on becoming more.
You are not behind because your path looks different from someone else's.
Maybe you go to college at 18.
Maybe you go back at 36.
Maybe you change careers after you've already established yourself.
Maybe you start a business after you've built an entirely different career.
Maybe the opportunity that changes your life doesn't arrive according to the timeline you imagined.
That's okay.
At the time, I was probably mostly concerned with surviving the next assignment and getting everyone where they needed to be.
Looking back, though, I hope my children saw something.
I hope they saw that their mom wasn't finished becoming who she wanted to be.
Welcome to Heavy Industry
Eventually, my career took another turn.
I left the traditional healthcare environment and stepped into occupational health in heavy industry and manufacturing.
Talk about a change of scenery.
I went from an environment where women were everywhere to one where men overwhelmingly made up the workforce.
I knew I could nurse.
What I didn't know was whether these guys were going to trust me.
I was replacing a seasoned occupational health nurse, and some employees knew me personally before they ever knew me professionally.
Nobody cared about the positions I'd previously held.
I had to prove myself all over again.
And you cannot walk into a workplace and demand trust because you have letters behind your name.
You earn it.
So I listened.
I talked to people. I answered questions. I helped employees through injuries and workers' compensation claims. I showed compassion when they needed it. I was there when something went wrong.
And sometimes, I simply listened.
Little by little, they opened up.
Today, I jokingly call myself the “mom” of the plant.
They call me for everything.
And I mean everything.
But I love it.
Because underneath the workers' compensation claims, drug and alcohol programs, respiratory protection, hearing conservation, and occupational health responsibilities are people.
Somewhere along the way, I earned something that matters more to me than a title.
I earned their trust.
I also had an unexpected mentor during this chapter of my career: a male leader who saw potential in me outside of healthcare.
He recognized what I could contribute to the business, but he also challenged me to think beyond my job description.
He pushed me toward Leadership Ridgecrest and encouraged me to become involved with the Chamber of Commerce.
And I blossomed.
I started meeting business owners, community leaders, volunteers, and people who genuinely cared about making our community better.
Eventually, I wasn't just attending.
I was participating.
I was helping.
I was part of it.
Today, serving on the Chamber of Commerce Board of Directors and as Chair-Elect is one of the accomplishments I am most proud of.
I like being a recognizable face in my community—not because I need people to know who I am, but because I want them to know they can call me.
If somebody needs support, let's help.
If something needs volunteers, let's figure it out.
If there's an opportunity to make our community better, I want to be part of it.
When Everything Else Stopped Mattering
But while all of this growth was happening, life didn't politely wait in the background.
There is a part of my story that is much harder to talk about.
My son survived a severe suicide attempt.
There are moments in life when every title you have suddenly means absolutely nothing.
I wasn't a nurse.
I wasn't a leader.
I wasn't the person everybody called when they needed an answer.
I was his mom.
And my child needed me.
As a nurse, I was accustomed to being the person who stayed calm when something went wrong. I knew how to care for other people's families. I knew what to do in emergencies.
None of that prepares you when it is your own child.
I still had responsibilities. I still had a career. I still had a family. Life did not stop simply because mine felt like it had.
And once again, women showed up.
My mom stepped in in ways I will never be able to fully repay. When I couldn't carry everything, she carried what she could for me.
And my ladies showed up, too.
They stepped in.
They covered things.
They checked on me.
They gave me grace.
They didn't require me to have it all together.
For years, strong women had been pushing me forward.
During that season, they did something even more important.
They held me up.
That changed my understanding of women supporting women.
Mentorship isn't always about promotions, education, networking, or getting a seat at the table.
Sometimes supporting another woman means realizing the woman who is always strong doesn't have the capacity to be strong today.
Sometimes it's taking something off her plate without being asked.
Sometimes it's saying, “Go take care of your family. We've got this.”
Sometimes it's simply standing beside her while she survives something she never imagined she would have to face.
That's leadership, too.
Maybe one of the purest forms of it.
The Strongest Woman Was There First
Long before any nurse, manager, or executive saw potential in me, one woman had already been betting on me my entire life.
My mom.
Golly, I have put that woman through hell.
As an adolescent? Absolutely.
As an adult?
Let's just say motherhood apparently doesn't come with an expiration date.
I'm 42 years old, and sometimes I still need my mom.
She is the strongest woman I know.
She has worked hard her entire life. She worked long hours for our family while still managing to be Mom whenever we needed her. She's a natural leader. She takes no punches. She expects you to work hard, and she certainly isn't afraid to tell you when you need to get your act together.
But she never gave up on me.
Not once.
She took chances on me time after time after time—even during periods when I probably wasn't making it particularly easy to believe in me.
And when my own child needed me more than ever, she was there again.
Looking back, I realize she was my first example of female leadership.
She taught me that strength and compassion aren't opposites.
She taught me to work.
She taught me to show up.
And she taught me that loving someone sometimes means believing in who they can become even when they haven't figured it out yet.
Then I Did Something Else I Never Expected
Last year, I became an entrepreneur.
Inkless by Steph grew from a part of me that has been present through every stage of my career: I genuinely like helping people.
My business specializes in saline tattoo removal, scar repair, and camouflage services. On the surface, that may seem completely different from nursing or occupational health.
To me, it really isn't.
People still come to me trusting me with something vulnerable.
There may be regret attached to a tattoo. There may be a painful history behind a scar. There may simply be something someone has looked at every day for years and is finally ready to change.
I get to be part of that process.
I get to help people move forward.
When I look back now, that's the common denominator throughout almost every chapter of my life.
People.
Now It's My Turn
As I've gotten older, I've realized mentorship isn't always a formal relationship.
Sometimes mentorship is one sentence:
“You should become a nurse.”
Sometimes it's someone answering your hundredth question.
Sometimes it's a manager teaching you something she could have easily kept to herself.
Sometimes it's somebody pushing you into a room you don't think you belong in yet.
Sometimes it's a leader telling you to think bigger.
Sometimes it's your girlfriends quietly taking things off your plate because they know you can't carry one more thing.
And sometimes it's your mom refusing to give up on you until you finally start seeing the woman she knew was there all along.
That's why women supporting women matters so much to me.
I'm not interested in competing with other women.
I want to cheer for them.
I want to see her get the promotion.
I want to see her finish the degree.
I want to see her start the business.
I want to see her walk into the room she doesn't think she belongs in yet and realize there's already a chair waiting for her.
And when life knocks her flat, I want her to know somebody will sit beside her until she's ready to stand again.
Her success does not diminish mine.
There is room for both of us.
My career hasn't followed a straight line.
I went from cleaning bathrooms and taking fast-food orders to waiting tables, retail, answering phones, emergency medicine, nursing, leadership, going back to college at 38, occupational health, heavy industry, entrepreneurship, and community leadership.
Along the way, I also learned that life doesn't care how ambitious you are. Hard things will still happen. Your family will need you. You will need other people. And sometimes the woman who is accustomed to taking care of everyone else will need someone to take care of her.
I certainly didn't have any of that written on a vision board at 17.
But I wouldn't change the path.
Every chapter taught me something.
More importantly, people along that path stopped long enough to teach me something.
My name may be attached to my accomplishments, but there are fingerprints of incredible women all over my story.
They encouraged me.
They taught me.
They challenged me.
They trusted me.
They pushed me when I needed pushing.
And when I couldn't keep pushing, they held me up.
Now, when I see another woman trying to figure out what comes next, I understand what I'm supposed to do.
Cheer louder.
Teach her what I know.
Say her name in rooms she's not in.
Open the door.
Pull out another chair.
Tell her when I see something in her that she may not see in herself yet.
And if life knocks her down, remind her that the chair will still be there when she's ready.
Because somewhere along the way, someone did all of those things for me.
Someone made room for me.
Now it's my turn to make room for her.
