Sometimes I feel like a raccoon in a blazer.
Scrappy.
Slightly unhinged.
Scurrying my way into boardrooms I was never exactly invited into.
I sit in meetings, notebook in hand, doing my best to look like I belong while secretly watching for any crumb of wisdom someone drops—a tip, a tactic, a phrase I can grab before anyone notices I don’t quite fit.
I’m not above digging through the corporate trash for something useful.
Some discarded tool.
A cast-off idea someone else deemed unworthy.
Because raccoons?
They’re not picky about where they find their treasures.
And neither am I.
They’ll root around in the dark, flip over what others ignore, and scavenge for what they need.
I do the same.
Call it resourceful.
Call it desperate.
Call it both.
Because while raccoons are adorable with their tiny hands and masked faces, they’re also feral.
I feel that in my soul.
That strange mix of “how cute” and “please don’t get too close.”
The soft exterior with just a hint of danger underneath.
The sense that you don’t quite belong in polite company—
but you’ve learned how to show up anyway.
And here’s the kicker.
Sometimes I can embrace it.
I even laugh about it.
But sometimes…
The inner monologue wins.
Like the day I had a literal door shut in my face at work.
I was walking into a meeting I was scheduled to be in—one I had prepped for, one I had earned a seat at—and as the last person entered, they looked me in the eye, smiled, and closed the door right in my face.
Not a slammed door.
Not an angry gesture.
Just a casual, dismissive shut that said:
You’re not supposed to be here.
And if that wasn’t enough of a message, a few minutes later, after I opened the door, a leader in that very meeting publicly called me out for not completing tasks that they had assigned to a completely different person.
I sat there, hands on my notebook, trying to focus, trying to contribute…
But inside?
I was unraveling. I didn’t even have the heart to correct them. I just let them talk to me that way as if I deserved to be treated like the pest they believed I was.
I couldn’t stop hearing the voice in my head though:
See? This is proof. You don’t belong. You’re playing dress-up. You’re a raccoon in a blazer, and everybody knows it.
I wish I could tell you I shook it off.
I didn’t.
I sat there nodding along—spiraling.
Letting every old insecurity pull up a chair beside me at that table.
Because the truth no one likes to admit?
No matter how far you’ve come…
No matter how many credentials or promotions you’ve earned…
There are days when you still feel like the outsider who snuck in through the service door.
Days when it feels like everyone sees right through your blazer.
Days when the inner monologue wins.
And the wildest part?
Some people don’t want the raccoon in the meeting.
They want polish.
Quiet compliance.
Someone who fits the mold—
or checks the pedigree boxes they’ve decided matter.
They want smooth edges.
Predictable voices.
Safe opinions.
But here’s what I’ve learned—sometimes the raccoon is exactly who you want in the room.
The one who notices what others miss.
The one who isn’t afraid to root around in the dark corners of a project, a policy, or a conversation to find what no one else wants to deal with.
The one who’ll do the messy, thankless work no one’s volunteering for.
And it’s not just a metaphor. Raccoons have real, wild, weirdly relevant skills:
- They’re brilliant problem-solvers — They can remember how to solve a challenge for up to three years.
- They’re hands-on and dexterous — Nimble paws that can open jars, doors, and latches.
- They’re adaptable survivors — Thriving in forests, cities, suburbs… pretty much anywhere.
- They’re tenacious — They’ll try again and again until they get what they need.
- They’re tuned in — They rinse and feel their food to heighten sensitivity, noticing what others miss.
- They see in the dark — Navigating murky situations with sharp awareness.
Tell me that’s not exactly the kind of teammate, leader, or problem-solver you want in the room.
I’ll take the clever, curious, slightly chaotic raccoon who gets stuff done over the polished pedigree with no instincts any day.
Because the raccoon doesn’t just survive in environments it wasn’t designed for.
It figures them out.
Quietly. Repeatedly.
Brilliantly.
And honestly?
I’ve been that raccoon.
The non-traditional hire more times than I can count.
The student still working on her degree… while working in higher education.
(Cue the gasps.)
The woman wrestling with her faith… while helping others find theirs at a church.
The wedding photographer posing couples in high-end venues…
trying not to trip over my camera bag like a rodeo clown in oversized dress shoes.
The employee who asked the hard questions no one else wanted to ask.
The leader with the least formal education who didn’t check the boxes—
but checked in on the people.
I’ve been the raccoon in a room full of eagles.
And I’ve learned…
I wasn’t a risk.
I was exactly what the moment called for.
Because sometimes leadership isn’t about soaring above the mess.
Sometimes it’s about rolling up your sleeves, getting low to the ground,
and digging through the mess to find what’s worth saving.
Eagles look majestic on a podium.
Raccoons get things done in the dark corners where no one’s paying attention.
Eagles glide on air currents.
Raccoons figure out how to open the locked doors.
And honestly?
I’d rather be underestimated and useful
than overestimated and ornamental.
You don’t have to fit the mold to make a difference.
You don’t have to be the obvious choice to be the right one.
And you sure as heck don’t have to wait for an invitation to walk through a door that was meant for you all along.
So if you’ve ever been the outsider…
The underdog.
The non-traditional hire.
The so-called “risky one”…
You belong.
Not because you look the part.
Not because you say the right things.
But because you bring heart, grit, curiosity, and the courage to show up anyway.
And that?
That’s what actually changes the room.
So yeah…
I’ve had doors shut in my face.
I’ve sat at tables where my presence felt more like a tolerated inconvenience than a welcomed contribution.
I’ve been left out, called out, and counted out.
And still—
I keep showing up.
Because I’ve spent enough time waiting for someone else to open the door, hand me the microphone, or make room at the table.
I’m done waiting.
I’m a raccoon in a blazer.
I’ll find another way in.
I’ll pull up my own chair.
And if there’s no chair?
I’ll stand.
Belonging isn’t earned by pedigree, titles, or permission.
Belonging is claimed.
Because sometimes it’s not just people who want polish —
it’s whole systems designed to keep the scrappy ones out.
That doesn’t make you wrong.
That makes you necessary.
Keep showing up.
Not for the ones who prize polish over purpose.
Not for the ones who tighten their circles and shut their doors.
But for yourself—
and for the people watching you prove that it’s possible.
Because raccoons?
They don’t scare easy.
They don’t quit when the lid’s on tight.
And they sure as heck don’t wait for permission.
Neither should you.
If you’re waiting for the perfect moment — this is it.
Put on the blazer.
Pick up the crumbs.
Take your seat.
Rachel L. Richard is a small-town farm girl turned suburbanite, a delightfully irreverent optimist, Mrs & Mama, floppy dog ear scratcher, lifelong learner, channel surfer, wanderer, believer, occasional creative, out-of-practice musician, cupcake addict, book devourer, and lover of all people.
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