When I went to meet the department chair as a freshly hired adjunct last April, the front-desk staff said, “A student is here to see you.”
I froze and wondered whether I should correct him.
I’ve always looked younger than my age, and people often assume I’m a student. When I became an adjunct professor at age 30, I realized I had a choice: try to look older, or embrace it.
If you look young in a professional setting, people don’t always say it outright — but you can feel it in the assumptions.
I’ve been waved toward the student check-in line while judging a business-school competition and asked “What are you studying?” at college events when I’m there to guest speak on personal branding.
People kindly explain things to me as if I’m new to the room until I say what I do. Even then, they raise an eyebrow and double-check: “Wait … you’re a professor?”
I smile through it in the moment, but the assumptions still trigger my inner critic. Unspoken advice hangs in the air: Be more serious. Look more professional. Blend in.
Despite the pressure to seem more mature, I chose to embrace my youthful look
Although there are easy ways to look older and signal authority on the surface — matte foundation, black suits, a more serious personality — the idea of shrinking myself to look the part seemed exhausting.
I own precisely one oversized black linen blazer I never wear. My energy drops whenever I throw it on, like I’ve trapped myself in a costume.
It makes me hyper-aware of myself, which is the last thing you want in a classroom stuffed with students ready and waiting to size you up.
So instead of dulling myself down (or adding that blazer to my regular wardrobe rotation), I decided to get more intentional about how I showed up.
I wanted my look to reflect how I teach: warm, creative, and engaging. I spend a probably unhealthy amount of time keeping up with cultural and marketing trends. I crack a joke here and there, even when I’m the only one who can’t stop laughing.
So I leaned into color and vibrance with purpose — bold blue sweaters, cherry-print dresses, a soft camel cape, and floral prints with a pop of pink — plus a dewy glow on my cheekbones.
These choices weren’t about making a fashion statement. I just wanted to feel comfortable and like myself, even if that meant appearing youthful.
My first class proved that the way you you show up matters more than how old you look
I didn’t realize how much showing up as myself would calm my nerves until I stepped into the classroom.
On my first day teaching as an adjunct professor, I walked in with a red floral dress, burgundy Mary Janes, and a plan.
Sixteen new faces stared back as I asked them to pick a brand, jot down three words associated with it, and turn to a partner to compare notes.
Then it was time to share. Students explained the “why” behind their impressions — a Super Bowl commercial, the smell of a product, a friend’s comment, something their parents used to buy, or a meme they’d seen online.
No longer watching me, they were building on each other’s ideas. That was the point: Marketing lives in what people remember.
In that moment, I stopped worrying about whether I looked like a professor. When I stopped second-guessing my look, I stopped second-guessing myself, which freed me up to focus on the work.
Now, when people ask, “Are you a student?” I smile. Yes, I’m always a student of the world.
Because what really matters isn’t whether I look like a student or a professor. It’s showing up prepared, teaching with clarity, and helping students think more creatively and strategically — so they can do the same when they’re in my shoes one day, burgundy Mary Janes or otherwise.
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