Earn better.

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This is for anyone who feels like their current title—whether it's on your business card or just in your head—doesn't quite fit anymore.

Like you've outgrown it, or maybe it never really fit to begin with.

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For years, I introduced myself the same way: "I'm a career coach." It felt safe. Legitimate. Something people could understand at a dinner party.

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But lately, I've been trying on a different identity: "I'm a writer with a newsletter about women, worth, and work."
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Same work. Different words. Completely different feeling.
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The career coach identity felt tight—like a blazer that technically fits but makes you hyper-aware of your shoulders. Specific, yes. But also... constricting. There were invisible boundaries around what I could talk about, who I could be, what was "on brand."
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Writer? That felt like slipping into a favorite sweater. Expansive. Room to move. Permission to explore topics that didn't fit neatly into "career advice"—like the relationship between money and shame, or why we tie our worth to our output, or what it means to build a life that feels like yours.
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I could feel something shift. My intuition—which had been quiet for so long—started whispering again.
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But here's the thing I didn't expect: I resisted this new identity for weeks. Because being "just" a newsletter writer felt... small.
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Compared to what I used to be—founder of Ladies Get Paid the business, the one that landed a Secret Deodorant commercial, produced a multi-city tour with Hired.com, created a 1,000-person conference—a newsletter seemed diminutive. Almost embarrassingly modest.
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Then something clicked.

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There's dignity in this work. Power, even. Every week, you—someone with a full inbox, limited attention, a million demands—choose to open this email. That's not small. That's trust. That's sacred.
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And more than that: calling myself a writer gave me permission to actually be one. To stop performing "career coach" and start exploring what I'm genuinely curious about. To write essays that might not have a neat three-step framework at the end. To be messy and unsure and still figuring it out.
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This isn't just about me. It's about how the labels we wear—or reject—shape what we think is possible.

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The titles we carry do three things:

1. They set invisible boundaries. When you call yourself a "marketing coordinator," you might hesitate to share strategic ideas in meetings—that's the CMO's job, right? When you introduce yourself as a "consultant," you might undercharge because you're "just" one person, not a firm. The title creates a mental fence around what you're allowed to do, say, and charge.
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   I see this with women who stay in roles they've outgrown because their title still sounds good on LinkedIn. Or who won't apply for leadership positions because they don't have "manager" in their current title. The label becomes a ceiling.
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2. They signal to others how to treat you. How you describe yourself trains people on how to value your work. One of my clients shifted from calling herself a "freelance designer" to "brand strategist and creative director." Same work. Same clients.
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   But suddenly, she was invited to different conversations—earlier in the process, at a higher level. People stopped asking her to "make it pretty" and started asking "what do you think the brand needs?" The title gave others permission to see her differently.
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3. They shape what you allow yourself to explore. This is the sneaky one. When I was "career coach," I felt pressure to have answers. To be the expert. To package everything into actionable advice. There was an unspoken rule: I had to be useful above all else.

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As a "writer with a newsletter," I can be curious. Uncertain. Still figuring it out alongside you. I can publish an essay that's just... processing. Exploring. Asking questions instead of answering them.

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The title changed what I gave myself permission to create. Here's what I'm learning:

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For years, I needed the big titles. The impressive business. The external validation that I was doing something important. Those things weren't bad—they were necessary for that season.
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But I'm in a different season now. One where I'm learning that impact isn't always loud. That small can be powerful. That there's freedom in admitting I'm still becoming.
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The title "writer" gives me room to grow. To change. To not have it all figured out.
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Maybe that's what the right title does: it doesn't box you in—it opens doors you didn't know were there.

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Your turn:

What title are you wearing that might be too small—or too constricting—for who you're becoming? Reflect on these:
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1. What do you currently call yourself? (At work, on LinkedIn, in your head when you think about your career)
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2. What title would feel more expansive? Even if it makes you a little uncomfortable, what would give you more room to grow? What would let you explore beyond the current boundaries?
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3. What title are you avoiding because it feels "too small" or not impressive enough? (This is the one to pay attention to—it might be pointing you toward something truer.)
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4. If you could try on a new title for 30 days—no commitment, just experimenting—what would it be? How would you introduce yourself differently? What would you give yourself permission to do?

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Take action:

This week, try introducing yourself with your new title. Just once. See how it feels in your body. Notice what changes—in how you carry yourself, in how people respond, in what you feel brave enough to say.
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Titles aren't just words. They're possibilities.
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I read every reply. Hit respond and tell me what title you're experimenting with—or what you're afraid to claim.

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Now go get paid.

x Claire

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PS Loved this email? Share it with anyone you think could benefit!

PPS Stuck in a rut? Book me for a 30 minute coaching session 🤗

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Resources ​

Looking for a job? LLC of Me Dreaming of a new career? Pivot Pathfinder Preparing to negotiate? Earn Better Seeking guidance? Explore Coaching

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Listen instead

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Stuck between a soul-sucking corporate job and a creative practice you keep abandoning?

Every Sunday night, you promise yourself this week will be different. You'll finally finish that painting. You'll post consistently. You'll actually show up for the creative work that matters.

Then Monday hits. Your corporate job drains you. Life gets hectic. And your creative projects get dropped—again.

My client Melanie had spent years in this exact cycle. She's artistic, went to art school, but ended up in corporate America because of debt and reality. She'd tried building a TikTok following, learning music theory, painting in her spare time—but kept abandoning everything the second life got overwhelming.

When she came to me, she wasn't just frustrated about her lack of consistency. She was convinced it proved she didn't have the discipline to be a "real" creative.

But here's what we uncovered—and why it matters if you're tired of choosing between what pays the bills and what feeds your soul:

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In this week’s Substack, I break down:

• Why the real problem isn't your inconsistency—it's that you're trying to create something new instead of packaging what already exists
• The exact difference between self-trust and self-pride—and why one actually cures impostor syndrome
• The 7-day plan that transforms "I keep dropping everything" into a sustainable creative practice that gives you MORE energy, not less

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How to build a creative practice

I'm looking for brave women who...

👉 Want a free 45 minute coaching session with me in exchange for allowing me to post on the Ladies Get Paid podcast and Substack. You're off camera and can change your name. It's a beautiful way to get support while supporting others.

I specialize in helping women who want to build a better work-life, activate their potential, and achieve success without self-sacrifice.

Apply to be coached

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👉 Learned to embrace their worth the hard way—through underpaid years, toxic situations, or moments of accepting far less than they deserved. If you've transformed from questioning your value to claiming it (and you're willing to share the messy middle of that journey), I'd love to feature your story in my upcoming series in this newsletter and on the Ladies Get Paid Instagram.

Submit your story