Content note: harassment, coercion, gaslighting.
A few days ago, I ended up sobbing on my bedroom floor.
Not because I lost a client. Not because someone died. Because a man on LinkedIn—a place I show up to work—took what looked like a genuine opportunity and turned it into manipulation, sexual harassment, and threats.
He went from “I admire your work” to “Prove you’re real” in less than 24 hours.
He dangled opportunity, then used it as bait.
And when I set a boundary? When I blocked him, reported him, and walked away?
He found a way back in.
This post isn’t just about one man. It’s about a pattern. A system. A culture that enables this behavior in plain sight and then turns around to question us when we name it. It’s about how quickly professionalism gets weaponized against women. How fast we go from “impressive” to “difficult” the moment we stop playing along.
It’s about what it costs—emotionally, professionally, financially—to speak up in a world where we’re expected to be grateful for any opportunity, even the ones that cross every line.
Because I’m not just a woman in tech. I’m a woman in tech who still has bills to pay.
And when safety and survival feel like they’re at odds, the silence gets heavy.
Let me back up.
I’m in a rough season. I’ve been job searching for months while holding down freelance contracts, planning a wedding, managing a blended family, and trying not to completely lose my mind. So when a new connection reached out with compliments on my work and interest in collaborating, I felt…hopeful.
Stupid, right?
It felt like a break. A little yes in a sea of maybes.
We chatted. He seemed legit. I was cautiously optimistic.
Then the tone shifted. Quickly. Flirting turned into pressure. Comments became explicit. When I didn’t respond the way he wanted, he got angry. Called me a bot. Demanded I “prove I was real.” Name-dropped people in my network. Threatened to tell my clients I was a fraud.
Because I didn’t flirt back.
Because I had the nerve to say no.
The Setup
It started the way these things often start: kind words about my work, empathy about the market, and an invitation to help beta test a new platform. He said he had referrals. He’d share my info. We swapped notes on AI, podcasting, and the wreckage of the job market. I sent my portfolio. We bantered about voice-to-text typos.
Professional.
Friendly.
Open.
I’ve had dozens of conversations like this. When you work in marketing and tech, networking is part of the job. You’re expected to show up with warmth, curiosity, and openness. And when someone offers a door, even a cracked one, you check to see if it might lead somewhere, especially when the hustle never stops and the leads are drying up.
He knew that. And he played it.
Then the tone shifted.
He “joked” that it was unfortunate I was engaged. Asked about where I lived. Pivoted from career talk to personal comments. At 7:00 AM, after two days of messaging on LinkedIn, he started calling our conversation “dates.”
It caught me off guard, but I stayed polite. I gave him space to walk it back. I figured maybe it was awkward phrasing. Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe—maybe—he’d get the hint.
But he didn’t.
Instead, it went explicit.
“Do you remember what you put in your mouth that made me so happy?”
“You aren’t making any sense. Do you know what you should put in your mouth of mine to make me happy?”
“I want an answer.”
The messages hit like a gut punch. Not because I hadn’t dealt with this before—but because I had. Because I knew exactly what came next.
When I didn’t feed the fantasy, he flipped to control.
“You are a bot. Yes or no?”
“Wow, so you’re just a bot. Thank you for letting me know.”
“I will let your clients know as well.”
He began name-dropping people in my network, weaponizing our mutual connections like a threat: I know who you work with. I can ruin this for you.
The line between opportunity and danger evaporated.
I ended the conversation.
I blocked him.
I reported him.
And then—I did the thing women are told not to do.
The Post
I didn’t name him. I didn’t share screenshots. I said what needed to be said:
Being kind is not an invitation.
Being open is not consent.
Being a woman in tech doesn’t mean I have to tolerate harassment—on LinkedIn or anywhere.
That was it.
No witch hunt. No receipts. Just the truth and a boundary. I posted because silence was already costing me. And because I knew I wasn’t alone.
The response was overwhelming.
The post reached over 150,000 people. My inbox filled with DMs from women who had lived this exact pattern—nearly word for word. Some had stories from this year, some from decades ago, but they all carried the same weight: This happened to me too. And I stayed quiet. Until now.
There were messages from people I’d never met offering support, rage, and resources. There were colleagues validating my work and reminding me that being visible is not a liability. There were survivors. Advocates. Friends. Strangers. All chiming in with one message: You’re not crazy. You’re not alone.
Some asked me to name him. I chose not to—for now. Because this wasn’t about vengeance. It was about visibility. It was about reminding people that this happens in plain sight, on a platform we call “professional.”
But of course, that’s when the pile-on started.
A man who had nothing to do with the situation showed up in the comments to explain what I should have done. He said I gave “space” to predators. That I should’ve just blocked him. That posting about it was performative. That I invited it by not shutting it down fast enough. That sharing my experience made me complicit.
And when people pushed back?
He doubled down. Made up details about my personal life. Said I’d been flirting from bed next to my fiancé. Claimed he knew how it really went down. Because god forbid a woman tells her own story.
I told him:
“You don’t know me. You weren’t there. This isn’t a debate. You’re done here.”
Because here’s the thing:
Harassment doesn’t always stop when you block someone.
Sometimes it’s the second wave that hits harder.
The pile-on. The gaslighting. The men who think you owe them comfort while they question your truth.
The ones who didn’t see it happen—but still feel entitled to explain it to you.
The ones who weaponize “professionalism” to shut you up.
That’s harassment, too.
It just shows up with better grammar and a smug tone.
And it’s just as exhausting.
The Follow-Up (That Should Not Exist)
I thought that was the end.
I had blocked him. Reported him. Moved on. Or tried to.
But a few hours later, a new message popped up—tucked away in LinkedIn’s spam folder. Apparently, “block” doesn’t mean block. It just means reroute. He still had access to me. Still had a line into my life.
The message wasn’t an apology. No, no.
It was a rewrite.
He said it was 4:30 AM, and he thought I was a bot. That the sexual messages were “tests.” That he was disappointed in my public post, as if my response to his abuse was the real offense here. Then he pivoted. Said he still had opportunities for me. Offered to refer me for jobs again.
As if a few breadcrumbs could cover up the mess he made.
As if a fake excuse and a job lead somehow canceled out coercion.
No, Sir. Let me be crystal clear:
❌ You don’t get to harass someone and then call it a misunderstanding.
❌ You don’t get to rewrite the story because accountability makes you uncomfortable.
❌ And you sure as hell don’t get a second chance at access once someone sets a boundary.
That message shook me.
Because I’d done everything I was “supposed” to do.
Because I’d spoken up, blocked him, and protected myself.
And it still wasn’t enough.
This is why people stay silent.
Because even when you follow the rules—even when you draw a clear line—someone finds a way to sneak back in and make you doubt it all.
Was I overreacting?
Did I misread it?
Should I have kept it to myself?
That’s the gaslighting spiral. And it’s by design.
Because the more we second-guess our instincts, the quieter we get. The easier it is to dismiss us. The more power they keep.
And let’s be real: LinkedIn’s response? Utterly useless.
A block that doesn’t fully block isn’t a safety feature—it’s a loophole.
It keeps things quiet. It protects reputations.
But it doesn’t protect people.
If this is what it looks like when someone tries to do the right thing, what happens to the people who can’t speak up?
What This Cost
Here’s the truth I hate admitting: after I posted, I panicked.
Not because I regretted speaking up—but because I know the world we live in. I know how women who talk about this are labeled. I know what people say when we break the silence:
“She’s overreacting.”
“She’s just doing it for attention.”
“She’s difficult.”
“She’s unprofessional.”
And the one that haunts every woman in this position:
“She’s a liability.”
I spiraled.
What if I just made myself unhireable?
What if the thing people remember about me is that I drew a line?
What if, after hundreds of ignored applications, this becomes the reason I don’t get the next shot?
The job market is already brutal. The emotional labor of showing up every day, applying, following up, working contract jobs to survive? It’s exhausting. Adding a harassment firestorm to that? It felt like too much.
But here’s what I’ve realized:
Staying silent was already costing me.
In energy.
In dignity.
In self-trust.
Every time I let something slide, every time I swallowed the discomfort, every time I prioritized being “nice” over being safe, it chipped away at me. Slowly. Quietly. Until moments like this cracked it wide open.
My boundary is not the problem.
The backlash is.
We need to stop asking victims to stay quiet just to preserve the comfort of people who would rather not hear about this. We need to stop making our reputations the collateral damage of their bad behavior.
I didn’t start this.
But I’m damn sure going to finish it on my terms.
The Comments That Held Me Up
The replies and DMs were a lifeline. Not just the volume—though I’m still overwhelmed by how many of you reached out—but the depth. The honesty. The righteous rage. The solidarity.
Here are a few that landed and stayed with me:
“Only the wrong people will be scared off. The right ones see leadership.”
“You shouldn’t have to question your reality for setting boundaries. Platforms must do better.”
“Keep speaking up, even when your voice shakes.”
“Not all men. But always a man.”
“Culture starts here: you don’t get to call harassment a misunderstanding.”
“If that makes me ‘difficult,’ call me a rebel.”
“No notes. I’m disappointed this is the world you have to walk through—keep walking unapologetically.”
“This behavior isn’t unprofessional—it’s predatory. Thank you for naming it.”
I can’t overstate what it means when strangers say:
I believe you.
I’ve been there.
You’re not alone.
Because that’s what abuse tries to do. It isolates. It makes you doubt. It turns the spotlight on your reaction instead of their behavior.
But every single message, every comment, every “me too,” pulled me back into myself.
And reminded me: I am not the only one.
And I am not wrong for being furious.
Or tired.
Or done.
The Pattern (And Why I’m Writing This)
This is bigger than me.
It’s entitlement that follows us everywhere: DMs, email threads, industry conferences, and even the office kitchen. It’s the way “opportunity” gets weaponized into access. It’s the invisible labor of navigating conversations like obstacle courses:
Be professional, but not cold. Be open, but not too open. Be strong, but not intimidating.
It’s kindness misread as consent. It’s a boundary framed as attitude.
And it’s the ever-present threat beneath it all:
Behave, or be branded difficult.
So here is my line, clearly and publicly:
👉🏼 I don’t owe anyone my attention.
👉🏼 I don’t owe softness when a line is crossed.
👉🏼 I don’t owe silence to keep someone else comfortable.
I saved the messages. I reported them. I documented everything. And I will take further action if necessary.
For now, I’m keeping him anonymous—not to protect him, but because this post is not about retribution. It’s about the pattern. It’s about a system that enables this behavior to flourish in private. It’s about what happens when women speak up—especially women trying to make a living, build a career, or simply exist online without being harassed.
Because as long as this keeps happening quietly, it keeps happening.
And I refuse to be quiet.
Platforms, Do Better
If you’re going to brand yourself as a professional network, then act like it.
A block should mean blocked. Not rerouted, not delayed, not “quietly dropped into spam.” It should mean no more messages. No more access. Period.
Harassment isn’t a minor UX flaw. It’s a safety issue. It affects people’s ability to work, to show up, to feel safe on your platform. It chips away at confidence, mental health, and professional opportunity.
So don’t treat it like an inconvenience.
Enforce it like it matters.
Because it does.
If You Need This, Too
- Trust the first ugh in your gut.
- Screenshot everything. Save timestamps.
- Report and block (and know the current limitations).
- Tell someone safe. Borrow their steadiness until yours returns.
- Share publicly only if and when you want to. Quiet survival is still survival.
- Your boundaries are not unprofessional. They’re how you keep going.
I’m Still Here
I worried that speaking up would make me less hireable. But the truth is, the places that would punish me for this are not safe places to work. The places I actually want to be will see this for what it is: clarity.
I’m still here.
Still working.
Still building.
Still not a bot.
And if speaking up makes me “difficult,” good. Let me be difficult and safe, instead of sweet and silent.
I wasn’t going to say anything, but I’m glad I did.