For a long time, I hesitated to use the title. Not because I wasn’t doing the work, but because I was juggling it alongside my 9 to 5. When you’re applying for jobs or looking for promotions, calling yourself a CEO feels… risky. Too loud. Too bold. Too threatening.
So instead, I said, “I have a business.” Soft. Safe. Dimmed. But the risky thing about dimming your light is that while you’re pretending not to be as smart or powerful as you are… people start to believe you. And worse, when they push that perspective on you, you start to believe them. The world gets you messed up. Their misreading of you starts seeping into your subconscious, until you doubt the very brilliance that brought you this far.
Before calling myself CEO, I was neglecting my company to climb someone else’s corporate ladder. As a new mom, I had to make an executive decision: Where will I spend my energy? Corporate pursuits won over business pursuits. I had a plan. I had a timeline. But God, and some enemies of progress, had other ideas.
My plan left me exhausted. Not just physically, but mentally; drained by a group of women who formed an alliance against me in the workplace. They all had different reasons and goals. But their strategy was to push the narrative that I was an incompetent burden to the team.
And if I can be vulnerable? They almost got me. They nearly convinced me I wasn’t as brilliant as I shined. That I had lost my mojo postpartum. That the wins I brought were only possible because of them.
Here’s the thing about corporate ladders: Sometimes when you climb them, they fall backward and crush you. But the reason they couldn’t force me to cosign their narrative is simple, my work spoke for itself. I’m not going to pretend I was the perfect employee. But when someone tries to convince you every issue is solely your fault and that every major success was a group effort — the math is not mathing.
However, it taught me a lesson of a lifetime: I had made a huge mistake. I brought a small business CEO attitude into a competitive, toxic corporate setting.
When you run your own company, you do everything. The middle of the night international vendor calls. The photos. The editing. The writing. The finances. The strategy. There is no one to stand before and say, “Look what I did!” Because everything is yours. The wins. The failures. The lessons. The decisions. Your work speaks loud and the customer responds accordingly.
But in corporate? Your work can’t speak for itself. You have to speak for yourself.
It is such an impactful lesson that I teach it to my students and clients now, all the time: Own your narrative. If you don’t, someone else will tell a story that competes with yours and the world will decide which one to believe.
That’s what happened to me.
Because I was the youngest.
Because I had the smallest title.
Because I didn’t wield perceived power; an alliance formed to drown me out.
It didn’t matter that they were bullies.
It didn’t matter that it was toxic.
What mattered was their ability to control the narrative.
And I’d been too quiet for too long.
I was so fortunate one morning to get off at Penn Station on my way to work. By that point, I was well past the Sunday Scaries. I was dealing with the daily work scaries. Anxious before even clocking in. Bracing myself for the micro aggressions, gaslighting, and misreadings that had become routine.
As I stepped off the train, I was unexpectedly greeted by a friend who had also traveled into the city that morning. He smiled wide and said, “Hey, Queen.”
It wasn’t out of the ordinary, it’s what many people in my life have always called me. “Queen” is a name I was given in high school, one that stuck so deeply I eventually named my first company Touch of a Queen in its honor. But that day? That greeting ministered to my soul. He had no idea how God used him in that exact moment to remind me of who I was. To remind me that people see me. People experience me. I could not, would not, let people who didn’t know me, didn’t respect me, and frankly didn’t matter to me… define me.
So when I left my last job, I made a decision:
I’m calling myself CEO.
Not as a flex, but as a reminder of who the I’ve always been.
Since then, I’ve gone on to be a professor and professional speaker. My company exponentially grew. This year Touch of a Queen turned 10 years old and I went on tour around the country as a guest speaker and presenter. I’ve seen the impact of my company in the growth or my vendors and artisans. We are all headed for more greatness.
While I was fighting to be seen as worthy in someone else’s company, I had already been brilliantly creating my own global empire for years. So if you’re reading this and wrestling with titles, with the fear of being “too much” or “not enough”, let me tell you what I had to tell myself: Own your name. Speak your title. Walk in what God already crowned you with.
They may try to box you in, but they cannot contain what was divinely assigned. You don’t need permission to take up space. Call yourself whatever title holds the weight of your brilliance. Just don’t let anyone else write your story.
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is is Mobosinuola Asanpaola Randle.
I’m the visionary.
I’m the builder.
I’m the final call and the first investor.
I run multiple businesses.
I create impact, jobs, culture, and legacy.
Not as a hobby. Not on the side. As a CEO.
