Armor Under the Spotlight

Armor Under the Spotlight

We all have our version of armor, but the real win is when we stop wearing it to disappear, and start using it to rise.

Kira Nakamura stood in the hotel bathroom, staring at her reflection like she was trying to decode it

She’d gone with a sleek plum blazer over a white blouse, black trousers that hugged at the waist, and heels that walked the fine line between boardroom and "I didn’t try too hard." Her hair, pulled into a glossy low bun, made her feel polished. Controlled. Sharp.

But beneath the fabric, hidden where no one could see, was the real secret: her shapewear.

It was the same pair she wore on big days. Not every day — just when she needed to feel powerful. It wasn’t restrictive. It didn’t flatten her into someone else. It did something better. It held her together. A silent reminder that she could take up space — beautifully, unapologetically, and with full support.

She smoothed the front of her blouse, took one final breath, and grabbed her laptop. It was pitch day at EnvyArcade Studios — a major tech and game development company where she’d clawed her way from junior dev to team lead. And now? She was about to pitch a game that she had written, designed, and quietly tested herself. A project no one had asked her to create — but one she believed in with every pixel.

She wasn’t just showing slides today. She was stepping into her own spotlight.

The elevator ride down to the third floor felt impossibly slow. Her mind buzzed with half-formed sentences and anticipated objections. “Too emotional for our core demographic.” “Do we need another narrative game?” “Is it too diverse?”

At the door to the conference room, she paused. Adjusted her blazer. Rolled her shoulders back. Her shapewear pressed gently into her lower back, like a grounding hand.

Then she stepped inside.

The boardroom was long and glass-walled, with the kind of view meant to impress investors. The decision-makers — mostly men in expensive hoodies and sneakers that cost more than her rent — were already seated, coffee cups steaming. One of them, Ethan-from-marketing, barely glanced up from his phone.

Still, Kira walked to the front with a confidence she didn’t entirely feel yet. She connected her laptop to the screen, cleared her throat, and began.

“Good morning. Today, I want to introduce you to a different kind of hero — someone who doesn’t have superpowers or swords, but choices. Real ones.”

Slide by slide, Kira guided them through her game: “Signal Fire.”

It followed a protagonist — a young queer woman of color — trying to rebuild her life after the loss of a sibling. The gameplay focused on conversations, memories, and the emotional labor of healing. It was soft, yes, but deeply strategic. Choices mattered. Outcomes shifted. Empathy became the mechanic.

She showed them concept art. User data from private beta testing. Positive responses from players who felt seen for the first time. Her voice was steady, passionate. She wasn’t shrinking. She wasn’t translating herself into their language. They would either hear her in her voice — or not at all.

“I designed this game because stories like this deserve to exist. And if we don’t make them — who will?”

Silence.

Then — a slow nod from Sonia, the only other woman in the room. Then another from Rahul, the head of dev. Finally, Ethan-from-marketing looked up. “This… is actually pretty brilliant.”

Sonia added, “It’s innovative and emotionally intelligent. Our catalog needs this.”

Kira exhaled for the first time in fifteen minutes.

Two hours later, she found herself sitting in the sun-drenched café across from the studio, sipping an iced matcha and replaying the meeting in her head. Every moment, every choice to hold firm instead of apologize. Every time she didn’t downplay her work.

Her phone buzzed.

Marcus: Still on for dinner? 7 works?

Kira grinned. Marcus was the AI systems lead, smart as hell and somehow disarmingly awkward. Their connection had grown slowly — Slack chats that became lunch breaks that became flirtations. He had watched her rehearse the pitch once, quietly listening, asking thoughtful questions. He didn’t talk over her. That alone was hot.

Kira: Definitely. I’ll bring the “pitch high” energy and everything.

She tucked her phone away and smiled. She was still wearing her shapewear. And she didn’t want to take it off.

That evening, back in her apartment, she freshened up. Jeans. A black wrap top. Statement earrings. She didn’t change the shapewear.

She didn’t need it to look good — she felt good. And she liked the way it reminded her, all day, of who she had been in that room. It wasn't about hiding flaws. It was about holding strength.

Dinner with Marcus was easy. They shared tapas, swapped game dev horror stories, and argued playfully over whether pineapple belonged on pizza.

“So… what’s next for ‘Signal Fire’?” Marcus asked.

“Hopefully funding. A real dev team. And maybe… the cover of Wired?” she joked.

He raised his glass. “To bold games. And bolder women.”

Kira blushed. But instead of deflecting, she met his eyes and clinked her glass to his. “To shapewear and courage.”

He blinked. “Wait — what?”

She laughed. “Never mind.”

Later, as she curled up in bed — makeup wiped, hair down, candle flickering on her nightstand — she took off the shapewear slowly and folded it neatly.

She realized then: today hadn’t made her someone new. It had shown her who she already was.

And she liked that version of herself. The one who took risks. The one who said hard things out loud. The one who didn’t shrink just to keep the room comfortable.

She wasn’t armorless without the shapewear. But she loved that she’d found something that helped her remember.