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I'm a software engineer and an educator. I care a lot about access to computer science education and about leveraging technology to create positive social change. This is the story of how that happened and what I learned along the way.
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I'm originally from Paris, France. I moved to the U.S. to attend college, where I learned to code. I wanted to be an astronaut, so I joined an engineering program at my school, which required an introductory programming class. I fell in love with coding immediately; it was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. I felt I could be creative and analytical all at once. I realized I had finally found an art form in which I could express myself. I started programming and decided to major in computer science, a decision that came easily to me. However, staying in computer science wasn’t as easy.
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It wasn’t that learning to code was hard—although it is challenging and frustrating, filled with moments of your computer telling you that you’ve failed over and over again. The hard part was overcoming the perceptions others had about my abilities as a programmer, as well as my own. At the time, I was one of maybe five women in my computer science classes. In some classes, I was the only woman. Similarly, very few people in my classes had not been programming since they were ten years old, or whose parents were not software engineers. Even though I excelled in my classes, no one wanted to work or engage with me intellectually. I felt incredibly lonely and lived in a state of hyper visibility while simultaneously feeling invisible. People didn’t believe I was a programmer; they'd often challenge me with ridiculous questions, such as asking me if I even knew what a terminal was.
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It wasn't only my peers who didn't see me as a programmer; my professors didn’t either. I internalized this disbelief and until my senior year of college, when people asked if I was a programmer, I would say, "Not really. I’m trying to become one." This belief is silly since the act of programming is what truly defines a programmer. Being stubborn, I decided I was going to prove myself undeniable in my skills. I joined the programming team, became the leader of my school’s Computer Club, took the hardest computer science classes, and won several hackathons. Eventually, I gained acceptance from my peers, which felt absurd. I had to work twice as hard to earn recognition while others just had to show up and appear nerdy.
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I graduated college with a computer science degree and secured my first full-time job as a programmer at a start-up in New York. It was an amazing opportunity. I was a front-end engineer, learned a lot, made great friends, and had a significant impact at a small company. However, one frustrating aspect was when I left my wonderful job bubble to immerse myself in the tech community, such as attending conferences and meetups. As our company expanded and we brought in new employees, I found the same condescending attitudes resurfacing, echoing the experiences I had in college. Some were subtle microaggressions—like people repeatedly asking if I was a programmer—while others were more serious incidents, reminiscent of what we've seen happening at Uber. At one point, I became disheartened, questioning why I loved programming if the programming community didn’t seem to embrace me back.
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I contemplated quitting programming altogether, becoming yet another statistic among the 50% of women in software who leave the field. But, once again, my stubbornness pushed me to seek solutions. I reached out to friends for advice, realizing that most of my programmer friends were male, so I made it a point to connect with as many female engineers as possible. I asked friends to introduce me to women in tech and went on blind coffee dates, searching for advice and a support network. I heard a variety of perspectives. One woman with over a decade of experience told me that when she cut her hair short, people stopped sexually harassing her. This was an idea I filed away, but then a male friend suggested that I should aim to become a "badass programmer," known for my expertise that would force people to take me seriously.
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I decided to try this approach. I began giving talks at meetups about accessibility on the web, a topic I am passionate about. The outcome was positive; I was eventually invited to speak at a significant programming conference, attracting attendees from across the nation. Sharing the stage with respected industry leaders was thrilling, and I felt accomplished. However, after giving my talk, the first question I received from a man was about how to approach women at bars. At that moment, I couldn't believe that despite all my hard work, being on stage showcasing my expertise, I still wasn't viewed as a serious programmer. I realized that being a badass didn’t change the way I was perceived and I was angry about the treatment I received due to my gender and appearance.
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As a hacker, I decided to hack my own appearance. I shaved my head, which was quite daring at the time, well before it became a trend. Miraculously, overnight, I was perceived as a good programmer. I stopped receiving unwanted advances at conferences, and people began to listen and respect me. I transitioned from being seen as a hyper-sexualized and under-skilled programmer to someone who was taken seriously for my abilities. I began to wonder if there was something about my appearance that contributed to my being seen as less competent, imagining that maybe my hair was an impediment dragging down my programming skills. But that couldn’t be right, as it became clear that competence isn’t dictated by looks.
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What changed wasn't my actual skills but rather the way I was perceived by others. I no longer presented as a hyper-feminine woman who didn’t belong, and people stopped mistaking me and my husband for a gay couple. Being perceived as less feminine opened the door for my acceptance as a programmer, which was a profound discovery for me. Even though I knew I was good at programming and understood the prevalence of sexism in tech, I now had personal proof. This led me to ponder more about how environments often inhibit capable individuals from succeeding, regardless of their skills.
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I reflected on the advice I received, which focused predominantly on changing myself: cutting my hair, becoming a badass, or learning to ignore the challenges. I concluded that the issue wasn't with me; it was the culture in tech that needed transformation. I resolved that as long as I remain in this field, I would work toward fostering diversity and inclusiveness. I became passionate about teaching and mentoring individuals who don’t fit the traditional mold, aiming for a future where the culture would change for the better.
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I volunteered by teaching coding workshops for women, specifically women of color, an endeavor that ignited my passion for education. Eventually, I left my engineering job to join Coalition for Queens as their curriculum director. Coalition for Queens is a free programming bootcamp for adults hailing from low-income and underrepresented backgrounds. I was tasked with launching our pilot program, which boasted significant success: 50% of the class were women, 50% were immigrants, and a good portion lacked college degrees. Many of them identified as Black and Latinx, with an average starting income of approximately $20,000 a year. After graduation, many students secured positions at prominent firms like Spotify, Pinterest, and BuzzFeed, with some earning salaries exceeding $120,000 a year, which is life-changing.
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Since the pilot concluded, I focused on broadening my influence in education, leading me to Skillshare, where I head the web engineering team. At Skillshare, we strive to create a continuing education platform enabling people to learn new skills and progress in their careers. Throughout my career, I observed that in technical fields, the notion of having diverse and inclusive teams isn’t just a dream, but a tangible reality. Upon joining Skillshare, we were just two women on the engineering team; I am excited to share that our team now comprises 40% women and 60% individuals from various ethnic backgrounds.
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Most recently, I founded my own educational initiative, the Code Cooperative, designed to teach coding to former inmates as a pathway to social change. All participants had recently been released from prison, with many having long-term incarceration histories. They work on projects that spotlight issues within the U.S. criminal justice system, aiming to address and solve them. Through this journey, I have learned one crucial lesson about teaching and programming: we must eliminate the belief that there’s a singular type of individual who can excel as a programmer. Talent in programming can originate from anywhere, and anyone can achieve excellence if they are afforded support, a safe learning environment, and trust in their potential.
