The Other

How to Own Your Power at Work as a Woman of Color


By Daniela Pierre-Bravo

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2023 Int'l Latino Book Award Honorable Mentions

This important book focuses on how women of color, children of immigrants, and other minoritized groups are predisposed to workplace imposter syndrome—and charts a path forward for self-advocacy and advancement.​

For women of color and children of immigrants, who are the “the other” at work, there's a different threshold of belonging that creates a false feeling of inadequacy. It can lead to being overwhelmed, overworked, and overlooked. The Other shatters the unspoken expectations for you to stay in your lane and gives you the tools to build unshakable confidence and a career that excels–on your own terms.  

Bestselling author and MSNBC reporter Daniela-Pierre Bravo spent many years undocumented and in the shadows as an immigrant from Chile, working odd jobs to pay her way through school. Like many other women of color she became an expert shape shifter in order to chameleon her way around professional environments that felt out of reach. When Daniela became a DACA recipient, she finally felt that she’d made it, rising through the ranks in her career. But she quickly realized that no matter how much success she achieved, she always felt she had to prove her worth as “the other.”

In The Other, Daniela shares her journey and those of other women to help you recognize your power in the workplace outside of the white gaze. She drives you to reshape the way you think about career advancement without losing your sense of identity and helps you see how to use your differences as an advantage. Smart, revealing, and loaded with practical steps, The Other is a framework for how to effectively advocate for yourself, become your biggest believer, claim the spaces in your career that are rightfully yours.



Turn Off Survival Mode

Growing up, I knew that I had the chance to do something my immigrant parents never did: build a career that meant something more than living paycheck to paycheck. Discipline, scrappiness, and going a mile a minute were not only traits that helped push me through the current of chaos and instability—they also felt like they were part of who I needed to be to stay focused on the goals I was hungrily pursuing. My ambition meant never taking my foot off the gas pedal. It felt counterintuitive to slow down, as if doing so would mean I was lazy, careless, or maybe even reckless. I was in the land of opportunity, and I wasn’t going to do anything to derail what was possible ahead.

If hustle culture were its own city, I’d be the mayor. But, as you’ll read, I eventually hit a plateau in my career. Years of valuing productivity as a way to prove myself led me to equate my value with how I showed up for others. But at a certain point, staying in that gofer mode was getting in the way of my professional progress. In order to climb up the ladder, I needed to do more. Yet when it came time to express my ideas and advocate for them, I found myself holding back.

When you come from a place where you learn to survive by living through the expectations of others, it affects your ability to excel and find ease in being yourself. Instead of focusing on self-development and seeking new and better opportunities, you get stuck on “getting it right.” As if there’s a gatekeeper between you and your success whom you’ve got to keep happy.

Many women of color and children of immigrants may understand when I say that I grew up in survival mode. It meant my family was constantly running from one thing to the next, doing our best to get through the next twenty-four hours, the next week. We couldn’t plan too far ahead because we hardly knew how to make it to the upcoming month as we tried to survive financially, manage our never-ending housing insecurity, and deal with the chaos of being uprooted.

I’d like to tell you my parents did well for themselves with this chance at the American Dream. That their hard work, endless jobs, and long hours gave us a comfortable living in our new life in Lima, Ohio. But the truth is that we struggled and would continue to struggle for a long time. I watched as my parents opened unsuccessful restaurant after unsuccessful restaurant, right around the time our small community was hit hard by the 2008 recession. Lima is a town of less than 40,000 people in northwest Ohio, about two hours away from any major city. Like any other industrial town dominated by steel, manufacturing, and the local oil refinery, it has borne the brunt of economic booms and busts. The many empty warehouses serve as evidence of the factories that have come and gone.

Shortly after we moved to Ohio from Chile, my father, who worked as a line operator at the health technology company Siemens and was eagerly making plans to obtain certifications to help him land a promotion, was laid off unexpectedly as the plant announced its closing. Our family scrambled for a plan B.

The tricky thing about being new immigrants to a small city with no networks or professional contacts was that each time my parents were laid off or one of their entrepreneurship aspirations failed, they had to start over from scratch. They worked hard for what they earned, and their priority was always putting their kids’ education first at all costs, but honestly, they were never good at managing their money properly. As a result, bills accumulated and savings remained low, which would affect my siblings and me down the road. Tension and screaming matches brought about by stress from all sides were the toxic status quo in our home, triggered by the volleyball games I had to miss because we didn’t have gas money, not being able to do homework because the internet bill didn’t get paid, and so on. I’ve never quite forgiven myself for all the outbursts and pressure that I placed on my already-overworked mother, who day after day placed her own physical health at risk working jobs that called for physical labor because they were the only jobs she could find. My reactions stemmed from the pressure I was putting on myself to belong and to excel. It was a factor I couldn’t control, but it also had a major role in shaping my extra-meticulous, judicious, organized, responsible, and very much type A personality.

Admittedly, my relationship with my family is complicated. I would gamble and say you would agree that no family is perfect. But above all, my parents gave us something great: a chance to be in a country where we could make our own decisions, choose our own destinies, and seek out our own dreams.

Their emphasis on our education meant that by the time I hit high school, they managed to send me to a private Catholic school that we could barely afford. My mother would have recurring conversations with a school financial administrator, who warned her that if we didn’t make our payments, I would be pulled out of class. This went on for four long years, during which I dealt with the stress of not knowing if I’d still be in the same school the next day, while my mom had to deal with the humiliation of the financial administrator chastising her.

“Your daughter will grow up to be no one in life with this sort of example,” she said, referring to the “irresponsibility” of my family’s late payments. But my mother ignored her harsh remarks and remained steadfast, pleading for an extra day, promising the next payment would come ASAP. And it would—very slowly, while my mom endured the reprimands of this stranger who said things like, “Your daughter should be out working for her education.” The financial administrator probably thought she was teaching us an important lesson, but if she could’ve spent one day in my mother’s shoes, she would have understood how out of touch her assumptions and unsolicited advice were.

“I wish I would have done a better job defending myself,” says my mother now when we recall those meetings. But as a newcomer with only broken English to get by, she didn’t yet have the confidence to stand her ground. Speaking to other first-generation immigrants, I know this is a feeling that arises all too often. Her focus was on keeping me in school, even if it meant swallowing her pride and dealing with the anxiety of it all. And it worked. That high school provided access to opportunities like AP classes and plenty of extracurriculars to choose from, and I threw myself headfirst into every single one within my reach. This meant that I signed up for musicals even if I only got background roles, and despite being incredibly unathletic, I enrolled in sports throughout the school year.

The feeling of always needing to do more and do it faster to compensate for our situation stuck with me, as did the constant angst that at any given moment, we could lose everything—because many times we nearly did. I normalized the scramble. The anxiety. The constant surge of adrenaline. And then my toxic addiction to it: If there was no angst, then I unconsciously felt I might be doing something wrong, because most of my family’s wins happened when we were teetering on the brink of falling apart. Because nothing in life was certain and there was always so much at stake in even the smallest of opportunities.

Like the time I felt my life had been struck by a 9.5-magnitude earthquake that threatened to demolish my one shot at developing my professional life and education.

It was a hot late afternoon in mid-July, the summer after my freshman year of college, and, as on any other weekday, I was out on delivery runs for my Mary Kay beauty and skin-care consulting business. With my windows rolled down, I breathed in the scent of Lima’s freshly mowed suburban lawns while doing a quick mental check of the best route to drop off bags of products and reach my consultation with my new client Renee on time. That’s when the phone rang, snapping me out of the map I had laid out in my mind. It was one of my repeat customers, Angela.

Against my better judgment, I flipped open my Razr cell phone and brought it to my ear. (This was pre-headphone days, and if I’d put Angela on speaker, the noise streaming through my open window would’ve drowned out my voice.) With one hand on the wheel and the other holding my cell, I almost missed my turn as I struggled to pay attention to the voice on the other end.

“I can’t for the life of me find the color from last time,” Angela said, “and I wondered if you knew… Hold on, I think I—”

Bam! I jolted in my seat, my body secured in place by my seat belt, my heart jumping into my throat, as my car came to a crashing stop. Blood rushed to my face. I frantically glanced around to get my bearings. When my eyes met the windshield, I realized there was an old, run-down beige minivan parked in front of me that I had just fender-bended. How. Did. This. Happen?!

“Found it! Apple Berry!” said Angela in her cheerful voice, defibrillating me back to reality. “That was the lipstick shade!”

“O-o-okay,” I managed to whisper back, trying to conceal my heavy, panicked breaths. “I… I have to go now. I’ll… I’ll be delivering it shortly,” I promised. Desperate to hide the fact that I had just hit a parked car, I added, my voice wobbly, “Thank you again for the order!”

Light-headed, I ended the call, my cell phone sliding out of my hand and onto my lap. The deep pit in my stomach felt like it was sucking the blood supply from every inch of my body. A stream of nightmare scenarios flashed across my mind: Jail. Never going back to school. Separated from my family. Detention center. Deported. I squeezed the steering wheel until my knuckles turned bright white.

It was the end of a series of eternally long workdays, and I had been pushing through a wiped-out feeling that was quietly taking hold of my body and mind. I shouldn’t have been driving that day. I didn’t know it then, but I was swimming in my own survival mode, yet I couldn’t and wouldn’t stop until I reached my goals. I was slated to return to Ohio’s Miami University for my sophomore year in just a few weeks, and everything was riding on how much money I could milk out of these last few weeks of working my numerous side gigs, including my work at Mary Kay. Since I was unable to apply for government scholarships or loans due to my undocumented status, and my family didn’t have the means to pay for my college education, I had to find creative ways to afford each semester’s dues. Aside from a small private scholarship that I received and some college credits that would transfer over from my AP classes, I knew there was really only one possible way to get to the finish line: pay it all in cash.

Jobs like restaurant work, babysitting, and Mary Kay consulting, which others may have seen as minor side jobs, took on new meaning and became serious opportunities for me. I was first introduced to Mary Kay by a friend who mentioned a lady at the mall complimenting her skin and offering a “free makeover.” What started as a fun opportunity to get one-on-one makeup advice turned into a life-changing opportunity: a vital piece of the financial puzzle that would help me get through college. The piling on of all those side gigs had already gotten me through my first year. Now my future was riding on doing everything in my power to save as much as I could that summer and get another round of semesters under my belt.

While some of my friends were unwinding from their school year poolside, my mornings began at the back of a Mexican restaurant, cutting limes and setting up for our nine a.m. opening. At around one p.m., I’d have an hour-long lunch break and then clock into the second shift. Depending on the day, I’d rotate between being a busser, a waitress, or a hostess. Luckily, I had the chance to train in all three roles, which made finding an available shift easier at any given day. After leaving the restaurant around five, I’d run home, trying my best to quickly scrub off the smell of fajitas before transitioning into a Mary Kay beauty consultant extraordinaire.

My late afternoons were spent offering makeup and skincare “parties” to strangers in hopes that I would at the very least make one sale. I found myself constantly looking for ways to up my game so customers would take me seriously. I’d offer a bonus follow-up service delivering the purchased products straight to the client’s door. Repeat customers like Angela, who bought Apple Berry lipsticks and eye makeup remover every five months, were my priority. I could count on their fifty-dollar purchases (before tax), twenty-five of which was my take-home commission. Add up all the Angelas and their referrals, and my delivery service was worth it. Which is why I tried to squeeze it all in, to keep going and stay afloat. Every little bit I could do added up.

I was constantly racing against the clock and doing way too much at once in an attempt to manage the swirl of uncertainty ahead. I was exhausted and mentally overloaded, my mind on autopilot, always trying to think two or three steps ahead of everything. It’s how I had conditioned myself to survive in my environment, a lesson I had incorporated into my life ever since my parents decided to leave Chile for good and follow the American Dream. A lesson that would appear over and over again throughout my life and career.

Only, on this particular day, my nonstop hustle had finally caught up with me. Maybe it was the fact that I was driving without a license or answering a client’s call while driving, or the fact that I was semi-speeding in order to make the list of deliveries before dark. (I hated driving at night for fear of being pulled over and caught without documentation.) For a split second, I had lost control, and now the consequences could be devastating. My education was at stake. How could I have made such a rookie yet colossal mistake? Why did I miscalculate the sharpness of that left turn? All I had to do was drive down that street and park in front of the porch where I was due to leave the next Mary Kay delivery. Out of all possible scenarios, I couldn’t believe hitting a parked minivan would be my undoing. A fender bender at that.

I walked over to the front of my car that day—well, really, the car I had borrowed from my parents—and immediately noticed a deep dent in its front bumper. My heart sank. I knew what I had to do, but what if this person called the cops? What if they found out I was undocumented? What if they took me away and I never got to see my family again? Paralyzed by an avalanche of fear, my only thought was: I need my mom. When I reached our house, I waited outside until she came home. The minute my mom stepped out of her car, I burst out with the story, struggling to find the words to explain what happened. She walked over to me, digesting my agitated state and the possible consequences of this turn of events, but instead of chastising me, her voice softened. “Una cosa a la vez,” she said. One thing at a time.

In a normal situation, I would have exchanged insurance information with the car’s owner and we would’ve gone our separate ways. Instead, I offered to pay her cash to avoid getting the police or any third parties involved. Normal also would have meant having a driver’s license at age twenty. Normal would have been simply enjoying my first summer break from college. Normal would have been not having three or four jobs to save up enough cash for school because I didn’t have access to any form of financial aid. We were far past normal in many ways.

There were no safety nets.

I had managed to stash away a couple thousand dollars under my mattress that summer, and although it was nothing close to the full tuition for the year, those savings, coupled with the private scholarship and my plans to continue working cash-paying jobs, were enough to get me back on campus in the next few weeks and figure it out along the way. But that night, with my mom alongside me, I went back to the owner of the car and handed over my wad of hard-earned savings, suddenly feeling my future disappear before my eyes.

What now… what now… what now?

After I handed over the cash to the owner and left to go home, numbness washed over my body as my mom turned into the Ray’s Supermarket parking lot in silence. My little sister had been sitting in the back seat all along, quietly witnessing my unraveling.

I glanced over at my mother. No matter the struggle or impossible situation ahead, my mom was always the one who forcefully told us that “todo tiene arreglo.” Everything can be fixed. And I’d revisit that advice for years into my career. She always made us feel like we were on our way to something better. She was never without a can-do attitude, and always had a deluge of opinions and advice. But this time she had no words left to offer, underscoring the gravity of the situation.

Sitting in the passenger’s seat, I watched her downcast demeanor, fighting painful knots in my stomach and tears that felt like they were drowning my every breath. After what felt like an eternity, she turned to me, full of empathy and sadness.

“It’s not fair to you. You worked so hard.” Her voice was barely audible through what sounded like a lump forming in her throat. “It’s not fair to you,” she kept repeating as tears streamed down her face.

Before that, I had seen my mom cry only once, when I was seven years old. I was upstairs in my room flipping through books when I heard her devastated shrieks. She had just received a phone call announcing that her dad, Tata, my grandpa, had passed away suddenly. It took thirteen years and a miscalculated left turn to bring her guard down in front of me enough to openly share her tears again. In the parking lot, we wept together, quietly holding each other, trying to make sense of the moment. This time there was no “We’ll take it step by step” or “We’ll figure out a way around this.” We had played all our cards.

I was exhausted. Defeated.

That night I paced back and forth in my room, then flung myself to the ground, my hands pounding against the floor. I screamed my anger and devastation into my pillow and then out loud, without caring who could hear. It was a cry for help, one I knew would be in vain. Reaching out to the rosary on my bedframe, I held it tight and curled myself into a ball, pleading for answers to get me out of this mess, until eventually my tears gave way to sleep.

After months of ramping up my work hours, working seven days a week, often fifteen-hour days, I managed to get back to school.

As you’ll learn, I eventually started my own path in a new city, became financially independent, and gained access to work successes seemingly beyond my means. Survival mode took on a new form in my life. This survival mode followed me into the workplace as I did everything I could to stay afloat, clinging to every opportunity to break out of the box society had created for me as an undocumented Latina.

Survival mode marred my self-awareness. When you’re constantly trying to subsist, there is no room to question the why behind your actions and progress. Survival mode wasn’t just about my money or my goals; it was omnipresent in other ways in my life. Surviving in white American culture meant carrying the weight of inadequacy in every interaction I had and constantly feeling like I had to prove myself at every turn, whether the moment called for it or not. With every achievement, from getting my first job to starting at MSNBC and onward, I held on to the sense of having to prove that I belonged there. I learned to survive by hiding part of my identity, the fact that I was undocumented, the shame it made me feel. I swept it under the rug, pretended it wasn’t there, and kept forging ahead to succeed for myself and my family. It’s what I needed to do to create some sort of psychological safety for myself and keep going. But all that did was confirm to myself that I was an “other,” without making space for anything but repressing my own guilt and self-judgment over it.

But as time went by and my career and work experience evolved, I realized that having a seat at the table and using it meant the level of my productivity wasn’t enough, a counterintuitive notion to what I learned growing up. The quality of my work value, one that called for me to express more confidence and gravitas, was what I needed to tap into and show more of. Could it be that the very thing that defined my immigrant ethos was starting to work against me as I grew in my career? The immigrant and BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, People of Color) story—working hard, being humble, and navigating our careers with empathy—is one of the greatest generational gifts we have received, but as we move up in our careers, this narrative’s effects on our work lives can be more complicated than they initially seem. I realized that I needed to reevaluate how I was showing up at work and figure out what I ultimately needed to do to achieve not just success but also happiness, peace of mind, ease, and assertiveness at work. To climb further up the ladder, break glass ceilings, and move into our greatest power, we have to start from within.


Why You Feel This Way

Why do I feel stuck? Am I doing something wrong? Am I good enough to be here? What is wrong with me? An avalanche of doubt-ridden thoughts crossed my mind as I stared blankly from my desk out the window to Fiftieth Street and Sixth Avenue in Midtown Manhattan, the epicenter of the Big Apple and its endless possibilities. But the once-limitless feeling of success felt fleeting. Instead, on that perfectly beautiful, sunny midsummer afternoon, I wallowed internally in the overly air-conditioned office. It was an especially slow news day, with no meetings to attend and no one at the office for small talk. Just a bunch of open tabs on my desktop staring back at me, which meant plenty of time and stillness to be a prisoner of my own thoughts.

I had started my career as a focused, scrappy production coordinator, and all of a sudden, the ascension to the next step I had always hoped for was here—a promotion to the big-girl job of junior booking producer on a cable news show. It had happened in less than two years. I had jumped from a production role, in which I manned the logistics of a live show in the mornings, to an editorial role, in which I helped identify stories and select corresponding guests or experts, which required me to have more confidence in my ideas and discernment. Yet there I was, a self-conscious mess, battling an internal monologue that I couldn’t quite kick to the curb. It was the type of toxic self-talk that wasn’t letting me fully step into this role with as much confidence as I knew I had in me.

I sat there at my desk, doing that thing we do where we try to nonsensically fix past scenarios we wish would have gone differently by replaying them in a mental loop. The times I thought I hadn’t spoken articulately enough, questioning if I had enough gravitas—a word I had suddenly come to know well—to excel in this world of media. I looped mentally through a handful of scenarios at work in which I felt less than confident, questioning my skills for this new position, sending myself into a spiral. Ever since my promotion, something had felt off. I was doing everything to remain in the shadows and downplay this development. I had reverted back to my tried-and-true customer-service mode, putting too much emphasis on getting things “right” instead of making space for what my job actually required: communicating new ideas with authority, building a strong and confident editorial eye, and owning my worth enough to do my job assertively. I was in the trenches of a struggle that is all too familiar to many young women, particularly women of color. I’d put in the work and deserved to be there, so why was I stuck in self-destructive thoughts about my own abilities?

I didn’t get it. Like you, I was a go-getter, hardworking and confident enough to get me this far, working at one of the biggest media conglomerates in the world. Yet, in many ways I was led by a nagging fear that the differences between me and the people around me would now be too clear to go unnoticed. Although my first language is Spanish and I learned English early enough in life to lose my accent, I was hard on myself for the way I spoke and how I sometimes mispronounced my words. I still remember the blank stares I received from my college classmates when I pronounced the s in Illinois; experiences like these pushed me to constantly monitor my diction and compare my vocabulary to that of everyone else in the newsroom. My feeling of self-reproach at not getting my words “right” turned into a whole story I told myself about my level of intelligence. What started out as simply mispronouncing a few words turned into wondering if my life experiences were too far removed from those of my coworkers, along with a host of other shortcomings that I believed could and would surface if I took up the space that was called for to do my job. I went from zero to one hundred in self-doubt.

The result? I’d stay quiet in meetings for fear of not being articulate or smart enough. I knew intellectually it didn’t make sense. I got the job, damn it! But that wasn’t enough to make me raise my hand and provide my insight. I even shied away from small talk and opportunities to build rapport with my new colleagues in editorial. My physical, emotional, and intellectual selves weren’t coordinating with one another. I had become totally off-balance.

In the emptiness of the expansive office that summer day, I couldn’t concentrate. I realized that I had read the same opening passage of a political story five times over. Then the familiar self-reproach and criticism took over—my thoughts became overbearing and spiraled like a never-ending merry-go-round in my mind. I felt bad about feeling bad, because my family and I had sacrificed so much to get me to that coveted spot in my very own cubicle within a mass media and entertainment conglomerate. My parents and siblings had cleaned movie theaters at night while I lay deep asleep in my college dorm room after endless hours of classes and homework. My mom took on double shifts at work despite her arthritis flare-ups just to send bits of cash my way so I could fulfill my version of the American Dream. Deep guilt lodged itself in my mind for feeling so empty and unsettled now that I had “made it.” Then shame washed over me. I have no right to feel this way. I felt like I had betrayed myself and my family with my own selfish discontentment.

Suddenly, the walls in the office began to close in on me. I jumped out of my chair, grabbed my phone, and rushed to the elevator. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Through heavy breaths and shaky hands, as I exited the building, I struggled to dial my mom. A sense of impotence surged through me and a golf-ball-sized lump began to form in my throat as I speed-walked across Fifty-First Street with no destination in mind.

Pick up, please pick up.

The outside heat went straight to my head. My rapid-fire heartbeat and tightening chest left me gasping for air. And when I heard my mom’s voice on the other end of the line, a stream of uncontrollable tears came rushing down my face. Embarrassed, I tried to find a corner where no one would see me (impossible in the middle of Midtown, by the way).

What is happening to me?


  •  “An inspirational professional guidebook for women of color…The author’s conversational tone and hard-won experience lend her voice a compassion and clarity that readers will find both useful and comforting, and her advice is practical and well-reasoned.”—Kirkus
  • The Other is a love letter to every women of color who has sacrificed her authentic voice and talents for a false sense of safety. No longer do we have to be reactive to our work environment. It’s time to rise up and go after what we deserve!”—Minda Harts, author of The Memo and Right Within
  • “A powerful, compelling read. In these pages, Daniela is the guide and mentor that many women look for and need when facing challenges at work. She mobilizes women to embrace their power, negotiate for more, and to possess their own space, not just to succeed but to be successful. I could not be prouder of her journey and achievements.”—Mika Brzezinski, Co-Host of Morning Joe and New York Times bestselling author
  • “If I’d had this book earlier in my career, I probably would have spent less time crying alone in the office bathroom. Essential advice from someone who has navigated these traps and hurdles with agility and grace.”—Alicia Menendez, author of The Likeability Trap
  • "The Other is an honest account of what it’s like to feel marginalized in a traditional American workplace. Pierre-Bravo’s story of rising the ranks in her career is engaging, useful, and—perhaps best of all—validating. Its underlying message of community and support left me feeling hopeful about the future of work.—Kristin Wong, author of Get Money
  •  “Equal parts head and heart, The Other not only welcomes women of color to the table, but tells us how to confidently take ownership of that all-important seat. Compelling and full of advice that works, this book should be a staple in workplaces across the nation for women of color.” 
     —Bola Sokunbi, author of Clever Girl Finance
  • "The Other so beautifully encapsulates the challenges and opportunities for those with marginalized identities in the workplace. Danielaprovides a triumphant path forward for success."
     —Stefanie K. Johnson, bestselling author of Inclusify
  • "The Other expands the view and dialogue on the realities of women of color in the workplace. Daniela Pierre-Bravo takes the experiences of women who feel othered out of the margins and places them squarely in the center to be underscored, understood, and unhidden."
     —Tammy Lewis Wilborn, PhD, author of Playing A New Game
  • "A question that readers often ask me is, ‘What can women of color do to combat the unique challenges we face in the workplace?’ Here at last, Daniela Pierre-Bravo provides some real answers. Generously sharing her own extraordinary journey from undocumented intern to world-class television journalist, Pierre-Bravo reminds us that, despite the outside forces working against us, there are always elements in our stories that we can and must dictate for ourselves. Eye-opening and infectiously enthusiastic, Pierre-Bravo deserves praise for her honesty and desire to help others succeed." 
     —Ruby Hamad, author of White Tears/Brown Scars
  • “Reading The Other by Daniela Pierre-Bravo was like turning the camera on and watching my own life experiences be reflected back at me. A poignant manifesto on how to close the door on imposter syndrome and advocate for yourself and your successes. At times harrowing, but hopeful, The Other is a book that should be gifted to anyone who wants to work in a corporate space and should be required reading for people managers, especially those who manage BIPOC people.”—Saraciea J. Fennell, editor of Wild Tongues Can’t Be Tamed
  • “I could not put this book down! Daniela Pierre-Bravo has written an energizing, eye-opening manifesto for women of color to own our power, urging us to recognize how our hurdles can be channeled to become our superpower. Pierre-Bravo’s story of her incredible rise from an undocumented immigrant to one of the most recognizable faces on television is riveting. Even more so, how this book creates a playbook and community for everyone who has felt like the “other” to embrace, not shun what sets us apart. Read it again and buy copies for all the aspiring leaders in your life!”—Ruchika Tulshyan, author of Inclusion on Purpose

On Sale
Aug 23, 2022
Page Count
256 pages
Legacy Lit

Daniela Pierre-Bravo

About the Author

Daniela Pierre-Bravo is a best-selling author, speaker and reporter for MSNBC's Morning Joe. She is a contributor for NBC’s “Know Your Value” platform and co-author of Earn It!. Her work has been featured on the Today Show, CBS This Morning, Telemundo, Forbes, Cosmopolitan, Refinery29, and more. She lives in New York City with her rescue dog, Benji.

Learn more about this author