Last weekend, I, along with more than 2,500 other women, attended a conference breaking down the importance of self actualization. The conference was led by one of those popular, female-empowerment gurus, a high-energy motivationalist who talked unironically about mastering our own destiny, building our best lives, and learning to “embrace our inner radiance.”

Prior to all that destiny mastering and best-life building, the guru invited us to share the experiences that had led us there that day. One by one, brave women stood up and told different versions of the same sad story: tales of professional hopelessness, personal tragedy, of circumstances so dire they now believed their last and only recourse was to embark upon a weekend of empowerment with this self-proclaimed “revolution.”

After hearing our collective tales of woe, the guru assuaged our fears and desperation with “inspirational” tales of women who had previously attended the conference, women just like us who learned—gasp!— to believe in themselves and then suddenly, like magic, their whole lives were changed for the better. They opened up their dream yoga studio! They started to love their bodies! They banged that hot, young neighbor! (High bar, yes, I know.)

Hearing these success stories, many of my fellow women cooed. They applauded, they cheered. Meanwhile, I stewed.

Don’t get me wrong: I'm on board the manifestation train. My Instagram is a vision board of inspirational quotes and affirmations. I’ve read every book I could find on creating wealth and personal happiness. And not to toot my own metaphysical horn, but I, myself, am a quasi poster child for manifestation magic. Once, before a big interview, I maxed out a credit card on a pair of Manolo Blahnik pumps that obliterated my impostor syndrome and made me feel every inch the powerful, warrior queen I am. My thinking was that if I showed up truly believing I was a boss then they would believe it, too (they did and hired me).

But telling groups of marginalized peoples (like women and especially women of color), against whom the societal cards are already very much stacked, that simply “believing in themselves” is the secret to getting what they want out of life is not only preposterous, it’s disingenuous, it’s poisonous—you could go so far as to call it traitorous. This type of thinking implies that the problem lies within us, the marginalized, the oppressed, within our attitudes, and not the fault of the inherently sexist, racist, and classist society we must struggle to thrive within.

Telling groups of marginalized women that simply “believing in themselves” is the secret to getting what they want out of life is not only preposterous, it’s poisonous.

It’s the same faulty logic that supposes “poor people are too lazy to work hard.” That says “Black Americans living in the lower class don’t have the motivation or willpower to pull themselves out of poverty,” (a belief still openly held by 45% of white Americans as of 2012). And worse: that kind of oppressive mindset is ubiquitous, it’s systematic, it can’t be voided by good vibes or a morning pep-talk.

Look. I’m not saying you shouldn’t believe in yourself. Please do. If I could tell you one thing, it’s that you are strong and capable. You are in possession of worldviews and experiences that no one else has and that alone has immense, precious value. That makes you special and unique.

But you need more than your inherent wonderfulness to achieve the life you want and deserve.

You need a map, a map with options, with multiple pathways and routes; you need a map with information on where you can go to make that life happen.

For me that map was coding.

I grew up in a trailer. In Missouri. As a kid, no one ever mentioned software engineering as a career option. I was vaguely aware that programming existed, but I didn’t know how anyone did it, who those people might be, or that I could someday be one of them. My high school didn’t offer coding classes. What I knew about programmers I gleaned from TV and media, where coders were presented as genius-level, unshaven, hoodie-wearing dudes—certainly not for a creative-minded lady like myself.