There was a time when I thought leadership came with a title. A position. A seat at the table where decisions were made and voices were heard. When those opportunities didn't pan out, I began to see leadership differently.
Being let go and overlooked for leadership roles has a way of making you question yourself, your skillset and your abilities. You start replaying conversations. You wonder what happened, did I say something wrong or do something wrong. You wonder if your voice carried weight or if it simply carried hope.
Over time, those experiences began to have a reoccurring theme. That theme was that I didn't speak the same language as those who had the power to promote me. At some point I realized that my gifts were only valuable to be used by others, my voice needed to be quiet. Ouch!
But life has a way of showing me what I could not see until I experienced it.
Leadership didn't show up in a title for me. It showed up in hospital rooms and rehabilitation centers. It showed up in the quiet determination to get up when my body didn't want to move. It showed up in grief when my family needed strength and presence. It showed up in motherhood, in faith, in the decision to keep writing even when my voice felt fragile. And boy did it feel fragile.
It was simply happening in places that weren't being measured.
In rehabilitation.
In my sons' schools and athletic endeavors.
When you are navigating illness, recovery, and loss, there is no title attached to the resilience required to keep going. You just keep going. You do it for yourself and for your family. There is no promotion that recognizes the courage it takes to face uncertainty and still believe that better days exist ahead. Yet those moments require a kind of leadership that cannot be taught in a classroom or assigned in a meeting.
They require lived leadership.
I've come to understand that leadership is less about authority and more about stewardship. Stewardship of your voice. Stewardship of your story. Stewardship of the truth that emerges from the life you've lived.
And when you begin to see leadership that way, something shifts.
You stop begging for seats and constantly trying to jog the memories of others of what you brought to the table.
Honestly, sometimes you have to value who you are and remove yourself from the table. Even if it hurts.
You stop shrinking the parts of yourself that carry wisdom simply because they didn't arrive through traditional pathways.
What I thought was a company to help others share their stories has slowly revealed something deeper. It revealed that my leadership was never dependent on a title. It was already present in the way I listen, the way I write, the way I encourage others to find language for their own lives.
Leadership without a title is quieter, but it is no less powerful.
It is the kind of leadership that grows from experience instead of position. It is the kind that creates space for others to see themselves more clearly. It is the kind that reminds people that their story matters long before anyone else validates it.
And that kind of leadership cannot be taken away, overlooked, disregarded or reassigned. It was cultivated both through life experiences and formal education. No longer will I allow my gift to be used at the expense of my voice not being heard.
