Leadership in the time of heavy hearts

In July 2020 I was 29 years old. We were 4 months into navigating the pandemic in my community and my daughter was 10 months old. At the same time, I started my first Executive Director role. 

I was simultaneously experiencing many firsts, both professionally and personally. I’m so grateful that I had colleagues and mentors who I could turn to, people who understood the overwhelm of learning and leading at the same time. Who also struggled to find the boundaries we so often preach, to balance personal wellbeing, family, work and getting some actual sleep. Who had experienced the shift from being embedded in a team to the often lonely aspects of being in an executive role. 

Yet, while so many answers and ideas I needed were just an email or text away, when it came to the pandemic, I felt like we were all barely keeping it together. There were no answers, no clear path, no magical solution for how to provide our essential services, how to keep our teams safe, our communities well.  Of course, there was still support, help, ideas and brainstorming. But there was also the reality of figuring out how to lead through an issue so far from what we had known,  how to lead when you are also scared, how to cope when your asthmatic child sits beside you as you work, as the world outside your home doesn’t feel safe. The weight of loving and caring for my team while truly having no idea how to protect them, how to protect my own family- that weight sat heavily on my chest, day in and out. I was so incredibly tired. 

Often in leadership there is a societal expectation that you have to be calm, be steady, insulate your team from the challenges. You have to know or find all the answers, even when there is no clear path forward. You have to regulate your own emotional responses in order to provide a sense of stability, of reassurance. This expectation is challenging at the best of times, but in July 2020 it felt truly impossible. 

I had, and continue to have, so much to learn as a leader. I’ve made many, many mistakes.  But one thing I am quite sure of, is that your team knows. They know when it’s hard. They know when you have no answer, when you’re reaching for a solution in the name of stability.  And the line between leading with hope,  and gaslighting your own staff is very thin. 

Lately I’ve found myself once again in a time with few and complicated or unsatisfying answers. Collectively, we are navigating a volatile social climate, problematic politicking, equity losses all around, and much more. As a non-binary, trans, queer, disabled person, who leads a national abortion organization, it feels a bit like the onslaught of attacks on the people, issues, and services I care deeply about are non-stop… because they are. 

So once again, I find myself standing in front of my team, my colleagues, my communities at a time when the issues, the hurts, the fears are piling up. There are those who would suggest that my role is to provide stoic direction, to guide with empathy but not vulnerability.  To acknowledge that everything around us is on fire but to silently ignore where I too am burning. 

I just can’t. I can’t and I won’t.

Instead I’m admitting to my colleagues that this week brought along with it an Ativan worthy panic attack. That I let my tears soak my partner’s lap. That I breathe in and feel grief filling up my lungs. I will not look them in the eyes and dismiss their heartache by erasing my own. 

My team is not responsible for my feelings, but neither are they alone in theirs. I still hold the boundaries I need and keep a running list of “this one is for therapy next week,” but I also attempt to honestly communicate that this is all incredibly hard. 

I think a lot about my power as a leader, and when and when it’s appropriate to use that power vs diminish it. About what power is inappropriate, and when patriarchal notions of leadership are taking over. If I pretend to be fine, to be unaffected, what kind of power am I holding? How am I making colleagues feel when I’m falsely upholding an image that I’m just pushing through? What kind of unrealistic expectation am I setting?  But then, what does it mean to lead now? To lead when there are no answers while people come to you seemingly….for answers? 

I am not going to claim to be doing this right and perhaps in a year I will write a blog about what I wish I had done differently. But here’s what I know now. 

I know I am not going to pretend to be fine.  I’m not going to lie my way through this to “motivate.” I’m not going to patronize or ask anyone to suspend their humanity, their connection to the breaking hearts of our communities, our passions, our collective wellbeing. I am not fine, we are not fine. And frankly, I don’t trust anyone who says anything differently, so why should our teams trust platitudes and paternalistic answers?

So what if we just … feel? What if leading in this moment means letting our pain be present? There is power in our communal grieving, in letting the light shine on our fears, so we may hold them together. Maybe my role is not so much “holding it all together,” but holding us, myself included, in care, in connection. 

Since July 2020, I have truly learned so much. I’ve broken, I’ve celebrated, I’ve turned my personal and professional life upside down (only to learn upside down is that exactly where I need to be). I’ve learned new skills and spent many hours wrestling with my  imposter syndrome. But most of all, I’ve begun to learn that leading through crisis, for me, isn’t about protecting everyone; that’s impossible and ultimately, a wildly conceited goal. But it can be about honesty, about recognizing how hard this all is, how personally and professionally people are impacted. It can be about leveling a small amount of my power by not pretending to be fine. About affirming that I do not know all the answers, that I have not yet learned how to unbreak my own heart. About trying my best to model seeking care, asking for help, being honest when it’s too much. 

Maybe leadership in this moment is all of this. Is standing in the fire, feeling the hurt, and clearly saying “I am not leaving you here alone.” I can promise you that I will cry. I will struggle, and I will have days where I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, my heart too bruised to face the daylight. I can expect, and hold space for those around me to do the same. 

And I can also promise you that in our solidarity, in our belief in one another, in our commitment to community, that we can hold each other. We can fall apart together, so we may rebuild from an authentic place. 

I’ll lead as long as I’m wanted, as I’m able. I will lead with my broken heart, seeking all the other heartbroken people who sob and rage and fight back alongside one another.