Those Emotions? They’re Your Superpower.
How a Woman Leader Learned to Embrace Her Emotions as Her Greatest Strength
I started in leadership much earlier in my career than I had anticipated. A path opened for me at a moment when every instinct was telling me, You're not ready. I did it anyway. At 26 years old, I became the principal of an alternative high school in Philadelphia.
It happened right after I became a mother for the first time, just as I was finding my groove in the classroom, and before I had any of the career experiences I had carefully planned for myself.
But there I was.
I refer to the early part of my leadership journey as a baptism by fire. I truly knew nothing. Suddenly, I was leading a building alongside colleagues I had taught beside for years. I was making instructional decisions, shaping strategic priorities, and sometimes making difficult choices about what to cut and what to add. Every day, I balanced logic, heart, and emotion, while spending more time than I'd like to admit wondering whether I was doing an okay job.
The four years I spent leading and shaping that school were some of the most difficult years of my career. They were also some of the most memorable.
Those were the years that defined me as a leader.
I distinctly remember the day I had my first moment of realization: my emotions were getting the best of me.
Teachers hated some of the decisions being made. Friends suddenly viewed me as "the other." Courageous conversations seemed to happen twice a day. Colleagues refused to follow directives or accept leadership from me simply because I was younger than they were.
Every night, I went home and overanalyzed everything. I overthought every interaction.
Was I too much today?
Am I being too fierce?
Was I rude?
Did I make that decision thoughtfully?
Should I just stop doing anything for a while and let the dust settle?
Outside of my own head, I was getting leadership advice from every direction—advice that I am certain nearly every woman in leadership has received at some point.
Don't let them see you cry.
Don't be a pushover.
Don't be too hard, or you know what they'll say about you.
Don't speak unless it's something that matters.
Be empathetic, but not a pushover.
Be strong, but not too strong.
I questioned myself constantly. My character felt as though it was being evaluated daily. I couldn't figure out whether I should dim my light or turn on the high beams. I felt like I was trying to balance decisions with my head and my heart, but my emotions seemed to overshadow everything.
Then came a moment I have never forgotten.
When the tears welled up and the breakdown came, my mentor pulled me outside. I can still hear the words he said.
"We all get overwhelmed. This is a tough job. When I need to cry, I come out here, let it all out, and then go back inside. Go sit on that stump, cry, and then get back to work."
A literal stump.
He sent me to a tree stump to cry.
But what he really gave me was permission to do both—to cry and to be a strong leader. To feel my emotions without being controlled by them. To acknowledge them before making decisions. To allow them to inform my leadership rather than undermine it.
That moment both redefined and refined my approach.
Over the following years, I honed those skills. I learned when to listen to criticism and when to let it go. I learned how to balance my head, my heart, and my emotions, and how to align them in ways that led to meaningful decisions.
I let my emotions help me navigate difficult conversations. I used them to find empathy and compassion during observation reflections. They helped me balance policy and practice in ways that were realistic and sustainable. They helped me recognize both my own capacity and the capacity of others—and understand when it was time to stop filling the bucket.
Leadership stopped being a game of trying to lead the way others expected me to.
It stopped being a constant balancing act between competing expectations and endless advice.
I was learning to lead like me—and to mean it.
I was learning to embrace the very qualities women leaders are often told to hide and use them as strengths instead.
It has been nearly ten years since the day I was told to go sit on a stump.
My leadership style has evolved, shifted, and adapted more times than I can count.
Do I get it right all the time?
Absolutely not.
I have cried in superintendents' offices. I have gotten angry behind closed doors over decisions being made. I have spent countless hours reflecting on how to do better the next time.
But my emotions have always led me where I needed to go.
They have led me toward decisions that benefited students.
They have guided me toward relationships with teachers that changed the trajectory of struggling school cultures.
They have led me to leave positions that were no longer serving me.
In fact, I nearly let my emotions get the best of me just this week.
Instead of allowing them to control the situation, I balanced them with thoughtful reflection and moved forward. I left the meeting, got angry for a minute, nearly cried, and then got to work.
I sat on my proverbial stump.
I reflected.
I focused on what I could control.
I used my emotions to guide an apology, but I never apologized for having emotions.
In education, it is nearly impossible to keep emotions out of the equation. Our work is deeply personal. We are entrusted with the most precious parts of people's lives—their children.
When emotions surface, they are usually telling us something. Sometimes they signal that something is wrong. Other times, they remind us that something is right.
We are meant to feel deeply about the work we do because those classrooms, those hallways, and those curriculum decisions are all about children.
And those children deserve all of us—emotions included.
As a woman in leadership, I urge you to do one thing:
Never apologize for your emotions.
Acknowledge them. Explore them. Learn what they are trying to tell you.
Find your stump.
Let it all out.
Then get back to work and go change the world.
