Beverlyann King, PhD(c), M.S.

My faith as a Roman Catholic is the foundation of my life and leadership; it shapes how I serve, forgive, make decisions, and show up for others. My success is also deeply rooted in my Guyanese American heritage and my identity as an Amerindian woman, proud of the Indigenous peoples of Guyana in South America from whom I descend. I often say I was a “reverse transplant”: born in the United States, then sent back to Guyana when I was young because my grandfather wanted me to know my people, my culture, and the responsibilities that come with both.

My grandfather, Bill, raised me with a very clear message: as a woman and as an Indigenous person, life and business would present extra barriers, and sometimes Native and Indigenous people would be treated as if they were less. His response was simple and firm: “Don’t ever tell me you can’t do something.” He taught me that no honest work is beneath you—that even if you were scrubbing toilets with a toothbrush, if the work is honest, you do it with honesty and pride. He would remind me not to take a job for money, but to choose work that I can stand behind, that reflects my passion, my values, and my commitment to making things better.

My dad, Vivian, who lovingly stepped into the role of being my father, carried those same tools in his own way. He was from Trinidad and Tobago, and as a family, we suffered a profound loss when he passed away almost two years ago. Some people can be a father by title; he was a dad in every sense. After my grandfather died, he quietly took the reins—through my adult years, my childbearing years, and every major decision. He was my grounded place: he would listen first, really listen, and then say, “Okay, how are we going to work through this?” That posture—listen deeply, then work the problem—became a blueprint for how I practice conflict resolution and how I lead.

My brothers, my son, and my daughter are also central to who I am and why I do this work. The wisdom my grandfather and dad poured into me—the toothbrush story, the insistence on honest work, the refusal to let me believe I was “less than,” the discipline of listening before speaking—are the same gifts I carry into my career, my doctoral studies, my firm, and my mentoring. Whether I am working with executives, teaching young people, or sitting with someone in a very difficult season of life, I draw on those early lessons: know who you are, honor where you come from, choose integrity over convenience, and leave every person and place better than you found it

The best career advice I ever received came from a small circle of people who saw more in me than I saw in myself: U.S. Army (Ret.) Arnold Gordon‑Bray and Mrs. Alane Gordon‑Bray, COL Lawrence Madkins III, Mr. Roger Astin at Joint Base San Antonio, my longtime mentor Deborah Tinsley‑Pledger, and my priests, the Very Reverend Father Kevin Fausz and Father Nick. Each of them, in different ways, challenged me to stop shrinking my own potential and to invest fully in my education, my leadership, and my calling. One of the most pivotal moments was when I was told, very directly, “You need to get your degree—get your degree, and we’ll make it happen.” Coming from people who are bluntly honest, spiritually grounded, and deeply caring, that was not a slogan; it was a charge and a commitment.

Across my Army career and beyond, they consistently reinforced a simple message: we care about you, and we expect you to rise. Their guidance helped me break through more than one glass ceiling—shifting from “just doing the work” to seeing myself as someone who could lead, pursue advanced study, and ultimately build something of my own. My spiritual mentors added another layer: that even the painful and unsettling chapters are not wasted. They taught me that whether an experience is good, bad, or somewhere in between, my task is to thank God for it, extract the lesson, and ask, “How can this be transformed into something that serves others?” That mindset is what led me to launch my firm and to treat every chapter of my career not only as a path to my own advancement, but as an opportunity to open doors and create better paths for the people I now have the privilege to support and lead

To any woman—whether you are just starting or have already lived several chapters—my advice is the same. First, believe in yourself without apology. Let your life experiences, including the painful ones, show you what you care about, what you stand for, and where your true passion lies. When you understand your own “why,” you stop asking for permission to exist in certain rooms and start claiming them.

Second, understand that building something real—whether it is a career, a business, or a new beginning—will not be a straight line of wins. There will be many days when the balance sheet shows zero instead of profit, when the investment of time, money, and energy feels heavier than the return. That does not mean you are failing; it means you are in the building stage. As an entrepreneur and as a leader, you are climbing your own ladder. Your real competition is not other women, other firms, or other voices—it is the smaller version of yourself that you are outgrowing.

Third, hold on to faith. Faith in yourself, and, if you believe in a higher power, faith that you were placed here on purpose. You may not see the full picture yet, but you are not an accident. This is especially for women who have survived domestic violence, for women who feel unseen or underestimated, and for women who lead quietly and do not yet call themselves “influential.” Your past does not disqualify you; it does not dictate your future. It is part of your preparation. You carry a mark that only you can leave on this world. Honor it, protect it, and keep moving forward—one decision, one boundary, one act of courage at a time

One of the biggest challenges in my field right now is that we are asking people to do serious conflict work in systems that often reward avoidance, speed, and image management instead of honesty, repair, and accountability. Organizations will say they want “resolution,” but what they sometimes mean is “make the noise go away.” That gap between what people say they want and what it actually takes to heal a situation—time, truth, discomfort, and hard conversations—is where a lot of my work lives.

There is also a deeper emotional reality: many of the conflicts I’m called into sit on top of trauma—domestic violence, discrimination, long‑term marginalization, disability, or workplace harm. As a practitioner, I have to hold space for people’s pain and, at the same time, help them navigate complex laws, policies, and power structures that don’t always feel fair. That can be heavy. There are moments when I have to step back, acknowledge my own exhaustion, and admit that some days I carry others’ burdens in ways that cost me physically and emotionally.

At the same time, those challenges are the greatest opportunities. We are at a moment where leaders are starting to understand that conflict is not a sign of failure—it is information—and that how they respond to it defines their culture. My faith has been integral in sustaining me here: as a Roman Catholic, I lean on prayer, discernment, and the belief that redemption and transformation are possible even in very broken situations. That allows me to walk into difficult spaces with both realism and hope.

The opportunity now is to move our field beyond “check‑the‑box” mediation or compliance‑driven investigations into work that genuinely restores trust, protects the vulnerable, and gives people a voice. If we can keep building models that are trauma‑informed, accessible, and grounded in both justice and compassion, then every hard case becomes more than a problem to fix—it becomes a chance to change how an organization treats its people and how individuals see themselves as leaders in conflict.

The values that matter most to me in both my personal and professional life are honesty, transparency, authenticity, and relentless effort—showing up with 150% even when I don’t feel like it. These values are rooted in my faith, my Army experience, and my personal mantra: “Let your FAITH be bigger than your fear.”

As a Roman Catholic, the season of Lent is a powerful reminder to pause, reflect, and ask how I can become a better human being—in my faith, in how I live, and in how I do business. Lent calls me to examine my choices, own my shortcomings, and recommit to living with integrity. That same reflective discipline guides how I lead, how I show up for others, and how I make hard decisions.

The Army Values and the Warrior Ethos echo this foundation: placing the mission first, never accepting defeat, never quitting, and never leaving a fallen comrade. Even outside the uniform, that ethos lives on as a commitment to push through adversity, tell the truth even when it’s uncomfortable, and give more than what is simply required. It means holding myself to a standard where my word, my work, and my character all align.

Authenticity is the thread that ties it all together. When I am honest and transparent—whether I am working for someone else or building something of my own—I create the kind of trust that people truly need when they seek my counsel or my services. They need to know that what they see is what they get, that I will tell them the truth, stand on my values, and act in their best interest.

“Let your FAITH be bigger than your fear” is not just a phrase for me; it is a way of moving through the world. It means choosing courage over comfort, integrity over convenience, and purpose over pressure. It means trusting that when I lead with faith, honesty, transparency, and authenticity, the right people will trust me, the right doors will open, and the work I do will have a lasting impact.