Julie Bassett

Perhaps I Was a Leader All Along

Being recognized as an Influential Woman gave me an unexpected reason to pause.

At its core, Influential Women honors women whose work, presence, and actions inspire others and create meaningful impact. I was grateful to be recognized—but also a little surprised.

Impact? Influence?

I thought I was simply doing a good thing and following the Divine inspiration placed on my heart.

The recognition created a pause long enough for my understanding of myself to begin catching up with my actions. Apparently, my actions had been several miles ahead, moving right along without waiting for the rest of me.

That pause first led me to reflect on visibility: allowing ourselves to be seen, trusting that our voices matter, and resisting the urge to shrink the importance of what we contribute.

Following that thread led me to another word I had never seriously applied to myself:

Leader.

That word felt even more unfamiliar.

In my mind, a leader wore an impressive suit, carried an important title, and entered meetings knowing exactly what to say. She probably had a color-coded calendar, too.

I own several colors of pens. That may be as close as I come.

I didn't begin Together for Taft because I wanted to become a leader. I began because Lorado Taft Field Campus—a place that had given generations of children experiences in nature, learning, and belonging—was in danger of being lost.

Something inside me would not let me look away.

I believed Taft mattered, so I did the next thing my heart asked me to do.

Then the next thing.

And the next.

I spoke publicly while nervous. I contacted people I had never met. I entered conversations before I felt fully prepared and trusted that whatever knowledge I needed would eventually catch up with me.

Some days, it arrived promptly. Other days, it seemed to be taking the scenic route.

Still, I kept going. I helped establish a nonprofit, built relationships, gathered information, and continued telling the story of what Taft had been and what it might become again.

I thought I was simply doing a good thing.

What I am beginning to understand is that this, too, is leadership.

When the Definition Doesn't Fit

For much of my life, I carried a narrow image of what a leader looked like. Leaders were executives, elected officials, and experts. They had authority, credentials, and answers.

I did not see myself in that picture.

But one of the gifts of remaining open and teachable is the willingness to question the meanings we have assigned to things.

So, being the lifelong learner and "professional beginner" that I am, I started researching leadership. I wanted to understand what the word actually meant instead of relying on the old picture stored in my mind.

The more I explored, the wider the lens became.

There was a time when our culture's image of leadership centered almost entirely on white men in formal positions of power. Thankfully, that image has expanded. We now recognize leadership in women, people of different cultures, educators, caregivers, community organizers, visionaries, and ordinary people who respond when something needs to be done.

Perhaps our personal definitions need that same expansion.

A leader may be the person who recognizes a possibility before there is evidence it will work. She may ask the first question, make the first telephone call, or speak when silence would be much more comfortable.

Sometimes leadership sounds like:

This matters. I don't know exactly how we will do it, but I believe it is worth trying. Who will help me?

That definition felt much more familiar.

I began to recognize leadership in the ways I imagine possibilities for Taft: not merely as buildings and acreage, but as a future place for environmental education, Indigenous wisdom, creativity, intergenerational learning, and community.

I could see it in the way I connect people and ideas, begin conversations, and help create movement.

I could also recognize spiritual leadership—not because I claim to know exactly what the Divine intends, but because I listen for the nudges that keep returning and take the next faithful step I can see.

Most importantly, I began to understand that leadership does not mean I have arrived at some final destination called "knowing everything."

Thank goodness. I would still be looking for the address.

Leadership can mean recognizing what I bring, being honest about what I do not know, and remaining open to people whose skills and experiences complement my own.

Being teachable does not make me less of a leader. It may be one of the qualities that helps me lead responsibly.

The Words That Make Our Contributions Disappear

Claiming the word leader still makes me uncomfortable. I never want to exaggerate my importance or place myself above anyone else.

But I am learning that humility and self-erasure are not the same thing.

Many women are comfortable doing the work but uncomfortable naming the value of what they have done.

We say:

• "I was only helping."
• "I just made a couple of calls."
• "I only organized the volunteers."
• "I added a few ideas."
• "I simply introduced the right people."
• "It really wasn't that much."

We use only, just, and simply as if we are sprinkling disappearing powder over our own contributions.

But perhaps those telephone calls opened a door.

Perhaps organizing the volunteers turned a lovely idea into something that actually happened.

Perhaps your suggestion changed the direction of a project.

Perhaps your introduction created a partnership.

Perhaps your encouragement gave someone enough courage to try.

Perhaps your family, workplace, or community functions partly because you notice what is needed and quietly make sure it gets done.

Because these things come naturally to us, we assume they must not be particularly valuable.

I know this pattern because I have practiced it myself.

"I was just following my heart."

"I was only trying to save a place I love."

But following my heart required me to speak, organize, learn, persist, gather people, and keep showing up when the outcome was uncertain.

That is more than "just."

Refusing to see my contribution does not make me humble. It makes my understanding of myself less accurate.

I can acknowledge my courage without pretending I was never afraid. I can recognize my leadership without claiming I did everything alone. I can honor what I contributed while also honoring every person and the Divine guidance that helped make the work possible.

You May Already Be Leading

Many women may already be leaders without calling themselves that.

You may be the person who sees what your workplace, family, or community could become.

You may create safety, ask the question no one else is willing to ask, or give language to something everyone feels but cannot quite express.

You may notice what is missing and add it. You may gather people around a need, bring order to confusion, introduce the people who need to know one another, or help someone believe that change is possible.

You may think you are "just doing a good thing."

Perhaps you are.

And perhaps that good thing is also leadership.

Seeing ourselves accurately requires curiosity. It asks us to examine our old assumptions, widen our definitions, and become willing to discover that we may be more than the limited picture we have carried.

Leadership does not have one face, personality, title, gender, or culture. It can be bold or quiet. It can stand at a podium or sit beside someone who needs courage. It can direct, nurture, teach, connect, imagine, organize, or begin.

I am still growing into the word. I am still learning, questioning, and revising my understanding.

I can be curious, warm, humble, teachable, and unfinished and still be a leader.

I did not begin this journey by declaring, "I am a leader."

I began by saying yes to something that mattered.

I followed Divine inspiration, gave it my voice, and invited others to participate. Somewhere along the way, what I thought was simply an act of love became leadership.

Or perhaps the leadership was in me all along.

Taft simply gave it somewhere to go.

I Don't Remember Anyone Giving Me Permission to Become a Leader

I don't remember anyone officially giving me permission to become a leader.

This is mildly concerning because I apparently went ahead and did it anyway.

Two years ago, I was a retired elementary teacher asking questions about the uncertain future of Lorado Taft Field Campus, a beloved environmental education property in Oregon, Illinois.

I wasn't appointed to anything. I didn't have a title. I didn't have an organization behind me. And I certainly didn't wake up one morning thinking, You know what sounds fun? Let's try to save 141 acres, navigate government bureaucracy, build a nonprofit, speak publicly dozens of times, and occasionally question every life choice that brought me here.

I simply cared.

So I asked another question.

Then I made another phone call.

Then I walked into another room.

Eventually, I found myself standing at microphones, talking with elected officials, appearing in TV news special features, on the radio and podcasts, participating with multiple community organizations and platforms, being featured in numerous newspaper articles, and introducing myself with words that initially felt almost too large to say:

"I'm Julie Bassett, founder and president of Together for Taft."

Somewhere between the first question and the fiftieth public conversation, something unexpected happened.

I became visible.

And visibility, I have learned, requires a kind of courage we don't talk about nearly enough.

Who Does She Think She Is?

There is a peculiar thing that can happen when a woman begins taking up more space.

Sometimes the first person to question her is herself.

Who do you think you are?

I know that voice.

It has appeared before speaking engagements. It has appeared when I've received recognition. It has even appeared after I've shared good news publicly and suddenly wondered whether celebrating something meaningful had crossed some invisible line into bragging.

Apparently, I had internalized a rather complicated rule:

Do meaningful things. Just don't look too pleased about them.

Visibility has forced me to challenge that rule.

Because I have discovered that being visible and seeking attention are not the same thing.

Sometimes visibility is simply what happens when you stop hiding the work you were called to do.

Visibility Can Be an Act of Service

Together for Taft taught me this.

When I stood before decision-makers, the message was never simply, Look at me.

It was:

Look at this place.

Look at these 141 acres.

Look at the generations who learned here.

Look at what could disappear.

And most importantly:

Look at what might still be possible.

There are moments when the thing we love needs someone willing to stand in public and speak for it.

That requires visibility.

Not because the person is more important than the cause, but because sometimes a cause needs a face, a voice, a story, and a human being willing to say:

This matters.

And then remain standing when someone disagrees.

Permission Comes Home

For much of our lives, many of us become remarkably skilled at waiting for permission.

• We wait to be invited.
• Chosen.
• Credentialed.
• Validated.
• Recognized.

We imagine that somewhere there is a person holding a clipboard who will eventually approach us and announce:

Congratulations. You are now officially qualified to trust yourself.

At some point, permission has to come home.

We stop asking:

"Will they let me?"

And begin asking:

"Am I willing to let myself?"

• Am I willing to enter the room?
• Ask the question?
• Offer the idea?
• Risk rejection?
• Be misunderstood?
• Let someone think I'm too much?

And perhaps harder still, am I willing to succeed without apologizing for being seen doing it?

You Don't Have to Feel Ready

One of the greatest misconceptions about courage is that courageous people somehow stop being afraid.

My experience has been considerably less glamorous.

Sometimes courage looks like walking into the room while your confidence is still catching up in the parking lot.

• You speak anyway.
• You learn.
• You get something wrong.
• You adjust.
• You return.

Over time, something changes.

You begin accumulating evidence.

I can do this.

Not perfectly.

Not without criticism.

Not without occasionally wondering what on earth you're doing.

But you discover that you can survive being visible.

And eventually, you begin trusting the person who keeps showing up.

The Work May Need You to Be Seen

Today, when I think about visibility, I think much less about being noticed and much more about being available.

• Available to contribute.
• Available to speak.
• Available to lead.
• Available to become.

Together for Taft taught me something:

I am not waiting passively for someone else to decide whether this vision matters. I am showing that it matters.

Perhaps the same is true of our lives.

There may be something you care about deeply enough that it is asking you to become more visible than you are comfortable being.

• Walk into the room anyway.
• Raise your hand.
• Submit the proposal.
• Tell the story.
• Say your name.
• Let yourself be seen.

You may discover that you were never waiting for someone else's permission after all.

You were waiting for your own.