A powerful exploration of imposter syndrome, survival mechanisms, and authentic leadership. Discover how masking pain can become strength, and why true leaders are those brave enough to be vulnerable while lifting others up.
Her Story
About Maria
Maria Herrera serves as Director of Operations for the School of Nursing at Barry University. She began her tenure there more than 12 years ago as a temporary worker, earned a permanent position, and advanced through the ranks to her current role, which she assumed in April. Her responsibilities include overseeing budget planning and management, supervising a team of administrative assistants and compliance coordinators, ensuring the smooth functionality of academic programs, and partnering with the dean to evaluate trends and recommend improvements. Beyond her university work, Herrera co-founded the non-profit organization Manos X Sonrisas approximately two years ago to assist vulnerable populations by connecting them with resources, healthcare, support groups, and career guidance. She is currently pursuing a doctorate in organizational learning with a specialization in higher education. Herrera attributes her professional success to her resilience and her consistent practice of transforming challenges into positive outcomes while remaining committed to continuous learning and purposeful action.
Her Interview
Ten minutes with Maria
01What do you attribute your success to?
My resilience and ability to turn something negative into something positive. I've always been a firm believer that we especially as women should never let our past define our future. It's showing up, having that resistance to show up, to be determined to learn, to evolve, and to just believe in your purpose.
Her Content Hub
Articles by Maria
Beyond the Title: The Masks We Wear and the Courage to Lead Anyway
How I Learned That Real Leadership Begins When We Stop Pretending
The Mask We Learn to Wear
If you met me today, you would probably think I have my life together.
You would see a woman trusted to lead teams, solve complex problems, and make decisions that affect hundreds of people. You might assume confidence comes naturally to me because I speak with certainty, remain composed under pressure, and spend much of my day encouraging others to believe in themselves.
You would probably describe me as successful.
For a long time, I hoped no one would look closely enough to discover the truth.
Not because I was hiding a secret, but because I feared they would see what I saw every morning when I looked in the mirror—a woman still trying to convince herself she belonged.
For years, I called that feeling fraud.
Now I know it by a different name.
It was survival.
Long before I ever became a leader, I learned how to become whoever I needed to be so the world wouldn’t see how much I was hurting.
As a little girl, I discovered that pretending was sometimes safer than telling the truth.
Pretending everything was fine.
Pretending I wasn’t scared.
Pretending I wasn’t carrying more than a child should ever have had to carry.
Those masks protected me.
The problem was that I never learned how to take them off.
Even after I built a career…
Even after I became a mother…
Even after people began calling me a leader…
I was still performing strength more often than I was living it.
The strange thing about survival is that it doesn’t disappear when your circumstances improve. It quietly follows you into adulthood, disguising itself as perfectionism, overachievement, people-pleasing, and an inability to rest.
I became exceptionally good at working.
Work was predictable.
Effort produced results.
Results earned praise.
Praise became proof that I had value.
Without realizing it, I stopped believing I was worthy simply because I existed and started believing I was worthy because I produced.
The more successful I became, the more terrified I was that someone would eventually discover I wasn’t nearly as strong as they believed.
Ironically, the very thing I feared became one of the greatest gifts my childhood could have given me.
Because when you know what it feels like to be overlooked, you notice the people standing quietly in the corner.
When you’ve questioned your own worth, you become careful not to make others question theirs.
When you’ve survived difficult seasons, you learn to recognize the invisible battles in people who never speak about them.
That changed the way I led.
I stopped believing leadership was about being the smartest person in the room.
Instead, I began asking different questions:
Who hasn’t spoken yet?
Who feels invisible?
Who simply needs someone to believe in them?
Leadership stopped being about directing people.
It became about seeing them.
Looking back, every role I held—from answering phones to supporting executives to overseeing operations—taught me the same lesson:
No job is insignificant because no person is insignificant.
Titles organize an organizational chart. They do not determine a person’s value.
The people who quietly keep organizations running often carry the least recognition and the greatest responsibility.
I know because I was one of them.
Perhaps that’s why I never wanted the spotlight.
I wanted people to feel seen the way I once wished someone had seen me.
The truth is, I am still healing.
I still question myself.
I still struggle to balance ambition with presence.
I still have days when I wonder whether I am giving enough to the people I love.
The difference is that I no longer believe those struggles disqualify me from leading.
They remind me how to lead with compassion.
Leadership isn’t the reward waiting at the end of healing.
Sometimes leadership happens in the middle of it.
Perhaps the greatest misconception about leaders is that they have conquered every fear before inspiring others.
My experience has taught me the opposite.
The most impactful leaders are often the ones quietly carrying their own burdens while helping others put theirs down.
Maybe that’s what leadership has always been.
Not perfection.
Not titles.
Not authority.
Just ordinary people choosing, every day, to become a safe place for someone else.
And maybe the strongest people are not those who never needed a mask.
Maybe they are the ones courageous enough to finally take it off.
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