When Certainty Disappears

What leadership teaches us when control no longer works

Not all leadership lessons come from books, mentors, or carefully planned career moves.
Some come from moments you never would have chosen—moments that leave you changed.

In Full Circle, I wrote about the early days of my career—young, idealistic, deeply committed, and certain that love and effort could fix almost anything. I believed in systems. I believed in plans. I believed that if you showed up consistently enough, things would eventually turn out the way they should.

I still believe in showing up.
But I no longer believe that control is the same thing as leadership.

Over the years—and especially in the last few months—I’ve learned that leadership isn’t proven in moments of clarity. It’s revealed in moments of disorientation. When the rules stop working. When the tools you’ve relied on fall short. When the situation in front of you is so human, so complex, so painful, that no framework fully holds it.

That’s when leadership quietly changes shape.

Leadership isn’t certainty—it’s steadiness

Early in my career, I thought strong leaders had answers.
Now I know they have presence.

Real leadership doesn’t always say, “Here’s the plan.”
Sometimes it says, “I don’t know yet—but I’m here, and I’m not leaving.”

Steadiness matters more than certainty. People don’t need perfection; they need someone who can remain regulated when things feel impossible. Someone who doesn’t rush to fix just to relieve their own discomfort. Someone who can sit in the unknown without turning away.

This is true in schools.
It’s true in families.
It’s true in leadership of every kind.

You can’t lead well if you’re disconnected from your own humanity

There’s a version of leadership culture that rewards emotional distance. Professional polish. The ability to keep moving no matter what is happening beneath the surface.

But the longer I lead, the more convinced I am that disconnected leadership is brittle leadership.

If you are unwilling to feel, you will eventually become unable to see.

The leaders I trust most are the ones who have been broken open by life—and allowed themselves to be reshaped by it. Not hardened. Not closed. Reshaped.

Empathy isn’t a soft skill.
It’s a survival skill for systems built around humans.

Leadership means knowing when to let go of the story you told yourself

For a long time, I carried a story about who I was as a leader and a parent: capable, resourceful, relentless. The one who could navigate hard things through effort and love.

Letting go of that story—especially when it stopped being true—was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

But leadership requires that kind of honesty.

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is admit that what worked before no longer works now. That the chapter you’re in demands different skills. Different pacing. Different expectations of yourself.

Growth doesn’t always look like advancement.
Sometimes it looks like surrendering the illusion of control.

Holding both is not weakness—it’s wisdom

I’ve learned that leadership doesn’t require choosing between strength and tenderness, confidence and doubt, professionalism and deep feeling.

It requires holding both.

Holding grief while continuing to lead.
Holding responsibility while honoring your limits.
Holding the weight of others’ needs without abandoning your own humanity.

This kind of leadership is quieter. Slower. Less performative.
And far more sustainable.

What I know now

I don’t lead the same way I once did.
I listen more.
I rush less.
I trust the long arc instead of the quick fix.

I believe leadership is less about being impressive and more about being trustworthy. Less about visibility and more about consistency. Less about having the answers and more about being willing to stay.

If Full Circle was about where I began, this season is about who I’m becoming.

Changed.
Still standing.
And leading from a place that is both more tender—and more true—than ever before.