I am a child of God.
And honestly? These past three weeks have been a doozy.
I think sometimes people forget that even the strongest leaders are still human. Even the best leaders, when under pressure, under attack, under criticism, can break. We carry vision, responsibility, and the emotional weight of so many people. We coach. We guide. We encourage. We hold the line for others. But sometimes, quietly and privately, we hit our own breaking point.
Friday night, I hit mine.
Over the last several weeks, we were planning a major fundraiser. There were obstacles everywhere. There were difficult conversations, unhealthy communication patterns, and a lot of emotional labor involved in coaching people through conflict while still trying to move the mission forward. At the same time, I’ve been on what feels like a nonstop circuit of fundraisers, events, networking opportunities, and community support efforts.
Part of that is because I genuinely believe in showing up for others.
I’ve wanted to support the nonprofits who supported me during my Lincoln Area Chamber of Commerce board position journey. I’ve wanted to pour back into the organizations and people who have poured into my little nonprofit. I’ve wanted to build bridges, create partnerships, and continue proving that small organizations can still make a meaningful impact.
But somewhere in the middle of all of that, something shifted in me.
I started listening to criticism.
Not constructive criticism. Not the kind that helps you grow stronger or wiser. I’m talking about the kind that comes through third parties. The kind that arrives wrapped in gossip, whispers, and “well, people are saying…” conversations.
Usually, when criticism comes to me about others, I can coach through it. I can redirect it. I can help people see the humanity and value in the person they’re misunderstanding. I remind people about the importance of assuming good intentions.
But this time, the criticism was about me.
And this Gemini cracked.
On my way to yet another fundraiser, I received a phone call that completely overwhelmed me emotionally. And in one raw, exhausted, deeply human moment, my brain simply said:
“I don’t think I want to do this anymore.”
“I think I need to step back.”
“I think I may need to resign.”
Those words were intended for one person. One private moment. One vulnerable conversation.
But words travel.
And before I knew it, my very raw and real human experience had been shared far beyond where I intended it to go.
But I also have to be accountable.
I said the words.
And in my frustration, I unfairly placed weight on my friend when she was simply the messenger trying to navigate a difficult moment with care and concern.
That part matters to me.
Because leadership means owning your humanity just as much as owning your victories.
This week, I had to sit down and coach myself.
Not as a leader.
Not as a nonprofit founder.
Not as someone trying to hold everything together for everybody else.
But as a human being.
After everything unfolded from my emotional outburst, I spent a lot of time reflecting on what actually happened underneath the surface. And the biggest lesson I walked away with was this:
Exhaustion and leadership do not mix well.
My mom has always said something that I now realize is wisdom far beyond simple self-care:
“When you’re exhausted, you need to rest. You don’t need to respond to the email. You don’t need to pick up the phone. What you need to do is rest.”
And honestly?
I forgot that.
I forgot that exhaustion changes how we hear things.
I forgot that emotional depletion lowers our emotional intelligence.
I forgot that when your spirit and mind are already overloaded, one more emotionally charged conversation can feel heavier than it actually is.
What I should have done was pause.
I should have rested.
I should have waited.
I should have allowed myself time before reacting emotionally.
I should have said:
“You know what? Let me process this. I’ll talk directly to that person later.”
Had I done that, so much unnecessary drama could have been avoided.
And I have to own that.
Because while my feelings were real, my reaction became the catalyst for confusion, hurt, and conversations that did not need to unfold the way they did. My emotional moment spread farther than I intended, and people were impacted by it.
So I apologized.
Not because I’m weak.
Not because I’m taking responsibility for everyone else’s actions.
But because accountability matters.
I needed to ask for forgiveness because I understand the ripple effect our words can have when we speak from exhaustion instead of wisdom.
And honestly, that was humbling.
But maybe the deepest reflection in all of this?
Last Thursday, I posted about leadership not being reactive.
And then Friday night, I became reactive.
Whew.
That realization humbled me more than anything else.
Because sometimes God has a way of letting the lesson move from your mouth to your mirror.
It’s easy to speak wisdom when we are rested, grounded, and emotionally regulated. It’s much harder to live it when you are exhausted, overwhelmed, hurt, and carrying too much at once.
But maybe that’s the point.
Leadership isn’t about never failing the lesson.
It’s about recognizing the moment you did, owning it with honesty, and choosing to grow instead of hide.
And honestly? I think that’s where real integrity lives.
Not in perfection.
But in alignment.
In accountability.
In being willing to say:
“I teach this because I’m still learning it too.”
What I’m learning now is that exhaustion will make you question things you were once certain about. Emotional overload will distort your perspective. And when you stop grounding yourself in who God says you are, the voices around you start getting louder than the voice within you.
That’s dangerous.
Because criticism can either sharpen you or shatter you depending on where your identity is rooted.
So today, I’m reminding myself:
I am not the whispers.
I am not the opinions.
I am not one emotional moment.
I am not the projections of other people.
I am a child of God.
Still growing.
Still learning.
Still healing.
Still leading.
Still human.
And maybe this season wasn’t meant to destroy me.
Maybe it was meant to reveal where I had forgotten myself.
And God is not intimidated by my humanity.
Happy Monday all,
-srt
