Growing up, service was simply part of my daily life.

My mom volunteered regularly. I’m talking everything from being a peer mentor for other moms through a local nonprofit to being a regular blood donor. She showed up for family, friends, and throughout our community in ways both big and small. Sometimes that meant giving her time or helping financially where she could. Other times, it was simply making sure someone saw a familiar face in the crowd.

As a kid, none of this seemed particularly unusual to me. I just assumed this was what everybody did.

And because I was her kid, I often got to tag along.

I loved being my mom’s sidekick. I watched her give her time without expecting recognition or thanks and care for people simply because she cared. I wasn’t thinking about service, community, or leadership. I was just spending time with my mom.

By the time community service became a requirement at school, I couldn’t wait to serve in new ways. I’d been volunteering alongside my mom for years, so it felt less like a requirement and more like an opportunity to do something I already enjoyed. Those experiences eventually helped me realize that I wanted service to remain part of my life and, somehow, part of my career. I didn’t know what working in the nonprofit sector could look like for me. I just knew I wanted the work I did to matter to someone beyond myself.

I’ve known for a long time that my mom influenced that decision. What I don’t think I fully considered until more recently is just how much of my understanding of leadership was also being formed during those years.

As a child, I saw my mom doing what came naturally to her. As an adult, I see something else.

I see a mom who already had plenty of responsibilities of her own and still made room to care for other people. I see someone who wasn’t looking for a title or recognition, but whose presence mattered. I see the women, girls, and young people who looked up to her. She was human and imperfect, but she showed me what it looked like to live according to what you believe.

And I see how closely so much of what I’ve come to believe about leadership resembles what I witnessed in her.

That realization has made me think differently about the words Live to Serve.

I’ve used those words for years. They’ve shaped how I think about my work, my leadership, and the kind of impact I hope to have. Eventually, they became the name of my consulting business. I’ve always understood them as a reflection of something deeply important to me.

I’m realizing now that I may have given the philosophy a name, but I didn’t create its roots.

Those roots were there long before I knew what to call them. I was learning something about how I wanted to move through the world simply by watching how my mom moved through hers.

Maybe that’s part of why I’ve always believed so deeply that service is leadership. I saw it lived before I ever studied it.

The older I get, the more I wonder how much of who we are is shaped this way. Not through formal lessons or defining conversations, but through the ordinary things we witness over and over again. Someone shows us what care looks like. Someone demonstrates what it means to show up. Someone leaves an imprint without ever realizing they’re doing it.

For me, that someone was my mom.

I don’t know that she thought she was teaching me how to lead. At the time, I certainly didn’t know I was learning.

I just knew I got to be my mom’s sidekick.

All these years later, I can see how those moments with my mom shaped the way I live, serve, and lead today.

What did you learn about leadership long before you knew to call it leadership?

Yours in service,
LaChelle

Early in my career, I would have told you without hesitation that I preferred leading from the background. I firmly disliked public speaking and being the center of attention. If there was an opportunity to pass the mic or give someone else the platform, I was perfectly happy to do it. I could lead an event, organize all the moving pieces, and make sure everything happened as it should without needing anyone to know I was the person making it happen.

At the same time, my ambitions weren’t small.

I knew early in my career that I wanted to become the president of a college or university. And I had a plan, too. I would spend five years at the organization where I’d started my career, continue building my experience, and eventually pivot into other roles within higher education that would move me closer to that goal.

When I shared that ambition with my mentor, she recommended programs and experiences that could help me prepare. I instantly became a sponge. I attended workshops and webinars and decided to pursue a master’s degree in nonprofit studies. My goal was to learn as much as I could and become the strongest development professional I could be.

Some of that drive came from the culture of higher education itself. I learned pretty quickly that credentials, experience, and proximity mattered. No one explicitly told me I needed to prove myself worthy of the role, the title, or a seat at the decision-making table, but I felt that pressure. If I wanted to eventually lead a college or university, I believed I needed to keep learning and gaining experience until, hopefully, I had done enough to be considered “ready.”

So I kept preparing. And I kept working.

I became known as someone who was dependable, adaptable, and willing to work hard. Maybe too hard. (Hi, my name is LaChelle, and I’m a recovering workaholic.) I continued taking on more responsibilities, but much of what I was doing built on the same skills I had already demonstrated.

For a while, I didn’t question it. Being behind the scenes was comfortable, after all. It aligned with the story I already told myself about the kind of leader I was.

But the more I learned, the more I wanted opportunities to use what I was learning. I didn’t simply want to become better at doing more of the same things. I wanted to stretch, contribute differently, and develop the leadership skills I believed I’d eventually need.

When some of those opportunities didn’t materialize, I began questioning what it was about me that others weren’t seeing.

It wasn’t until I left that organization that I started asking a different question.

I had been one of few Black women in that office, and with some distance, I began wondering how that may have shaped not only the opportunities I was given, but the qualities people most readily recognized in me.

Dependable. Hardworking. Adaptable. Someone who could handle a lot and make sure things got done.

Those descriptions weren’t wrong. I was proud of the work I did and the ways I contributed. But I’ve since wondered whether being consistently valued for my ability to execute also reinforced a particular understanding of what I could contribute—not only for others, but eventually for me.

I can’t know how much race influenced my experience or speak to anyone else’s intentions. But I can acknowledge that being one of few Black women in that environment was part of my experience and shaped how I later came to understand it.

Because once I left, something interesting happened.

People began asking me to lead in ways that initially felt out of scope for me.

I was asked to make decisions, facilitate conversations, contribute to strategy, and eventually speak and lead publicly. Some of those opportunities were uncomfortable. Others felt surprisingly natural. And over time, they changed how I understood myself as a leader.

I stopped automatically passing the mic.

Public speaking can still make me uncomfortable, but discomfort no longer tells me that I shouldn’t be doing it. I feel energized when I’m asked to speak, facilitate, or lead. There’s a sense of pride in knowing others trust me enough to bring my voice and perspective into a space.

And yet, when I consider how I show up now, I’m not sure the leader I’m describing is actually all that new.

I’ve often been the person willing to convene the group, ask the difficult question, or help people move toward a decision. What changed were the opportunities I had to experience that leadership differently.

I spent years preparing myself for leadership. That preparation mattered. But there were parts of my leadership I couldn’t fully understand through preparation alone. I needed opportunities to actually use them.

And perhaps that’s what I’m recognizing now.

Sometimes the stories we tell about ourselves aren’t wrong. They’re simply based on the experiences we’ve had up to that point.

I really did dislike public speaking. I really was comfortable behind the scenes. That was part of who I was. But different experiences gave me new information about myself. They challenged me to reconsider what was preference, what was comfort, what had been reinforced by the environments around me, and what I might have simply never had the opportunity to discover.

Growth didn’t require me to become a completely different leader. It required me to remain open to the possibility that the story I had been telling about myself might no longer tell the whole story.

I’m still learning what that means for the leader I’m becoming. But I know I don’t want an old understanding of myself to determine what I’m willing to explore next.

As you reflect on your own journey, I invite you to consider: What might you be ready to discover about yourself that your previous experiences haven’t given you the opportunity to see?

Yours in service,
LaChelle

I’ve found myself saying some version of the same thing a lot lately: You already have everything you need within you.

I’ve said it during one-on-one conversations with people questioning whether they’re ready, second-guessing a decision, or waiting for permission to do something they’re already capable of doing. And I’ve had to remind myself of the same thing more times than I can count.

I know what it feels like to question whether you’re ready. There were roles and opportunities throughout my career that I hesitated to pursue because I didn’t believe I had enough experience yet. I could recognize pieces of work I had already done, but somehow the title, expectations, or next level made me question whether I was actually prepared.

I remember stepping into one role with a title I’d never held and a job description that felt different from anything I’d done before. Not long after onboarding, I realized something that was both surprising and freeing: I wasn’t underprepared at all. Everything I’d done up to that point had prepared me incredibly well for the job.

Of course, there were things I still needed to learn. There always are. But I knew what I was doing. I had experience to draw from, and I had leaders around me who trusted me to do the job while giving me room to continue learning and growing.

I think about that experience now when I’m talking with someone who is struggling to see their own capability. Often, I’m hearing evidence of their growth throughout the entire conversation. They’re telling me about decisions they’ve made, challenges they’ve navigated, problems they’ve solved, and small wins they’ve accumulated along the way. They just aren’t always recognizing those things as evidence that they know what they’re doing.

Sometimes we need someone else to remind us of how far we’ve come. But eventually, we also have to learn to recognize and trust that growth for ourselves.

When I tell someone to trust their gut, I’m not suggesting that instinct replaces knowledge, reflection, or the perspectives of others. I believe our instincts are shaped by all of those things. They are the accumulation of our experiences, values, lessons learned, mistakes, relationships, expertise, and reflection. Sometimes we feel what we know before we’ve found the words to explain it.

Trusting what we know doesn’t mean closing ourselves off to feedback or believing we have everything figured out. Part of knowing ourselves is also becoming comfortable with what we don’t know. We know what we know, we know what we don’t know, and there will always be things we don’t yet know that we don’t know.

That’s why the right people around us matter. They can challenge our thinking, offer perspectives we hadn’t considered, and help us recognize our blind spots. Their perspective doesn’t have to replace our own. It can help us understand ourselves and the situation before us more fully.

We can trust ourselves and still be teachable.

Maybe that’s part of what it means to learn, grow, and go. We take what we know, remain open to what there is still to learn, and trust ourselves enough to keep moving.

So when you find yourself questioning whether you’re ready, waiting for someone else’s permission, or searching for one more piece of evidence that you can handle what’s in front of you, take a moment to consider everything that brought you there.

You may still have things to learn. You may still experience discomfort. You may even get something wrong. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t ready.

Trust what you know. Stay open to what you don’t. And keep moving.

You already have what you need.

As you reflect on your own leadership journey, I invite you to consider:
Where might you be waiting for permission to trust something you already know about yourself?

Yours in service,
LaChelle

Last week, I wrote about the importance of creating the space to choose. I shared how, in the moments between what was and what comes next, we often discover that we have more agency than we realize. We don’t always get to choose what happens to us, but we do get to choose how we respond.

I’ve continued sitting with that reflection, and another thought surfaced. Sometimes the greatest gift that space offers isn’t the ability to make a decision. It’s the opportunity to notice something we’ve been too busy to see.

So often, our lives—and even the people placed in them—are trying to tell us something long before we’re ready to listen or see it for ourselves. When I think about my own life, I can see patterns that were almost invisible while I was living them. Experiences that felt ordinary at the time look different when viewed together.

Over the last few years, that has become increasingly clear. I’ve had opportunities I never anticipated or imagined I’d have the chance to experience, from invitations to serve on boards and facilitate workshops to peers and nonprofit leaders reaching out to discuss fundraising strategy or ask for another perspective.

I genuinely enjoyed those opportunities to lead and serve. There has always been something deeply energizing about helping people think through complex challenges, but I didn’t think much about what that might mean. I assumed I was doing what many nonprofit professionals do—sharing what I had learned, lending my experience, and helping where I could. It took time for me to consider that the patterns of those invitations might be telling me something.

In the home stretch of my doctoral program, I considered going into nonprofit development consulting. But as my career continued to grow, the idea was easy to push aside. I cared deeply about the organizations I was serving, and there was always another campaign to lead, goal to accomplish, or problem to solve. Building something of my own could wait.

Even after finishing my doctorate, I didn’t spend much time thinking about what I wanted to do with everything the experience had stirred in me. I had spent years studying authenticity and thinking deeply about leadership, identity, and what it means to show up fully as ourselves, but my attention returned to my career and the organizations and communities I was serving. The work stayed with me. I simply hadn’t created the space to seriously consider what building on it could look like.

During those same years, several leadership development experiences were also changing the way I saw myself. Each asked me to pay closer attention to what I was feeling, questioning, hearing from others, and beginning to believe about myself. I made time to reflect because reflection was part of the experience, but I rarely gave myself enough time to sit with what those reflections were revealing before moving back into my career, commitments, and service to others.

Still, something was changing. I was finding my voice and becoming more willing to trust it. I became less hesitant to take the phone call, meet someone for coffee or lunch, or accept an opportunity to facilitate or present. My confidence wasn’t growing because I had learned how to perform leadership more convincingly. I was becoming more comfortable simply doing and being me. Leadership began to feel less like something I needed to prove and more like a natural expression of who I was becoming.

One of those “yes” moments led to a conversation that has stayed with me.

An executive director reached out because their organization was wrestling with a familiar question. They were trying to determine whether they should hire a development director who could serve as a thought partner to leadership and build a fundraising strategy, or bring in a consultant to support some of their resource development needs while they better understood the role they actually needed.

We planned for twenty or thirty minutes. Almost an hour later, we were still talking. We talked about where the organization was, where it hoped to grow, and the challenges making it difficult to be proactive rather than reactive about fundraising. What I remember most, though, isn’t the advice I offered. It’s how easily the ideas came. One question led to another possibility, and I found myself energized by thinking alongside this leader about what their organization could become.

Before we ended the call, I told the executive director I would be happy to continue the conversation and put on my “consulting hat” if it would be helpful. I didn’t have a consulting business. I didn’t have a plan. On a whim, I created a business email, shared it with them, and went on about my day.

And for a long time, that’s all it was.

I continued facilitating workshops, serving on boards, having conversations, and building my career. That email existed, but Live to Serve Consulting Services didn’t—not yet. The foundation was there, but I hadn’t decided to build anything on top of it.

Then, at the beginning of 2026, my position was eliminated.

I immediately shifted into problem-solving mode. Within the first week, I had applied for countless opportunities, convinced something would come together quickly. I knew how to search for a job, update a résumé, work my network, and pursue the next opportunity. What I didn’t immediately know how to do was sit with the reality that a chapter of my life had ended without my choosing.

So I gave myself one day. One day to be sad. One day not to turn the experience into a lesson or a strategy. One day to be honest about what I was feeling and allow myself to feel it.

That day became more important than I could have known.

The practices of reflection I had developed through my leadership journey gave me the ability to sit with the loss without staying there. Once I allowed myself to feel what I needed to feel, I could begin asking different questions. Not simply, What job should I apply for next? but What do I actually want? How do I want to lead? Where do I feel called to make an impact?

For the first time since completing my doctorate in 2023, I began intentionally thinking about what I wanted to do with the work that had shaped so much of my thinking about authenticity and leadership. I still had questions about rootedness, identity, and what it means to become more fully ourselves as leaders. I had spent three years carrying those ideas with me while pouring my energy into other people and organizations. Now, I finally had the space to give those ideas somewhere to grow.

And that’s when Leading While Rooted began taking shape. I wanted a space where I could continue reflecting, learning, evolving, and sharing my experiences with others as they navigated their own leadership journeys.

The consulting business took a little longer for me to fully embrace. I was still applying for jobs and believed traditional employment would likely remain my primary path. But I began asking a similar question: What might happen if I gave the same care and attention I’d so readily given to other organizations to my own craft and the work I felt called to do?

That question brought me back to the business email I’d created years earlier and barely used. This time, I was ready to begin building around it.

And that’s when Live to Serve Consulting Services was officially born—not because I suddenly became qualified to coach, consult, facilitate, or strategize, but because I finally chose to take seriously what had been unfolding for years.

I didn’t suddenly discover a new version of myself after losing my job. In many ways, I had already been doing the work. The workshops, strategy conversations, board service, coffee meetings, leadership development experiences, and unexpected outreach had all been part of the journey. What changed was my willingness to see the pattern and trust what it was revealing about me.

That realization has changed the way I think about discernment. I don’t think it always comes through one defining moment or a sudden sense of certainty. Sometimes it comes through repetition—the conversations that energize us, the work that feels aligned with our values, and the things others recognize in us before we’re ready to recognize them ourselves.

I’m still living this journey. I’m still learning what it means to trust myself, to follow what keeps surfacing, and to understand how all of this is shaping the way I want to live, lead, and serve. I don’t have a neat conclusion for where it all leads, and I’m beginning to think that’s part of the point.

Perhaps seeing ourselves clearly isn’t about having ourselves completely figured out. Maybe it’s about becoming attentive enough to recognize what has been there all along and courageous enough to explore where it might lead.

As you reflect on your own journey, I invite you to consider:

What has your life been trying to show you that you may finally be ready to see for yourself?

Yours in service,
LaChelle

After working on last week's essay, I kept coming back to the idea that recognizing old patterns in myself is one thing. Learning to live differently is something else entirely.

A few months ago, an email came through during dinner. Without thinking, I unlocked my phone and opened the email. Halfway through reading the message, I stopped, reminded myself it could (and should) wait until morning, and put my phone back down.

The next day, the email was still there.

Nothing had changed except me.

That moment stayed with me because it caught me off guard. I hadn’t expected something so small to feel like progress. My first instinct was still the same. It’s not like the years of believing I needed to be immediately available had disappeared overnight.

What surprised me wasn't that my instinct had changed, but that I was beginning to realize I no longer felt obligated to follow it. Looking back, I think something had started shifting in me, but I hadn’t recognized it until that evening. Somewhere along the way, a little space had opened up between my first reaction and my response. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to pause, ask myself whether responding immediately reflected my values or simply an old habit, and choose differently.

I’ve been wondering how many moments like that I’ve overlooked because I expected change to feel bigger than it actually does. I used to think growth meant reaching a point where the old instincts disappeared completely. Now I think it’s more about recognizing those instincts without letting them make every decision for me. The pause doesn’t eliminate the instinct; it simply gives me the opportunity to decide whether it still deserves to guide my actions.

I wish I could say that comes naturally now, but it doesn’t. There are still days when I answer the email, take on one more responsibility than I should, or convince myself that everything needs my attention right away. There are other days when I notice the impulse, pause, and make a different choice.

Those are the moments that remind me change is happening, even if it’s quieter than I expected.

That’s the work I’m practicing now.

Yours in service,
LaChelle

For much of my life, being dependable became part of how I understood myself.

I wanted to be someone people could count on. Someone who showed up. Someone willing to step in when support was needed. Service has always felt natural to me. Not because I believed I had to earn it, but because caring for others has always been one of the ways I move through the world.

Looking back, though, I can see that somewhere along the way, my desire to be dependable slowly became something else.

I began to confuse usefulness with worth.

No one ever sat me down and taught me that lesson.

I absorbed it.

Through praise. Through expectations. Through the quiet ways usefulness became intertwined with belonging long before I had language for what was happening.

At first, it didn’t feel unhealthy.

In many ways, those habits helped me succeed. I was dependable. Responsive. Someone people trusted to get things done. I took pride in that.

What I couldn’t see at the time was that I had quietly stopped asking where commitment ended and overextension began.

Answering emails late into the evening felt normal. If a new request came in, I dropped what I was already doing because the newest priority automatically became my priority. I anticipated needs before they were spoken and solved problems before anyone had to ask.

None of it felt unusual because I wasn’t making those choices consciously anymore.

They had simply become the way I understood good leadership.

The turning point didn’t come because I burned out.

It came because someone gently challenged a story I didn’t even realize I had been living.

I remember an executive director saying something that completely caught me off guard.

They explained that if they sent an email late in the evening or shared a stream of ideas, they weren’t expecting me to stop everything or respond immediately. Those messages weren’t emergencies. They were simply thoughts they wanted to capture while they were still fresh.

I was trusted to respond when it made sense.

It took me a moment to realize that what felt unusual wasn’t the expectation. It was the permission—permission to trust that not everything required my immediate attention, to believe that my value wasn’t measured by how quickly I responded, and to lead without constantly proving that I was indispensable.

Somewhere along the way, I had convinced myself that being valuable meant always being available. No one had asked me to carry that expectation.

I had simply brought it with me.

Looking back, what surprised me most was realizing that I wasn’t responding to the environment I was in.

I was responding to a story I had been carrying about what it meant to be dependable.

That realization was only the beginning.

Later, during a coaching conversation, I finally found language for something I had sensed but couldn’t yet name.

I wasn’t just carrying projects, deadlines, or responsibilities.

I was carrying usefulness.

The conversation wasn’t transformational because I walked away with a better leadership strategy.

It was transformational because I realized I had built part of my identity around being the person who could always carry more.

I had been holding that weight for so long that I no longer recognized it as something I was carrying.

When I finally began to let some of it go, the feeling was almost physical.

It felt like someone had lifted thirty pounds from my chest.

Nothing about my workload changed overnight.

What changed was the story I had been telling myself about what made me worthy of being there.

Since then, I’ve started noticing how often this pattern appears—not just in my own life, but in conversations with leaders from many different backgrounds.

People who care deeply about their work.

People who genuinely want to serve.

People who slowly begin carrying responsibilities that were never meant to rest on one person’s shoulders.

Not because anyone demanded it.

Because somewhere along the way, usefulness became connected to belonging.

The older I get, the more convinced I become that survival and sustainability are not the same thing.

For years, I survived by carrying more.

Now I’m learning that sustainable leadership asks a different question.

Not “How much can I carry?”

But “Does this weight actually belong to me?”

I’m still unlearning the habits that once felt automatic.

There are days when I catch myself wanting to respond immediately, solve the problem myself, or carry one more thing because it feels easier than asking for help.

The difference is that I notice it now.

And noticing gives me the opportunity to choose differently.

Perhaps growth isn’t about becoming someone entirely new.

Perhaps it’s about slowly releasing the stories we’ve carried for so long that we mistake them for who we are.

Sometimes the heaviest things we carry aren’t visible to anyone else.

They’re the beliefs we’ve held so tightly that we forget they’re something we can put down.

I’d love to hear your reflections:

Have you ever realized you were carrying something that no one had actually asked you to hold? What helped you begin to let it go?

Yours in service,
LaChelle

There was a season in my career when one of my closest collaborators and I kept missing each other.

We were working toward the same goal during an especially demanding season. We were balancing a major fundraising campaign while also managing the everyday responsibilities that never seemed to slow down. We both cared deeply about the work, yet every conversation seemed to leave us a little further apart.

I found myself increasingly frustrated. It felt like every recommendation I made somehow missed the mark. Eventually, after one particularly difficult meeting, I said something that had been sitting with me for weeks.

“I feel like you think you’ve shared something with me that you’ve actually only said in your head. I’m not a mind reader. You have to tell me what you’re thinking so we can be on the same page and move in the same direction.”

The room got quiet.

Then came a simple response.

“You’re right.”

That conversation didn’t solve every challenge we were facing, but it changed the way we worked together. More importantly, it changed the way I think about leadership.

For a long time, I thought clarity was primarily about communication.

Now I think it’s one of the clearest ways leaders demonstrate care.

One of the patterns I’ve noticed throughout my career is that most teams don’t struggle because people lack commitment. They struggle because people are operating from different assumptions.

When expectations remain unspoken, people begin filling in the gaps themselves. They guess what success looks like. They anticipate needs that haven’t been expressed. They spend energy interpreting silence instead of focusing on the work itself.

Eventually, assumptions become frustration.

Not because anyone intended harm.

Because uncertainty quietly replaced clarity.

I’ve come to believe that one of the most caring things a leader can do is reduce unnecessary uncertainty.

That doesn’t mean having every answer.

It means communicating expectations honestly.

Explaining the “why” behind decisions.

Creating space for questions.

And being willing to admit when something that seemed clear in our own minds hasn’t actually been communicated.

I’ve also learned that clarity isn’t solely the responsibility of the person leading the conversation.

Sometimes leadership means having the courage to speak up when confusion is beginning to erode trust.

Looking back, I’m grateful I said something that day.

Not because I was “right.”

But because naming what wasn’t being said gave both of us the opportunity to listen differently, adjust our assumptions, and strengthen our partnership.

I’ve carried that lesson into every leadership role since.

Because clarity isn’t simply about helping people understand the work.

It’s about helping people feel supported enough to do it well.

Leadership Reflection

Where in your leadership might assumptions be taking the place of conversations?

What honest conversation could create greater clarity—for you, your team, or someone you serve?

Yours in service,
LaChelle

There are people whose influence I carry with me every day, even though I haven’t spoken to them in years.

If you asked me to recall every conversation we shared, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t remember every piece of advice they offered or every meeting we attended together. Time has blurred those details.

What has remained is something much harder to quantify.

I remember how they made me feel.

I remember whether I felt seen. Whether I felt encouraged to contribute. Whether I left believing that my perspective mattered. Those experiences have stayed with me long after the specifics have faded.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve found myself thinking about presence—about what it means to remain connected to ourselves amid the demands of leadership and life. That reflection has led me to another question I can’t seem to shake.

What do people carry with them after they’ve been part of a community?

The more I sit with that question, the less I believe people remember organizations primarily through their accomplishments.

They remember them through their experiences.

Organizations often measure what can be counted. Attendance. Revenue. Membership growth. Strategic initiatives completed. Those things matter, and they tell an important story.

But they don’t tell people what it felt like to be there.

Communities are remembered differently.

They are remembered in the tone of a conversation after a difficult meeting. In the grace extended when someone makes a mistake. In whether questions were welcomed or quietly discouraged. In the small, repeated moments that taught people whether they truly belonged.

Long after people forget the agenda, they remember the atmosphere.

One of the unexpected gifts of consulting has been the opportunity to observe many different organizations up close. Every organization has its own mission, strategy, and goals, but over time I’ve realized that people rarely talk about those things first.

They talk about how they were treated.

They remember the leader who took time to listen when everyone else seemed too busy.

They remember whether disagreement felt safe or costly.

They remember the colleague who believed in them before they believed in themselves.

I’ve come to believe that culture isn’t preserved primarily through documents or declarations.

It’s preserved through memory.

And memory is shaped by experience.

That realization has changed the way I think about stewardship.

For much of my career, I associated stewardship with caring well for resources, relationships, and institutions. I still believe that’s true. But increasingly, I think stewardship asks something more of us.

It asks us to care for the experiences people carry away from the communities we’re helping build.

Not because we can control every experience.

We can’t.

Communities are beautifully complicated. They’re shaped by many people, many personalities, and countless circumstances outside any one person’s influence.

But leaders do help establish the conditions people experience every day.

We model what respect looks like.

We demonstrate how accountability is practiced.

We show whether curiosity is welcomed.

Whether mistakes become opportunities for learning or reasons for shame.

Whether belonging is extended consistently or offered selectively.

Those choices become part of a community’s memory.

Lately, I’ve been asking myself a different set of leadership questions.

Not simply:

Did we accomplish what we set out to do?

But also:

How did people experience this community while we were doing it?

What story are they beginning to tell themselves because of their time here?

What will remain after the details have faded?

I don’t ask those questions because I’m striving for perfection.

I ask them because I’ve become convinced that leadership is about more than shaping outcomes.

It’s also about shaping experiences.

And experiences have a way of living on long after the moment itself has passed.

The older I get, the less interested I am in building communities that people simply admire.

I’m more interested in helping cultivate communities they remember with gratitude.

Communities where people felt safe enough to contribute honestly.

Where trust grew through consistency.

Where belonging wasn’t something they had to earn.

Where care wasn’t simply part of the mission statement, but woven into the everyday rhythm of the community itself.

Perhaps that’s one of leadership’s quiet responsibilities.

Not simply to build something meaningful.

But to help create experiences worth remembering.

Because long after people forget what we accomplished together, they’ll remember how it felt to belong while we were doing it.

I’d love to hear your reflections:

When you think about the communities that have shaped your life, what do you remember most?

Yours in service,
LaChelle

There was a time when I believed being present simply meant showing up.

If I honored my commitments, met expectations, and followed through on what others needed from me, I assumed I was present. I was dependable. I was engaged. I was contributing. For a long time, those qualities felt interchangeable.

Over time, however, I began to understand that showing up and being present are not the same thing.

It is possible to move through an entire day while thinking about tomorrow’s responsibilities. It is possible to sit in a meeting while replaying yesterday’s conversation. It is possible to spend so much time anticipating what others need that we lose sight of what is happening within ourselves.

For much of my life, my attention was directed outward. There was always another responsibility to carry, another opportunity to serve, another problem to solve, or another person who needed support. I became increasingly skilled at noticing what everyone else needed while becoming less aware of what I needed myself.

That realization did not arrive all at once. It emerged gradually, often in quiet moments after the work was done.

As my responsibilities grew, so did the expectations I placed on myself. I measured good days by productivity, by how much I accomplished, and by whether I had been helpful to the people around me. I rarely stopped to ask whether I had actually experienced the day I had just lived.

The irony is that I genuinely loved the work.

I still do.

But loving meaningful work does not protect us from becoming disconnected from ourselves while doing it.

That realization has reshaped the way I think about presence. I no longer see it simply as slowing down or becoming more mindful. Presence is about remaining connected—to ourselves, to our values, and to the people and communities we care about. It is the practice of noticing when our lives begin drifting away from what matters most.

Some of the greatest lessons I’ve learned about presence have come through ordinary moments rather than extraordinary ones. A walk without an agenda. Sitting in silence before opening my laptop. Pausing before responding instead of reacting. Beginning the day with a question that has become increasingly important to me:

How am I arriving today?

I’ve discovered that presence is less about achieving perfect balance than it is about learning to return to myself.

Returning when responsibility begins crowding out reflection.

Returning when service quietly replaces self-awareness.

Returning when achievement speaks louder than alignment.

Returning when I realize I have been moving through my days without fully inhabiting them.

That return is not a sign that I have failed. It is the practice itself.

The more I reflect on leadership, the more convinced I become that presence shapes everything else. It influences how deeply we listen, how thoughtfully we respond, and how honestly we communicate. It allows us to notice when someone feels unseen, when trust begins to erode, when community needs care more than efficiency, and when we ourselves need rest more than another accomplishment.

Without presence, leadership easily becomes reactive.

With presence, leadership becomes intentional.

I think this may be one of the greatest gifts we can offer the people around us—not constant productivity or endless availability, but our full attention. Attention communicates value. People remember how it feels to be fully seen.

I am still learning this.

I am still learning that slowing down is not falling behind. That rest is not the opposite of meaningful work. That remaining connected to myself is not separate from serving others, but essential to doing so well.

Perhaps this is what it means to stay rooted.

Not remaining still. Not resisting growth. But returning to ourselves often enough that success never asks us to leave our humanity behind.

I’d love to hear your reflections:

What helps you return to yourself when life begins pulling your attention in too many directions?

Yours in service,
LaChelle

There is a difference between being invited into a space and feeling like you truly belong there.

For a long time, I don’t know that I fully understood that distinction.

I understood inclusion.

I understood access.

I understood what it meant to be welcomed into a room, offered a seat at the table, or given an opportunity to participate.

And those things matter.

People cannot contribute to spaces they are excluded from.

They cannot influence conversations they are not invited into.

They cannot help shape communities they are never given the opportunity to join.

Inclusion matters.

But over time, I have come to believe that belonging asks something deeper.

Because being included does not automatically mean someone feels safe.

It does not automatically mean they feel heard.

It does not automatically mean they feel valued.

And it certainly does not guarantee they feel comfortable bringing their full selves into a space.

I think many of us have experienced this tension.

The experience of being welcomed while still wondering how much of ourselves is safe to reveal.

The experience of being invited to participate while quietly assessing expectations.

The experience of being present while still feeling uncertain about whether our perspective is genuinely valued.

Not because anyone has explicitly told us we do not belong.

But because belonging is built through experience, not invitation alone.

For years, I thought belonging was something you earned.

If I worked hard enough, contributed enough, adapted enough, or proved myself enough, then eventually I would feel fully accepted within the spaces I occupied.

What I did not realize was that belonging and approval are not the same thing.

I have spent much of my life navigating spaces where I was paying attention to those signals.

Watching how people were treated.

Observing whose voices carried weight.

Noticing what happened when someone disagreed, challenged an idea, or brought a different perspective into the conversation.

Because those moments often reveal more about belonging than any mission statement or public declaration ever could.

The more I reflect on leadership and community, the more I believe people are constantly asking questions that often go unspoken.

Will I be heard here?

Will I be respected here?

Will I be supported here?

Can I be honest here?

Can I fully participate without sacrificing parts of who I am?

Those questions are not answered through words alone.

They are answered through patterns.

Through consistency.

Through trust.

Through the repeated experiences people have within an environment over time.

And that is why belonging matters so deeply.

Because belonging is not simply about presence.

It is about participation.

It is about feeling valued enough to contribute.

Safe enough to speak.

Trusted enough to lead.

And respected enough to disagree without fear of losing connection to the community.

Some of the most transformative spaces in my life were not the spaces where I was simply welcomed.

They were the spaces where I no longer felt the need to constantly assess how much of myself was safe to bring into the room.

The energy required to constantly assess, adapt, or edit yourself is difficult to describe until you experience the relief of no longer needing to do it.

Belonging created space for me to focus less on managing perception and more on participating fully.

Spaces where curiosity was encouraged.

Where honesty was valued.

Where complexity could exist without immediately becoming conflict.

Where I felt seen not only for what I could contribute, but for who I was.

Those experiences changed how I understand leadership.

Because I realized that belonging does not happen accidentally.

Leaders help create it.

Communities help sustain it.

And environments either strengthen it or weaken it through the choices people make every day.

People pay attention to who is invited into conversations.

Whose ideas are taken seriously.

Who receives grace when mistakes are made.

Who is trusted with responsibility.

Who is encouraged to grow.

And whether care, respect, and accountability are applied consistently across the community.

Over time, those experiences teach people something about whether they truly belong.

The older I get, the more I believe belonging is one of the most important responsibilities we hold within community.

Not because everyone will always agree.

Not because differences disappear.

But because healthy communities create enough trust, respect, and care for people to remain connected even when those differences exist.

And perhaps that is what belonging ultimately is.

Not the absence of difference.

Not the absence of discomfort.

But the presence of enough trust and humanity for people to participate fully without feeling pressured to negotiate who they are in order to remain connected.

I am still learning what it means to help create those kinds of environments.

Still learning how belonging is cultivated.

Still learning how easily it can be strengthened—or weakened—through seemingly small decisions.

But I know this much:

When people experience belonging, they contribute differently.

They speak more honestly.

They share ideas more freely.

They take risks, offer perspective, and invest more deeply in the well-being of the community itself.

Belonging does not simply benefit individuals. It strengthens the collective.

People flourish in spaces where they feel they belong.

And communities become stronger when people no longer feel they must earn the right to fully be themselves.

I’d love to hear your reflections:

What experiences have most shaped your understanding of belonging—and what helped you feel fully welcomed in those spaces?

Yours in service,
LaChelle

Trust is rarely built in a single moment.

It is built through patterns.

Through repeated experiences that show people whether they can rely on your leadership, your communication, and your intentions over time.

I think many people associate trust with likability or connection.

But leadership trust is often built more quietly than that.

It is built through consistency.

Through follow-through.

Through honesty when things are difficult.

Through transparency when answers are incomplete.

And through whether people experience alignment between what is said and what is practiced.

People pay attention to patterns.

They notice whether their voices are genuinely welcomed or quietly dismissed.

And over time, those experiences shape whether people feel connected to the work—or disconnected from it entirely.

They notice whether expectations shift depending on the person or situation.

They notice whether accountability is mutual or selective.

They notice whether care, respect, and communication remain present when pressure increases.

And over time, those observations shape whether trust deepens or begins to erode.

As someone who has spent time navigating spaces where I was not always sure how fully I could show up as myself, consistency became something I paid close attention to.

I noticed whether people were treated differently depending on who was in the room.

Whether values remained present when conversations became difficult.

Whether care and accountability extended to everyone or only to some.

Those experiences taught me that trust is not built through statements alone. It is built when people experience the same values repeatedly in practice.

I have also come to believe that trust is deeply connected to predictability.

Not predictability in the sense of rigidity, but in knowing that people will be treated with fairness, dignity, and consistency regardless of circumstance.

Because healthy environments are not built only through vision.

They are also shaped by whether people consistently experience support, communication, and mutual respect in practice.

They are built through repeated actions that make people feel safe enough to contribute honestly, communicate openly, and remain connected to the work and the community around them.

Trust also requires stewardship.

A willingness to recognize that trust is not something we are automatically owed because of a title or position.

It is something cultivated through how we show up over time.

And once broken, it often takes far longer to rebuild than many leaders realize.

The more I reflect on leadership, the more I believe trust is one of the clearest indicators of organizational and communal health.

Because where trust is present, collaboration becomes easier.

Communication becomes healthier.

And people are more willing to fully invest themselves in the environments they are helping shape together.

Trust may not always be the most visible part of leadership.

But it is often the foundation that determines whether communities and organizations can truly thrive.

What leadership behaviors have helped you build—or lose—trust in a person, organization, or community?

Yours in service,
LaChelle

For much of my leadership journey, I associated success with growth.

Growth in impact.
Growth in opportunity.
Growth in visibility.
Growth in outcomes.

And while growth certainly matters, I have found myself reflecting more deeply on a different question over time:

What are we actually building?

Not just in the immediate sense.

But over time.

Beyond the metrics, accomplishments, and milestones that often define leadership success.

Because leadership shapes more than outcomes.

It shapes environments.

And the environments we create influence what people experience, what they carry with them, and what becomes possible within the communities and organizations we are part of.

I think this is why sustainability matters so much.

Not simply organizational sustainability in the traditional sense, but relational and communal sustainability as well.

Are we creating spaces where people feel valued, supported, and connected?

Are we building cultures rooted in trust and accountability?

Are people leaving the environments we shape feeling encouraged, diminished, exhausted, inspired, disconnected, or empowered?

These questions matter because people often remember experiences long after they forget specific outcomes.

They remember how they were treated.

Whether they felt heard.
Whether they felt respected.
Whether they felt like they truly belonged.

Whether the environment reflected the values it claimed to hold.

Whether people felt supported, trusted, and connected to the community around them.

And over time, those experiences shape the health of communities far more deeply than we sometimes realize.

I think many leaders genuinely want to create positive impact.

But impact is not only reflected in what we produce.

It is also reflected in what we reinforce.

The values we normalize.

The behaviors we reward.

The environments we sustain through our actions, decisions, and leadership practices.

Because environments shape more than productivity or outcomes.

They shape whether people feel aligned, supported, and able to thrive within the communities they are part of.

That realization has caused me to think differently about legacy.

Not as recognition or visibility.

But as what remains after we leave a space.

What people continue carrying forward.

What relationships were strengthened.

What trust was cultivated.

And whether the environments we helped shape made it easier for others to grow, contribute, and thrive.

I also think this requires us to move beyond transactional thinking.

Beyond focusing only on productivity, efficiency, or short-term outcomes.

Because communities cannot thrive where people feel disconnected from one another.

And organizations cannot sustain healthy cultures where trust, care, and accountability are treated as secondary to achievement.

The more I reflect on leadership, the more I believe that what we are building is not simply organizations, initiatives, or professional success.

We are building experiences.

Cultures.

Relationships.

And shared understandings about what community can and should feel like.

That work requires intention.

It requires stewardship.

And it requires recognizing that the environments we shape continue influencing people long after specific moments have passed.

In many ways, communities remember what was invested in them.

Not only financially.

But relationally.

Emotionally.

Collectively.

They remember whether people felt cared for.

Whether leadership created conditions where people could participate fully and meaningfully.

And whether the space made room for both individual growth and collective thriving.

The older I get, the more I find myself asking not only whether something is successful, but whether it is sustainable.

Whether it nurtures trust.

Whether it strengthens community.

Whether it leaves people better than it found them.

Because leadership is not only about what we accomplish while we are present.

It is also about what continues after we are gone.

I’d love to hear your reflections:

What do you believe people and communities carry forward long after leadership transitions or moments have passed?

Yours in service,
LaChelle

Earlier in my leadership journey, I often thought effective leadership meant having the answers.

Guiding the conversation.
Moving people toward solutions.
Helping things progress forward.

And while leadership sometimes requires those things, I have come to understand that some of the most meaningful leadership happens differently.

Quietly.

Relationally.

Through the ability to hold space.

Over the years, I have found myself in rooms where people were navigating uncertainty, tension, growth, disagreement, and change.

Sometimes through formal facilitation work.

Sometimes through leadership development spaces.

Sometimes through community conversations where people simply needed to feel heard before they could fully engage.

And those experiences changed how I understand leadership.

Because holding space is not passive.

It requires presence.

Listening.

Awareness.

And a willingness to resist the urge to control every outcome.

I think one of the most important things I have learned is that people do not always need someone to lead over them.

Sometimes they need environments where they feel safe enough to contribute honestly, reflect openly, and participate fully.

That kind of space does not happen accidentally.

It is shaped intentionally through trust, care, accountability, and how people experience one another within the environment.

I have also learned that holding space can be emotionally demanding.

Especially in environments where people carry different experiences, expectations, and needs into the room.

Facilitation often requires balancing care with accountability.

Listening while still moving conversations forward.

Making room for multiple perspectives without allowing harm to go unaddressed.

And recognizing that leadership is not about centering yourself within the process.

It is about helping create conditions where collective growth becomes possible.

Over time, I have come to see this as a form of stewardship.

Not ownership.

Not control.

But responsibility.

A responsibility to help cultivate spaces where people feel respected, valued, and connected to something larger than themselves.

And in many ways, those spaces shape everyone involved—including the person facilitating them.

They certainly shaped me.

They taught me that leadership is not always about being the loudest voice in the room.

Sometimes it is about creating enough trust for other voices to emerge.

They taught me that community cannot thrive where people do not feel safe enough to participate honestly.

And they reminded me that leadership is often less about directing people and more about caring for the environments we are building together.

The more I reflect on stewardship and leadership, the more I believe holding space is one of the deepest responsibilities we can carry.

Because the environments we shape influence what people believe is possible—not only for themselves, but for one another.

I’d love to hear your reflections:

Who has created spaces where you felt fully able to show up, contribute, and grow?

Yours in service,
LaChelle

When many people hear the word stewardship, they think about fundraising, financial responsibility, or resource management.

And while stewardship certainly includes those things, I have come to believe it means something much broader.

Stewardship is about how we care for what has been entrusted to us.

The relationships.
The responsibility.
The people.
The community.

It is about recognizing that leadership is not simply about influence or achievement.

It is also about care.

About how we sustain trust over time.

Over the years, I have become increasingly aware that some of the most meaningful forms of stewardship have very little to do with transactions.

They show up in how people are treated.

In whether people feel valued, respected, and heard.

In whether communities feel engaged rather than managed.

And in whether leadership creates environments where people can contribute, grow, and thrive.

In many ways, stewardship is also about creating the conditions where people feel able to participate fully, contribute meaningfully, and remain connected to community over time.

I think this matters because stewardship is often discussed in ways that focus primarily on outcomes.

What was raised.
What was accomplished.
What was built.

But stewardship also asks us to consider something deeper:

How are people experiencing the process?

Do people feel connected to the work?

Do they feel ownership, belonging, and trust within the communities and organizations they are a part of?

And are we leading in ways that sustain those relationships over time?

For me, stewardship has become deeply connected to responsibility.

The responsibility to move thoughtfully rather than reactively.

To listen before responding.

To recognize that people are not simply resources to be managed, but individuals deserving of care, dignity, and consideration.

I also think stewardship requires humility.

An understanding that leadership is not ownership.

People are not projects to manage.

Communities are not simply vehicles for outcomes.

And relationships cannot be sustained through control alone.

Stewardship asks something different of us.

Care.
Listening.
Accountability.

And a willingness to recognize that the spaces we lead do not belong solely to us.

We are simply entrusted to help care for them well.

Stewardship also asks us to think beyond immediate outcomes and consider whether the systems, relationships, and environments we are building are truly sustainable over time.

Not simply asking what can be accomplished today, but considering what is being sustained for the future.

What kind of environments are we creating?

What kinds of relationships are we cultivating?

And what are people carrying with them after they leave the spaces we shape?

Because every community keeps a kind of ledger.

Not only of resources, but of trust, care, investment, and responsibility.

People remember how they were treated.

Whether they felt seen.
Whether they felt supported.
Whether they felt like they truly belonged.

And over time, those experiences shape the health and sustainability of communities far more than we often realize.

The more I reflect on leadership, the more I believe stewardship is one of its deepest responsibilities.

Not because leaders are meant to control people or outcomes.

But because leadership shapes environments.

And stewardship asks us to think carefully about what those environments make possible for others.

I’d love to hear your reflections:

What does stewardship mean to you beyond the management of resources?

Yours in service,
LaChelle

Leadership culture is not built only through mission statements, strategic plans, or organizational values.

It is shaped through everyday decisions.

Through what leaders prioritize.
What they make space for.
What they ignore.
What they reward.
And how people experience them in moments both big and small.

Culture is shaped by how feedback is received.

By whether people feel heard in meetings.

By who is consistently invited into conversations—and who is not.

It is shaped by how conflict is handled, how transparency is practiced, and whether people feel supported when challenges arise.

These moments may seem small on their own.

But over time, they become patterns.

And patterns become culture.

Sometimes organizations communicate one set of values while reinforcing another through everyday behavior.

Over time, people begin responding less to what is said—and more to what is consistently practiced.

I think this is important to remember because many leaders want to create healthy, collaborative, and equitable environments.

But culture is not created only through intention.

It is created through consistency.

Through the repeated choices that communicate what matters, who matters, and how people are expected to engage with one another.

It is reinforced through communication, collaboration, accountability, and whether people feel connected to something larger than themselves.

Which means leadership is never neutral.

Even the smallest decisions shape the environments we are part of.

And that is both the weight and responsibility of leadership.

Because every decision—whether intentional or not—is teaching people something about the culture we are helping create.

What everyday leadership behaviors have most shaped the environments you’ve been part of?

Yours in service,
LaChelle

I used to think power belonged primarily to people with titles, authority, or formal influence.

The people making major decisions.
The people leading organizations.
The people whose names carried weight in a room.

But over time, I have come to understand that power often shows up in quieter ways.

In how we influence conversations.
In how we shape direction.
In whose ideas we affirm or overlook.
In how we allocate time, attention, opportunity, and resources.

Power exists in the spaces we occupy and in how others experience us within them.

And whether we fully recognize it or not, leadership carries power.

Not always visibly.

But in ways that are deeply felt.

That realization has caused me to think more carefully about what leadership requires of us—not just in how we lead, but in how we hold the influence we have.

Because power without awareness can create harm.

Sometimes subtly.
Sometimes unintentionally.

It can show up in who gets invited into conversations and who remains on the margins.

In how quickly decisions are made without considering who may be impacted by them.

In environments where some people feel heard while others simply feel present.

And often, these moments do not immediately register as “power.”

They feel like everyday leadership.

But that is exactly where power lives.

In the everyday decisions.

The small interactions.

The patterns we normalize without questioning.

Which is why awareness is necessary.

But awareness alone is not enough.

Leadership also requires responsibility.

Responsibility for how we show up.
For how we engage others.
For the environments we help shape through our actions, decisions, and presence.

Over time, I have come to understand responsibility less as control and more as accountability.

The willingness to pause and consider not just what we are doing, but how and why we are doing it.

The willingness to ask whether our leadership creates space for others to contribute, grow, and feel valued.

And the willingness to recognize that leadership is not neutral.

It impacts people.

Responsible leadership also requires us to think carefully about how we engage difference.

Not as something to manage or merely tolerate, but as something that strengthens communities when people feel genuinely valued, heard, and included.

For me, this has meant thinking more deeply about how I move through spaces and how my decisions affect those around me.

How I listen.
How I facilitate conversations.
How I hold space for disagreement, reflection, and collaboration.

It has also meant recognizing that leadership does not happen in isolation.

It happens in relationship, where trust, care, and accountability shape how communities grow together.

And community has a way of reflecting back to us how we are showing up.

It shows us where we are aligned and where we are not.

It reminds us that leadership is not simply about individual success or visibility.

It is about collective impact.

In that way, community becomes a form of accountability.

Not in a punitive sense, but as a grounding force.

A reminder that how we lead matters—not just for what we accomplish, but for who is supported, included, and sustained along the way.

I think many of us were taught to associate leadership with achievement.

With outcomes.
With growth.
With being able to move things forward.

And while those things matter, I believe leadership also asks something deeper of us.

Care.
Responsibility.
Stewardship.

An understanding that influence is not just something we possess.

It is something we practice through the choices we make every day.

In many ways, leadership is not just about influence.

It is about stewardship.

About how we hold what has been entrusted to us:

The relationships.
The responsibility.
The resources.
The trust.

And whether the spaces we shape allow others not only to participate—but to thrive.

Because leadership is not only measured by what we build.

It is also reflected in what we sustain, protect, and make possible for others along the way.

I’d love to hear your reflections:

When have you become more aware of the power you hold in your leadership?

Yours in service,
LaChelle

There was a time in my leadership journey when I knew I was growing—but I wasn’t sure I was sustaining.

I was showing up.
I was serving.
I was leading.

But I had not yet learned what it meant to do all of that without losing myself in the process.

That understanding did not come all at once.

It developed over time through experiences that challenged me to think about leadership differently—not just as a role, but as a practice shaped by how we show up individually and collectively.

Some of those experiences came through leadership development spaces that gave me the opportunity to pause, reflect, and see myself more clearly.

What I did not fully realize at the time was that these experiences were not just helping me grow as a leader.

They were helping me reconnect with myself.

One of the most meaningful realizations during that period was understanding that I was not navigating leadership alone.

I was surrounded by people asking many of the same questions I was asking myself:

How do I lead well?
How do I remain grounded while growing?
How do I show up authentically without losing myself in the expectations placed on me?

That realization mattered.

Because leadership can feel isolating if we believe we are meant to carry everything alone.

It was through these leadership programs that I began to fully understand that how we lead is so deeply connected to how we relate to others.

I learned that communication requires awareness.

That leadership requires listening—not just to respond, but to understand.

And that people are often navigating different realities, responsibilities, and seasons than the ones we immediately see.

But one of the most important realizations was much more personal.

I needed to give myself the same grace and space I so freely gave to others.

I recognized a pattern:

The tendency to pour into others without always tending to myself.

The tendency to show up fully for the work while quietly neglecting what I needed to sustain that level of engagement.

And once I recognized that pattern, I could not ignore it.

That awareness deepened during my time with the Rockwood Leadership Institute’s Black & Latino Changemakers Fellowship.

This experience challenged me to think more deeply about power, community, and the role I wanted to play in creating spaces where people feel seen, connected, and supported.

It was also where I found language for something I had been carrying for a long time:

That my purpose is rooted in bringing people together—holding spaces where connection and collective progress can take shape.

But perhaps more importantly, it was where I became more honest with myself.

I saw how easily my commitment to serving others could come at the expense of my own sustainability.

How my desire to support and move work forward could lead me to overextend rather than lead with intention.

And how my authenticity—my clarity and conviction—can sometimes be perceived as “too bold.”

For a long time, I wrestled with that tension.

But what I eventually came to understand is this:

I am not meant to shrink myself for the comfort of others.

I am meant to lead with awareness, care, and intention—without losing myself in the process.

These experiences changed how I understand leadership.

Not as constant output or sacrifice, but as a practice of alignment.

Of remaining connected to myself while remaining accountable to community.

Of learning how to lead with intention—without disappearing in the process.

Because growth without sustainability eventually costs something.

And I am learning that leadership should not require losing yourself in order to serve others well.

My “we over me” mindset has always shaped how I move through the world.

But I am learning that sustaining that mindset requires balance.

It requires making sure that in the process of building community, I do not lose myself.

This is what I am still learning:

How to lead with intention.
How to remain grounded while growing.
And how to stay connected to myself while serving something larger than me.

I’d love to hear your reflections:

What experiences have helped you better understand yourself as a leader?

Yours in service,
LaChelle

There is a point in many leadership journeys where the work begins to feel different.

What once felt energizing begins to feel heavy.
What once felt aligned begins to feel distant.

Not because the work has changed—but because how we are holding it has.

Over time, I have come to understand that leadership is not only about how we show up for others.

It is also about how we sustain ourselves while doing so.

Leadership is often framed as responsibility, service, and commitment. And while those things are true, they are often discussed without equal attention to sustainability; without acknowledging the weight leadership can carry; or the ways in which leaders can slowly begin to lose themselves in the process of showing up for others.

Leading while rooted requires more than clarity and intention.

It requires sustainability.

And sustainability, in practice, often shows up through a few key decisions.

The decision to pay attention to when something no longer feels aligned.

The decision to set boundaries, even when it feels uncomfortable.

The decision to recognize that not all leadership work is visible—but it is still work.

And the decision to sustain yourself, not just your output.

Misalignment rarely happens all at once.

It builds over time.

It can show up as exhaustion that does not go away with rest.
As overextension that begins to feel expected.
As a gradual distance between what you value and how you are showing up.

And often, it goes unaddressed—not because it is not felt, but because it is not always named.

Alignment between individuals and their environments plays a critical role in how sustainable leadership feels in practice. When values, expectations, and culture are misaligned, it becomes more difficult to remain grounded—often leading to disengagement, decreased effectiveness, or the need to reevaluate one’s place within that environment.

Recognizing misalignment is a leadership practice.

It requires honesty, awareness, and a willingness to pause long enough to assess what is actually happening.

Because when misalignment is left unchecked, it does not just impact the individual.

It shapes how leadership is practiced.

It shapes decisions, relationships, and the overall health of the environments we are part of.

Boundaries are another essential part of sustainable leadership.

They are often misunderstood as limitations or barriers.

But in practice, boundaries create clarity.

They define what is sustainable and what is not.
They protect time, energy, and focus.
They allow leaders to show up with intention rather than obligation.

Boundaries are not a rejection of responsibility.

They are what make responsibility sustainable.

Leadership also involves forms of work that are not always visible.

Emotional labor.
Relational labor.
The effort required to maintain trust, cohesion, and support within a team or community.

These forms of labor are often unacknowledged, but they are essential to how leadership functions in practice.

In many cases, leadership also carries a level of responsibility that is not always shared. The weight of decision-making, risk, and outcomes can often fall on individuals rather than being distributed across a collective. Over time, carrying that weight alone can become difficult to sustain.

And over time, these visible and invisible demands can become difficult to carry without intentional recognition and support.

For many Black women, and others navigating similar spaces, this experience is amplified.

There is often an expectation to lead, support, advocate, and sustain—sometimes all at once.

To carry not only the visible responsibilities of leadership, but also the invisible ones.

In this way, sustainability is not just a personal consideration.

It is an act of preservation.

It is a decision to remain connected to yourself, even as you continue to show up for others.

Sustaining yourself as a leader is not only about individual boundaries. It is also about how we create environments that allow others to thrive. Leadership grounded in emotional awareness, continuous learning, and mutual support creates the conditions for sustainability—not just for individuals, but for entire communities.

Sustainability is deeply connected to alignment—between our identity, our values, and the ways we choose to lead. When that alignment is disrupted, leadership begins to feel unsustainable.

Sustainability is not separate from leadership.

It is what allows leadership to continue.

Leading while rooted means remaining connected to who you are—even as the work continues to evolve.

It means recognizing when something is no longer aligned, and having the clarity to respond with intention.

It means understanding that leadership is not only about what we build.

It is about who we are able to remain while building it.

I’d love to hear your perspective:

What helps you stay grounded while leading in demanding environments?

If this reflection resonates with you, I invite you to subscribe and continue exploring these ideas with me.

Yours in service,
LaChelle

Some of the most important leadership decisions are not about what to say—but when to say it.

They are not about having the right answer in the moment, but about understanding the moment itself.

Reading the room is often described as intuition. But in practice, it is a leadership skill.

It requires paying attention to more than what is being said. It asks us to notice tone, energy, and dynamics. It asks us to observe how decisions are made, whose voices are heard, and where there may be hesitation or silence.

Over time, I have come to understand that awareness is not passive. It is shaped by what we value and how we choose to lead.

As someone who leads with a strong commitment to service and collaboration, reading the room often means understanding how to support the people around me—when to step forward, when to create space, and when to listen more closely.

I’ve learned this in moments where I had to pause, observe, and decide how to show up in ways that aligned with both my values and the needs of the moment.

It also means recognizing that leadership does not happen in isolation. Every environment has its own culture, expectations, and power dynamics. And effective leaders take the time to understand these dynamics before acting.

Navigating systems requires more than participation—it requires awareness.

And awareness, when practiced intentionally, becomes a form of respect.

It communicates that we are paying attention. That we are considering how our actions impact others. That we are leading not just with intention, but with care.

In many ways, reading the room is not about changing who you are.

It is about understanding where you are—so you can lead in ways that are both grounded and effective.

I’d be interested to hear your thoughts:

Where have you seen awareness shape leadership outcomes?

If these reflections resonate with you, I invite you to subscribe and continue the conversation.

Yours in service,
LaChelle

At some point in their leadership journey, many people encounter a quiet tension.

It shows up in meetings, in decision-making, and in the way we choose to show up in our work.

The tension between being authentic and navigating environments that were not designed with you in mind.

Authentic leadership is often described as bringing your whole self into how you live and lead. But in many spaces, authenticity is not experienced as a simple choice. It is shaped by expectations, norms, and systems that influence how leadership is perceived and received.

Over time, I have come to understand that leading authentically requires more than self-awareness. It requires the ability to remain grounded in who you are while navigating the realities of where you are.

Leading while rooted requires both grounding and strategy.

It asks us to stay connected to our identity and values while also developing the awareness and skills needed to navigate complex systems with intention.

Over time, I have found that this kind of leadership often shows up through a few key practices.

First, staying grounded in identity and values.

Navigating any system becomes more difficult when you are unclear about who you are and what matters most to you. When you are grounded in your identity and values, you are less likely to lose yourself in environments that may ask you to shift constantly. Grounding provides a point of stability. It allows you to make decisions with clarity and to lead in ways that remain aligned with your purpose.

Second, learning to read the environment.

Awareness is a leadership skill. Every organization and community has its own culture, expectations, and dynamics. Effective leaders take the time to observe, listen, and understand these dynamics before acting. They recognize patterns, pay attention to how decisions are made, and develop an awareness of both formal and informal structures of influence.

Navigating systems requires more than participation—it requires awareness.

Third, leading strategically rather than reactively.

Not every moment requires an immediate response. Leadership often involves making thoughtful decisions about when to speak, how to act, and where to focus your energy. Strategic leadership allows you to move with intention rather than reaction. It creates space for more effective communication, stronger relationships, and more sustainable progress.

Leadership is not only about what you say—it is about when and how you say it.

Finally, sustaining yourself while leading.

Leadership that is not sustainable will eventually become unsustainable for both the individual and the community. Many leaders carry responsibilities that are not always visible, and over time, that weight can become difficult to sustain. Setting boundaries, recognizing your limits, and prioritizing your well-being are essential parts of leadership—not distractions from it.

Sustainability is not separate from leadership. It is what allows leadership to continue.

For many leaders, navigating institutions is a learned skill.

For Black women, it has often been a necessary one.

Black women have long navigated spaces that were not designed with them in mind, developing leadership practices that are both grounded and strategic. These practices are shaped by lived experience—by the need to remain anchored in identity and values while also understanding how to move within systems that may not always recognize or affirm them.

In many ways, these systems are not neutral. They are shaped by dominant norms and expectations that do not always account for the full range of lived experiences leaders bring with them. As a result, navigating them requires not only awareness, but a deep understanding of how identity, difference, and power intersect within leadership spaces.

This has required a level of awareness, adaptability, and resilience that is rarely fully acknowledged in traditional leadership conversations.

Yet within that navigation, there is also a deep commitment to community. Leadership is often expressed not only through individual achievement, but through mentorship, advocacy, and a willingness to create pathways for others. It is leadership that carries both responsibility and intention.

These experiences offer important lessons about what it means to lead while rooted.

They remind us that authenticity is not simply about self-expression. It is about alignment—between who we are, what we value, and how we choose to lead within the environments we are part of.

And they remind us that navigating systems is not just about individual success. It is about creating space for others to lead, contribute, and thrive.

Leading while rooted does not mean ignoring the realities of the systems we navigate.

It means learning how to move through them with clarity, intention, and purpose.

It means understanding that authenticity is not just about who we are—it is about how we choose to lead within the environments we are part of.

And in doing so, we begin to expand what leadership can look like—not only for ourselves, but for those who come after us.

I’d be interested to hear your perspective:

How have you navigated staying true to yourself while working within complex systems?

If you’re interested in thoughtful conversations about leadership, community, and what it means to lead with authenticity and purpose, I invite you to subscribe and join the conversation.

Yours in service,
LaChelle