For a long time, I thought good leadership meant being impressive.
Not flashy- impressive. Not keynote- impressive. But quietly, consistently impressive… the kind where you smile, nod, and say, “Of course,” even when your inner voice is whispering, Please don’t ask me to do one more thing.
I was raised to suck it up. To be agreeable. To smile no matter what. To respond with a cheerful “I’ll be glad to,” even when what I really meant was, I need a nap and a boundary. Over time, that reflex became so automatic that I stopped noticing how much energy it took… until, slowly, I did notice. And once I noticed, I couldn’t unsee it.
This year, I stopped trying to be impressive.
There’s a version of “fake it till you make it” that serves us well early on. It gives us courage. It helps us walk into rooms we’re not quite ready for yet. But there’s another version, too, the quieter, more exhausting one. The one that feels less like growing confidence and more like putting on a costume. I’ve said more than once that it began to feel like I was performing my own competence. Saying the right things. Holding the right posture. Playing the part of someone who always had it together.
That kind of acting is surprisingly draining.
Letting go of that performance has been unexpectedly freeing. I no longer feel the need to arrive as the expert with answers neatly tucked away. Instead, I show up as a thinking partner. A listener. Someone willing to say, “I don’t know yet; let’s talk it through.” And something interesting happens when you do that: other people stop performing, too.
The longer I’ve worked in education, the more I’ve learned that what people often need isn’t a solution… it’s space. Space to think out loud. Space to name what’s heavy. Space to admit they’re tired without being met with a to-do list. More recently, I’ve noticed how powerful it is to replace certainty with curiosity, and how much trust lives in a simple, honest pause.
Admitting that I’m tired has been part of this shift. Educators are remarkably good at pushing through, and many of us were taught, explicitly or not, that fatigue was something to hide or apologize for. This year, I’ve been practicing telling the truth. “I’m tired.” “That feels like too much right now.” “I need to think before I say yes.” The world, it turns out, does not fall apart when you do this. What happens instead is a softening. A quiet relief in no longer pretending I have endless capacity.
Stepping away from the need to be impressive hasn’t meant stepping away from care, commitment, or purpose. If anything, it’s clarified them. I’m far more interested in presence than polish now… less “watch me lead” and more “let’s walk this together.” Modeling wholeness, rather than perfection, feels like the most responsible kind of leadership I can offer.
This wasn’t a bold declaration or a neatly packaged New Year’s resolution. It was smaller than that. A series of gentle permissions: to pause before responding, to say no without a smiley face, to be kind and boundaried. In a culture that often rewards busyness and performative competence, it feels like a quiet rebellion… and one I’m willing to keep practicing.
I don’t know exactly what this year will bring, and I’m surprisingly okay with that. I’m no longer interested in being impressive. I’m interested in being honest, present, and real… especially with those I’m lucky enough to walk alongside.
And that… feels like more than enough.
prairielearning 