Returning With Clarity

The last two months asked more of me than usual. October and November were full in a way that didn’t leave much space around the edges. Work at Transy was in a heavy season — decisions, direction setting, steady leadership, the kind of days that require presence instead of performance. And woven through all of it was Haley’s wedding, with its joy, logistics, emotion, and its own quiet gravity.

Something had to rest.
I had to make a conscious decision to set writing down for a bit — not because I didn’t want to write, but because I didn’t have the energy to do it the way I want to do it: grounded, present, and true. Writing from depletion has never given me clarity. Writing from pressure has never given me my voice. So I put it gently on the shelf and focused on what needed me most.

Now that the season has shifted, I can feel myself coming back to the page differently. Not rushing. Not making up for lost time. Not performing creativity just to signal I’m still here.
I’m simply re-engaging with a clearer sense of who I am and what I need.

Clarity has been the quiet throughline in my life these past few months. Clarity about what’s mine to carry and what isn’t. Clarity about how I want to lead. Clarity about what fuels me, what drains me, and what I want my writing to be in this next era. Clarity about how I want to show up in my work, in my relationships, and in my own body.

So here’s what I know now:

I want my writing to feel like breath, not obligation.
I want it to be a reflection, not a performance.
I want it to come from presence, not pressure.
I want it to follow my timing, not a schedule built from old expectations.

And I want it to come from a steadier place in me — the same place I lead from, the same place I return to each morning when I ask for alignment before the day begins.

I’m not the same woman who last logged into this blog on November 7.
I’m clearer.
Calmer.
More grounded.
More honest about what I need.

This next season of writing will reflect that.

I’m here again, writing from the woman I’ve returned to.
I’m ready to share what clarity has been teaching me — slowly, steadily, and in a way that feels like coming home.

We Were Never Meant to Lead Like This

It is easy to forget how recently in our history women have been allowed to lead at all. A century ago, most women could not sign a mortgage, manage a bank account, or walk into a boardroom without an escort. Today, women hold roughly 32 percent of executive roles in the United States, according to McKinsey’s 2024 Women in the Workplace report. That is progress, yes, but it is also proof that most of us are still newcomers in rooms built by and for someone else.

We are often the minority at the table.

We know it.

They know it.

And we learn to perform accordingly.

From an early age, girls are taught to read a room before they ever learn to trust their own voice. We are rewarded for making people comfortable, praised for being adaptable, and quietly punished when we are not. By the time many women arrive in leadership, performance has become muscle memory. We have learned how to be palatable, how to manage perception, how to hold authority without appearing “too much.”

“We inherited a leadership script written for someone else, and the cracks are showing.”

As a woman who has spent her career in senior leadership, I have watched brilliant women fracture themselves trying to fit inside systems that were never designed for them. They perform strength in cultures that reward stoicism. They soften their truths to stay likable. They translate empathy into data just to be heard.

It is exhausting.

And it is unsustainable.

We inherited the wrong script. One that equates leadership with control, authority with volume, and composure with worth. A script that says feelings are liabilities and intuition belongs at home, not in the boardroom.

But the cracks are widening, and light is getting through.

The Fracture We Carry

When we lead from fractured selves, we split the very qualities that make us powerful. We compartmentalize our intellect from our intuition, our logic from our empathy, our structure from our spirit. We think we are being strategic. In reality, we are surviving.

The cost is subtle but steep. It shows up as burnout disguised as dedication, as imposter syndrome that never quite fades, as the quiet ache of feeling successful but not whole.

“True leadership is not about compartmentalization. It is about integration.”

That ache is not weakness. It is wisdom. It is the soul of leadership reminding us that control and connection are not opposites. They are partners.

When half the population learns to lead through suppression, entire organizations lose access to imagination and trust. We pay for fracture collectively—in creativity, in innovation, and in culture.

The Seat at the Table

I come from the world of higher education, a place where systems and stories coexist in a delicate dance. On paper, my role is about physical and digital infrastructure: buildings, spaces, servers, software, and strategy. In reality, it is about people. Every decision about technology ripples through human lives: faculty who teach, students who dream, and staff who hold the institution together quietly and usually without credit.

It is a world that prizes order. But it is also a world full of friction.

Structure, ideas, and innovation often collide.

And that is where I have learned the most about leadership.

Integration does not mean erasing boundaries or ignoring structure. It means remembering that efficiency without empathy is not sustainable. It is scaffolding with no building inside. The best systems and processes work because they honor both logic and life.

When I lead from wholeness, when I allow intellect, intuition, and emotion to stand in the same circle, the work transforms. Conversations deepen. Teams collaborate differently. Innovation stops being a buzzword and starts being a byproduct of trust.

And the results are better. Every measurable outcome improves when people feel seen as whole humans.

The Hidden Performance

Women are often told to “lean in.” I understand the intention. But leaning in to a table that was not built for you only teaches you how to balance better on the edge.

“It is not lean in. It is evolve out.”

Evolving out does not mean walking away from the table. It means rebuilding the table entirely and reclaiming what leadership looks like, sounds like, and feels like when it is fully human.

It means speaking in full sentences, not softened ones.

It means allowing intuition to be a form of intelligence.

It means recognizing that empathy is not emotional labor. It is strategic insight.

Women who lead from wholeness do not perform confidence; they embody it. They do not ask permission to exist in full color. They simply stop muting themselves for comfort.

The shift is subtle at first. You start telling the truth without flinching. You stop apologizing for tone and start clarifying intention. You bring both compassion and accountability into the same meeting. And slowly, the energy around you changes.

People begin to exhale.

Teams start to trust.

Work starts to feel like purpose again.

What Integration Looks Like

Integration is not a slogan. It is a discipline. It is choosing alignment over approval, depth over performance, and authenticity over applause. It is the daily practice of checking in with yourself before you check off another box.

In practical terms, it might look like pausing before a decision to ask, What does this mean for the people behind the numbers? It might mean protecting your own energy as fiercely as you protect your team’s. It might even mean saying, I do not know yet, and trusting that uncertainty is not incompetence. It is honesty.

When women lead from wholeness, everyone benefits. Culture shifts. Creativity expands. And the next generation grows up seeing a version of leadership that looks a lot less like control and a lot more like truth.

“Integration is not softness. It is the next evolution of strength.”

Breaking the Script

The hardest part of evolving out of the old script is realizing how deeply it is written into us. I still catch myself performing. I still modulate tone, translate intuition into logic, and worry that softness will be mistaken for weakness.

But now I notice it.

And noticing is the first rewrite.

Each of us who chooses to lead whole gives others permission to do the same. Every time we refuse to fragment ourselves, we repair something larger: the collective story of what leadership can be.

We are, all of us, still writing the script. The beauty is that it is no longer a solo act. We are co-authoring a new narrative built on clarity, compassion, and courage.

The story of integration.

The story of evolution.

The story of women who lead as themselves without apology.

When the Quiet Voice Becomes Your Compass

There was a time when I believed the loudest voice in the room was the one that mattered most.
The voice that spoke first. The one that carried weight through confidence, data, and volume.
I mistook authority for noise and believed that leadership required projection.

But over the years, I’ve learned that the voice worth listening to is rarely the one commanding the most space. It’s the quiet one. The one that sits just beneath the surface. The one that speaks in tension, intuition, and knowing before words ever form.

The quiet voice doesn’t compete for attention. It doesn’t perform. It waits.

And when you learn to hear it, everything changes.

The Ache That Speaks in Whispers

There’s an ache that doesn’t hurt in the way pain usually does. It doesn’t arrive with crisis or collapse. It arrives softly. A hesitation before yes. A pause before you reply. A tightness in your chest when you convince yourself you’re fine.

I call it the whisper ache.

It’s the gap between what looks good on paper and what feels true in your body.
It’s the moment when achievement feels hollow or when a compliment lands but doesn’t stick.
It’s that flicker of misalignment that says, “This isn’t quite right,” even when you can’t name why.

That whisper is your body trying to speak before your mind rushes to reason.
And for a long time, I ignored it.

I filled the silence with yes after yes.
I mistook exhaustion for importance.
I built a life that looked steady but felt heavy.

The whisper kept tugging, quiet but insistent. It wanted me to stop. To listen. To return.

The Moment I Finally Heard It

I remember sitting in a meeting that should have felt like an accomplishment.
The kind where your name is on the agenda and everyone turns toward you when it’s your turn to speak.
I had my notes, my strategy, my data points. I had prepared for everything except the ache rising in my throat.

Halfway through my presentation, I caught my reflection in the conference room glass. I looked composed, collected, polished. But inside, I felt hollow.

I realized I was performing presence instead of living it.

I finished speaking. The group nodded, approved, and moved on.
And in the quiet after, my body whispered, “You’re here, but not here.”

That was the moment I understood that the quiet voice wasn’t weakness.
It was truth.

How the World Trains Us to Ignore Ourselves

We live in systems that reward performance and speed more than reflection.
Urgency becomes a form of validation. Busyness becomes a badge.

From a young age, we’re taught to value noise over knowing.
Speak up. Be decisive. Don’t pause too long or they’ll think you’re uncertain.

So we fill every space with words and every hour with movement.
We silence the subtle signals that might tell us to stop, to breathe, to think differently.

We call that silence inefficiency. But it’s actually wisdom.

Every system that benefits from your depletion depends on your disconnection from that wisdom.
The longer you ignore your body’s knowing, the easier it is to keep you rushing, agreeing, producing, and performing.

The quiet voice is the antidote to that system.
It is how you reclaim your rhythm in a world that profits from your imbalance.

Listening Is Not Passive

People often think listening to intuition is a soft skill, something mystical or passive. It isn’t. Listening is work. It’s an active discipline.

It takes strength to stop mid-motion and ask, “Is this true?”
It takes courage to pause when everything around you screams for urgency.

Listening means you allow the discomfort of not having the answer yet.
It means you wait until clarity arrives instead of forcing certainty.

For me, this looks like small daily practices.

I pause before responding.
I breathe before deciding.
I write before reacting.
I let silence fill the space that used to be occupied by over-explanation.

The quiet voice does not rush. It moves at the pace of integrity.

And once you start listening, it becomes impossible to return to the noise without noticing the cost.

When Stillness Starts to Feel Unnatural

In the beginning, stillness feels wrong.
If you’ve built your life on urgency, pausing can feel like failure.

You might reach for your phone just to prove to yourself that you’re still relevant.
You might open your inbox just to feel needed.
You might fill the silence because it feels too honest.

That discomfort isn’t a sign you’re doing it wrong. It’s the withdrawal from performance.

Stillness is a detox from noise. It’s a recalibration of pace.
It’s the space where clarity starts to form.

Your nervous system has to learn that safety exists even when you’re not responding, performing, or pleasing.

When you stop mistaking motion for meaning, you create room for alignment.

What Happens When You Follow the Quiet Voice

At first, you will disappoint people.
You will say no to things that once made you feel important.
You will let go of opportunities that don’t feel aligned.

The world will keep asking for more, and you will learn to answer less.

You’ll speak slower, but your words will carry more weight.
You’ll work with more focus but less frenzy.
You’ll stop rehearsing conversations in your head before you have them.

And one morning, you’ll notice that the ache has softened.
Not because the world changed, but because you did.

You stopped outsourcing your direction to noise.
You started listening to your compass instead.

The Compass Inside You

The quiet voice doesn’t tell you what to do next. It tells you when something isn’t true.
It’s less about direction and more about discernment.

It won’t always make sense to others. Sometimes it won’t even make sense to you.
But clarity doesn’t need consensus. It needs courage.

You will know you’re following your compass when peace replaces certainty.
When you stop seeking permission.
When you stop explaining your intuition to those who need proof before they believe it.

Trusting that inner compass doesn’t mean you ignore logic. It means you let wisdom lead logic, not the other way around.

Your body holds intelligence that your mind has been taught to question.
The more you listen, the more you remember that leadership begins with self-trust.

How I Practice Returning

Listening to my quiet voice is not a single decision. It’s a rhythm.
A daily returning.

When the world feels loud, I do three small things:

1. I breathe before I respond.
That one pause often changes everything. It gives clarity a chance to arrive before words do.

2. I ask, “What’s true right now?”
Not what’s pleasing. Not what’s safe. Not what others expect. Just what’s true.

3. I let silence do some of the talking.
I’ve learned that the truth doesn’t need defending. It simply needs space to land.

These aren’t rules. They’re reminders.
They bring me back when I drift into noise.

And I drift often. But I always return.

When the Whisper Becomes the Guide

You will know the quiet voice is guiding you when your choices stop being about control and start being about congruence.

You’ll stop chasing the life that looks perfect and start building the one that feels peaceful.
You’ll stop needing everyone to understand you and start needing only yourself to believe you.

And slowly, that whisper that once felt like doubt will become the most trustworthy part of you.

The quiet voice becomes your compass when you stop treating it like an interruption and start honoring it as direction.

A Few Things I Know Now

The quiet voice never rushes you.
It always invites you to slow down.

It never speaks in panic. It speaks in presence.

It doesn’t ask for permission. It asks for truth.

And when you ignore it long enough, it won’t punish you.
It will wait.
Because your intuition is patient. It knows you’ll come back when you’re ready.

And when you do, it will be there, steady and clear, whispering what it’s been saying all along:

You already know.

A Question to Carry

Where in your life is the whisper asking to be heard?
What truth have you been softening to make it more acceptable?

You don’t need to broadcast the answer.
You don’t need to turn it into a plan.
You only need to pause long enough to listen.

That quiet voice is your compass.
And when you follow it, you’ll find your way home every time.

When Clarity Crosses a Line

I’ve always known what my strongest gifts are: clarity, vision, and truth. They’re the things I’ve leaned on most of my life. They’ve opened doors, built trust, and helped me make sense of complex, often chaotic situations. They’re also the gifts I’ve been praised for—over and over again.

But gifts always come with edges. And when you lean too hard on them, or wield them without care, they can cut both ways.

This post is about one of those times.

The Misstep

Recently, I overstepped. Not in a dramatic or malicious way. But in a subtle, very human way: I spoke truth when I hadn’t been invited to. I offered vision without asking if it was wanted.

I said something that landed as intrusion rather than support. In my head, I was being helpful, practical, even protective. But in reality, my words carried an unintended sharpness.

The response was immediate: a recoil. A pulling back.

That moment told me everything I needed to know. Even without words, I could see the line I’d crossed. And while grace was extended, the truth is still the truth—I had stepped into someone else’s space without permission.

What It Felt Like

If you’ve ever had one of those moments, you know the sinking feeling. The quick flash of Oh no. That wasn’t right.

For me, it landed as both guilt and self-awareness. Guilt, because I had caused harm, even unintentionally. Awareness, because I could suddenly see the shadow side of my gift in action.

• Clarity offered without invitation can feel like intrusion.

• Vision spoken without context can feel like dismissal.

• Truth carried without gentleness can feel like force.

What I intended as support felt to the other person like something else entirely.

The Shadow Side of Gifts

I’ve always believed our strengths come with shadows. Leadership especially is filled with these paradoxes. The things that make you most effective can also make you most dangerous when used without awareness.

My clarity has carried me far. It cuts through noise and confusion, makes things simple, helps people see a path forward. But unchecked, that same clarity can bulldoze nuance, flatten someone else’s lived experience, or make me sound like I’ve got all the answers.

That’s not who I want to be. And yet, that’s how it landed in this moment.

What I Learned

The lesson is both simple and difficult: permission matters.

It’s not enough to have a clear vision or a sharp truth to offer. The question is, has anyone asked for it? If not, then even the best insight may come across as arrogance, intrusion, or dismissal.

This is where timing and pace come in. Influence isn’t about the speed of your clarity, it’s about the rhythm of your presence. You breathe. You pause. You listen. You feel the moment and the people in it. Only then do you speak—and even then, gently, as an offering.

That’s what I missed.

The Temptation to Retreat

After a misstep like this, my instinct is to retreat. To fold inward with guilt and self-doubt. To replay the moment in my head until I’m convinced I shouldn’t speak at all.

But retreat isn’t growth. Retreat is hiding.

This time, I decided to do something different. Instead of spiraling into self-criticism, I treated the moment as a teacher. It wasn’t a reprimand, it was care. It wasn’t condemnation, it was feedback.

And feedback is a gift, even when it stings. Especially when it stings.

The Work Ahead

So here’s what I’m practicing:

• Pausing before I speak. A breath, a beat, a check-in. Do I have permission?

• Asking instead of telling. “Would it be helpful if I shared an observation?” creates space for consent.

• Letting timing do the work. Sometimes the most powerful thing is to wait until someone is ready to hear it.

• Softening the delivery. Not everything has to land like a final word. Sometimes clarity should arrive like a suggestion, not a verdict.

• Respecting lived experience. My truth doesn’t override someone else’s background, history, or skillset. We sit at the table together.

This is the work of stewardship—holding my gifts with enough care that they help rather than harm.

Why This Matters

Leadership isn’t about never messing up. It’s about what you do when you inevitably do.

For me, this moment was a reminder that my desire to influence for good doesn’t exempt me from the responsibility of how that influence lands. I can’t assume good intent is enough. I have to practice timing, tone, and permission.

Because otherwise, clarity becomes a weapon instead of a light.

What I Hope You Take Away

Maybe you don’t share my particular gifts. Maybe your edge is different—patience that turns into passivity, decisiveness that slides into control, or empathy that spills over into burnout.

Whatever it is, here’s what I want to remind both of us:

• Every gift has a shadow.

• Awareness is the first step to managing it.

• Feedback, even painful, is often an act of care.

• The goal isn’t to stop using your gifts—it’s to learn how to wield them with wisdom.

We’re not called to perfection. We’re called to growth.

Closing Reflection

I don’t share this story because I want to paint myself as wise or evolved. I share it because it was messy and uncomfortable and still raw. It showed me the exact places I need to keep working.

That’s leadership. It’s not polished or packaged. It’s a practice. A rhythm. A cycle of learning, adjusting, and moving forward.

So, the next time I feel clarity rising on my tongue, I’ll pause. I’ll breathe. I’ll ask. And if the answer is silence, I’ll respect it.

Because silence, too, is an answer.

Breaking Scripts I Didn’t Write

There’s a strange moment of realization when you look at the path you’re on and think, Wait. Who wrote this story? Because it doesn’t sound like me.

For a long time, I thought I was following my own script. I had the lines memorized, the cues down, the gestures polished. But somewhere along the way, I slipped into a role that had been written for me—or worse, a role no one actually wrote at all. It was cobbled together from expectations, “shoulds,” and the invisible pull to do things the way they’ve always been done.

The problem with those scripts is they don’t leave much room for your own voice. They keep you busy performing, but not alive creating.

This past week, I caught myself mid-performance. I was gearing up to do something big, something that looked shiny and impressive on the outside, but when I stopped to listen in, my gut said: This isn’t mine. I wasn’t excited. I wasn’t aligned. I was just… following.

So I set the script down. And here’s the wild part: the sky didn’t fall. The world didn’t stop spinning. What did happen was a deep exhale, the kind that comes when you step back into your own story.

Breaking the script doesn’t always mean walking away. Sometimes it means rewriting. Sometimes it means flipping a single line so it finally sounds like you. Sometimes it means refusing the part altogether.

But every time, it means remembering this: your voice belongs in your story.

This week, I’m practicing that question with everything on my plate: Am I doing this because I choose it, or because I think I’m supposed to?

And if it’s the second one? That’s my cue to pick up the pen and start rewriting.

Where the Scripts Come From

Scripts don’t fall out of the sky. They are built, piece by piece, from the world around us. Some are handed down directly, like family expectations: This is what women in our family do. This is what success looks like. This is how you behave in public. Others are absorbed quietly, through observation and repetition. We see leaders praised for being loud, polished, and always “on,” and somewhere in us we decide, That must be the way.

And then there are the scripts no one talks about, but everyone feels. The ones built from cultural norms, institutional traditions, or the subtle but constant weight of “should.” You should want the big stage. You should chase the title. You should sacrifice for the job, no matter what it costs you.

When you’re young, these scripts feel like safety. They give you structure. They give you an outline for how to move through the world. And for a while, they even help. They give you lines when you don’t know what to say, a character to play when you’re not sure who you are.

But if you stay in them too long, the safety becomes a cage.

The trouble is, most of us don’t notice when the cage door clicks shut. It happens quietly. A promotion here, a “yes” to something you didn’t really want there, an unspoken rule you’ve learned not to break. One day you wake up and realize you’re living a story that feels polished but hollow.

I’ve been there. Many times.

And each time, I’ve had to ask myself the same hard question: Am I choosing this role, or am I just playing it because it was written for me?

The Cost of Following Scripts

The cost of living by someone else’s script isn’t always dramatic. It’s not always a breakdown or a blow-up. Sometimes it’s quieter. It shows up as exhaustion that doesn’t go away, no matter how much you sleep. It looks like achievements that should make you proud, but leave you feeling empty. It feels like the constant, nagging question: Why doesn’t this feel better?

There is an emotional cost: the disconnection from yourself. When you’re constantly performing, you lose track of what your own voice even sounds like. You start confusing applause for alignment.

There is a physical cost too: burnout. Your body keeps the score, even when your mind insists you’re fine. I’ve lived through the headaches, the sleepless nights, the stress that settles in your shoulders until you can barely breathe.

And then there’s the cost that’s harder to measure but maybe the most devastating: the opportunities you never see because you’re too busy following the script. When you’re locked into lines you didn’t write, you don’t leave space for improvisation, for serendipity, for the things that might have lit you up if only you’d had your head up long enough to notice them.

I remember one moment vividly. I had been preparing for a keynote that, on paper, sounded like an incredible opportunity. Big stage. Big audience. Big visibility. It was the kind of thing most people would leap at. And I almost did.

But then I paused. I sat with it. And what came up wasn’t excitement. It was dread. My body tightened. My chest felt heavy. This wasn’t my moment. It wasn’t my stage. It was just a script I thought I was supposed to follow, because “that’s what leaders do.”

So I put it down.

The relief was instant. The script wasn’t mine, and I finally stopped pretending it was.

Breaking and Rewriting

Breaking a script doesn’t always mean tearing it up and walking away. Sometimes it means editing. Sometimes it means rewriting entire scenes. And sometimes, yes, it means stepping off stage entirely and walking out the side door.

For me, breaking scripts has looked like:

• Saying no to things that look impressive but don’t align with who I am.

• Choosing to celebrate my birthday quietly with my family instead of trying to squeeze in one more obligation.

• Redefining leadership as something rooted in presence and wholeness, not performance and perfection.

• Asking simple, grounding questions before I commit: Do I want this? Does this align with my values? Or does this just look good on paper?

That one question—choose it, or supposed to—has become my compass. If I can’t answer “choose it” with a full-bodied yes, I know I need to pause.

The beautiful part is that rewriting doesn’t have to be dramatic. It can be as small as changing a meeting agenda so everyone gets a voice, or deciding you won’t answer emails after a certain time, or giving yourself permission to leave a party early.

It can also be as big as walking away from an entire path that no longer fits.

I’ve done both. And each time, the freedom I’ve found is worth the fear.

Because here’s the truth: the world doesn’t need more perfect performances. The world needs more leaders willing to show up as themselves, unscripted, real, and present.

The Power of Owning Your Story

When you break a script, you don’t just free yourself. You give permission to everyone watching you.

I’ve seen it in my own teams. When I show up and admit, “This isn’t working for me, and here’s what I’m changing,” it opens the door for others to do the same. When I share that I’m nervous about something or that I don’t have all the answers, it gives them space to be honest too.

Authenticity isn’t just a personal win—it’s contagious.

And let’s be clear: authenticity doesn’t mean chaos. It doesn’t mean throwing out structure or ignoring discipline. It means that the structure serves you, not the other way around. It means the script is one you wrote, not one that was forced into your hands.

The most powerful leaders I know aren’t the ones who stick to the script flawlessly. They’re the ones who know when to put the script down and improvise.

Closing Reflection

Breaking scripts is not a one-time event. It’s a lifelong practice. Because the truth is, new scripts will always try to sneak in. Expectations will always pile up. “Shoulds” will always whisper in the background.

The practice is in noticing. In pausing. In asking: Am I choosing this, or am I just performing it?

When I remember to ask, I find my center again. I hear my own voice again. And I remember the most important truth of all: my voice belongs in my story.

Yours does too.

So here’s the question I’ll leave you with: What script are you ready to break?