The Quiet Burden of Leadership

Sometimes, it’s the quiet ones who suffer most. Not those who wail and gnash their teeth—though I’ve certainly known a few of those—but the ones who simply bear things, absorbing them until they’re practically invisible. It reminds me a little of my late husband, Jerry. A good man, God bless him, always putting everyone else first. He carried so much on his shoulders, and for so long, that I worry he never really let himself *feel* it all.

I've spent many years observing people—a teacher does, you see. You watch the children struggle with fractions or Shakespeare, yes, but you also watch them navigate friendships, disappointments, burgeoning romances. It’s a study in how human beings handle life’s little storms. And lately, I've been thinking about those same principles applied to those we look to lead—the principals at school, the managers at work, anyone tasked with guiding others.

I arrived home from Brooklyn just last week, after spending two weeks with Marcus and his family. Such a blessing that I could go. It’s not something you always have the liberty of, and in looking back on my working years, it struck me how precious those moments are. We need to be mindful of the burden we place on those leading us, especially when their own wells run dry. You can't pour from an empty cup, as they say. It’s a simple truth, often forgotten in the rush and demands of everyday life.

Jerry used to volunteer at the church soup kitchen alongside me. He never complained—never! But I saw him sometimes, after a particularly difficult day with a struggling parishioner or a disagreement on the building committee, just…still. Quietly still. And I knew he’d been carrying something heavy. We all carry burdens, of course, but those who lead often feel compelled to shoulder even more than their share. The pressure is there, always. To be strong, to be decisive, to inspire hope—and sometimes, it's simply too much.

I noticed when I started volunteering at the Fulton Street food pantry – a few days after arriving in Brooklyn - how anxious some of the staff seemed. Not unhappy, exactly, but tense. Always rushing, always apologizing for minor inconveniences. They were responding to pressures external to the pantry itself; those coming from their bosses and from clients. You could feel it weighing on them. It’s not a matter of weakness – goodness no—it's about being human. About recognizing when the weight becomes unsustainable.

It wasn't until I started thinking about things in this light that Jerry's quiet stoicism made so much sense. He felt responsible, you see. Responsible for everyone around him. And he held on tight, afraid to let go lest it all come crashing down. Leadership isn’t just about giving orders or setting goals—it’s about creating an environment where people feel safe enough to be vulnerable, to ask for help, and to admit when they need a moment to breathe.

There's no magic formula, of course. It’s not a matter of grand gestures or dramatic pronouncements. Sometimes, it’s as simple as taking a few moments each day—just *moments*—to clear your head. To look away from the spreadsheets and the deadlines and just…notice something beautiful. The way the sunlight filters through the kitchen window in the morning. The laughter of children playing in the park. A kind word offered by a stranger. Those little things, those quiet moments of grace, can be surprisingly restorative.

And as for me? I’ve found that keeping a list helps—a simple to-do list, mind you. Something tangible to organize and direct my energies. Getting settled here at home after so many years has been a gift, a time for reflection. And the most important thing I've learned is this: it's okay to pause. It’s okay to let go. It’s okay—and even necessary—to remember that you are just one person, and you can only carry what you can comfortably carry. Letting others share the load doesn’t make you weak; it makes you wise.