Finding Light in the Chaos: Lessons from Maddie’s Journey

Today I feel the need to pivot a little bit to a personal story in my life. While not completely unconnected to leadership, the message is loud and clear. You have the power to control your thoughts and direct your mindset. As I navigate some very challenging waters, I had a pause and a moment to stop for some perspective. And in that moment, I realized something powerful: sometimes, the smallest victories in the midst of chaos are the ones that keep you going. And if anyone knows about chaos, it’s me—and my daughter, Maddie.

Just over a year ago, Maddie was newly diagnosed with epilepsy. It felt like our world had been turned upside down. We spent months trying to find the right medication, constantly adjusting doses to manage her seizures while also trying to avoid a long list of side effects. Maddie struggled to make it through the end of fourth grade, spending more time out of school than in, which meant that the year was a blur of doctor visits, medication trials, and trying to maintain a semblance of normalcy.

But here’s the thing—sometimes life’s greatest lessons come from the most chaotic moments. Amid the stress, the uncertainty, and the fear, I realized something: it’s not always about finding the perfect solution or fixing everything right away. Sometimes, the breakthrough comes from simply surviving the chaos, taking things one day at a time, and finding the beauty in small victories.

The Chaos of Uncertainty

During this time, we learned a few hard truths. First, Maddie could not tolerate bloodwork. That meant trips to the doctor, trying to get her ready for blood tests, knowing that her face might end up meeting the floor if we weren’t careful. Then there was the constant dance of finding the right medication, which was like trying to hit a moving target. Nothing about the process was easy, but we kept going, knowing that each day brought us a little closer to a solution—even if it didn’t feel that way at the time.

But one of the hardest parts of that time was Maddie’s daily struggle with extreme anxiety. She had just enough understanding of what epilepsy was to be terrified of it. Despite all the reassurances from doctors, friends, and family, no one could convince her that she wouldn’t spontaneously die from a seizure. To her, every minute was a ticking time bomb. It sounds funny now, but back then, it was incredibly dark. Every day was plagued with fears—fears of what might happen next, of what she couldn’t control, and of how much she had to endure. For a little girl who was still trying to navigate her childhood, this was a heavy burden.

And yet, looking back, I realize that in the midst of that fear, Maddie and I both learned something profound: even in the darkest moments, there is light. Maddie’s bravery in facing her fears every day—while not knowing what the next moment would bring—was a lesson in resilience I’ll never forget. And in some strange way, it mirrored the chaos I’m facing today in different areas of my life.

The Power of Small Victories

And then, this week, we went for a follow-up appointment. After over a year of trying to stabilize her condition, the doctors did every in-office test they could to induce a seizure—and nothing happened. No seizure. No drama. No crisis.

While this doesn’t drastically change our daily lives or the routine we’ve grown accustomed to, it was a small victory. It was a reminder that sometimes, breakthroughs come in the form of little wins—those quiet, unexpected moments of clarity that you have to look a little harder to see.

The same thing can be applied to life. When we’re in the thick of chaos, we often forget to take a step back and appreciate the small victories. Whether it’s getting through a tough week at work, finally finishing that project you’ve been putting off, or simply getting through a day without a meltdown (I’m speaking from experience here), those moments matter. They add up.

Embracing the Mess: The Beauty of Small Victories

This week, I was reminded of something important: that even in the middle of chaos, there is always a silver lining. In our case, it was that Maddie had made progress—no matter how small it seemed in the grand scheme of things. And it wasn’t just about the seizure test or the medical outcomes. It was a reminder that progress isn’t always linear. Sometimes, you need to pause and recognize that the moments of relief, even if brief, are a big deal.

This lesson is so parallel to what I’m navigating right now in different areas of my life. In the chaos I’m facing, I’m learning to pause and take stock of the small wins, even when it feels like nothing big is changing. Life, like Maddie’s journey, is often about surviving the rough seas with as much grace as possible, knowing that it’s the little victories along the way that make the difference.

Finding Balance Amid the Chaos

It’s easy to get caught up in the whirlwind of life’s demands, especially when things feel out of control. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past year, it’s this: balance doesn’t come from perfection. It comes from accepting the chaos, embracing the mess, and finding peace in the little victories along the way.

Maddie’s journey isn’t over, and we still have a long road ahead of us. But each small step we take—each victory, no matter how small—is a reminder that even in the midst of chaos, there is room for growth, for gratitude, and for celebration.

And for me, that’s been the real breakthrough.

A Call for Perspective

So, the next time you find yourself feeling overwhelmed by the constant chaos, take a step back and ask yourself: What small victory can I celebrate today? Whether it’s surviving a challenging situation, making it through another hectic week, or simply having a moment of peace in the storm, those little moments are worth acknowledging.

Because, as Maddie and I have learned, the chaos may never fully go away, but there is always a silver lining if we take the time to look for it.

Fractured Foot, Full Heart: How Burnout Led to My Most Powerful Leadership Lesson

I often reflect on how my very brief time in adolescent psych shaped many of the leadership skills I still rely on today. However, there were many moments before that, which helped pave the trajectory I am on today. Not long ago, after the haze of post-COVID had started to clear, I found myself in a precarious situation. Staffing levels were critical, and it wasn’t just my company—healthcare everywhere was struggling. I was the clinical manager, case manager, on-call nurse, and on-call manager all rolled into one. I worked tirelessly, thinking this was how you prove your value in the field I had come to care for deeply. To me, working long hours and balancing multiple roles meant that I was doing what needed to be done, that I was showing my commitment.

At the time, I was given bits of information here and there, reassurances that once the circumstances allowed, I would get the promotion I had been promised. So, I kept pushing myself harder. Days and nights blended together. I was in the office, I was in the field, doing everything I could. I kept telling myself, "I’ll rest once it’s all worth it." But one morning, it all came to a head. I woke up and couldn’t even stand on my foot. The pain was unbearable. I had been dealing with it for days, but I ignored it, continuing to push forward with a fractured foot. After all, if I didn’t do it, who else would?

That foot injury was the first sign of a much deeper issue. I kept going, burning the candle at both ends, telling myself that someday, it would all pay off. But that day never came. About six months later, I found myself physically drained, emotionally unwell, and struggling to hold it all together. The stress had taken its toll, and I finally reached my breaking point. I walked away from hospice—a career I thought would be my forever. I left leadership, questioning everything. I didn’t want to manage anymore. Why would I want to continue? I had taken on all the responsibility, carried the weight of the world on my shoulders. But at the end of the day, I was just an employee. I was replaceable.

I’ve always struggled to let go, to delegate, to ask for help. It’s a hard habit to break, especially when you’ve spent so much time proving that you can handle it all. For a long time, I believed that strength meant doing it yourself, that leadership was about carrying the load alone. But over time, I’ve come to realize something crucial: I can’t be the strong leader my team needs if I don’t share the load. I’ve learned that asking for help and trusting others with responsibility isn’t a weakness—it’s a strategy for success. When I allow myself to lean on my team, we all become stronger together. While I still have a long way to go, I can now see that I am mirroring what I needed in those crucial moments years ago—someone to share the burden, someone to guide me in showing that strength isn’t about doing it alone, but about growing together.

I share this story because it was a turning point for me—a lesson I had to learn the hard way. But it was also one of the most profound lessons in my career. Even though I still struggle with it from time to time, I’ve grown in emotional intelligence. I now recognize when I’m pushing myself too hard, when I need to step back and reassess. I’ve learned to listen to myself and prioritize my well-being before I hit another breaking point.

Looking back, if someone had told me ten years ago that the most uncomfortable moments in my life would turn out to be the most instrumental parts of my growth—as a nurse, a leader, and as a human—I would never have believed them. I used to think that I had to have everything in place to reach a level of self-awareness and comfort in who I was. But now I understand that it’s through those moments of discomfort—those moments of pain and struggle—that the most significant growth happens. It’s not about waiting for everything to be perfect; it’s about learning to embrace the mess, the challenges, and the vulnerability that comes with being human. And in that vulnerability, there is strength.

When Life Hands You Chaos, Don’t Build a Farm—Face Your Feelings

Have you ever felt a certain way, knowing you're being unreasonable, yet still unable to shake that feeling? It doesn’t make sense; it’s confusing, and most of all, uncomfortable. Recognizing that discomfort, and acknowledging that you might be acting irrationally, is the essence of emotional intelligence knocking at your door.

It's perfectly okay to experience all kinds of emotions. If something feels unfair, allow yourself to feel that frustration. If you feel anger or hurt, it’s okay to let those feelings rise. But here's the key: what you do with those feelings is what defines your ability to lead. Are you responding thoughtfully, or are you simply reacting in the moment?

I recently shared how I dove into the wild idea of transforming my home into a fully functional farm. But this crazy phase didn’t stop there. Along with my farm dream, I thought, "Why not become an influencer?" I mean, I saw so many people on Instagram, TikTok, Facebook, creating homesteads and turning them into thriving social media empires. Surely I could do the same, right? So, I bought a selfie stick, a tripod, lights, and jumped into the world of content creation—without a clue what I was doing. My kids were all in too, eager to film every second.

Now, you might be wondering, "What does this have to do with emotional intelligence?" Well, quite a lot, actually!

Much like the growth I’ve experienced in my 30s, I acknowledged that I had work to do, and it hasn’t been easy. Over the past five years, I’ve committed myself to developing my emotional intelligence, understanding that it’s a skill that can be cultivated rather than something I was simply born with. Just like navigating the twists and turns of adulthood, this journey has required continuous effort, but the progress has been rewarding. The key components of emotional intelligence—self-awareness, self-regulation, motivation, empathy, and social skills—have become central to my personal growth, guiding me to understand myself better and handle the challenges life throws my way with more resilience and insight. While it’s been a work in progress, I can honestly say I’m in a better place today than I was when I started.

I’m an avoider by nature. I’ve always been one, and to some extent, I probably always will be. When things get uncomfortable, my instinct is to run, which is exactly what I did when I threw myself into the farm and content creation projects. Fortunately for me, none of it panned out. I quickly realized I knew nothing about content creation, and I have no real interest in farming. But running with that wild idea was exactly what I needed to bring myself back to reality.

It was a huge lesson for me—one of the most uncomfortable and frustrating moments of my adult life. I was unsure, angry, confused, and overwhelmed by so many things that had been building up. There was a feeling of anger—anger that things weren't going the way I thought they should, that I wasn’t where I wanted to be in life. There was frustration—frustration at the perceived lack of control I had over my circumstances, and a deep sense of uncertainty that clouded my every thought. I was flooded with emotions, yet instead of taking a step back to sit with those feelings and allow myself to process them, my first instinct was to run from them. I tried to mask the discomfort by making radical changes, thinking that an entire overhaul of my life—whether it was creating a farm or diving into social media—would somehow drown out the noise of those feelings.

But in reality, I was only compounding my discomfort. The more I tried to escape and "fix" everything, the more those emotions multiplied and lingered. The feelings of anger and frustration that I was carrying only became louder, and instead of finding clarity, I became more lost in the chaos of my own actions. The changes didn’t make me feel better. They simply distracted me, filling the space with new anxieties and self-doubt, rather than offering the clarity I so desperately needed.

Looking back, it’s clear that this was a pivotal and transformative moment for me. While it was an incredibly hard time, filled with discomfort and disappointment, it ultimately forced me to face the things I was avoiding. It pushed me to confront those uncomfortable emotions head-on, to acknowledge that I couldn’t outrun them, and to start the work of understanding and processing what they were telling me. In that sense, as horrible as it felt in the moment, that experience marked the beginning of real personal growth. I’ve come to realize that discomfort, while challenging, is often the catalyst for the most important transformations—if you allow yourself to sit with it, feel it, and learn from it rather than running away..

It’s okay to feel, but we must be careful not to let our reactions dictate our actions. Emotional intelligence is about facing discomfort, understanding it, and choosing a thoughtful response, rather than letting the feelings take the lead.

When the Only Leader in the Room Is You

You’ve probably heard the stories—the ones about the first time you realize you’re the adult in the room. Whether it’s with your kids, at work, or just anywhere in the world, something happens, and you stop, look around, and expect someone else to step in. But suddenly, you realize that person isn’t coming. It’s you. Everyone is waiting for you to know what to do.

Funny thing is, that feeling never goes away. It may not always be about being the only adult in the room, but it shifts to different areas of your life and work. It’s being the only nurse in the room or the only leader in the room or the person who has to make a hard call you’re not used to making.

Let me take you back to my adolescent psych days for a moment. As you can imagine, the stories never end. Day after day, you’re waiting for a break, waiting for someone else to step in and take charge. But you realize that person isn’t coming, because it’s you.

By the time I’d been in my role for about three or four months, I was feeling pretty good. I had a solid handle on who to call in a crisis and how to handle a range of situations, from minor injuries to more significant mental health crises—exactly what you expect in this line of work. It was a typical weekend afternoon. We’d usually get intakes as soon as a bed opened up, and that’s exactly what happened that day. I was prepared, I knew who was coming, and what to expect. The intake process went smoothly, and everything settled down into a typical afternoon. Midday was recreation time, and I planned to catch up and prep for the evening.

Then, suddenly, the radio crackled. It was one of the male techs paging for me. I thought it was just a simple request—someone needing Tylenol or perhaps a bee sting. But no. The request was for me to come to the other campus quickly because there was an unconscious patient.

Well, in healthcare, you expect things to happen, but this wasn’t something I anticipated in adolescent psych. I grabbed my bag, stayed on the phone with the tech, and hopped in my car. I could get from point A to point B in about three minutes if necessary, and in this case, I was there in less than 90 seconds. I entered the room, handed my phone to the tech to call the doctor, and began assessing the situation.

Our new intake, a 15-year-old, was lying on the bed. My initial thought was that he was messing with us. He looked peaceful, calm, almost as if he were sleeping, but there was something off. His breathing was steady and non-labored, his skin color looked fine. As I prepared to take his vitals, I walked over and attempted to rouse him, saying his name as I listened to his pulse. I had my pulse oximeter on his finger and continued my assessment, but something still didn’t feel right. I became more concerned, my tone shifting as I moved on to sternal rubs—a technique used to check neurological function by applying pressure to the sternum. Still, no response. Nothing.

At this point, the tech came back into the room, and the doctor was on the phone. I instructed the second tech to call 911 and grab the emergency bag with Narcan while I continued briefing the doctor. We were not equipped to handle medical crises beyond a certain level within the facility.

As I assessed the situation, my immediate thought was overdose. The physician on call agreed, and as soon as the tech returned with the Narcan, it was administered. Within minutes, we could hear the ambulance arriving in the distance. But still, no response from the Narcan. I stayed on the phone with the doctor, keeping him updated, but nothing was changing. I prepared to administer a second dose, and just as I was getting ready, the EMTs arrived. They took over, and I stepped back, ushering the techs out of the room.

I moved to the hallway to debrief. Both techs were visibly shaken. One of them was trembling as we spoke.

The child eventually regained consciousness. It turns out, just prior to his arrival, he had consumed an outrageous amount of alcohol. We routinely drug test on intake, but alcohol wasn’t part of our standard screening. After this incident, breathalyzers became a mandatory part of every intake.

As I stood in the hallway with the techs, I radioed the rest of the team, letting them know that the patient was cleared and moving out to the other campus. I had every patient escorted out of view to minimize exposure to what had transpired. In this moment, I wasn’t an official leader—I hadn’t even notified my direct supervisor yet. My attention was needed elsewhere, on those who had been right there with me through the crisis.

I’ve always had a great relationship with the techs I worked with, but this moment was the one that truly bonded us. We stood there together in the hallway, and one of them said, “I’m so glad you were the nurse on this evening. There was no panic. It was calm, methodical—everything went smoothly without chaos.”

Internally, I could feel my heart racing as I came down from the adrenaline, but outwardly, I had remained calm. Despite the intensity of the situation, I had functioned on autopilot. In many ways, I wasn’t a leader in that moment, but I was still looked to for guidance, and I provided the calm presence they needed.

It was moments like these that taught me what being a leader really is. I learned skills in those intense situations—skills that I still carry with me today. While my work may look different now, whether in hospice leadership or other settings, the level of calm and clarity needed remains the same. Leadership isn’t just about having all the answers or being the one in charge—it’s about being present, grounded, and calm, especially when it matters most.

Chickens, Soap, and Leadership: Lessons from My Homesteading Misadventures

So, I’m married, have 25 chickens, and typically, my husband Kyle is the one who takes care of them. But tonight, he’s working late as a general contractor on a painting job that needs to be completed after hours because it’s an office that people are in during the day. Of course, that’s the time I decide to need him the most. Olivia, my middle daughter, is also not around, so guess who has to make the trek out to the chicken coop to lock them up for the night? This girl.

Now, let me tell you, I had to hype myself up for a good 15 minutes before I walked down there. I mean, I had to find boots, gloves, and, most importantly, convince myself that the coop wasn’t going to be too gross to handle. It’s amazing how long it can take to talk yourself into a task that you know you have to do, but… I finally did it!

And before you think, "Wow, this is an unrelated, random story," bear with me for a second because it’s actually a perfect metaphor for a leadership lesson.

Two years ago, I found myself at a huge crossroads in my life. I had just stepped into a new management role while Kyle was simultaneously starting his own business and working another job. It was an intense time. And, what do I do when I’m in the middle of a busy, stressful period? Naturally, I decided to become a farmer.

Yes, you read that right. In the midst of all this, I had this crazy idea that I would transform our backyard into a farm—goats, mini cows, chickens, bees, vegetables—you name it. I was even convinced I was going to make soap and start an Etsy shop. Because, you know, when life gets overwhelming, the solution is always to add a bunch of living creatures and complex projects to your plate, right?

Well, I dove into the idea full steam ahead. I quickly had around 60 chickens, 10 turkeys, six baby ducks, and a garden that could have been the envy of any homesteader. I even bought all the supplies to make soap. But let me tell you… soap-making is not as easy as it seems. Unless you’re a chemist, don’t try it.

Eventually, after all the ducks, chickens, and failed soap attempts, I realized something: I don’t really want to be a homesteader. It turns out, I’m not a fan of being hot, dirty, and surrounded by things that smell, unless it’s related to being a nurse (strangely enough, I’m okay with that). The ducks, adorable as they were when they were babies, turned into slightly disgusting creatures. And if you don’t have a pond, please don’t get ducks. A kiddie pool just doesn’t cut it.

In the end, I realized where I belong. Not necessarily in a farm field, but leading a hospice team. So, while my dreams of being a homesteader and superwoman mom didn’t exactly pan out, I learned some valuable lessons along the way. Sometimes, what we think we want isn’t actually where we belong. And sometimes, stepping into the unknown (whether it’s a new leadership role or a chicken coop) takes a little convincing, a few moments of hesitation, and some tough decisions. But once we find the right path, we can truly thrive.

So, while Kyle now enjoys his new hobby of tending to chickens, while I admire from a distance, my dad has become my gardener…… I’m right where I’m supposed to be. And the journey? Well, it’s been a messy, farm-filled, soap-failed adventure that’s brought me to a leadership role where I can make the most impact.

And that, my friends, is why I’ll take the chickens in stride (as long as I’m not the one mucking out the coop).

Growth: It's Like a Roller Coaster, But With More Emotions

Anyone who knows me is well aware of my obsession with self-help audiobooks and guided meditations. The value of both has become even clearer during this pivotal time in my life.

Right now, I find myself at a significant personal crossroads, reflecting on multiple areas of my life and trying to decide what comes next. While reflection is essential, it can stir up a whirlwind of emotions—part excitement, part uncertainty. It's during these moments that I turn to the tools that have supported me through various stages of life, such as audiobooks and meditations, to help center my mind.

In the midst of this self-reflection, I realized something. The mood I’m in often determines which one I turn to. Recently, given the many thoughts running through my head, I chose a guided meditation that focused on grounding. It was a meditation I had never tried before, but it provided me with the chance to stop, reflect, and reconnect with the present moment. I stopped obsessing over the past and trying to predict the future. Instead, I focused on where I am right now—rocky waters, fast-moving currents, and all.

Even though things feel turbulent at times, I realized I’m exactly where I’ve always wanted to be. After all the struggles, the obstacles, and the challenges, this life—the one I’ve been working toward for years—is finally here.

My 30s have been the greatest period of growth in my life. This is the decade where I’ve truly learned who I am, both as a person and as a professional. I’ve let go of the expectations I once had about what my life “should” look like and started living with purpose. And along the way, I've learned that purpose is less about checking boxes and more about accepting where you are in the journey.

Social media often makes it feel like you’re falling behind. It’s easy to feel envious of those who seem to have it all figured out, posting about their glamorous vacations or seemingly perfect families. But the reality is, social media only shows the highlights—what people want you to see. Behind the filtered photos and perfectly curated posts, there could be struggles you’ll never hear about. It's easy to forget that life is messy, and it’s rarely as perfect as it appears online.

For most of my 20s, I waited for everything to “fall into place” before I could truly live. I thought, when we get a house, I’ll do this; when I become a nurse, I’ll do this; when I get that promotion, I’ll start living. But the truth is, life starts now. If we wait for the perfect moment to make our next move, we’ll be waiting forever.

Living doesn't require perfection. It requires presence. And while happiness is something we all chase, it’s not the same as life satisfaction. Learning to embrace life as it is—messy, unpredictable, and full of ups and downs—has given me a sense of satisfaction. Happiness follows naturally from there, but it’s not about being happy all the time. It’s about being at peace with where you are in the moment.

This shift has also helped me stop comparing myself to others. The constant need to compete, to measure up, can be exhausting. When you focus on becoming the best version of yourself, you stop worrying about what everyone else is doing. Only then can you start to build the life that’s right for you.

Growth, however, is not a straight line. It’s messy, difficult, and filled with moments where it feels like you’re not progressing at all. In fact, it’s rarely discussed—the messy middle where you're caught between where you were and where you're going. We talk about the destination, but not the journey.

I am very good at getting caught up in my own head. I let the whirlwind of emotions take hold, and it’s so easy to allow these feelings to spiral. Not just a small spiral, but a deep dive—down a sewer, around the bend, and popping out on the other side of the world. One thing that time, growth, and patience has taught me, though, is that this spiral does not benefit anyone. It doesn’t make any part of life easier, and if nothing else, dwelling on the “what-ifs” only leads to more feelings of inadequacy, confusion, and further spiraling downward. While I still may not know what the future holds, and my thoughts may be a jumbled tangle of weeds, I do know for certain that in this moment, right here, right now, I am exactly where I belong.

As I reflect on my path, I realize how often I’ve compared myself to others. The saying “comparison is the thief of joy” couldn’t be truer. I spent so many days, hours, and years measuring my progress against someone else’s timeline. In doing so, I lost sight of my own journey. Now, I see that my path is uniquely mine, and that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be.

It’s time we acknowledge the messiness of growth. It’s the in-between, the moments when things feel uncertain, that shape us into the people we’re meant to be. The struggle is part of the process, and embracing it is where true transformation happens.

Be the Unicorn: Leading with Confidence, Even If You're the Mountain Holding Yourself Back

I recently wrapped up listening to two books that hit me right where I needed them. The first, Be the Unicorn by William Vanderbloemen, was like motivational pep talk wrapped in a rainbow-colored package. The second, The Mountain is you by Brianna Wiest was a bit more of a gut check—so much so that I listened to it twice because the words were just too spot-on to ignore. Now, let’s dive into how these books aren't just self-help fluff, but serious leadership lessons that—let's be real—some of us desperately need.

Be the Unicorn: Lead Like You’re the Only One in the Room
If you've ever struggled with stepping into your own leadership power, Be the Unicorn is your ticket to the confidence train. This book is all about leading with authenticity, embracing your uniqueness, and showing up unapologetically in your role. In the context of leadership, it’s a call to stop blending in with the herd and to let your quirks, skills, and strengths shine. The whole "be the unicorn" mantra is about fostering an environment where you stand out for the right reasons—not because you’re trying too hard, but because you’re genuinely leading with your personal brand of magic.

What makes this so powerful for leadership is that it’s not just about being different for the sake of it—it’s about understanding that your individual strengths are exactly what a team needs. When you lead with that kind of self-assurance, you're not just a leader, you’re the one who helps others step into their own unique potential. And let’s be honest, who wouldn’t want a leader that inspires them to feel like they’re all magic?

The Mountain Is You: Realizing You’re the Obstacle (But You Can Move It)
Now, on to The Mountain is you. After the unicorn glitter-fest, this book was a bit of a reality check. The premise is simple, yet profound: You, the leader, are the mountain. You're the immovable force that shapes your own path, but you’re also the one who sometimes stands in your own way. And let me tell you, hearing that was like someone shining a flashlight on the giant boulder I've been pretending wasn’t there.

As a leader, sometimes it’s easy to think that external challenges are your biggest hurdle. You know, the things that are clearly out of your control: market shifts, staffing issues, or that one colleague who still thinks emails should be written in all caps. But The Mountain is you is a reminder that often, the toughest barrier is the one you’ve built inside your own mind.

You’re the one overthinking that decision, rehashing past mistakes, and—let’s be real—creating mountains out of molehills. I’ve definitely found myself in a leadership meeting where my brain has decided to erect a mountain out of a simple question, only to later realize it was just a speed bump. So, yeah, that mountain you’re staring at? You might have built it, and only you can knock it down with a little introspection and maybe a few good laughs along the way.

The Leadership Takeaway:
So, here’s the kicker. As a leader, you can be the unicorn—leading with confidence, authenticity, and an undeniable sense of purpose. You inspire your team to embrace their uniqueness and shine. But at the same time, don’t forget that sometimes, the biggest barrier to growth isn’t the external factors—it’s the mountain you’ve built within yourself. It’s easy to get comfortable behind that mountain, thinking you need to have all the answers. But the real magic happens when you push past that mountain, tear down the barriers, and embrace the unknown with the confidence of a unicorn leading the way.

In the end, true leadership isn’t about pretending to have it all together. It's about leading with your flaws, your strengths, and your ability to break down the walls that you, yourself, might have built. And if you can do that while staying true to yourself, you’re not just leading a team—you’re helping everyone discover their own magical potential.

My First Two Weeks: A Trial by Fire

It was only two weeks into my new role in adolescent psychiatric nursing, and I walked in expecting a day like any other—routine, predictable, perhaps with a few challenges. But the reality of that shift was anything but.

Things were just settling down when I walked into the nursing office to receive my report. There had been some commotion earlier, some shenanigans that were now calming down. But the calm didn’t last long. No sooner had we sat down than a loud bang echoed through the building, followed by screams that cut through the air like a knife.

The radio crackled to life, and the only word that came through was one I’ll never forget: “Help.”

Without thinking, we jumped up, running toward the sound of the chaos. When we reached the main level, the scene was already unfolding. Children were being ushered inside, their faces a mix of fear and confusion. In the corner of my eye, I noticed a shattered window—glass scattered across the floor. Out on the grass, a chair lay in pieces, and there was blood. I turned to see one of the boys standing there. He couldn’t have been older than 16, but his arms were covered in tattoos, and his face bore the weathered look of someone who had seen more than his fair share of hardship.

Tears streamed down his face, and my heart sank. This was no ordinary day. The sirens in the distance grew louder, and within moments, emergency responders arrived, ready to take control of the situation. It was the first major crisis I’d encountered in this new role, and I was still trying to process the scene before me.

I told myself it wasn’t going to be the norm, that this was just one of those unfortunate events that happens occasionally in this line of work. But in that moment, I was a nurse—not a leader, not someone with answers, just a nurse who was two weeks into a job that carried a weight of responsibility I had not yet learned how to bear.

For the rest of the shift, I was paralyzed. Petrified. I had no idea what was coming next, but I stayed on high alert, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios. The rest of the night passed in eerie silence. No more incidents, no more chaos. Just a palpable tension that hung in the air, making every small sound feel like the precursor to something else.

When I finally left at the end of the shift, I was exhausted. Physically and emotionally drained. I couldn’t help but question whether I was truly prepared for the demands of this job. The truth is, I wasn’t. I had walked in with an idea of what my work would entail, but nothing could have prepared me for the unpredictability, the raw emotions, and the urgency that come with caring for these young individuals.

But that shift where I navigated my first crisis of this role, taught me something invaluable: in this line of work, there is no time to be paralyzed by fear or doubt. You show up. You do your job. You put one foot in front of the other, even when you’re not sure what’s next. You lead, not with authority, but with calm and care.

That night wasn’t the exception; it was the norm. The incidents only grew more intense, the chaos more overwhelming, and the stakes higher. But with each challenge, I pushed on. I learned to face each moment with the same determination, even as the demands increased. The fear never fully left, but neither did my resolve. In this line of work, there’s no room for hesitation—only the drive to keep moving forward, no matter how difficult the journey may become.

The Real Lesson Wasn't the Chair

That day wasn’t about physical safety—it was about emotional safety.
Yes, I was the one hit. But I wasn’t the only one shaken.
Leadership meant showing up calm when others felt chaos.
It meant processing the trauma with the team, not above them.
It meant staying human, even when I wanted to retreat.

Here's What That Moment Taught Me About Leadership:

✔️ You don’t need to have all the answers—just presence.
✔️ Regulation beats reaction. When you’re calm, others find their footing.
✔️ Leadership is not about appearing unshakable—it’s about being real and responsible at the same time.
✔️ Debriefing with care builds trust more than any title ever could.

Leaders on Edge

We don’t get to choose when the chair flies—literally or metaphorically.
But we do get to choose how we show up when it does.

In the years since that day, I’ve sat in boardrooms, led through a significant organizational shift, helped a team through crisis, while navigating several significant personal challenges simultaneously.  But I’ve never forgotten the lesson from that small psych office:

Crisis doesn’t define your leadership—your response does.

Thank you for being here. If this resonated, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Let’s keep redefining what leadership looks like—especially in the hard moments.

#LeadersOnEdge #AuthenticLeadership #TraumaInformedLeadership #NurseLeadership #Resilience #HealthcareLeadership #LeadershipLessons

I Should Have Known…

Working in adolescent psych, you learn quickly that everything comes to the nurse—whether it's a scraped knuckle, a meltdown, or something no one else quite knows what to do with. The nurse becomes the fixer, the emotional sponge, the “safe one”—at least, that's how it often felt.

He was about fifteen. I remember reviewing his chart during intake and thinking, “He doesn’t seem like one of the troubled ones.” He looked like a kid you’d see in a school hallway—quiet, guarded, too young to carry anything that heavy.

When they brought him down to the office, I happened to be there. He didn’t speak, not a word, but something in his eyes made me pause. There was a quiet chaos behind them. I stood in front of him as he sat on the exam table, trying to connect—nurse to patient, human to human—trying to figure out what he needed.

Then it happened.

Without warning, he leaned over, picked up the small machine used to test hearing, and hurled it at the wall with everything he had. The crash of it hitting the wall wasn’t what made my heart race—it was the silence that followed. I reached for the walkie to call for help, but before I could even speak into it, the chair in the corner came flying toward me.

I didn’t have time to think—just move. I turned quickly, shielding my head, my arms instinctively raising in defense. The angle of my turn saved my upper body, but the chair slammed into my leg. I felt it buckle. Pain shot up and through me, but I stayed standing.

Two male techs rushed in, finally, and helped deescalate. They managed to safely restrain him and remove him from the room.

What came next was a blur—but I remember every detail.

911 is called. The doctor is notified. Papers are signed. And then the sirens. State troopers whirling in. An ambulance. A fire truck. All converging on what had, just moments earlier, been a standard intake.

And then, the part no one prepares you for: the aftermath.

It’s up to me to debrief with the other teens on the unit—some shaken, some wide-eyed, some quietly trying to process what they just witnessed. I check in with my coworkers, who are rattled but trying to stay composed. And then comes the call to the patient’s family, the ones who had just dropped him off for much-needed help. They entrusted him to our care, and within moments, it had all spiraled. What was supposed to be the beginning of healing now felt like betrayal and confusion.

And me? I walked out of that office with a throbbing leg, adrenaline still buzzing through my system, and the weight of what had just happened settling in. By the time I got home that night, the bruises had already started to form—deep purple, aching reminders of a situation that could’ve ended very differently.

I iced my leg. Took some ibuprofen. Told myself it was just part of the job.

But the truth? I should have known.

I should have known this wasn’t sustainable. That this wasn’t normal. That the physical bruises were warning signs—but the emotional ones had already been there.

But I didn’t take the hint. Not then.

The Unwritten Job Descriptions of Leadership

No one ever handed me a leadership manual with a chapter titled: “What to do when someone’s world is falling apart.” Or “How to show up for your team when you haven’t slept.” Or “How to be the glue when everything feels like it’s coming undone.”

But that’s the reality of leadership—not the bullet points on the job posting, but the invisible threads we carry every day.

We step in when it’s inconvenient. We show up when it’s uncomfortable. And we stay long after the scheduled shift is over.

Leadership, I’ve learned, isn’t about having all the answers. It’s about being present when the questions are heavy and the path forward is unclear.

There have been days I’ve covered visits when no one else was available—not because it was in my job description, but because the patients needed care and the team needed to breathe.

There have been late-night texts, early-morning phone calls, and hallway conversations where staff have opened up—not about documentation or metrics—but about divorces, grief, burnout, and fear.

And in those moments, leadership looked like listening. No solutions. No timelines. Just presence.

These aren’t things you learn in orientation. They’re learned in real-time—in the quiet crash courses of crisis, humility, and grace.

I’ve taught myself how to be a sounding board. How to deescalate when tensions are high. How to sit with someone in silence until they’re ready to speak. How to read between the lines of a “I’m fine” and know when to dig deeper.

I’ve learned to hold space for people without trying to fix them. To offer support without overpromising. To be strong, even when I feel stretched thin.

This is the unseen work. The kind that doesn’t get logged or measured. But it’s what shapes a team. It’s what earns trust. It’s what turns coworkers into collaborators—and a job into a mission.

If you’re in leadership—especially in fields like healthcare, human services, or education—you already know: You don’t lead from a desk. You lead from the middle of the mess.

And that’s what makes it meaningful.

Because the truth is, we don’t grow despite the chaos—we grow because of it. And every time we say yes to the parts of leadership no one warned us about, we become stronger. More human. More real. More ready for what’s next.

So here’s to all the self-taught leaders. The ones learning on the fly. The ones showing up when it’s hard. The ones filling roles that never made it onto paper.

You are doing the real work. And even if it’s not written down—it matters more than you know.

When the Work Becomes the Warning: My Wake-Up Call as a Psychiatric Nurse

There are chapters in our professional journey that leave marks too deep to forget. For me, one of those chapters was working as a nurse in adolescent psychiatric care. It was a role I stepped into with purpose, thinking I could be a steady presence in the lives of young people at their most fragile. And for a while, I was. But the toll it took—on my body, mind, and spirit—was far more than I expected.

In that role, I became uncomfortably familiar with crisis. The kind of crisis that doesn’t follow a script. I was on a first-name basis with the state troopers who were routinely called in to deescalate violent outbursts or transport patients in handcuffs when no other options remained. I witnessed the full spectrum of human emotion—rage, heartbreak, hopelessness—all colliding within the walls of a unit that never slept.

The days blurred together under fluorescent lights, the tension always simmering. There were nights when I came home and couldn’t remember the last time I had a meal or drank a glass of water. Anger and despair weren’t just in the air—they were in the eyes of kids who had seen far too much far too young. And sometimes, despite our best efforts, that pain turned outward in violent, heartbreaking ways.

There’s a kind of emotional fatigue that creeps in slowly. You think you’re coping, managing, compartmentalizing. But one day, I realized I was physically sick. Not just tired—sick. My body had been whispering warnings for months that I’d chosen to ignore.

And it hit me—this wasn’t just a hard job. It was a job that was slowly erasing pieces of who I was. The shifts were demanding, the emotional weight relentless, and maintaining any semblance of a normal family life felt impossible. I was giving everything I had to others and had nothing left for myself or the people I loved.

This was especially difficult because I had already burned out once before, in a different role that had taken its own toll on me. I never expected to find myself in that place again. When I started in adolescent psych, I truly believed I had found the right fit—the calling that aligned with my skills, my empathy, and my desire to make a difference. I thought this was the path I was meant to be on. But even amid the exhaustion and heartbreak, I couldn’t stop thinking about my first passion. The purpose I felt in those earliest days of nursing—the moments where the human connection made it all feel worthwhile—kept pulling at me, reminding me there was still something meaningful waiting to be rediscovered.

That was the moment I knew I had to pause. To truly ask myself: Is this sustainable? Is this who I want to be and how I want to live?

Reevaluating didn’t mean I failed—it meant I listened. It meant I gave myself permission to change the direction of my life without abandoning the values that brought me into nursing in the first place. Compassion, advocacy, resilience—they didn’t leave me when I stepped away from that role. If anything, they became stronger.

Today, I still carry the stories of those kids with me. But I also carry the lesson that just because we can endure something, doesn’t mean we should. Sometimes, the bravest thing we can do as caregivers is care for ourselves.

That clarity eventually led me back to hospice care—a space where connection is sacred, presence is powerful, and purpose runs deep. It brought me back to the heart of why I became a nurse in the first place. Now, in my role as a leader, I’m just as passionate about helping caregivers protect their purpose as I am about patient care. Because healing doesn’t only happen at the bedside—it happens when we create systems that support the people doing the work. And it starts by listening to the moment when the work becomes the warning.

From the Pool to the Bedside: A Leadership Journey Across Unlikely Paths

Hello and welcome! I’m excited to introduce my first post on Leaders on The Edge, a space where I’ll be sharing insights, lessons learned, and personal stories that highlight the messy, yet powerful, process of growth

As we all know, personal development isn’t a straight line—it’s filled with setbacks, tough lessons, and moments where grit is the only thing keeping us moving forward. This newsletter will explore not just the "why" behind personal growth, but the "how"—the strategies, the challenges, and the real work that goes into building resilience and strength.

I’ve learned so much along the way, and I’m eager to share what’s been working—both on my own journey and from conversations with others in the field. I hope this newsletter becomes not just a source of knowledge, but also a conversation starter.

Thank you for joining me on this exciting journey. Let’s dive in!

From an early age, I learned the power of self-discipline as an avid swimmer, pushing myself through rigorous practice schedules and understanding the importance of perseverance. However, it wasn’t until college that I realized my priorities were at odds with one another. Swimming on average nine times a week, with its intense physical demands, left little room for pursuing a degree in the healthcare field, something I had always been passionate about. At 17, with little foresight into the long-term consequences, I made the decision to change my major, sacrificing a path in healthcare to continue my swimming career.  Business Management promised an easier academic path, that would allow me to focus my attention on college level swimming. This decision, while seemingly small at the time, marked the beginning of a profound realization: growth and development often come from making difficult, sometimes unexpected choices. Each piece of my journey, whether driven by discipline, passion, or the need to adapt—has shaped who I am today, teaching me that the path to personal and professional development is never linear, but every experience, no matter how different, profoundly impacts the journey

It was this decision that framed the next decade of my life. I quickly realized that while swimming was a passion, it did little to prepare me for a career outside the pool. With a degree in business management—one that held little interest for me and no clear path forward—I found myself in roles that didn’t ignite the spark I was searching for. I worked as a certified nursing assistant, a nanny, and even returned to the swimming world to try my hand at coaching. While each of these roles was fulfilling in its own right, none of them gave me the drive or foundation I needed to truly wake up excited for the day ahead. They weren’t the stepping stones I needed for the career that would eventually propel me into the world of personal development, leadership, and inspiration. It was clear that something was missing, but I didn’t yet know what that something was—until I began to seek out the deeper connection between my work and my personal growth.

Following the birth of my second daughter, I found myself in a period of deep soul-searching. I was nannying for a family with three children, while my own two kids were being cared for by others. Though I was surrounded by the chaos of life, I felt a quiet but persistent sense that something was missing. I didn’t know exactly what I wanted, but I knew that this—what I was doing at that moment—wasn’t it. On a whim, almost without thinking, I reached out to Naugatuck Community College to inquire about their nursing program. It was an unexpected move, but in that moment, I felt a spark of clarity—a desire to change, to find a path that felt more aligned with my own growth and my purpose.

                I jumped headfirst into nursing school, determined to complete my degree as quickly as possible. The fast-paced, demanding environment was a challenge, but I was fueled by a clear sense of purpose and urgency. During this time, I also ventured into the non-profit world for the first time, and it was here that I truly found a deeper sense of meaning in my work. Being part of an organization dedicated to serving others gave me a profound sense of fulfillment. We weren’t just providing services; we were doing so with the intention of making a difference, contributing to something much bigger than ourselves. It was in these moments that I realized I had found a career that aligned with my values and ignited my passion for serving others.

                Of course, things could not be that simple. It was during nursing school that I stumbled upon my true passion: end-of-life care. One day, I visited an inpatient hospice center near the college, and something shifted inside me. The quiet, compassionate environment, the care provided to both patients and their families—it all resonated deeply with me. I knew, without a doubt, that this was the direction I needed to pursue. It wasn’t just a career; it was a calling. That visit affirmed my desire to specialize in hospice nursing, and from that moment on, I was determined to pursue it immediately after graduation.

My initial role in hospice care, while not aligning perfectly with my personal expectations, became the crucial stepping stone that grounded my transition both as a clinician and as a leader. In truth, it wasn’t just not ideal—it broke me. The emotional toll of the work, combined with the weight of my responsibilities, was overwhelming. I left hospice thinking I had made a huge mistake. I questioned whether I had any business in this field, and I certainly felt unqualified to take on a leadership role. Doubts clouded my confidence, and for a while, I felt disconnected from the very purpose that had drawn me to hospice care in the first place. But looking back, I realize that this experience, while painful, was necessary. It challenged me to confront my fears, understand my limitations, and ultimately gave me the resilience to grow into the clinician and leader I would become.

Much like a tightrope walker balancing on a thin line, healthcare providers are constantly walking the precarious path between navigating crushing financial pressures and ensuring the well-being of vulnerable populations. While the weight of cost-cutting measures can strain resources and compromise care, the true cost is measured not just in dollars, but in the health outcomes of those who rely on the system most.

I left hospice. I left leadership. I needed a change, and in an unexpected twist, I took on a role in adolescent psychiatry of all things. It was a complete departure from what I had known, but during this time, I began to reframe my thinking. I realized that while I still wasn’t satisfied in my career, I needed a fresh perspective and the courage to move forward. Even though I was in a completely different field, I continued to browse job postings, searching for something that could reignite my passion. One day, I came across a hospice case manager role. It was intriguing. The agency had received positive feedback, and I was looking for a fresh start. Yet, I still clung to the negative stories I’d heard before—doubts that held me back. But one day, I made the leap. That leap would ultimately catapult my career trajectory, bringing me back to the very field I had once left, and landing me where I am today—a place of purpose, leadership, and passion for hospice care.