A Coach, A Chapter, A Complicated Gratitude

Today I learned of the sudden passing of someone widely regarded as a cornerstone of the college swimming community.

His legacy is expansive. His influence undeniable.

But for me, it lives in one narrow, unforgettable chapter of my story.

The year and a half I spent at that university remains one of the most complicated seasons of my life. When I look back, I don’t feel just one thing. I feel many. Sadness. Pride. Regret. Gratitude. Confusion. Strength. All layered together.

The news of his passing didn’t simply make me mourn — it unlocked memories. Both good and hard. Memories that had quietly settled over time, suddenly rising to the surface.

I arrived at college barely eighteen. Young. Driven. Immature in ways I couldn’t see yet. Swimming had always been the place I felt most certain of myself. It consumed my days — nine swim practices a week, three days in the weight room, competitions on weekends. If I wasn’t in class, I was in the pool. If I wasn’t in the pool, I was thinking about it.

When it became clear that nursing school and Division II athletics were going to collide, I made a decision that changed the trajectory of my early career. It felt easier to change my major than to step away from the one thing that had always defined me.

So I swam harder.

I hyper-focused. I poured everything into one piece of my life. I swam until I physically couldn’t continue — and then I swam some more. Meanwhile, other parts of my life quietly slipped behind. Academics. Balance. Perspective.

Despite giving everything to the sport, I thought about quitting constantly.

That was my first real experience with emotional contradiction — wanting something deeply while simultaneously wanting to run from it. I didn’t have the language for that at eighteen. I only had instinct. And eventually, I walked away.

On paper, I had potential. All-American. High expectations. Spotlight. The team was strong. The reputation mattered. The standard was excellence.

And our coach demanded it.

He was not gentle. He was not soft. He was not affirming in the ways we often celebrate today. He was intense. Loud. Abrasive at times. He pushed without apology. He expected perfection and rarely accepted excuses.

I struggled under that weight.

Where some leaned into the pressure and sharpened, I shrank. I internalized. I didn’t know how to articulate what I was feeling, so I absorbed it. And eventually, instead of facing the discomfort, I ran.

For a long time, I carried that season as something that broke me.

But time has a way of reframing things.

I can see now that even in the breaking, something was being built. Resilience. Endurance. The understanding that I do not respond well to fear-based pressure — but I do respond to challenge when it is anchored in belief. The realization that leadership style matters deeply. That intensity without attunement can fracture some and fuel others.

He pushed me to my limits.

And while the process was painful, it laid a foundation. Not for the swimmer I might have been — but for the leader I would become.

The dichotomy is real. I can acknowledge that the experience was hard — even too hard at times — while also honoring that it shaped me in ways I could not have understood then.

When I see the tributes shared by former teammates and athletes whose lives he profoundly impacted, I don’t feel disconnected from that. His impact on me was profound too.

Just different.

Growth is rarely clean. Neither are the people who help create it in us.

Today, I don’t sit in resentment. I sit in reflection.

I am grateful for the strength that season carved into me. Grateful for the lessons in pressure, identity, and resilience. Grateful that even in the moments I felt broken, something inside me was still forming.

Rest peacefully, Coach.

Your chapter in my story was complicated — but it mattered.

And it helped make me who I am.

When My Past Won’t Stay in the Past

There are moments when life stops feeling linear.

When your past, your present, and your future all seem to occupy the same breath.

That’s where I am right now.

Every time I start to feel like I’m finding my footing in the present — every time I begin to imagine a future that feels steady, hopeful, and real — my past seems to come rushing back like a wave. It doesn’t knock gently. It crashes. And in the middle of ordinary, unexpected moments, I’m suddenly pulled into a kind of grief that feels catastrophic in its intensity, as if something inside me is drowning.

I am caring for someone who is deeply loved by my husband — someone I hadn’t known long before this — yet somehow I now find myself standing in one of the most intimate roles a human being can hold. To sit beside someone at the end of their life. To tend. To witness. To help carry them through a sacred threshold.

And layered on top of that… I am doing it in the presence of people who once meant everything to me.

The clinicians who come into this home — the steady hands, the quiet voices, the gentle guidance — are the very people I used to lead, work beside, and hold close to my heart. They are no longer mine. And yet here they are, walking with me through this moment, guiding me now in a way that feels both beautiful and shattering.

I don’t know why this is breaking me the way it is.

But hospice has always lived somewhere deeper than logic in my soul.

There is something profoundly sacred about being allowed into the final chapter of someone’s story. About slowing down enough to honor breath, touch, and presence when the rest of the world keeps racing. About knowing that what you are offering is not something you can quantify — only feel.

Being here, doing this, has filled something in me I didn’t realize was empty.

And at the same time, it is opening old wounds I thought had already healed.

My two worlds — the one that shaped me, and the one I am becoming — are colliding inside this quiet home. The past. The present. The future. All pressed into the same fragile space.

I feel peace.

I feel grief.

I feel purpose.

I feel pain.

All at once.

I don’t yet know what any of it means.

I only know that this moment is asking me to stand in the middle of it — not to solve it, not to make sense of it — but simply to feel it.

And maybe that, too, is part of what it means to care. 💜

When the Spark No Longer Felt Dangerous

There was a season where grief occupied almost every corner of me.

I could still function. I could still lead. I could still show up with purpose and momentum. But underneath it all, grief was the dominant frequency — shaping how I saw the world, how I held my body, how I imagined the future. Even my growth was born inside it. Motivation and mourning lived side by side, inseparable. I didn’t know how to have one without the other.

And then—something changed.

Not dramatically. Not all at once. But in a way that was undeniable. Almost like a heartbeat.

I felt the spark again.

It wasn’t forced optimism or a decision to “move on.” It was a quiet internal recognition: I’m still here. Not just surviving. Not just pushing forward out of obligation. But alive. Curious. Oriented toward what’s next in a way that felt natural instead of strained.

For the first time in a long time, grief wasn’t leading the conversation. It was still present—but it had softened. It had moved out of the foreground of my every day. And in that space, excitement returned. Not reckless excitement. Grounded excitement. The kind that comes when you reconnect with who you actually are beneath the weight of loss.

This season I’m in now feels different because it’s honest. I’m no longer trying to separate the past from the present or pretend that grief didn’t shape me. It did. Deeply. But it doesn’t get to define me anymore.

There’s an in-between space that so many of us get stuck in—looking toward the future while still grieving the past. It’s complex. Tender. Easy to misunderstand. We tell ourselves we should be “over it” by now, or that hope somehow invalidates what we’ve lost. But that’s not how healing works.

The present deserves acknowledgment. The past deserves respect. And growth requires room for both.

What shifted for me wasn’t the disappearance of grief—it was my relationship to it. I stopped trying to outrun it. I stopped treating it like something I needed to conquer. I learned how to hold it without letting it hold me.

And in doing that, I came back to myself.

Not the version of me from before the loss—but a truer one. More self-aware. More emotionally fluent. More grounded in my own nervous system. Able to sit with feelings, name them, and still move forward with clarity and confidence.

I’ve written before about how last year held some of the hardest moments of my life alongside some of the most meaningful. Today, I can say this with certainty: I’m back in that space of forward energy. The belief in what’s possible has returned. The excitement about what I’m building—personally and professionally—feels real again.

If you’re in a season where grief is all you can see right now, I want you to know this: the spark doesn’t disappear forever. Sometimes it’s just waiting for enough safety, honesty, and space to return.

And when it does, you’ll recognize it.

Because it feels like coming home.

When Confidence Cracks — And Why I’m Grateful It Did

Lately, I’ve been working closely with a lot of very new hospice nurses.

And I have to say—there is something about this season of my work that fills me with deep gratitude. Not because I have all the answers, but because I remember exactly what it feels like to not have them.

I’ve written before about my leap from inpatient hospice to hospice case management, but the memory feels especially alive right now.

In the inpatient unit, I was confident.

I had seen the worst of the worst—patients who were so sick they could no longer be cared for safely or comfortably at home. Crisis was familiar. Intensity was normal. I knew how to move in those moments.

So when I stepped into case management, I thought, I’ve got this.

These were the “stable” hospice patients.

The ones at home.

The ones everyone talks about as manageable.

In my mind, this would be easier.

And for a moment, I believed it was.

Until I didn’t.

When that confidence cracked, my world shattered.

I went from feeling like I was excelling to feeling like I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. The shift was sudden and disorienting. I cried—and not just occasionally. I cried daily.

Some days, the despair was so heavy that I would call my old boss from the inpatient unit and beg her to let me come back.

“I made a mistake,” I kept saying.

“I’m not cut out for this.”

“I should never have left.”

She listened.

And she was kind—but not the kind of kind that rescues you.

She was the kind of kind that holds the line.

It would have been easy for her to take me back.

It would have benefited her.

It would have felt like relief for me.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she pushed me—just far enough.

Far enough that I struggled.

Far enough that I floundered.

Far enough that I cried and questioned myself and truly believed I had failed.

But what I couldn’t see then was that I was growing.

That moment—the one I thought was a mistake—became a cornerstone.

Because of it, I became the leader I choose to be today.

The leader who will look you in the eye and tell you what you need to hear, not just what feels comforting in the moment.

And the leader who will stand right beside you, holding you steady, when I believe in you more than you can believe in yourself.

Working with new hospice nurses now, I see echoes of myself everywhere—in the doubt, the overwhelm, the quiet fear of not being enough.

And every time I do, I feel grateful.

Grateful that someone once believed in me enough not to pull me back to safety.

Grateful that my confidence cracked—so something stronger could take its place.

Coach Up or Coach Out Isn’t Leadership

Why Nurturing Strength and Coaching Through Flaws Builds Better Humans—and Better Teams

Somewhere along the way, leadership adopted a phrase that sounds efficient but feels hollow:

Coach up or coach out.

It’s often said with confidence. As if it’s bold. Decisive. Strong leadership.

But every time I hear it, something in me tightens.

Because leadership—real leadership—has never been that clean.

And people are not checklists you either fix or discard.

The Problem With “Up or Out”

“Coach up or coach out” assumes something dangerous:

That performance is a permanent state.

That if someone struggles, it’s because they can’t do the job—

not because they’re human.

But I’ve watched incredible people falter during:

• Leadership transitions

• Personal loss

• Burnout

• Moments where confidence quietly eroded

And I’ve watched those same people rise again when someone chose to stay.

When leaders jump too quickly to “out,” they miss what’s actually happening.

Most of the time, it isn’t inability.

It’s misalignment.

It’s overwhelm.

It’s a nervous system under pressure.

What We Lose When We Default to “Out”

Here’s the part that doesn’t get talked about enough.

When teams see people removed the moment they struggle, they learn one thing fast:

Don’t let anyone see you wobble.

So they stop asking for help.

They hide mistakes.

They perform instead of grow.

And suddenly, the team looks “strong” on the surface—

but underneath, it’s brittle.

Compliance replaces curiosity.

Silence replaces honesty.

That’s not excellence.

That’s fear wearing a productivity mask.

Weakness Isn’t Failure. It’s Information.

Every leader I respect has flaws.

Every high performer I know has edges.

Yet we’ve somehow decided that weakness disqualifies someone from belonging.

But what if weaknesses are simply signals?

Not warnings to exit—but invitations to coach.

Some people don’t need to be removed.

They need:

• Clearer expectations

• Better role alignment

• Psychological safety

• Time to rebuild confidence

And yes—sometimes they need accountability.

But accountability doesn’t have to mean abandonment.

The Leadership Model I Believe In

I believe in nurturing strength and coaching through flaws.

Not because it’s easier.

Because it’s harder.

It requires patience.

Presence.

And the willingness to sit in discomfort instead of taking the fastest exit.

It means saying:

• This is where you’re strong—let’s lead from there.

• This gap matters, and I’m not ignoring it.

• If I believe you can grow, I’m willing to walk with you while you do.

This isn’t lowering the bar.

It’s teaching people how to reach it.

Especially in Healthcare

In hospice.

In nursing.

In caregiving leadership.

People are carrying grief—sometimes silently.

Emotional labor is constant.

Burnout doesn’t announce itself politely.

A system that discards people for struggling doesn’t create better care.

It creates exhaustion.

Turnover.

And a quiet loss of compassion.

We don’t need leaders who are faster at cutting people loose.

We need leaders who know how to hold people steady while they find their footing again.

The Truth We Avoid

“Coach up or coach out” often isn’t about performance.

It’s about leadership discomfort.

It’s easier to remove someone than to invest in:

• Hard conversations

• Imperfect progress

• Human growth

But leadership was never meant to be easy.

It was meant to be responsible.

My Edge

I don’t believe people are disposable.

I believe in strength.

In growth.

In coaching that sees the whole person.

And I believe that when we stop leading from fear—and start leading from steadiness—we don’t just build better teams.

We build better humans.

That’s the edge I stand on.

A Soft Landing, Revisited

Not long after stepping into a new role, someone said something small to me.

It wasn’t unkind.
It wasn’t inappropriate.
It wasn’t even meant to carry weight.

But it did.

The words themselves weren’t the issue — it was what they pulled forward. A version of me I had already outgrown. A role I had worked hard to release. An identity that no longer fit the work I was doing or the leader I was becoming.

I remember being surprised by how emotional I felt. Embarrassed, even. The reaction felt bigger than the moment warranted, and yet I couldn’t shake it. I wrote about it then — about how something so minor had cracked something open in the earliest days of my transition.

At the time, I assumed it was just part of the adjustment. A tender spot I hadn’t known was still there.

I didn’t realize it was the beginning of a pattern.

Transitions Leave Us More Exposed Than We Admit

When we change roles, we don’t just change titles.

We change posture.
We change how we are seen.
We change how we see ourselves.

There is a quiet vulnerability in that in-between space — where you are no longer who you were, but not yet fully settled into who you are becoming. In that space, even the smallest moments can feel amplified.

I had just stepped into something new. I was still orienting — not just to the work, but to the weight of it. And without realizing it, I was craving something I hadn’t yet named:

A soft landing.

Recently, I found myself using that phrase while talking with a nurse.

“It would be a soft landing.”

It came out easily — instinctively — because by then, I understood exactly what it meant. We spoke briefly about change. About how vulnerable transitions can be. About how important it is to feel steady before being expected to sprint.

The conversation ended.
The day moved on.

And then later — quietly, almost offhand — that same person spoke again.

This time, it wasn’t new language.
It was the same words.

The same words that had been spoken weeks earlier, in the fragile early days of my transition. Words that had once landed without warning — touching something raw, unfinished, and still searching for footing.

Back then, they almost shattered me.

Not because of intent.
Not because of harm.
But because I hadn’t landed yet.

Six weeks later, after acknowledging the importance of soft landings aloud, those same words returned.

Same words.
Different moment.

But this time, something had shifted.

The words didn’t knock the wind out of me. They didn’t pull me backward. Instead, they marked the distance I had traveled in a short time. What once destabilized me now grounded me.

Not because the words had changed —
but because I had.

That was the full circle.

When the Moment Isn’t the Point

By then, I knew better than to focus on the surface.

This was never about what was said.
It was about what happens when we don’t fully land.

When parts of our old identity remain reachable.
When our nervous system hasn’t caught up to our new reality.
When we are leading — but still orienting.

These are the moments when small things feel heavy. Not because they are, but because they brush up against something unsettled.

A Soft Landing Isn’t About Ease

A soft landing isn’t about comfort or avoidance.

It’s about safety during transition.

It’s about having enough grounding to release the old version of yourself without being pulled backward. Enough space to integrate who you’ve been with who you are becoming — without being jolted by reminders you didn’t ask for.

When people don’t get that space, the emotion finds another way out. Often through moments that seem too small to explain their weight.

Especially in Healthcare, This Matters

In healthcare, we move people fast.

We expect competence immediately.
We reward endurance.
We call survival resilience.

But when we deny soft landings, we don’t create stronger teams — we create quieter burnout. Leaders who stop asking questions. Clinicians who carry fear into their work.

A soft landing isn’t indulgent.
It’s protective.

For people.
For patients.
For the work itself.

I Had Landed

That moment — the return of the same words — showed me something I hadn’t realized yet.

I had landed.

Not perfectly. Not permanently. But enough.

Enough that an old echo no longer had the power to unseat me. Enough that what once shook me now simply reminded me of how far I’d come.

And maybe that’s the quiet power of a soft landing:

It doesn’t just protect us at the beginning.
It prepares us for the moment the past tries to call us back.

Roots Before Edge

You cannot lead well if you are bracing for impact.
And you cannot grow if you never had space to land.

Before edge comes roots.
Before speed comes steadiness.
Before proving comes grounding.

Sometimes leadership isn’t about pushing forward.

Sometimes it’s about noticing when you’re finally standing

On the Edge of What’s Next

Somewhere in 2024, I was officially diagnosed with ADHD.

I’m not sure if I’ve ever said that out loud here — but naming it matters. Not because it changed who I am, but because it finally explained how I move through the world.

Impulsivity.
A deep desire for momentum.
An almost physical discomfort with stagnation.
A pull toward instant gratification — not out of immaturity, but out of urgency.

These traits haven’t disappeared with age. And honestly? I don’t want them to.

What I’ve learned is that many of the qualities I once tried to suppress are the very things that fuel my leadership, creativity, and vision. ADHD isn’t something I’m “working around” — it’s something I’m learning to work with. And that shift alone has been critical to my growth.

How Leaders on Edge Began

This year, Leaders on Edge started as a blog. Nothing more than a space to tell the truth — about leadership, about healthcare, about the moments that shape us both professionally and personally.

Stories from the field.
Lessons learned the hard way.
Reflections I wish someone had shared with me earlier.

As the year unfolded — and as both personal and professional shifts reshaped my world — Leaders on Edge began to evolve. What started as storytelling became something deeper: a philosophy.

I’ve said this many times, and I’ll keep saying it:

Compliance metrics and people are not mutually exclusive.

In healthcare, we tend to treat three essential elements as if they compete with one another:

• Compliance

• People

• Financial sustainability

But the truth is — all three must coexist to form a healthy, functioning agency.

And yet, the people piece is the one most often overlooked.

When that happens, the impact doesn’t stop with staff morale. It ripples outward — affecting patient care, outcomes, culture, and ultimately the very metrics organizations claim to value most.

I believe in a world where all three are in balance.
That belief is what has catapulted Leaders on Edge into what it is becoming.

Roots. Edge. And the Reality of Time

Now, back to the ADHD — because it’s relevant here.

I’m currently in the midst of building a comprehensive online course centered on my Roots & Edge leadership framework. It’s deep, reflective, and designed for leaders who want more than surface-level tactics.

But I also have:

• A full-time leadership role

• A full-time family

• And a very real human capacity

Progress hasn’t moved as fast as my impatience would like.

And instead of forcing something unfinished into the world, I chose a different path.

I’m preparing a mini-course — one that focuses on three core focal points of Roots & Edge. Something intentional. Accessible. Grounded. A place to begin, not a shortcut to the finish line.

That decision, in itself, is leadership growth.

This Year Was Hard. And It Was Good.

2025 stretched me.

It challenged my assumptions.
It tested my patience.
It required me to slow down in ways that felt deeply uncomfortable.

And it also clarified my purpose.

When I look ahead, I see possibility — not because everything is perfect, but because the vision is clearer than it’s ever been.

I believe this with my whole being:

You do not need to sacrifice compliance to maintain relationships.
You do not need to sacrifice financial health to retain good people.
And metrics alone will never tell the full story.

Numbers are meaningless without the humans producing them.

Stepping Into 2026

In this coming year, you’ll see more of me — in different capacities, through different platforms, and with deeper intention.

My goal isn’t visibility for visibility’s sake.
It’s impact.

If I can help leaders avoid even a fraction of the pain I experienced on the way to growth — then every hard moment becomes worth it.

This isn’t about having it all at once.
It’s about building something sustainable, human, and real.

And that’s exactly what I’m bringing with me into 2026.

The Lesson I Almost Missed Because I Was in a Hurry

This week, I started a new audiobook series.

I had purchased it intentionally—drawn in by the promise of insight, growth, and clarity. I pressed play expecting direction. Frameworks. Tools. The meat. I wanted something I could apply immediately, something that would grab my busy, racing mind and give it something solid to hold onto.

Instead, within the first forty-five minutes, I found myself frustrated.

The focus was on centering your mind. Slowing down. Being present. Meditation woven into the early chapters. And while I genuinely appreciate guided meditation—normally, I love it—this time felt different. This time, my mind rejected it.

I remember thinking: This isn’t what I came here for.

I didn’t want to be told how to breathe.

I didn’t want to hear about grounding myself.

I wanted instructions. Action. Tangible steps.

Tell me what to do. Tell me how to fix it. Tell me how to move forward.

So I did what I tend to do when something doesn’t immediately give me what I think I need.

I set it aside.

Later that night, I was lying in bed—exhausted but wired. My body tired, my mind running at a million miles an hour, replaying conversations, responsibilities, ideas, worries. The familiar restlessness that comes when the world quiets but my thoughts refuse to follow.

I put on one of my go-to guided meditations. The kind I’ve used dozens of times. Usually reliable. Usually grounding.

But this time, I couldn’t stay with it.

I kept restarting it.

Rewinding.

Trying again.

My thoughts wandered almost immediately—jumping ahead, drifting sideways, refusing to settle. And somewhere between the third and fourth restart, my mind drifted back to that audiobook.

The one I had dismissed.

The one that annoyed me.

The one that talked about staying present in the simplest of tasks.

I am going to the grocery store.

I am walking into the produce section.

I am picking up the apples.

I remember rolling my eyes at that part when I first heard it.

I know what I’m doing, I had thought.

I don’t need to narrate my life.

But there it was—suddenly unmistakable.

The very thing I claimed I didn’t need…

Was the very thing I couldn’t do.

I couldn’t stay present in a meditation for more than a few seconds.

I couldn’t keep my mind anchored in the moment.

I couldn’t slow down long enough to let my body catch up with my brain.

And that’s when it hit me.

The book didn’t lack substance.

It didn’t lack direction.

It didn’t lack value.

It lacked my willingness to slow down.

I had been so focused on finding the meat and potatoes—the action steps, the productivity, the forward motion—that I missed the foundation entirely.

Presence.

Stillness.

Intentional attention.

The work I wanted to rush past was the work I actually needed most.

And if I’m being honest, that realization was uncomfortable.

Because slowing down feels counterintuitive when you’re used to carrying a lot.

When you’re responsible.

When you’re leading.

When you’re building.

When your mind is always ten steps ahead.

Stillness can feel like wasted time.

Presence can feel unproductive.

And centering yourself can feel like a luxury you don’t have room for.

But maybe that’s the lie we tell ourselves.

Maybe slowing down isn’t a pause from the work.

Maybe it is the work.

That night, I didn’t restart the meditation again.

I let it play.

I let my thoughts come and go.

And I allowed myself to sit with the truth I had been resisting.

I wasn’t ready for the book because I wasn’t ready to stop running.

And that awareness—quiet, humbling, and grounding—was more impactful than any checklist or directive I could have been given.

Sometimes growth doesn’t arrive as a breakthrough.

Sometimes it arrives as a mirror.

And sometimes the lesson we’re desperate to skip…

Is the one that holds everything we’ve been searching for.

The Day I Started Becoming the Leader I Didn’t Know I Was Yet

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about leadership styles—how personal they are, how often they evolve without us noticing, and how they’re rarely shaped by formal training alone.

When I look back at my own leadership journey, I can clearly see that so much of who I am as a leader wasn’t built in meetings or manuals. It was built in moments:
moments where I was pushed, stretched, humbled, or unexpectedly called forward.

The truth is, my leadership style emerged long before I felt ready for anything that resembled leadership.

In fact, when I stepped into that first leadership role, I was barely convinced I had fully mastered being a case manager.
There were days I still questioned myself.

There were times I felt like I was barely keeping up.
And honestly?
Sometimes I wondered if I had made a stupid decision jumping into leadership before I had fully found my footing.

But somebody—somewhere—saw something in me.
Something I didn’t see in myself yet.
And that push, that belief, that nudge into the unknown became the foundation of everything that came next.

One of the earliest moments that shaped my leadership happened not long after I took the role, at a time when I still felt like I was walking around in shoes a size too big.

A Visit I Still Remember

In those early days, I was still carrying a small caseload. I wasn’t ready to let go of fieldwork, and honestly, fieldwork wasn’t ready to let go of me.

One patient in particular—a young person not much older than me—had become a quiet anchor in my week. Their family was kind, emotionally open, and deeply trusting. I wanted to do right by them in every way.

But that morning, I knew something had changed the moment I entered the home.
The decline was sudden.
The air was heavy.
The family was holding themselves together with thin thread.

I did everything I could clinically and emotionally.
I explained.
I supported.
I tried to stay steady.

But somewhere in the middle of that visit, the human part of the work hit harder than the clinical part. And I felt myself break open.

I cried.

It was the first time I ever cried in front of a family, and that moment felt both terrifying and honest.
They didn’t question my professionalism.
They thanked me for caring.

Their compassion in that moment said more about this field—and the weight of it—than any textbook ever could.

I left that home drained, with a lump in my throat and the kind of emotional exhaustion that sits in your bones.

And that’s when my phone started buzzing.

From One Emotional Storm Straight Into Another

Before I could process the visit, I was pulled back into the reality of leadership.

Multiple messages.
Multiple problems.
A team unraveling.

We were short-staffed for the day.
A new clinician was overwhelmed after making a documentation mistake.
Two team members were frustrated with each other.
A family was upset and asking for a supervisor.
And the schedule was already a logistical disaster.

I was barely hanging on emotionally myself, and now I was being looked at as the person who was supposed to hold everything and everyone else together.

I walked into the office to a room full of tension—people frustrated, venting, spiraling.
People I had worked beside for years were now turning toward me with expectation.

Inside, I was thinking,
I’m not ready for this. I barely know how to do my own job some days. Why did I think I could lead anyone?

But here’s the thing about leadership:
It doesn’t wait for your confidence to catch up.
It demands that you step in before you feel prepared.

Choosing Calm When I Didn’t Feel It

I felt raw from the morning visit.
I felt inadequate stepping into this role.
And yet, the room needed something—something steady.

So I took a breath and said,
“Everyone, let’s pause for a minute.”

It wasn’t commanding.
It wasn’t forceful.
It was grounding.

The room quieted.

And that moment taught me one of the most important lessons of my career:
Leadership begins the second you regulate the room, not the second you solve the problem.

We slowed down enough to think:

✔ Who had the emotional bandwidth for which visits?
✔ Who needed a moment to step back?
✔ How could we divide the work realistically—not perfectly?
✔ What could wait until tomorrow?
✔ What needed compassion, not correction?

I took visits myself.
I called families.
I filled in gaps.
And I helped my team stabilize piece by piece.

By the afternoon, things were still busy—but the panic had eased.
People were breathing again.
People were focused.
People felt supported.

One of the nurses said quietly,
“I don’t know how you stayed calm.”

If only she had known how unsteady I actually felt inside.

The Turning Point I Didn’t See Coming

I stayed after everyone left, sitting in the quiet office, realizing that something important had happened.

Not only had I made it through the day—
I had led through it.

Me.
The person who still doubted whether she’d mastered being a case manager.
The person who sometimes questioned whether she’d jumped too soon.
The person who had cried in her car just hours earlier.

And yet, somebody had once seen something in me.
And here, in this moment, I finally began to understand what they saw.

Leadership isn’t about being fully ready.
It’s about being willing.
It’s about stepping into the role when the room needs you—even when you doubt yourself the most.

And while this was one of those moments that shaped me in a powerful way, I’ve had just as many moments that shaped me through failure.
Moments where my response was not what it should have been.
Moments where I didn’t regulate the room, didn’t ground myself first, didn’t rise in the way I hoped I would.

Those stories matter too.
They are just harder to tell.
But they are just as powerful—because they shaped the same leader, just through a different doorway.
And I’ll tell those stories too.
Because growth doesn’t only come from the moments we got right.
Often, it comes from the moments we didn’t.

Looking back now, I can see that this day—along with the failures that followed—shaped the leader I am today.

Not from confidence, but from humanity.
Not from certainty, but from showing up anyway.
Not from perfection, but from presence.

These moments—the emotional, messy, unexpected ones—refined me.
They made me the kind of leader who can anchor a storm, even when I still feel the waves inside.

The Year That Reshaped Me

This year wasn’t what I expected.

Last year at this time, I felt like I was finally arriving. Personally. Professionally. In my confidence. In my calling. I was stepping into the life I had worked incredibly hard to build — and I genuinely believed the hardest parts were behind me.

Then everything shifted.

This year brought me to my knees in ways I didn’t see coming. It tested my identity — both as a leader and as a mother. I found myself in a storm of decisions, pressure, judgment, and massive change. There were days I sat in my car, forehead against the steering wheel, gathering every piece of strength I had just to walk in and keep leading.

And somewhere in the chaos, grief found new territory inside me.

But here’s what’s true today:

I am still standing.
Maybe not in the same place I once was,
but in a place I fought to grow into.

Grief Doesn’t Just Live in the Past — Sometimes It Shows Up in the Present

Grief didn’t only show up for the people I’ve lost.
It showed up for the life I thought I’d have.

And most painfully, it showed up in motherhood.

Watching Maddie navigate her own struggles this year — feeling her pain, her fear, her uncertainty — forced me into a level of vulnerability I wasn’t prepared for. There is a unique ache that comes from wanting to fix everything for your child and realizing you can’t.

You can advocate.
You can love fiercely.
You can show up.
But you can’t shield them from life.

There were nights I tossed and turned, praying she would feel the strength I see in her. There were moments when guilt swallowed me whole — wondering if my own stress, absence, or exhaustion played a role in her battles.

Being a mother while breaking inside is a specific kind of courage.

And yet… in the midst of all of it, I watched her rise.
And in her rising, I found reasons to rise too.

The Professional Loss That Became a Turning Point

This year also pushed me to make a career shift I never wanted but desperately needed.

I love hospice. I always have. But I started to feel that my values and my workplace weren’t aligned anymore. That the kind of leader I want to be wasn’t welcome in a system prioritizing the wrong things. And the cost of staying was becoming too high for my mental health, my family, and my integrity.

Leaving, recalibrating, and rebuilding professionally has been one of the hardest pivots of my life.

When leadership is your identity, stepping away feels like failure — even when it’s the most courageous thing you can do.

But that decision created space for something new…

What Grew Out of the Hard Stuff

Two things emerged from this difficult year:

✨ Leaders on Edge —
born from my desire to help leaders lead like humans — not robots programmed for “productivity.”

✨ Roots & Edge —
born from the truth that hospice workers deserve the same compassion they give every day.

These weren’t born from victory.

They were born from reality.
From seeing the cracks in the system and refusing to look away.

They are the result of choosing to build what I needed when I felt most alone.

Rising Anyway

This year taught me that grief and growth are not opposites — they are companions.

I can be proud of myself and also still healing.
I can love hospice deeply and also fight to change it.
I can be strong for my daughter and also fall apart at the end of the day.
I can leave spaces that no longer fit while building new ones that do.

So here’s my truth:

I am rising not because life got easier,
but because I got braver.

If you’ve had a year like mine — full of complexity, heartbreak, rebuilding, and unexpected transformation — I see you.

We are not who we were twelve months ago.
We are someone stronger.
Someone wiser.
Someone more aligned with who we’re meant to become.

And the year that nearly broke us?
Might just be the year that built us.

Here’s to stepping into the next chapter with shaky hands but a steady heart.

— Katie 🖤
For Maddie.
For the daughter who reminds me every day why I keep becoming better.

Burn the Bridge: The Outdated Leadership Advice Holding Us Back

For decades, workplaces have been shaped by a collection of old-school mantras—phrases passed down like unquestioned gospel, repeated so often that no one ever stopped to ask whether they made sense anymore. “Don’t burn bridges.” “Stay in your lane.” “Pay your dues.” “Just keep your head down.” “It’s business, not personal.”

But here’s the truth:

The modern workplace has changed. Humanity has shifted. Leadership has evolved. And many of these mantras are now not only outdated—they’re actively harmful.

Today’s teams crave authenticity, transparency, collaboration, and psychological safety. They want leadership that is grounded and human, not rigid and performative. And as a leader who has watched culture shift in real time—through growth, conflict, grief, reinvention, and everything in between—I can confidently say:

Some bridges should burn.
Some lanes must be crossed.
Some dues were never ours to pay.
And “just keeping your head down” is how people lose themselves.

Let’s break down the mantras we’ve outgrown—and what leadership looks like now.

1. “Don’t Burn Bridges.”

The old wisdom: Stay neutral, stay quiet, stay agreeable—no matter how poorly you’re treated.
The real wisdom:
Why maintain a bridge that led to harm, toxicity, or misalignment?

Today’s leaders understand that boundaries matter. Integrity matters. Culture matters. Protecting yourself is not unprofessional—it’s strategic. Some bridges end because they were never meant to carry the weight of your growth.

A burnt bridge doesn’t mean you failed.

It means you walked away from something that already failed you.

2. “Stay in Your Lane.”

Translation: Don’t speak up. Don’t innovate. Don’t question norms.

But the most transformative ideas in any organization come from people who don’t stay confined to the lane assigned to them.

Today’s environment demands:

• Cross-functional collaboration

• Curiosity

• Initiative

• New perspectives

• “Staying in your lane” is how organizations stagnate.

Stepping into the unknown” is how leaders emerge.

3. “Pay Your Dues.”

This mantra once served as a justification for inequity:
“Because I suffered, you should too.”

Modern leadership rejects that mindset.
We now understand:

• Talent matters more than tenure

• Opportunities shouldn’t be earned through burnout

• Mentorship beats gatekeeping

• Growth should be supported, not withheld

The goal is not to recreate the hardships of the past—it’s to build workplaces where no one has to survive the very things that almost broke us.

4. “It’s Business, Not Personal.”

Everything about leadership is personal.
How you communicate.
How you show up.
How you respond under pressure.
How you treat human beings.

We’ve learned that people don’t leave jobs—they leave cultures.
And cultures are built from deeply personal interactions and decisions.

When we pretend emotions don’t exist, we create environments where people don’t speak up, don’t feel safe, and don’t trust leadership.
Today’s leaders understand that being human at work isn’t a weakness—it’s a competitive advantage.

5. “Keep Your Head Down and Work Hard.”

The modern translation:
Stay invisible. Don’t advocate for yourself. Accept whatever comes.

But visibility matters.
Voice matters.

Self-advocacy matters.
Hard work alone is no longer enough—not when organizations reward presence, communication, and impact.

Today’s leaders encourage people to look up, speak up, and show up fully.
Because your head down means your potential stays down with it.

6. “Good Leaders Are Always in Control.”

Control used to equal strength.
Now?
It equals disconnection.

Today we know:

• Vulnerability builds trust

• Transparency builds culture

• Admitting you’re learning builds credibility

• Collaboration beats hierarchy every time

Modern leadership is less about controlling and more about co-creating.

7. “Leave Your Personal Life at the Door.”

Impossible.
We are whole humans—grief, stress, joy, family, dreams, and fears all included.

As a leader, I’ve seen firsthand how life follows people to work. Pretending it doesn’t exist is how burnout festers unnoticed.
Compassionate leadership requires space for humanity.

We don’t need leaders who ignore the human behind the badge.
We need leaders who see them.

So What Replaces These Outdated Mantras?

Today’s working world calls for a different kind of wisdom:

• Protect your peace more than your connections.

• Say the hard thing when it’s the right thing.

• Cross the lane if your integrity lives elsewhere.

• Grow out loud. Advocate boldly.

• Build cultures that lift—not limit—your people.

• Lead with grounded strength and courageous humanity.

This is where leadership is heading.
This is where the real work lives.
This is where you rise—not by repeating old mantras, but by writing new ones.

Because the modern workplace doesn’t need leaders who cling to the past.
It needs leaders who are willing to burn the bridge, rebuild the path, and walk forward with purpose.

Nature, Nurture, and the Leaders We Become

Where grounded leadership meets courageous growth.

The conversation around nature versus nurture pops up everywhere in parenting, leadership, and personal development. We ask ourselves—what shapes a person more? Who they inherently are, or the experiences that mold them along the way?

I’ve always believed it’s both. But it wasn’t until recently, during parent-teacher conferences of all places, that I saw the concept play out with striking clarity. And the more I pay attention, the more I see it in my children every single day.

Three Kids, Three Stories, Three Proof Points

Maddie — Order, Structure, Predictability

Our first child.
Our test run.
The one we raised with the “perfect” schedule because we thought order would make things easier. Spoiler alert: it didn’t.

But something fascinating happened as she grew—she craved order. Structure. Predictability. Change feels hard for her because her entire early world revolved around routine. Nurture didn’t just influence her; it left fingerprints.

Olivia — The Frequent Flyer in the Medical World

Olivia spent more days in medical offices than playgrounds in her early years. Hospitals were her second home. When a child spends years navigating illness, uncertainty becomes familiar—and sometimes, fear does too.

Now?
We just crossed the 50th day of school, and she’s been to the nurse… more times than I can count. Olivia’s experiences shaped her hyper-vigilance around her body. Nature gave her sensitivity; nurture amplified it.

Allie — The Go-With-the-Flow Kid

Sweet Allie arrived in chaos.
COVID baby.
Night-shift mom.
A nanny in and out of the house. Routines were more suggestions than systems.

So now, she floats.
She rolls with change.
She adapts.

Not without challenges—but with a flexibility her sisters don’t naturally have. Again, nurture leaves a mark.

The Bird, The Panic, and the Mirror

Against my better judgment, I let Maddie buy a bird. Her hard-earned money, her responsibility—so I took a deep breath and said yes.

Fast-forward to the first quiet evening after bringing it home. I was curled up on the couch, basking in the soft crackle of the wood stove, when a tiny chirp cut through the silence.

Totally normal.
Birds chirp. That’s what they do.

But Maddie wasn’t prepared for it.
Her world thrives on predictability—and this new, feather-covered curveball wasn’t part of the script.

Every chirp was met with panic.
Every flutter triggered a cascade of what ifs.
She rushed into the room breathless, convinced something was wrong because she didn’t expect… normal bird things.

And there it was: nature and nurture intertwining like a mirror held up to both of us. Her need for order. Her overwhelm in the unfamiliar. Her sensitive nervous system reacting before her logic catches up.

She gets that from me.
Deeply.
Painfully.
Beautifully.

From Parenting to Leadership: The Same Rules Apply

Watching my kids navigate life—shaped by their personalities and their experiences—has made me deeply reflect on leadership, especially in hospice.

Every nurse who steps into our world is a blend of what they brought with them and what we give them next.

Their nature is who they are.
But their nurture—the environment we create—determines who they become as professionals.

And this is where leadership matters:

• A nurturing environment builds confident, compassionate hospice nurses.

• A chaotic or dismissive environment creates hesitation, fear, and burnout.

• A culture rooted in support produces future leaders.

• A culture rooted in criticism creates future exits.

We either shape the next generation to rise,
or we unintentionally teach them to shrink.

Just like our children, our team members are being shaped in real time—by our tone, our structure, our patience, our expectations, and the way we respond when something “chirps” unexpectedly.

Mindful Leadership Is Modern Leadership

Nature vs. nurture isn’t just a parenting debate.
It’s a leadership truth.

We don’t get to choose someone’s nature.
But we do influence their environment.

The question for every leader—especially those guiding new hospice nurses—is simple:

Are we nurturing growth, or nurturing fear?
Are we creating confidence, or creating chaos?
Are we reinforcing strengths, or triggering panic?

Just like Maddie and her bird, people thrive when they feel safe enough to explore, learn, and make mistakes—without spiraling into fear of doing something wrong.

Because the way we lead today becomes the story they carry tomorrow.

And leaders?
That’s nurture.
That’s impact.
That’s legacy.

Where grounded leadership meets courageous growth.

When No One Says the Hardest Words

My brief time in psychiatric nursing has its stories, but hospice—well, hospice stories are something else entirely.

Driving home today, replaying the day in my mind, I found myself drifting back to one of the wildest situations I’ve ever been pulled into. The first patient, the first family—a case that began from the leadership side of my role, but very quickly evolved into me stepping in as the case manager. What I saw at first was a moment calling for compassion, a moment where a family needed someone to show up fully, gently, and without judgment.

But in that space of compassion, I realize now I may have overlooked the other side of the story—the part that was brewing beneath the surface, the part that denial was quietly feeding, the part that would later erupt in ways no one saw coming.

One of those stories… that one still breaks my heart. Not because of the chaos. Not because of the anger. Not even because of the irrational behavior that spilled out when emotions ran hotter than anyone could contain.

The heartbreak came from something much simpler—something far more devastating.

Because the devastation of that situation wasn’t rooted in the chaos that unfolded. It wasn’t the anger or the fear or the volatility. The true heartbreak was in recognizing that this was one of those moments where we, as a system, as clinicians, as humans, need to do better.

While the truth was what that family desperately needed, the pull to care—to comfort, to soften, to support—was so strong. And when that instinct collided with the level of concern and urgency beneath it all, the gap between what was said and what needed to be said grew wider and wider.

This wasn’t just a family in crisis.
This was a family navigating the unspoken.
This was a moment where silence did the most damage.

And that’s what still stays with me.

Because all of that silence, all of that unspoken reality, became the perfect breeding ground for a moment I will never forget. A moment where one overwhelmed, terrified, grief-stricken family member stormed into the room—angry, shaking, convinced we were somehow giving up on their mother.

A weapon was produced, not waved around wildly, but displayed with purpose. Not to harm, but to prove a point.
A point born from denial.
A point rooted in fear.
A point sharpened by the fact that no one had spoken the truth out loud.

In that moment, there was a tense discussion—one that teetered between emotion and danger—about ceasing hospice care entirely. About “taking her somewhere else.” About “fixing this.” About how “she just needs more time.”

And there I stood, trying to hold the room together, trying to hold myself together, balancing on the thinnest line between strength and weakness. My compassion, my instinct to soothe, my desire to de-escalate—they were my strengths. But in moments like that, they also felt like my greatest weaknesses. The place where my heart wanted to take over, even when the situation demanded a firmness I was still learning how to wield.

It was the fact that no one had said the words.

Your mom is dying.

Words you’d assume would be the norm in hospice. Words you’d think someone—anyone—would have spoken long before we were standing in a room full of fear and confusion.

But the truth is, they’re not normal.
Not for families.
Not for the medical system.
And, sometimes—maybe more often than we want to admit—not even for us. The ones who dedicate our lives to this work. The ones who sit at kitchen tables and bedside vigils. The ones who walk into these stories every day.

Those five words can feel heavier than any diagnosis, any order set, any medication adjustment. They catch in the throat. They rattle something deep. They force reality into a space where denial has been doing everything it can to survive.

I wish I could say this was the only story, but this, unfortunately, was just the first. Each one deserves its own moment—its own truth. But this first one… the pain isn’t in the incident itself. It’s in what wasn’t spoken. What should have been said. What could have prepared a family for the seismic shift that was already happening right in front of them.

And that’s what stays with me.
Every day.
Not the drama.
Not the volatility.

The silence.
The silence where honesty should have lived.

Grief comes in all shapes, and it rarely looks the way we expect it to. Looking back now, I can appreciate the compassion I showed in that moment—the depth of care I felt, the instinct to protect a family drowning in anticipatory grief. But grief doesn’t follow rules, and it doesn’t stay neatly contained. When emotions run high and denial is fighting for its last breath, compassion alone can’t hold the room. And when those emotions collide with something as unpredictable as a weapon—when bullets and heartbreak exist in the same space—things can shift in an instant and go drastically in the opposite direction.

The First Pushback: Lessons from My Early Days in Leadership

As I’ve begun re-listening to The First 90 Days, I can’t help but laugh at myself. There’s something humbling about looking back on those early transitions into leadership—the moments that felt chaotic then but taught me the most about who I was (and wasn’t yet) as a leader.

Before I ever wore a stethoscope, I held a management title. Nothing major—just a small team, limited responsibility, and plenty of room for rookie mistakes. Fast forward a few years, and I was deep into my hospice career. I had worked my way up through the ranks and finally landed in a management role that felt both exciting and terrifying.

About a year in, everything changed.
The agency went through a drastic shift—mass turnover, new structure, and suddenly I was handed a slew of new responsibilities and direct reports. I was now not only managing a team but also filling gaps, covering cases, fielding on-calls, and doing whatever was needed to keep the wheels turning.

And right in the middle of all that—entered her.

The Nurse Who Taught Me More Than Any Leadership Book

She was an incredible nurse—skilled, respected, and loved by patients and staff alike. But she was also one of the most challenging people I had ever managed.

She was outspoken, opinionated, and often insubordinate. The kind of nurse who didn’t just push boundaries—she redefined them. To make things even more complex, she was an LPN in a world that required RNs to case manage, so her limitations within policy often clashed with her confidence in practice.

Our early interactions were… spirited, to say the least.
She had a habit of speaking her mind, and I had a habit of standing my ground. It was my first real test as a leader—to balance respect for her expertise with the accountability required for my role. I quickly realized that no one had ever told her “no.” People just went along because it was easier.

Until me.

When her annual review came around, I was tasked with giving honest feedback. It was tense, uncomfortable, and absolutely not well received. She was defensive, argumentative, and every other challenging adjective you could imagine. But I stood firm—and respectful.

And somehow, that moment changed everything.

The Turning Point

Months later, during yet another agency realignment, leadership reshuffled reporting structures. On paper, she was supposed to move to another manager. But then my boss walked into my office and said, “She’s requesting to stay under you.”

I was stunned.
I thought she despised me. But that wasn’t the truth.

She didn’t like me because I had challenged her. But she respected me because I did.
And that respect became the foundation of a working relationship I never expected to succeed.

What That Experience Taught Me About Leadership

Leadership isn’t about being liked.
It’s not about being right.
It’s about being real—and being consistent enough to earn trust even when you’re the last person someone wants to hear from.

You will lead people from all walks of life. Some you’ll instantly connect with. Others will take time. And a few will test every ounce of your patience. But in all those relationships lies an opportunity—to grow, to coach, to understand.

That nurse taught me that pushback isn’t always defiance. Sometimes it’s defense. Sometimes it’s a test to see if your words match your actions. And sometimes, it’s the very moment when respect begins to grow.

Final Thought

If I could go back and tell my younger self one thing, it would be this:
Don’t fear the tension.

Don’t avoid the uncomfortable conversations.
The people who challenge you the most may just be the ones who teach you what leadership truly is.

Because leadership isn’t about control—it’s about courage.
And sometimes, courage sounds a lot like quiet confidence in the middle of a loud conversation.

When Change Comes Full Circle

It’s no secret that I love audiobooks.

If you’ve followed me for a while, you already know my car has become less of a vehicle and more of a mobile classroom — or maybe a therapy session on wheels. I listen to multiple audiobooks a week on my commute. Typically, my mornings are filled with voices that challenge me to grow — personally, professionally, and emotionally. Self-help books, leadership insights, stories about resilience, or strategies for navigating the very situations I find myself knee-deep in at that moment.

Lately, though, my focus has shifted toward one simple yet complicated theme: embracing change.

Now, when I say “embracing change,” I know that’s a broad statement. Change has so many faces — loss, transition, reinvention, letting go, or even rediscovering who you are beneath all the versions of yourself you’ve had to be. And for me right now, I’m standing on the edge of something that feels like both grief and growth — a collision that’s both beautiful and devastating at the same time.

This morning, my audiobook of choice was : Learning to Let Go. And honestly, it felt like the universe placed that one in my queue for a reason.

What struck me most was how each chapter — deep, reflective, sometimes painfully honest — ended with a guided meditation. A pause. A moment to breathe and actually feel what had just been said before rushing on to the next thing. It reminded me how rarely I give myself permission to do the same.

And it brought me back to a memory.

A few months ago, I was sitting in my car after a particularly heavy day at work. The kind of day where emotions ran high, and leadership felt more like carrying the collective weight of everyone else’s pain on top of your own. I remember turning off the ignition, but not getting out of the car. I just sat there, staring at the steering wheel, feeling everything I’d been trying to suppress — grief, exhaustion, and maybe even a little guilt for not being able to “hold it all together.”

Out of habit, I opened my audiobook app, looking for something — anything — that could help me make sense of what I was feeling. The title that popped up was Letting Go Is Not Giving Up. I hit play.

The narrator’s voice said, “Sometimes, release is the most courageous act of strength.”

And for the first time that day, I exhaled.

Maybe that’s why these morning drives and meditations have become so important to me. They’re not just about learning; they’re about remembering. Remembering that even in seasons of uncertainty, there’s space for grace, for grounding, for gratitude.

And then, recently, I had a full-circle moment.

I was once again sitting in my car — but this time, I wasn’t weighed down. I was reflecting, planning, and realizing how far I’ve come. Lately, I’ve been conducting a lot of interviews, meeting nurses from all walks of life. Periodically, I pause between questions, taking in the stories being shared.

The first question I always ask a nurse without hospice experience is, “What brings you to hospice?”

The answers vary — work-life balance, a shift in focus, a search for meaning, a personal connection — but every once in a while, you get that one response that makes you stop and say, “This is a hospice nurse.”

Recently, I had one of those moments. The nurse sitting across from me began sharing her story — and suddenly, it felt like I was looking into a mirror of my younger self.

She told me she’d always wanted to be a hospice nurse but was discouraged right out of school. People told her she needed to “build her skills first,” to try something else before she could “handle” hospice. I smiled because I knew that script by heart.

I was her.

Fresh out of nursing school, everyone told me hospice wasn’t the place for new grads. I shadowed in the emergency room, labor and delivery, psych — trying to find that spark everyone said I should feel somewhere else. But then, one night on a quiet hospice floor changed everything.

The calm. The peace. The presence.
I knew right then and there that nothing could push me away from my passion.

Someone, thankfully, took a chance on me — believed in my heart and my why enough to open a door that’s rarely opened for new nurses. I had applied to be a case manager, but there happened to be an opening on the inpatient hospice unit — the ICU of hospice care. It was the perfect place to learn the true art of hospice nursing in a supportive setting, surrounded by mentors who cared about both skill and soul.

And as I sat there listening to this nurse share her own dream, I realized: I’ve come full circle.

I’m now in a position to be that person for someone else — to take a chance, to create the same kind of safe space that once shaped me.

Because leadership, at its core, isn’t about filling positions. It’s about building the future — especially in fields like hospice, where compassion and courage intertwine. It’s about recognizing the ones who are called to this work, even when they don’t fit the mold.

That’s where growth lives.
That’s where change becomes clarity.
And that’s where I’m reminded — once again — why I do what I do.

The Unfinished Work of Me

Every leader has a story that changed them.
Mine begins here —

in the pause, the grief, and the courage to start again.
🩶 The Practice of Being Real — a prelude to what’s coming

Authenticity gets talked about a lot — especially in leadership and personal growth circles.
But somewhere along the way, it became tangled up with being liked.

We hear “be authentic,” and what we often translate it to is:
be relatable, be accepted, be understood.

But that’s not what authenticity really is.

Authenticity isn’t about how you’re seen.
It’s about how you live.
It’s not the performance of honesty — it’s the practice of alignment.
It’s the quiet, often trembling choice to show up as yourself, even when it’s uncomfortable, inconvenient, or misunderstood.

It’s choosing your heart over someone else’s eyes.

The truth is, living authentically isn’t pretty.
It’s raw, uncertain, emotional — especially when you’re committed to showing up as the real you, not the version that makes people comfortable.

When I began building Leaders on Edge, I didn’t realize how much of me it would ask for.
It’s not just a brand or a framework — it’s a mirror.
Every story I write, every lesson I unpack, reflects a piece of my own evolution.
And sometimes, those reflections sting.

Because the truth is, I’m still learning how to hold the complicated parts of my own story.
The seasons that changed me for the better — but also left behind a kind of grief I’m still learning to name.
Growth doesn’t always come with clean edges. Sometimes it comes wrapped in loss, confusion, and gratitude all at once.

That’s a story I’ll tell soon — the one that shaped Leaders on Edge more than any other.

There are still parts of me I’m learning to face — weaknesses I recognize but haven’t fully made peace with.
Failures that shaped me but still ache when I touch them.
Flaws I’ve carried for years — some I’ve learned to share openly, others still too tender to name.

That’s the thing about authenticity: it’s not a destination.
It’s a continual return to who you really are — even when parts of that person still scare you.

When I write, I often pause — not because I’ve run out of words, but because the words have landed somewhere deeper than intellect.
Somewhere I haven’t fully healed.

Those are the moments I stop. Breathe.
And let the silence do its work.

Sometimes that silence lasts minutes. Sometimes days.
It’s the kind of pause that feels like standing in front of a mirror you’re not ready to look into yet.

Because writing — the kind that comes from the soul — isn’t just reflection. It’s excavation.
It asks me to unearth the pieces I’ve tucked away: the grief I thought I’d processed, the insecurities I thought I’d outgrown, the leadership moments that still sting when replayed.

Those pauses aren’t empty — they’re sacred.
They’re where I sit with my flaws, not to fix them, but to understand them.
Where I grieve the versions of myself that existed before I knew better.
Where I sift through guilt, regret, and growth — and remind myself that awareness itself is healing.

It’s slow work.
And it’s holy work.

Sometimes I step away from the keyboard feeling cracked open — unsure whether to keep writing or retreat.
But over time, I’ve realized that this is where Leaders on Edge truly lives:
in the space between what I’ve healed and what I’m still learning to.

Because leadership, like life, isn’t about mastering every emotion.
It’s about standing in the middle of them — the grief, the doubt, the tenderness — and still choosing honesty.

That pause isn’t weakness.
It’s strength — quiet, sacred strength — the kind that lets me return to the page again and again, a little more open, a little more real, a little closer to the woman and leader I’m still becoming.

Because that pause is authenticity — knowing when to stop performing strength and instead feel the truth of your own edges.

Leaders on Edge was born from that place — the edge where vulnerability meets growth, where courage meets discomfort, where leadership isn’t about being the strongest in the room, but the most honest.

I’ve worked hard to own my flaws — not just acknowledge them privately, but live with them openly.
Some I still guard. Others I share freely — in my work, in my relationships, in those conversations that start out light and end up soul-deep.

Because if my imperfections help someone else stop, reflect, and grow — then they’ve served their purpose.

Authenticity isn’t about proving you’re real.
It’s about living in a way that is real — even when that means showing the cracks instead of covering them.

The kind of leadership, writing, and connection I strive for isn’t polished.
It’s human.

And if that means being misunderstood sometimes — so be it.
Because I’d rather live raw, imperfect, and real
than spend one more moment being someone else’s version of who I should be.

Coming soon:
There’s a story behind these words — one I’ve avoided, one that changed everything.
It’s a story of love and loss, of purpose and betrayal, of the quiet unraveling that comes when your values no longer fit the walls you’re standing in.
It’s a story of the edge — the moment I broke, and the moment I began to rebuild.
And when it’s time, I’ll tell it.
Because healing deserves to be witnessed.

Clinically Speaking, I’m Fine

It was 1 a.m. on Saturday night, and my brain refused to shut off.
So there I was — curled up on the couch, watching Sex and the City reruns like it was 2004 again.

Back in high school, that show was everything. The city, the shoes, the friendships — it all looked so bold and effortless. I used to think that’s what being an adult must feel like — having it all figured out, sipping cosmos while the rest of the world spun.

But sitting there years later, I saw it differently. The glamour I once admired now looked like exhaustion in heels. The witty banter sounded a lot like overcompensation. What once seemed like freedom now looked more like everyone pretending they were fine.

The story hadn’t changed. I had.
Funny how that works — you can watch the same thing, live through the same moment, and walk away with a completely different truth depending on where you are in life.

Not long ago, that same theme showed up in a one-on-one with a clinician.
She sat across from me, coffee in hand, smiling just enough to look okay.

“How are you holding up?” I asked.

“I’m fine.”

If you’ve spent enough time in healthcare, you know that I’m fine is rarely fine.
It’s polite. It’s practiced. It’s protective.

Something in her tone made me pause — the kind of pause you learn from years of reading people when words don’t tell the whole story.

So I asked again, a little softer this time:

“Are you really fine?”

That’s when the truth came out — quietly, not dramatically. The exhaustion. The endless admissions. The invisible weight of trying to be everything to everyone.

And in that moment, I saw myself.

Because if I’m being honest — I am that “I’m fine” person, too.

For most of my life, “I’m fine” was my default setting. My armor.
It was the safe response when I didn’t have the space or strength to unpack what I was really feeling. It let me look composed, dependable, and unshakable — all the things I thought a strong leader was supposed to be.

But here’s what I’ve learned:
Strength isn’t always about holding it together.

Sometimes, it’s about having the courage to admit that you can’t.

“I’m fine” might keep you functioning, but it doesn’t get you far when your world feels like it’s coming apart. It doesn’t invite support, and it doesn’t build connection. Sometimes things just… suck. And it’s okay to say that out loud.

Because pretending you’re fine doesn’t make the hard things any easier — it just makes you lonely while you face them.

In healthcare, we speak in tones and subtleties. You start to recognize the language of quiet fatigue, the weight behind a soft “it’s okay.” You learn to listen beyond words — both to your team and to yourself.

Perception plays a powerful role here. We’re conditioned to see calm as strong and emotion as weak, but that’s backwards. True strength lives in honesty — in the ability to drop the mask long enough to let someone in.

So maybe the lesson is the same one Sex and the City was quietly teaching all along: what looks “together” from a distance is often just someone doing their best to hold it together. The glamour fades, but the humanity underneath — that’s what’s real.

And honestly? That’s where the beauty is.

So the next time you hear “I’m fine” — whether it’s from a coworker, a loved one, or your own reflection — pause. Ask again. Look closer.

Because sometimes, the quietest words carry the loudest truth.

And sometimes, “I’m not fine” is where the real healing begins.

Accountability Doesn’t Have to Hurt

Here’s a word that tends to make people uncomfortable: accountability.

For many, it immediately brings up images of tough conversations, discipline, or someone being “called out.” We hear it and brace ourselves for the sting — the correction, the criticism, the discomfort that usually follows. But lately, I’ve been thinking… what if accountability didn’t have to feel like punishment? What if it could feel like support? What if it could actually feel like growth?

Over the years, I’ve learned that holding someone accountable isn’t about holding them down. It’s about holding them up. It’s the quiet reminder that says, “I know you’re capable of more, and I’m not going to let you forget that.”

That’s not criticism. That’s care.

When we shift our perspective from discipline to development, accountability changes shape. It becomes a conversation, not a confrontation. It’s less about pointing fingers and more about asking questions — the kind that open doors instead of closing them.

I’ve always tried to lead with authenticity — to be real, raw, and hopefully relatable. And through that lens, I’ve come to see that accountability doesn’t have to look like blame or punishment. It can look like curiosity, compassion, and connection.

Leadership is full of moments where accountability comes into play — for our own actions, our team’s outcomes, and the standards we represent. But as the workplace evolves, so does what accountability looks like. It’s no longer just about enforcing rules; it’s about creating a space where people feel safe enough to own their growth.

You never really know what someone else is walking through. Sometimes, what looks like disengagement is just exhaustion. Sometimes, what feels like carelessness is really burnout. And yes — there are absolutely moments where a stronger hand is needed: corrective action, performance plans, even terminations. But the best leaders know when to pause before deciding. They ask, “Is this a pattern, or a moment?” “Is this a new employee learning, or a seasoned one struggling?” “Is this behavior, or circumstance?”

We’re leading in a generation that values feedback but also demands respect. Accountability with empathy is what meets both of those needs.

It can sound like, “You’re usually strong in this area — what’s changed?” or “Let’s figure this out together.” It can look like coaching, follow-up, reflection, or even silence while someone processes on their own.

And sometimes, the most powerful accountability is the kind that’s modeled — the kind that comes from a leader who owns their own mistakes, keeps their word, and communicates clearly. That kind of consistency sets the tone more than any policy or meeting ever could.

I’ve been shaped by all kinds of leaders — some who led with grace, and others who led with grit. The truth is, both kinds left a mark. The kindest ones taught me how to lead with empathy. The harshest ones taught me how not to. Together, they helped me find my own balance.

Over the years, I’ve received feedback that has absolutely shattered my world — the kind that made me question everything I thought I was doing right. Words that echoed long after the conversation ended. And while those moments stung, they also became turning points. I can look back now and see that even the hardest feedback taught me something — about resilience, humility, and the strength it takes to keep showing up.

But just as powerful were the moments when I braced for criticism and instead was met with warmth, grace, and understanding. When someone looked past the mistake and saw the person behind it. Those moments didn’t just make me feel seen — they reminded me what leadership could look like when rooted in compassion.

That’s the kind of leader I want to be. One who doesn’t shy away from truth but delivers it in a way that builds rather than breaks. Because I’ve learned that accountability delivered with empathy doesn’t soften the message — it strengthens the relationship. It invites growth instead of fear.

Accountability doesn’t have to be harsh to be effective. It doesn’t have to sting to be sincere. It can be calm. It can be kind. It can sound like, “I see your potential. Let’s get you back to it.”

Because accountability isn’t really about catching someone doing something wrong — it’s about helping them remember what they do right. It’s about connection. It’s about growth. And it’s about leading in a way that strengthens trust instead of fear.

And sometimes, that kind of growth means stepping out of what’s comfortable — because as I’ve learned firsthand:

The grass isn’t always greener on the other side… sometimes, on the other side, it isn’t even grass. But stepping off the patch you’ve outgrown might just be the best leap you ever take.

Not for Profit, Not for Gain — For Purpose

Lately, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. That’s nothing new for me — I live in my head more often than not, for better or worse. But recently, one topic in particular has taken up a lot of space in my thoughts: the difference between for-profit and nonprofit organizations in healthcare.

For a long time, I firmly believed the distinction was black and white. I saw for-profit healthcare as money-driven, focused solely on numbers and revenue, with little room for mission or heart. On the other hand, I viewed nonprofit organizations as the opposite — fully mission-driven, with a focus on people above all else. Of course, they still needed to “keep the lights on,” but their purpose felt grounded in compassion.

As I’ve reflected more deeply, I’ve come to realize it isn’t that simple. Having a purpose — both personally and organizationally — is the foundation for success and psychological well-being. Purpose isn’t exclusive to one business model or another; it’s something that can exist anywhere, if it’s genuine and lived out consistently.

As I embark on the next chapter of my career, much of my reflection has centered around who I am as a person and as a leader. I’ve put intentional effort into defining my values and my purpose, and identifying the nonnegotiable’s that align with both. I’ve always been a bit unconventional when it comes to leadership. For years, I questioned whether that was a weakness — whether not fitting the mold meant I was somehow doing it wrong. But I’ve since realized that my nontraditional approach is what drives my strength as a transformational leader. It’s what allows me to see the potential in people, to lead through authenticially, and to create environments where growth feels both challenging and supported.

It’s taken me years to fully own the person I am — and the person I am still becoming. But as I continue to grow, learn, and take inventory of myself, I’m increasingly clear about where my skills sit and how I can bring the most value as a leader. These traits and values define how I view people, how I interact with my team and partners, and ultimately, they influence whether I succeed or fail. Because if I’m not in an environment that embraces the type of leadership I bring to the table, then neither I nor the people I lead can truly thrive.

I’ve also learned some hard lessons along the way. Healthcare is a highly regulated, compliance-driven field — that’s never going to change. In fact, as healthcare continues to evolve, the oversight and regulations will only become more strict and narrowly defined. My goal as a leader is to operate within those guidelines while still embracing the people who make the work possible. My job is to help those I lead meet every nuance and expectation, but also remind them that the work we do is, at its core, human work.

If I’ve learned anything, it’s that people and performance are not mutually exclusive. You don’t have to choose between compassion and compliance. Being a compassionate leader doesn’t mean disregarding the rules, and being a compliance-focused leader doesn’t mean losing your empathy. True leadership finds the balance between the two — building systems that support quality, metrics, and accountability, while never forgetting the people behind them.

Alongside the changes in healthcare itself, the workforce has also evolved. The next generation of professionals is motivated differently than those of ten or twenty years ago. They have new expectations, new boundaries, and a renewed sense of purpose. Successful leadership today means recognizing that shift — learning how to adapt, communicate, and connect with a wide range of personalities and values. Leading now requires both flexibility and clarity, empathy and accountability.

When I think about what matters most, I’ve realized that the financial status of an organization — for-profit or nonprofit — means very little compared to whether its values align with mine, and whether those values are actually lived out. At the end of the day, that’s what determines whether a workplace feels like a fit.

Recently, I started listening to Leadership Principles Explained by Andy Jassy, the CEO of Amazon. On paper, Amazon is everything I thought I didn’t relate to: a massive, for-profit corporation that has dominated nearly every market it touches. But as I listened to how Jassy described the company’s mission and how their values are woven into everyday actions, something struck me. It reminded me that purpose and profit can coexist — that mission isn’t always lost just because money is part of the equation.

That realization grounded me. It reminded me that leadership, in any setting, is about integrity — doing the right thing for the right reasons, no matter the structure around you. It’s about finding places and people whose values align with your own and who are committed to doing good work, the right way.

At the end of the day, my belief is simple: purpose over profit, people over process, and integrity over image. When those things align — when an organization truly lives its values — that’s where authentic impact happens. That’s where I want to lead.

When Laughter Turns to Tears: The Subtle Ways Grief Finds Us

There’s a lot to be said for grief.

And I don’t just mean the kind tied to death. There are so many different kinds of grief—loss of a season, a role, a dream, a version of ourselves we thought would last forever. It sneaks up on you in the smallest moments… the ones that make you smile, only to catch you off guard when you remember what was.

As a self-identified “avoider of all emotion,” I have to remind myself—sometimes daily—that it’s OK to feel feelings. One of the hardest lessons from years in hospice is realizing how good I’ve become at not showing emotion. Hospice teaches you how to stand steady for families as they say goodbye, to guide your team through loss, to help others carry their pain while quietly burying your own.

But eventually, you can’t outrun what you feel. It catches up—whether you’re ready or not.

I’ve been in this season of deep self-awareness. I’m learning to give myself space to feel it all. Yesterday, one of the nurses on my new team said something to me that made me burst out laughing—and within seconds, I was fighting back tears. That right there? That’s grief. It’s sneaky, unpredictable, and it doesn’t always make sense. The most innocent moment can pull a memory or a feeling straight out of your chest.

As I step into this next chapter of my life—one where I’m figuring out who I am, what I want, and what I need both personally and professionally—I’ve made one promise to myself:

To acknowledge what I feel.

To speak up when something hurts.

To stop bottling things up.

Because you can’t take the world on your shoulders forever. That’s true for anyone, but especially for those of us who work in hospice, in healthcare, or in any field where you carry the weight of others every single day. It’s easy to forget that while we’re helping others hold their pain, we have our own weights pressing down, too.

It’s OK to ask for help.
It’s OK to say you’re hurt.
It’s OK to admit that you’re sad.

Those things don’t define your weakness—they define your humanity. They deepen your self-awareness, your empathy, your emotional intelligence.

Right now, I’m walking through a new kind of grief—the kind that comes with closing one chapter and stepping into another. It’s strange to feel sadness and excitement living side by side. Some days, the waves of emotion hit hard. Other days, I can see the light of what’s ahead.

I know that, in time, the waves will soften. The emotions will even out. And when they do, I’ll look back and realize I’ve landed exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Until then, I’ll keep riding the waves—feeling what I feel, working through what comes, and maybe helping someone else do the same along the way.

And truthfully, that’s what this space—this little collection of writing—has become for me. Many of the articles I’ve written lately have carried a similar tone: raw, reflective, and honest. But I think it’s important to keep capturing this journey as it’s happening—not just the polished version that comes with hindsight. I want to document the middle, the messy, the uncertain parts right alongside the breakthroughs.

Because this is life.
It’s layered. It’s contradictory. It’s beautiful and exhausting all at once.

I’m learning that true growth means allowing myself to experience every part of it—the highs just as deeply as the lows. To celebrate the joy and also sit with the ache. To feel the excitement of what’s next while honoring the grief of what’s been left behind.

Every season brings something new to feel, to understand, to learn from. And as I continue writing, reflecting, and growing through each one, my hope is that these words not only make sense of my journey, but maybe help someone else feel less alone in theirs.