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