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.