The reluctant leader

Maybe no one will know if you don’t do the work, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter. (Image by Ekaterina Ershova)

Awhile back, the parent of a student at my school learned some concerning information about another student.

She had this information because her daughter had shared it with her. She sat on it for weeks, hoping that another parent would come forward with it so that she wouldn’t have to.

Eventually, this parent, Amy, got in touch to pass this information along to me. But why was Amy contacting me and not the parent of the other student?

I realized that Amy was reaching out to me because she didn’t know what to do. That put me in a weird position.

I have no children. In addition to being a source of personal sadness and insecurity, this has long added a bit of complexity to my role as a school leader.

For years, I didn't think I could advise parents, even when I saw them do really dumb things. I didn’t know the whole story. Who was I to get involved in their business — an outsider who works with kids only a few hours a day, as opposed to 24/7?

I came to realize that, though parents may be experts on their own kids, I have made myself an expert on kids in general. The parents I work with are often dealing with their first thirteen-year-old — I’ve dealt with hundreds. I owe it to these families to contribute what I can. It is still within the bounds of my professional responsibilities to look out for the well-being of my students in every aspect of their lives.

Of course, I had never handled a case quite like the one Amy was telling me about. What was I supposed to do about kids getting into trouble outside of school — the hijinks enabled by tech for which the playbook is changing by the day?

As I reflected on it, I saw that although I hadn’t encountered a situation exactly like this one, the principles involved were ones that I understood.

Thus, I made a choice to step into a role that I needed to play. I was the person from whom Amy needed support, encouragement, and clear instructions.

On a call, I walked Amy through her moral and legal responsibility to call the parent of the girl she was concerned about. I gave her a script for the conversation with the other mom and a script for her follow-up conversation with her own daughter.

Amy was hesitant to act. She was worried that her daughter would face social repercussions for expressing concern about her friend. I helped Amy to put those fears into perspective and challenged her to do the right thing — and to show her daughter how to do the right thing.

Even though it was uncomfortable, I presented myself as a person who had the answers and authority — someone Amy could lean on. To retreat because I didn’t believe that I had the tools or the wherewithal — to hold back out of concern that I’d be presumptuous to tell a parent what to do — would actually be selfish and short-sighted.

I'm getting good at having tough conversations. I can now teach others, including parents, to have those tough conversations. I can teach them how to teach their kids to have those tough conversations.

We can all work to advocate for the people who need us even when it is hard. We don’t need to wait for permission. I can set that example and invite others to do the same.

I have no special qualifications to do these things, but at this point, I have a lot of experience. And that’s where we can all begin — by practicing.

I understand why Amy wanted to let this go by. It would have been easier to keep silent. It would have been easier for her daughter to keep silent, too. But I’m proud of her daughter for raising the alarm. I’m proud of Amy for stepping out of her comfort zone to speak up, and I’m proud of myself for stepping out of my comfort zone to challenge her and hold her to the higher standard that, deep down, she knew she must rise to. There we were, all of us, reluctant leaders.

“Do I have to?” Amy said.

“Yes,” I said.

And so she did it.

Perhaps, as you’re reading this, you can think of an area of your life where you have the opportunity to embrace authority or leadership. Maybe you wish someone else would do it. Maybe you don’t feel qualified or worthy.

But it’s entirely possible that the gap that exists isn’t your credentials or hours of fieldwork. It could be merely a choice that you could make to step into who you already are -- who others need you to be and, in fact, already believe you to be.

I don’t blame you if you’d rather mind your own business. Doing the hard thing doesn’t always get rewarded, even when it is the right thing. But maybe you are just the person for the job. Sorry! I guess you have to do it, too. Thank you for your reluctant leadership.