01/13/2026
Over the last year, my writing, my leadership, and my decision making have shifted. Not because I stopped caring, but because I cared enough to change how I carry the weight of community, responsibility, and conflict.
What began months ago as a single reflection has grown into something larger. A series of written pieces. Editorials. Small and large decisions made quietly and intentionally in the vein of leadership, accountability, and self preservation. This evolution did not happen overnight, and it did not come without anger, exhaustion, or cost.
I was angry. At times I still carry small kernels of that anger. But there was also deep fatigue. A level of exhaustion that comes from months of battling accusations so severe and rhetoric so hostile that it barely resembled conversation at all. There were moments this year where the weight of it all pushed me frighteningly close to the edge. Not because I doubted my values, but because carrying nonstop hostility while trying to lead with integrity is not sustainable for anyone.
Instead of letting that anger or exhaustion harden me or break me, I sought counsel. Counsel in therapy, where I was challenged to sit honestly with my emotions instead of reacting to them. Counsel in inner reflection, where I had to ask myself difficult questions about who I wanted to be when everything felt under attack. Counsel in giving it to my higher power, asking not for vindication, but for strength, clarity, and wisdom to move forward without losing myself.
From the beginning of my work in community, I came with receipts. If I made a statement, I followed it with action. If I made a promise, I fulfilled that promise. And if circumstances shifted or I was unable to follow through as intended, I named it, communicated it, apologized when appropriate, and offered other solutions. Accountability was never theoretical for me. It was lived, practiced, and visible. Leadership, to me, has always meant owning both success and limitation. What has also become clear to me with time and honesty is this. One of my biggest mistakes was giving everything. Every heartbeat. Every breath. I pushed past when I was tired. I pushed past when I was hurt. I kept going because I believed that was what a true leader was supposed to do. I am now learning that leadership without limits is not strength. It is erosion.
I also wish I had learned these lessons differently. I most certainly wish I had learned them a decade ago or earlier. But I have accepted the fact that this was the path. This was my journey. These were the ways the lessons were going to be presented to me. And I am thankful that instead of folding, shrinking, or disappearing, I found that I could and did find my own way to move forward. To metaphorically change energy into matter and back again, and to keep going without losing myself in the process.
Along the way, I had to confront another truth. Some trusts, both within organizations I believed in and in personal relationships, may never be repaired. That is painful, and I do not minimize it. At the same time, I am actively doing the work to let go of bitterness and direct personal resentment toward fellow community members. Not because harm did not occur, but because carrying it indefinitely would only diminish my ability to lead, to serve, and to remain whole.
Over the last year, I have grown tired of shouting into the hurricane. Tired of explaining myself into exhaustion. Tired of responding to noise that does not lead to understanding. So I adjusted. My style changed. My outreach changed. My leadership changed. Most importantly, my internal understanding of who I am, what I am responsible for, and what I am not responsible for became clearer.
Part of that clarity came from accepting a fundamental leadership truth. You have to put your own oxygen mask on first. Not out of selfishness, but out of responsibility. A leader who cannot breathe cannot help anyone else breathe. Preserving mental health, grounding, and clarity is not abandonment of community. It is what makes sustained leadership possible.
What saddens me most is not the conflict itself. It is the work that did not get done. The collective work we were called together to do. We were not making the difference we could have been making. We were not shining collective light through the dark forces pressing in on our communities. Energy that should have gone toward advocacy, protection, and progress was instead consumed internally.
My heart hurts, and often breaks, when members of the community reach out to me. Many of them do not fully understand the events that have taken place. What they do understand is the loss. They tell me they want to stand collectively for the community at large. They ask me not to let a few hard, hurtful, rotten apples drive me away. They ask me to do what I have always done. Rise with stability. Rise with action. Rise with ideas and intention. And then, as I have consistently done for well over half a decade, move those thoughts, feelings, and ideas into action and into programming.
What they do not always see are the ones who went quiet. The ones who stepped away. Not because they stopped caring, but because they felt defeated. Because the very spaces that claimed to be the safest for them, for us, became war zones of hurt, accusation, and ugliness. Spaces so unrecognizable that grounding in them felt impossible.
I learned that not every moment calls for a response. Not every accusation deserves oxygen. Not every conflict is meant to be resolved by force of words. Sometimes leadership means restraint. Sometimes it means stepping back. Sometimes it means choosing steadiness over spectacle.
The same cannot be said for a small but loud group that chose to burn it all down rather than do the harder work of building together. Rather than slowing down, listening, and finding ways to truly incorporate voices without destruction, they opted for chaos dressed up as righteousness. That path does not lead to collective liberation. It only leaves more people wounded and more work undone.
There is still sadness here. Perhaps the deepest sadness is this. These are spaces where we are supposed to come together. To advocate together. To socialize, support, and uplift one another. To stand shoulder to shoulder against the real threats and ugliness aimed at our communities. Not to turn inward. Not to fracture. Not to exhaust each other from the inside out.
That reality weighs on me more than any individual conflict ever could.
So this is not a conclusion. It is a continuation. A conscious choice to lead forward with greater clarity, firmer boundaries, and deeper self accountability. A commitment to write with intention, to act with discernment, and to protect my peace without abandoning my values. Growth does not always look loud, and strength does not always look like confrontation.
I am still here. I am still doing the work. Just with clearer eyes, steadier hands, and a deeper understanding of who I need to be in order to keep going.
Post script.
Pay attention not only to what is said, but to what is not said. Notice who stays quiet. Who shrinks away. Who disappears. Watch the receipts.
Trust your ears. Trust your gut. Trust your intuition. When something feels off, it is a response to something real. Take the time. Do the work. Feel the feelings. Analyze the receipts.
We are hurting each other far too easily. And for what.
