Part 2: Stepping Away

Stepping away was something that began as a quiet, nagging voice.

At first, it was easy to ignore.

But over the past year and a half, that voice grew louder and harder to dismiss.

It kept asking the same question:

When was the last time you truly stepped away?

And the honest answer was… I hadn’t.

Not really.

In all my years of leadership, I had never taken a true vacation.

Yes, I had taken long weekends. I had taken a few days off here and there. But I had never gone anywhere that felt meaningful or intentional. Nothing that I would consider special. Certainly nothing that would have made it onto a “bucket list.”

And when I really stopped to think about it, I had to ask myself:

Why?

Why had I not done this when I saw other leaders doing it?

Why had I convinced myself that it wasn’t for me?

Because the truth is, I had those desires.

I would quietly find myself wishing that I could go somewhere that felt special. Somewhere that wasn’t just a break from work, but an experience.

But over the years, I learned to silence that voice.

I told myself it just wasn’t in the cards.

My presence was needed. There was always something that required my attention. And even when I had the financial ability, the thought of planning, leaving, and truly disconnecting felt like too much effort.

I was tired.

And more often than not, what I thought I needed was to just stay home and rest.

But even then, it wasn’t real rest.

Because even when I took time off, I was still connected.

The phone calls still came. The texts still came. The issues still found their way to me.

Even from a distance, I was still putting out fires.

So, was I really ever away?

Not at all.

I didn’t realize the cumulative effect that not taking quality time off would have on me.

I didn’t realize that constantly living in crisis mode would slowly wear me down.

I didn’t realize that it would lead to burnout.

Not until I was already there.

And even then, it wasn’t as simple as just being burned out.

It was more complicated than that.

There were moments when I found myself thinking about retirement.

But if I’m honest, it wasn’t necessarily that I wanted to retire.

I just wanted the chaos to stop.

The constant urgency. The never-ending problems.The feeling that everything was escalating, becoming more complex, more demanding, more intense.

Because being a leader often means becoming a lightning rod.

You absorb.

You take on what others cannot. You carry what would otherwise fall on your team. You shield, you filter, you manage.

And the buck always stops with you.

You make decisions that won’t please everyone, sometimes decisions that won’t please anyone, even when you’ve fought hard for the best possible outcome.

You absorb criticism. You carry the weight of other people’s perceptions.And often, you can’t share the full story, the context that would make things clearer, because leadership doesn’t always afford you that space.

So, you hold it.

Again, and again.

Across different roles, different organizations, different challenges.

Fifteen years of it, in different forms.

And somewhere along the way, without fully realizing it, it started to take its toll.

I could tell something was changing in me.

Not all at once, but gradually.

I was beginning to internalize the stress in ways I hadn’t before.

It showed up in my habits. In my energy. In how I felt at the end of each day.

I was eating more than I should. I wasn’t sleeping well. And no matter how much I rested, I still felt exhausted.

Not just tired, but depleted.

There was also a growing need for quiet.

For space.

For solitude.

I found myself wanting to be by myself more often, needing time to decompress in ways that felt different than before.

Part of that is who I am.

At my core, I am an introvert.

But in my role, I had learned to function as an extrovert. To show up, to engage, to lead, to be constantly on.

And for a long time, I could sustain that.

Until I couldn’t.

Because when you are constantly pouring out, constantly responding, constantly absorbing, without real time to step away and recharge, eventually something has to give.

Part of the gift I gave myself to celebrate completing my doctorate was taking a trip.

A trip to London, a place I had always wanted to visit but never truly believed I would.

And I didn’t go alone.

I went with two friends who are more like sisters, women I’ve known since high school. Friendships that have spanned more than 40 years.

So, we went.

And we had a grand time.

And for the first time, mostly because of the time difference, I was able to fully disconnect from work.

I felt a sense of freedom that I can’t fully explain.

For the first time in a very long time, I was truly present.

In the moment.

And that, more than anything, led me to a realization I couldn’t ignore.

When I was at home, not at work, far too often I wasn’t really there.

Not fully.

My mind was elsewhere. On the next task.The next problem.The next responsibility waiting for me.

I had been so busy for so long.

Working full-time. Going to school. Managing responsibilities at work and at home.

Constantly moving. Constantly doing.

And somewhere in all of that, I had stopped simply being.

It wasn’t that I believed things wouldn’t function without me. I’ve never been that egodriven.

But what surprised me was something deeper.

I had allowed myself to become a workaholic and a student-a-holic.

I had internalized the belief that I had to keep going, that I had to carry it all, that I had to be the one to manage the weight of everything.

And over time, I absorbed that burden so completely that I didn’t even question it anymore.

It became normal, yet inwardly toxic because I came to resent it and be angry about it.

But in doing so, I had quietly allowed it to take something from me.

My peace. My joy. My ability to be fully present in my own life.

After I completed my program, I remember feeling almost numb at first.

And then something shifted.

I started wanting to reconnect with the simple things.

Spending time with my family. Belly laughing. Being together just for the sake of being together.

Things I had told myself I didn’t have time for because I was too busy.

And that’s when another realization surfaced.

Time is precious.

And it’s unpredictable.

Losing my brother and other loved ones had already shown me that, but if I’m honest, I don’t think I had fully allowed myself to feel it.

Or maybe I was afraid.

Afraid of what it would mean to slow down. Afraid of what I would do next if I stepped away from the pace I had been living in for so long.

But that trip created space.

Space to think. Space to breathe. Space to simply enjoy life again.

To laugh. To eat good food. To see beautiful places. To live, to enjoy connecting with my girlfriends and sharing with them.

And in that space, I discovered something I hadn’t fully admitted to myself before.

I wanted more of that.

And so, I began to make changes.

I have reconnected with friends. I have gone to events. I have started to live a more normal life, doing the things I want to do.

But I had to step away.

Step back.

And now I find myself asking…

Was it really stepping away?

Or was it stepping into something new?

A space that is no longer filled with constant timelines, deadlines, chaos, and confusion, but instead is filled with connection, with loved ones, with meaningful experiences.

Trips. Concerts. Writing. Dreaming.

And slowly, intentionally, putting the pieces together to launch something of my own.

Not something overwhelmingly big.

Just something that is enough.

Enough to keep me emotionally grounded. Financially secure. Physically healthy.

And most importantly…

Present.