You Don’t Have To

Several months ago, I was under intense pressure to solve a major leadership issue.

The plan I’d been nurturing was on the verge of collapse, and options were limited.

I reached out to a trusted colleague to brainstorm possibilities, obstacles, and outcomes.

Offhand, I mentioned that my daughter had asked why I didn’t just take on the position myself.

I expected him to laugh, but he didn’t.

“That’s actually a great idea,” he said.

The conversation shifted quickly—into what that might look like, the barriers ahead, how I could stabilize things if I stepped in. It was honest, strategic, forward-thinking.

We started identifying key people and organizations I’d need to work with to make the transition successful.

And that’s when the name of someone I couldn’t willingly, ever speak to again surfaced.

When it came up, my anxiety spiked. I didn’t want to over-share or sound unprofessional, but I also couldn’t stay silent. So I finally said, gently but clearly:

“[Colleague], I feel really unprofessional even saying this, but I can’t ever speak to that person again. I hate that what happened interferes with my professional world, but I just can’t.”

I wasn’t sure how he would react to that kind of honesty.

He knew we had been together and that it ended, but I’d never shared any details.

I half-expected him to question my judgment, minimize my boundary, or see me differently. I’ve been a woman in leadership long enough to know how easily that happens—to be labeled emotional, difficult, dramatic.

But he didn’t do any of that.

He just said, calmly and simply:

“You don’t have to. Don’t worry.”

It was such a simple exchange—professional, respectful, human.

And then we kept going—right back to problem-solving, right back to the work.

That moment stayed with me.

Because it reminded me how rare it still is for women to be met with respect instead of resistance when we draw a boundary. How often we’re expected to smile, to stay cordial, to be “professional” even in the face of harm.

He didn’t need the details. He didn’t need to fix it. He trusted me—my judgment, my experience, my abilities.

And he showed me that he cared. After everything that had happened in the months leading up to that exchange, that care was something I needed.

I believe the strongest leaders don’t just produce results—they care for the humans who are doing the work. They create safety, not just strategy.

For once, I didn’t have to explain, defend, or pretend.

I could just be.