I Thought I Knew Leadership, Until I Saw This

Have you ever worked with someone who quietly inspired you? Not loud. Not flashy. Not the “look at me” type. Just…steady. The kind of person who serves in ways most people never see.

The lightbulbs are changed. The dumpster enclosure is swept. The report cards are already printed and stacked neatly on your desk before you even think to ask. Things just…happen. Problems disappear before they ever feel like problems.

You notice for half a second. “Thank goodness that eyesore is gone.” Then move on with your day without giving it much thought. Someone handled it. Someone always handles it.

I was lucky enough to serve with one of those people.

At the time, I was a young whipper-snapper coming off my second stint as a principal, which meant, naturally, I knew everything there was to know about school leadership. I had read the books. I had opinions. I had systems. I was, in my own mind, a leadership prodigy. It wasn’t a conscious thought of mine, but the signs were there. Looking back, there’s no elegant way to say this: I was an idiot.

Because I didn’t see eye to eye with him at first. I thought I knew better. I assumed he felt threatened by my “expertise.” I interpreted distance where there was probably just wisdom.

In reality, I was just an arrogant rookie with a title. Over time, though, I started noticing things. Things I had never associated with the principalship. Things I had always assumed “someone else” took care of. Except there wasn’t a someone else.

It was him.

He wore every hat imaginable. Principal. Instructional leader. Counselor. Facilities manager. Tech support. Occasional custodian. I’m fairly certain if the furnace had exploded, he would’ve calmly grabbed a wrench and said, “Give me a minute.”

Meanwhile, I was walking around thinking leadership mostly meant vision statements, budgets, and meetings.

I was largely oblivious to what it actually took to run a school, especially all the work done in the shadows. It took me years to appreciate what he was carrying. And even longer to realize something else: he had been training me the entire time. Not with lectures. Not with titles. Not with “watch me do this.”

Just quiet modeling.

It was servant leadership without ever saying the words servant leadership. The kind Jesus talks about, where the greatest is the one who serves. The kind that doesn’t announce itself. The kind that just grabs a broom.

Eventually, we had a hard conversation. He showed up at my front door to talk through some tension–most of which I had created. What I expected to be an argument turned into a masterclass in humility.

He listened, asked questions, and shared his perspective without being defensive. This whole time, he had understood my desire to be a leader and appreciated it, no matter how misguided my attempts were.

By the end of that meeting, everything shifted. I went from doubting to actually listening. Turns out most conflicts don’t need a referee–just two chairs and enough humility to stay seated.

For the first time, I didn’t just respect him, I understood him.

I share this story not to talk about me, but because it exposed something I think we miss in ministry all the time. Very few people actually understand what it costs to be the leader.

I worked alongside him for years before my eyes were opened. I saw the results. But I never truly saw the weight. I never asked how full his plate was. I rarely offered to take anything off of it. I was focused on my little world.

His world? It held all of ours. And he did everything he could to keep our worlds running smoothly.

Here’s what I’ve learned since: This isn’t rare. This has become normal. This is how most school leaders live. 

Faithful leaders quietly absorb pressure so their teachers don’t have to. Taking the angry parent calls. Fixing the malfunctioning laminator. Covering classes. Leading devotion. Balancing budgets. Counseling families. Advocating for their teachers. Locking doors at night. All before going home and attempting to be a decent spouse or parent.

They don’t do it for recognition. They do it because they love their people and believe God called them to serve. Somewhere along the way, they decided, “If someone has to carry this, it might as well be me.”

It’s deeply Christlike.

It can also be dangerous. That same servant heart, their greatest strength, can also become their greatest weakness.

We don’t have divine capacity as Christ did. He was able to shoulder the weight of sin without help, and even He prayed that “if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will” (Matthew 26:39). We don’t possess the divinity of Christ, which means limits are part of being human.

As sinful human beings, if you carry everyone else’s burdens long enough, eventually your knees begin to buckle. Not all at once, but slowly, the fragility of mankind wins. A little more tired each year. A little less joy. A little more survival.

Until one day we hear it again: “Another principal left the ministry.” “Another early childhood director has stepped away.”

Not because they didn’t care, but because they cared too much for too long without help. And somewhere we accidentally started calling that faithfulness.

What we fail to realize is that burnout isn’t faithfulness, and exhaustion isn’t holiness. Running yourself into the ground isn’t what Jesus meant by service. Even our Savior stepped away to rest.

Imagine something different.

Imagine a school leader who leads well and still has energy for their family. Who is present at church. Who laughs more. Who maybe even has a hobby that doesn’t involve plunging clogged toilets.

The fact that this sounds unrealistic says more about our systems than about their calling.

School leaders will almost never advocate for themselves. So maybe the rest of us should.

Maybe we say thank you more often. Maybe we take something off their plate. Maybe we stop assuming they can just “handle it.” Maybe we build structures that share the weight instead of quietly piling it onto one faithful person.

These leaders aren’t machines. They’re gifts. And gifts are meant to be treasured and stewarded, not used up.

That conviction is a big part of why we started the School Leader Partnership — not as another initiative to manage, but as a way to finally put some guardrails and rhythms around a role that can easily become impossible. Not to add more. But to help carry the load and build an awareness of the need for support.

Because the leaders who serve in the shadows were never meant to burn out quietly.

They deserve to last.

Our schools, and our kids, are better when they do.

To the person referenced in this article: thank you for shaping how I see leadership and ministry. Thank you for serving long before I noticed. Now stop reading this and go home to your family.

Questions for Reflection

• Who is the quiet leader in your world carrying more than anyone realizes, and what is one concrete way you could lighten their load this week?

• Where do you most need to grow right now: in sacrificial service (“picking up the broom”) OR in humble dependence (“putting down the broom”)?

• What would it look like to steward the leaders God has placed in your life as carefully as they steward everyone else?

• If you’re the one carrying everything, who’s helping carry you?