Called Back Home
There’s something especially rewarding about working for your alma mater.
You know the ins and outs of its hallways, systems, and the best place to get a cup of coffee, but there’s something deeper. You live its mission. You tell its story. And you get to give back to the place that gave you, well, everything.
Right after stepping across the stage with my bachelor’s degree, the world felt like it was closing in instead of opening up. The career path I’d always imagined suddenly seemed like someone else’s dream, and I found myself unable to let go of the University of Mount Saint Vincent. It wasn’t nostalgia or fear of adulthood. It was something deeper: a desire to serve.
That desire, paired with a willingness to pause and listen inward, led me to jump into a role I knew almost nothing about. At twenty-two, I stepped into the world of alumnae/i relations and giving.
For four years, I discovered a career I grew to love — equal parts community building, event planning, and fundraising — all in support of the place that meant so much to me.
But eventually, I faced a new crossroads. Would I move to another state to be with my now-husband and let go of the job that had given me my spark back? Or stay and let go of the life I wanted to build?
Luckily, I didn’t have to choose. I earned the trust of my supervisors to shift into a new role within the Advancement Division as Director for Communications, and I was grateful they believed in me enough to support the transition to remote work.
Watching From a Distance
By the time I settled into my new home and role, I carried a deep understanding of the rhythms, pressures, and traditions that shaped our Advancement Division, especially the Office of Alumnae/i Relations and Giving.
One of the highlights of that work was Reunion Weekend. It was more than an event. It was a ritual of celebration for the past, present, and future. I knew how much planning it required, how disproportionate the weight of small details could be, and how much the weekend meant to alums across generations.
As colleagues came and went and a new team stepped into the roles I once held, I was hopeful for fresh energy and ideas. But as Reunion Weekend approached, it became clear — slowly at first, then unmistakably — that key elements were slipping. Deadlines passed quietly. Communications lagged. Vendors weren’t confirmed. The momentum we had built began to crumble.
One restless night made the truth unavoidable: if I didn’t say something, what would happen? Yet facilitating Reunion Weekend was no longer my responsibility.
It was then I realized I wasn’t facing a logistical challenge. I was facing a moral one.
The Temptation of the Easy Path
Staring at my computer the next morning, I faced a decision.
Should I step back into my old habits and save the day? I could picture a version of events where I restored order by drafting communications, boosting registrations, and coordinating vendors. It would have been faster and cleaner.
But there was another version where I did the opposite. I could stay in my lane, focus on my current responsibilities, and allow the new team to work through the challenges. After all, it wasn’t my job anymore. And maybe they would ask for help.
Both choices were easy, but neither reflected the leadership I was trying to practice.
As a HOW Institute NXT-GEN Fellow, I’ve learned that leadership often lives in the uncomfortable middle — between doing too much and doing too little, between rescuing and stepping back, between over-functioning and disengaging. Moral leadership encourages us to respond with intention to the challenges we didn’t ask for but still feel responsible to address.
So, how would I respond?
Where Courage Begins
Drawing on what I learned in the fellowship, I chose the harder third path: offering guidance without taking over. It required a balance I hadn’t practiced before.
I reached out not with critique but with curiosity. I shared insights from experience while leaving room for their ideas. I offered structure when it was needed and space when it wasn’t. And I reminded myself of the three catalysts for courage: that my task wasn’t to prove my competence, but to help them feel confident in our shared commitment to the University and its mission.
Slowly, the pieces of Reunion Weekend came together — maybe not in the exact pattern I would have used, but in a way that supported a new team finding its footing.
A Quiet Turning Point
What began with an intentional pause, even one prompted by a sleepless night, became an opportunity to foster confidence and independence. Trusting the team wasn’t easy, but demonstrating moral leadership meant placing my courage in them so they could find their own.
Reunion Weekend came and went. It wasn’t perfect, but it fulfilled its purpose. More importantly, the team emerged more confident and more connected to their responsibilities.
Before I headed home, they offered their thanks.
That moment captured the heart of moral leadership: showing up in a way that supports rather than controls. I stayed anchored in what was right for the University rather than what was comfortable or gratifying for me.
This experience taught me that moral leadership lives in the decision to guide instead of dominate. I learned to respect the growth of others as much as the success of the work itself, and that was harder than I expected.
But Reunion Weekend reminded me of something simple and profound: leadership isn’t always about holding on. Sometimes it’s about letting go.
And in that space between holding on and letting go, moral leadership has room to come alive.
