The Both/And of It All: Leading with Compassion While Living a Human Life

I’m a social worker.
A supervisor of nearly 30 people.
Responsible for a 24/7 program that doesn’t pause when I’m tired, when I’m grieving, when I’m healing.
And also, I’m a human being.

That “and” feels important to say out loud.

People often think leadership looks like certainty. Like control. Like always knowing what to do. But in the real world—especially in social work—it often looks like adaptability, deep breaths in the hallway, and whispering to yourself, “We’ll figure it out.” It looks like answering a call at 2 a.m. because a crisis can’t wait. It looks like advocating, de-escalating, holding space, and sometimes—barely holding yourself together.

I lead a team that works around the clock. People don’t stop needing housing, support, safety, or compassion just because the sun goes down. So we keep showing up. But what I’ve learned—what I’m still learning—is how to show up for myself, too.

Because beneath the job title, the crisis plans, the policies and deadlines, there’s me.

Me, with the aching heart from a past I’m still healing.
Me, who sometimes forgets to drink water while I spend all day reminding others to take care of themselves.
Me, who is learning what healthy love looks like.
Me, who leans into friendship as my anchor when the weight of it all starts to pull.

I used to think I had to split myself. That being a “professional” meant shelving my humanity, that I couldn’t let anyone see the parts of me that were still tender. But I’ve learned (through trial, error, and burnout) that leadership doesn’t mean perfection. It means presence.

So now, I lead as a person. Not despite being one.

I try to be a supervisor who says, “Take the mental health day.”
Who checks in not just about caseloads, but about you.
Who models boundaries and breaks.
Who reminds my team—and myself—that we can do hard things without doing them alone.

It’s not always graceful. I mess up. I overextend. I have moments where I wonder if I’m really cut out for this. But then I remember that this work is human work. So being human in it is not a flaw—it’s the foundation.

I’m leading a 24/7 program.
I’m managing multiple teams.
I’m juggling spreadsheets and crisis calls and supervision notes.
And I’m also a friend, a partner, a daughter, a person in therapy, a writer, a woman who is still becoming.

I don’t want to separate those pieces anymore.

This is a life where I hold space for others—and also hold my own hand on the hard days.
Where I hold responsibility—and also softness.
Where I lead with strength—and vulnerability.

Because the truth is, healing doesn’t happen outside of real life. It happens in it. In the meetings. In the chaos. In the quiet moments after a long shift when I sit with myself and say, “You did your best today. That’s enough.”

To anyone doing this kind of work: You are allowed to be both leader and learner. Strong and sensitive. Burnt out and still burning with purpose.

You’re allowed to be a whole person. I am, too. And that’s what makes this work sustainable—not our detachment, but our humanity.

And maybe that’s the most powerful thing we can offer the people we serve, and each other:
Ourselves, fully present. Not perfect, just real.
Still healing. Still loving. Still here.

- Me & my very full glass of wine