The past few years have cracked me open in ways I never saw coming. There’s something about deep grief, real growth, and that no-nonsense grit it takes to keep going—that reshapes you from the inside out. Leading through grief can feel like walking barefoot through fire.
This isn’t a story about bouncing back.
It’s a story about becoming.
Because if you’ve ever found yourself navigating a season where everything you once knew felt like it slipped through your fingers—welcome. You are not alone.
So today, I want to share the raw, unfiltered lessons that came from grief, growth, and grit. Not because they’re neat or polished—but because they’re real. And maybe, they’ll meet you where you are too.
Grief Doesn’t Ask for Permission
Grief barges in. It doesn’t knock. It doesn’t care about your plans, your calendar, or your commitments. It’s inconvenient. It’s disorienting. And sometimes, it shows up long after the world expects you to “be okay.”
When I lost my little sister suddenly, my world shifted on its axis. Time slowed. Priorities snapped into place. And for a while, I couldn’t find my footing—because grief isn’t something you fix. It’s something you carry. And something you grow around. Like the root of a tree that finds itself with an immovable object smack in the way of its trajectory. But life finds a way.
I learned that true leadership doesn’t mean having it all together. Leading through grief means allowing yourself to be seen—even in the unraveling. To lead through grief is to lead with vulnerability, honesty, and a deep reverence for what matters most.
Growth Isn’t Always Graceful (and That’s Okay)
Everyone loves to talk about growth like it’s some peaceful, meditative expansion. But real growth, the kind that comes after loss, burnout, or hitting emotional rock bottom is messy. Non-linear and downright painful.
There were days when I didn’t recognize the woman in the mirror. Days when I questioned my work, my worth, and whether I could keep showing up for others, colleagues and my kids while barely holding myself together.
But here’s what growth taught me:
You can be a masterpiece and a work-in-progress.
You don’t have to wait until you feel “ready” to take the next step. Leading with grief you just have to be willing.
The version of me that emerged through the fire is softer, stronger, and far more honest. She doesn’t perform anymore. She shows up. As she is. She is leading with grief, and that’s more than enough.
Grit Isn’t About Hustle—It’s About Heart
I used to think grit was grinding. Pushing through. Hustling harder. But now I see grit as sacred tenacity. The kind that’s born not from pressure, but from purpose.
It’s the quiet voice that says,
“You don’t have to do it all. But you can keep going.”
Grit is resting when you’re tired, not quitting when you’re lost. It’s choosing to show up even when your heart is heavy, because you believe in the impact of your presence.
Leading with grit means honoring your limits without abandoning your dreams. It’s building your business, your life, your legacy—with resilience that runs deep, not fast.
You Can Lead and Still Fall Apart
One of the greatest myths of leadership is that you have to be “strong” all the time. That you have to hold everyone else up while quietly crumbling behind the scenes.
But true leadership—real, embodied, human leadership—makes space for the mess.
I learned how to lead meetings with tears still drying on my cheeks. I held space for clients while holding space for my own healing. I said “I don’t know” more times than I can count. I stood and spoke in front of hundreds of people at my sister’s service to honour her life, despite the anxiety and all consuming raw emotion.
And somehow, that vulnerability didn’t weaken me. It made me real. And the more real I became, the more others felt safe to do the same.
There Is Beauty in the Rebuilding
Grief tore down some of the walls I didn’t even know I’d built. Growth asked me to dig deeper. And grit taught me how to rebuild.
Not everything came back the same—and thank God. Because what I’m building now it is rooted in truth. It’s infused with intention. And it leaves space for joy and pain to coexist.
The beauty of rebuilding is this:
You get to choose what stays.
You get to decide what’s worth carrying forward.
And you learn that your capacity isn’t measured by how much you do, but by how deeply you feel and how fully you live.
Final Words: You Are Allowed to Be Both Strong and Soft
If you’re walking through grief right now, or deep in a season of growth that feels like shedding, I want you to know this:
You don’t have to rush your healing.
You don’t have to perform your resilience.
You get to lead with softness. With stillness. With soul.
There’s no award for pretending you’re fine. There is, however, deep power in becoming someone who leads with humanity.
You are not broken. You are becoming.
