The “Bad Guy”… Women Who Lead

The dilemma of being both the example and the enforcer: Holding women accountable, even when you know exactly how heavy their load is.

As Women’s History Month wraps up, I’ve found myself reflecting on the countless panels, articles, and commemorative events honoring the brilliance, power, and perseverance of women. And rightfully so. We deserve the spotlight, the celebration, and the seat at every table we choose.

But amidst the inspiration and collective pride, there’s one thing I didn’t hear said out loud: what it’s really like for women to lead other women. Maybe that was the quiet part—the part we all feel, but few are willing to say publicly.

So let me say it.

Leading as a woman—especially a Black woman—in this moment is hard. Leading other women, who are carrying their own impossible loads, is a unique kind of challenge. One that demands a level of nuance and emotional labor that rarely gets discussed in executive coaching sessions or featured in Forbes leadership roundups.

Let me be clear: I’ve led with purpose. I’ve led with vision. But I’ve also led while on FaceTime from a hotel room during my daughter Jamie’s first middle school recital. I’ve led while dressing her remotely for a dance competition. I’ve led while my husband went to the doctor without me—again—because I was away speaking at a conference, managing a crisis, or trying to keep an under-resourced nonprofit running.

And while I’m anchoring major decisions at work, I’m also wondering if my husband remembered to ask the right questions at his appointment (spoiler: he didn’t).

As the Chief Operating Officer of a nonprofit and Consultant, I carry a lot of responsibility—and I do it with pride. I work in a sector where the mission is real, the work is heavy, and the resources are often limited. Nonprofits are powered by passion, and according to national data, nearly 75% of the nonprofit workforce is made up of women—many of whom are also caregivers, heads of households, and everything to everyone outside of work.

And that’s where the tension lies.

I see it every day. The call-outs. The childcare emergencies. The requests to work from home again. The mental health days that trickle into burnout. As a woman, I get it. As a leader, I have to manage it.

That’s the tightrope we don’t talk enough about.

There’s this internal conflict I battle with more often than I care to admit. The voice that says, “Well, if I can do it, why can’t they?” That’s my bias. That’s my fatigue. That’s my trauma—And I'm not proud of it.

It’s hard to be the “bad guy” when the person across from you is a good woman trying to hold it all together. I know that woman. I am her!

But the service doesn’t stop. The mission doesn’t pause because someone’s babysitter canceled or their kid is home sick again. The world keeps turning, and the expectations keep mounting—especially on women.

Let’s be real: we weren’t just asking for a seat at the table. We were asking for the chance to redesign the damn table. And we’re doing that. But while we’re busy breaking barriers, building equity, and shaping policy, we’re also making dinner, monitoring homework, managing illnesses, and keeping our families alive—sometimes literally.

So no, I won’t play devil’s advocate and say that men don’t face challenges. They do. But the emotional labor, the mental load, the invisible weight? That’s still disproportionately ours.

This post isn’t about offering quick fixes or polished solutions. It’s about truth. It’s about awareness. It’s about saying the quiet parts out loud so we can begin to explore real, sustainable approaches—ones that don’t undo the decades of protest and advocacy that got us here, but instead revisit what equity truly looks like through the lens of women, especially women of color, in the workplace.

It’s about sitting in the messiness of modern leadership and acknowledging that the systems we operate in weren’t built for us—yet here we are, leading anyway.

And to my staff and colleagues—especially the women I have the honor of leading: When I hold you accountable, it’s not because I’m detached—it’s because I care. I see your efforts. I know the sacrifices. I carry some of the same invisible weights. But I also see your potential, your brilliance, and your growth. And I know that our mission deserves your best—just like you deserve mine.

So if I seem like “the bad guy” some days, it’s not out of a lack of compassion. It’s because I care too deeply to let you shrink, fall short, or fade into the background. I want you to rise, to stretch, and to lead—because I know exactly what you’re capable of.