The Year I Almost Quit Leadership

What it means to lead when you’re no longer sure you believe in the room you’re standing in

I. A Moment I Haven’t Told Many People About

I almost walked away.

Not from a job.

From leadership itself.

It wasn’t loud.

There was no resignation letter, no big career change announcement.

Just a quiet knowing in my gut that something was breaking.

And I was too loyal—or too afraid—to name it.

The moment that did it wasn’t particularly dramatic.

It was late.

I was sitting in my car after yet another meeting where I was applauded in public but ignored in private.

Smiling on camera. Clenching my jaw off-screen.

Holding everyone else’s feelings like porcelain, while mine shattered somewhere under unread texts and unreadier team dynamics.

I remember gripping the steering wheel and whispering:

“I don’t think I believe in this anymore.”

Not in the mission. Not in the people.

But in the way this system kept asking me to lead while disowning parts of myself just to stay at the table.

II. The Lie We Learn Too Early

If you’re Black, Brown, or from any community that’s had to prove itself in spaces built without you in mind, you likely learned early:

“You can be excellent, but you can’t be too honest.”

That’s the lie that haunted me.

That leadership meant being composed—even when your spirit is collapsing.

That strategy meant translating trauma into bullet points and outcomes.

That being “seen” meant hiding everything real inside a performance of readiness.

We praise people for being polished, even if it’s killing them.

We reward the leader who always “has it together,” even when what they really need is to fall apart safely, without being disqualified.

What we call professionalism is often just well-dressed suppression.

III. A Culture That Thrives on Disassociation

I was doing everything right.

I was producing.

I was mentoring.

I was answering emails after midnight.

I was getting awards.

I was being called a “model of leadership.”

But I was also having anxiety attacks before check-ins.

I was smiling in Zooms and crying alone at night.

I was dissociating in meetings—present physically but floating emotionally.

That’s the part we don’t talk about:

The cost of being everything for everyone in systems that will quote your name but nevknow your needs.

We spiritualize survival and call it stewardship.

We grind through grief and call it loyalty.

And we get so good at leading from depletion that we forget what it feels like to lead from truth.

IV. When You Realize the Room Isn’t Sacred

There’s a moment—if you lead long enough—where you realize:

The room you fought to get into is not the room you thought it would be.

You thought there would be collaboration.

You found ego.

You thought there would be safety.

You found politeness with knives behind it.

You thought there would be strategy.

You found performance art.

And then you look around and ask:

“Do I actually believe in this anymore?”

Not because you’re weak.

But because your soul has grown allergic to the lie that this is the best leadership can be.

V. What God Showed Me in the Quiet

In that season of unraveling, I didn’t hear thunder.

I didn’t have a burning bush.

But I did have silence—and it was holy.

God showed me that what I thought was leadership was actually performance.

That what I thought was loyalty was actually fear.

That what I thought was calling was actually conditioning.

And I realized:

You can outgrow a version of leadership that once saved you.

You can become allergic to a system you helped build.

You can tell the truth and still be strategic.

God never asked me to shrink my clarity to protect fragile egos.

God asked me to steward truth—even if it costs me proximity to power.

VI. The Rebuild

I didn’t quit.

But I did resign from performing.

I redefined leadership for myself—not as constant sacrifice, but as radical presence.

I decided I would no longer mentor people into systems that would harm them.

I decided I would tell the truth, even when it made the room uncomfortable.

I decided that if the room couldn’t hold my humanity—it wasn’t sacred.

That doesn’t mean it’s easy.

But I no longer confuse exhaustion for excellence.

I no longer mistake constant availability for stewardship.

I no longer wear silence like a badge.

Now, I lead from alignment.

From authority.

From rest.

And from the belief that a whole leader is more powerful than a “strong” one.

VII. Access Point Reflections

If you’ve ever thought about quitting—not because you couldn’t lead, but because you couldn’t keep lying about the cost—this is for you.

Ask yourself:

🜂 What’s the version of me I’ve kept performing to stay palatable?

🜂 What leadership rooms have I outgrown but stayed in out of fear?

🜂 What is the cost of being brilliant in a space that refuses to believe me?

🜂 What if leadership didn’t require me to break? What would I build then?

VIII. Final Benediction

To the leader who almost quit:

You’re not broken. You’re waking up.

You’re not too emotional. You’re in touch.

You’re not lost. You’re finally unlearning what it meant to survive.

Let the old version of you grieve.

And let the healed version of you lead.

The world doesn’t need more leaders who know how to perform under pressure.

It needs leaders who tell the truth—softly, boldly, and without fear.

Leaders who won’t trade their soul for access.

Leaders who aren’t afraid to walk away from rooms that weren’t sacred in the first place.

You’re not done.

You’re just done pretending.

🕊️ This is a free post from ACCESS Points. If this met you where you are, share it with a leader who’s carrying more than they’re allowed to say out loud. Paid posts drop every Thursday. The soul of leadership lives here.