In my past end-of-year reflections, I’ve touched on loss. No one close to me has died (or almost died) this year, and yet I felt like I’d lost something. And it felt like something I’d lost previously.
I’ve lost my words before. Because, at times, I chose not to compete. Which is amusing, because ‘Emilia’ means to strive, to rival, or to excel. (Or industrious.)
And I’m good at striving. But sometimes striving means competing for words, even when the words we want to speak can’t be there.
Observation
So, I also observe. I note the subtleties and what happens between the words. I consider what intentions lie between shifts in behaviour and language. Then, I question: what’s not being made explicit here?
This year, I continued my doctoral research. Kept interviewing. Wrote queries and visualised data. Published and presented. Observed the strengths (alongside unease) of humanities methodologies woven into strategy. And I appreciated the complexity. There’s a depth and richness that brings clarity, so long as we choose to sit with it.
In an effort to be clear or direct, however, we often miss being explicit. Any guardrails, nuances, and implicit expectations (all the parts I need made explicit) are left behind. Those are the words I need.
So, I chase after them.
Translation
“Don’t overthink it; you’ve got this,” we like to say. “But that’s how I survive,” I retort.
Only, I don’t share this.
Because that’s kind to say. Because I’m not overthinking. Because I’m decoding, reflecting, connecting, and sense-making instead. But translating that back would be too much. It’s more labour, for all of us.
This year, I thought about policies, processes, and safeguarding. I felt the tension of reconciling vulnerability and agency. Vulnerability can be uncomfortable to talk about in leadership. I’m often careful with language around it, but I lead in spaces where I can’t ignore it. It’s part of compliance and care. And it’s part of me.
Talking about compliance is simpler than the care built into processes. Compliance can be communicated. But translating the care embedded into communities (and strategy) to those outside these spaces feels more challenging.
By this point, the words are gone. My words. The ones I wanted to use. All clear and articulate. I’m still not sure I want to tell anyone that the process of finding those words felt fraught in the first place.
Because then there’s the translation of myself. The corrections I communicate, or don’t. The choice of where energy is spent being you.
The process being over, we all seem content, but the demand to translate still consumes my speech.
Leading
Or, more so, if I speak in the ways people assume I will.
This year, I sustained the things I built and continued to learn. I reflected on policies and structures. Achieved charity status for an organisation. Stepped into new board positions and acting roles. Shared outcomes and strategy through stories.
I led and learnt from people. I saw what the process demanded, but also aimed for what the moment and people in it needed. And there’s a tension there, not easily resolved.
We say, as leaders, that we all need to be okay with disruption, yet we also hold tightly to the positional pull and power of a set process. The one we implicitly sense is least disruptive.
But, least disruptive to whom?
So, I’ll be listening and observing, and leading accordingly. The name Scout means to listen and seek information. And that’s who I choose to be. Not because the words are gone, but because they were never the only way to lead.