Chapter 28 - The New Director
Teresa announced her retirement in November. I had known the possibility existed, but I hadn't expected the board to ask me to apply for executive director. The role would mean responsibility for programs, budgets, staff, donors, and decisions that didn't always have neat answers.
My first reaction was to refuse.
"You don't know whether you want it," Teresa said. "That's different."
She was right. I loved the work. I also feared becoming the person everyone called when anything went wrong. I had spent eighteen years carrying responsibility because there was no alternative. I wasn't sure I wanted to choose a new version of the same life.
I reviewed the job description, talked with staff, and asked the board chair what support the role actually included. There would be an operations manager, a program director, and regular board oversight. I wouldn't be responsible for every missing receipt or broken bus.
"That's the idea," the chair said.
"Then we should write it down."
She laughed, but she agreed.
I applied.
During the interview, one board member asked what I considered my greatest leadership strength. I almost answered that I knew how to survive a crisis. That would have been true, but incomplete.
"I know how to make decisions traceable," I said. "When people understand who decides, what information supports the decision, and how to challenge it, the organization doesn't depend on one person's judgment."
The board member nodded.
Another asked how I handled staff disagreement. I told them about the reduced grant and the transportation question, including the times our team had been disappointed by a cautious decision. I explained that being transparent didn't guarantee everyone would agree. It gave them enough information to disagree constructively.
I left the interview exhausted but glad I'd applied.
The board offered me the position three weeks later.
I called Rachel first. She shouted so loudly I had to move the phone away from my ear. Then she asked about salary, benefits, and whether the job would consume my life.
"You are the reason I ask questions about workload," I told her.
"Good. My influence is measurable."
Noah congratulated me and immediately asked whether my office would still have the blue door. When I said yes, he laughed.
"Then it's official. You have a recognizable brand."
Vincent sent a short congratulatory message. No offers of sponsorship. No suggestion that his business experience would make him the obvious adviser. I thanked him and returned to planning the transition.
The first month was difficult. Teresa had been director for twelve years, and staff were accustomed to asking her for decisions she made almost by instinct. I could not imitate that memory. I began documenting the processes, bringing program leaders into budget discussions, and assigning clear authority for routine problems.
Some people appreciated the changes. Others thought I was making simple work complicated. A longtime instructor told me the organization felt less personal.
I took the concern seriously. "What do you miss?" I asked.
"Teresa knew everybody. You keep asking us to use forms."
I thought about the problem. We needed records, but we also needed the warmth that made families return. We shortened some forms and created regular meetings where staff could raise concerns without scheduling a formal review. Systems were supposed to support human relationships, not replace them.
Three months later, an after-school coordinator made a mistake in a registration list that left two students without the correct bus assignment. The children remained safely supervised, but their families were frustrated. The coordinator expected to be blamed. Instead, we documented the error, contacted the families, corrected the schedule, and reviewed the process that allowed the confusion.
I still held her accountable for checking the roster. I didn't treat one mistake as a permanent identity.
Afterward she said, "I thought you'd be furious."
"I was worried," I answered. "That's not the same thing."
The board reviewed my first quarter and approved the transition plan. We had not solved every challenge. We had kept programs open, improved reporting, and retained staff. I was satisfied in a way that felt different from the relief of surviving.
At home, I put the new title on my résumé. EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR. I stared at it for a long time.
Noah called that evening. When I told him I still felt like the woman who once checked grocery prices to the cent, he said that woman was part of the reason I could do the job.
"Just don't let her convince you that you have to carry everything alone," he added.
I laughed. "That sounds like Rachel."
As director, I also had to learn to receive complaints without treating them as personal accusations. A parent wrote a detailed message about a bus that had arrived late twice in one month. My first reaction was to explain the traffic and staffing difficulties. Instead, I asked the operations manager to investigate, confirm the times, and identify what could change. The driver needed a revised route, and our notification system had failed to warn families. We corrected both issues and replied with the facts. The parent thanked us for taking the concern seriously. I felt oddly relieved. Being accountable did not mean defending the organization's image at all costs. It meant allowing information to move in both directions.
For the first quarterly staff review, I asked everyone to identify one process that worked and one that made their job harder. The answers weren't flattering. Our expense system was clearer than before, but new employees found it difficult to learn. Communication between program sites was uneven. I felt defensive for a moment, then remembered that honest feedback was the point. We prioritized the most important changes and assigned owners. I left the meeting tired and pleased. If the organization could tell me where it struggled without fear, that was a sign of strength rather than disloyalty.
May you like
"I learned from an excellent source."
The blue door was still there. I turned my key each morning and entered an office where my choices mattered, not because someone powerful had given me a place beside him, but because colleagues had judged my work and decided I could lead.
