I Was the Leader, But I Wasn’t There: A Hard Truth About Presence and Purpose

A leader faces his Brotherhood—shoulders squared, heart heavy—as the weight of leadership, presence, and accountability fills the room.

This is uncomfortable to write. Not because I’m ashamed—but because the realization hit me deeper than I expected. I’m not writing this for sympathy. I don’t want a pat on the back or someone telling me, “You did your best.” This isn’t about easing my conscience. This is about accountability—and being honest about what happens when leadership loses its presence.

For years, I stood in the background of my beloved Fraternal Order of Classy Gentlemen Sigma Rhomeo Inc. I pushed policy. I built processes. I created structure and drafted the operational backbone of our organization. I had the position. I earned the responsibility. And then—I burned out.

But I didn’t step down.

And one of the main reasons? I didn’t want to be seen as a quitter. I had already carried that weight once before.

Years ago, when I was transitioning out of an Iraq deployment and trying to reintegrate personally and professionally, I stepped away from my role as National Executive Director. It wasn’t a graceful exit—it was born out of necessity, out of pain, out of the real struggles I was facing inside. But even then, people didn’t see what I was carrying. They just saw the exit. And I may have carried the label.

So this time, I told myself, "You’ll push through." I stayed—not because I had the capacity, but because I feared what stepping down might represent. I didn’t want to be viewed as someone who couldn’t finish what I started. I didn’t want to echo that moment from the past.

But in trying to hold it all together, I lost my ability to be present. I didn’t quit. I just… disappeared while still holding the position.

And that’s a failure too—just a quieter one.

And in that absence, my Vice President stepped in.

He didn’t just fill a seat. He carried the organization. He built the trust. He connected. He did what I didn’t—and what I couldn’t at the time. And when our conclave came around and the Brothers stood in appreciation of him, I wasn’t bitter. I was proud of him. But that pride was also a mirror. Because what they celebrated in him was everything I should’ve done.

And didn’t.

Burnout Doesn’t Announce Itself—It Just Shows Up as Absence

I gave so much before I ever became President. I was working in other places, fulfilling other obligations, and honestly—I thought I could still make it work. I thought I could lead in my own way. But leading from a distance isn’t leading at all.

Brothers began to know me as “the AI guy.” Not as the President. Not as the glue. Not as the man they could rely on to be at the picnic, at the event, in the crowd, laughing, fellowshipping, and building. I thought I could delegate that part, let someone else be the social face while I handled the backend. But that’s not what a President is.

That’s when the realization hit: I didn’t just underperform. I disconnected.

The Fog in My Mind Matched the Fog in My Leadership

Even when I did show up physically, I wasn’t always mentally or emotionally prepared. I remember going through Robert’s Rules of Order during meetings and experiencing mental fog—my mind scrambling for the right words, the right transitions, and just… blank. The rhythm wasn’t there. The flow wasn’t there. And that’s not because I didn’t know what I was doing—it’s because I hadn’t practiced presence.

You can’t operate in the capacity of leadership if you haven’t kept your sword sharp. And mine had dulled.

The procedures felt foreign. The position felt unfamiliar. The title still sat on my shoulders, but the energy wasn’t there anymore.

And here’s the thing no one tells you—when you stop leading with clarity and conviction, people lose confidence, even when they don’t say it aloud.

I saw it in the Brothers’ eyes. That look of respectful disappointment. They didn’t say anything. They smiled. They nodded. But they knew. And honestly, I knew too.

Leadership Is a Lonely Seat—But You’re Still Accountable

People often say leadership is lonely. And it is. But it’s lonely for a reason: the expectations are higher. You’re expected to show up even when you don’t feel like it. And when you don’t, no matter how good your intentions were, it looks like failure.

And I failed. Not because I didn’t care. Not because I was lazy. But because I took on a role that needed more of me than I was ready or able to give—and I never said so.

I kept telling myself I’d get back in rhythm. That I’d re-engage. That the next event, the next meeting, the next document would fix it.

But I didn’t need to write another document. I needed to sit down with the Brothers. Laugh with them. Cry with them. Build with them. Be one of them.

I let the position become a platform instead of a place of service. And the worst part? I didn’t see it until the damage had been done.

Good Intentions Aren’t Enough

I had every good intention in the world. But intention without presence still feels like abandonment.

I left gaps in communication. I overpromised on timelines and underdelivered on execution. I kept pushing things off because I felt I had time. But when you’re leading people, time is never just yours—it belongs to the collective.

People started not knowing who to go to. They felt isolated, confused. I didn’t communicate things clearly. I didn’t build a pipeline where they could plug in, feel heard, and stay committed. So they started pulling back. And when their terms were up, they were done—not out of malice, but out of fatigue.

That’s not the culture I wanted. But it’s the one I unintentionally shaped.

What I’ve Learned

Let me be clear—this isn’t some public resignation letter. There’s nothing to resign from. I didn’t run for a second term. My Vice President, who earned every bit of trust and respect, is now the President. That transition is done.

What this is… is a reckoning.

A reflection. A hard conversation with myself.

I wasn’t overthrown. I wasn’t forced out. I simply didn’t finish the way I wanted to. And that matters.

But it’s not the end of the road. I still care. I still want to see this organization thrive. And as we move forward, my focus is on ensuring a seamless transition—one where the new President has access to all the tools, documents, and insights I’ve accumulated so he can steer this organization into even better processes, stronger engagement, and a more connected future.

And if he ever needs counsel, support, or simply someone to bounce thoughts off of—I’ll be there. Quietly. Supportively. Respectfully. No ego. No interference. Just presence.

Final Words

To every Brother who saw the void and didn’t say it—I saw it too. I see it now.

To my successor—thank you. For stepping up. For showing up. For reminding us all what consistent leadership really looks like.

And to anyone reading this, who’s ever held a leadership title and silently questioned if you were giving enough—check in before it’s too late. Don’t wait for the fog. Don’t wait for the moment when respect turns into resignation.

Because leadership without presence? It doesn’t hold. But leadership with presence—that builds legacy.

And next time I lead, I won’t just show up on the page.

I’ll show up in the circle. Present. Grounded. Human.

Tools for Rebound: Reflect, Reset, and Rebuild

So, this is the part where you don’t just read about failure—you learn from it. Not just mine, but from the wisdom shared by seasoned leaders and mentors who’ve walked this road before me. I’ve had the privilege of reflecting with them—and wrestling with myself. And what came out of those conversations, combined with my lived experience, is this:

If you’re in a similar space—carrying the quiet weight of not showing up the way you intended—these are a few grounded truths and practical tools that I’m walking with, and you can too:

1. Own it, but don’t over-identify with it.

   Failure is a moment—not your identity. Recognizing where you fell short is powerful, but don’t let it become your new label. Separate the behavior from your being.

   
   

2. Talk to someone who’s been there.

   Find a fellow leader who’s hit a wall before. Most seasoned leaders have. There’s something healing about hearing “me too” from someone who bounced back with clarity and grace.

   
   

3. List what did go right.

   Even if you didn’t deliver the way you intended, you likely did more than you realize. Document it. Name it. You’re not erasing your contributions—you’re contextualizing them.

   
   

4. Redefine your value beyond your title.

   Stepping down or stepping back doesn’t reduce your worth. Your wisdom, experience, and presence are still needed—just maybe in different ways now.

   
   

5. Give what you wish you had.

   If you felt unsupported, misunderstood, or isolated—be the opposite for the next leader. Don’t vanish. Don’t cling. Just be available with humility and honor.

   
   

6. Get still long enough to ask: “What do I really want now?

   Sometimes burnout comes not just from overwork but from misaligned purpose. You may be in the right lane, but headed toward the wrong destination. Take time to recalibrate.

Failure feels final only when you stop learning from it. But reflection—that uncomfortable, honest, soul-deep reflection—isn’t weakness.

It’s wisdom.

And the good news is, wisdom never expires.

You can start again. Lead again. Serve again—with sharper vision and a fuller heart.

The title may no longer be mine. But the lesson? That’s for life.

#LeadershipReflections #FraternalLeadership #PresenceMatters #Brotherhood #SupportTheNext #LegacyAndLeadership #LessonsInLeadership #AuthenticLeadership