Everyone wants to be a leader — until it’s time to make leadership decisions. Until it’s time to carry the weight, take on the accountability, and make the call that others will second-guess. Titles are easy to wear, but real leadership is heavy.

Leadership will test you. It will test your character, your patience, and your resilience. Because leadership isn’t about standing in the spotlight. It’s about standing firm when the spotlight turns harsh.

In a demanding world, leaders are pulled in every direction. Every decision carries consequences. Every choice brings critics. And the temptation is to fight harder just to prove you’re right.

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But resilient leaders know effectiveness matters more than ego. Sometimes proving you’re right costs you the trust of the people you lead. Sometimes winning the argument loses the room. Better to be effective than to be impressive.

What separates resilient leaders isn’t talent. It’s discipline. Anyone can shine for a moment, but warriors prepare for the long fight. Resilience isn’t built in applause or quick wins. It’s forged in the hours no one sees: the preparation, the persistence, the decision to stay when everyone else is ready to quit.

The hardest battles aren’t out in the world. They’re inside of us. Ego, fear and insecurity will knock down more leaders than any external challenge.

I’ve learned that resilience is rooted in humility. It’s the courage to admit when you’re wrong, the wisdom to shift course when necessary, and the strength to serve instead of chasing the urge to prove yourself. The greatest victories don’t come from silencing your critics. They come from silencing your ego.

Even warriors don’t fight alone. Before I was a CEO, I was a boxer. And one thing the sport taught me is this: in the ring, your corner steadies you, reminds you of the bigger picture, and gives you perspective you can’t see when you’re taking hits.

Leadership is no different. The most resilient leaders I know keep tight, trusted circles — mentors, peers, and coaches who remind them of who they are and what they’re fighting for. Resilience isn’t about carrying the weight alone. It’s about knowing when to lean on others so you can keep carrying it forward.

Resilience isn’t about never breaking. It’s about refusing to stay broken.

The warrior’s way isn’t about avoiding the fight or winning every round. It’s about showing up, staying humble, and refusing to quit when the weight of leadership feels unbearable. Resilient leaders keep rising — and that’s why they last.

And here’s the good news: resilience isn’t reserved for a few. It’s something every leader can build with practice and intention.

How to Build Resilient Leadership

• Choose effectiveness over ego. Don’t waste energy proving you’re right when you could be moving your team forward.

• Discipline your habits. Resilience is built in the unseen — rest, preparation, reflection, and focus.

• Name your inner battles. Be honest about your fear, pride, or insecurity, and do the work to master them.

• Build your corner. Surround yourself with mentors, peers, and truth-tellers who will steady you in the fight.

• Keep rising. You don’t have to win every round. You just have to refuse to stay down.

About the Author

Henry Sanders is the CEO of Madison365 and founder of the 365 Leadership Summit, Wisconsin’s premier gathering of diverse leaders, returning Nov. 3. He also writes The Selfless Way™, a leadership column helping leaders grow with clarity, conviction, and character. Don’t miss the 365 Leadership Summit on Nov. 3—visit 365LeadershipSummit.org to register.

Beyond the Title: Dr. Damira Grady

Beyond the Title is a series of Q&As with alumni of Madison365’s Most Influential lists.

Dr. Damira Grady is the Vice President of College Culture, Climate, and Community Impact at Madison Area Technical College. Dr. Damira Grady is an established thought partner and advocate for equity and social justice. Dr. Grady desires to forge multidisciplinary partnerships that create leadership opportunities and social mobility. Dr. Grady brings an extensive leadership background in access and support and works tirelessly at refining processes, policies, and programs that support conscious, inclusive environments. Dr. Grady has taught at four-year and two-year institutions, worked at various nonprofits, and served on various community boards and advisory committees. She is also a licensed professional counselor and utilizes those skills to help organizations ensure that all programming, policies, and procedures consider the whole person. 

What does presence before performance mean to you – and how do you stay grounded when the pressure to perform is high?

Presence before performance means I don’t let the room noise run me. And by room noise, I don’t just mean chatter; I mean the energy, the politics, the unspoken expectations, the side-eyes, the fear in the air. Every room has noise, and if you’re not careful, you’ll start moving to its rhythm instead of your own.

I’ve had moments where I walked into a space and felt all of that noise pulling at me, people waiting for me to fix it, to smooth it, to make it easy. My body wanted to jump in fast. But I’ve learned to pause, breathe, and stay centered. To remember: the loudest energy isn’t always the truest one. When I do that, I can respond with clarity instead of reacting out of pressure.

So, presence before performance, for me, is grounding rituals; breath work when I need space, stillness when I need perspective, humor when I need to break the tension. It’s refusing to let the noise decide who I am or how I lead.

What’s the best advice you’ve received from a mentor?
“They are going to hate you regardless, so do it anyway.”

That line was a game changer. It freed me from the illusion that leadership is about keeping everyone happy. A secure leader isn’t chasing approval; they’re anchored in worth. They know people are generally trustworthy and good, and when they’re not, or when they project blame, it’s not about you.

For me, that advice became both a shield and a compass. A shield against the noise of criticism, gossip, and gaslighting that shows up when you lead boldly. And a compass pointing me back to courage, even when it costs me. Because if they’re going to hate you anyway, you might as well make it worth something.

Tell us about a time you had to lead before there was consensus – when you were the only one who saw it, believed it, or were willing to act. What gave you the courage to move anyway?

Consensus is luxury leaders rarely get at the beginning, especially from other leaders, not necessarily those we lead. I remember when I pushed to change the name of an office because the language being used felt shallow and performative. People thought the old name was fine, familiar, safe. But I knew that if we kept calling the work by a label that didn’t match its depth, we’d keep people stuck in surface-level conversations.

It wasn’t a popular move at first. Folks worried it would stir confusion or resistance. But I pressed anyway, because for me, naming isn’t cosmetic; it’s cultural. Language sets the stage for how people engage, and I wasn’t willing to let my work be reduced to optics.

What gave me courage was knowing that regret is heavier than rejection. I’d rather move in truth and face pushback than stay quiet and let the work get minimized. And I’ve learned that when you lead from alignment, people may not agree right away, but they eventually see the shift you were trying to make.

So yes, my “I told y’all so” file is thick. But it’s not about being right, it’s about refusing to settle for performance when transformation is what’s needed.

What’s one question every new leader should ask during their first 100 days and why?

“Whose voice is missing here?”

Because if you’re not asking that, you’re not leading; you’re just performing in a suit. Leadership isn’t about being the loudest voice in the room; it’s about making sure the right voices are in the room and actually heard.

Who’s in your “corner” – that voice of wisdom you trust when things get tough? How do you build and protect that circle?

My circle is small, messy, and unbought. They’re the ones who remind me when I’m carrying more than is mine, or when I need to rest instead of grind. I protect it by keeping out people who only want proximity to my title but not responsibility for my humanity. My corner is curated like a playlist, you don’t just add anyone.

At the same time, I was raised to be in everyone’s corner. Service first. That comes straight out of my mindfulness teaching: to show up with compassion, to ask what happened? instead of why did you do that? There are so many people who feel I know them, and in many ways, I do, even when they’re still mispronouncing my name.

What grounds me is discernment. I’m good at consciously removing energy and people from my inner energy, while still showing them love and support. I can get along with everyone, but my spirit doesn’t sit with everyone. That’s the balance: to stay generous in the world, while fiercely protecting my center.

Leadership can be exhausting. What practices or boundaries help you avoid burnout and stay aligned with your purpose?

I practice “selective no’s.” Not everything deserves my yes, even if I could do it well. I build space to just be Damira; not VP, not therapist, not strategist. I write. I create. I laugh with my people. And I remember: if I burn out, my vision burns with me.

My boundaries are clear:

• I am not the expert on all things. And I don’t hire facilitators or work with individuals who claim they are. Why? Because when someone positions themselves as the expert, it often shuts down curiosity, humility, and shared learning. Real leadership, and real healing, come from co-creating knowledge, not hoarding it.

• I don’t get in the arena to debate my own oppression. My humanity is not up for discussion or debate.

• I don’t participate in activities or learning simulations that center my oppression for dominant culture’s education. My lived experience is not a training prop.

These boundaries are non-negotiable. They keep me aligned with purpose, not drained by performance. They remind me that my role isn’t to prove my worth or educate people at the expense of my own dignity. My role is to protect my energy so I can keep doing the work that matters, building spaces where people can thrive, not just survive.

Clout fades. Calling lasts. How do you stay anchored in impact over recognition?

I measure myself by fruit, not followers. Did the culture shift? Did someone feel seen? That’s the scoreboard.

I’m not on social media; just LinkedIn, and honestly, even that is starting to feel too much like Facebook. I don’t chase awards. I don’t need to videotape myself “doing good,” or living by best life. 

As a licensed therapist and a Vice President of Organizational Impact & Culture at Madison College, I sit in two worlds that both demand integrity: the clinical world, which is rooted in trust and confidentiality, and the leadership world, which is about influence, culture, and systemic change. That dual lens is why I’m deeply cautious about the siren song of social media and public validation.

The rise of “therapist influencers” has undeniably helped destigmatize mental health. But it also raises red flags when content veers into self-promotion, self-diagnosis, or buzzword overload. I worry when the impulse to record ourselves “doing good” dilutes the essence of therapeutic presence. Videoing care can drift toward performance, especially on platforms that reward what’s click-worthy rather than what’s clinically sound. That skews the message and risks eroding professional integrity.

In therapy, we’re trained to honor nuance, confidentiality, and real transformation, not showcase it. Yet most social media “therapy” content isn’t rooted in evidence, often lacks citations, and can misrepresent the complexity of real therapeutic work. Add to that the popularization of “therapy speak”, and the gap between symbolic empathy and authentic healing only widens.

And it’s not just therapy. Leadership as a discipline has become a billion-dollar business. Everyone has a book, a podcast, a framework, a formula. Yet if you ask most people, they’ll say the same thing: we don’t have enough good leaders. Why? Because you can’t podcast your way into integrity. You can’t keynote your way into self-awareness. Crafting a personal brand is not the same as cultivating personal depth.

The real work of leadership is not publishing; it’s practicing. It’s working on the craft of yourself. It’s the slow, often uncomfortable labor of growing emotional intelligence, learning how to regulate, to listen, to sit with tension, to act with courage even when it costs you. That’s not flashy. It won’t go viral. But it lasts.

That’s why I stay anchored in calling over clout. Because clout is applause. Calling is alignment. And alignment is the only thing that can outlive a news cycle or social media likes.

What’s a leadership value you refuse to compromise even when it’s inconvenient?

Truth. Even when it costs me opportunities, comfort, or relationships. Especially then. If my leadership isn’t rooted in truth, then it’s just choreography.

The thing about truth is, it doesn’t always make you popular. It doesn’t always make you safe. But it does make you free. And when leaders consistently abandon truth, the cost isn’t just burnout, it’s moral injury. Burnout is exhaustion. Moral injury is deeper: it’s what happens when you’re forced to act against your own values, to betray what you know is right, or to stay silent in the face of harm. That wound doesn’t heal with a vacation. It lingers.

By contrast, practicing moral inquiry keeps me alive in leadership. It’s asking myself: “Am I still leading in a way that feels honest? Am I still aligned with why I said yes to this in the first place?” That ongoing calibration is how I resist the slow erosion of integrity that turns leadership into performance theater.

So, when I say I won’t compromise truth, it’s not bravado; it’s survival. Because the day I trade truth for convenience is the day I step out of leadership and into performance. And I didn’t come here to dance for systems. I came here to shift them.

What book, quote, lyric, or scripture captures how you lead or how you live?

For me, it’s not a book or a quote, but a poem: Froglessness by Thich Nhat Hanh.

The poem is about the urge to leap, like a frog on a plate that can’t sit still. We live like that too: always jumping toward the next goal, the next title, the next solution. But the practice of “froglessness” is learning how to stay. To not leap out of discomfort. To not run because urgency or fear tells you to. To trust that stillness can hold you.

Froglessness is actually considered a mindfulness practice, what Thich Nhat Hanh called the “first fruit of practice.” The frog symbolizes our restless, striving nature, the part of us that wants to move constantly or escape discomfort. But froglessness teaches us the freedom of staying grounded, of choosing presence over panic, and moving only when it is truly aligned.

That captures my leadership. I’ve led in spaces where the expectation is to move fast, perform quickly, and always “jump.” But wisdom lives in the pause. I try to be the leader who can sit with tension instead of fleeing it, who can create calm instead of adding chaos, who knows that presence is often more transformative than performance.

And on a personal note, it makes me smile, because I collect frogs. For me, they’re not just trinkets; they’re reminders. Symbols of growth, transformation, and yes, sometimes the impulse to leap. But the poem reminds me: I don’t have to jump every time someone pushes. I can stay. I can lead from stillness.

Froglessness
by Thich Nhat Hanh

The first fruition of the practice
is the attainment of froglessness.

When a frog is put
on the center of a plate,
she will jump out of the plate
after just a few seconds.

If you put the frog back again
on the center of the plate,
she will again jump out.

You have so many plans.
There is something you want to become.
Therefore you always want to make a leap,
a leap forward.

It is difficult
to keep the frog still
on the center of the plate.

You and I
both have Buddha Nature in us.
This is encouraging,
but you and I
both have Frog Nature in us.

That is why
the first attainment
of the practice—
froglessness is its name.

When life gets heavy or leadership feels overwhelming, what keeps you grounded?

For me, it’s being in community. And being in community isn’t just hanging out, it’s about being seen, cared for, and interwoven in shared purpose and belonging. Real community offers belonging without having to conform, support that steadies you in hard times, and roles that give meaning to life. It creates safety, connection, and mutual care. It’s not transactional, it’s nourishing.

And here’s how that lives in my world when things get heavy: running my annual weeklong Aunt Damira Camp fills me up in a way nothing else does, being with my nieces and nephews, pouring into them, and laughing until my cheeks hurt. Walking around my neighborhood and having folks notice when they haven’t seen me in a minute; checking in, wondering if I’m okay or if I’ve moved; that’s what being in community feels like.

It’s also travel and exploration, resetting with new places and new faces. It’s giving back, showing up during crises, being the 411 for family and friends (“for those old enough to remember the Call Line”). I carry that role with love.

Yes, music, travel, and culture all feed me, but what keeps me grounded and human is being in community. That’s oxygen for me. And I think part of why it’s so nourishing is because I live a lot of my life offline. I carry authentic information in my body, in my memory, and in my relationships, not just in a feed.

Who is your favorite sports team?

Full disclosure; I don’t really watch sports very often, unless it’s family or we are going on a family outing. When my son was younger and playing baseball and hockey, I was the full traveling sports mom; lugging sports bags, freezing in rinks, cheering until my throat was raw. For me, the joy wasn’t in watching strangers do their hobby on TV or paying to get into a stadium; it was in showing up for him.

Now that he’s grown and out of sports, I’ve shifted my jersey collection to cheer for my step-grandson, he plays baseball, basketball, and football, so I’ve basically got a rotating fan schedule depending on the season.

And if we’re talking pro teams, I have to say the Raiders. When I was in middle school, the team came to my school and spoke to my class. That was a core memory for me growing up, and even though they’ve moved to Vegas, I still call them my favorite. Growing up in the Bay, most people in my family claimed the 49ers as their favorite team, but the 49ers never came to my school. The Raiders did, and that sealed it for me.

So in short: I’m nostalgic about the Raiders, and all-in for whichever team my step-grandson is on.

What is your favorite holiday and why?

I don’t really celebrate holidays in the traditional sense, I celebrate togetherness. For me, the date on the calendar matters less than the people around the table. It’s the laughter in my kitchen, the music turned up too loud, the conversations that stretch late into the night. That’s what feels sacred.

If I had to name one, though, Juneteenth resonates deeply. Because freedom isn’t just a date we mark once a year; it’s a practice. It’s a reminder of resilience, delayed justice, and the power of celebrating as an act of resistance. But at the heart of it, whether it’s Juneteenth, a birthday, or just a random Sunday dinner, what I’m really celebrating is community, connection, and the chance to be fully present with my people.

Can we amplify your voice? Click here to submit your own Beyond the Title.