Walk With Me

Lise: It was my first semester of Law School. I sat in the back. I had all the papers briefed. Every case was briefed and color coded. The professor called on me and I quite literally lost control of the English language. There was what felt like a minute long pause and I said, ‘Sir, I’d be grasping at straws.’ And I sat there quietly sobbing for the rest of class in the back of the room, looking at the hundreds of people in front of me. 

I walked across the street after that… called my mom in Hawaii… waking her up of course… and told her that I did not belong in law school. 

Elizabeth Beske, Lise as I know her, graduated number one in her law class. Indeed, she earned the equivalent of straight A’s at Columbia Law School. This unassuming, brilliant woman with whom I shared a quad in Spelman Hall at Princeton University walks along the beach next to me recounting a memory of imposter syndrome, the thread of which is woven into so many lives.

Lise: That (the straight A’s) was actually terrifying… because then I thought, ‘Oh my God, I can’t blow it.’ With every day that passed I wondered, ‘What’s going to happen when they find out that I don’t deserve this? And the other shoe drops?’ I guess that’s imposter syndrome. Right?

I once heard it said that we need to face the dragon – invite him to tea. I have personified worry and invited the beast to sit at my table and share tea. I see the dragon’s large form through the steam of his tea and I talk to him and reason out the worry. I think through the outcomes and see how each one might turn out ok. Sometimes I have to invite him to tea on many occasions, but eventually he has no fiery breath or he turns and walks out or simply evaporates. Lise didn’t metaphorically invite the dragon to tea, she literally “forced herself” to take a seat at the table in another one of her professor’s classes.

Lise: In my third year of law school, I forced myself to take his administrative law class because I kind of needed to confront my demons. And you know, I got a great grade in his class. And I actually forced myself to put my hand up and get called on … all those things. I even forced myself to ask him for a recommendation to clerk for the Supreme Court.

The justice for whom she clerked – Justice Sandra Day O’Connor. Indeed, Lise was once picked up and twirled around by the judge for a dissent she authored that was so effective it moved members of the majority over to Justice O’Connor’s way of thinking. 

There is a pattern in our conversation. With each new topic…first leadership then motherhood…Lise’s starting point is reserved, humble, self-effacing. It would be easy to miss the richness of her influence and the breadth of her impact if one didn’t press her to say more.  How is it that this Editor of the Columbia Law Review doesn’t see herself as a leader? How could she harbor any self doubt? What happens to us to make us feel like an imposter? As children we are curious, courageous, and creative…skinned knees, banged-up elbows, knotted hair and confident we can conquer the world. When does doubt sneak in? Who introduces it? Why does it take hold? Who doesn’t have it? How can I hold up a mirror so Lise can see in herself what each one of the eight other women on this college reunion trip see when we look at her? 

Perhaps, it starts by going for a walk.

The anxiety of straight A’s doesn’t end when one clerks for a Supreme Court justice. It can also play out in the next generation. Her third child followed two siblings “who checked all the boxes.” Third in line and trying to meet an unspoken and unintentional standard, he faltered. And whenever he did, his mother tried to fix things. 

Lise: He would slam a door, and I would open a window. 

A bumpy ride through high school culminating in a COVID graduation parade catapulted the third Beske to the Kenyon College campus for the 2020-2021 academic year. By October of 2021 Lise and her husband were driving him home from Gambier, OH. “It wasn’t going to take.” His parents gave him until the end of the calendar year to figure out what was next. “It has to be something,” they told him.

I can only imagine the sleepless nights and tear stained pillows in the weeks and months that followed. Lise had no template for this. No script to follow. No fix. The helplessness and worry is palpable. She had been waiting for the other shoe to drop for much of her life and when it finally did, it dropped in the life of her son.

Lise: We had no exit strategy at that point other than we knew it had to be something and we didn’t know what. What were we going to do if he didn’t have anything? I mean, what do you do? Literally. What do you do?  It was terrifying. And what if he picked something and then what do you do if he can’t do it?

You can hear Lise spiraling even as she recounts the experience. As a mom, I am living it vicariously. As an empath, my own chest heaves with anxiety. What do you do with this immense feeling of helplessness?

You love them. You trust them. You give yourself grace. 

While his older siblings graduated from Georgetown and Duke Universities respectively and his parents are both Princeton graduates, Christian might very well have the coolest career of them all as a cyber security expert for the United States Navy. His graduation was one of the proudest days of Lise’s life. And since then, “he just keeps killing it…”  qualifying for successive, more challenging rounds of schooling and ultimately landing at Ft. Meade. 

Lise: I feel like the luckiest person because of where we were. When I retell this, I still can’t believe we’re here with that kid. I’m so proud, yet I’m also filled with disbelief because it was hard. I mean, so many, so many tears shed for him, so many prayers, honestly. Look at me opening windows all the time. It wasn’t until I stopped that my son found his way.

He was grasping at straws, one might say, and look at the tremendous success he saw that challenge as an opportunity. Sounds a lot like his mom to me.

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I shared a wall with Lise for a year and yet I was meeting her for the first time as we left our footprints behind in the sand. If the cumulation of these walks offers nothing more than my opportunity to better see someone whose path has crossed mine, then every step has value. If these blogs might also allow someone to see themselves with a bit more grace, I would deem this a worthy pursuit.

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Imagine you’re a PreK – 8 Head of School. You’re supposed to be the beacon of wisdom, guiding young minds and inspiring your faculty, while also worrying about whether there’s enough coffee or toilet paper to prevent a coup. One minute you’re solving the mystery of the missing lunch box (spoiler alert: it was in the cubby the whole time), and the next, you’re spearheading a transformative educational initiative. 

My walk with Rose Helm, Head of School at John Thomas Dye School in Los Angeles, CA. personifies such PreK- 8 school leadership. You’re constantly out of breath — literally and metaphorically — juggling responsibilities for which you were never trained and jumping around various issues. You’re expected to have a solution to every problem, even the ones you didn’t know existed until they showed up uninvited, like distant relatives at Thanksgiving. When you stop long enough to realize that you aren’t out of breath at this moment, you worry you aren’t working hard enough or must be forgetting something. There is a sense of urgency in school leadership. If we aren’t doing all that we can, we are letting someone down. A child only gets nine-to-ten months to be a third grader, so time is of the essence. 

It’s all in a day’s work… for which we as Heads of School are probably already five minutes late. This walk was no exception. Rose texted moments before we were supposed to meet, “Are we walking in exercise gear or was the “walk” more metaphorical?” No metaphor here. She showed up with the energy to tackle a 10K and the breathless infectious laugh that makes her the perfect workout buddy. I know before we begin, she is going to push me. 

Her tongue-in-cheek humor speaks to the truth – Rose is a born leader – destined to be a CEO, or a princess, since she was a young girl. Now as an adult, Rose has a bias toward action. Add to that, Rose is a galvanizer. She can motivate people to get behind an idea with her unbridled enthusiasm. She has the animated arm movement of a conductor increasing the tempo while supporting you to rise to the expectation she has for you. She sees your potential and knows how to hit the gas pedal.  She is a powerhouse whose energy is palpable. 

Rose: I’m using my working genius, galvanizing. I’m getting people excited about this next phase for the school. But… how do we do all the things that we have to do, we want to do and make it seem like it’s effortless? While we also have to be vulnerable. It’s so many both ands.

That’s the real kicker, right? Leadership is about balance. Be strong but be vulnerable. Be the team leader, but also be the coach. You need to know when to take center stage and when to let others take the spotlight. While you are at it – you are working with children too, so find joy in the chaos. Sometimes, the best leadership move is to step back and let others have the limelight while you watch from the front row.

Rose:  The spotlight is always shining on us.. And, you know, I don’t know one of us who doesn’t love that a little bit. But I’m trying to learn to give that space and those opportunities to members of my administrative team, to other people. For example, historically, I write a weekly blog as part of our school newsletter. It is a slog to come up with something new to say every week. And it’s only me. It’s as if I’m the only person to have an original thought about children or something happening at the school. So I started sharing that with my leadership team. And not only has it helped me out, but it’s helped them take more of a front seat in the spotlight to be a thought leader. That empowerment leads to more agency, which then leads to more willingness to take things on. 

Liz: Sometimes the reason we do it is that it’s easier to just do it ourselves than to make sure someone’s doing it the way we want it to be done.

Rose and Liz: And that’s not good for anyone.

I have to attribute the last sentence to us both because our words are so intertwined. We finish each other’s sentences. We had clearly both walked that tightrope. The duality of leadership is what makes it both challenging and rewarding. It’s a constant dance between ego and humility, between action and reflection, and between being the hero and acknowledging that sometimes, you’re the villain in someone else’s story. But that’s okay. Because leadership isn’t about being perfect; it’s about being present, learning from your mistakes, and, most importantly, not taking yourself too seriously. After all, if you can’t laugh at the absurdity of it all, someone else will.

I don’t know if Rose would agree, but I learned humility from two very gifted masters: my daughters. They remind me every day not to take myself too seriously. No one is better at laughing at my errors than my girls. I am grateful… not all the time.. but in due time, I am grateful. Like leadership, motherhood is not about being perfect. I’ll speak for Rose when I say, we are not perfect mothers. Our flaws and challenges might just make us good mothers and better leaders, however. Take for instance the empathy we both have for mothers sitting in front of us after receiving a diagnosis of a medical condition or a learning difference.

Rose: When you think about your kid being sick, you want to actually have a diagnosis. No one wants to know it’s a virus. You want to know it is an ear infection because my child can take antibiotics. You know, it’s so hard when you get that information and you’re not sure what the right answer is for support. 

We have both been there. There is no right answer. No silver bullet. It is a journey. Maybe I should say a process…much like grief. As a parent, we have to give ourselves the grace to go through all the stages when we find out something is wrong which antibiotics can’t cure. For Rose and me, as goal oriented, Princeton-educated, Heads of School one of those stages was to become an expert and advocate. In absence of answers, our inclination was to learn. Though the diagnoses our daughters faced are different, the impact is the same. Ego pushes in and asks, “How did I not see this coming?” or “What did I miss?” and “How will I fix it?” 

Rose: Parents are …well, they’re not educators. I had the benefit of getting this information about my child and already knowing something about it. But a lot of people don’t. And it’s scary. This image of what you think your kid is going to be is all of a sudden completely upended. When we see parents who are manifesting “crazy,” I like to say it’s actually rooted in fear.

Which is actually rooted in love. And if we can meet them in the love place… well…

It’s terrifying being a parent. You’re just figuring it out.

Knowing ourselves better as mothers for having walked that path makes us better leaders especially in the Pre K – 8 arena for this is the time when most diagnoses occur. It is in the confines of our offices that parents have to come to terms with a future different than the one they imagined for a child. We know personally what care and support is necessary to show up in the love place no matter how the parent might show up in your office.

We had to acknowledge we could not be all things to our daughters. We admit we didn’t want to be. Rose laughs, “I have no part of my identity caught up in being the chief grocery shopper.” Still, Rose and I both share the mom guilt of showing up for all of the children in our school sometimes at the expense of our own daughters.

Rose: I’m the less present [parent]. And I grapple with that all the time. And think about these 336 students that get so much of my attention. And I have one child who’s in ninth grade now so I have this pre-empty nest nesting happening in these years before she’s going to leave. I’m trying to figure all these things out. And so actually this year, it’s such a small thing, but I’m going to drive her to the bus once a week, which means I’m going to miss the morning assembly that I lead every day once a week. And someone from my team has to lead it in my place. I decided that I can make this choice; I can put my child first. 

In the car Rose and her daughter talk. So do Ella and I. Some of our best conversations happen in the car. I think it is like walking – maybe when we both focus in the same forward direction and not look at one another we can find a more honest connection. 

Rose: …and when she gets out, she’s like, thanks for driving me. It’s a small thing.

It’s no small thing. I can tell by the genuine smile that comes across her face. That 15 minute ride to the bus is everything.  Even beats the front row ride at Soul Cycle.

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From Max she learned wisdom. He was the first dog for whom she cared. 

Eli: I had a neighbor, one of my best friend’s mother’s had died suddenly of cancer, and her husband, who I’d known since childhood, worked in LA which left his lovely, brilliant poodle home alone every single day.  I started walking Max for $5 a day. He became my best friend and my teacher.

With the heart of a curious child, Eli came to know Max. She witnessed his patience, his unconditional love, and his loyalty. She also saw that the kindness Max extended to Mr. Mack took him through the darkest of days after his wife’s death. Stalwartly, sitting near him, asking for very little, and patiently offering his love, Max walked her neighbor, and Eli, toward healing.

Eli, has a superpower. She appears as if summoned by some silent bat signal. No matter the gravity of the challenge you face, she shows up when no one else does. She is loving and patient and kind – giving you exactly what you need when you cannot even articulate it for yourself. I know. Lying in a hospital bed two days after my son had died, I was handed the phone. I heard Eli’s voice on the other end. We didn’t talk long. We didn’t need to. She validated my immense pain and offered unexpected, unconditional love. I sobbed when I hung up that phone and continued sobbing as I packed up my few things to drive home for the funeral. She may or may not have been wearing a cape. Of that I cannot be certain. It was only a phone call, but life saving nonetheless.

As is the case for all superheroes, there is also kryptonite. For Eli it is alcohol that had its grip on her. She lived a life of high anxieties since her first memories and found alcohol as the vehicle for self-medication. Confronting that disease landed her in a world where her bionic skills could serve others. She discovered a community where the great equalizer was the very challenge that brought them to their first AA meeting¹.

Eli: People are there as a community to get well, stay well, to lift each other up, to support each other, and do it mainly through our foibles and our humor and the fact that we can celebrate being alive and in the moment. It was just so incredibly wonderful for me. 

Before then, her life had been a series of sprints. And she was a good sprinter. She could wait until the last minute to finish a project…in fact she thrived in such a place of high anxiety. An all-nighter was an energy source.  To face this demon, however, would require the skills of a marathoner. For that she needed a support team.

Eli: My life is no longer a sprint – no longer moving through obligations and tasks. The thing about getting sober is that your brain will play games on you, saying, ‘Look at you. You made it two weeks without a drink. You deserve to celebrate with a drink.’ This cycle will repeat and repeat and repeat until you’ve lost your governor and you have absolutely no confidence that you can ever accomplish anything again. So you don’t even try. I deemed myself unemployable. I stopped working, and I kept myself safe, and I didn’t lose anything since I had nothing to lose. 

By getting into a community of people you find a purpose to wake up every day with the support and accountability of friends who will embrace you regardless of it all… we’ve all been there. All anybody wants for someone in an organization like that is the safety and care of their members.

You can’t have community if people don’t participate. It’s precisely the people that do come back after falling down to show people that it isn’t about perfection. It’s progress, not perfection. And it’s been a beautiful experiment. It’s allowed me to understand my real purpose, which is to take care of those around me.

I started with the little things, retooling my life into structure, retooling my life with caring for animals, getting involved with the idea of unconditional love.

That doesn’t sound like a little thing at all – unconditional love. I am quite certain most people love with conditions. Not Eli. Afterall all she has faced, Eli is a caregiver. Not just to her aging parents, which is one of the most challenging responsibilities I have ever known, but also to many of her friends. The dogs taught her how to show up. It started with Max and from that she just started nurturing other dogs in her neighborhood. Through the animals she became dear friends with all of her neighbors, who welcomed her into their lives. There she found another community.

Eli: I had very wonderful relationships with the dogs and then with the dog owners, which is a different level of intimacy and understanding of someone as a human being.

The dogs didn’t judge or criticize – they simply offered their whole hearts, asking nothing in return but her presence and affection. Meeting their “people” through their beloved companions had a unique way of softening the edges, making them more relatable and approachable. It’s as if the pure, unconditional love of a dog has the power to draw out the best in the rest of us. Eli does that. Her daily routine finds her making phone calls every morning to three or four warriors who have battled back the disease they all share. A disease for which the only cure is honesty, humility and community. 

Liz: Can you hear yourself? You are such a profound leader within your community.

Eli: Oh, thank you, Liz. I try to live through example, not in an arrogant way, but just reminding people you can always find community and support. I mean, the only way to do this is with people that understand. You don’t get it unless you get it. It’s a disease of the body and the mind, and the spirit. And it is genetic. 

Liz: But it’s not about the disease or the diagnosis of an underlying condition, is it?

Eli: Not at all. It’s about the person.. the humanity of the person in front of you. And I’m telling you, you’ll find the most amazing people. They’re just the most brilliant, creative people you’ve ever met in your life…honest, hilarious, humble. They say some of the wisest things you’ve ever heard. It is a joyous environment. 

Liz: It sounds like our world could use the philosophy of some AA meetings these days.

Eli: Absolutely. At the end of the day, it’s getting outside of yourself and giving back through your own honesty. That’s nourishing for your soul. Strange, but I get my biggest reward through being able to find love and humor in the most horrendous things.

It will come as no surprise that our friendship hasn’t been a straight line over the past 35 years. We lost touch at times. I didn’t know about any horrendous things that have happened. I heard tidbits of Eli’s life from other roommates. I heard at one point she was a dog walker. I had experienced far less pain at that point in my life, so I had far less wisdom. I say that because I accepted that fact – dog walker – on face value. I didn’t ask further questions. I didn’t pick up the phone and call her. It is accurate that Eli started to rebuild her life by walking dogs, but the truth is that she took her first step forward with the most accepting partner she could – Max. And they walked. There was no need to sprint. At that slower pace Max revealed his wisdom to her and she found purpose in following Max’s lead in how best to care for others. And when Max got cancer, Eli walked him home.

Eli: Max shared his love with me when I couldn’t love myself. And Max. Max took care of me, actually. I was happy I could return the favor.

Look for the helpers, Mr. Rogers reminded us. In our horrendous moments, look for the helpers. If you are as fortunate as I am, you will get a call from Eli. She will show up. It’s her superpower.

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¹ If you or someone you know has a problem and you would like to know more about Alcoholics Anonymous, visit www.aa.com.

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Unlike my walk with anyone else, Katie Regan asks, “Do you want to run these hills?”

This is what I love about Katie – her energy. The lilt of her voice has a strength and a cadence that exudes confidence and captures your attention. It’s no wonder she specializes in communication.

I hadn’t warned her this was an official walk. She resisted. She hadn’t thought about it – hadn’t written some ideas down with pen and paper to share noteworthy insights. Without my having to say as much, she knew that postponing was not an option and without another word, she moved from hesitation to embracing our walk. That’s Katie – one exhale and she takes on the moment in front of her. I moved gently into conversation by offering her a choice of our starting point: leadership, learning differences, motherhood.

She lands on the idea that learning differences is best to ignite our conversation, yet within minutes, we are discussing parenting as we are both mothers with two children – one of which has been identified with a learning difference. The day you find out your child is far from your tree, the elements of motherhood and learning are inextricably linked.

At four, Ella was flagged for dyslexia effects on her literacy skills. She was not being recommended for Kindergarten. For Katie, she and Brandon were told their son had autism. In each case, someone looked at an assessment and followed the prescribed script that certain test results led to a particular diagnosis. The Regans were told their son would need to attend a specialized school. Although I was the Head of School, I got the same advice. WCDS was possibly not a fit for my own daughter as well.

An unexpected hill appeared on the paths of our separate journeys. Maybe that’s why Katie likes to run the hills. Like I had years earlier, she took on the challenge presented and decided that there was no need to find another school. 

Katie: If we chose that school he would be treated a certain way every day. Expectations would be different for him. I asked, ‘Why don’t we set our bar up here…’

She reaches her hand above her own head and measures just how much she believed in her son. She acknowledges his brain works differently, but reminds herself that both boys’ minds are different from hers and from each others’. She allows that to amaze her and to teach her.  It is her nature to be curious. She is fascinated that we cannot raise our children the same no matter how we might try…the second born has a different audience: a sibling.

Katie: Whenever they’re acting differently, you’re parenting them differently. Over time, how we as adults are growing and changing, also changes the way we then parent, whether we know it or not. So you never actually raise all your kids the same way, even though you think you are.

I can’t help but think of Sir Ken Robinson. In his Ted Talk, How to Escape Education’s Death Valley, he challenges, “I’ll make you bet and I am confident I will win. If  you have two children or more I bet they are completely different from one another.” Imagine 24 or 30 of them in the room. All completely different from one another. Yet he continues, “Education is based not on this diversity but on conformity…if you sit kids down, hour after hour, doing low grade clerical work, don’t be surprised if they start to fidget.” He pushes us that children are not suffering from their diagnoses. They are suffering from childhood and the fact that schools don’t let them be natural curious and creative learners. 

You begin to live what Sir Ken Robinson preaches when one of your children receives a diagnosis.

Katie: I walked out of that room and I’m processing all this information. My head is spinning. I had my sister in law talk me off the ledge because she’s a reading specialist and she knows all these things. And she said, ‘Katie, nothing changes you or your son.’ She said, ‘He’s perfect. He’s exactly perfect. He’s exactly who he’s supposed to be. Now there’s just this piece of paper that says something, no big deal.’ She goes, ‘How are we going to move forward?’

Move forward they did. Trust me, after the fear and worry of a diagnosis subside, you see learning more clearly. To borrow from Ryan Holiday, the challenge of the diagnosis was the way. You see the possible negative paths ahead, so you take the opportunity to relish the joy that your child is exactly “who he is supposed to be.” The beauty of it all lies in the learning differences. These differences are not just challenges; they’re opportunities to redefine what education and growth and success look like. When that apple falls far from the tree, we have to remove our ego from the equation and appreciate our diversity – even in our own family. I’ve come to appreciate the concept that every child learns differently. One path forward that they all need to follow is absurd. 

Parenthood, it seems, is not just about guiding our kids; it’s about evolving with them. There’s a raw vulnerability in apologizing to your children, admitting that you’re still figuring this whole ‘being a mom’ thing out. And as our children grow, so do we. They challenge us, question our decisions, and in doing so, teach us the art of humility and patience. It’s not about having all the answers but about being open to the journey and the growth it brings.

And in parenting a child with learning differences, we find not just collateral beauty, but also a richness that redefines thriving. Who gets to define success? Is it a test score? A college acceptance? A salary? Increased profit? More time with our family? More purpose?

Katie: When I left corporate America to run my own company full time, I said, I want to live a purposeful life. I said, I don’t want to do this rat race anymore, where every day I feel like a failure in some way. Every single day I failed at something.

And I have kids. Every day, I was like, I’m not doing anything 100%. I didn’t have mom guilt. I had life-guilt. I thought to myself, I’m not excelling anywhere.

That’s what I decided to do… work fewer hours so that I can live a purposeful life. And it happened immediately. It went from every day feeling like I was not doing enough at work, not doing enough at home, never doing anything correctly or the way I wanted to, to feeling like I had the opportunity to make decisions, to do things the way I thought was right. And it changed my whole life. My whole life improved because of trying to live purposefully.

So here’s to the journey – with all its unexpected hills that will challenge us, take our breath away, but afford us a new perspective from the top.  That is a purposeful life.

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After I graduated from college, my mom stitched me a starfish with the caption “It makes a difference to this one.” It was a reference to the starfish story as told by the Honorable Andrew Young at my Baccalaureate. She heard it as my calling. In her mother’s heart, he was speaking directly to me. “Make a difference – one child at a time.” 

35 years later I have met a soulmate in this call to service… an inspiring female doctor who changes the trajectory for a life… one patient at a time. Dr. Lauren Loya is reshaping the way to think about healthcare in her mission to address medicine with a more personalized touch.

The pivotal moment came when she met a patient turning 60, who had been prescribed 13 different medications. Though the patient’s lab results looked perfect, she felt anything but. Dr. Loya remembers, “She was tired, she couldn’t sleep, she had back pain, she was depressed. And I looked at her labs, as I’ve been taught to do, and they are all normal. I have her on all the right medications for her high blood pressure, her diabetes, her cholesterol, etc. Her numbers look great. I realized I had no tools to deal with her lack of vitality and her feeling of poor health.” There was a crucial gap between clinical data and actual patient well-being. She recognized that the system was more focused on treatments that generate revenue, like medications, tests and surgeries, than preventative care. Trained traditionally in family medicine, Dr. Loya realized she was merely managing symptoms rather than truly helping her patients achieve wellness. “I thought to myself, This isn’t what I came here to do. I didn’t go into medicine to manage medications to make the numbers look right. I thought I was going to help people.” 

Following her epiphany, she ventured into integrative health—a field that combines traditional medicine with lifestyle and holistic approaches. She sought to offer more than just prescriptions, delving into nutrition, supplements, and lifestyle changes to genuinely improve health outcomes. Yet, she remained an outlier in her field. This realization drove her to create a practice where the focus was on listening to individual patients and addressing their personal needs. Thus The Hormone Center was born.

I couldn’t help but draw similarities in our journeys. Without a diagnosis, there was little support for the patient. Substitute the word “student” for “patient” and we are now telling my story in education. It is not about the diagnosis. It is about the child. I was not in the business of surviving school. How could I focus on the learner with our current system?  

For me, I focused on cultivating a culture of possibility and innovation at Wheeling Country Day School. It wouldn’t change the educational system, but it would serve the children and the teachers within our school community. For Dr. Loya, she similarly transformed her own practice. 

There comes a point, however, when you feel like you aren’t doing enough. Yes, you are making a difference to one person, but the impact could be so much greater. Each of us had to ask ourselves, were we willing to take the risk to expand our reach? Were we going to step out and be a leader in disrupting the larger system? 

Dr. Loya started training others to join her practice locally. By mentoring others, she quadrupled her practice’s capacity, ensuring more people could benefit from her patient-centered approach. By sharing her knowledge and experience, she amplified her impact. Now she is casting a wider net to train other practitioners to extend this focus on health and wellness in treating people not symptoms. It’s a reminder that change often starts with one person refusing to accept the status quo. By focusing on what truly matters—people’s well-being—this doctor is making a difference, one patient at a time. 

As we discussed menopause and IVF, and the damaging misinformation around both, the need for women to share their stories to disrupt the system in support of other women was palpable. I could feel the nudge of the starfish to tell my own stories – even if it helped only one woman through her journey to motherhood and beyond.

In case it is not clear, being a mom is replete with moments of doubt and self-reflection, no matter who you are professionally. Even as a physician, there were countless times Dr. Loya questioned her abilities as a mother, seeking validation from external sources. “My mom died six weeks before my first child was born. I often feel lacking because I never had her to ask things. How do I know I’m doing the right things? My dad always said, ‘You’re a great mom.’ My husband said it on and on and on. And so I believe that must be true. But I don’t ever say it to myself. I always see where I am lacking.” 

Still, we can learn to recognize small victories—pause during those moments and give ourselves a little credit. 

One of the most profound lessons is the importance of being present – just listening. When Dr. Loya’s daughter faced social challenges on the playground, she realized the best thing she could do was simply acknowledge the child’s feelings. “I mean, what was I going to do? Go to the school and say, ‘Hey, school principal, like, these girls won’t let my daughter play with them at playtime.’ I don’t know. That just didn’t seem like the solution.”  As a school leader, I couldn’t agree more. I wish more parents practiced such presence. Dr. Loya focused on listening to her child. “All I could really do was say, ‘Wow, that really sucks.’” 

Maybe that’s the parenting refrain we should teach. “That sucks.”

After I learned Nicolas had no heartbeat, I had to make quite a few phone calls to friends and family. It was excruciating – reliving his loss over and over again. Then I reached my mom. Her response was exactly what I needed. “Shit. That sucks.”

I doubt it was her lifelong career in medicine that prompted such a response. It was her honesty, her vulnerability and her humility. This wasn’t about her or how she should respond. This wasn’t anything she could fix. She didn’t have to put her stamp on it. Whatever made her say that, it was scripted beautifully.

As the trail ended, so did our conversation.

Liz: I think that’s something else we share. You have people’s lives in your hands. I felt like I had people’s futures in my hands.  I couldn’t give up on a child. I had to find a way to help them. But I think that filters into other aspects of your life where you feel like you have to provide a solution, a fix, and sometimes you can’t.

Lauren: You can’t.

Liz: Even as a mom.

Lauren: Even as a mom. 

The best we can do is remember that we can make a difference – one life at a time – sometimes just by listening. And if necessary, follow the wisdom of Virginia Dulany, and simply respond, “That sucks.”

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In a frame on the wall of Brendan Largay’s office hangs a sepia-toned note. Although written in pencil decades ago, you can still discern:

October 26, 1986. 

Dear Mrs. Jocknick, 

Yesterday, I lied to you about being at my grandparents.  The only reason I didn’t do the assignment was because I was too lazy and did not want to do the work.  I am very sorry and I assure you it will never happen again.

Brendan (Largay)

Underneath it, in the perfect script of a 7th grade social studies teacher, it reads:

Hi Brendan, 

I found this in the bottom of my file cabinet when I was cleaning out things.  Thought you’d get a chuckle out of it. I would love to know what you’re up to these days.  If you have the time, please let me know.  

Cheers, Liz

What is Brendan up to? He is the Head of School of Belmont Day School in Belmont, MA where he masterfully uses that little piece of gold to remind young people that failure is not fatal. Indeed, he and I agree that a child who has not yet failed in our PreK-8 schools missed an opportunity to learn from the experience in the safe haven of our educational worlds. Dare I go so far to point out the obvious… you can lie to your teacher and still end up the Head of School someday.

“I was just too lazy.” 

“Lazy” came to be a catch-all word to describe a student who needed to try harder to conform to a standard definition of success. When I think of antonyms for lazy – industrious, efficient – learning sounds like industrial manufacturing, not the curious acquisition of new ideas. It is where we were in 1986…and sadly where some may still be.

As is true for many students, Brendan was anything but lazy. He did not attend to his homework that night. Turns out Brendan struggled to attend to more than a night of homework. Brendan had/has ADHD. 

Brendan: To see that genetic gift [of ADHD] being handed down to all three of my children and to watch learning differences play out in different ways for the three of them has me so fascinated by the prospect of how we can make universal the equivalent of a neuropsych or a WISC assessment. Which child out there would we say, now that’s a kid whose brain works the way we expect it to or the way it should? I just think neurodiversity is ubiquitous. And the only way we can effectively lead Pre K to 8 schools through it is if we start to get clearer profiles earlier and earlier of the way kids are wired.

This. The absolute weaving of leadership, learning differences and parenthood as envisioned masterfully by a neurodivergent mind that can attend to the entire problem and ascertain a possible solution – thank goodness he has ADHD.

Brendan is one of the most creative thinkers and leaders I have met. As we walk, I am so grateful to have stepped aside from school leadership, so I can really listen to his ideas. In the past I would be in this conversation listening with the filter of Wheeling Country Day School. How can I do this at our school? Are we failing children by not trying that? When is my next faculty meeting where I could ask that question? And so on. But on this Sunday morning, I have the space to listen.

Brendan: After an ESHA discussion on futuristic thinking by Leadership and Design, I asked my faculty, ‘What is the unsolvable, big, ugly, hairy problem that the world is facing that you want to see solved?’ They came back with poverty, climate change, women’s rights… big, big, big dilemmas. I challenged them, ‘So in 15 years, the 4 year olds who just walked through your door will be 19. They will be sophomores in college. And I’m assuming we want them working on the answer because they will be the ones who both live with the consequences of the answer, but also the ones who have the most pressing need to solve it. And if that’s true, then I need you and your teams to determine what the skills are that will be required to solve these problems.’ And not surprisingly, the skills that came back are both skills that everyone’s been talking about since Daniel Pink and Tony Wagner and all the rest of it. And I would suggest many of those skills belong to neurodivergent profiles, kids who think about attacking problems differently and who have scaffolded some of the structures by which they get there, but have the creativity of thinking and have the flexibility of thinking.

I love this. That is the purpose of education to envision and do our part to enact a better future. I see great power in the faculty working to co-create learning inspired by a man who has the neurodivergent creativity and plasticity to set up such a challenge. Brendan (Largay – reminding you of his last name in case you forgot as he did for his teacher in 7th grade) is the leader we need in schools. And I would encourage any head of school reading this to consider a similar activity with such a strong vision and genuine faculty agency. That fits my definition of education excellence. It also fits my definition of a private school with public purpose. We have the intimacy and flexibility to tackle such problems in this way, so we will. If not us, who?

I would venture to say that Brendan is motivated not only by his diagnosis, but also by the “genetic gift” of watching the diagnosis affect his children. 

Brendan: What I can remember most clearly about the dad part of it was just this feeling of like, I have unwittingly sort of set my kid on a really complicated and challenging and difficult path and there’s nothing I can do about it. And that’s incredibly hard. I don’t know if it’s the PTSD of it but I was watching colleagues try to educate my kids in the way that teachers tried to educate me and failed. But now I know better and the teachers are my colleagues. 

I went back to that point when my parents very begrudgingly went down the Ritalin path for me. It changed my life. All of a sudden, the “Why are you so lazy?” conversation turned into, “Oh, you’re really smart.” We saw that happen with our kids.

One son fashions himself a political scientist. The 4 year old who threw a block at another child during an admission screening is now a superstar English student, loves history classes and never struggled a day in math. “That would not have necessarily been the path that we would have anticipated the morning of that screening.” When you are in the thick of it, it feels like an insurmountable mountain. The worry leaves an indelible mark, but time reveals a different narrative.

Parenting is not a sprint or a checklist. There is no end point. It is an epic love story. There are heroes and heroines, villains and dragons and parents cannot slay the latter nor claim to be the former. We have to take what is in front of us, validate the emotions, and then do the best we can to keep moving forward. Another challenge is coming. Of that we can be certain.

And so it was two days before Brendan and I walked. He learned that one of his children was struggling in school. The advisor was suggesting medication. Brendan was proud to relay they already had begun medication only to learn their child stopped taking it unbeknownst to mom and dad. I have been in that seat. Imagine the scene: School leader mom (or dad), almost-adult child, doctor “advisor” discussing solutions when the plot twist is revealed. “I stopped my medication.” The resulting action plays out in slow motion and the dialogue takes place in your own head as to your numerous parenting and leadership failures. Indeed, the ego is the enemy.

Brendan: At times it feels disingenuous if I’m being totally honest. There are times when I’m like, Damn, I can’t even figure out my own kids and somehow 339 of them have been entrusted to me. Yet, the very spirit of this conversation is what gets me excited about getting on the plane to come to ESHA in the throes of that situation… or to go back to my school because I feel like I’m fortunate to have the agency to actually be able to elevate this conversation a little bit in my community and within this community of PreK-8 leaders.

Just like that, Brendan moves from ego to purpose… the first lesson of Ryan Holiday’s Ego is the Enemy, Live with Purpose. This walk took place a few hours before we had the opportunity to meet Ryan Holiday at an ESHA retreat, but we were discussing the philosophy of stoicism without even knowing it. Holiday writes “…this moment is not your life. But it is a moment in your life. How will you use it?” and Brendan walks that walk as he elevates personal discomfort into purposeful work to be done.

Brendan then asks, “Do you think this job of independent school leadership is possible to scale? Can we do all the things that a parent is expecting for one child to be true for 339? Or 600? Or 10,000?” 

As I listen to our recorded conversation, I am sorry I answered him. I wish I had thrown it back to him and we had debated it more than we did. We would have landed on a much richer, more robust answer. I will have to learn from that in future walks. The comment, “here is a question for you” does not require an answer, only a response of “say more.” We discussed simplifying that big hairy question to a single conversation where a parent, child and special education expert discuss what is best for the child. Brendan likes that scenario, but suggests he would make introductions and leave the room to get out of the way. I urged him to stay and document the conversation. Pull out the threads, the patterns. Use it as an artifact for the universal assessment he sees on the horizon, or as a case study to coach the next generation of leaders. 

Brendan: That’s imposter syndrome 2.0. I’m in my ninth year and it’s time for me to be in that coaching capacity. There is a little bit of doubt as you make the slide into coaching spaces – who am I to tell you how to do it better? Despite the fact that I have learned a thing or two in nine years that may benefit others or know the questions to ask, but … who am I to coach anyone? 

Hearing him echo what the voice in my head has been saying is surprising. I’m glad I was listening. His question articulated the genesis of these walks. I was asking, who am I to coach anyone, but I was also abbreviating that to “Who am I?” Just as I am kicking around that voice of the imposter in my mind…

Brendan: Allow me to say I just did this very walk yesterday solo and was reflecting on the internal dialogue of how is the school actually doing? How am I doing? How is my family doing? And our walk allowed me to give voice to it…it is so simple and so necessary.

As I try to wrap up our conversation, Brendan sidesteps and asks, What is the next step for you? 

As I listen to the recording of his final question, I am unexpectedly captivated once again by the rhythmic soundtrack of feet and the powerful reminder that the most rewarding journeys often involve the simplest of steps.

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