My Ass Is on the Line, Too (It's Just Shaped Differently)

On power, professional courage, and the unequal risks of speaking up.

I've occasionally found myself wondering when I became the kind of woman who says certain things out loud.

Not because I've always been particularly fearless. Quite the opposite. Earlier in my career, I was considerably more cautious about challenging assumptions, questioning decisions, or naming something uncomfortable in a room full of people who possessed more authority than I did.

But somewhere along the way, something changed.

As I moved into positions of greater responsibility, I became increasingly willing to say things that I might once have kept to myself. I've questioned the composition of professional panels while sitting on them, participated in candid conversations about racism in admissions, and challenged institutional assumptions that seemed to deserve considerably more scrutiny than they were receiving.

I didn't necessarily set out to become more provocative. Over time, I simply became less willing to leave important things unsaid.

And I've come to recognize that my growing willingness to speak wasn't entirely separate from the authority I was acquiring.

The Shape of Risk

There's a familiar assumption that speaking up becomes easier when you're the boss. I understand where that comes from. Positional authority can provide access, influence, and protections that aren't equally available to everyone within an organization.

But I don't think courage necessarily becomes easier as you rise through the ranks. The risks change, and sometimes they become more consequential in ways that are difficult to appreciate until you're the person making the decision.

I've certainly never experienced executive leadership as a place where professional risk disappears. There are institutional relationships to navigate, political consequences to consider, decisions that may be unpopular, and moments when saying something uncomfortable can put your own professional standing in jeopardy.

I still have my ass on the line, but I've come to recognize that the risks I carry are shaped differently from those carried by the people who report to me. And rather than resenting that distinction, I've come to treasure it.

Because while my position doesn't eliminate the possibility of consequences, it does give me a different capacity to absorb certain risks. I have access to conversations that others may never be invited into. I can raise concerns directly with people who possess institutional authority. I can challenge a premise, question a decision, or insist that an operational reality deserves consideration before a strategy moves forward.

Someone who reports to me may recognize precisely the same problem but face a materially different set of consequences for saying so.

Their concern might involve a performance evaluation, a supervisor's perception of their loyalty, future professional opportunities, or the security of relationships on which their daily work depends. And while I may face consequences of my own, I cannot pretend that our risks are interchangeable.

The distinction matters because it changes how I understand the responsibilities of my position.

What Is Power For?

I've been thinking about that familiar Spider-Man lesson: with great power comes great responsibility.

It's almost embarrassingly simple, particularly when applied to the complexities of institutional leadership. But I've come to appreciate that the responsibilities accompanying authority extend beyond the formal duties of a position.

There are moments when I can say something that someone else cannot reasonably be expected to say. Not because they lack courage, judgment, or conviction, but because the consequences of speaking may be disproportionately theirs to bear.

And I've increasingly come to believe that when I have the ability to carry some of that risk, I have a responsibility to consider doing so.

That doesn't mean every disagreement deserves a confrontation, or that having authority gives me license to say whatever I want without regard for consequences. In fact, I think the opposite is true. The more authority I possess, the more carefully I have to consider how I exercise it.

But I also don't believe that caution should become an excuse for silence.

Sometimes the responsible thing is to challenge an assumption in a meeting where others may not feel comfortable doing so. Sometimes it's to insist that a decision be reconsidered because the people who will live with its consequences haven't been adequately heard. And sometimes it's to raise an issue that may create professional discomfort for me precisely because allowing someone else to carry that burden would be unreasonable.

I've come to treasure the opportunity to do that work, even when it costs me something.

Not because I enjoy conflict, but because I understand my authority as something that should be useful beyond myself.

Courage Is Not a Solo Performance

Something else happened as I became more willing to speak up: I began surrounding myself with people who were willing to do the same.

I've had the extraordinary privilege of knowing professionals who challenge assumptions thoughtfully, question decisions with integrity, and refuse to confuse institutional loyalty with unquestioning agreement. Some have held considerable authority. Others have exercised remarkable influence without possessing much formal power at all.

And I've learned that courage can be cultivated in the company of other courageous people.

But there's a complication here that I think those of us in leadership need to confront.

It's one thing to surround ourselves with people who are willing to challenge authority. It's another to ensure that those people feel genuinely able to challenge our authority.

We can tell staff that our doors are always open, that we welcome feedback, and that we want people to speak freely. But those declarations don't necessarily tell us whether people believe it's safe to disagree with us.

And the people who feel least safe may be the least likely to tell us.

That's an uncomfortable possibility, particularly for leaders who genuinely believe they've created an environment of trust.

It requires us to consider whether we reward candor only when it's delivered in ways we find agreeable, whether we become defensive when someone challenges a decision we've already made, and whether the people around us have learned to anticipate which observations will be welcomed and which might carry consequences.

It also requires us to recognize that speaking on behalf of others isn't always the most responsible use of our authority.

Sometimes our responsibility is to use our position to create conditions in which people can speak for themselves, with a reasonable expectation that their perspectives will be heard and considered without retaliation.

Other times, circumstances may require us to carry the message ourselves.

Knowing the difference requires judgment, humility, and a willingness to examine how our own exercise of authority affects the people around us.

The Responsibility to Say It

I don't think courageous leadership means becoming fearless. I'm not sure that's even a particularly useful aspiration.

Fear can be informative. It reminds us that decisions have consequences, that relationships matter, and that the things we say can affect people in ways we may not fully anticipate.

But I have become increasingly interested in what we do with the authority we possess when we recognize that someone needs to say something difficult.

Do we use our positions primarily to protect ourselves from discomfort? Do we wait for someone with less authority to raise the concern first? Or do we recognize that our ability to absorb certain risks creates an opportunity, and perhaps an obligation, to act?

I don't imagine there's a universal answer. Authority operates differently across institutions, and professional risks are shaped by far more than organizational titles.

But I do know that my understanding of leadership has changed as my responsibilities have grown.

I once wondered when I became the woman who was willing to say the quiet things out loud.

Now I find myself asking a different question.

If my position gives me the ability to say something that others may not be able to say safely, what am I doing with that opportunity?

And perhaps just as importantly, what am I doing to make sure they won't always need me to say it for them?