What It Means to Be the First, the Only, and the Example

I was having lunch with a friend recently, and we got talking about women in leadership (Katie and I often talk about this over lunch with a glass of wine in hand) those incredible women in senior roles who seem to have it all together.

Then she asked, 

Are we expecting too much from them?

That question really stuck with me.

The narrative around women in senior leadership often focuses on how few there are and how much they’ve had to overcome.

Naturally, we admire them.

We put them on pedestals as symbols of what’s possible. They've broken through countless barriers, they’re often overqualified for their roles, and they give back in so many ways. They speak at events; they mentor, and they inspire. But in all this admiration, are we also piling on more pressure?

Not long ago, someone told me that just by being in my role, I gave them hope. They said seeing me made them feel like they could do it too.

And I was so emotional (like, full on tears).

Of course, I was proud. Who wouldn’t want to know they’d inspired someone? But the tears weren’t just pride. They were about how hard it’s been to get here.

And honestly, they were for me too, because sometimes I just need a reminder that this whole 'journey' hasn’t been for nothing, like there was a point, you know..

But moments like that also hit differently. They remind me of what they call the 'invisible weight' women in leadership carry. It’s not just about doing the job—it’s about being seen. About setting the example.

Being the reminder to others that they can make it too. And that’s not a bad thing, but it’s a lot. It’s a responsibility you never explicitly sign up for but somehow end up shouldering. Is it fair to expect all that from someone who’s already hadto fight just to be here?

And being a Black woman in leadership?

That’s a whole other layer. There’s a different kind of pressure, this constant realisation in the background that you are carrying more than just your own aspirations. Some days, it’s manageable. Other days, it’s bloody exhausting.

And what's hard is that I don’t think I’ve always had the benefit of managers or leaders who truly understand this. Most of the time, it feels like they don’t see the weight I’m carrying—or, worse, they’re not even willing to try. That’s where the resentment creeps in, the frustration, the loneliness. Because how do you fight a battle when the very people who are supposed to support you seem oblivious to it?

I’ve often felt like I’ve had to do it alone. And that’s an incredibly isolating place to be. It’s not just that they don’t get it—it’s that their lack of understanding leaves you feeling like you’re navigating an entirely different world, one they don’t have to deal with and don’t care to learn about.

The truth is, I feel a responsibility to show up. To be visible in a way that I never saw when I was coming up. But I’m also conflicted. Is just being here enough? Or do I owe it to others to actively make the path easier for them? I don’t know the answer to that yet. What I do know is that this internal tug-of-war can feel relentless.

But here’s the thing: the responsibility for change doesn’t just fall on the individuals breaking ground. I genuinely believe that managers need to think more carefully about how they’re supporting their teams.

Are they making space for people to truly thrive, or are they just piling on more expectations?

I now know that it’s not enough to give someone a seat at the table. That seat needs to come with the tools and the support to grow—and to rest.

It’s not just about visibility.

What if success wasn’t just about how much we achieve or how many we inspire, but about how we take care of ourselves and the people around us? What if workplaces judged their success not just by outcomes, but by how well they nurtured the people delivering them?

Now, that would be nice, wouldn't it...