The Burden

Ever since my cardiac arrests a little over four years ago, my relationship with sleep has been completely fucked.

The motorcycle crash last October didn't help matters. If anything, it cemented whatever strange rhythm my brain has settled into.

I usually fall asleep around eight or nine in the evening. Then, like clockwork, I'm awake again around midnight. And that's it. Sleep is over. The rest of the night is spent reading, writing, thinking, or obsessing over whatever problem has decided to take up residence in my head that day.

My mind just won't shut the fuck up.

Tonight is one of those nights.

It's not even eleven o'clock as I write this, and I'm wide awake. My brain is bouncing in a thousand different directions, never settling on one thought long enough to let me relax. I know I'm tired. I know I need to sleep. But there are things from today that keep clawing their way back into the front of my mind.

One of the many costs of leadership.

Nobody really tells you about this part.

People see leadership as authority, influence, decision-making, or maybe a nicer office if you're lucky. What they don't see are the hours after everyone else has gone home, when you're still replaying conversations in your head, wondering whether you made the right call, wondering whether you missed something, wondering if someone on your team is struggling more than they're letting on.

Leaders ruminate.

At least the good ones do.

Not every sleepless night is a bad one. I've had nights where I'm awake simply because my brain is creating. Those are wonderful nights. Those are the nights where an essay seems to write itself, where ideas connect in ways they never would during the day, where the words just flow.

Tonight isn't one of those nights.

Tonight I'm stuck on a problem I can't solve.

I have to be careful here because the details don't really matter, and revealing too much would betray the confidence of people I care about. Suffice it to say, someone needs help, I know what I believe the right answer is, and I'm not being allowed to pursue it.

That's the frustrating part.

I already have a solution.

I proposed the solution.

It was dismissed.

Not because it wouldn't work.

Not because it was against policy.

Because it wasn't his idea.

That's a hard realization to come to when you've spent years trying to leave your own ego at the door.

When I first stepped into this leadership role, I was empowered. Things were broken, nobody else knew how to fix them, and I was trusted to take the reins. So I did. I made decisions. I solved problems. I built processes. I righted a ship that desperately needed someone at the helm.

Then the motorcycle wreck happened.

I disappeared for nearly four months.

When I came back...

Everything had changed.

Today, I feel less like a leader and more like a glorified team lead. I'm trusted to solve today's problems but rarely invited into tomorrow's conversations. Strategy happens somewhere else. Decisions happen somewhere else. I'm expected to execute, but not to influence.

That's a difficult place to be when you can clearly see a better path forward.

Maybe I'm wrong.

I'm certainly not arrogant enough to believe I'm always right.

But I know this particular problem inside and out because I've lived it. Years ago, I found myself on the receiving end of the very process that's now being championed as the solution. I understand its strengths. I understand its weaknesses. I also know there's a better option.

But someone else recently discovered the shiny new hammer, and now every problem looks like a nail.

So here I sit.

Ruminating.

Trying to solve a problem I've not been empowered to solve.

Worrying about someone I may not be allowed to help.

Losing sleep over decisions I'm not permitted to make.

I know this probably sounds like whining.

Maybe, technically, it is.

But that's not really the point.

The point is that leadership carries a weight most people never see. If you're doing it right, you don't stop caring when you leave the office. You carry your people home with you. Their struggles become your struggles. Their victories become your victories. Their failures keep you awake because you wonder if there was something you could have done differently.

That's the burden.

Not authority.

Not titles.

Not having the final say.

The burden is caring deeply enough that you lose sleep over problems that nobody expects you to carry.

And tonight...

That burden feels particularly heavy.