When the Leader is Wounded

Today I sat quietly, just reflecting.

This year has been a whirlwind — a roller coaster of highs that barely held, and lows that came quietly, forcefully, and often, unnoticed. I’ve been fighting silent battles. The kind that drain you. The kind you don’t post about. The kind that leave you staring at the wall, wondering if hope is still real.

There are days I’ve woken up, not to live — but just to sit. To breathe. To survive.

Sometimes after walking through hard seasons, the hardest thing isn’t the pain itself… it’s finding the strength to move forward. You feel stuck. Numb. Like you’re in a cycle that spins but never progresses. And in those moments, everything in you whispers, “Maybe it’s all lost.”

And yet — you're the leader.

You’re the one people look to for strength, direction, wisdom.

You’re the mother, the provider, the protector.

The one who gives — over and over — even when your soul is scraping on empty.

But what happens when the giver is the one in need?

What happens when your child is sick — truly sick — and all you get are hollow reassurances?

“She looks fine.”

“She doesn’t seem sick.”

Just like that, your pain is downplayed. The sleepless nights. The fear in her eyes. The weakness that left her unable to climb stairs. The silent hospital visits. The test results that shook your world. All reduced to casual observations and scriptures thrown like bandages over a bleeding heart.

No one asked how she really was.

No one showed up when she was too weak to walk.

No one held your hand when you were the one holding hers through the fear of a diagnosis.

No one followed up — not even in places where you expected it most. Not in church.

Only family came through.

It was my sisters. It was my aunt.

They were there — with phone calls, with concern, with presence.

Not because it was convenient, but because they saw the storm for what it truly was.

Everyone else saw her after the medication, when the color had returned and the spark was back. That’s when the comment came — “She doesn’t even look sick.”

And in those words, the battle you had fought alone was erased in a breath.

It’s hard — because leaders are expected to lead through it all. Through heartbreak. Through lack. Through confusion. Through exhaustion. And when you break, it’s not always allowed. Not in church. Not in ministry.

But here’s what I know now:

Even leaders need safe spaces.

Even givers deserve to be poured into.

Even warriors need rest.

So today, this isn’t a story of defeat.

It’s a reminder that you can be in the storm and still matter.

That your tears don’t disqualify your calling.

That God still sees — even when no one else does.

And that it’s okay to pause, to breathe, to say, I’m not okay.

Because healing begins with honesty.

And sometimes the most courageous thing a leader can do… is let herself be human.

By Cyprine Omollo