Invisible Leader: When Organizing Means Disappearing

As many of my friends and colleagues know, I poured my heart and soul into organizing this year's Women in Leadership Conference. As the primary volunteer coordinator, I was behind the scenes making sure everything ran smoothly and each station had enough volunteers to support a large conference. Attendees who are not familiar with large scale event management cannot imagine how much energy I have put into this project in the past six months. So when I scrolled through the event photos this morning, I was hurt to find something glaringly absent: me.

Logically, I know it wasn't a malicious oversight. 

That doesn't make it sting any less. Especially when it stings because it mirrors the feeling I carry around every day: the feeling of being present, yet unseen.

Let's do my debrief of the day of the conference, just gloss over all of the buildup events starting from January.

It started early, 06:30, and my veins were filled with an unspecified energy drink. My binder, usually a source of comfort, quickly became a source of pain. As a transmasc professional, I know the delicate balance between presenting authentically and protecting my body. Eventually I had to ask my trusted friend/colleague to watch my organizer binder so I could discreetly remove my gender affirming medical garment. That moment of vulnerability, of needing to prioritize my physical well-being, felt oddly isolating in a space meant to celebrate strength.

Today, when I finally found a photo of myself, it was a snapshot of me at my most uncomfortable. When my dysphoria was at its peak, and the image captured a moment of raw vulnerability that I never let people see. It's impossible to reconcile that single image of myself with the person who spent months planning and executing the conference.

Then, there was the physical toll. Being a disabled professional, I have extended experience with the silent battle of needing to stand for hours, of pushing through pain that others don't see. The expectation to be constantly "on" is exhausting. And an uncomfortable reminder that even in spaces meant to uplift, the invisible barriers remain.

This conference also left me wishing I could speed run to the end of my master's degree so I would no longer hear endless variations of, "What are your plans after you graduate?" It's a question that feels loaded, especially when I'm still figuring things out and my standard response is, "More grad school". It's a verbal reminder of the pressure to have it all figured out, to have a clear path laid before you, even when your path is winding and uncertain.

But amidst all of the invisibility, I realized something important: my work speaks for itself. The conference was a success, again, and that success was built on the foundation of my efforts. My leadership was not about being in the spotlight; it was about empowering others and making the gears turn in the event management machine.

Today, once I could stand on feet warped from physical pain, I decided to reclaim my narrative. I set up my camera in my small studio apartment - a space that often acts as sanctuary, workspace, and refuge. I posed for a series of images that were able to capture both my professional self and my authentic self.

When I share these images with you (below), I hope you see them in the same way I do - a testament to my presence and my leadership style.

The Lesson: Being a leader isn't always about being seen. Sometimes, often, it's about being the quiet force that helps to make everything possible. But sometimes, particularly when you're a country musician, it's about taking back your own image, narrating your own story, and showing the world who you are, on your own terms.