When you’re away: what holds up and what holds you

I’ve had to take leaves of absence from work at several points in my career.

First, the joyful. I delivered two beautiful baby boys over the span of three years, and thus, two maternity leaves. Those were delight-filled and tiring, yet (mostly) planned moments.

When one of those boys was about to turn four, he toppled back into our Petoskey State Park campfire, burning eighteen percent of his body. An EMS took us to the hospital, and a helicopter flew us down to Helen DeVos Children’s Hospital. Within hours, the caring doctors and nurses made it clear that the success of his recovery depended largely upon Aaron and me. Us? Changing bandages for hours a day, dressing wounds. Our brave and tough little boy endured months of this: we’d spend an hour or two a morning, and then we’d repeat it every evening. He endured two long hospital stays and months of healing. I will forever be grateful for the care of all those in our path during that season. Our boy has made a beautiful recovery from what could otherwise have been a very tragic event. He recently shared that he likes his scars because they have a good story!

During Colton’s recovery, I was serving as COO at Kids’ Food Basket. The organization was in the midst of a capital campaign and the construction of a new building and urban farm. As with most crises, the timing was terrible. But is there ever good timing?

I recall sitting in the hospital rocking chair, holding Colton in my arms as he slept peacefully, and looking down at my jacket to see the Kids’ Food Basket logo embossed on the left chest. My heart was so torn. I wanted and needed to be with my son. I also wanted and felt I needed to be with my team.

Fast forward eight years to a beautiful, bluebird morning over Spring Break in Montana. My husband Aaron, our boys, and our friends stayed on a challenging hill I’d completed a few times already. At forty-two, I was grateful to still be skiing, and I didn’t need to prove anything to anyone. I wanted an easier run on my knees.

You’ll get why that’s ironic shortly.

Music blasted from my speaker as I flew down a blue cruiser I’d done before—too fast this time. Within seconds, my foot caught against the snow and my knee ripped inside my binding, sending me three times head over feet, hitting my ski each time as the rest of my equipment flew through the air. The ski boot never popped out of the binding, and the blinding pain was like nothing I had ever experienced in my life.

As the ski patrol arrived and drove me down the hill on their bobsled, the pain seared. I could taste the salt from my tears. I knew I’d see my boys at the bottom, and they simply could not see me in this much pain. I breathed deeply, trying to control my urge to scream, and saw the mountains overhead as I gripped the sled for bumps.

Then it came, that old familiar passage I’d memorized long before and played on repeat as I dressed Colton’s wounds back in 2017. It began setting in as a breath prayer:

“I look up to the mountains, where does my help come from. My help comes from you Lord, Maker of Heaven and Earth.”

Once I was stabilized in Montana, I again found myself surrounded by skilled and compassionate care. The local hospital team managed the initial trauma with great attentiveness, and we were soon cleared to return home to Grand Rapids.

Back in West Michigan, I was connected with an excellent orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Steve O’Neil, who led me through a successful surgery. He repaired most of the injuries to what was now a very damaged leg. The initial relief of having the operation behind me began to settle in, even as new realities started to surface. I’ve been on medical leave for seven weeks and am slowly beginning to return to work, as I also relearn how to bend my knee and eventually walk. I’ve missed my clients.

I love our community, and those who love it. That’s who I serve each day in my consulting and coaching practice. It’s hard to step away when it’s planned. It’s even harder when it’s a surprise. In both, I’ve gained wisdom about what holds up when we do.

First, relationships are the glue that hold a life and an organization together. When we’re going through hardship, the relationships we’ve built along the way will bear their sweetest fruit. The people who have loved on and cared for me and my family during these seasons—colleagues, family, friends—are what keep us above water, sometimes daily. Additionally, the organizations that thrive in a leader’s absence aren’t the ones with the most talent or funding. They’re the ones with trust. Trust that the work will continue to move forward. When leaders can share their belief in their team ahead of an absence, it sets the team up for success while they are away.

Second, communication is key. On the front end, it’s about transparency on being away. Share as much as you’re comfortable sharing, as vulnerability builds trust. I cannot over-emphasize the power of human connection and its impact on trust-building over time. There will be times when you don’t wish to share every detail, and that’s okay. Then share what you know and what you can.

It might sound something like this:

“We’ve had an emergency at home, and I will be away for a period of time. I am grateful for your support, and believe you are all fully capable of handling things with excellence in my absence. I trust you!”

Equally as important, returning to work with curiosity rather than immediately trying to add value will build even more trust.

That might sound like this:

“Catch me up! How have things been, what updates would you like to give me, and how might I be most helpful to you in my first week back?”

Third, systems either hold or they don’t. Absence pressure tests everything: leadership, culture, operations. What rises? What cracks? What gets dropped? Each time I’ve returned, I’ve had a clearer view of what’s been built to last and what needs rebuilding.

Fourth, your heart reveals what matters. There’s a particular clarity that comes when you’re laid up, holding a child, or watching life continue without you. The things you worry about, the things you don’t—they’re all data points.

Finally, the fifth theme I’ve noticed is that habits hold me and also resurface. When crisis strips away my calendar, the habits that remain are telling. Prayer. Gratitude and delight in the small, mysterious things in nature, people, and God. A desire to serve after being in a season where others are serving me and mine. These return like old friends, reminding me that I’m more than my output.

In each season of stepping away, I’ve missed things. Teammates, clients, friends. Important milestones. Key events. Projects coming to completion without me. I’ve also gained a greater grip on what truly holds. Those things offer me a pathway for reinvesting as I return.

If you’re in a season of stepping back—or supporting someone who is—take heart! The most important things don’t always need us to hold them together, nor were they ever ours to hold alone.

They’re also a holy invitation to wonder, to realign, to begin again.