Early in my career, I worked at a YMCA in North Carolina, and every day began at the front desk
with Bertha.
At nineteen, I didn’t yet have the language for leadership. I was simply looking for examples
worth following — people whose lives made something click. Bertha turned out to be one of
those people.
She was the first impression for everyone who walked through the doors. But what she created
wasn’t just a greeting — it was an experience. A steady smile. Direct eye contact. A tone that
said you mattered before you even spoke.
Over time, I realized something surprising: Bertha held more influence than many leaders I
would meet later in boardrooms and executive meetings.
Which led me to a truth I’ve never been able to shake — the most powerful leadership influence is often exercised by the people with the least authority.
Bertha’s life was not easy. She battled Hodgkin’s disease. She lost her hair. She was widowed.
Her home burned down. Her grandchild faced a life-threatening condition. She carried more
hardship than most people could imagine.
Yet she showed up every day focused outward. She remembered names, families, and prayer
requests. People trusted her because she paid attention.
Bertha practiced something rare: the discipline of noticing.
And that is where her influence lived.
In leadership circles, we often assume influence comes from expertise, strategy, or positional power. But the truth is far simpler and far more demanding — influence grows wherever attention flows.
Why do people without formal authority often connect more deeply than those with it? Because they are less protected by hierarchy and more present in humanity. They are closer to the lived experience of others. They are not performing leadership — they are practicing connection.
Meanwhile, many leaders — often unintentionally — become insulated. Busyness becomes armor. Schedules become shields. Conversations become transactional. Not because leaders don’t care, but because urgency quietly replaces awareness.
And when awareness fades, connection fades with it.
Bertha never had the advantage of a title or a platform. But she understood something many leaders overlook: people don’t need perfection from us — they need presence.
She set aside her own concerns long enough to fully engage the person in front of her. And in doing so, she created belonging — the most powerful leadership currency there is.
I’ve since worked with organizations where enormous effort is spent trying to build culture, trust, and engagement. Yet Bertha built all three from behind a desk simply by making people feel seen.
Her example continues to challenge me.
What if leadership is less about managing outcomes and more about creating moments where people feel they matter?
What if the leaders who leave the deepest mark are not the busiest, the smartest, or the most visible — but the most attentive?
The tragedy of modern leadership isn’t a lack of intelligence or strategy. It’s the quiet erosion of presence.
Because when people feel unseen, they disengage long before performance declines.
Bertha reminds us that leadership doesn’t begin with authority. It begins with attention.
Titles may grant power, but attention creates belonging.
And belonging is what people remember long after the strategy is forgotten.