In the later years, the work turns inward and outward at once. The focus shifts from momentum to meaning, from building to tending. Leaders are thinking less about what comes next and more about what endures.
This article appeared as "Turning the Page” in the Summer 2026 issue of Independent School.
Being a head of school was exhilarating and exhausting. I relished the challenges—thinking up plans A, B, or C; leading faculty; and staying close to students. I reclaimed the title of headmistress because I wanted to be the lead teacher. I was a teaching head, in the classroom whenever I could be—teaching ninth grade English, making plays with the younger girls, greeting children at the front door each morning. I knew every child and her family. Laurel School (OH) wasn’t just where I worked for 21 years; it was my 24/7 occupation and avocation, shaping not only the school but the rhythms of my own family life.
Since retiring in June 2025, I’ve realized how constantly the school lived in my mind. I thought about strategy while watching sporting events; about academic programming while chauffeuring my daughters to the mall or nursing my infant son; about telling the school’s story while flying to see my aging parents; about mentoring my leadership team while walking the dogs around the circle on which we lived. As I weeded, hung Christmas ornaments, chopped garlic, or wrapped birthday presents, I was thinking about admissions, fundraising, the strategic plan—how to bring glory to the school. At night, I wondered what board members or donors might need. Doing needlepoint, I fretted about deferred campus maintenance. Even in classrooms or grading papers, my thoughts drifted to children and families who were going through difficult times. I never stopped thinking about the school—how much I loved it, and how lucky I was to lead it, with all its triumphs, worries, stresses, and delights.
We loved living on campus. My husband decorated our front yard extravagantly for Halloween and Christmas. We’d answer late-night knocks from a teacher who’d forgotten her keys. We helped an upper schooler change a flat tire. Our daughters, Miranda and Cordelia, graduated and left for college. Our son, Atticus, grew up, too, leaving Laurel for a nearby coed school when he was ready for kindergarten.
My confidence as a leader ebbed and flowed. Some years were easier than others. During my tenure, two students passed away and another survived a terrifying accident. I held children as they grieved friends gone too soon. My parents died; children in the school lost parents, as well. As school leaders, we must hold the whole experience—births and deaths; a child learning to read or heading off to college; championships won or lost in overtime. The tapestry of every school is richly layered, textured with both joy and sorrow.
We wrote a mission at Laurel that every child knew by heart, and we used it to measure every new initiative. With the board’s support, we helped families keep their girls at our school through financial hardships. We navigated the COVID-19 pandemic, renovated and built new spaces, and thanked donors whose generosity sustained us. I tried to model resilience and integrity for the girls. I loved shaping the school’s culture, honoring traditions I inherited and creating new rituals—reading children’s books at all-school assemblies, keeping a candy jar in my office. My mentors reminded me to keep learning, to read and attend conferences, serve on boards, and scan the educational landscape. What were the emerging trends? When was it time to change course? The intellectual and emotional demands were deeply satisfying. Not everyone liked me or my style, but we learn from detractors as well as allies. Most students loved when I called snow days, but I don’t miss those 4:30 a.m. wake-ups and group texts with other local heads to confer about weather and closures.
With wonderful colleagues, I built programs that reflected my commitment to the public purpose of private school: Laurel’s Center for Research for Girls; interdisciplinary, experiential education on the Butler Campus; a capstone program; and the NorthStar Collaborative, an environmental justice semester for girls. Some initiatives we sunset; others continue to evolve. Great schools must resist the temptation to keep doing things the same way simply because they always have.
To lead a school I loved was a privilege. I miss the camaraderie, the shared commitment to mission and values. I miss lunch and the babble of children’s voices outside my office door, or the upper schoolers who stopped by for a piece of candy. I miss all of it. And I knew it was time to leave.
My son was born on the 12th day of my headship; he reached adulthood the 12th day of my retirement. I did not want to stay so long that people hoped I would go. Our daughters received an exceptional education at a superb all-girls school. I was never bored and rarely ran low on stamina. But I also knew I had given all I had; institutions benefit from the ideas new leaders bring.
Now, unbound from the rhythm of the school year, I continue to amplify women’s leadership. As a coach and through my work with The Heads Network (THN), the 1911 Group, One Schoolhouse, and The Agnes Irwin School (PA), I have the chance to give back—to offer time and expertise, as so many once did for me. For years, I directed the same THN Leadership seminar I attended more than a quarter century ago. I celebrate those I have mentored to headship and am grateful for enduring connections with women and men. I hope to encourage many more to pursue the path to headship and to serve as both mentor and sponsor. Mentorship offers guidance; sponsorship creates opportunity. I was fortunate to have both. Headship, in turn, offers women autonomy, economic freedom, and purpose.
It’s taken several months for me to realize that leading Laurel is no longer my responsibility. Sometimes I still dream there’s a crisis to solve. I wake and remind myself that I’m not a head anymore. Leaving was hard, but I trust the school is in good hands, and I want nothing more than for it to thrive. A friend told me that, in time, the edges will blur. I won’t forget how much I loved leading the school, but I imagine those softened memories will feel like clean, well-worn bed linens, easy to sink into.
An old friend and I recently had dinner. We started together at The Chapin School (NY) long ago, and she, too, had just left headship. We talked about the strange shift from head of school one day to former head the next, laughed, and felt grateful to have served schools we loved. What a gift it is now to mentor and to guide.
