This is part of a three-part series I’m calling The Seat I Chose, a reflection on the decisions, standards, and moments that shaped how I lead today.
It’s also dedicated to the women I had the privilege of building alongside through the Fort Lauderdale Chamber Women’s Council, and what would become one of our greatest accomplishments: an annual conference called, Excuse Me… That’s My Seat.
Because that question- which seat is actually mine? - doesn’t get asked enough.
There’s a point in your career where the narrative shifts.
In the beginning, you’re discovering yourself. You’re learning what it takes to make it, figuring out who you are as a leader, building your five-year plan.
Then something changes.
Things begin to take off. You start to stand out. You deliver results. You prove yourself. Not just in your organization, but in your community. Somewhere along the way you build a name for yourself.
And suddenly, the question isn’t can you grow. It’s where should you go next.
And still you feel it. The hesitation to take the leap. The subtle ceiling you’ve created in your own mind. The question of whether you’re “polished enough” to step into the next level because the people ahead of you look and act so differently.
So you default to the same logic most high performers do. More responsibility. More visibility. The next title.
Working in the nonprofit sector isn’t just a career. It’s a lifestyle. A commitment. And my journey forced me to take a long hard look in the mirror and face the default settings head on.
Because the next opportunity I said yes to gave me everything I thought I wanted and yet I never felt more off.
I started as a case manager working with young adults aging out of foster care. I was barely older than my clients and, if I’m honest, I couldn’t relate to the level of trauma they had experienced. The emotional weight nearly pushed me out of the sector entirely.
But I could show up. I could listen so they felt heard. And I did. I learned that presence alone can be powerful. That experience grounded me in what real impact actually looks like, not in theory, but in people.
It also gave me something I didn’t fully understand at the time. It taught me how to tell stories that inspire and move people.
Sitting with those young adults, hearing their experiences, their fears, and their hopes, I learned how to translate emotion into understanding. How to take something deeply human and make someone else feel it, not just hear it.
That skill became everything.
It shaped how I communicate, how I connect, and how I advocate. Ultimately, it’s what made me exceptional at fundraising. Because fundraising, at its core, isn’t about dollars. It’s about bridging the gap between someone’s capacity to give and their ability to see why it matters.
It also clarified something early on. I didn’t just want to grow a career in the nonprofit sector. I knew exactly how I wanted to lead within it.
I wanted to be in the C suite, but not in just any seat. My goal was always to be a Chief Development Officer.
Which is why I need to say something clearly. I never wanted to be a CEO.
Not because I couldn’t do it, but because it was never the work that lit me up. I love the challenge of fundraising, the strategy, the relationships, and the ethical responsibility that comes with doing it the right way. I love the direct connection between the work and the impact it creates.
But somewhere along the way, I reached a point where capability and expectation collided. Ambition overshadowed alignment and I found myself taking the leap into a CEO role.
On paper, it made perfect sense. From the outside, it looked like the natural next step. But internally, I knew I had stepped into a seat that wasn’t mine.
Here’s the part we don’t talk about enough. You can succeed in the wrong seat. You can perform, deliver, and even make an impact, and still feel stuck. Still feel misaligned.
That experience gave me something invaluable. It forced me to see myself as a C-suite leader. It also gave me the clarity I needed to get back on track- on MY track.
When it was time to move on from that role, I wasn’t just asking what’s next. I was asking something much harder. Where do I actually belong?
This time I wasn’t looking for the climb. I was looking for alignment.
A place to bring my strengths and build a legacy. A place that felt like home. A place where I could grow, not just perform. A place with leadership, culture, and values that weren’t just stated, but lived. Most importantly, a place where I could feel the mission.
That’s when Children’s Harbor came into focus.
Through years of mentorship, Tiffani Dhooge, President and CEO of Children’s Harbor, had already shown me what it looks like to lead with authenticity and to redefine what polished actually means.
Tiffani was one of several mentors I sought out to help guide me through this misalignment fog.
Children’s Harbor had never been on my radar, but once I took a closer look, everything shifted into focus. My past, my skills, my values, and my why were all right here.
Youth in foster care have often faced unthinkable circumstances, including abuse, instability, and constant disruption. Many fall behind academically, and many struggle with depression, anxiety, or PTSD.
Children’s Harbor meets that reality head on. They’ve built a judgment free learning center that meets students where they are, along with trauma informed therapy that doesn’t just exist, but engages.
I saw a 17-year-old reading at a first-grade level achieve a 300 percent improvement, putting him on track to graduate, find employment, and support his family. That’s not a metric. That’s a life redirected and the kind of impact I want to make in this world.
They also support the staff who care for these youth, which spoke volumes to me as I reflected on my early days as a young case worker, managing the emotional weight of the work completely on my own. A weight that once had me questioning if I could handle the field, was now completely supported professionally and through a workplace culture that honors the reality of this work.
And then it became personal.
As a survivor of sexual assault, emotional abuse, and someone who has navigated grief and PTSD, I understand what it means to need support, to need someone to see you, and to need someone to show up.
My story is not the same as the youth we serve, but I understand the weight of those moments. That connection changed everything for me. It’s one thing to believe in a mission. It’s another to feel it.
That’s when I finally found myself in the right seat- Chief Development Officer for Children’s Harbor.
Now I know this with certainty. This is the seat I was meant to sit in.
Not because of the title, but because of the alignment between who I am, what I value, and the impact I’m here to create.
At Children’s Harbor, every success is more than a KPI. It’s stability created, a young person supported, and a future changed.
We spend so much of our careers believing the goal is to climb, to get the title, to reach the next level, and to finally be seen as ready.
Here’s what I’ve learned. Ambition without alignment is how you end up building a life that doesn’t fit. If you don’t define success for yourself, you will inherit someone else’s version of it, including their titles, timelines, and expectations.
And real authentic leadership doesn’t come from titles. It comes from alignment.
The question isn’t what’s the next seat available to you. It’s which seat allows you to do your best, most honest work.
Because legacy isn’t built by your title. It’s built by what you leave behind, the people you impact, and the work that actually reflects who you are.
If you’re in that space right now, questioning, searching, and feeling like something doesn’t fit, you’re subtly being redirected toward the path intended for you all along. Lean in. Ask yourself the hard questions. Revisit your why. And embrace the courage to follow your path.
I used to think the goal was to be the best.
Now I know the goal is to make the biggest impact I can with the talent I’ve been given, in the seat I was designed for.