Last year, when I was elected PTA President for Junior High School department at my kids' school, I only took the role for one reason: my children.

I mean, imagine the introverted mom who avoids small talk suddenly attending school programs, speaking in front of parents, giving awards on stage, sitting in meetings, and explaining things to fellow officers. I thought that was going the be the hardest part.

Then again, for some reason, life has always had this habbit of putting me in leadership positions despite me never actively looking for them. Maybe because I'm an Aries and people believe we're born leaders. Maybe people just enjoy assigning work to me.

Back in 2015, I was appointed manager of a team at work. I felt completely unqualified then too. Somehow, that team ended up becoming Team of the Year. I still don't know whether that says something about me or if I simply got lucky with really good people.

Looking back, becoming PTA President felt a lot like that. Except this time, the hardest part wasn't leading.

Somewhere along the way, the role became less about my kids and more about something else.

As the daughter of a professor and the niece of teachers, I found myself becoming increasingly concerned about how people in education are treated these days. The longer I sat on my role, the more I realized that some parents approach schools as adversaries rather than partners. And when that happens, everyone loses, especially the kids.

Not all parents, of course. But enought that I started noticing a pattern. A few parents, once elected as PTA officers, seemed to forget what the role was for. Instead of seeing themselves as partners of the school, they began acting as though they were there to supervise it, challenge it, or speak above it.

The loudest voices were often fellow PTA officers who had held positions long before I ever did. Many of the concerns being raised weren't new. Some had been around since 2018.

This was my first year as a PTA President. It was also our principal's first full year as principal in our campus. Yet somehow, we often found ourselves answering for issues that had outlasted both of us.

And I couldn't help but wonder: if these concenrs were important enough to raise today, were they not important enough to pursue years ago? Maybe they were. Maybe they just never had anyone consistently following them through.

What I did this year was actually very simple. I documented concerns, followed up on them, and made sure they reached the people who could actually do something about them. To the credit of the administraion, concerns that could be addressed were addressed.

Most people are very good at identifying problems. Ask what they think what should happen next, though, and the room suddenly gets quiet.

There were many instances where people would disagree with recommendations, argue against proposed solutions, or criticize the process. But when asked what they would like to see happen instead, there was often no answer.

Complaints came with confidence, solutions not as much. So when they asked why only certain things were finally resolved this year, I honestly don't know how to answer that without sounding defensive. I don't want to take credit for things that required the cooperation of many people. At the same time, I also know these concerns didn't magically resolve themselves.

Someone had to keep following up, keep asking questions, and keep the conversation moving.

Now my term is ending. For the entire year, I've been saying I don't want to be in this position again. And I genuinely mean it. The role takes time, energy, patience, and emotional bandwidth I didn't know I had.

Yet yesterday, while at a coffee date with the assistant principal, I found myself feeling something unexpected. For the first time, I wasn't thinking about how relieved I would be when my term ended. I was thinking about what happens after I leave.

Not because I think I'm irreplaceable. Far from it. But because I've spent the past year seeing how exhausting it can be to be on the receiving end of people who ony know how to complain and never collaborate. People who are quick to point out what's wrong, but become strangely quiet when asked what they think should happpen next.

And I don't know. Maybe that's the strange thing about leadership. You take on a role for one reason, then somewhere along the way, it becomes something else entirely.

I took this position for my kids. Now, as my term comes to an end, I find myself worrying about the people I'm leaving behind.