Freshman year, I found my role model—not in a historical figure or celebrity, but in a senior, the president of a club I had joined. She was the exact kind of person I strived to be: confident, effortlessly charismatic, always smiling, a leader who radiated energy. That was my first exposure to leadership, and I wanted to emulate exactly that.

One late night, my phone buzzed with a flood of messages.

“CONGRATS!” Confused, I opened my computer in a frenzy. There it was, my full name bright and bolded under the subject line: “New Club Officers.” I stared at the screen, rereading my name over and over, smiling from ear to ear. I’d never held a leadership position before, but I told myself I already knew what to do: just be like that senior. 

So, I painted that picture. In every circumstance, I kept my energy high and maintained a positive outlook, even if that meant sacrificing my honest opinions. I thought I was doing everything right, maintaining the stereotype of an enthusiastic leader. Even when I felt overwhelmed — drowning in sophomore year, extracurriculars and the club’s responsibilities—I never let it show. How could I? I had spent an entire year pretending to have everything under control. How could I ask for help when I had built a version of myself that never needed it?

In my attempt to be the “perfect” leader, I had cut myself off from what makes leadership effective: authenticity.

The more I forced enthusiasm, the less motivated I became, feeling disconnected from the people I was supposed to lead. I hesitated to bring up new ideas, afraid of making mistakes. 

When May rolled around, I walked around with a pit in my stomach. Officer applications for the club had closed. Even though I no longer felt joy in my role, I reapplied, desperate to convince myself I had lived up to what a leader should be. My mind flashed back to that moment a year ago—the thrill of seeing “Ashley Mo” in the leadership email. Now, I stared at the new list, my name nowhere to be found. It was my first real loss in high school, and at the time it felt like the worst moment of my life.

Stepping away from that position allowed me to realize where I had gone wrong. A genuine leader isn’t someone who is constantly enthusiastic, but rather someone who acknowledges authenticity, which inspires meaningful interactions.

As I moved into junior year, I found myself drawn to a different type of leadership. Despite also being positive, the leaders in those groups allowed for spaces for mistakes and vulnerability. Their enthusiasm wasn’t solely surface level: they also had enthusiasm for the challenges of each process. 

I’ve come to realize that leaders who are relentlessly positive sometimes end up creating an unhealthy environment that conceals mistakes and stifles real growth. Despite meeting with my first club every other week, I never truly conquered challenges with the other officers or embraced the difficult moments that best build camaraderie. In reality, the “imperfect” moments—the messy, last-second failures—allowed me to build the most connection to a team. In these authentic areas, I felt comfortable to communicate my unfiltered thoughts.

I used to expect leaders to be beacons of positivity, unaffected by any obstacles they face. Now, I still aspire to be enthusiastic, but not just for the victories—also for the struggles, uncertainties and hard-won progress.