Superintendent
Long Prairie-Grey Eagle Public Schools
There’s a phrase I’ve used over the years that didn’t come from a leadership book or professional mentor. Oddly enough, it came from a teen movie—one of those coming-of-age films where the protagonist is simply trying to survive high school.
In one scene, the main character is set up in a cruel prank, left exposed in a truly embarrassing situation. But instead of panicking, he straightens up and quips something along the lines of, “Nice night to feel the breeze on my skin.” He was horrified, no doubt—but he owned it.
Later, a friend asked him why he didn’t run away. The protagonist admitted he wanted to, but realized that doing so would only give more power to the shame. So he did the opposite. He took control of the moment and made it his own.
Though that message was aimed at teenagers, it stuck with me. Because here’s the truth: we never grow out of those moments. As adults—and especially as leaders—we still find ourselves in vulnerable or compromising situations.
What that protagonist did was maintain control of the narrative. By leaning in with a touch of humor, he rewrote the script. The moment intended to humiliate became a story shared with laughter. He didn’t just preserve his dignity—he gained respect.
Leadership is full of moments like that. Our missteps, failures, or misjudgments are often far more visible than those in other roles. A bond referendum that doesn’t pass, an initiative that falls short, or even a poorly timed comment in a meeting—all can become defining moments.
If we try to hide them, the cover-up becomes the story. But when we own it, we show strength. We show humanity. And most importantly, we give others around us permission to do the same.
Failure, in this context, isn’t a career-ender. It’s just data. Just life. Just leadership.
I’ve had moments where I said something to a student I immediately regretted—uncharacteristic and not as professional as I expect of myself. I called the parent and apologized.
Sometimes, I was met with frustration. But more often, I heard something unexpected: “Thank you.” Many of these parents were used to hearing about their child’s behavior—rarely did they hear a professional apologize for their own. That vulnerability didn’t diminish my leadership. If anything, it deepened it.
Humor can also be a powerful tool in reframing an uncomfortable narrative. It’s a way to point out the absurdity of a rumor without sounding defensive.
For instance, I once found myself the subject of an unusual rumor—that I was relocating because I’d purchased a 3-horse trailer. When someone confronted me about it with certainty, I smiled and said, “Yeah, I just couldn’t fit all my things in it—so we decided to get a horse to haul instead.”
After an awkward pause, I chuckled first—lightly, deliberately. The other person hesitated, then joined in. In that moment, I invited the laugh and turned tension into connection. The story, once awkward, now belonged to both of us—and I had reclaimed the narrative.
Had I met the accusation with anger, it would’ve confirmed the rumor. Had I responded with sarcasm, it might’ve strained the relationship. But by using humor and lightness, I gave the moment room to breathe.
So here’s my advice: don’t feed a hurtful narrative with defensiveness. And don’t let silence define it either. Find a way to turn it—into humor, into learning, into connection.
Whatever it is—own it.
