There’s a phrase I’ve been sitting with lately: Go home. Not in the literal sense—though sometimes, yes, it means exactly that. But more often, it’s something deeper. Something ancestral. Spiritual. Necessary.
Because if you’ve ever been in the trenches of the field—work that demands your soul—you know how easy it is to lose track of where your center is. You forget what calm sounds like. What your own breath feels like when it’s not held tight in your chest between meetings, media requests, budget crises, and betrayals.
Zakiya Ansari, one of the fiercest education justice leaders I’ve ever known said to me this week: “You need somewhere to be.” She didn’t mean a title. She meant an anchor. A place you can return to when the storm rises. A safe space—proverbial or physical—that reminds you who you are when the system is trying to tell you otherwise.
For her, “somewhere to be” might be walking through Brooklyn with her kids, or joining parents in the streets with megaphones and love. For others, somewhere you can go and know you’ll be held, heard, and reminded that your worth is not conditional on your wins.
And for me?
It’s my actual home. More specifically: my greenhouse.
A small, sacred space filled with banana plants, palms, and tropicals that remind me of where I’ve been—and where I’m headed. A place where the humidity is high, but the pressure is low. Where growth is visible but unhurried. Where everything has a season, and nothing blooms out of obligation.
That’s my “home.” And I want to talk about why every leader—especially those fighting for justice—needs one.
The Myth of Constant Motion
There’s a myth we tell ourselves in leadership: that if we stop, we’ll lose momentum. That if we rest, we’ll fall behind. That if we set boundaries, someone more “available” will be chosen over us.
So we grind.
We say yes to the Sunday night Zoom. We respond to that board member’s email at midnight. We take the call on vacation. We fly coast to coast with no margin for breath, nourishment, or joy. We become machines wearing human faces.
We mistake exhaustion for commitment. Burnout for righteousness. Scarcity for strategy.
But here’s what I’ve learned—sometimes the hard way: motion is not always progress. Constant movement doesn’t guarantee meaningful change. In fact, it can numb you. Disconnect you. Transform you into a leader who performs justice without ever truly embodying it to the fullest.
You can’t pour into a community if your cup is cracked. You can’t hold space for others if your spirit has nowhere to stretch.
You need a home.
What “Home” Really Means
When I say “home,” I don’t just mean your physical house—though that’s part of it. I mean the space that reminds you of your wholeness. The place that doesn’t require performance. Where you’re not the provost, the dean, the superintendent, the director, the “fixer.” You’re just you.
Maybe it’s a greenhouse, like mine, where banana leaves unfurl without urgency and palms reach upward without apology. Maybe it’s local place like Taqueria Don Fer, where the Mexican food is good and the conversation is even better. Maybe it’s a friend’s porch, a faith circle, or your mama’s kitchen.
Whatever it is—go there. Often.
Because in that space, the weight shifts. You start to remember what joy feels like without a report attached. You start to feel your own rhythm again—not the institution’s. You stop living in reaction and start leading from intention.
When I walk into my greenhouse, I don’t bring an agenda. I bring presence. I watch the light shift through the leaves. I see life responding to care, not control. And something in me unclenches. I start thinking clearer. Feeling deeper. Writing better.
Because home isn’t escape. It’s recalibration.
The Cost of Not Going Home
Here’s the truth we often learn too late: not going home has a cost.
It shows up in the shortness of our temper, the fog in our thinking, the dull ache behind our eyes when we’re too tired to dream. It shows up in decisions made out of fear instead of vision. In relationships that fray because we don’t have the energy to nurture them. In a body that whispers “slow down” until it screams.
Worse—it shows up in how we treat others. When we don’t go home, we stop leading with compassion. We start managing instead of mentoring. We chase outcomes instead of building ecosystems. We become so consumed by fighting the system that we forget to feed the soul.
We burn out—or worse, we burn others.
And in the justice space, that’s not just a personal loss. It’s a political one. Because the opposition doesn’t need to beat us if we’re too depleted to lead.
Models of Restoration
Some of the most effective and transformative leaders I know are the ones who’ve fiercely protected their home spaces.
Zakiya Ansari centers her leadership in community and motherhood. She doesn’t just fight for policy change—she fights for healing. For wholeness. For balance. She knows that the revolution is not just in the streets—it’s also in the quiet, sacred moments we steal back from the economy’s clock. Another colleague, Shelby Cosner, finds her “home” on morning runs—where the silence is holy and the phone is off. And every time I see a leader reclaim that space—whatever it is—I see their power deepen. Their clarity sharpen. Their vision expand. Because going home for rest isn’t weakness. It’s wisdom.
You Don’t Have to Earn Your Rest
One of the most radical things a justice leader can believe in this era of hyper-productivity and performative activism is this: You don’t have to earn your rest.
You don’t have to reach some mythical finish line before you go home. You don’t have to prove yourself exhausted before you plant something, read something, breathe deeply, or do absolutely nothing on a beach. The work will always be there. The deadlines and headlines will keep coming. The crises will not pause politely for your mental health. So go anyway. Go home—not because everything is done, but because you are worthy of stillness even when it’s not.
Building a Culture Where Everyone Has a “Home”
It’s not enough to find our own home—we have to build leadership cultures where everyone has the space to return to theirs. That means not glorifying burnout. Not rewarding martyrdom. Not calling someone “less committed” because they logged off when the meeting ran late. Not judging, but supporting our direct reports or peers for choosing their child’s soccer game over an optional summit. It means creating policies—and more importantly, norms—that honor humanity. Flexible schedules. Sabbaticals. Room to breathe. And it means asking the people you lead: Where is your home? What helps you feel whole? How can I support you in going there regularly—without guilt? Because if we’re building movements but breaking people—we’re doing it wrong.
Going Home Saved My Leadership
I’ll be honest: there were times I almost lost myself in the Provost and Dean grind. Times when betrayal, bureaucracy, and change backlash made me feel like I was drowning in someone else’s definition of leadership. Times when I forgot what joy felt like without a strategy attached to it. Times when I came home but didn’t return to myself. But then I found the greenhouse. I made a ritual of it. I stopped apologizing for needing peace. I started prioritizing balance not as an afterthought—but as the foundation. And everything changed. My leadership didn’t get smaller—it got deeper. My vision didn’t dim—it got clearer. My decisions weren’t reactive—they were “rooted.” See what I did there? 😊 That’s the power of going home.
A Final Word for Fellow Leaders
If you’re feeling stretched thin, questioning your impact, or wondering if it’s worth it—this is your reminder:
Go home.
Whatever that means for you—go. Go to the space where titles don’t matter. Where you are not someone’s agenda item. Where your heart can unfold. Where your fire can be fed—not just used. Because the work needs you whole. The movement for change needs your clarity. The next generation needs to see leaders who lead not from depletion—but from deep alignment. So go home. Water your roots. Sit in your greenhouse. Laugh and love with your people. Let the leaves remind you: you are allowed to grow slow. You are allowed to rest. You are allowed to be. And when you return to the fight, you’ll bring something they can’t touch:
Balance.
Full breaths.
And the kind of power that only comes from knowing where you belong.
Cloaking Inequity 
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