It is nearly impossible to overstate how much (Regis Jesuit High School) meant to me, and, over a decade following my departure, it still does.
And I had some victory that was just failure in deceit/ Now the joke’s comin’ up through the soles of my feet/ I been a long time walking on fortune’s cane/ Tonight I’m steppin’ lightly and I’m feelin’ no pain
To say I loved my 20 years at Regis Jesuit High School would be a significant understatement. It is nearly impossible to overstate how much that place meant to me, and, over a decade following my departure, it still does.
I graduated the school in 1988 and was determined to return four years later.
It took me six.
I arrived as a professional at age 24, newly married and childless, and left at 44, remarried with three children. That stretch of time – personally and professionally – was filled with what I thought would be the most profound changes of my life. They certainly were at the time.
20 years.
I grew up at Regis Jesuit in more ways than one. I grew up not just in age, but in spirit, leadership, and calling. And I did so in my professional hometown, a place where over two decades I became very well known, for better and for worse.
As anyone who stays in a place long enough knows, your story starts to come into a room before you make the door. The way people know you is shaped not just by their personal experiences of you, but by what they hear, assume, or remember whether they remember accurately or not. Over 20 years, I worked hard, I made mistakes, I led boldly and sometimes stupidly. I learned constantly. Most of my efforts were well-intentioned, I wish I could say “all,” but that would be a lie. Some of my intentions landed beautifully. Others, less so. But they are all part of my Regis Jesuit story.
That story changed unexpectedly the year I became Acting Principal of the Boys Division. After 7 years as an administrator in the Girls Division, I was asked one late May to step into the role for the Boys Division. I agreed to do so readily.
The ten months I served as Acting Principal were some of the most demanding and rewarding of my career. I worked hard – truly hard – to serve students, faculty, and staff with integrity and energy. I believed I was making a positive impact. I believed I was on a path toward attaining the permanent position. And I was told, repeatedly and clearly, that I was.
But when the time came to make a final decision, I was not hired.
That moment was among the most painful of my professional life. I want to believe that I did not feel that I was entitled to the position. I struggle with that though in my heart of hearts. I want to believe it was so hard because I had poured myself into the work for over a decade, because I believed in the mission, and had been led to believe I was the right person for the job.
When I did not get it, I was heartbroken. And I was angry.
To be candid, I did not handle the next moments of my career particularly well. In the immediate aftermath, I was emotionally raw. In moments of frustration, I said things to colleagues I regretted the seconds they left my mouth. I was devastated and had months left in the position, trying to hold myself and others together in a year that suddenly felt like it had unraveled.
One of the more surreal and almost comic moments came when the president and I planned how to tell the faculty and staff that I was not getting the job. We decided to do so at a faculty meeting and determined that he would take the first 15 minutes of that meeting to make the announcement, and I would walk in after to lead the rest of the meeting. Reading that now, I still cannot believe we thought this was a good idea.
When I entered the back of the library where the meeting was being held, 150 backs were turned toward me. The room was quiet and tense. I moved quietly, hoping for a calm, composed entrance. But as I passed through the library’s security gates, an alarm blared, damn loudly. I had nothing on me that should have triggered it, but there it was. The perfect metaphor: unexpected, awkward, and unforgettable. Everyone turned. All I could do was laugh. And, thankfully, they did, too.
That might have been the last time I laughed that year.
Following this rejection, I returned to the Girls Division as Assistant Principal, a role I had once loved. But I was not the same. The school was changing, and so was I. I found myself increasingly at odds with decisions being made. Though still in leadership, I was no longer a principal, and I felt – whether accurately or not – that my voice no longer carried the same weight. That perception wore on me.
Eventually, it became clear that it was time for me to go. I did not leave this place I loved with bitterness – though I had felt plenty of it along the way. I left with gratitude, even if it was complicated.
I believed, for a long time, that I would retire from Regis Jesuit. But life had other plans.
Regis Jesuit will always hold a special place in my story. It is the place where I grew up, professionally and personally. It was the place where I was known, where I was really known. And it was the place where I had to learn, sometimes painfully, that being known can be both a blessing and a burden.
I am a better teacher, a better administrator, and a better person because of those 20 years. What more could anyone ask?
The day I left as a profesional was not the last time I have been at the school, but more on that later…
Next week, Lucky Town – The Jesuit Schools Network