After spending more than two decades founding organizations, mobilizing volunteers, and leading civic engagement efforts, people often refer to me as a leader. Ironically, despite earning a Ph.D. in Organizational Leadership, I have never felt entirely comfortable with that title.
This discomfort has little to do with humility or self-confidence. Rather, it is deeply rooted in my cultural upbringing.
Growing up in my home country, the word leader carried meanings far beyond simply guiding others toward a common goal. For thousands of years, those who held official positions often stood above ordinary people within rigid social hierarchies. Although history remembers a few honest and respected officials, they were exceptions. More often, authority represented power over others rather than responsibility for others. Ordinary citizens frequently endured injustice in silence, reluctant or unable to challenge those in authority.
Even though I grew up in a different era, those historical memories continue to influence how many first-generation immigrants instinctively perceive authority. Whenever someone calls me a leader, I still experience a subtle emotional resistance. I never wanted to be associated with the image of someone standing above others, commanding admiration or obedience. Nor have I ever wanted members of my community to think that I consider myself more important than anyone else.
Perhaps that is why I have always preferred different words to describe my role. I think of myself more as a trailblazer than a leader.
When I first became involved in American civic engagement, many first-generation immigrants knew very little about how the American political system worked. I happened to enter that world earlier than many others. Because few people were willing or interested in doing the work, I simply stepped forward and began learning through experience. I organized meetings, educated community members, built relationships with public officials, and encouraged others to become involved. None of those tasks were glamorous. Many were difficult, time-consuming, and entirely voluntary. I did them because they needed to be done.
Looking back, I realized that I was never trying to stand above others. I was simply walking ahead on an unfamiliar road and inviting others to join me once the path became visible.
As more people joined our efforts, I discovered another source of joy that became central to my philosophy of leadership.
Whenever I organized volunteers around a shared mission, I naturally began looking for hidden potential. Among different groups, I often noticed individuals whose character, commitment, and abilities suggested leadership potential. I affectionately came to think of them as “diamonds,” not because I created their potential, but because I had learned to recognize what was already there.
A diamond does not become valuable because someone creates it. Its value already exists. It simply needs someone willing to recognize it, nurture it, and provide opportunities for it to shine.
Once I discovered these diamonds, I intentionally entrusted them with meaningful responsibilities. I invited them to lead projects, organize teams, represent our organization, and make important decisions. Although I was capable of doing much of the work myself, I gradually learned that leadership is not measured by how much one person accomplishes. It is measured by how many others become capable of accomplishing great things themselves.
Delegating responsibilities was never about reducing my own workload. It was about helping every board member and volunteer experience ownership, belonging, accomplishment, and pride in what we were building together.
This philosophy also shaped how I approached opportunities for visibility and recognition. When opportunities arose to participate in significant public events or represent our community in important settings, I often invited colleagues who had worked alongside me. I wanted those experiences to become opportunities for shared recognition and development rather than symbols of individual status.
Interestingly, although I have always felt uncomfortable calling myself a leader, I experience tremendous satisfaction when I watch those whom I have encouraged become leaders themselves. I have no hesitation introducing them as leaders. Their success has never threatened my own identity. Instead, it has become one of my greatest sources of fulfillment.
Reflecting on this journey while studying Organizational Leadership was unexpectedly transformative. Throughout my doctoral studies, I was not only researching leadership—I was also reexamining my own assumptions about what it meant to be a leader. I realized that much of my discomfort was not with leadership itself, but with a culturally inherited image of authority that no longer reflected how I practiced leadership.
Today, I have become more comfortable accepting the title of leader, not because I seek status, but because I have redefined what leadership means to me.
Leadership is not standing above others.
Leadership is walking ahead when no path exists.
Leadership is discovering diamonds that others have overlooked.
Leadership is creating opportunities that allow others to shine.
Leadership is celebrating when those you once mentored become leaders themselves.
If my organization has remained united for more than a decade without any external funding support, it is not because one leader stayed at the front. It is because many people gradually grew into leadership together. We have supported one another, challenged one another, shared opportunities, and remained committed to a common purpose.
Looking back, perhaps I was never reluctant to lead.
I was only reluctant to become the kind of leader that history had taught me to fear.
Instead, I chose to become the kind of leader who helps others discover that they can lead as well.