Part 4: The Eagle that Lifts Others…Turns the Mirror Around

I once worked with a principal who wrote handwritten note every day between October and winter break. Nothing fancy — just a few sentences about something he had noticed on a small card. The way a teacher greeted kids at the door, how they handled a tough class with grace, the way they showed respect to a peer in denial. 

By the time the holidays rolled around, every teacher in that building had received a note. There was nothing about data, deadlines, or discipline, but about who they were, and the difference they made. You could feel the shift. The staff lounge sounded different. Shoulders relaxed. The air lightened, I remember thinking:

This is what real leadership looks like.

And please understand this was a stretch for him. Most of his day was consumed with behavior intervention, family engagement, and there always seemed to be a fire to put out. Somehow, someway, he found time.  

My husband always used to say,

“Bringing donuts to a staff meeting isn’t going to build culture, people’s desire to change does. And people don’t need sugar; they need to feel seen.”

It’s easy to get lost in the noise — the emails, the meetings, the new mandates that show up like waves you never saw coming. But culture doesn’t happen from the top, it’s built in the quiet, daily moments of recognition, praise and celebrating what’s going right —and most importantly when someone in the room says,

“I see you.”

We talk all the time about helping students feel like they belong. But somewhere along the way, many of the adults in the buildings start to feel unseen too. The teachers who stay late every night and volunteer for the 3rd club advisor. The counselor who absorbs everyone else’s stress. The custodian who knows every kid’s name.  They’re not looking for praise; they’re looking for purpose — a reminder that their effort is noticed and their presence matters.

As leaders, we can’t always fix the workload or the exhaustion that comes with this calling.

But we can turn the mirror.  

We can see the people who make our schools work and tell them what we see — specifically, sincerely, and often.