The day I became Head of School, I thought I was ready.
I'd been a department head. A curriculum coordinator. A communications officer. I'd worked alongside Heads and watched them lead. I understood school operations, IB programmes, board governance.
I was not ready.
The first year of headship broke me open in ways I didn't expect. Not because the work was hard — I expected that. But because the job was different in kind, not just degree.
Here's what I wish someone had told me before I started.
The Loneliness Is Real
Everyone warns you about the workload. Nobody warns you about the loneliness.
As Head, you're suddenly outside every group you used to belong to. You're not faculty anymore — you supervise them. You're not leadership team anymore — you manage them. You're not one of the parents — you represent the institution they're evaluating.
Every relationship changes. People who used to be friends become guarded. Conversations stop when you walk into rooms. You hear about social events you weren't invited to.
This isn't because people are unkind. It's because power creates distance. You have power over people's jobs, their children's education, their daily experience. That changes things.
What helped me: finding peers outside my school. Heads at other schools. People in leadership communities. Anyone who understood the role from the inside. I couldn't vent to my staff, but I could vent to someone.
You Own Every Problem Now
As a deputy or coordinator, you owned specific problems. Curriculum. Communications. A department.
As Head, you own every problem. Even the ones that aren't "yours."
Facilities broke? Your problem. Teacher conflict? Your problem. Board member behaving badly? Your problem. Parent complaints about something a teacher did three years ago? Somehow, also your problem.
This was exhausting until I reframed it.
I don't own every problem. I own making sure every problem has an owner.
My job isn't to solve everything. It's to make sure nothing falls through the cracks. That means systems for tracking issues, delegating clearly, and following up. It doesn't mean doing everything myself.
This realization is what eventually led me to build the systems I now help other leaders implement.
Imposter Syndrome Doesn't Care About Your Resume
Before I was Head, I had a solid resume. Graduate degree. IB training. Years of experience.
None of that mattered at 2 AM when I was awake wondering if I was making the right call.
Imposter syndrome hit hard. Every decision felt scrutinized. Every parent complaint felt like proof that I didn't belong. I kept waiting for someone to realize I was making it up as I went along.
What helped me: realizing that everyone is making it up. There's no playbook. Even veteran Heads are improvising constantly.
Also helpful: talking to other new Heads. They were all having the same doubts. We were all convinced that everyone else knew what they were doing. None of us did.
The Board Relationship Is Everything
In my first year, I treated the board like a reporting requirement. I sent them updates. I answered their questions. I stayed out of their way.
This was a mistake.
The board-Head relationship is the most important relationship in the job. When it's strong, you have support, cover, and the freedom to lead. When it's weak, you're vulnerable to every complaint that reaches their ears.
What I learned: the board relationship requires investment. Regular communication, not just formal reports. Proactive updates on problems, not just successes. Asking for their advice, not just their approval.
Most boards don't want to micromanage. They micromanage when they feel uninformed or surprised. Keep them informed, and they give you room.
You Can't Save Everyone
In my first year, I inherited some staff who weren't right for the school. I knew it. Their colleagues knew it. But I didn't want to be the new Head who came in firing people.
So I tried to coach them. Gave feedback. Created improvement plans. Gave second and third chances.
A year later, they were still there, still struggling, and now their colleagues were frustrated with me for not acting.
What I learned: keeping the wrong people isn't kindness. It's unfair to them (stuck in a role that doesn't fit), unfair to students (who deserve better), and unfair to colleagues (who have to compensate).
Moving someone out of a role is one of the hardest things a Head does. It's also sometimes the most important.
Small Things Signal Big Things
I didn't realize how closely people watched me.
When I was stressed, the whole school felt it. When I was calm, they relaxed. My mood set the weather.
Small things I did without thinking became signals:
- If I walked quickly through the halls looking at my phone, teachers assumed something was wrong
- If I skipped events, parents assumed I didn't care
- If I responded to emails at midnight, staff assumed that was the expected norm
What I learned: being visible and calm is part of the job. Even when I felt chaotic inside, I learned to project steadiness. Not fake positivity — just steadiness. People need to feel that someone is in control.
You Can't Please Everyone
Before headship, I was well-liked. I got along with colleagues. I avoided conflict.
As Head, I had to make decisions that upset people. Every decision upset someone.
Raise standards? Teachers feel criticized. Lower workload? Parents worry about rigor. Enforce boundaries? Staff feel constrained. Be flexible? Others cry favoritism.
My first instinct was to explain myself constantly. To justify every decision. To try to make everyone understand.
It didn't work. Some people won't be pleased, no matter how well you explain.
What I learned: my job is to make the best decision I can with the information I have, explain it clearly once, and then move forward. Not everyone will agree. That's okay. Seeking universal approval is a trap that paralyzes leadership.
I wrote more about this tension in The Difference Between Running a School and Being Run By One.
Self-Care Isn't Optional
In my first semester, I worked constantly. Early mornings, late nights, weekends. I was "committed."
By December, I was burned out. Irritable with my family. Making worse decisions. Getting sick.
I thought I was being dedicated. I was actually being unsustainable.
What I learned: a burned-out Head is a bad Head. The job requires judgment, patience, and presence. All of those degrade when you're exhausted.
Now I protect sleep, exercise, and time with family like I protect board meetings. They're not luxuries. They're job requirements.
It Gets Better
My first year was hard. Really hard.
My second year was better. The relationships were established. The systems were working. I knew where the landmines were.
By year three, I felt like I knew what I was doing — most of the time.
If you're in your first year and you're struggling: that's normal. The struggle doesn't mean you're failing. It means you're growing into a role that takes time to inhabit.
Find your people. Build your systems. Protect your energy. And give yourself grace.
The first year isn't about being great. It's about surviving with your integrity intact.
What Would Have Helped
Looking back, here's what would have made my first year easier:
A structured entry plan. Not just "get to know the school" — a real 90-day roadmap with listening protocols, stakeholder mapping, and early wins. I've since developed the 5 systems every new Head needs based on what I wish I'd had.
A mentor. Someone outside the school who'd done the job and could tell me what was normal vs. concerning.
Better systems. I spent too much time building processes from scratch. Having templates and frameworks would have saved months. That's why I'm building the No-Admin Second Brain Guide — so other leaders don't have to start from zero.
Permission to not know everything. I thought I had to have answers immediately. I could have said "I don't know yet, I'm learning the school" more often.
If you're preparing for your first headship, invest in these things before you start. If you're already in it, invest in them now. It's not too late.
If you're a new Head and want support building your systems and navigating the first year — that's exactly what I help with. Book a conversation and let's talk about where you are.