A one-woman show is not successful in the long run.
“I Am Woman” is a song written, recorded, and made famous in 1971 by the late Helen Reddy. While the words are inspirational—“You can bend but never break me, ‘cause it only serves to make me more determined to achieve my final goal”—and the tune became an anthem for the budding feminist movement, the lyrics are not necessarily, it turns out, a winning formula for succeeding in business.
When it worked
I got married a year after graduating from college, moved from New York City to a military town in Texas, and transitioned from working in a research lab at a prestigious cancer institute to experiencing limited employment opportunities because I was branded as a military spouse who could move at any time.The jobs at the companies that did consider employing me didn’t align with my goals. My “I Am Woman” persona kicked in, and I went back to school to work on a master’s degree in human resources development. “I come back even stronger, not a novice any longer, ‘cause you’ve deepened the conviction in my soul.”
Eventually, my family moved to an overseas assignment in Germany. Working at a US Department of Defense Dependents School, I once again adapted to what was available to me, all the while continuing to work on my degree. “Yes, I’ve paid the price, but look how much I’ve gained. If I have to, I can do anything. I am strong, I am invincible, I am woman.”
My story continued along that same vein for the next couple of moves—out of the military to civilian life, where I eventually found work at the university that would employ me for the next three decades.
When it didn’t work
Have you ever heard that a strength, when overused, can become a saboteur? “I Am Woman”—or at least my interpretation of it—became an overused strength for me.In my first 7.5 years at the university, I held traditional roles. First, I managed the employment office. Then, I transitioned to the world of compensation, leading that function for a couple of years, to include some performance management work to spice things up.
Finally, I had the opportunity to step into my dream job. Armed with a small budget, a salary line, and a new (off-campus) location complete with a dedicated training space, I became the director of training. I was fortunate to have the chance to build both that role and the training function from the ground up, because neither had previously existed at the university.
In the early years, I was a one-woman show—from designing training courses to creating manuals to managing the calendar to smaller things such as bringing in pastries. I proudly reported each training session, and the number of attendees, all in an effort to justify the continued need for a dedicated training space. I loved the autonomy I had, and I felt like I was running my own little department.
Along the way, I lost track of the truth: I was part of a larger department. Although I worked off-campus, I was responsible for keeping key stakeholders (such as my supervisor) informed about what I was doing. There’s a reason the expression “out of sight, out of mind” exists, and I was the personification of that. Indeed, there were signs here and there that I should think differently about what I was doing, such as questions about my programs or budget. But “I Am Woman” prevailed; I brushed past the signs—until I hit a wall.
After years of working on one end of the university, a new building was coming to fruition, combining the entire HR department under one umbrella—and one budget. Instead of calling the shots about how I spent “my” training dollars, I suddenly found myself relegated to seeking permission to spend that budget, which I had stewarded and managed for nearly 20 years.
As a result of the greater oversight and the veto power that accompanied it, the number, type, and frequency of training we offered began to diminish. Then, the department brought on a new head of HR. As is often the case with a change in leadership, our new leader asked the talent development team to put the brakes on training and re-examine the whole TD landscape at the university.
My role continued to shift and shrink until, at the end of September 2022, I stepped onto the campus for the last time as an active employee and joined the ranks of retirees.
What I’ve learned
Out of that experience, I learned a few great—albeit painful—lessons:- It’s critical to take responsibility for communication about work.
- There’s a necessity to manage up, and be proactive seeking input from my supervisor, especially when an absence of regular touchpoints makes it easy to slip back into the “out of sight, out of mind” mentality.
- There’s a risk to operating as a “solopreneur”—making unilateral decisions, operating in a silo, running the operation without the help of or input from anyone else—while being part of an organization.
- Though “I Am Woman” has served me well, it has its limits.
Having learned those lessons, what would I do differently? I would be more like an amazing staff person I hired who, without prompting, regularly gave me graphs, charts, and other updates about her work.
I would ensure that every one-on-one meeting with my manager included information about my work, ensuring I was on the right track and aligned with our overall vision.
I would also make a case to adopt an integrated talent management approach to our work, because training doesn’t happen in a vacuum, but affects talent acquisition, compensation, performance, benefits, and other aspects of employee life.
I’m more than grateful for the decades I got to work at the university, the lives I got to touch through my training, and the people who affected me. I’m designing my next chapter and taking my hard-learned lessons with me.
“Oh yes, I am wise, but it’s wisdom born of pain. Yes, I’ve paid the price, but look how much I’ve gained. If I have to, I can face anything. I am strong, I am invincible, I am woman.”
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