Another President ‘Resigns Abruptly’

The writer is a former president.

The Sandbox issue “President Resigns Abruptly” brought it all back—and not in a good way.

The article about my abrupt resignation was written by a journalist I respected. It wasn’t disparaging and highlighted accomplishments from my tenure. But that headline was damning. People assume it means you did something terrible. You lose the capacity to tell your story. Your decision feels public and utterly humiliating, and you have zero capacity to explain what really happened.

I desperately wanted to tell my side but knew I couldn’t. I’m sharing it now, in the safety of The Sandbox, hoping it provides comfort to others who’ve had this traumatic, career-shattering experience.

I was hired into a powder keg waiting to explode. Massive protests broke out right after my hiring was announced, and I was asked to arrive early to “manage the conflict on campus.” The community was divided, and I didn’t realize that almost my entire cabinet—and most of the board—were aligned with one camp (which was not where I wanted to plant my flag). Everyone was polite to my face, so it took me a while to realize how much I wasn’t hearing.

For a few years, I poured my heart into being the best president I could be. There were calls for me to take specific actions that I had no authority to ask for; things people wanted me to do—and could—but that were complicated by the, ahem, private interests of board members; and there were some ideas that were just plain ridiculous. [Ed’s note: I heard all the details; this is truly in the “you can’t make this stuff up” category.] 

These experiences eroded my well-being and mental health. I had trouble sleeping, became irritated at home, felt hopeless. A fellow president received death threats; mine came as a skeleton on a noose near where my husband jogged. What took longer to recover from was the extent of betrayal—the lies and the conspiracy by a stakeholder group planning my removal before I even arrived.

Then the board chair met with me on a Friday afternoon. The message was clear: I wasn’t aligned with most of the community (except, of course, for a fairly large portion of the students). My choices were to abandon my values and stay, or to step away. I wasn’t willing to give up what I stood for and who I was for the job.

The following Monday, I discussed the wording of my resignation with the board chair. I wanted to give an explanation, but what could I say? That I wouldn’t make a deal with the devil? Mentioning my values would sound like accusing the board and institution of having “bad” values (which, to be honest, was the case). So, I took the high road and said nothing about why I resigned. Despite my hurt and anger, I refused to harm the institution, which is what would have happened if I had told the whole story.

It’s galling that people assume you’re silent because you signed an NDA for a sweet deal. I didn’t sign anything or even take a particularly good package. Instead, I walked away from something I’d worked toward for over two decades. Something I cared about and was good at.

Looking back, I don’t think I could have done anything differently. The vast majority of my decisions would have generated rage regardless. The bottom line is, I was at the wrong institution, facing an entrenched culture that claimed to want change but didn’t, that hired me because I looked right on paper but didn’t want me to look like—or be—me.

Postpresidency trauma runs deep. This was my first presidency, a role I’d prepared for and was equipped to handle at an institution I cared about. I wasn’t ready to retire. My husband and I took road trips while I buried my tears in my dog’s fur. And through the grief, that damn article remained—“president resigns abruptly.”

I did consulting work and half-heartedly looked at opportunities. Search firms constantly sent positions. I’d be shortlisted, even become a finalist, but they’d ultimately go “in a different direction.” There was no explaining away a damning headline that came up in every Google search.

My job search ended after an enraging conversation with a search consultant who asked about the abrupt resignation. When I maintained my public commitment to the high road, she said sarcastically, “Now, aren’t you quite the storyteller.”

Furious, I called a close friend, who is also a psychologist, and she helped me process that moment. I decided I would not be applying for more presidencies. My skills and a new purpose became clear. Even though I’d worked with an executive coach as president, I knew I needed more than coaching could offer—and figured others did, too. I decided to return to my roots as a clinical psychologist, serving those who, like me, had been through demanding leadership challenges.

Though it can be tricky for people used to being unshakable to actually ask for help, plenty do reach out. These days, I work from home supporting university presidents and executives—current and former—living through similar horrors, helping them cope with sadness, anxiety, nightmares, intrusive thoughts, and helplessness. It’s that lemonade thing, but I add a lot of honey.