‘President Resigns Abruptly’

The writer is a current president.

We all know presidential tenures are getting shorter. Some leaders get lucky and land in a place that aligns with their strengths, find support from their board and community, and leave on their own terms.

But not all of us. Almost every week, we see announcements of presidential departures—often just a brief blurb in a higher ed publication: “So-and-so left X institution abruptly.” Most people don’t stop to wonder about the human being behind that blurb, except perhaps to think, “Thank goodness that isn’t me” or “They must have done something really wrong.”

Why don’t the people who leave abruptly tell their side of the story? Often, it’s because they can’t. Not unless they want to be sued by their former employer. Because they signed documents in the shocking whirlwind of being fired, with severance contingent on never speaking about their former institution.

I was one of those presidents.

After years of hard work, I was told the board had lost faith in my leadership, and within a week I was out with nothing more than a blurb stating I had “resigned, effective immediately.”

But I hadn’t resigned. I can’t say more because I was, like many, silenced by a threatening nondisparagement clause.

This happens to other good people—leaders who dedicate years to institutions that grow tired of them, find them threatening, or simply resist the change they were hired to implement. A sudden termination isn’t just about losing a job. It means losing housing, transportation, stability. It means uprooting family.

After I pedaled through the cycle of grief (denial, anger, depression—I skipped bargaining and instead crafted elaborate fantasies), I went back to work.

Each day, I spent hours networking. I swallowed my pride and asked everyone I knew and others I’d never met for advice, introductions, and help. I spoke with well over 100 people. It was both humiliating and, strangely, inspiring.

I wasn’t done with higher ed, so I applied for other presidencies. I was actively recruited by search firms. But every time I reached the on-campus search committee phase, I was told they had passed on my candidacy.

Because I was a “risk.”

Because I had a “black mark.”

Why? Because the first thing anyone does is google and find those tiny, generic blurbs about an “abrupt departure.” One consultant put it bluntly: “When they see that blurb, there are only three possibilities: 1) You’re dying. 2) You embezzled money. 3) You had an illicit affair.”

All I could say, within the bounds of that nondisparagement clause, was “The board and I decided to go in different directions.” Or “It just wasn’t a good fit for me.” Or some other bland and unhelpful statement that wouldn’t get me in legal or financial trouble.

Of my cohort at new presidents’ camp, well over half are no longer in their first presidency. Some became consultants, some traded up, others retired after successful but brief tenures. Some slunk away behind those blurbs. Some told the truth to trusted friends. Others protected themselves by staying silent.

But I kept putting myself out there and then—hear this, fellow leaders who have had to “resign abruptly”!—landed a new presidency.

I am happier now at a stronger, more welcoming institution, in a community that values me. I learned from my mistakes, including not reading signs that were there from the start of that first presidency.

But the wounds run deep. They make me question myself, my abilities, my success. I still feel—oddly—mortified by that chapter, even though countless colleagues have told me they know I was wronged and that they admire my resilience.

The sting never fully fades. Nor do those blurbs. Whenever someone looks me up, they see those early short stories that make it seem like I did something terribly wrong.

Reporters have no idea the real damage they do by not contextualizing what happened and not understanding that when you sign a nondisparagement agreement with a figurative gun to your head, you may never get to tell anyone what happened.