Who Looks Like a President?

The writer is a current president.

Being a woman university president comes with a distinct set of challenges, many of which are invisible unless you’ve lived them.

Like many of my peers, I’ve had decisions questioned repeatedly—sometimes after they’ve already been approved. I’ve watched people rephrase what I just said in meetings, as if to clarify it for others. I’ve seen my leadership style scrutinized in ways I know would never happen if I were a man. A woman being decisive, direct, or principled is too often recast as “emotional,” “difficult,” or “complaining,” or “abrasive.”

But what cuts deepest aren’t the procedural challenges. It’s the personal attacks—not because they’re hurtful (though they can be), but because of what they represent. When someone critiques a woman leader’s tone, personality, or appearance instead of her ideas, it sends a message: She doesn’t belong. What is especially damaging is sexist name-calling. When it happens publicly, or is whispered behind the scenes, it chips away at her legitimacy. It isolates her. And it creates a toxic undercurrent others feel, too.

This doesn’t just hurt individual women. It hurts institutions. It erodes trust. It discourages rising women leaders. It signals to students and faculty that gender bias is acceptable at the top. That’s not only wrong—it’s dangerous for the future of higher education.

Too often when a woman president makes a decision, someone—maybe with good intentions—then quietly follows up with a male colleague to “check” or “confirm” what she said. That may seem prudent. It’s not. It’s undermining. It says her authority alone isn’t enough.

Behaviors like these—whether conscious or not—reinforce outdated hierarchies. They diminish women’s leadership and erode confidence, respect, and credibility—not just for the individual leader, but for the university itself.

And here’s something that isn’t always easy to admit: Not all of this comes from men. Sometimes women undermine one another, too—by questioning, excluding, whispering, competing. Sometimes we project our own disappointments onto women in power. Sometimes we stay silent when another woman is being unfairly criticized because speaking up feels risky.

We have to do better for each other. Women in leadership need other women to have their backs—not just in theory, but in practice.

The writer is a current president.

When I was invited to write here, I thought, Oh, finally, a space where I can confidentially share the things that I cannot say publicly. As a Black woman, I know how I feel reading validating pieces from folks who share my experiences, or hearing them speak at conferences and admiring their strength—fully unveiled and vulnerable. Whether online, anonymously, or in person, I find comfort, solace, commiseration, and hope when others share their stories or when allies speak to how those insights help improve their leadership.

The experiences of microaggressions in public and private are familiar to many people of color, but as a president, I am not always able to address them. The contradictions between people’s articulated and lived values were most jarring during the pandemic. People would say or behave in hurtful ways toward me, then express solidarity or support with values or movements that seemed in vogue.

They would also attack me personally. Outwardly calm and pleasant, I moved on each time I got zapped. As one of fewer than a handful of Black employees at my institution, I suffered in silence. I didn’t call people out, nor did I try to call them in. There were too many who were just too fragile. My institution needed me to comfort them through the harms of a global health crisis while also leading us through a racial reckoning and the financial insecurity of the early days of the pandemic.

During the pandemic, I also found my voice. I couldn’t address my treatment on campus, but I became a member of a multistate group supporting professionals of color and allies. I held the pain of those across my region while working to help their presidents understand their experiences.

With practice, I have grown into being the person who says the things that many people—women, especially women of color and folks who are otherwise different—cannot say. Now I am willing to go into spaces and say that I see a therapist regularly, that constant code-switching takes a mental toll, that I get exhausted even when I appear indefatigable, and that sometimes it takes great effort to appear incessantly joyful and cheerful. I do get tired of people feeling that I should take care of them when no one had such expectations of my male predecessors.

A decade ago, a supervisor, who often told me that he didn’t know what he would do if I left, offered me a promotion where my pay would be lower than the guy he called “lazy and incompetent,” even though the scope of my responsibilities and my number of direct reports would be greater. At the encouragement of a colleague, I asked him to consider my worth and merit and to revisit his proposed pay rate. He offered more than I would have asked if I had given him a number. He knew my worth and what I merited all along.

I recently saw an Instagram post by someone who shared that his mom told him wherever he is to look for the Black women, because a Black woman will always take care of him. Black women look out for others. It was meant to be a compliment.

I know people come to me for comfort, for unique or prevailing perspectives, and to get stuff done. As a child, family expectations were imposed on me. The workplace very often feels like an extension of sometimes unfair expectations. It is exhausting. I worked hard to become a president and sacrificed a lot, as did my spouse and children. Yes, it was and remains my choice. I also want the expectations of me to be similar to those of my male counterparts. I knew the unfairness to exist before I reached the presidency; I experienced it every step of the way. I also know that we can all do better. I don’t stop people from asking for help, but I have learned to decline, to say no, and to encourage folks to look elsewhere for solutions when I don’t have to or want to bear the burden.

I have found my voice and my courage, and I know my worth. It has taken years of overcoming ingrained messages, and sometimes I do backslide and doubt myself. Remembering my outcomes or why I am in the room recenters me.

At a time when saying the wrong thing or simply speaking about the things we always spoke about can cost presidents and their institutions dearly, I have found the courage to speak about the things that lead many to suffer in silence. I have found that it heals me, too.

The writer is a current president.

The continuing stereotype of a president is entrenched and it remains a white, middle-aged man, average age 65. This is an image that existed in 1924, and it is much the same a century later. Women presidents have been stuck at approximately 25 percent of the total for decades.

During these attack days, I’m not optimistic about increasing our representation. I learned to not come early to check in at administrative conferences, because I grew weary of male presidents asking me if I was working the desk to hand out their packets. “No,” I’d say, “I’m just like you, waiting for the materials.” Hasty apologies would follow, but they couldn’t claw back their assumptions.

For women presidents, every moment is showtime. The scrutiny of my appearance is unrelenting. Over the years, every time I have a haircut it is noticed and commented upon. My weight gain or loss is also noted in remarks made directly to me. Messaging is sent if jeans are worn on a casual Friday or if my dress’s hemline ends more than two inches above the knee.

With male donors there have been times when I thought I kept hitting my knee on a table leg until I figured out the potential philanthropist was rubbing his knee against mine.

There are plenty of presidential training programs, but how many of them teach women how to negotiate in a predominantly male profession where the single most important part of your job is to raise funds while patiently faking smiles as you are mansplained to again and again. This tension is part of my existence. My accomplishments feel nonexistent when I’m trying to avoid that creeping hand.

A presidential colleague told me her board deemed her wardrobe insufficient for her role and assigned her a stylist. The stylist advised her to cut her hair; bought her clothes, shoes, purses, and jewelry; and gave her cards with her outfits coordinated. “Like Garanimals?” I asked. “More like the Army,” she responded. She had a uniform and had better wear it.

Presidents face pressure on a daily basis from all their constituency groups—that’s the expectation when you accept this position. What is not conveyed in training programs is how to negotiate the glare of a judgmental spotlight when it comes to appearance and how to survive attempts to exploit or denigrate you. Surviving this gauntlet without constantly being self-critical is hard.

I know too well that this a game where there is never a winner, only survivors. When I am off duty, spending time with my family or walking in the woods, I rejoice over those rare moments of no makeup, unwashed hair, wearing pajamas at lunch, and everything sans heels or bra. Those are the moments when I remember who I really am, and when I can breathe.