I Have to Bury You Now

There’s a moment in leadership that almost no one talks about. It isn’t loud.

It isn’t explosive. It doesn’t come with a raised voice or a slammed door.

It comes quietly with tears trapped behind marble eyes -- when you realize that hope is no longer a strategy.

This isn’t about someone making a mistake. Or struggling. Or even failing. This is about someone who isn’t bought in.  Who is disrespectful in subtle and obvious ways.

Who doesn’t try.

And worse -- who has no interest in being coached, corrected, or challenged.  It's an insult to them to even offer it.

You don’t arrive here quickly.  You arrive here after conversations.  Coaching, One on Ones.

After patience.

After benefit of the doubt.

After choosing understanding again and again.

And then one day, the realization lands:

I can’t lead you forward anymore. 

I can only manage you out.

This is the moment leadership changes shape, a shift no one talks about or prepares you for.

You stop coaching.

You stop trying to inspire.

You stop hoping that the next conversation will be the one that breaks through.

Instead, you start documenting. Tracking.  Delving deep into the rules of brand. Writing things down that you never wanted to have to write down.

You become rigid, procedural. More exact. Not because you want to...Because you have to. Because if you don’t, the system won’t care about your intent. It won’t care about your conversations. It won’t care about the emotional labor you’ve already done. The system only cares about proof.

And without it, you become the villain -- no matter how fair, patient, or human you’ve been.

This Part That Hurts the Most

Most leaders don’t struggle with firing people. They struggle with becoming someone they never wanted to be in the process.

Micromanagement isn’t your style.

Documentation feels cold.

Distance feels like a betrayal of your values.

But here’s the truth that took me too long to accept: Protecting the team sometimes requires restraining the individual.

You cannot allow one person’s disengagement to erode the morale, trust, or culture of everyone else. You cannot sacrifice the mission because you’re afraid of being seen as harsh.

Leadership isn’t about saving everyone.It’s about stewarding what belongs to the many.

Why I Call It “Burying”

Because emotionally, that’s what it feels like.

It is not anger.

You’re not vengeful.

You’re grieving.

You’re burying the version of the relationship you hoped for.

You’re burying the idea that effort alone would be enough.

You’re burying the belief that care always leads to commitment.

You're burying the dream that you could help this person grow.

You're grappling with your own feelings of having failed them and wondering what you could or should have done differently.

And you do it very quietly.

Professionally.

With restraint.

You bide your time.

You gather facts.

You stay calm when it would be easier to explode.

Not because you’re weak, but because you’re responsible.

And it breaks off a little piece of you like stale communion bread every single time.

This Isn’t Cruel. It’s Necessary.

Letting someone overshadow the team isn’t kindness. Avoiding hard decisions isn’t compassion. And pretending this doesn’t hurt, doesn’t make you strong.

Sometimes leadership means saying:

"I see you clearly now, and for the good of the team, this has to end."

So yes, I have to bury you now.

Not with anger.

Not with shame.

But with clarity, documentation, and resolve.

Because the team matters.

The mission matters.

And leadership, real leadership, means carrying pain so others don’t have to.

So with hands blistered from gripping the shovels wooden handle so tightly, I quietly dig and quietly try to forgive myself for failing you.

Chris

Natalie’s Notes

I had someone on my team I refused to give up on. I coached, reset expectations, tried again, and convinced myself progress was happening. He treated the relationship like a chess match — always one move ahead, always testing how far he could go. Near the end, I went soft. I believed what I wanted to see: that he had changed, that the coaching had finally landed.

Then, the team asked to talk.

“He walks all over you.”

I was silent. No defense. In their eyes, I was already deep into the fight - nine rounds in and on the mat. They weren’t sure I was getting back up, and they needed me. They could see what I was scared to admit: he was poison to the group, and their perspective made me understand the depths of the damage.

The decision that followed was heavy. I remember quietly reviewing timestamps, conversations, and work — already knowing what I would find. It felt like watching the final round play out in slow motion. When it was over, it was a knockout no one celebrates. I left early that day and cried alone in the dark. It is said that people fire themselves. But that doesn’t erase the grief of closing a chapter with someone you poured into.

I still think about him. The wound healed and a lesson stayed. To borrow Maya Angelou’s words, “When someone shows you who they are, believe them.” I carry that scar as a promise to every future team: to see clearly, to know when its time “bury,” and to serve those I am responsible for protecting, even when the costs are painful. 

These scars, the lessons we carry forward, forge the damaged leader. Not broken, but trained, and ready for the next round.