People often assume that writers are experts—that they write because they already have the answers. But in my experience, the opposite is true. I don’t write because I know everything. I write because I’m still figuring it out. I write what I most need to read.
There’s something about putting thoughts into words that brings clarity. It helps me make sense of what feels messy or unresolved. Over time, writing has become one of my most important leadership tools. I’m the superintendent of the Eastern Hancock schools in rural Indiana, but what I’ve learned applies far beyond my role. Whether you’re leading a classroom, a school, or a district, writing isn’t just a way to share ideas—it’s a way to shape them. And in a field where the pressure to appear confident can feel constant, writing gives leaders a rare space to be honest—and to grow.
The space can be private, but for another, equally useful kind of challenge, you can put that thinking out into the world, where people can read it, judge it, and maybe even disagree with it. Every time I hit “send” on something I’ve written, there’s a voice in my head asking, “Who do you think you are?” There are people who have led more schools and done more research. What if they read my words and roll their eyes? What if I get it wrong?
But that’s not even the hardest part.
What’s scarier is that the people who know me best—the ones I work with every day—will read what I write. They know I don’t have it all figured out. Then they see the gaps between my words and my actions. And unlike speech, writing leaves a record—and that makes the gaps harder to miss.
And yet, I continue to do it. Because I’ve learned that vulnerability is good for me. And more than that, it’s good for leadership. Sharing my writing often opens the door to conversations I wouldn’t have otherwise. Sometimes people respond with encouragement, sometimes with questions, and sometimes with pushback—but all of it sharpens my thinking.
I’ve noticed, too, that the things I write eventually shape the way I lead. I’ve caught myself, more than once, saying aloud in a meeting or conversation something that first surfaced in a piece of writing I wasn’t even sure anyone would read.
Sharing my writing often opens the door to conversations I wouldn’t have otherwise.
Writing has led me, again and again, to the most important part of my job as a superintendent: helping our team develop a shared understanding of what we believe is best for kids. Leadership isn’t about forcing people to comply. Yes, I have positional authority. If I ask someone to do something, they’ll probably do it. But if someone only does something because I told them to, that change will be temporary. If I can help them see the value in what we’re doing—if they come to believe in it for themselves—they’ll carry that work forward long after I stop asking. That’s real leadership.
I write a weekly email to my staff. On the surface, it’s a message to encourage and support them—but truthfully, I do it just as much for myself. These emails are a reminder of the promises we’ve made to our students at Eastern Hancock. They help us stay focused. They help me stay grounded, and so week after week, I return to the promises: joy, connection, growth, and success.
Joy reminds us that the gravity of our work—the high stakes of teaching and learning—shouldn’t make school a place of stress. Joy doesn’t mean we take the work lightly. It means we take it seriously enough to make the experience of doing it joyful. Writing about joy serves as a reminder to myself not to let the pressures of leadership push joy to the margins—and to help create a culture where joy is accessible to everyone, including myself.
Connection is our commitment that every student—and every adult—should be known. Not just by name, but by strength, by interest, by hope, and by need. When students feel seen and known, they trust more deeply, engage more fully, and learn more confidently. Writing about connection reminds me that I can get caught up in tasks and systems and forget the simple power of relationships. It’s a reminder to myself that even in the busiest seasons, people need to come first.
Growth is a promise that each student will learn something meaningful every day—something they’ll remember. It’s not about covering content. It’s about uncovering curiosity. Writing about growth helps me remember that I don’t just want students to grow—I want staff and leaders, including myself, to grow, too. I need that reminder regularly, because it’s easy to lose sight of growth in the middle of the grind.
And success reminds us that the finish line isn’t academic proficiency—it’s readiness for life. Our job is not to produce graduates who can pass a test. It’s to send young people into the world prepared and confident for the Monday after graduation—equipped to navigate life, contribute to their communities, and keep growing long after they leave us. Writing about success helps me remember not to get too focused on short-term wins. It’s a reminder to myself to keep the bigger picture in view.
Whether you’re a classroom teacher, a school principal, or a district leader, writing can help you clarify what you believe, make sense of a challenge, or simply notice what’s working. It could be a weekly note to your team. A personal journal where you reflect on the hardest moment of your day or the most joyful. It could be a letter to families, a blog post about a lesson that landed, or a short message to your staff about what matters right now. What you write and who you write it for will shape what you learn. Internal writing—such as journaling or team emails—helps you reflect, stay present, and remain connected to your people. External writing—shared more broadly—can build trust, inspire action, and create a sense of shared direction. Both matter. And both can make you a stronger, more grounded leader.
Sometimes, the best thing we can do is write what we most need to read—and trust that, over time, those words will not only shape what we say but also who we become.
And if it feels uncomfortable? That’s probably a sign we should do it anyway.
