The Authority in Action, But Not in Title
Part of the Voice I Almost Lost – Blog #2 by Alana Pierre Curry There is a version of leadership that is so deeply embedded in action, it often goes unnamed. You do the work. You show up early, stay late. You figure it out when no one else does. You keep things running, hold people together, train new hires, solve problems, and absorb the impact of broken systems… all while someone else gets the title, the salary, and the spotlight. For most of my adult life, I have carried that kind of leadership. And for just as long, I have watched how easy it is for systems to benefit from it without acknowledging its value. There were times I was told I wasn’t ready. That the role required “more.” That I had to “prove myself” just a little longer—even after years of proof had already been given. I’ve been the one asked to manage teams without the manager title. The one asked to build something new with little more than belief and grit. And when I delivered—because I always did—my reward was often more responsibility, but not more recognition. And when I finally did receive the title or the raise or the acknowledgment—it was after someone new came in and simply noticed the obvious. Noticed what had been ignored for years. Noticed the imbalance. Noticed me. But noticing isn’t the same as honoring. It’s not the same as being seen in real time, without having to shout or plead or outperform to be treated as worthy. I’ve learned that being „the authority in action“ is often a double-edged sword. People trust you to lead, to carry, to fix. But that trust rarely translates to elevation. You become the reliable one. The capable one. The one who will figure it out. And because of that, you’re often overlooked when it comes time to name the next leader—because your excellence has been normalized. There is a deep, specific exhaustion that comes from always being the glue. From being the answer without ever being asked the question. From knowing that if you left today, the systems you built would still be here… and someone else might be handed the credit. And still, you lead. Because leading is not about a title. It never was. But what I’ve come to realize is that titles matter—not because they define you, but because they reflect what others are willing to see in you. So, this post is not about being bitter. It is about being honest.It’s about choosing to name what so many of us have experienced in silence.It’s about honoring the kind of leadership that has been invisible for far too long. To the ones managing without recognition…To the ones building programs on underpaid hours…To the ones constantly passed over but never outperformed…I see you. And I am learning to see myself, too—not just through what I produce, but through what I deserve. I will always give my best. But I’ve also learned that being willing is not the same as being valued.And at this stage in my life, I will no longer accept leadership without acknowledgment.Impact without elevation. Responsibility without reciprocity. I still lead. But now, I do it differently. This blog is a space where I reflect, tell the truth gently, and make sense of a long journey toward balance, leadership, and life. If it resonates, I’m grateful you’re here.— Alana
Better to Others, Bitter to Myself: A Journey to Finding My Voice
Part of the Voice I Almost Lost – Blog #1 by Alana Pierre Curry Intro: The Helper Who Forgot Herself I have always been the advocate. Even as a child, I found myself stepping into roles of protector, counselor, and fixer. If someone was hurting, I leaned in. If something was wrong, I tried to make it right. I was the one who would reach into my purse in the middle of a busy city to help a stranger in need—not because it was safe, but because it felt right. People often turned to me—not because I had all the answers, but because I listened. I showed up. I made space for others in a world that often makes people feel small. Whether it was coworkers needing fair pay or friends navigating crisis, I fought for them. I never liked when people used their status, degrees, confidence, or wardrobe to make others feel less than. Those moments, to me, were missed chances to lift someone up. Pivot: Trusting the System Over Myself But somewhere along the way, I began to confuse selflessness with silence. When I was underpaid, I rationalized it. I assumed that because we were all working for a cause, the sacrifices were shared. I thought my value would be seen without me having to say it aloud. A small nod in a meeting or the occasional thank you felt like enough—because I believed people were being fair. They weren’t. And I wasn’t being fair to myself either. Reflection: The Shrinking Voice There are moments that still sting—where I can look back and see just how much I dimmed my own light. I think the earliest cracks in my self-worth started in childhood. I was made to feel that my body, my presence, was somehow too much. I remember the names. The comparisons. The cruel jokes disguised as observations. I come from a family of shapely women, and I developed early. But instead of being embraced, I was made to feel ashamed. I began to shrink myself, physically and emotionally. I didn’t want to be seen. I wanted to disappear. As I grew older, I carried those insecurities into relationships—giving my all in exchange for their minimum. And then, in one relationship, I experienced something I never imagined would be part of my story: domestic violence. I learned why women stay. I learned how silence becomes survival. I called for help—three times. But the help never came. I remember telling the police the last time, “If you don’t do something now, the next time you’re called, I’ll be dead.” They still did nothing. Resolution: The Voice in the Quiet Now, at 51—almost 52—I feel different. Not because everything is healed or figured out. But because I am tired. I am tired of being quiet to be accepted. Tired of being overlooked. Tired of some people making assumptions about who I am based on how little I speak, or how shy I might seem. They do not know my story. They have never earned my trust. But every now and then, there are moments when I feel so incredibly confident. Moments where I wish I could bottle the feeling, hold it close, and pour it over myself when doubt creeps in. And maybe, in a way, that is what this blog will be: a collection of those bottled moments. Proof that I am finding my voice—even if it wavers. Recently, I learned a former leader told my current boss that to really support me, she would have to earn my trust. When I heard that, I felt so seen. He got it. He got me. That moment was a gift. A reminder that being quiet is not the same as being weak—and that my trust is something sacred. Invitation: A Shared Journey This blog is not about being perfect or healed. It is about being real. I invite you to walk with me through this evolution—through the stops and starts, the lessons and the letting go. I am learning to be better for myself, not just for others. I am learning to speak up, to take up space, and to be seen without changing who I am. If any part of this feels familiar to you, I hope you will stay. Maybe we will find our voices together.