When the Leader Can’t Breathe

It was a Saturday evening. The student retreat had ended. The students were back home. The laughter had faded. And I found myself alone, in the sauna, steam rising in silence. No meetings. No one needing anything. Just me, unwinding. Or at least trying to.

This time, the silence didn’t feel like rest. It felt like collapse.

This isn’t a leadership article. This isn’t a story with a clean takeaway. This is the aftershock. The unraveling. The part where the mask falls off and you’re left with a question: Am I still the leader when I can’t even breathe?

A Wound You Can’t See

Imagine a man who’s been shot. Not fatally, but deep. He’s bleeding quietly, slowly. There’s no visible injury, but every step hurts. And yet, he has to lead. He has to speak. Inspire. Smile.

So he wraps the wound. Layer by layer. Until the bleeding slows. Until no one can see the pain.

Then he walks out, delivers the message, and the crowd applauds.

They don’t know he’s still bleeding.

That was me.

Not metaphorically. Literally. That was my May 10th.

The retreat ran beautifully. The students were engaged. Lives were touched. And the moment they left, I walked to a swing, sat down, and fell asleep. Not from peace. From collapse. My body simply gave up holding the weight.

The Swing That Held Me

I didn’t even make it to the room. Just that swing. Just gravity. Just exhaustion.

When I woke up, the wound was wide open again. Not physical—but soul-deep. A gnawing kind of emptiness that makes you forget how to inhale. The silence didn’t feel healing. It felt like someone had muted the inside of me.

I wanted to get up. Rewrap the bandages. Resume the role. Be the version of Daniel everyone expects to see.

But something deeper whispered: Let it bleed. Let the silence speak. Let the pain surface.

Two years ago, when I had a slipped disc, I was forced to rest. There was clarity in that pain. It was visible. Tangible. Justifiable.

This time?

No X-ray can capture this fracture.

And that makes it worse. Because there is no protocol for a leadership injury that doesn’t show up on paper.

When Familiar Sounds Bring Fear

Later that night, I went home. I heard someone I love moving nearby. Her voice. Her footsteps.

And I froze.

Not from anger. Not from guilt. But fear. Soul-level fear.

Not because of anything she said or did—but because she might see it. The unraveling. The fatigue. The hollowness.

And that’s what scared me most.

What if she looked at me and confirmed what I was afraid to admit? That I’m no longer enough.

Enough as a leader. Enough as a father. Enough as a man.

I longed for her presence. And I recoiled from it.

There was no fight. Just the ache of being seen when you don’t feel worth looking at.

And in that ache, I realized something brutal:

It’s possible to be surrounded by love and still feel unreachable.

“My God, My God…”

That night, I whispered a line that has echoed through centuries:

“My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?”

Not as a theological reflection.

As a son’s cry.

Because I didn’t know who I was angry at anymore.

God? Myself? The system? The silence?

The harder I tried to be good—the more faithful, the more present, the more sacrificial—the more broken I felt. The kind of brokenness that doesn’t scream. It just quietly sinks.

I used to think you break when you give up. But maybe some of us break because we keep going.

And I wasn’t sure if I was being faithful or just foolish.

When Grace Feels Like a Joke

Every morning, I recite Ephesians 2:8-9 with my boys:

“For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith… not by works, so that no one can boast.”

But on this night? It mocked me.

Because everything I’ve built—every part of my leadership and parenting—has been through work. Tireless, quiet, unseen work.

So what now? Is grace just a poetic way to invalidate all that effort?

What happens when the one teaching purpose feels purposeless?

And yet—something in me refuses to stop believing that it matters. That purpose is still worth bleeding for. That grace isn’t the rejection of work, but the redemption of it.

Even if I can’t feel it right now.

The Pillar’s Collapse

They say strong leaders are like pillars—holding up the weight others can’t bear.

But on May 10th, I was that pillar.

And I cracked.

And I asked myself:

If I crumble—does that mean my integrity is gone? Or does it mean I’m finally seeing the weak points I’ve been avoiding?

The answer didn’t come.

But the question stayed.

And that question became sacred.

The Reverse That Refuses to Be Resolved

You might expect a resolution here. A rebound. A leadership quote to land the message.

But I don’t have one.

Because this isn’t over.

There’s no rebound. Just a rope.

A rope I’m still holding.

Not because I’m strong.

But because I still believe in what I carry.

Three boys who still need their father.

A calling that still whispers.

And a God I’m still choosing to trust—even in the silence.

So tonight, I rest.

Not to retreat.

But to recover.

And if the rope is still there tomorrow—

I’ll try again.

Not to perform.

But to be real.

Maybe … that authenticity is good enough.