What she thought was the end of her career, and what came after
Let's call her Priya. She is a blend of several people, so she is not a specific member or client. She is 55, serves as chief operating officer, and is forty minutes into a board session that isn't going well when her voice catches on the word "layoffs" and her eyes well up.
Layoffs are not truly what triggered this. It's the eleven months behind them: a father in hospice, alarms at 4 a.m., and a director across the table who has just asked, for the third time, whether operations "has a handle on this." She does have a handle on it. Her grip on the lectern has tightened for so long that her knuckles throb.
Every one of the twelve people in the room has turned to watch her. Within roughly four seconds, somebody will say something gentle, and that gentleness will, in its own way, backfire. The genuine quandary lies in how she spends those few seconds.
Choice one: say sorry and carry on
She murmurs, "my apologies, one moment," takes a drink of water, and advances to the next slide. The downside is that the apology frames her tears as an error, which gives everyone in the room license to view them that way. She spends the week wondering what the chair thinks, because she apologized before she knew.
Choice two: take a ten-minute pause
She announces, "let's take ten," and walks out into the hallway. The drawback: a break called by the person who just cried is one everyone understands the reason for, and she walks back into a room that has had ten minutes to talk about her. The upside is genuine. She comes back collected and wraps things up in her own way.
Choice three: acknowledge it and press on
She tells them, "This year has been difficult for this team, and that's visible." "I intend to continue." There's no apology and no justification, just one plain statement of fact. The drawback: some directors will remember that sentence longer than the figures. The benefit is that she has put words to what everyone had already noticed before anyone else could.
What seasoned leaders in Greater Cincinnati tell us
Seasoned women who have chaired boards in Greater Cincinnati, from Hamilton to West Chester, react to this far more calmly than Lydia does. In their experience, crying is seldom the true trouble; the apology usually is. Whoever holds the moment usually sets the direction for everyone else in the room. Frame it as a disaster and the room will likewise treat it as one. Frame it as a passing storm and, largely, the room will see it that way too.
These same leaders also bring up something less comfortable to hear. The standard is not even. A man who gets emotional over layoffs is seen as "human." A woman is called "emotional," and likability research has repeatedly found that the same behavior earns a different label depending on who does it. Concealment is not the answer. What matters is steering the narrative.
According to Deloitte's 2025 study of 7,500 women, 29% describe their mental health as poor. None of the women in that boardroom are exempt, and a few of them have stood where Lydia stands.
The verdict
In this illustration, Lydia opts for choice three. Afterward, the chair remarks before the whole group, "That was the most candid update this board has received in a year," and asks the director who had the questions to commit them to writing. It surprised her. It shouldn't have. Most board chairs have witnessed far worse, and what lingers in their memory is who pressed forward.
It comes down to whether you can say the sentence without an apology in it. If you can, say it. If you can't yet, take the break.
Vote
Option one, two, or three: which would you have picked? Send your letter to the Cincinnati chapter and we will publish the split next month. If you have ever been in Lydia's shoes, we would love to hear your story.