When Caltech announced that most staff would work from home indefinitely in March 2020, I found myself in an unusual position: I was one of the few people who genuinely wanted to keep coming to the office. Not because I was eager to risk exposure, but because someone needed to be there. The Development office couldn't just go dark. Gifts still needed processing, deposits had to be made, and our suddenly remote workforce needed technical support to function from their kitchen tables and makeshift home offices.
As a manager, I faced a choice that would define not just my leadership style, but my understanding of what authentic leadership actually looks like.
The Anti-Hero's Journey
Most leadership stories follow a predictable arc: the reluctant hero discovers hidden courage, rallies the troops, and emerges transformed. My pandemic story is different. It's about an introvert who spent years performing extroversion finally finding a crisis that rewarded authenticity over performance.
You see, advancement work—fundraising, donor relations, event management—is built for extroverts. Or at least, it rewards people who can convincingly play one. For years, I'd forced myself into that mold, powering through donor dinners, schmoozing at cocktail receptions, and maintaining the kind of constant "on" energy that successful fundraising demands. I was good at it, but it was exhausting. I'd joke that I was "socially distant" long before the pandemic made it fashionable, but the truth was deeper: I did my best thinking, my most creative problem-solving, and my most genuine relationship-building in quieter, more intimate settings.
When the pandemic hit, suddenly everyone was discovering what introverts had always known: that meaningful work could happen in smaller groups, that technology could facilitate connection without requiring constant physical presence, and that sometimes the most productive thing you can do is give people space to think.
But someone still needed to be present for the work that couldn't go remote.
The Reluctant Office Guardian
The decision to keep coming in wasn't dramatic or heroic. It was practical, and it was right. Our gift processing couldn't stop—donors were still making contributions, and in fact, some were increasing their giving in response to the crisis. The university's financial stability depended on maintaining those relationships and processing those gifts promptly. Beyond that, our suddenly remote team needed technical support, equipment, and someone who could coordinate between the physical office and the digital workspace everyone was scrambling to create.
I could have asked one of my staff to take on this responsibility. After all, as a manager, delegating is part of the job. But something about that felt fundamentally wrong. How could I ask someone else to take on the risk and isolation of being one of the few people on a nearly empty campus while I worked safely from home? If the work was essential—and it was—then I needed to be there to do it.
This wasn't heroism. It was basic management ethics: don't ask your team to do something you're not willing to do yourself.
Enter the Four-Legged Co-Worker
What I didn't anticipate was how much his presence would matter—not just to me, but to the few colleagues who were also coming in and, eventually, to the team members who started venturing back to campus as restrictions began to lift.
Ace became the office therapy dog without any formal training or certification. Colleagues who were starting to feel stir-crazy at home would email to ask if they could come in and take him for a walk around Pasadena. These weren't just casual strolls—they were genuine mental health breaks for people who had been isolated in their homes for weeks or months, desperately craving not just physical activity but the simple comfort of interacting with a friendly, uncomplicated creature who was just happy to see them.
For an introvert, Ace was the perfect icebreaker. People would stop by my office to pet him, and in those moments, real conversations would happen—not the forced networking chatter of pre-pandemic office life, but genuine check-ins about how people were coping, what they needed, and how we could support each other through an unprecedented situation.
The Introvert's Advantage
Here's what I learned during those long, quiet months in the office: sometimes the best leadership happens in the spaces between the big moments. While everyone else was adapting to Zoom fatigue and trying to recreate their extroverted work styles in a digital format, I was discovering that my natural preference for one-on-one conversations, my comfort with silence, and my ability to focus for long periods without constant stimulation were exactly what the moment required.
The few of us who were regularly on campus developed a different kind of team dynamic. Without the usual office buzz and constant interruptions, our interactions became more intentional, more focused. When someone stopped by to walk Ace, we'd end up having the kind of substantive conversation about work challenges, family stress, and pandemic anxieties that rarely happens in the rush of normal office life.
I realized that I'd been trying to lead like an extrovert for years—rallying teams through high-energy meetings, maintaining constant communication, and always being "on" for my staff. But the pandemic created space for a different kind of leadership: steady presence, thoughtful response, and the kind of quiet reliability that introverts often excel at but rarely get credit for.
The Management Parable
Every good parable has a lesson that transcends its specific circumstances, and the lesson of my pandemic experience isn't really about working through COVID-19. It's about authenticity in leadership and the dangerous assumption that there's only one way to lead effectively.
For too many years, I'd operated under the belief that good managers needed to be perpetually energetic, constantly communicating, and always "available" in ways that felt natural to extroverts but exhausting to introverts. The pandemic forced me to question that assumption—and what I discovered was that my team didn't need me to be someone I wasn't. They needed me to be genuinely present, reliably supportive, and authentically myself.
When colleagues came to walk Ace, they weren't looking for a pep talk or a motivational speech. They were looking for connection, for someone who could listen without judgment, and for a brief escape from the intensity of everything happening in the world. My willingness to simply be there—physically present in the office, emotionally available for whatever they needed, and comfortable with the kind of unstructured interaction that often makes extroverts uncomfortable—turned out to be exactly what people needed.
The Ripple Effect of Authentic Leadership
The most surprising outcome of my pandemic leadership style wasn't how it affected my team's productivity (though that remained strong) or even their morale (which, considering the circumstances, was remarkably good). It was how it changed my understanding of what management could look like when it aligned with rather than fought against my natural temperament.
I stopped trying to manufacture energy I didn't feel. Instead, I offered the kind of steady, reliable presence that came naturally to me. I stopped forcing constant communication and instead made myself available for the kind of deeper, less frequent conversations that actually moved projects forward. I stopped treating my introversion as a professional liability and started recognizing it as a leadership asset—especially in times of crisis when people need stability more than enthusiasm.
The result was a kind of leadership that felt sustainable in a way my previous approach never had. More importantly, it was leadership that my team could trust because it was genuinely me, not a performance of what I thought a manager should be.
Lessons for the Post-Pandemic World
As organizations continue to grapple with hybrid work models and the lasting changes COVID-19 brought to workplace culture, my pandemic experience offers a few lessons that extend beyond crisis management:
Authentic leadership is more effective than performed leadership. Your team doesn't need you to be someone you're not. They need you to be reliably, genuinely yourself—especially when everything else feels uncertain.
Different situations call for different leadership styles. The high-energy, constantly-communicating approach that works in some contexts can be exhausting and counterproductive in others. Sometimes the most powerful thing a leader can do is create space for others to think, process, and respond at their own pace.
Small gestures can have big impacts. Ace's walks around Pasadena weren't solving the pandemic, but they were providing real mental health support for people who desperately needed it. Never underestimate the power of simple presence and availability.
Crisis reveals authentic character. The pandemic stripped away a lot of the usual performance aspects of professional life and forced everyone to figure out what really mattered. For leaders, it was an opportunity to discover whether their management style was genuinely effective or just well-rehearsed.
The Quiet Revolution
My pandemic experience taught me that some of the most effective leadership happens quietly, in the spaces between dramatic moments, through consistent presence rather than grand gestures. It taught me that authenticity isn't just a nice-to-have in leadership—it's essential, especially when people are scared, stressed, or struggling to adapt to unprecedented circumstances.
Most importantly, it taught me that being an introvert in a field designed for extroverts doesn't mean I need to become someone else to be effective. It means I need to understand how my natural strengths can serve my team and my organization, especially when the usual playbook doesn't apply.
The pandemic was a crisis that revealed what really mattered: not the ability to work a room or deliver inspiring speeches, but the willingness to show up consistently, to listen more than you talk, and to create the kind of environment where people feel supported enough to do their best work even when everything else feels uncertain.
And sometimes, apparently, it helps to have a friendly dog around to remind everyone that not all problems require complex solutions—sometimes they just require a walk around the block and someone who's genuinely happy to see you.
The quiet leaders—the ones who lead through presence rather than performance, through consistency rather than charisma—often find their moment during crises when authenticity matters more than energy. The pandemic was my moment, and Ace was my inadvertent co-teacher in the lesson that sometimes the most powerful leadership tool is simply being genuinely, reliably yourself.
