The Head of the Table Is Wherever We Choose to Sit.
This piece is adapted from “Courage to Lead,” the closing chapter I wrote for my 2nd co-edited book, Women, Intersectionality, and Power in Group Psychotherapy Leadership (Routledge). Clinical details are disguised, per the chapter’s published form.
I wrote this chapter for the women of color who lead groups and for anyone who has ever sat at the head of a room while carrying the quiet weight of not fitting the dominant culture. I wrote it because for over two decades, I have been that person: a Korean American woman, most often the only person of color in the room I was leading. And the hardest things I know about leadership, I did not learn from theory. I learned them on evenings like this one. An excerpt:
Jim is back after a missed session, and as the group begins, he asks, “Why did I get charged for that missed group?”
Inside I bristle with fear and annoyance. My shoulders tense and my heart races. I am ready to fight or take flight.
Jim counts the number of group members. “Hmmm, there’s nine people here and let me do the math. Wow, you are making a buck!”
My mind starts to go blank. It’s a strange feeling, as if a piece of concrete got lodged in between my ears. I can’t quite make out the words, even though I can hear them clearly… I am feeling the memory of being on a bus in third grade, newly arrived in English, staying quiet in the back — relieved to be invisible.
And then, as the pressure builds, Jim erupts: “You immigrant parasites move to this country and now you just TAKE my MONEY.”
Every group leader knows a version of this moment: the frame challenged, your authority shaken, and the room watching. For a leader of color, there’s a second current underneath. Difference stirs up primitive fears, and those fears get deposited in the outsider in the room. When the outsider is the leader, the projections show up as questions about worth, literally, in this case: what I charge, what I earn, and what I deserve.
What turned the evening wasn’t thick skin. It was practice. A clear contract, agreed upon in advance, so the frame could hold. And the willingness to ask for help instead of carrying the room alone. I asked a quieter member what she imagined I was feeling. Her answer softened me and showed me I was defending myself against Jim instead of seeing his fear, which looked a lot like mine.
So I said, "Maybe Jim is telling us how hard it is to admit feeling scared and helpless, especially when you’re already feeling powerless. Jim, I know something about that. It’s terrible.”
He looked down, tears on his cheeks. “I didn’t think anyone could understand, especially you. I guess I never feel like I’m good enough to belong.”
The man who called me a parasite had just named what everyone in the room felt, including me. “Let’s keep talking,” I said.
Racism isn’t a problem you solve. It’s a defense against helplessness, the need for sameness, the fear of difference. And every room we lead is a small version of the world that holds it. The work is staying in the conversation until something more honest emerges.
When we own our power, the head of the table is wherever we choose to sit.