Sometimes life volunteers you for leadership before you even raise your hand, or in my case, because you never have.

Last week, I had the distinct privilege of fulfilling my civic duty by serving on a jury. I know, no one actually wants to do it, but technically, it’s a privilege at least for now.

My only complaint? The court summoned me for two weeks with instructions to call every evening after 6 p.m. to see if I needed to report. Two weeks of limbo! I’m not a fan of uncertainty. I like my plans to be solid, my mornings predictable, and my evenings free from judicial suspense.

I’ve been called many times in Philadelphia, but I was never chosen. Here I am in a new state, called for the first time, and not only have I been selected to sit on the jury, but I was also crowned the Jury Forewoman. Go big or go home, right?

Leadership and I have an awkward relationship. I’ve never chased it, but lately I find myself getting drafted into these roles. It’s like the universe is saying, “Hey, ready or not, it’s time for more growth!”

I suspect my environment has something to do with it. I used to live in a city where enthusiasm and confrontation flowed freely. Wear the wrong team’s jersey, and you will hear about it, loudly and perhaps with a bit of sign language.

Now, I live somewhere so polite that a purple elephant with polka dots could cha-cha across a meeting table and no one would comment. Everyone would just nod thoughtfully and ask if the elephant took dance lessons. Meanwhile, I’m sitting there wondering if someone spiked my water.

And somehow, amid all this silence, I’ve become the one speaking up. Suddenly, I’m front and center in rooms where I once thought I didn’t belong, leading meetings, authoring two newsletters, and, yes, serving as President of our board.

The irony is, I’m not accustomed to this level of attention or authority. I was the girl who’d take an F before giving an oral report in front of the class. The quiet one, afraid to express her feelings, who let boys and men treat her like a doormat because she thought that’s what “nice” looked like. The wife who sacrificed herself because that’s what she’d learned love required. The mother who second-guessed her instincts, thinking everyone else must know better. The sister who was easily manipulated. The friend jumping through hoops, and the daughter who wore the labels “the good one” and “the one with the big heart” for so long that she didn’t notice the toll they took.

So yes, hearing people refer to me as Madame President still surprises me. But maybe that’s the point. Growth doesn’t wait for volunteers. Sometimes it just hands you the gavel and says, “You’re up.”

Enjoy the Ride!