Women Who Build What Lasts
- Apr 7
- 3 min read
By Sharon Burnett
What lesson took you the longest to learn?
The lesson that took me the longest to learn is that overfunctioning is not the same as leading.
Early in my career, I believed that carrying more made me valuable. If I anticipated every problem, filled every gap, and stayed indispensable, things would run smoothly. What I didn’t see at the time was that this wasn’t leadership — it was containment. I was training people to rely on my exhaustion instead of developing their own capability. The work looked efficient on the surface, but it was quietly narrowing everyone else’s scope, confidence, and decision-making.
That became clear during a critical project I simply couldn’t manage alone. I stepped back — largely because I had no choice — delegated fully, and let go of my usual need to stay across everything. I expected standards to drop or momentum to stall. Instead, the opposite happened. The team didn’t just meet expectations; they exceeded them in ways I couldn’t have engineered myself. People took ownership in areas I hadn’t realised I was blocking.
That experience forced me to confront the difference between being indispensable and being impactful. Being indispensable feels flattering, but it creates fragility. Nothing moves without you, and everyone waits. Being impactful requires building people, systems, and rhythms that work without constant oversight. It means handing over real responsibility, allowing others to struggle and recover, and separating your sense of worth from how busy or needed you appear.
I still have to watch that instinct. Overfunctioning is a hard habit to break, especially when it has been rewarded for so long. But learning to lead without propping everything up has been the most liberating and durable shift I’ve made.
How has your definition of success evolved?
Earlier on, success meant proof that I belonged — that the risks I took were justified. That translated into visible markers: titles, revenue milestones, recognition, invitations. They were validating, but brittle. Any disruption felt personal.
Now, success is quieter and more practical. It means building something that doesn’t collapse when life happens. A business that can pause during a family emergency and still function. A team that feels safe enough to say, “I don’t know,” and capable enough to work it out.
It also means being present in my own life, not just maintaining a highlight reel. I’m far less interested in how things look from the outside and far more interested in whether what I’m building is sustainable — for me and for the people involved.
Legacy, for me, is no longer a distant idea. It’s present tense. It shows up in how people feel after working with me, whether I open doors rather than compete for them, and whether what I build continues to serve people ethically even when I’m not involved day to day.
What advice would you give your younger self?
First, protect your energy like capital — because it is. Not every opportunity is aligned, and not every invitation deserves a yes. The rooms that require you to shrink, perform, or constantly prove yourself cost more than they give back.
Second, build with people, not around them. Doing everything yourself might get quick wins, but it will also keep you isolated. Invite collaboration earlier. Ask for help sooner. Let people show you what they’re capable of when you stop carrying it all for them.
Third, stop rushing yourself. There is no deadline for arriving. Skill compounds. Relationships compound. Integrity compounds. If you stay attentive, aligned, and willing to change course when something no longer fits, you won’t fall behind. You’ll build something that actually lasts.
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