The Moment I Found My Voice

Some people might say I’m a wee bit outspoken—and honestly, I take that as a compliment. I come by it honestly. My parents raised me to be informed, to speak up, and to speak out. But when I look back over my adult life, I can point to one pivotal moment when my voice wasn’t just heard—it was validated. And for that, I want to thank four remarkable women who saw something in me and made space for it to grow.

It was the late 1990s. I was early in my career—long before titles like bank Senior Vice President, Vice President of a university, nonprofit leader, or board chair were attached to my name. Back then, I was simply a young woman with a passion for service and a fire in my gut for justice.

It all started with an invitation from my dear friend Angela Rowe. She asked me to attend a meeting, the very first gathering of what would become the Virginia Foundation for Women. The organization was being launched by Mary Sue Terry—the former Virginia Attorney General, the first woman to hold statewide office in Virginia, and one of the few to do so anywhere in the country. Also in the room were trailblazers like Viola Baskerville, who I knew from volunteering on her successful city council campaign (before she became a Delegate and then Secretary of Administration), and Claire Guthrie Gastañaga, the first woman to serve as Chief Deputy Attorney General of Virginia.

I still remember how energized I felt at that meeting. After Mary Sue spoke, she opened the floor for questions. I raised my hand. At the time, the hot-button issue was “welfare to work,” and I had a concern: Would this new organization truly center all women—or only focus on the needs of affluent and professional women?

So I asked:
“What will this new organization do to help poor women—women being targeted by new welfare-to-work policies—get the training necessary for sustainable employment?”

Mary Sue didn’t dodge the question. She didn’t give me a polished, PR-safe answer. Instead, she looked me in the eye and asked,
“Are you willing to be part of the solution? If so, we can get started tonight.”

And that’s exactly what happened.

She introduced me to Carolyn Lambert, a powerhouse in human services. Carolyn simply said, “We’ll craft a plan together.” And we did. By the next meeting, I had worked with Carolyn to sketch out the beginnings of what would become the Welfare Transition Program. But I had no idea what was coming next.

At that second meeting, the press showed up. We gathered on the steps for a press conference. When a reporter asked a question about why the organization was necessary, Mary Sue turned and said,
“I’ll have someone else answer that.”

I don’t know if it was Claire or Viola—or both—who gently pushed me forward, but suddenly, there I was, at my very first press conference, answering a reporter’s question. When I finished, I turned to look at Mary Sue, Viola, Claire, and Carolyn. I couldn’t tell if the look on their faces was pride, surprise, or the shared realization that they had just found their newest project. Either way, from that day forward, they poured into me—mentoring, advising, trusting, and challenging me.

Over the next few years, I was traveling across Virginia, helping to develop and implement the Welfare Transition Program, advocating for low-income women, and making sure their voices were part of the conversation. I was no longer just speaking—I was being heard.

And now, more than 30 years later, we find ourselves at another pivotal moment. Virginia is poised to elect its first woman governor in the midst of a raging culture war that demands bold, grassroots leadership. But more than that, this moment is calling out for something else:
Women mentors.

So the question is this:
What are we doing to mentor the next generation of boldly outspoken women leaders?

Today, I look back with deep appreciation for Mary Sue, Viola, Claire, and Carolyn—four women who created space for me, lifted me up, and handed me the mic when it mattered most.

Now it’s my turn.

And I’m committed to pouring into others what they so graciously poured into me.