People say leadership is lonely. They assume it’s because of the pressure of decisions, the endless responsibilities, or the constant scrutiny. But that’s not where the real loneliness comes from for me.
The real loneliness comes when, in a moment of weakness, I turn to a friend hoping for understanding—and instead I get judgment.
In that moment, something inside me breaks. Because even when I try to heal, I get pulled back into the role of leader. Instead of being allowed to grieve, I’m forced to manage, explain, and hold the relationship together so it doesn’t fracture. And in those moments, I find myself asking: Can I even really have friends?
Grief, Not Frustration
When I express strong emotion, people often mistake it for frustration. But it’s not.
It’s grief.
Grief for wasted potential.
Grief for people who won’t rise above their own limitations.
Grief for visions that could have been, if only others had believed.
That grief doesn’t stay neatly in the office. It follows me everywhere—into friendships, family, and the quiet spaces where I just want to be a man, not a leader. And when even friends pull me back into leadership in those moments, the isolation deepens.
Christ Felt It Too
Jesus knew this feeling. In Gethsemane, He asked His closest friends for one thing: “Stay here and keep watch with me.” Not advice. Not solutions. Just presence. And they fell asleep.
If even Christ was left alone in His grief, I shouldn’t be surprised when I am too. Loneliness in leadership isn’t failure—it’s reality.
Remembering Charlie
But sometimes God sends a rare friend.
For me, that was my friend Charlie. Charlie never judged me. He challenged me. There’s a difference.
When I was burdened, Charlie knew how to poke at me in a way that didn’t wound, but lifted. He spoke truth without turning it into a weapon. He gave my grief space to breathe, while still calling me higher.
I miss my friend. His time here on earth was finished, and the Lord called him home. I believe when Charlie stood before his Savior, he heard the words we all long to hear: “Well done, good and faithful servant.”
And now I find myself asking: Where do I get another Charlie from?
The Charge, Not the Burden
Scripture reminds me: “To whom much is given, much will be required” (Luke 12:48). Leadership isn’t an accident—it’s a charge.
But Jesus also said: “My yoke is easy and my burden is light” (Matthew 11:30). Those two truths live in tension, but they don’t contradict.
The charge of leadership cannot become a crushing burden, because Christ Himself bears it with me. The requirements placed on me are not weights meant to break me—they are assignments meant to form me. When I confuse the two, loneliness deepens. When I remember the difference, I find rest.
What I’ve Learned
The truth is, I can’t replace Charlie. But I can honor him by letting his example set the standard for what I seek and what I give.
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Prayerfully. God gave me Charlie once; He can provide again—maybe not in the same form, but with the same Spirit.
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Selectively. Not everyone can carry my grief. That doesn’t make them bad friends—it just means they’re not confidants.
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Reciprocally. If I want another Charlie, I have to also be one—challenging without judging, comforting without excusing.
Final Thought
Nothing crushes me more than being judged by a friend I thought would understand. But nothing heals me more than a friend who stays—who sees both the scars and the crown and still says, “I’m with you.”
I still feel the loneliness of leadership. I still wonder if I can really have friends. But then I remember: I did have one. And if it was possible once, then by God’s grace, it can be possible again.
I don’t write this seeking sympathy. I write it for every leader who finds themselves lonely but can’t figure out why. Because sometimes, knowing the problem is actually real is the first step in finding the solution.