I Came to High Meadows Silenced and Left as a Leader

First, life took me south to College Park where I attended Woodward Academy, met people from all over Georgia, and played soccer, studied for AP classes, and graduated with some of the best friends I’ve ever had. Then, life introduced me to Fort Worth, Texas, where I continued my education at Texas Christian University (go frogs), met people from all over the nation, and grew substantially as I navigated life 13 hours away from home with dining hall food, and Texas football. This was followed by the opportunity to attend Emory University’s Candler School of Theology in the Druid Hills area of Atlanta, where I met theologians and aspiring religious leaders from all over the world and obtained my Master of Divinity with a specialization in Religion and Health. And now, life has me in the heart of Atlanta as the Associate Director of the Wesley Foundation at Georgia Tech, where I meet with the world’s future engineers (a bright and unique bunch), and explore, investigate, and reflect on theological concepts and questions with my peers, mentors, and students. All this to say, very little stayed consistent throughout my life as I’ve entered these different places, engaged with these different people, and experienced these different achievements, failures, and everything in between. One constant is at the heart of it all: High Meadows School. The place that is embedded in the foundation and fabric of who I am. The place I came into silenced and left as a leader. 

I was an extremely shy and timid child. My default setting included a collection of thoughts, such as “If it’s not perfect, it’s not worth it” (I was a perfectionist). “Every question you have is stupid, don’t ask it” (I was quiet). “You’re not good enough, don’t try” (I made myself small). Due to these thoughts, I only spoke when I was spoken to and refused to utter a word unless I believed that what I said was the right and perfect thing to say at that moment. This meant that I never talked because there is rarely a right or perfect thing to say in any moment, ever. I only shared an answer in class when my teacher threatened to punish me if I didn’t because I was terrified of giving the wrong answer. 

These thoughts, and their consequent behaviors, created a shell around me that was hardened and doused in super glue–validated and celebrated by the school I attended before HMS. There, the culture mandated that asking questions beyond the boundaries of what the teacher was teaching or the curriculum was covering was threatening and distracting. I have early memories of my raised hand being ignored until snack time and the teaching hour had passed, rendering the question moot and irrelevant. Memories of my teacher admonishing me with, “Gabby, don’t become your name” as I discussed the curriculum with my peers and needed to stop “gabbing.” Memories of my teacher being upset with me because I switched the too-easy and simple book I was reading for a more challenging one mid-way through the week and wasn’t going to be able to finish it by Friday, as required. My experience within this educational structure only amplified, validated, and solidified those thoughts and held me within this hardened, super glued-shut shell that was restricted, rigid, and silent.

Before carrying on, I’d like to note that if I had stayed in that school and never found my way to HMS, I would have turned out fine. I have friends who attended that former school and its district’s middle school and high school and are smart, capable individuals who are now following their own amazing paths. How they did school wasn’t necessarily wrong, but I am confident it was wrong for me: a quiet, shy, insecure girl who just wanted to be seen as smart and good. Who just wanted to be seen, period. 

Thankfully, I did find my way to HMS. Although my family and I moved to HMS for my older sister, Danielle, who needed the smaller classrooms and specialized help with her learning style, my mother has always said with a soft chuckle, “We went to High Meadows for Danielle, but we stayed for Gabrielle.” She says this because HMS took that quiet, shy, insecure girl who just wanted to be smart, good, and seen, and pushed, refined, and shaped her into an outspoken, confident, curious scholar who seeks intellect, goodness, and vision within herself, within the classroom, and within the world. 

Some of my HMS memories include being pushed out of my comfort zone and asked to take a leadership role in group projects. This pushing and asking were not forced upon me or required of me with the pressure of a punishment hovering over my “no.” But, instead, as an offer, an invitation, and a held-out hand saying, “Hey, I think you can do more, so let’s see you do more.” It started slowly and took some time, but after nudges from my 3rd-grade teachers, as well as my classmates, at some point, I started volunteering to present for my group, nominating myself as group leader, and raising my hand during class meetings. It was the helping hand and kind insight of caring adults who began cracking my hardened, super-glued shut shell and pushing me to the position of leader that neither I nor my parents thought I’d ever like, let alone seek out.

I have more memories of skills and talents that I didn’t even know I had being refined at HMS. Here, I learned that I’m good at and love to write. Not only writing fiction but also about the world around me. The things I observed, noticed, and wondered about and, in turn, wanted to engage with through pen and paper. I also learned that I’m good at and love to speak publicly. I found a passion in presenting my thoughts in a constructive, structured, methodical way to others, hoping they either connect, resonate, or critique those thoughts. I additionally learned that I’m good at and love to find problems, scale them, concoct a plan to fix them, and execute that plan. Therefore, 4th and 5th grade were not only years that I specialized in these newfound skills and talents and sought opportunities to continue to indulge in them, but were also the years that my teachers said, “Try this” or “See if you like this,” offering opportunities for me to add to my growing repertoire of talents and skills.

Then, finally, in Middle Years, I have memories of my character being shaped by the expectations that my teachers, who saw and knew me well, had for me as well as expectations that I learned to have for myself. Expectations of using my critical thinking skills when discussing a book we read in English, an event in history that has shaped our modern world in social studies, a consequence of a chemical reaction in science, and an equation that shouldn’t make sense but does in math. Expectations of being open-minded to new things, places, experiences, and ideas that will help form and build my academic, professional, and personal life. Expectations of sharing and collaborating with others to engage people and spaces with understanding and hope: Understanding that they are equally as much someone who holds space and value as I am and hope that we can come alongside one another and solve a problem, create a mission, or just sit and listen to one another and see the world through one another’s eyes.  

Overall, High Meadows flipped a switch in my heart and mind, shifting my default setting from silent, small, and “perfect” to curiosity, humility, and vision. This curiosity comes in the form of asking questions. These questions were not just when I didn’t understand (which took years for me to gain the confidence to begin doing) but also questions rooted in inquiry: Why are these things this way? How could we make this better? How were things before? How were things after? What consequences do the choices we make have? What led us here? Where do we go from here? 

In addition to the curiosity, this humility provides me with the understanding that I am NEVER the smartest person in the room. I know that there’s always more to learn and that every single human being has something valuable and worthwhile to offer. However, I do also hold space somewhere between this humility and the delusion that my ideas are the best in the room at any given point. I think every leader has to be somewhat delusional and HMS taught me just the right amount. That my thoughts, ideas, and words are always worth sharing but also that I shouldn’t be surprised if someone else builds off of or shifts my idea and creates something more beautiful than I imagined.  

I now envision a world with more. Not the “more” that’s derivative of greed and dissatisfaction. But the more that allows me to step into the world and want more for it because HMS made me believe that there is potential around every corner, that there is always something to be done, and that this world can always be kinder, can always be more helpful, can always show more compassion to its people, its environment, and its systems. HMS endowed me with vision. Though I entered grad school expecting to emerge as a pastor, which is a good and sacred and important job, I ended up with a goal of becoming a world changer. I have a vision of a better way to do religion that is more inclusive, diverse, and dynamic; a vision of becoming a leader in both pastoral ministry and academia; and a vision of creating and building. These visions are rooted in the idea that there is more to offer and that I am one of the many vessels out there to pave the way to this more. So, once again, I tell you that I came to HMS silenced, I left a leader, and I now engage the world as a visionary.

I began these remarks by saying that HMS’s character, which reflects its people, is embedded in the foundation and fabric of who I am. Its people are compassionate, brilliant, good, humble, curious, ambitious, consistent, and so much more. Its people make HMS a remarkable institution that puts out world changers and visionaries and trailblazers. What I hold with me as I enter, engage, and experience the world are these things HMS gifted and instilled within me that serve as a compass (to strive for), a launching pad (to start with), and a resting place (to recenter and reorient myself by). Ultimately, a home. Those who are, have been, and will be a part of the HMS community are lucky. HMS has embedded itself and found a home within each of us, and so we carry HMS with us all the time, wherever we go. We will also always be able to go to Roswell, Georgia, stand in the middle of the Meadow, and find our home there too. 

I am eternally grateful to HMS for being the catalyst for me becoming who I am proud to be today, for being a home and a beacon of belonging, and for being with me for all that will follow in the times to come. 

All my love, HMS, 

Gabby