Dr. Leonie H. Mattison
Standing in the glow of a nation’s fractured hope, she declared: “Even in dark times, we not only dream, we do. We not only see what has been, we see what can be. We shoot for the moon, and then we plant our flag on it. We are bold, fearless, and ambitious. We are undaunted in our belief that we shall overcome; that we will rise up. This is American aspiration." These words live in my bones.
The words arrived not long before the United States formally recognized Juneteenth as a federal holiday, a long overdue acknowledgment of the pain and persistence of Black Americans. Juneteenth commemorates the delayed emancipation of enslaved people in Texas on June 19, 1865 — two and a half years after the Emancipation Proclamation. That delay still echoes in our systems. In our struggles. In our leadership journeys.
Juneteenth is not just history. It is prophecy and mirror. It reminds us that freedom has never come all at once — and that even when we’re told we’re free, systems must be confronted before they truly release their grip. That is why Vice President Harris’s words do not read as political flourish. They read as intergenerational memory. They remind me of the long line of Black women who carried vision before the world gave them permission. Women who stood in the dark, not because they lacked light, but because they were the light — holding onto dreams not as distant hopes, but as daily practice.
I am one of their daughters. And like them, I lead not because I was unscarred, but because I chose to believe in what could be built from what had been broken. It is this kind of aspiration, not the kind made for slogans, but the kind shaped in grief, resistance, and quiet triumph that animates my leadership.
So, as I read the latest reports on DEI policy rollbacks and watched institutions quietly walk back their commitments to equity, I am reminded of the many times I sat in rooms where justice was treated as optional. Where belonging was discussed in metrics, not in truth and the people most impacted by harm were expected to stay silent to keep the peace. Where I, as a Black woman, was invited to lead but not to be fully seen. As the pain from these moments filled the room, I felt a familiar weight settle in my chest. It wasn’t just frustration. Nor was it only the exhaustion that follows yet another coded conversation about “campus culture.” What I felt was a deeper kind of grief. The inherited grief of knowing, in my body, that what was being discussed as a policy shift had life-altering consequences for those of us who live at the margins every day.
I remembered Malcolm X’s words: “The most disrespected person in America is the Black woman. The most unprotected … the most neglected.” I didn’t need a textbook to understand him. I have lived that truth in silence and in public, in meetings and at bargaining tables, in moments when I was asked to stabilize systems that were never designed to protect me.
We are now watching the unraveling of decades of equity work. What some are calling a recalibration is, in truth, a strategic rollback. It is the erosion of institutional accountability to people whose very presence was once considered progress. These are not neutral decisions. They are ideological retreats, cloaked in bureaucracy and budget lines.
Anti-DEI legislation has gained traction in over 35 states. At least 12 have passed laws defunding diversity offices and programs. The Chronicle of Higher Education reports that more than 100 institutions have eliminated or scaled back DEI programming in the last two years. The American Council on Education notes that 77 percent of college presidents now view DEI leadership as significantly more difficult to execute. Meanwhile, Gallup and Lumina Foundation data shows that public trust in higher education has dropped from 57 percent in 2015 to 36 percent in 2023, its lowest point ever.
And still, beneath these numbers is something harder to quantify and that is the grief of those doing this work. The ones who stayed after the cameras moved on and faithfully keep showing up to spaces where they are celebrated in rhetoric but isolated in practice. The cost is not only strategic, it is spiritual.
When we examine the data we see student belonging a key predictor of retention and graduation — is declining across all racial groups. Black students report the steepest drop in their sense of inclusion and emotional safety, according to NASPA’s 2024 Student Belonging Index. When students do not feel they matter, they disengage. When faculty and staff do not feel safe, they withdraw. And when leaders ignore that pain, institutions become hollow.
As a Black woman who has served across higher education, government, public health, and the nonprofit sector, I have felt these shifts in my chest, in my sleep, in my spine. I have carried the weight of visibility without protection. I have been asked to hold together systems that were never built to hold me. And I have done it while navigating the quiet trauma of being expected to inspire others even as I was unraveling myself.
Still, I do not write from despair but from memory, mission and meaning. Because when systems falter and justice loses its footing, I return to what is older than policy. I return to the wisdom of my Caribbean grandmothers, who survived not by escaping pain but by making meaning from it. In their world, leadership did not require a title. It required the ability to feel what was breaking, to gather the broken pieces, and to start weaving again.
That is why I returned to the image of tapestry weaving. In the Black community, cloth is not just fabric. It is record. It is resistance. From the quilts stitched by enslaved women to the Kente cloth worn during rites of passage, weaving has always been a way of saying, We were here. We remember. We continue.
In my own leadership, I have come to see weaving not just as metaphor but as practice. It takes patience and requires holding tension, strand by strand, and choosing, again and again, to move toward wholeness.
That’s how the T.H.R.E.A.D. System emerged — Think Deeply, Harvest Wisdom, Release Patterns, Enlist Allies, Adopt Change, and Design. Each practice is a way of leading that helps us move through rupture without abandoning ourselves. A human-centered rhythm for those who feel the ache and still choose to lead.
The Six Practices of the T.H.R.E.A.D. System™
To Think Deeply is to slow down and ask, “What truth are we avoiding?”
Sometimes that means pausing before a meeting. Other times it means checking in with your own body: the tightness in your jaw, the weight in your chest. Deep thinking is not about finding answers. It is about making room for clarity to rise.
To Harvest Wisdom is to ask, “What did we learn from what broke?”
Not just on paper, but in real conversations. It might mean sitting in circle with your team or listening to what your body has not yet put into words. Some truths are too tender to write in a report. They come through story. They come through silence.
To Release Patterns is to let go of what no longer fits. That might be perfectionism, over-functioning and avoidance. These habits often helped us survive, but they cannot carry us into what comes next. Letting go is not giving up. It is honoring the cost of carrying too much for too long.
To Enlist Allies is to remember we are not meant to do this work alone. So many of us were taught that leadership means endurance. But healing comes through connection. Ask, “Who have we not heard from?” and “What truths are still in the room, unspoken?” Let others help carry the weight.
To Adopt Change is to make your values visible. Not once, but consistently.
It could be a weekly open-door session, showing up in student spaces, or simply staying present when things get uncomfortable. People trust what they see practiced over time.
To Design Wholeness is to ask, “Do our systems reflect our beliefs?” If people must fragment themselves to contribute or succeed, something has to change. Build cultures where no one has to choose between success and belonging. Let love shape the systems.
This is what the T.H.R.E.A.D. System™ is for. It is a space to grieve, to process, and to lead from what is true. It is a way back to ourselves. A way back to the deeper why. For the leaders who feel tired, and for those who feel alone. For those trying to hold it all together while quietly falling apart. You are not alone. You never were. This moment is not only a reckoning. It is a call. We will not allow this titanic rupture to cripple our vision, our courage, or our commitment to collective healing.
We will rise, not by bypassing our pain, but by walking through it with integrity. The next generation is watching. They are not only asking what we did to survive. They are watching how we chose to lead while still healing. Let us weave institutions that can hold our students, our staff, and our spirits. Let us make them whole.
Dr. Leonie H. Mattison is a transformational strategist who guides higher education leaders through institutional change with a focus on regenerative leadership, strategic alignment, and organizational transformation.
