A few years ago I was working under a grant to launch a digital literacy program in Pano, Ecuador. I was familiar with the community, having lived there two years prior, but as I was meeting a family new to the program, I wasn’t even halfway through my introduction when they interrupted me.
“But where’s Juan?” the Kichwa family asked, looking to my local partner, Edmundo, as the authority.
In South America, my name, Joan, is often misread as Juan. This mistake leads to confusion when the person who arrives does not fit the image of whom they were expecting, especially when that person is me, a girl.
This was nothing new to me.
At a very young age, I was told I should be a leader. On any given day, I was—and still am—buzzing with ideas, and it didn’t take long for me to realize that the most effective way to bring these schemes to life was to learn how to channel resources and direct others toward a shared goal. In other words, to lead.
My training officially started in fifth grade. My teacher had to step out of the room, but before she did, she asked me, “Can you please look after the class while I’m gone?” My heart swelled with pomposity at the realization that I was being given this responsibility, and I eagerly nodded in agreement. As she left, my teacher announced, “Class, I need to run a quick errand, so in the meantime, Joan is in charge.”
This may sound like a minor moment, but for me, it marks the root of my journey in leadership. Being put in charge of my peers filled me with pride and power—two traits I quickly learned should be at the bottom of any leader’s priorities.
I regularly misunderstood the duties associated with many of my early leadership positions. I wanted to be someone important, which I thought meant you had to be domineering and controlling. It took me a while to figure out that real leaders are service-oriented and empathetic. While I had built a résumé that boasted student council presidencies and club leadership positions, nothing compared with the experiences I had abroad through my gap year.
I moved to the Amazon rain forest as a Global Citizen Year Fellow after I graduated from high school. The opportunity allowed me to work with the German International Development Cooperation and the Ecuadorian Ministry of the Environment. By taking the time to learn the culture of the people whom I was living with, I laid the relational foundations to return in the future and be trusted as a partner.
It was on one of these return trips that I found myself trying to explain yet again that I was actually the project lead, the so-called Juan. Ecuador is a nation where machismo, or masculine pride, runs strong. While it’s important to be aware of the cultural context in which you’re working, it’s also important to recognize societal norms that allow women to be overlooked as leaders and to subvert that reality.
Because Edmundo respects me (the feeling is mutual), he would always inform the perplexed community members that I was, in fact, the director. With a gentle smile, I would explain that I was the girl they were looking for.
The students and their families were deeply curious as to how I managed to be in charge. When asked about how I came to my role, I shared my mother’s story, explaining how she fought the odds to become a doctor and leader in not one but two countries. My ambition was modeled after hers. I had started with smaller positions to develop my skills and had worked my way up. I had earned the trust to take on larger, international responsibilities.
On the same trip, one of my local girlfriends, Rocío, commented, “You’re such a young girl, but you’re a leader. I wish I could be like you. It’s because you foreign girls are raised differently. I could never do what you do.”
To this day, that’s one of the phrases that sticks with me—I could never do what you do—not because of its truth but because of its falsehood.
Because I was a girl, it’s true that I was socialized to adhere to certain gender norms. Despite my global travels, I was told to be cautious for safety’s sake. Despite my boldness, I was taught to temper my words for agreeability. Despite my merits, I was encouraged to take my appearance into account. But I think it’s exactly these qualities that girls are often criticized for—sensitivity, emotionality, among others—that prime us to be good leaders.
To me, leadership is the ultimate form of service. It’s the duty to speak for those who have no voice. And sometimes as leaders, we’re privileged to see people grow into their voices. Despite her belief that she couldn’t do what I do, Rocío became a leader. She’s now the program coordinator of the project Edmundo and I built.
The critical piece of this story, however, is that I was empowered by my community to step into each of these positions. I didn’t get here on my own; I’m here because of the tireless efforts of others before me. I’ve thrived because of the girls who supported me instead of threatening me, because of the boys who backed me instead of belittling me.
These days, I take my leadership lessons from the jungle, and I’m learning what it means to be a leader in the workforce. I’m in my early twenties, and I’ve lived and worked on five continents. I’ve gone from pioneering new technology with indigenous communities to launching groundbreaking programs at global universities. Since finishing my degree, I’ve entered the corporate world to figure out how to leverage some of the most influential brands—and their resources—for good.
"YOU'RE SUCH A YOUNG GIRL, BUT YOU'RE A LEADER. I WISH I COULD BE LIKE YOU."
Whether viewed as a Juan or a Joan, I was told I should be a leader. So maybe I’ll go from leading community projects to taking over as the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, or perhaps I’ll become the world’s best mom, or maybe I’ll be America’s first female president. But maybe it’ll be you instead. Because you’re a girl, too.