“I’m the editor—what I say goes!”
That declaration ended all discussion—the work would be done as ordered. This was public radio, after all, and I was just a slightly older teenager at the time. In any case, an editorial team’s responsibility is determining how the program should sound. The frequency of these “no debate” decisions fluctuated with circumstances, but noticeably spiked during crises—which, in public media, meant constantly. That shout, a perpetual symbol of perpetual crisis, remains my most vivid memory of those days.
Fifteen years later, I often catch myself and colleagues tallying how often we invoke our status, role, position, past successes, experience, or ownership stakes to make “the program sound” the way we want in our teams. How often do we inspire people through vision versus resorting to “I’m the editor—what I say goes”? We keep score in a mental ledger of small leadership wins and losses. And just like back at the radio, crises almost always tip the balance toward authoritarianism—that leadership style so endemic to Serbia and the Balkans.
But must it be so?
Mid-March could have been catastrophic for our organization: Colleague F., a linchpin of our team, was hospitalized with severe pneumonia—then diagnosed with that disease we’d only heard about on TV. The deadly pandemic was no longer about “those people over there”; it was now our painful personal and professional reality. Though we’d been pushing for 2020 to be our most successful year yet, most active contracts were in transitional phases or just beginning, threatening our liquidity. Worse, no one—not the government, business community, or global experts—knew how long this would last or had reliable data for midterm decisions.
Before the state of emergency was declared, we realized surviving as “winners” required crisis leadership unlike anything we’d practiced. Our emergency team quickly divided roles: financial planning, remote-work infrastructure, and—critically—curating information flows became equally vital.
“Colleague F.’s condition is serious but stable… stable but in ICU… stable but reserved a ventilator,” the hospital updates came daily. Someone had to dam the rising dread infiltrating our bones with each report, crafting narratives that were accurate yet free of panic, sensationalism, or the misinformation wildfire spreading globally.
Most crucially, we understood the team must emerge stronger, wiser, and more united—or battling a crisis this magnitude was pointless. This demanded radical transparency. Daily (sometimes hourly), we openly discussed projections, F.’s status, payroll viability (including temporary pay cuts to endure longer). In global chaos, we found refuge and security in each other.
These approaches align with advice from Sam Tsima of Forbes Business Council: continuous communication, pre-prepared crisis scenarios, expert consultation, and viewing crises as learning—not panicking—opportunities distinguish modern leaders. But as mindfulness expert Tamara Levitt’s research shows, none of this works unless leaders make peace with not having all answers—just facilitating optimal team solutions.
F. fully recovered. We’re back in the office. Liquidity and salaries normalized (we’ll repay those temporary cuts). Travel resumed. Two team members secured permanent contracts mid-crisis. That leadership scorecard? Forgotten—because “how our program sounds” became a group decision, not an individual decree.
“We’re the editors—what we say goes!”
That’s how we weathered this crisis as a team—and how we’ll face the next. So ask yourself: who’s in your editorial room deciding how your crisis—and everyday—program sounds?