Syrup Sandwiches: The path to empathetic and authentic leadership

“I Remember Syrup Sandwiches”: The path to empathetic and authentic leadership.

“I remember syrup sandwiches…”

Kendrick Lamar’s lyrics hit me differently the other day. And while this article is a nod to that lyric, it’s really about so much more. 

My sister and I were talking about our childhood—reflecting, doing that thing siblings do when time stretches the distance between memory and understanding. And she said:

“Do you remember when we used to make syrup sandwiches?”

Just like that, I was transported. The taste, the struggle, the silence. I hadn’t thought about it in years—maybe I’d blocked it out. Not because it was necessarily traumatic, but because survival sometimes forces us to forget.

We weren’t miserable. We laughed. We played. We had each other–until we grew apart in our teen years–that’s a story for another time.

We were undeniably poor.

We made syrup sandwiches. 

And drank sugar water—a sweet treat.

I washed my clothes in the sink and dried them in the oven.

Hungry, I sometimes still grab a slice of bread. 

These strugglesare the bridge between who I was and who I’ve become. It’s the reminder that staying humble doesn’t mean shrinking—it means honoring the climb.

As I think about how my sister and I are raising our children now, the contrast to our own upbringing is stark—and, sometimes, hard to process.

Our parents did the best they could.

They worked. They usually fed us. But it was also painfully clear—we weren’t always their first priority. And that realization stings more now than it did then, because now we TRULY understand what should have been.

And yet—we persevered.

I also remember something else—something that stayed with me far longer than I realized. My senior year in high school one of my teachers signed my yearbook with the words:

“One of these days you’ll get it together.”

At the time, I laughed it off. But inside, I was stung. That comment hurt—not just because it was dismissive, but because it was said without understanding. If she only knew half of what growing up was like for me.

I was trying to get it together. Every. Single. Day.

Trying to survive. Trying to be enough.

That memory sits with me as a reminder of the kind of adult I never want to be—and the kind of leader I strive to be now. One who doesn’t look past kids who are struggling. One who understands that discipline without compassion becomes punishment. And one who knows: some of our students are carrying backpacks full of much more than books.

This isn’t just about nostalgia or hardship. It’s about recognizing the quiet strength that got us here. It’s about facing the parts of the past we never really unpacked. And it’s about being better—not bitter.

This is for the little poor girls who knew how to stretch bread, stretch love, and stretch their imaginations to survive.

We didn’t have much, but we made it matter.

And today? We raise our kids with what we never had—stability, visibility, priority.

Not because we’re perfect, but because we remember what it felt like not to be.

To quote from Kendrick Lamar’s HUMBLE. So sit down. Be humble. But don’t you ever forget.