When the Handrail Ends

Last week, I celebrated the retirement of one of my most cherished mentors, Ellen McDonald, someone I've worked alongside for nearly fifteen years.

Together, we opened the Kauffman Center for the Performing Arts. We launched capital campaigns, created new spaces, produced festivals and performance series, and, at one point, edited a press release through 47 versions.

Forty-seven.

She's also the person who finally looked at me and said, "Bess, you really need to tell people you're pregnant. It's time."

I was pregnant with my son and terrified to share the news, understanding all too well how motherhood and the workforce don't always support one another. Ellen understood that, too.

Ellen retired after a remarkable career supporting nonprofit arts organizations across Kansas City. She managed the complicated spiderwebs of publicity, connected people and ideas, and helped tell stories that deserved to be heard. She had a gift for shining a light exactly where it was needed.

But when I think about Ellen, I don't think first about the campaigns or the headlines.

I think about four simple words:

You've got this.

She never did the work for me. She wasn't the person who swooped in and solved every problem. Instead, she was a thought partner, a brainstormer, a collaborator who understood that meaningful work is rarely linear.

Because work is never just about the work.

It's about people.

How they show up. How they navigate conflict. How they respond to uncertainty. How they find courage when they're scared, speak when silence feels safer, and keep moving when defeat feels easier.

Ellen understood that.

Her name may not be familiar to every Kansas Citian, but the people behind the scenes rarely get the recognition they deserve. The mentors. The coaches. The culture builders. The people creating safe spaces for difficult conversations, helping emerging leaders find their footing, and modeling the kind of leadership others want to emulate—not performatively, not for recognition, but through consistency, trust, and deep respect built over time.

And she did all of it with joy.

A lot of joy.

Her laugh was the silver lining of any meeting. Selfishly, it was always one of my goals to earn a full belly laugh from her across the conference table.

This season of my career feels a bit like reaching the end of a handrail.

Not because the staircase is over.

Not because the climb gets easier.

But because the support that guided me through a meaningful part of my journey wasn't meant to extend forever.

Handrails aren't designed to carry us. They're there to steady us. To give us confidence when the steps feel steep, unfamiliar, or uncertain. And somewhere along the way, often without realizing it, we become strong enough to keep climbing after the handrail ends.

Ellen's retirement is one more reminder that many of the people who helped shape my career are entering new chapters of their own. For a moment, that realization felt unsettling. Like reaching for something that had always been there and finding empty space instead.

But maybe that's exactly the point.

Maybe the handrail ending isn't a sign that we're alone.

Maybe it's a sign that we're ready.

Ready because of the lessons they taught us. Ready because of the confidence they quietly built in us. Ready because they invested enough wisdom, encouragement, and trust that we can continue the climb ourselves.

Not because we no longer need them.

But because it's our turn.

Ellen McDonald and a dress of nametags representing all the KC arts institutions she represented

Our turn to steady someone else's uncertainty.

Our turn to create safe spaces.

Our turn to share hard-earned wisdom.

Our turn to look at someone standing at the bottom of a daunting staircase and say, "You've got this."

So if a mentor, guide, or trusted handrail seems to be reaching the end of their path, maybe it isn't a loss. Maybe it's an invitation.

An invitation to carry forward what they gave you.

To build what they built.

To plant those lessons somewhere new.

And to become the handrail for someone else.

Because the best mentors don't leave us with answers.

They leave us with the confidence to keep climbing.