Leading with Heart and Heritage: A Legacy of Quiet Strength

I am inspired by Counseling Today’s cover story about Dr. M. Elsa Soto Leggett, the new president of the American Counseling Association. Her story, "Leading with Heart and Heritage," stayed with me—not just because of her accomplishments, but because of the way her journey mirrors the stories many of us carry. These are stories of women who lead quietly, who persist, and who pass down strength without ceremony.

The Layers of Legacy

This past Fourth of July, I sat under the canopy of a booth at the city park. My granddaughter is the sixth generation to be raised in that town. Her mother—my daughter—is the fifth generation descended from the city’s founders and the fourth generation to graduate from the local university. Her great-grandfather helped haul lumber from the nearby mountain to build some of the buildings of Branch Agricultural College in the early 1900s, more than a century ago. They were called Old Main and Old Administration when I attended there in the 1980s. In 2025, they house classrooms, faculty offices, and at least one art gallery. The buildings continue to exist with purpose.

When I remember the stories of the hardship encountered by the early builders, I can almost feel the cold and wet of the winter storms that tried to stop progress. I picture the men working through snow and sleet, determined to raise something permanent—a place for education, for growth, for future generations. My daughter holds a bachelor’s degree in finance and a master’s in public administration from the now university.

For the last few years, my daughter has worked with the Lions Club, organizing the Fourth of July celebration vendor booths at the same park near where she clapped for the Independence Day parade as a toddler. The local paper caught one moment in a photo—an 18-month-old cherub with bright eyes and hands mid-clap. Decades later, I watched her share her light again. She stood in front of her booth, smiling and connecting with everyone who came within arm’s reach; every shape, every age, every ability. She stayed present. She was bright and kind the entire time. I noticed how naturally it came to her—the way she listened, the way she offered warmth.

Her daughter was given a couple of $5 bills from her Gran to keep in her pocket for incidentals while she wandered through the booths. I anticipated a rush for the rides or a giant ice cream cone. Instead, she found some gummy bear earrings for the first $5 and then asked me what color her cousin might like. That moment stayed with me. A small act of generosity, passed down like bread dough from one pair of hands to the next.

Fairs, Dust, and Determination

When I was a small child, we lived in San Diego County. We celebrated the Fourth in much the same way. My mom loved the Del Mar Fair, especially the Tennessee Walking Horses. She dragged us there more than once. I remember most the dust, the heat, and how there were always too many kids to buy hand-dipped corn dogs or freshly cut fries. Mom packed tuna salad sandwiches with butter on the inside and carrot sticks for lunch. We did get to have ice cream cones. My mom believed ice cream fixed everything.

One year at the fair, she bought a wheat grinder and a Bosch mixer. I remember her excitement. During the early 1970s, Mom had shifted our entire way of life toward homemade, whole foods. She grew a garden. She sprouted wheat and alfalfa. She kept goats for milk and chickens for eggs. She stopped buying white flour and white sugar. Brown sugar and brown sugar fudge were a real treat. She even made candy balls with honey, peanut butter, and dry milk. I liked them. My older sister remembers them with horror.

Mom was determined to justify the purchase of the wheat grinder and mixer. She experimented in the kitchen for hours. She soaked wheat berries. She adjusted the grinding stones. She tried to find the right balance between moisture and yeast. She read whatever she could get her hands on. She talked to neighbors. She tried again. And again. And again.

Bread That Wouldn’t Rise—and a Mother Who Did

Despite all her efforts, my mom never did learn to make bread. Her loaves were crumbly, weirdly moist, and usually flat. The dough never behaved. The kitchen was filled with the sound of hope and the smell of disappointment. Still, she kept at it.

When I was ten years old, she handed the task to me. The seemingly small act of passing responsibility said so much about the kind of woman she was. She didn’t frame it as giving up. She framed it as trusting me. I felt honored to make bread for our family.

My siblings remember the bread and the cookies. Over the years of growing up, I made miles of bread, cookies, bagels, and even cream puffs. My sister made the filling. Together, we filled the kitchen with warmth and resilience. Looking back, I realize how much those moments shaped us.

My mom taught herself everything from scratch. She said that "I can't" was a swear word. After a devastating fire, she went to work outside the home. She owned and operated a successful salon business. In the 1980s, she became fascinated with permanent cosmetics. She practiced. She studied with other professional artists. She built her own training program. Eventually, she wrote a manual that’s still in circulation today. She served on the national board that helped develop safety protocols for permanent cosmetics. These were serious conversations about sanitation, risk, and responsibility. "We are working on someone’s face," she would say. "It matters."

Mom never had formal education. She raised eight children who contribute to the world in meaningful ways. Most of us earned college or technical degrees. My youngest brother is a specialized surgeon. One younger sister holds a doctorate of education in educational administration and has achieved at least one distinguished service award. Two of us became master’s level mental health counselors. The story of our family is one of transformation through effort, through consistency, and through a belief in possibility.

The Point

The point is—my mom never figured out how to make bread.

But I did.

I make wonderful bread.

I carry her heritage, her kindness, her quiet persistence. Just like my daughter does. Just like my granddaughter does.

We pass it down without announcement; not through applause or awards, but through the making of bread. Through booths in city parks. Through small bills folded into tiny hands. Through stories that remember the ones who came before.