Seven things nobody told me before I became chair of a movement with 13,000 members

I was 28 when I joined Volt. 31 when I became chair, in the middle of a crisis, with a lawsuit, angry members and national media. This is what I didn’t know back then.

1. You’re not equal to everyone else. Even if you badly want to be.

I didn’t want to be the boss. Bottom-up was the ideal. When people feel free, energy comes loose, and I still believe that. So I acted as if my role didn’t exist. It took me months to introduce myself as a board member. I’d say: I help out, I coordinate some things. Naming the role felt like showing off.

It clicked after a meeting with the party office. We needed a plan. It wasn’t going anywhere, and I think fast. So I made a suggestion. I said, very clearly, that it was optional.

It was adopted without a single question. Done.

A fellow board member told me afterwards what had really happened. Nobody dared push back. I was on the board. They saw that. I didn’t. I wanted to be equal, but I simply wasn’t, and by denying it I shut their thinking down. And because I never named my role, people didn’t know who to go to either.

Making your role clear isn’t vanity. It’s care. It gives people something to hold on to. Yes, it also gives you authority. Learn to carry it. And in meetings: speak later. Ask first. Your opinion isn’t an opinion, it’s a decision, whether you want it to be or not.

2. Bottom-up without agreements isn’t freedom. It’s everyone guessing.

Early on, I spent days rescuing a policy process nobody else wanted to lead. Deadline fixed, document not done. So I did it. Coordinating, writing sections myself, deep into the night. We made it.

Then the phone rang. “Where do you get the nerve to take over?”

Why was I punished for something that saved the organisation? Because nobody had ever agreed on when leadership is allowed to step in. There were no roles, no decision rights, nothing. As long as things were calm, nobody noticed. The team was warm, everyone loved the mission, it felt inclusive. Unspoken expectations in calm water.

Then came the deadline. Rough sea. And suddenly everyone had assumed something different about who steers. What we saw as rescuing, they saw as grabbing power. Half the team walked out.

I always thought structure keeps people small. The opposite is true. Clear agreements are what give people the room to step up. Without them, freedom is just chaos with a nice word on it.

3. Working hard isn’t a virtue. It’s an example other people copy.

I worked thirty hours a week for Volt on top of a full-time job. I put myself last and called it loyal. I wanted to keep up with the other leaders, who were doing exactly the same.

What I didn’t see: I was keeping an unhealthy ideal alive. Not just for me. For the whole organisation. If leadership works until midnight, that becomes the norm. Whoever can’t or won’t do that feels like they’re falling short. Or leaves. And those are usually the people with a healthy sense of boundaries, exactly the ones you want to keep.

I burned out. That was my problem. That I set the wrong example, that was everyone’s problem.

4. The conversation you’re postponing protects you. Not them.

Someone on the team promised three times and delivered nothing. I fixed it myself, three times. I told myself I was being kind. I was busy, they were volunteers, what if they left?

Here’s what was actually going on. I was afraid of friction. Postponing the conversation spared me, not them. And it wasn’t kind to the rest of the team, who saw that not delivering had no consequences, and that I wasn’t protecting their energy.

Same with the sentence I never dared to say: “We’re not going to make this.” Saying it felt like giving up. Not saying it meant pretending, and everyone knew.

What I learned, late: the conversation never gets easier by waiting. It only gets bigger. And you don’t have to do it perfectly. You have to do it honestly. Facts, impact, one question, and then really listen. Nine times out of ten, what’s underneath isn’t laziness. It’s someone in the wrong role, or someone who never knew what was expected.

Daring to lead is mostly this. Not big decisions. Small, honest conversations, held on time.

5. Don’t take yourself onto the stage.

My communications advisor said it about my colleague Damian Boeselager, Volt Germany’s Member of the European Parliament: “He doesn’t take himself onto the stage. You still do.”

I vaguely understood. I often stood there frozen with nerves. What he really meant, I only got later.

That same year, a man of about fifty in my own team had told me: “Girl, that’s not how we do things here.” A motion was filed against my chairmanship. Online: “she wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Honestly, the strangers I could laugh at. Being underestimated is almost a gift, less pressure.

But from people close to me, people I respected who didn’t fully trust me, it hurt. That’s where I got insecure. That’s where I started working harder, making myself smaller, asking for approval.

What changed it: I started seeing my role as a role. Not as me. The criticism was aimed at a position, at someone they didn’t know. I could carry it. And when I got on the stage I reminded myself I was a role and thought: what do they need from me as a chair? Not solely as Emmy. I slept better that year than ever, despite everything.

And at the end of that year I looked back and I was satisfied. Not perfect. With what I knew and what I had, I’d done well. I knew that without anyone telling me. That was the real win. Not needing the approval anymore.

So remind yourself: you are not your role. You’re holding it for a while. Humility isn’t thinking less of yourself. It’s thinking of yourself less.

6. People want to be heard. They don’t need to be right.

My first strategy process went badly. Vague questions, everyone gave input, and then a document appeared that nobody recognised. People were angrier than before we’d asked.

The second time I changed one thing. We still couldn’t take everything. If you take everything, the strategy is scattered. But everyone got feedback: what we took, what we didn’t, and why.

The response: “Thank you. You didn’t take everything we wanted. But we felt heard, and the process was transparent.”

Ask, decide, explain. Most organisations do the first two and skip the third. The third is the only one people remember. Without it, participation is theatre, and next time nobody comes.

7. Before you say yes, check where the yes comes from.

When I became a chair, I should have been over the moon. I thought. I wasn’t. I was happy, but quietly. And I’ve learned that quiet was the point.

I’d already played out the worst case scenario. I’d quit my government job. Within three months of the congress, the board could be voted out which would mean I would lose my position and job. Humiliating. And still, when I went inside, I felt a calm, firm yes. Not excitement. Not “finally”. Just: yes, this is right, and if it goes wrong I’ll do something else.

Compare that to the times I said yes and it cost me. Those yeses were loud. They came from wanting to be good enough. From status, from recognition, from making something look better than it was. The ideal picture was right, the practice wasn’t. Every one of those decisions, I knew somewhere it wasn’t right, and I overrode it.

So this is the compass, and it’s simple. Before a big yes, go quiet and ask: is this calm, or is this loud? A calm, firm yes is the right path. A loud yes based on fear is often ego wearing a nice coat.

It won’t stop you making mistakes. It will stop you making the ones you already knew about.

What all seven share: I wanted to be liked and I wanted results, and I didn’t know how to do both. Lead a team towards a goal, take everyone along, give room, and steer when needed.

I learned it the hard way. If you’re leading an organisation that’s growing faster than you can hold, you don’t have to. Which of the seven do you recognise? Send me a message on +3135652761 or my insta emmy_mol_. I’d like to know:)