More Than a Mood

Why Organizational Climate Is the Real Story

From the Work Series | The Loveliness of the Magnolias

“I think it is healing behavior, to look at something so broken and see the possibility and wholeness in it.” ~Adrienne Maree Brown, Emergent Strategy

This is the follow-up to “Leadership in the Aftermath of Brokenness.” If that piece was about my personal collapse, this one is about conditions that made it really easy to do so. It names what we rarely put words to: how organizational culture and climate shape not just the work, but the people doing it. It’s about the systems we uphold, the contradictions we endure, and the quiet unraveling that happens when institutions don’t know how to care for the very people who hold them together. This is not just about burnout. It’s about design.

We measure outcomes obsessively—graduation rates, client retention, fundraising goals, social media engagement, employee satisfaction surveys. We hold town halls and issue reports and cite best practices. And yet, we rarely ask the one question that unlocks the truth behind it all: What are the conditions underneath these results? Because the truth is, those conditions—what we feel in our bodies, what goes unspoken in the hallway, what tightens our chest at 9:57 before a 10:00 am Zoom—those are the real indicators of institutional health. They are not soft. They are not subjective. They are not separate from organizational strategy. They are the organizational strategy.

When I walk into a school, a nonprofit, a philanthropic foundation, or a boardroom, I don’t start with reading the strategic plan, not yet. I start with the atmosphere. I ask: What does the air feel like in here? Not because it’s poetic—but because it’s the most accurate way to know if transformation is even possible. Climate always tells the truth. Climate is the cumulative emotional tone of an institution. It’s not written down, but it’s always known. And that knowing? It’s cellular. You don’t need a degree to feel it. You walk into a staff meeting and your body tells you: This place is unsafe. This place is beautiful. This place is exhausted. This place is tight with silence.

Let me pause and say clearly: I’ve worked in incredible workplaces. I’ve partnered with organizations that moved with real purpose. I’ve been in rooms with brilliant, principled people whose commitments to justice are not performative—they are generational. But love for an institution does not protect you from its dysfunction. And even the most well-meaning places can cause deep harm, especially when no one is paying attention to how people are actually experiencing “the work.”

I know this not as a former employee or consultant. I know it because I lived it. I led from depletion. I gave my all to the communities I served while privately unraveling. I carried programs, people, and expectations without boundaries. I said yes when I should have said, I’m not okay. I smiled through collapse. I was not a passive witness to systemic dysfunction. I helped it function. And that’s what haunts me. Not that it happened—but that I couldn’t name it until I broke.

There were moments when I couldn’t hold my own weight, but still tried to walk like I could.

I thought if I just worked harder, smiled wider, stretched farther—I’d be fine.

But I wasn’t fine. I was breaking.

And the truth is: when we’re breaking, we don’t just suffer alone. We hurt others, too.

I remember receiving feedback—clear, kind, necessary—and not being able to take it in. My body couldn’t hold it. I wasn’t rested enough, well enough, held enough to receive it with grace.

So I resisted.

And that moment taught me something I’ll never forget: self-neglect doesn’t just cost you your peace. It can cost you your character.

Another time, I tried to carry it all—my father’s care, preparing for his imminent death, the aftermath of a school shooting that nearly took my brother’s life, and the demands of work that never seemed to slow down. There were days I couldn’t get out of bed. Days I felt like I was watching my life from the outside. My hands would shake and I would lose my voice when I was nervous about making a mistake.

And I knew I could step away. But I didn’t feel like I could. Because the shame of needing help was louder than the permission I had been given.

So let’s name what was really going on. Culture and climate are not the same.

Culture is the personality of the organization. It’s the stated values, the branding language, the artifacts we show to the outside world. It’s the “About Us” page, the mural in the front hallway, the core principles printed on the back of your ID badge.

Climate is the mood. It’s the energy in the room. The tone of that email. The glance exchanged after the team lead says “we’re like a family here.” Climate is who gets to speak and who doesn’t. It’s how it feels to raise a concern. It’s how it feels to be a concern.

When climate and culture align, the organization is congruent. Trusted. Even if it’s messy, people feel safe enough to try. But when they don’t align—when what we say and what we do start to diverge—trust erodes, and dysfunction becomes business as usual.

And here’s how you know it’s happening:

— The organization says it values student voice, but young people are never consulted about the policies that affect them.

— The nonprofit celebrates equity on Instagram, but all DEI labor is shouldered by staff of color—with no pay, no title, no power.

— The philanthropy funds “healing” work in communities, while staff internally operate under surveillance, urgency, and unspoken exhaustion.

— The health care system preaches compassion but incentivizes productivity over presence. Nurses clock out and cry in the car.

— The university hypes its commitment to diversity, but faculty of color are left to handle racist incidents with no formal protection or recourse.

None of this is theoretical. I’ve seen it. I’ve sat in the circle. I’ve closed the meeting room door. I’ve taken the late night call. I’ve led the emergency listening session. I’ve helped people draft their exit letters. I’ve walked good people through the question, “Am I crazy, or is this climate harmful?” You are not crazy. And no, this is not just an HR issue. It’s a system design failure.

When we don’t design for climate, we default to performance. To pretending. To polishing the mission statement while people break down just offscreen. And I don’t say that with judgment—I say it with love. Because I’ve lived the opposite.

One rooted in what I call front porch wisdom—leadership that’s slow, ancestral, accountable, and real. In The Front Porch Was the First Strategy Room, I wrote about what it means to lead without domination, to be known without having to posture. That’s the work.

A friend once said, “It’s the shame of breaking that’s had the most debilitating impact on me.” And I felt that in my bones.

But broken crayons still color.

And I’ve burned the greens before (never cleaned them). Left the pot on too long. Underseasoned them. Almost threw the whole thing out.

But I stayed. Turned down the heat. Called somebody’s Mother, mine. And I knew I could. Why? Because she understood that it’s ok to try again. That the pot of greens might actually be better with some salt pork in it. That’s the climate. So, I tried again.

Because when the climate is off, nothing tastes right.

And when it’s right? You can feel it.

You can taste it in the work.

You can hear someone say, “You put your foot in those greens.” But you get a little wink from your mother who knows the personality and mood well enough that all you have to do is feed the people sitting on that porch

That’s the kind of space I want to help build.

Where the nourishment is real.

Where the air is breathable.

Where culture is not just a slogan—but a truth you can feel in your body.

And where climate isn’t accidental—it’s designed with care, on purpose, every single day.

What’s to come:

In the next essay, I’ll share exactly what it looks like to design for climate repair. How do we audit the invisible? How do we surface emotional labor, hallway energy, silence fatigue, and spiritual erosion—the things a budget can’t measure but a body always feels? I’ll offer frameworks, tools, and real questions I use in my consulting and leadership work. And I’ll make room for your voice, too—because so many of you are holding this same tension in your own institutions. This series is not about blame. It’s about building better rooms. I hope you’ll stay with me for what comes next.

🌸Collinus