Reflections on leadership, seasonality and the quiet work of change - an intimate monthly essay series from Between Seasons, exploring the deeper “why” behind sustainability and creative leadership. An invitation to pause, reflect and reconnect with your inner landscape.
There’s a moment every sustainability professional knows, though we rarely name it.
It happens in the quiet after a meeting, when the adrenaline fades. You’re sitting at your desk, staring at a half-written email or an open spreadsheet, feeling that subtle twist in your stomach. That creeping feeling of being the problem in the room - the one who makes things harder and who can’t just let things slide.
It’s the moment you feel branded as the Sustainability Police.
No one gives you the badge, but somehow you end up wearing it anyway.
I’ve worked with and seen businesses where sustainability wasn’t truly embedded, where there was alignment in the heart but not in the operations. These were companies that believed in the work. Leaders would talk about values and the importance of doing the “right thing”. Strategies were signed off, frameworks were agreed upon and the tone in the room felt warm and supportive.
Until it came time to do the work.
Suddenly, the same leaders who nodded through the strategy presentation were blindsided by the reality that the work wasn’t a press release - it was a process. They didn’t realise that a bold sustainability commitment would require budget, time and cross-functional effort - that it might change timelines, ways of working or even sacred cows in the business.
That’s when the badge appears.
All at once, you’re the one sending reminders, asking hard questions and holding the line. You’re the one flagging the shortcuts or the inconsistencies. You start to notice your own posture change - shoulders tight in meetings, voice softening to make the ask more palatable. You say “just wondering” and “could we maybe” when what you really mean is “we agreed to this”.
It’s exhausting.
The emotional toll of wearing the Sustainability Police badge is hard to explain to someone who hasn’t lived it.
You become hyper-aware of your own tone. You start over-preparing for every meeting, pre-emptively imagining objections and rehearsing counterpoints. You internalise every eye-roll, every sigh and every delay as a reflection of you - your credibility, your skill, your belonging in the room.
And the burnout creeps in. Not because the work isn’t meaningful, but because it’s lonely, and because you are constantly pushing against the weight of a system that says:
We love what you stand for, but we can’t give you the budget.
We believe in this, but we can’t prioritise it.
We support you, but we don’t see how this is actually our job.
The system will cheer for you as long as you can deliver without friction. The moment you need something real - resources, accountability, shared ownership - you risk becoming the adversary.
I’ve also known the opposite.
I’ve worked and seen businesses where sustainability was embedded, not as a department but as a culture. These were environments where curiosity and accountability lived side by side. Where a bold idea wasn’t met with resistance, but instead with: “Okay, let’s test it”.
In these companies, I didn’t feel like the police. I felt like a strategist and a collaborator. I could admit when I didn’t have all the answers, and I could move through the business to learn, not just enforce.
And most importantly, the wins felt collective. If a strategy worked, it wasn’t my win - it was our win, because the work belonged to the business, not just to me.
I think about the professionals I know - brilliant, values-driven people - who are quietly burning out under the weight of this badge. Many of them are working in companies that think sustainability is embedded because the heart is aligned, because the brand talks the talk, or because the CEO nods in meetings.
But alignment is not integration.
And without integration, the sustainability team becomes the system’s moral compass and its safety net - at the same time. They’re always guiding, always catching what others miss.
And that’s how disillusionment begins.
Sometimes, I imagine what it would be like if we could collect all of these unspoken stories:
The late-night slides reworked to “sell” an idea for the third time.
The strategy approvals that went nowhere because no one realised they were approving work.
The quiet decisions to let something slide because the fight just wasn’t worth it anymore.
If we lined them all up, they’d tell a very different story about why talented sustainability professionals leave their roles, and why some businesses stall out after a promising start.
It’s not usually because people don’t care - it’s because the system isn’t built to hold the work.
These are the reflections that live beneath the surface of my own work now. The ones I return to when I think about influence, burnout and why embedding sustainability is not just a technical challenge but an emotional one.
Because until sustainability is truly embedded - integrated into culture, operations, governance and accountability - someone will always be wearing the badge. And wearing it for too long can break even the most passionate heart.
If you’ve been carrying the weight of being the system’s conscience - you’re not alone. It’s not a failing to feel the strain. It’s a sign the work needs to be shared.
So, what would it look like for your role to be lighter? For accountability to be woven into the whole, rather than resting on your shoulders alone?
What shifts - big or small - are helping you move from carrying the work to sharing it?
I’d love to hear how you’re navigating it.
And if this resonates - this is the work I’m building Butter Field to support:
For small businesses embedding values in their brand and strategy
For changemakers building influence without burning out
For leaders making sustainability stick, far beyond one person or role
If you’re holding the line and hoping for change - let me help you hold the weight.
Rooting for you always,
