The slip of paper was thin, almost transparent, catching the dim hallway light just under her door. It wasn’t a flyer, or a notice from management, or a holiday card. Maya picked it up, the edges crisp against her thumb and forefinger. Anonymous. “Dictator.” Just one word, scrawled in an aggressive, angular hand, no pleasantries, no signature. Her breath hitched. The contentious budget meeting had just ended 45 minutes ago, and she was still reeling from the accusations about the increase in strata fees. Which of them, she wondered, had gone straight home, picked up a pen, and tried to strip her of her very humanity? It was a question that would cling to her, heavy and cold, for the next 75 minutes.

The Projection of Grievances

I remember talking to Wei L. a few years ago – a conflict resolution mediator I’d consulted for a particularly thorny dispute that escalated past the point of reasonable conversation. Wei had a quiet wisdom, a way of cutting through the noise. We were discussing a case where a president was being hounded over a parking spot dispute that had festered for 105 months.

“People don’t see a person,” Wei said, leaning forward, his voice low, “they see a title. And titles are easier to project grievances onto. It’s not Maya they’re mad at; it’s the ‘Strata Council President’ who approved the new fee structure or didn’t fix the 5-year-old leak fast enough.”

It was a simple observation, yet it hit hard, reflecting the stark reality. This isn’t about being ungrateful. Most people who step up do so out of a genuine desire to make their community better. They see a problem, they volunteer, believing that their efforts will be appreciated, or at least understood. They start with an infectious enthusiasm, imagining themselves as a pivotal force for positive change. I’ve made that mistake myself, more than once, thinking my logic and willingness to put in 35 hours a week of my personal time would win over even the most entrenched skeptics. What naive optimism. The reality often sets in about 15 months into the term, a slow, grinding disillusionment as every decision, every necessary expense, every difficult conversation turns into a personal attack.

The Scapegoat

They don’t want a leader; they want a scapegoat.

The Personal Betrayal

It’s easy to dismiss this as simply part of the job, the thick skin required for any civic duty. But this isn’t politics on a grand scale, where you’re insulated by staff or public relations teams. This is your home. These are your neighbours. The very people you share hallways with, whose children play with yours, who you see at the communal barbecue, are the ones who can, and often do, turn on you with startling ferocity. Maya, with that note in her hand, wasn’t just dealing with a policy disagreement; she was dealing with a deeply personal betrayal, wondering if it was the quiet woman from unit 25, or the boisterous man from 15, or the couple across the hall who always seemed so friendly. The uncertainty itself is corrosive.

This burden, this thankless emotional labour, is why we consistently burn out our most engaged citizens. Think about it: who would *willingly* sign up for a job where you’re personally blamed for everything from rising insurance premiums (which, let’s be honest, are often dictated by external market forces and not a council’s whims) to the fact that the flowerbeds aren’t exactly how someone envisions them? We create a system where individuals, often with full-time jobs and families, are expected to navigate complex legal, financial, and interpersonal challenges for 0 dollars and 5 cents. Then, when they inevitably make a mistake – because they are human, not gods – or simply can’t please everyone, they become targets.

The Arena of Home

And let’s be candid, I’ve been that neighbour myself, probably. Complained about a decision, stewed over a perceived injustice, without truly appreciating the labyrinthine process and competing demands the council president was juggling. It’s easy to stand on the sidelines and lob critiques. It’s much harder to step into the arena, especially when that arena is your own home. That’s a contradiction I live with, the awareness that I’ve probably contributed to the very dynamic I’m describing, even as I recognize its profound unfairness. It’s a small admission, but a necessary one, to understand the depth of the problem.

The problem isn’t the people who volunteer. The problem is the system that fails to adequately support them. The problem is the widespread misunderstanding of what a strata council truly is, and what its elected members can actually accomplish. It’s not a board of directors with executive power; it’s a group of volunteers trying to keep a complex residential building functioning, often with very tight budgets and even tighter regulations. They operate under a specific set of rules, enshrined in documents that most residents haven’t read even 5 pages of.

The Partner, Not the Scapegoat

This is where the idea of genuine value comes in. When the burden becomes too immense, when the emotional toll outweighs the sense of civic duty, something has to give. That’s usually the president’s sanity, or their willingness to serve another term. What if, instead of being abandoned to weather every storm alone, they had a partner? A professional entity that could handle the day-to-day administrative tasks, offer expert guidance on maintenance issues, or navigate those thorny legal questions that keep presidents awake at 2:35 AM? Someone who truly understands the operational complexities, who can filter the noise and present clear, actionable options. Someone to shield them from the brunt of misplaced frustration and provide a buffer of expertise.

This doesn’t take away their authority; it enhances their effectiveness by freeing them to focus on broader community goals instead of becoming bogged down in minute details. It transforms the role from a gauntlet of blame into a position of actual, supported leadership. Metrowest Building Services Limited offers precisely this kind of essential support, turning the overwhelming into the manageable.

The Cost of Burnout

What is the real cost of this burnout? It’s not just a person deciding not to run again. It’s the loss of institutional knowledge, the constant churning of leadership, and ultimately, a breakdown in the very fabric of community governance. Imagine a strata with 65 units, and for 5 consecutive terms, they can’t find a president. Who makes the decisions then? Who signs off on the emergency repairs? Who deals with the non-stop complaints? The entire building suffers, slowly eroding into disrepair and discord. The vacuum created by burned-out volunteers is rarely filled by someone equally passionate and capable. More often, it’s filled by apathy, or worse, by individuals with agendas that might not align with the broader good of the community.

The rhythms of strata life are cyclical. A new issue, a new budget cycle, a new set of criticisms. I’ve seen presidents, brimming with initial energy, slowly shrink under the weight of it all. Their posture changes. Their conversations grow shorter, more clipped. The small joys of living in a community give way to a hyper-awareness of every neighbour’s potential complaint. They lose sleep, their family life suffers, and their personal finances might even take a hit from the emotional stress. All for a role that offers no tangible reward, only the relentless scrutiny of their peers. It’s a profound disservice we do to these individuals, asking them to carry such a load without adequate scaffolding.

Outlandish Accusations

And sometimes, the accusations become truly outlandish. One strata president I knew was blamed for a rise in pet allergies in the building because she’d allowed a neighbour to adopt a third cat, despite the strata bylaws permitting it. It wasn’t logic guiding the complaint, it was raw, unfiltered frustration, seeking an easy target. The president became a focal point for every annoyance, every minor inconvenience, every perceived slight that had nothing to do with her decisions. This is the loneliness. This is the isolation. Knowing that you are the lightning rod for generalized discontent, irrespective of your actual culpability.

Wei L. once elaborated on this, detailing how in mediations, the ‘identified problem’ is rarely the ‘actual problem’. The ‘dictator’ note Maya found wasn’t really about dictatorship; it was about the fear of rising costs, the anxiety of financial strain, the feeling of losing control over one’s home environment. The president, by virtue of their position, becomes the embodiment of these complex, often external, pressures. It’s a heavy mantle to wear, especially when you’re just trying to ensure the plumbing works and the building’s finances don’t collapse.

The Humbling Mistake

This isn’t to say that all presidents are infallible. Of course not. They make mistakes. I remember one situation where I advocated strongly for a particular landscaping contractor, convinced they were the best fit. I pushed for their selection, even after a few initial reservations from others on the council. It seemed like a solid choice at the time. Months later, the work was subpar, and the residents were rightly upset. I had to face the music, acknowledging my error. It was humbling. It was also a painful reminder that even with the best intentions, things can go wrong, and as the one leading the charge, the responsibility, and often the blame, falls squarely on your shoulders.

It was a mistake that taught me a lot about humility and the limits of my own judgment, and I’m sure it cost the strata at least $5,000 to rectify. A hard lesson, but one that further highlights the pressure of the role.

The Profound Truth

The profound truth is, the strata council president holds the loneliest job in the building because they’re caught between an impossible ideal and a thankless reality. They’re meant to be the benevolent sovereign, but they’re often treated like a pawn, blamed for failures outside their control, and rarely credited for the countless small victories that keep the community functional. They navigate intricate rules, mediate escalating neighbour disputes, and manage significant financial responsibilities, all while living side-by-side with their critics. It demands an unusual blend of resilience, patience, and a slightly masochistic devotion to community.

So, what does this tell us? Perhaps it’s not about finding tougher people to fill these roles. Perhaps it’s about fundamentally rethinking how we support those who step forward. What if we shifted our collective mindset, not to demand perfection, but to offer genuine partnership? To ask ourselves, not “What can the president do for me?” but “How can we collectively support the president, so they can better serve all of us?” It’s a subtle shift, but it could make all the difference, transforming a lonely burden into a shared responsibility, and maybe, just maybe, making the job a little less solitary. We’re all in this building together, after all.