Katherine Adamson

The Quiet Work of Doing

There are people who lead from the spotlight or podium, and then there are people like Katherine Adamson. If you ask her what she’s most proud of, she hesitates, not because there isn’t an answer, but because the question itself feels slightly off. Pride, recognition, credit are not the currencies she trades in. Her instinct is to redirect the question — to name the community or point to others; to make it less about her.

Which, in some ways, is what makes the question worth asking. 

Adamson is deeply woven into the fabric of Collegiate. A second-generation alumna, now raising a third generation of Cougars, she has spent decades showing up quietly, consistently, and without fanfare. She has chaired admission committees, led major initiatives, served as Parents’ Association President, served on the Alumni Association, and countless ways for the Village Green Fair. She has done, quite literally, the work.

If you ask her how it all started, she’ll tell you about the lollipop tree booth. That’s where the story begins — not with titles, but with willingness. A small volunteer role at the Village Green Fair that turned into managing ticket sales, to co-chairing the entire event, then eventually some of the school’s most significant parent-facing roles. Not because she sought them out, but because she kept saying yes.

“I am a hard worker,” she says simply, “but I like to do it behind the scenes… fly under the radar.” 

That phrase — behind the scenes — comes up often. It’s not self-deprecation. It’s a philosophy. For Adamson, service was never a mandate, rather it was something absorbed. Her father, Billy Thalhimer ’64, entered in Collegiate’s first boys’ class, and would go on to serve 17 years on the Board of Trustees, eventually as chairman. Her mother, Sallie, volunteered across campus in countless roles, even stepping in as a long-term Spanish substitute teacher and chaperoning student trips abroad. At the time, Adamson didn’t think much of it, but appreciation has a way of ripening over time.

“As I’ve gotten older, I look back and am really proud of my parents’ contributions… and have strived to give back in the same capacity.” 

What she inherited wasn’t a directive to serve. It was something more subtle and lasting: a model. A visible and tangible way of being in a community that says: this matters, so I will show up for it. Now, as a parent herself, she understands the deeper truth: you don’t teach service. You demonstrate it.

“If I tell my girls ‘You need to serve,’ nobody’s going to do that,” she says. “You show them by example.” 

There’s a moment in conversation where Adamson is asked about impact — what she’s most proud of accomplishing through her many roles across campus. She struggles with it; not because nothing stands out, but because so much of what matters to her isn’t visible. Of course, there are the larger, visible contributions: helping spearhead the creation of the Stephen P. Adamson, Jr. ’92 Ropes Course, a dynamic, living tribute to her cousin-in-law’s memory and love of outdoors that now shapes student experiences daily. 

But just as quickly, she pivots to something smaller.

The plinko stairs; the cake walk platform: structural pieces of the Village Green Fair that had quietly deteriorated over time, which Adamson and her husband, John, rebuilt in their driveway —  reinforced so children could stand, play, and be safe. Repainting them and bringing them back to their original glory with the help of Angie Hutchinson and her daughter Molly. 

“No one knows you did it,” she says. “But I know that the kids are safe.” 

This is what that kind of work often looks like. Not the visible outcome or credit on a bronze plaque, but the unseen labor. The unnoticed fix. The thing that works better simply because someone cared enough to do it.

If you meet Adamson, you might not immediately guess she has led large groups, managed complex initiatives, or stood in front of hundreds of parents reassuring and navigating through COVID uncertainty. She will tell you she’s an introvert, and that being out front for her is uncomfortable. She’ll tell you that she almost didn’t accept the role of Parents’ Association President. And yet, she said yes anyway.

“It stretched me outside my comfort zone… gave me confidence that I could accomplish something I did not think quiet me could do.” 

There’s a kind of quiet resolve in that — not loud or performative, but steady. It’s a willingness to stretch and grow oneself not for recognition, but because the work requires it. Adamson describes her year as PA President simply: she wanted to keep the peace, she wanted to communicate clearly, and support faculty and families. To help a large, complex community feel connected again. Not glamorous goals, but essential ones.

Ask Adamson to define service, and she doesn’t reach for abstractions. She talks about gratitude.

“Service to me is giving back to a place that has given so much to me and my family for three generations.” 

And then, more simply: “To receive, you have to give.” 

It’s not transactional; it’s relational. It’s a recognition that communities don’t sustain themselves, but are built, maintained, and strengthened by people who choose to invest time, energy, and care. People who step in where they’re needed, often without much visibility. 

There’s a phrase Adamson returns to — one she attributes to Alex Smith: “The people at Collegiate are the special sauce.” 

It’s easy to interpret that as a sentiment, but in practice it’s something more demanding. People don’t become a “special sauce” by accident, rather they become it through thousands of small acts of contribution. Through volunteers who rebuild beloved games and activities. Through parents who chair committees. Through leaders who prioritize connection over credit. Through doers.

Adamson is quick to point out that this award, named in Alex Smith’s honor, reflects more than just one person. 

“This award is… about a community,” she says. 

She means it. The work she represents is never individual. It’s collaborative, layered, and cumulative, built over generations.

Toward the end of the conversation, there’s a moment that lands with clarity.

“You get the quiet joy of knowing you made something better,” she says. 

That’s it. Not applause. Not recognition. Not titles. Just the quiet, internal certainty that something is better because you showed up. In a world increasingly oriented toward visibility — toward being seen, credited, and celebrated — Adamson Adamson represents a different model. The kind that helps a community function and grow over time. The one that doesn’t ask for recognition but earns it anyway. 

The doers.

And if you look for them, you start to notice them more often.