When Credit Goes To The Wrong Person

Have You Ever Believed a Story That Wasn’t True?

I have and it made me question how we decide who gets credit, recognition, and statues in life.

Last week, I spent five unforgettable days in New York City. On a tour through Central Park, we stopped at the statue of Balto, the famous sled dog. Like many, I knew the popular story: Balto led the final leg of the 1925 serum run to Nome, Alaska, saving countless children from diphtheria. Movies were made. Statues erected. History sealed.

Except… the story wasn’t quite right.

The real hero was a dog named Togo, led by his handler Leonhard Seppala. Togo led his team across the longest and most dangerous stretch of the journey, 261 miles in brutal conditions. Balto, owned by Gunnar Kaasen, ran the last 55 miles, crossing the finish line and receiving the recognition.

And because Balto was the one the public saw, he got the statue in Central Park.

Our tour guide stood beside Balto’s statue and made sure we knew the truth about Togo.

And I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Togo was a dog, he didn’t care about medals or monuments. He cared about loyalty, love, and his team. But still, it bothered me that history forgot him for so long. That the recognition sat in the wrong place.

Because in real life, we all know this story. There are many “Baltos”, people who arrive at the end of the journey, cross the line, and receive the applause. And there are many “Togos”, the ones who did the heavy lifting in silence, whose names aren’t mentioned, whose stories go untold.

And then I remembered, I have been both.

The File That Changed Everything

Years ago, I was asked to provide interviewing advice on a cold file, one that had stalled after initial arrests and a failed charge approval.

The case involved a couple nearing their 40th wedding anniversary. After a night out with a close friend, they were driving home. The wife sat in the back seat; her friend, injured and using crutches, sat up front. Two suspects, fleeing in a stolen vehicle after a violent crime spree, blew through a red light at over 100 km/h. They crashed into the car, killing the wife instantly and seriously injuring the others.

The suspects were later identified and had been arrested. But the interview produced nothing, and charges weren’t approved. The file sat with no movement for over a year.

When I reviewed it, I saw things differently.

Although I was only asked for interview advice, my mind immediately went to new investigative strategies, new evidence pathways, and most importantly, how to bring justice to this family. I became relentless. I met repeatedly with the prosecutor, promising her that the evidence she needed would be delivered. I worked alongside the lead investigator. We pushed every legal avenue available.

Before Christmas, we had charges approved, arrest and DNA warrants issued, and eventually, a guilty plea.

It wasn’t just me. A lot of work was done in the first year, and a lot in the final push.

Recognition—But Not Really

A year after the case concluded, the department decided to recognize everyone involved. By then, I was on maternity leave. They forgot to invite me.

At the ceremony, the prosecutor sat in the audience as the case was described, and names were called. Mine wasn’t. She turned to someone beside her and said:

“That was Jennifer Hyland’s file and she isn’t even here.”

Weeks later, a plaque was mailed to my house. My name was one of over a dozen listed.

I wasn’t hurt that I didn’t get called on stage. What mattered was that someone who knew the truth, who understood the file, the work, the heart behind it spoke up.

So… Was I Togo or Balto?

That’s what the Balto statue made me ask myself.

Was I Togo, the one whose efforts weren't seen? Or Balto, the one who crossed the line and received credit for someone else’s work?

Maybe I was both. Maybe most of us are, at different points in our lives.

What matters most is that someone is willing to tell the whole story.

People like my tour guide in New York, who refuse to let history forget Togo. People like that prosecutor, who spoke up when no one else did.

The Moral of the Story

Recognition matters.

But truthful recognition matters more.

If you’re a leader, people will bring you nominations, names, and stories. Don’t be lazy with that privilege. Ask questions. Seek the whole story. Celebrate the people who ran the first 261 miles, not just the last 55.

Because the power of recognition isn’t in the plaque or the speech, it’s in honouring integrity, effort, and truth.

My kids grew up watching the movie Balto with me. When I came home from New York and told them about Togo, my son said, “Mom, Disney made a new movie about Togo. It’s amazing—but it’s a shame he doesn’t have a statue.”

Maybe he’s right.

Or maybe the real honour is in the people who keep telling his story.

Togo pictured below- he was 12 years old when he made the historic trip.

Statue of Balto in Central Park