Behind the Scenes: Where “What you lose when you lead” fits my thinking

Over the past few years, I’ve been circling a set of questions about what it really means to manage and lead people, not from a business school perspective, not through the usual lists of best practices, but from the ground level. From the quiet, often messy, always human experience of the people doing the work.

My recent piece, What you lose when you lead, came out of that ongoing reflection. It looks at the identity crisis that so often accompanies the move from individual contributor to manager. Not just a change in duties, but something deeper: a disruption in how we understand ourselves. What it means to contribute.

As I was writing it, I kept hearing echoes from other things I’ve been working on. This wasn’t a new insight so much as a convergence. Threads I’ve been pulling at for a while now were coming together. So I wanted to step back and show how this piece fits into the larger pattern of my thinking.

A foundation: Management as craft

When I first started thinking of management as a craft, not just a role, something clicked. I wrote then about how every craft has its own materials—wood, metal, clay—and how in management, the material is human nature.

That shift in framing helped me understand why technical excellence alone doesn’t prepare someone to manage. But this new piece took me somewhere more personal: what happens when someone who’s mastered one craft (engineering, finance, design) is suddenly asked to switch materials and identities. That disorientation isn’t just about skill. It’s about self.

I’ve seen it again and again. Someone who used to feel confident and clear becomes unsure of their value almost overnight. The rules are different, and so is the work. But the harder part is that their old sense of worth no longer fits.

From prose to poetry

This connects to an idea I keep returning to: that managing is prose, but leading is poetry.

New managers often try to lead like they used to work: with structure, logic, and precision. But what this new role asks for is something less linear. It’s relational, interpretive, often ambiguous. They’re speaking prose when the situation requires poetry.

In writing What you lose when you lead, I found myself thinking about that awkward middle place—where you’ve lost the fluency of your old language but haven’t yet learned the rhythm of the new one. It really does feel like phantom limb syndrome. You keep reaching for a way of contributing that no longer exists.

When good intentions backfire

One of the patterns I’ve seen—managers reverting to individual contributor work—isn’t just tactical. It’s existential. They’re trying to feel useful again. So they jump in. They fix things. They work late.

And I get it. I’ve done it. It’s satisfying, familiar, and immediately rewarding. But as I’ve written elsewhere, that instinct often leads to the exemplarity trap: trying to model the behavior you want to see, hoping others will copy it.

The problem is that management isn’t about creating copies. It’s about helping people become originals.

Reconstructing satisfaction

This part feels especially close to the bone. A lot of what I do in my coaching work is helping managers rediscover what satisfaction looks like now.

I’ve spent time thinking and writing about motivation (how it works, what drives us) and what I’ve learned is that new managers often lose their most familiar source of satisfaction (technical mastery) before they’ve found a new one. There’s a void.

Some mourn that loss quietly for years.

But there’s another kind of satisfaction that can emerge. Less immediate, but deeper. The quiet power of enabling others to rise. The long arc of shaping not just outputs, but people. You don’t get applause for it. But if you can shift your motives, it starts to feel meaningful in a very different way.

A practice of honesty

That shift doesn’t happen automatically. It takes reflection and often, community. That’s where the idea of the Manager’s README came from.

The README is a tool, yes. But more than that, it’s a way of practicing radical honesty with yourself and your team. Writing one forces you to confront the distance between what you intend and how you act. And I’ve found that kind of honesty to be a turning point for a lot of people going through this transition.

The change is real. Pretending it isn’t doesn’t help anyone.

Working with rather than against

If there’s a deeper thread running through all of this, it’s probably this: learning to work with rather than against.

That shows up in lots of places in my writing:

And it’s right there in the identity crisis that new managers face. Individual contributors succeed by controlling variables. Managers succeed by surrendering control and learning to work with what’s alive in other people.

That’s not a minor change. It’s a whole new way of relating to the world.

What it might mean for how we develop leaders

This brings me to the question that’s been tugging at me most:

So where does all this lead?

To me, What you lose when you lead marks something of a pivot. It brings together many threads I’ve been following—craft, poetry, exemplarity, motivation, honest self-reflection—but applies them to one of the most common, misunderstood, and under-supported transitions in working life.

But it also leaves me with questions I don’t yet have answers to.

How do we support people in this shift, beyond giving them tools and tips? What kind of development experiences could help them not just cope with the loss, but grow into the possibilities? How can we allow people to grieve what they’re leaving behind and still see what they’re stepping into?

I’m still working on those questions. And I’m open to being surprised.

This is the first of a series I’m calling “Behind the scenes.” A place for me to connect the dots between pieces, share what’s unfolding in my thinking, and invite you into the process. If you’re going through this transition yourself, or helping others through it, I’d love to hear what’s helped, what’s been hard, or what you’re still figuring out.

This isn’t a finished framework. It’s a conversation I hope we can keep having.

Keep it on the one: From funk to management

I sometimes close my newsletters with the expression: “keep it on the one.”

Some of you have asked what it means. Others have asked how a phrase rooted in music applies to the craft of management.

So here’s a short reflection on both.

The musical foundation

“The one” refers to the first beat of a 4/4 time signature. Think of it simply as the one, two, three, four count that underlies much of Western music. James Brown would tell his band to “hit it on the one,” emphasizing that first beat hard, anchoring the groove so everything else could lock in around it.

What I grew up with was mostly jazz, where the groove works a little differently. The bass lays down the one and the three; my guitar came in on the two and the four. That gave us a pulse—boom, clap, boom, clap—a conversation between instruments. Once that back-and-forth is in place, everything else can layer in. The horn section, the keys, the percussion, each doing their own thing, but all staying grounded.

It’s not uncommon in a tune to have the bass lay out the foundation on the one and three for a while before the rest of the rhythm comes in.

You can drift in and out of solos, experiment with voicings, stretch the phrasing. But if you ever get lost, you just listen for the one.

That’s where you rejoin the groove.

The management connection

The same holds true in management.

Just as musicians need a shared pulse to stay in the pocket, teams need a clear, dependable reference point, something that centers them.

In practice, keeping it on the one means establishing and sustaining the fundamental rhythms that hold a team together. The values you live by. The priorities you return to. The cadences you maintain. What that looks like will differ from one team to the next.

When projects get complex or improvisation runs wild, or when a new player joins the ensemble, it’s those fundamentals that help everyone find their way back into sync.

It’s not about rigid structure. It’s about shared rhythm.

It’s what allows people to play differently without falling apart.

That’s why I say “keep it on the one.”

It’s a reminder, for myself and for you, to stay grounded. To stay in time with what matters. To keep the rhythm that makes both structure and creativity possible.

Because great performance, whether in music or management, is never just about the solo. It’s about staying connected to the groove we build together.

==

Keep it steady. Keep it human. Keep it on the one.

 

 

Introducing: Behind the Scenes

I spend a fair amount of time rereading what I’ve written—to understand how my thinking holds together and where it might be heading next. How do ideas I explored months ago connect to what I’m circling now? What threads have I been following without realizing it? Where did a particular angle actually come from?

It’s a way of making sense of my own thinking. But I’ve started to wonder if others might find that process interesting, too.

So I’m starting a monthly-ish Behind the Scenes series where I share some of that reflection. The first one looks at how my recent essay, What You Lose When You Lead, fits within the larger conversation I’ve been building about management and leadership. How ideas about craft, exemplarity, and human motivation have been circling each other in my work, converging around one of the most misunderstood transitions in professional life.

The weekly newsletter stays just as it is: free and open to everyone. This is simply the thinking I’d be doing anyway, made available for the cost of a coffee if you’re curious to come along. Most Behind the Scenes entries will be for paid subscribers, though I’ll share one with everyone from time to time when it feels right.

If that’s not your thing, no worries. Nothing changes. The main conversation continues every week, just as it always has.

I’ll send the first one tomorrow.

What You Lose When You Lead

The celebration that masks a crisis

Every career advancement article celebrates the promotion from individual contributor to manager. LinkedIn feeds fill with congratulatory messages. Companies frame it as the natural next step for top performers: a reward for excellence in your technical or functional role.

The pervasive narrative suggests management is merely an extension of individual excellence, just with more authority and a better title. But after working with thousands of professionals going through this exact transition, I’ve discovered something that organizations rarely acknowledge: becoming a manager isn’t a promotion; it’s an amputation of professional identity and the painful growth of another.

In my years working with new managers, I’ve seen the same quiet crisis unfold repeatedly. What looks like a simple step up the ladder is actually a profound identity shift that few are prepared for and even fewer discuss openly.

The pattern no one names

In leadership development programs, we often begin by asking new managers about their biggest challenges. We expect to hear about time management, difficult conversations, or delegation struggles.

What emerges instead is striking. Across industries from engineering to marketing to finance, new managers describe an unsettling sense of loss. They describe phantom limb syndrome: reaching for tools that once defined their success, only to find those same instincts now failing them. They describe feeling suddenly incompetent despite having just been recognized as top performers.

One engineering manager confessed: “I used to end each day knowing exactly what I’d accomplished. Now I can have back to back meetings all day and wonder if I’ve done anything at all.” A marketing leader admitted: “I still do the creative work myself after hours because it’s the only time I feel like I know what I’m doing.”

Most telling is what happens in unguarded moments: they confess to secretly doing individual contributor work late at night, describe the guilty pleasure of solving a technical problem rather than coaching their team through it, admit to measuring their days by tangible output rather than people development.

This isn’t mere impostor syndrome. It’s identity displacement.

What made you successful until now

Let’s acknowledge what propelled you to this point. Your technical expertise, attention to detail, ability to solve complex problems independently, and consistent delivery of high quality work; these qualities set you apart. Your organization saw your excellence and quite reasonably concluded you should be responsible for getting those results from others.

In the early days of your career, expertise was your currency. The deeper your knowledge, the more valuable you became. Your achievements were concrete, measurable, often daily. You controlled most variables affecting your success. You likely found satisfaction in tangible accomplishments: code shipped, designs completed, analyses delivered.

A financial analyst turned team leader reflected: “I used to pride myself on being the person who could spot the pattern in the data no one else could see. Now I’m supposed to teach others to spot patterns, but I feel like I’m losing my edge by not doing it myself anymore.”

But in your new role, something feels off. The metrics that defined your success have vanished. Your days are filled with meetings rather than productive work. Your once clear path to excellence became murky and subjective. Worst of all, your success now depends entirely on others; their motivation, their capabilities, their growth.

The misdiagnosis

When struggling new managers seek help, they typically ask for management techniques and tools. “Teach me how to delegate effectively.” “Show me how to run better one on ones.” “Help me give more constructive feedback.”

Organizations oblige with training programs focused on these skills. But these programs often miss the deeper issue.

Consider this: What if your struggle with management isn’t primarily about mastering new skills? What if the discomfort you’re feeling goes deeper than learning how to conduct one on ones or give feedback?

A technology manager I worked with spent six months learning delegation techniques but still found herself working weekends to “fix” her team’s work. When we dug deeper, she realized: “I’ve built my entire self concept around being the problem solver. Letting others solve problems especially if they do it differently than I would feels like giving away pieces of myself.”

The way most people describe this transition is telling. They don’t say, “I need better delegation skills.” They say, “I miss building things.” They say, “I don’t know what a good day looks like anymore.” They say, “I feel like I’m not contributing anything real.”

This language reveals something profound about the transition. When the source of your professional satisfaction, your measure of success, and your very concept of contribution fundamentally change overnight, what exactly are you experiencing?

Maybe that’s why so many new managers revert to doing the technical work themselves, micromanage their teams, or feel vaguely dissatisfied despite “doing everything right.” They’re attempting to resolve something much deeper than a skills gap.

The true nature of the transition

Management doesn’t just change what you do; it challenges who you believe yourself to be at work. Yes, there are real skills to learn: delegation, development, strategic thinking; but beneath those sits something more fundamental.

This transition requires letting go of much of what made you successful until now. Your greatest contributions will no longer be visible in the work of your own hands. You must find satisfaction in the messy, non linear growth of others rather than the clean completion of tasks.

A retail operations manager put it beautifully: “I used to be the star player. Now I’m the coach. I keep trying to jump in and take the shot myself, but that’s not my job anymore. My job is to develop players who can make shots I never could.”

This isn’t necessarily about becoming less technical or less expert. It’s about shifting where and how you apply that expertise: from doing to developing, from executing to enabling, from personal achievement to team capacity building.

Finding your way through

Those who navigate this transition most successfully often share certain approaches:

They name the loss. Instead of pushing away the discomfort, they acknowledge what they’re giving up and allow themselves to grieve it. “I’m not going to be the one who writes the code anymore, and that’s a genuine loss.”

They redefine contribution. They actively construct new measures of success and sources of satisfaction. One leader began keeping a “leadership journal” where she documented moments of impact that weren’t tied to her individual output: a team member’s breakthrough, a conflict resolved, a process improved.

They find new anchors for their expertise. The most successful leaders don’t abandon their technical roots; they transform how they leverage that knowledge. They become thought partners, ask powerful questions, and create environments where their teams can excel technically.

They embrace the catalytic role. Rather than measuring output, they measure impact through multiplication: how many others are now capable because of their guidance? How much more is possible because of the environment they’ve created?

The invitation

The discomfort you’re feeling isn’t a problem to solve; it’s the evidence that you’re undergoing a profound professional metamorphosis. The question isn’t whether you can learn to delegate or give feedback though these skills matter. The deeper question is whether you can embrace a fundamentally different way of deriving meaning from your work.

Can you find worth in what you enable rather than what you create?

Can you measure your impact by the growth of others rather than your personal output?

Can you surrender the identity that brought you here for the one that will take you and others forward?

This transformation won’t happen through a training program or a few new techniques. It happens through reflection, through community with others on the same path, and through the courage to step into a new professional identity: not just a new role.

The crisis is real. But so is the opportunity to discover an entirely new dimension of impact and meaning in your work.

==

The question that cuts through every explanation

Everyone has a reason. Not everyone gets the prize.

Think about the last time you were puzzled by someone’s behavior: a colleague’s decision, a corporate announcement, a political move, even a personal interaction. You probably asked yourself why they did it.

But there’s an older, sharper question that might have served you better.

Cui bono. To whose benefit?

Most conversations rely on familiar questions. “Why did you do that?” reveals explanations and justifications. “What for?” —a question I’ve explored before— uncovers stated goals and purpose.

But there’s a third question that completes the set: Who benefits from this?

The Three-Question Hierarchy

“Why” questions get you reasons. “Because I’m tired.” “Because it seemed like a good idea.” “Because that’s how we’ve always done it.” These tell you about someone’s internal state but they’re often incomplete or misleading.

“What for” questions get you stated purposes. “To improve efficiency.” “To help the team.” “To serve the public good.” These sound more substantial, but they’re still what someone wants you to believe.

“Who benefits” questions get you evidence. They cut through the noise of motivation and stated purpose to reveal the actual stakes. Follow the advantage, and you’ll understand the real game being played.

It Works Everywhere

A dinner invitation? Sure, hospitality is real. But who benefits from having you there? Maybe they need a buffer with difficult relatives. Maybe they’re hoping you’ll introduce them to your boss.

A corporate restructuring? The stated goal is always “efficiency” or “customer focus.” But who actually gains power, budget, or influence?

A political proposal? Rhetoric talks about the public good. But ask: if this passes, who wins? The answer will tell you more than a thousand position papers.

Why This Works

The brilliance of cui bono is that it sidesteps the entire theater of stated intentions. While everyone else is debating whether someone “really meant” what they said, you’re already looking at the scoreboard.

Benefits don’t lie. They leave tracks clearer than words, harder to erase.

People misstate their motivations; sometimes deliberately, often without knowing it. They spin their purposes to sound noble, logical, or fair.

But benefits? Benefits are observable. They leave tracks.

When you ask cui bono, you’re not guessing at motives. You’re looking at results. You’re following the money, the power, the access. You’re noticing who actually comes out ahead when the dust settles.

This works across every scale. The colleague who volunteers for a high-visibility project “to help the team” might genuinely believe that’s their motivation. But who gets the career boost? The politician championing education reform might truly care about children. But whose districts get the new funding, and whose allies get the contracts?

The Real Power

Understanding who benefits doesn’t mean every action is selfish or every motive corrupt. Rather it strips away the fog of explanation and reveal what’s really at stake.

There’s something liberating about this approach. It frees you from having to be a mind reader or parse elaborate justifications. You don’t need to figure out if someone is lying, self-deluded, or completely sincere. The benefits speak for themselves.

Next time you find yourself puzzled, try skipping the guesswork. Skip the story-spinning.

Ask the question: Cui bono? To whose benefit?

And when it’s your own action under the spotlight, do you know who stands to gain? The hardest part might be applying this lens to your own choices, especially when you’ve built a narrative around serving others or pursuing principles. But that discomfort is usually a sign you’re onto something important.

Cui bono doesn’t make you cynical. It makes you honest about how the world actually works.

You’re not guessing anymore. You’re just watching who wins.

==

The Five Dimensions of Strategic Career Choices

Every career is ultimately shaped by a series of decisions that make up a chronology of roles informed by the architecture of choices beneath them.

Having worked closely with professionals across industries and career stages, I’ve seen that the most resilient and meaningful trajectories aren’t built by accumulating positions. They’re sculpted by clarity: clarity about what matters, what aligns, and what can no longer be compromised.

Yet many career decisions still rely on surface metrics. Titles, compensation, organizational prestige. These markers are easy to track, but they rarely tell the full story. And they certainly don’t protect against regret.

What separates a strategic move from a reactive one is not the offer itself, but the lens through which it is assessed. In my experience, five dimensions matter far more than most professionals are encouraged to consider. They don’t show up on the offer letter but they determine everything that follows.

1. The Nature of Daily Work

Most job transitions begin with a sense of excitement. New possibilities. Fresh challenges. But this early lift fades quickly. What remains is the texture of your days: the meetings, the pace, the quality of thought required, the energy demanded and returned.

When I trace back the most regretted career moves I’ve seen, they often stemmed from a mismatch at this level. The work sounded right, looked right but it didn’t feel right once lived.

Satisfying work doesn’t just align with skills; it engages values, stretches capacity, and sustains interest over time. Strategic professionals learn to look past the role’s surface appeal and toward the rhythm it will establish in their lives.

2. The Human Ecosystem

Organizations are not structures; they’re systems, deeply human systems.

No matter how compelling the mission or the role, your experience will be shaped, day to day, by the people you work with and the culture they create. Growth, momentum, and resilience depend less on company vision than on interpersonal dynamics: trust, challenge, shared language, and psychological safety.

Some environments nourish ambition. Others quietly erode it. What distinguishes the two often isn’t visible from outside.

3. The Unwritten Rules

Beyond the formal job description lie the implicit codes that govern organizational life: who gets listened to, how decisions are made, what success actually looks like.

This informal layer — the rules beneath the rules — shapes influence, opportunity, and belonging. It’s not about gaming the system. It’s about understanding whether your way of working, leading, and contributing can thrive in the real dynamics of the organization.

Many talented professionals stall or burn out not for lack of skill. What happens is their instincts run counter to the local logic.

4. The Complete Value Exchange

Compensation matters. But it’s not the only thing that accrues value.

The most discerning professionals understand that each role offers a bundle of currencies: exposure, learning, flexibility, visibility, network, pace. Some of these are tangible. Others quietly compound over time.

Too narrow a focus on salary can obscure opportunities that offer greater long-term leverage or cost more than they first appear. Strategic choices require a broader view of what’s being gained, and what might be silently given up.

5. The Life Impact

Careers don’t happen in isolation. Every professional move reverberates through a life of relationships, routines, energy levels, and unspoken dreams.

I’ve seen too many promising roles unravel because they were out of sync with the broader life they entered. Transitions that succeed tend to occur within a supportive ecosystem where alignment exists. With work, of course, but also with what and whom the work is meant to support.

This isn’t a call for perfect balance. But it is a reminder that a career is a life structure. It has weight. It moves things.

Strategic Means Knowing Where You Stand

Few decisions offer perfect alignment across all five dimensions. But clarity around what matters and what cannot be compromised makes all the difference.

Strategy, in this context, isn’t about optimizing every angle. It’s about knowing which trade-offs serve your trajectory, and which ones quietly distort it.

The most intentional careers I’ve encountered weren’t assembled by accident or by algorithm. They were built through discernment, through decisions that reflected not just opportunity, but orientation.

That kind of clarity is difficult to find alone. But it’s what makes every move that follows more coherent.

 

From Framework to Focus: Personalized Career Strategy

The framework shared here is a starting point — not a prescription. Every career decision unfolds within a distinct context, shaped by your values, timing, and the particular constraints of your life.

If you’re navigating a significant transition or seeking to shape a more intentional trajectory, I offer personalized coaching to help apply these dimensions to your unique situation.

Together, we’ll clarify which trade-offs genuinely serve your broader vision — and which compromises might quietly erode it.

If that kind of clarity would support your next move, let’s talk.

You’re in the Room: Owning Your Place in Leadership

Here’s something that often happens in my leadership development programs. During breaks or over meals, someone will pull me aside. By then, they’ve usually heard that I come from a working-class family, and that I was the first in my family to graduate from college.

They lower their voice, like sharing a secret: “I’m from a humble background too. First in my family to go to college.”
Then they pause and quietly admit: “Sometimes I walk into meetings or boardrooms, and it hits me: everyone else seems to belong. They came from elite schools, well-off families. I wonder… how did I get here?”

They feel the need to justify their place in the room.

I’ve heard this many times, and every time, it carries the same undercurrent: self-doubt.
So I offer something that isn’t quite advice. More like a reframe:
You’re in the room.

Someone decided you should be there. And here you are.

Starting with “Should I be here?” is like showing up already a step behind.
That question is a drain on your energy, your attention, and your presence.
You don’t need to justify your existence. You’re already here.
So shape the room. Engage with it. Fill it with your full self.

This isn’t mysticism. It’s reality.
Or, as Sartre might put it: “We exist first, and it’s up to us to shape that existence.”
So, what will you do with it?

Acknowledging the Complexities

That’s the core message. But of course, the story doesn’t end there.
There are real tensions that complicate this picture. And I hear them often.

1. Being in the Room Isn’t Always Enough

Yes, being invited in matters. But what happens next is where the real work begins.
I’ve heard leaders say they still feel invisible once they’re in the room, as though the invitation was symbolic, not substantial.

That’s real. Power dynamics don’t vanish. But presence is power, if you claim it.
You may not control the room, but you can claim your place in it.
No one can erase your presence without your permission.

2. Bias and Inequality Are Real

Structural barriers don’t disappear just because you’ve made it through the door.
They persist. And pretending otherwise is naïve.

But here’s what I’ve seen over and over:
Internal barriers—like self-doubt—can be just as paralyzing as external ones.
If you can’t clear your own way, how will you face what’s outside?

3. Imposter Syndrome Isn’t Just in Your Head

Many capable, seasoned leaders have told me, “I feel like a fraud.”

The feeling may not go away. But here’s a reframe:
Imposter syndrome often means you’re pushing into new territory.
It’s a sign of stretch, not failure. Growth rarely feels like comfort.

4. Yes, Privilege Opens Doors

Privilege shapes access. Let’s not pretend otherwise.
Merit alone rarely gets you in.

But once the door opens, it’s what you do inside that defines your impact.
In my experience, those who had to fight to get in often make the strongest use of the opportunity.
They know what it took.

5. Preparation Still Matters

Being in the room doesn’t mean winging it.
You still have to show up prepared.

But I’ve seen people who’ve done the work still falter because they doubt their right to speak.
Preparation without presence won’t carry you.
If you’ve earned the seat, claim it.

6. Beyond the Boardroom

The room is a metaphor, of course.
It can be your role, your workplace, your family, your society.

Philosophers have long asked what it means to be in the world.
Sartre’s idea that existence precedes essence reminds us: we don’t earn our way into being. We begin with it.
From there, it’s on us to shape a life and to create meaning.

7. Isn’t This Too Simple?

Yes, the starting point is simple: You’re in the room.
But that simplicity is part of its power.

From that place, you can begin.
From that place, you can wrestle with bias, you can question the rules, and —why not?— challenge the system.
But not from outside it, wondering whether you belong.

You’re already here. So—what now?

==

Photo by Antenna on Unsplash

The YouTube Mirage

In a previous newsletter, I questioned how we often equate Google searches with genuine research. This time, I turn my attention to another modern phenomenon that gives us the illusion of being informed—YouTube.

Watching a video about a topic doesn’t automatically translate to understanding. Exposure is not the same as comprehension. Let’s explore why.

During a management development program, a participant (Lee) excitedly shared that they had seen “a very interesting YouTube video” on the topic we were discussing.

Someone asked, “Great. What did it say?”

Lee’s response: “I can send you the link. You can all watch it yourselves.”

The group pressed gently: “But we’re here now, and we’re curious. Just give us the gist. Maybe we can discuss it.”

Lee couldn’t. They didn’t remember what it said—only that it existed and that it was about the topic.

The Mirage of Information

It’s a common scenario, and it reveals something essential about how we consume information today:

Awareness isn’t comprehension. Knowing a video exists doesn’t mean you understood it—or even watched it carefully.

Familiarity feels like knowledge, but isn’t. Passive consumption creates the illusion of insight without substance.

“I can send you the link” is a tell. It signals that the content itself wasn’t internalized, only bookmarked.

Information location is not information retention. Finding something is not the same as learning from it.

The illusion holds… until someone asks a question. That’s when the gap between exposure and understanding comes into view.

Consuming content without integrating it is just entertainment. Real learning changes the way you think, act, or explain.

Breaking the Illusion

To move from exposure to understanding:

  • Summarize what you consume. If you can’t say it simply, you haven’t learned it deeply.
  • Apply it. Could you use this idea to solve a real problem?
  • Talk about it. Discussion reveals blind spots that passive watching never touches.
  • Interrogate it. What’s missing? What doesn’t sit right?
  • Integrate it. How does this shift what you already believe or know?
  • Let it change you. Otherwise, it’s just passing scenery.

 

Knowing where the knowledge is isn’t the same as knowing. We live in an age of links. But links aren’t learning.

==

Spirit and Structure: A Minimalist Reflection (On the Occasion of the Upcoming Conclave)

This is a departure from my usual writing about leadership and management. But not a detour. What follows is a quiet reflection on leadership of a different kind—spiritual, ecclesial, and paradoxically both human and divine. With the conclave now underway, I’ve been thinking about the nature of Church leadership and how it’s shaped not only by visible structures but also by something deeper, more enduring. I offer this piece in that spirit.

As the College of Cardinals gathers in the Sistine Chapel today to elect the successor to Pope Francis, this reflection considers the interplay between human structures and divine guidance in the life of the Church.

Much is being said about papal succession, about who will be chosen, and whether this signals reform or tradition. On the surface, the process is thoroughly political: votes are cast by individuals who were themselves appointed by others. Yet, for those who believe, something deeper is occurring: since Pentecost, the Holy Spirit has been prompting human hearts, caring for the people of God across history.

This reveals a profound paradox. The Church’s inspiration flows from Pentecost, from the Acts of the Apostles—yet it is through the very structures that preserve that memory that we receive it. We rely on these institutions to transmit knowledge of that original vision. When we criticize Church leadership, there’s often an unspoken premise beneath our frustration: “If I were in charge, I would do it differently.” But this is not a position one applies for. Even those who approach it as a kind of CEO role must contend with the fact that something more than strategy is involved. To lead the Church is to stand within the mystery of the Spirit’s work, not above it. Ambition and hubris here may risk misunderstanding what this form of leadership truly demands—discernment, humility, and awe.

In light of this tension between human agency and divine guidance, we come to a surprising conclusion: the one chosen matters less than their openness to the Spirit’s guidance. If indeed the Holy Spirit cares for the Church, then the outcomes of human freedom unfold within a broader divine providence. The Spirit moves in history through human agency

What ultimately matters is something both simpler and more demanding: our participation in Christ’s life (through word, sacrament, and service) so that our deeds, not merely our words, breathe life into God’s creation in this time and place. The Spirit who filled the disciples at Pentecost continues to inspire—in family conversations, workplace decisions, and the quiet places where ordinary life unfolds. This is no invitation into bureaucracy but into God’s own life through Jesus Christ.

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“I’ve Done My Research.” No, You Haven’t. You Just Googled It.

During my years in academia, I worked alongside actual researchers. People trained in the discipline and rigor of research. People who spend years refining questions, testing hypotheses, analyzing data, and subjecting their findings to skeptical scrutiny.

The kind of work that, quietly and painstakingly, makes us safer, healthier, and better informed.

So yes, this is a bit of a rant. But it’s also a defense of rigor, discernment, and the kind of thinking that takes time.

What Real Research Looks Like

  1. Question Formation
    It begins with a focused, well-formed question, rather than a hunch, a headline, or a vibe.
  2. Literature Review
    A deliberate survey of what’s already known: what’s been asked, tested, and found wanting.
  3. Methodology Design
    You don’t just gather information. You design a method to test, measure, and interpret with care.
  4. Data Collection
    Interviews, experiments, fieldwork, archives. Sometimes months, sometimes years.
  5. Analysis
    Pattern-finding. Anomaly-hunting. Applying logic and statistical rigor.
  6. Peer Review
    Others trained in the field critique your process, your conclusions, and your blind spots.
  7. Revision
    You change your mind. You rethink your conclusions. You improve your work.
  8. Synthesis
    You connect your findings to what came before… and to what comes next.
  9. Replicability
    Real research invites challenge. Others can retrace your steps and see if they arrive at the same place.

What Google Is

Clicking isn’t thinking.
You’re not discovering insight. You’re collecting headlines.

Google is the fast food of knowing.
Quick. Tasty. And rarely nourishing.

Algorithms aren’t experts.
They reward what spreads, not what holds up.

Search is not scrutiny.
A search bar is not a method. It’s a suggestion box.

If you found it in under a minute, it’s not insight. It’s background noise.

“I Googled it” is the modern “I heard it somewhere.”
Equally shallow. Equally suspect.

Google simulates understanding. Research earns it.

Research has steps. Google has scroll.

Just because it’s online doesn’t mean it’s settled.

Google shows you other people’s answers. Research helps you construct your own.

The Bottom Line

Stop calling it research when what you did was open a browser and skim.

Research is not just information gathering. It’s a disciplined, skeptical pursuit of understanding.

Google is a tool. It can help you start, but it can’t carry you through. Research begins where search ends.

Knowing is harder than it looks. And more worth it, too.

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The Manager’s README: A Practice in Radical Honesty and Leadership Evolution

The Document as Mirror

The Manager’s README, sometimes called a personal user manual or leadership charter, has gained popularity as a transparency tool. But its true power lies not in the words themselves but in the accountability framework they create. When you articulate who you are as a leader, your preferences, and your values, you’re informing your team… and you’re lso creating a reference point against which your actions will inevitably be measured.

This isn’t documentation for documentation’s sake; it’s the creation of a mirror you cannot hide from.

Consider what happens when you write, “I welcome new ideas and constructive challenges to my thinking.” This statement, seemingly positive and progressive, carries significant risk. You’ve now established a standard by which your team will evaluate your reactions. Each time you interrupt a challenging perspective or dismiss an unexpected proposal, you create a dissonance between your stated values and your observable actions.

This dissonance of the README process is precisely its purpose.

The Data of Dissonance

Most leadership discourse frames feedback as something managers give rather than receive. The Manager’s README inverts this dynamic, creating a structured invitation for your team to reflect your behaviors back to you.

When a team member musters the courage to say, “You wrote that you value creativity, but I’ve noticed you tend to focus on potential problems whenever new ideas are shared,” they’re providing invaluable data about the gap between your self-perception and your impact.

This moment represents a critical juncture. Will you defend your intentions (“That’s not what I meant” or “You’re misinterpreting my questions”) or will you engage with the reality of your impact? Your response in this moment speaks volumes about your capacity for growth—far more than any carefully crafted value statement.

The discomfort of this feedback is a feature (not a bug). The Manager’s README creates a structured space for precisely this type of productive tension.

Visible Evolution as Trust Currency

Trust is built on demonstrations. When your team observes a disconnect between your README and your actions, they don’t immediately lose faith, but they’ll be watching what happens next.

Do you acknowledge the gap? Do you make visible adjustments? Do you follow up to check whether your changes are addressing the concern?

Trust is built on visible evolution. When your team witnesses you actively working to align your actions with your stated intentions, they experience something rare in organizational life: a leader whose growth happens in plain sight rather than behind closed doors.

Consider the manager who, upon receiving feedback about interrupting team members, acknowledges the behavior and also institutes a new practice in meetings: “I’ve been told I sometimes cut people off. If you notice me doing this, please say ‘I’d like to finish my thought.’ This will help me be more aware.” This visible commitment to change, and the vulnerability of making it public, creates far more trust than any aspirational statement about valuing all voices.

The Authenticity of Imperfection

Perfection is not a leadership goal. A leader who never makes mistakes, never has off days, and never shows frustration comes across as performative rather than real.

The Manager’s README shouldn’t aim to portray an idealized version of yourself, but rather to create a framework for understanding your real patterns—including your limitations. The document might include acknowledgments like “I tend to become more directive under tight deadlines” or “I sometimes need processing time before responding to unexpected proposals.”

These statements are context that helps your team interpret your actions more accurately while also holding you accountable to manage your tendencies.

The paradox is that acknowledging your imperfections makes your strengths more credible. When you admit to struggling with certain aspects of leadership, your team is more likely to trust your competence in other areas. Selective vulnerability creates space for authentic strength.

Intrapersonal Competency: The Meta-Skill

Leadership development typically focuses on interpersonal skills: communication, influence, delegation. The Manager’s README process highlights a more fundamental capability: intrapersonal competency. Your ability to evolve yourself intentionally.

This meta-skill encompasses:

  • Self-awareness: Recognizing your patterns, triggers, and impact
  • Feedback receptivity: Taking in potentially uncomfortable information without defensiveness
  • Intentional adaptation: Making targeted changes to align actions with intentions
  • Progress monitoring: Checking whether changes are having the desired effect

The Manager’s README documents who you are and it also creates conditions to develop who you’re becoming. The gap between your written intentions and your lived behaviors is the productive tension that drives growth.

The Practice, Not the Product

The value of the Manager’s README is in how it evolves. A document created once and left untouched becomes a monument to aspirations never realized. The README should itself evolve as you do—updated not just with new preferences but with new awareness gained through feedback.

Some managers track how their README evolves, noting shifts based on feedback. It shows a commitment to growth.

The Invitation

The Manager’s README represents an invitation to a different kind of leadership, one defined not by certainty but by curiosity. It challenges the notion that leaders should have it all figured out, offering instead a model where figuring it out happens collaboratively and continually.

This practice won’t eliminate the gap between who you aspire to be and how you actually show up, but it will make that gap visible, discussable, and addressable. And perhaps this is the most powerful leadership stance of all: not “I know the way” but “I’m on the way, and I welcome your help in getting there.”

Your README says who you think you are. Their annotations say who you really are. Which version is more accurate?

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