Jensen Huang’s resignation from Nvidia got me thinking about an intriguing possibility.
What if Elon Musk recruited Huang to lead SpaceX’s new initiative to put AI data centers in orbit?
This is purely a thought experiment, and I’m not the first or only person to bring it up. I have no inside knowledge of Musk’s plans or Huang’s interests, and the circumstances around Huang’s exit are still unfolding.
But the hypothetical raises an interesting leadership question about talent.
Musk has the launch technology, the ambition, and an enormous appetite for AI computing capacity. Huang spent more than three decades building Nvidia into a dominant force in the computing and AI industry.
Imagine Musk offering Huang the chance to build an entirely new business around orbital AI computing. Give him substantial autonomy, meaningful ownership, and the possibility of eventually spinning the business into a publicly traded company with Huang as CEO.
Nvidia could remain a major technology partner. SpaceX could provide launch and orbital infrastructure. Terafab could eventually become another source of specialized chips.
And Huang could recruit an entirely new generation of engineers and leaders drawn to the chance to help create an industry that barely exists today.
Whether orbital AI data centers ultimately make economic sense remains to be seen. The technical challenges are extraordinary.
But Huang brings something particularly valuable to these challenges. He’s spent decades recognizing where computing technology is headed, assembling amazing engineering talent, and building the organizations needed to turn big ideas into commercially successful businesses.
An arrangement like this would demand something that often challenges leaders. Musk would have to give Huang genuine autonomy while aligning ownership, incentives, and objectives so both organizations benefit. The governance structure would have to reinforce this arrangement rather than undermine it.
Maybe nothing like this will happen. Still, it’s a useful exercise in how leaders should think about talent.
Sometimes the better question isn’t how to fit talent into an existing role, but how to build a role around exceptional talent.
Charlie Munger said, “Show me the incentive, and I’ll show you the outcome.”
I learned how true that is as a divisional COO.
Our bonus programs rewarded division leaders primarily for P&L performance. The autonomy that came with it generally worked well. But occasionally, two divisions would compete, or avoid working together, because cooperation might hurt one division’s profitability, even when it helped the company overall.
An absurd outcome for the company. Perfectly rational for each division.
Incentives extend well beyond compensation, though. Career ambitions, transaction objectives, and Board expectations can all shape executive decisions, sometimes in ways no one else can see.
Picture a CEO and Board preparing to sell the company. Their priorities quietly shift toward free cash flow, preserving capital, and near-term earnings. But these plans are confidential, so the CEO keeps talking about growth and investing in new capabilities.
Then the same CEO starts rejecting investments, cutting expenses, and delaying projects that fit the stated growth strategy.
Employees are confused. Senior leaders are frustrated. The decisions look inconsistent, even irrational.
They make sense once you know how the CEO’s success is being measured. The CEO is working toward a goal the rest of the organization hasn’t been told about.
When someone’s decisions don’t match their stated priorities, ask what they may be accountable for that you can’t see.
For leaders and Boards, the question is harder. Do the incentives we’ve created lead people toward the outcomes we say we want?
Because incentives will almost always speak louder than the messages we deliver.
From January 2013 to October 2026, I published 421 posts covering approximately 120 different topics and themes…and around 300,000 words.
That’s a lot of thinking out loud.
What Keeps Coming Up?
Leadership, courage, growth, perspective, learning, and service appeared more frequently than almost anything else.
Family, faith, gratitude, forgiveness, relationships, humility, and the importance of making intentional choices about how we spend our time appeared repeatedly as well.
What stands out:
-People deserve encouragement.
-Leadership is an opportunity to serve.
-We grow through experience, including experiences that don’t turn out as planned.
-Our relationships deserve our attention.
-Our time is valuable, and we should choose carefully how we use it.
In 2014, I wrote Your Employees Don’t Work for You, arguing that managers exist to help their employees succeed. Eleven years later, I was exploring coaching, creating room for failure, and building organizational environments where people can grow.
My underlying conviction hasn’t changed. My understanding of how to put it into practice has expanded.
I noticed a similar evolution in my posts about failure.
Initially, I emphasized perseverance, overcoming obstacles, and personal accountability. Later, I began exploring failure as an experiment that could produce valuable learning. More recently, I’ve written about helping others feel comfortable taking risks and learning from unsuccessful attempts.
In 2014, I wrote Start Anywhere!, encouraging people to begin rather than spending endless time preparing. In 2026, I wrote Solving the Right Problem, questioning our tendency to become more efficient at things we might be better off eliminating.
In 2015, I wrote The Truth About Grudges, exploring the burden we carry when we hold on to resentment. In September 2026, Selfish Forgiveness revisited essentially the same idea from a different perspective.
The Stories Behind the Ideas
A rewarding part of this review exercise was rediscovering stories.
My dad getting ready for family camping trips. Experiences from my childhood in Southern California. People I’ve worked with, learned from, and occasionally struggled with.
Lessons from starting, buying, operating, and selling businesses.
My daughters growing up, and now watching my grandkids experience the world from their perspective.
Stories about faith, friendship, adventure, disappointment, forgiveness, and ordinary moments that have become more meaningful with time.
In a recent post, The Things We Forget to Remember, I reflected on how details of our parents’ and grandparents’ everyday lives disappear. We remember important events but lose the ordinary details that made them who they were.
Without realizing it, I’ve preserved lots of those details in these posts.
Something happens. It catches my attention. I write about it. Years later, I can revisit that experience, relive a memory, and occasionally discover something new in a story I thought I already understood.
So, What About the Next Ten Years?
I’ve spent most of my adult life helping organizations solve problems, develop people, improve performance, and prepare for the future. I’ve enjoyed that work tremendously.
But many of the things I find most rewarding extend well beyond my professional responsibilities.
Learning something new. Helping someone see an opportunity they hadn’t considered. Encouraging someone who’s struggling. Exploring an interesting idea. Sharing an experience that might help another person.
These activities have been part of my life for decades, regardless of where I happened to be working.
I’d especially like to help people discover the freedom that comes from discipline. Saving early, taking care of our health, and staying focused on our goals despite competing distractions will provide greater freedom and more choices down the road.
Life is a series of marathons and sprints. We rarely know which one we’re running at the time. Discipline prepares us for both, giving us the endurance to stay the course and the ability to make the most of opportunities when they arise.
Any New Projects?
I have a bunch of things underway.
For the past two years, I’ve been working on a book and companion workbook that bring together my faith and experiences in leadership. I explore connections between Scripture, the lives of the saints, and the fundamental principles of good leadership. Both are nearly complete.
I launched the Grandpa Bob Encouraging Leadership podcast earlier this year. I’ve published ten episodes so far. It’s a collection of stories and lessons from life and leadership, intended for my grandkids and anyone else who might find them helpful. I’ve let other commitments and shiny objects distract me from it, but I’m looking forward to getting back to recording.
There are trails to clear and sheds to build, campsites to finish, concrete to pour, and countless unnecessary opportunities to put my tractor and mini-excavator to work around our property.
And I’ve got a crew of grandkids I plan to keep involved in as many of these projects as possible. They’ll learn a ton, and we’ll enjoy making memories together.
I hope some of the days working alongside Grandpa will become stories they’ll tell.
I’ve traveled to lots of countries and nearly every state, but somehow, I’ve never made it to Mount Rushmore.
We’ve been talking about making that road trip since at least 2010. I thought we’d finally make it in 2013, but other commitments and adventures jumped ahead of it.
Sixteen years later, Mount Rushmore is back on the short list.
Strong leaders find ways to align the two, so the right behaviors are worth choosing.
That alignment can come through compensation, recognition, autonomy, opportunity, trust, or simply making sure people aren’t punished for doing what the organization says it values.
When incentives point one way and stated goals point another, people usually follow the incentives.
The strongest systems make it easiest for people to advance their own interests while also advancing the organization’s.
Years ago, I led a company with a large team in India.
Our conference calls included some exceptionally smart technologists and business leaders.
But most of them rarely spoke.
Usually, the most senior person on their side did the talking. Everyone else listened.
I’d stop and ask.
“What do you think?”
“Are we missing something?”
“Does anyone see this differently?”
Silence.
Then I got to know them.
I visited them in person. We spent time together outside the formal meetings.
They had strong opinions.
They saw risks we hadn’t discussed. They questioned decisions we’d made. Sometimes they were frustrated with the direction we’d chosen.
They just hadn’t said so when we were making the decisions.
I assumed some of this was cultural. Age, seniority, and respect for authority.
But I’ve seen the same pattern plenty of times in American organizations too. Smart people with something to say staying quiet for all kinds of reasons.
I eventually realized I had something to learn.
Telling people they’re free to speak isn’t the same as creating a setting where they will.
Consider the question, “Does anyone disagree?”
To answer yes, someone has to challenge the idea already sitting on the table. And depending on who put it there, they may feel like they’re challenging that person too.
Try another question.
What would make this fail?
Now disagreement is part of the assignment.
Find the weakness. Challenge an assumption. Spot the risk.
We aren’t deciding who’s right. We’re trying to make the plan better.
That’s a different conversation.
The next time I was on a call with that same team, I didn’t ask if they disagreed. I asked what would make the plan fail.
Someone I’d rarely heard speak chimed in.
Then someone else did.
A small shift in the question opened the conversation to ideas and perspectives we hadn’t heard before.
Leaders should design for agency.
Ask what would make the plan fail six months from now.
Ask for the strongest argument against your own idea.
Then listen, especially when the answers are uncomfortable.
People learn quickly if you really value their input.
The goal is better thinking and a stronger plan. That requires the leader to make disagreement part of the work.
Don’t just give people permission to think independently.
Jobs was speaking at Lund University in Sweden, long before smartphones, search engines, or the AI tools we use every day. His hope was that someday we might capture the underlying worldview of a great thinker like Aristotle within a computer, so a future student could ask him questions and get answers.
It sounded futuristic then, but that future is here today.
We can open an AI tool and ask it to explain Aristotle, compare him to another thinker, or respond in a way that tries to reflect his philosophy.
That doesn’t mean we’re talking to Aristotle. We’re talking to a machine-generated synthesis, built from writings, interpretations, and patterns available to the model. Worth remembering, especially in a minute.
Jobs saw computers becoming more than storage devices. He saw interactive learning companions that could move us from consuming information to questioning it, testing our understanding, and entering into a dialogue with the past.
So, I ran a little experiment. I asked an AI tool to respond as if it were Aristotle, drawing on his known writings and philosophy, then I asked three questions…two about leadership, one about relationships.
Here’s what I learned, before you even read the answers. The AI handed me answers that sounded wise. It couldn’t do anything with what the answers asked of me. That work stayed mine, every time. Keep that in mind as you read the three exchanges below. Each quote is the AI’s synthesis, in Aristotle’s voice, not a historical record of what he actually said:
Question 1: Aristotle, what makes someone a good leader?
A good leader must first be governed within himself. He cannot guide others well if his own desires, fears, and ambitions are disordered.
Leadership is not merely a matter of authority or skill. It is a matter of virtue. A leader needs practical wisdom to judge what should be done, courage to do it, justice to give others what they are due, and temperance to restrain his own appetite for power, praise, or comfort.
The good leader does not seek the good of himself alone. He seeks the good of the community entrusted to him.
That answer sounds about right. Confidence, drive, decisiveness, and the ability to win can carry a person a long way. But without character or virtue, those same strengths eventually start working against the people they’re supposed to serve.
Whether it’s true of me is a separate question.
Question 2: Aristotle, how should a leader make decisions when the right answer isn’t obvious?
In uncertain matters, the leader needs prudence. No rule can fully replace wise judgment, because human affairs are too varied and particular.
The prudent person considers the purpose of the decision, the facts of the situation, the people affected, and the likely consequences. He also considers his own motives. A decision can appear reasonable while still being driven by pride, fear, anger, or vanity.
Good judgment is formed over time. It comes through experience, reflection, correction, and the habit of choosing what is noble rather than merely what is easy.
Most leaders want clarity. We want the right answer to announce itself. The spreadsheet, the policy, the consultant, the precedent that makes the decision obvious.
Unfortunately, difficult decisions usually live where the information is incomplete, the tradeoffs are real, and the consequences land on people who are more than names on an org chart.
But, he asks an even harder question. What’s happening inside me as I make this call? Am I deciding from courage or fear? Justice or favoritism? Humility, or the need to be seen being right?
AI can organize the options. It can summarize the arguments. It can show me possibilities I might have missed.
But it won’t clean up my motives. That responsibility remains with me.
Question 3: Aristotle, what makes a friendship or relationship worthy of trust?
The highest friendship is rooted in virtue. Some relationships exist for usefulness. Others exist for pleasure. These are not necessarily bad, but they are fragile because they depend on what the other person provides.
A deeper friendship is different. It is based on willing the good of the other person. Such a relationship is steady because it rests on character, not convenience.
To be worthy of trust, a person must be truthful, faithful, and committed to the good of the other. A trustworthy relationship helps both people become better than they would be alone.
We understand relationships of usefulness. Work relationships, customer relationships, networking relationships, even friendships that lean heavily on shared convenience.
But, are we willing the good of the other person? Do we want what’s good for them, or only what’s useful to us? Do we want them to become better, or only to make our life easier?
Seeing this short exercise, I think Mr. Jobs would celebrate how close we’ve come to his 1985 vision. We have more access to information than any generation before us. We can retrieve facts instantly, summarize books in seconds, compare ideas across centuries before lunch.
That’s amazing!
Yet the more powerful the tool gets, the more responsibility shifts back to the person using it.
Ask Aristotle about leadership, and I have to ask whether I can govern myself.
Ask him about prudence, and I must examine my own motives before I decide.
Ask him about friendship, and the real question is whether I’m willing the good of the other person or just protecting what’s useful to me.
AI tools can generate answers. Wisdom starts when we let those answers question us back.
The machine can help us ask Aristotle a question.
It can’t make us become the kind of person who can live the answer.
There’s a big difference between having an opinion about what’s broken and taking responsibility for making something better.
We live in a time when commentary is easy.
We can criticize from the sidelines. We can point out what’s wrong. We can explain why the system is broken, why the leaders failed, why the plan won’t work, or why the people in charge should have known better.
And much of that criticism may be true.
Something really may be broken. People may have failed. The system may need to change.
But is criticism going to be our only contribution?
Creating rather than complaining is an act of disciplined hope. It says I can see what’s wrong, but I’m still willing to work.
Complaining usually says, “Someone should fix this.”
Creating says, “I can improve one piece of this.”
That shift moves us from the sidelines onto the field.
Some problems aren’t ours to carry. We shouldn’t excuse the people who caused them. We don’t pretend the risks aren’t real or the damage doesn’t exist.
But we refuse to stop at frustration.
We must ask better questions.
What can I build? What can I repair? What can I encourage? What can I organize? What can I make clearer, stronger, more honest, more useful, more human?
And what can I do even if I didn’t create the problem?
That’s leadership.
Leadership isn’t only authority or title, position, budget, or permission.
Leadership is seeing a gap and stepping into it.
It’s making the call no one wants to make. Writing the note. Cleaning up the mess. Telling the truth. Taking the first small step.
We don’t have to fix everything to make something better.
That’s important to understand, because the size of the problem can become an excuse for doing nothing.
If I can’t fix the whole system, why bother? If I can’t change the whole culture, why try?
But that’s spectator thinking.
Builders think differently. Builders understand that every useful thing starts smaller than the problem it hopes to address.
A bridge starts with a first beam. A book starts with a first sentence.
A movement starts with a first conversation.
A better future starts when someone decides their contribution will be more than complaint.
It says I may not be responsible for the whole problem, but I am responsible for what I do next.
It says tomorrow can be better than today, and I’m willing to put something in motion.
The invitation is simple.
Don’t let your only contribution be commentary.
Find one thing you can improve.
One process. One relationship. One decision. One conversation. One neglected corner of the work.
Start there. Build there. Serve there.
The system may still be broken. The leaders may still have failed.
But the future belongs to the ones who choose to create anyway.
Photo by Alex Gruber on Unsplash – The future is shaped by people willing to begin.
One day, someone will describe your life in a sentence.
Think about that.
Thousands of days. Millions of decisions. Victories. Failures. Friendships. Heartbreaks. Quiet acts of kindness no one else ever noticed.
Ordinary moments that turned out to matter far more than anyone realized.
One sentence.
Last week I heard someone say, “Your goal should be to die young at an old age.”
I didn’t come up with it. I don’t even know who did.
At first, it sounds backwards.
Then you realize it may be the best definition of a life well lived.
We spend enormous effort trying to add years to our lives. Maybe we should spend just as much effort adding life to our years.
Aging takes something from all of us. Our body reminds us of that every morning.
We move a little slower. We feel the miles we’ve traveled. Recovery takes a little longer.
We gradually surrender abilities we once took for granted.
None of us escape this reality.
But somewhere along the way we’ve confused physical aging with becoming old. They’re not the same thing.
Our physical abilities may decline.
Our capacity to think, reason, create, encourage, inspire, and love can continue to rise.
In fact, they should.
Judgment should become steadier. Perspective should become broader. Patience and compassion should become easier. Humility should become more natural. Our wisdom should become richer.
The tragedy isn’t growing old, but growing stale.
We’ve all met people who became old at forty.
They stopped asking questions. They stopped taking risks. Somewhere along the way, they chose to stop learning and lost their sense of wonder.
They became experts on yesterday while quietly withdrawing from tomorrow.
And we’ve all met people in their seventies, eighties, and nineties who make us feel like we’re the old ones.
They’re curious, joyful, building, mentoring, reading, writing, learning new technology, planning new adventures.
They’re planting trees whose shade they’ll never sit beneath. They expect tomorrow to matter.
They don’t have smooth skin or endless energy.
But they know life still has something left to teach.
Don’t tell me your age.
Tell me what you’re learning, what you’re building. Tell me whose life is better because you’re in it.
Tell me the dream that still excites you. Tell me what prayer you’re still praying.
Tell me what you’ve started that you may never see completed. Tell me who you’re investing in with no expectation of being repaid.
Then I’ll have a much better idea of how old you really are.
Time is a poor teacher. It doesn’t make us wiser…it just makes us older.
Reflection makes us wiser. Humility keeps us teachable. Gratitude keeps us joyful. Purpose keeps us moving.
The calendar measures the years of our life. Our character measures the life within our years.
Life eventually gives all of us the same raw materials.
AI can prototype our workflow. It can draft our requirements. It can generate our user stories. But it has no idea how our business actually works.
It can’t tell us where the bottlenecks in the process are. Our loan officer knows that. It can’t explain why the workaround exists. Our operations manager knows that. It doesn’t know which shortcuts blow up in an audit. Our compliance analyst knows that. It has no idea where customers rage-quit. Our customer service supervisor knows that.
Our best people, the ones who actually know how the work works, often have trouble translating what’s in their heads into something a developer can build. They know where the friction is. They know which exceptions happen every Thursday afternoon even though the procedure says they shouldn’t. They know which approval step matters, and which one is just a bureaucratic leftover from a reorg three years ago.
For the first time, the people who do the work and understand the problems they’re trying to solve can start shaping the solutions. AI gives their expertise a doorway it never had before.
These subject matter experts can sit down with an AI tool and start turning what they know into something visible. Plain language in. Workflow out. Prototype sketched. Edge cases surfaced. User stories drafted.
And when they do that, something shifts. They realize software development isn’t magic. It’s a thousand small decisions that someone has to make. That realization alone is worth the exercise.
Instead of walking into a meeting saying, “we need a dashboard” or “can we automate this?” they walk in with something tangible. Rough? Sure. Wrong in places? Probably. But it doesn’t have to be production-ready. It has to be conversation-ready.
That changes everything.
Developers, architects, and project leaders can see the idea. They ask sharper questions. They spot what already exists, what creates risk, what can ship fast. The subject matter expert starts understanding what building a solution actually involves. The dependencies. The data quality landmines. The difference between a slick mockup and something that holds up in production.
That shared understanding transforms the relationship between business and technology.
We know the old pattern. Business has a need that’s difficult to explain, the technology team tries to interpret it, weeks pass, something appears, the business says, “close but not what we meant,” the cycle repeats. Everyone gets frustrated. Nothing ships.
AI doesn’t kill that cycle. It compresses and turbo charges it. When developers start with a real prototype and a real conversation, iterations can take hours or days instead of weeks.
The AI win is getting people in the same room faster, with something real to react to.
If more people can generate ideas, workflows, and prototypes, we’ll start getting more possibilities than we can pursue. A good problem to have, but still a problem.
Bottom-up energy is powerful. It surfaces solutions from the people closest to the work. It finds problems leadership didn’t know existed.
But without focus, we’ll drown in prototypes. The bottleneck doesn’t disappear. It moves from “we don’t have enough ideas” to “we have no idea which ideas deserve investment.”
That’s on leadership.
Executives, your job isn’t to be the gatekeeper of imagination. Play that role and the old problems come back fast. Good ideas will die in departments, in notebooks, in hallway conversations that never go anywhere. You become the reason nothing changes.
Your job is to be the steward of focus. Create the channel. Invite ideas up. Encourage people to explore, prototype, get specific. Then make the call on what moves forward.
Bottom-up imagination. Technical refinement. Executive focus. That’s a model that AI tools make possible.
Subject matter experts bring better ideas because AI helps them say what they know. Technical teams sharpen those ideas because they understand what durable software is. Executives look across the whole landscape and ask the hard questions nobody else is positioned to ask.
Does this solve a real problem or just an annoying one? Does it scale? Does it duplicate something we already own? Does it create risks we can’t absorb? Is this a strategic investment or a distraction dressed up as innovation?
Not every prototype becomes a project. Not every project deserves to live in our permanent technology environment. That’s not a failure of imagination. That’s how imagination gets distilled down to create tangible business value.
The future advantage won’t go to the fastest movers or the biggest tool buyers. It won’t go to the organizations that treat AI like a cure-all and wonder why nothing changes.
It’ll go to the ones that know their business well, listen hard to the people doing the work, and never confuse creating more things with creating better things.
AI can help us build faster. That’s the easy part.
Knowing what to build and why. That’s still on us.
Photo by BEN ELLIOTT on Unsplash – This is a downwind leg, spinnakers out, boats grabbing everything the wind has to offer. A good metaphor for AI. It can give us remarkable speed. But we’re still in a race, there’s still a course to navigate, and the turns are still ours to make.
A decision comes up. It sits right in front of someone. It falls within their role and their authority. And the response comes almost automatically.
“Let me check with my boss.”
Sometimes that’s wise. Alignment matters. Context matters.
That’s not the situation we’re thinking about here.
We’re thinking about the reflex. The lazy habit. The moment a leader has the ball and immediately hands it back up the chain.
“I’ll get back to you.”
“Let me confirm before we move…”
Ownership just left the room.
One instance feels harmless. But a regular occurrence starts to define the culture.
Decisions begin to climb instead of moving forward. Time stretches. Energy fades. Momentum slips away, one small deferral at a time.
Every time a leader defers a decision that belongs to them, the team hears something unspoken.
“I have the title. But I’m still waiting for permission to lead.”
There are reasons this shows up. A leader may have learned that their decisions will be second-guessed. A leader may want to avoid risk. In some cases, the habit settles in because it feels efficient in the moment.
It never is.
Leadership is not a forwarding function. Leadership is a decision function. When decisions don’t happen where they should, everything slows down.
Consider a different kind of decision environment.
Naval destroyers move through the Pacific at night. Visibility is limited. The stakes are high. Decisions carry immediate consequences.
Arleigh Burke commanded Destroyer Squadron 23 during World War II. He pushed his ships to full speed when it mattered, earning the nickname “31-knot Burke.”
He once said, “The difference between a good officer and a great officer is ten seconds.”
Ten seconds.
In that environment, ten seconds could determine who struck first and who absorbed the hit. There was no version of that moment where a commander paused to seek permission for a decision that was already theirs to make.
Burke’s point wasn’t about speed alone. It hinged on readiness.
A ten-second decision is formed long before the moment arrives. It’s shaped through preparation, and thinking clearly about what matters and what doesn’t. When the moment comes, the leader recognizes it and moves.
Most of us aren’t making decisions in the middle of a night battle at sea. We’re making decisions in conference rooms, over email, in conversations with our teams, and in small moments where direction is needed.
A customer is waiting. A team needs clarity. Our decision will either create movement or stall it.
In those moments, the difference comes down to a single response.
“Let me check.”
Or
“Here’s what we’re going to do.”
The gap between these two responses is only ten seconds. But what fills that gap, or fails to, defines the kind of leader you are.
The leaders who move in those moments aren’t guessing. They’re drawing on work they’ve already done. They’ve thought through the tradeoffs. Formed principles that guide their decisions. They understand the scope of their responsibility. They trust their preparation and their judgment.
Because of that, they don’t need to look upward for every answer. They don’t need to defer decisions that belong within their role.
They lead.
Create unnecessary delays, and uncertainty spreads. Energy drains. People begin to fill the gaps with their own assumptions.
A leader who steps forward brings clarity into the room.
The next time that familiar reflex shows up, pause for a moment and ask a better question.
Is this mine to decide?
If it is, then decide. Step forward. Move.
The distance between good and great leadership rarely shows up in dramatic events. It shows up in small decisions, repeated over time, where someone chooses to act, or chooses to wait.
Burke’s destroyers didn’t win the night by waiting for permission. They won it by being ready when the moment came.
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