The Quiet Work of Noticing

“To acquire knowledge, one must study;
but to acquire wisdom, one must observe.”

Marilyn vos Savant

The best leaders I know aren't the ones with all the answers. They're the ones asking better questions.

This past week, I sat at a leadership conference listening to the keynote speaker talk about "observational leadership": the practice of choosing curiosity over certainty. Of really looking outward. Of noticing the unspoken things that quietly shape everything. It's a deceptively simple idea. But it landed hard.

Because a year ago, I unintentionally decided to test this on myself. Not in a meeting or a strategy session, but in the most vulnerable place I could think of: a blank page.

I started writing. Every single week. Not for an audience, not for a deadline. Just to see what I'd notice if I actually made space to observe.

Here's what I learned: Most of what I notice, someone else has noticed too. That used to bother me. I wanted to be original, to say something that would shift perspectives or change minds. I know I'm not the smartest or most creative, so why try to write what is probably already better said by someone else?

But over this past year, I realized: the point isn't to be the first or the best. The point is to be honest. To trust that if something makes sense to me, it might make sense to someone else who's been waiting to hear it in just this way.

There's a kind of quiet leadership in that. Not the kind that announces itself, but the kind that listens, notices, and gives voice to what's been overlooked.

Some days I write things I'll never show anyone. Some days it's just a way to clear my mind so I can see what's actually happening around me: on my team, with clients, in the patterns I'd otherwise miss.

This morning I wrote about "limitless support." The idea that we all need support, but that support looks different for different people, and individual needs change. Not just what they need to feel supported, but how they need to be supported. What one person experiences as care, another might experience as suffocation. Here's what writing it helped me see: when you help someone understand what support looks like for them, they start to understand what support looks like for those around them. That's how support becomes limitless. It can't be through scale or systems alone, but also through people learning to truly see each other. It's a reminder that systems and efficiency can't solve everything. Some things require attention. Observation. Care.

I wouldn't have noticed that without making space to write. Without choosing to observe instead of just reacting. And that's been the pattern all year: small noticings that add up. They become a record of what I've learned and who I'm becoming as a leader.

Observational leadership starts with observing yourself. With making space even when you're not sure what will fill it. With choosing curiosity over certainty.

And trusting that in the act of noticing—really noticing—you're doing something that matters.

Even if it's just for you.

Especially if it's just for you.

Find your superpowers

“People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

 Maya Angelou

Your mom is the best thing that has ever happened to me.

Not just because she made you possible, not just because the top fifty conversations of my life have been with her, but because she gave me my superpower.

My boss once told me my superpower is empathy, and I’m starting to believe him. But it wasn’t always this way.

As a child, I was sensitive. Tears came too easily when someone hurt my feelings, and there was nothing more humiliating than giving instant gratification to the person who hurt me by showing them they succeeded. One day in high school, working as a pharmacy technician at Eckerd Drug, the pharmacist on duty did what he always did—he was a jerk. But this time, he made a spectacle of me. Over the store’s loudspeaker, he called me back to the pharmacy, announcing to everyone that I was too slow. In front of customers, he questioned how I could be so bad at my job. I could feel the tears coming, so I asked for a break, drove home, and screamed in anger alone. I promised myself that day, at 18 years old, I’d never let someone who hurt me see my pain again.

I’ve never cried from anger or humiliation since that day. I shut off those feelings. I shut off that part of me.

In college, I took a Myers-Briggs test, and it labeled me an INTP—heavily skewed toward Thinking, not Feeling. It made sense to me. I was a thinker, someone fascinated by people, almost like a psychologist observing emotions behind glass. As a person who shut off his feelings, I wanted to understand what made people think, but didn’t want to feel with them. But that glass was there not because I feared people but because I had shut off my own feelings and couldn’t resonate with theirs.

And then your mom came along, and my feelings came back with her. First, because I fell so deeply in love with all the best parts of her–feeling in a way I hadn’t at any point in my life. Then, because I fell so deeply in love with all the worst parts of her. And then she helped me learn to love myself in a way I never did. Not that I ever hated myself, but for me, when I shut off the negative feelings, it meant I had to shut off positive feelings too. At the time, it seemed worth it, but it wasn’t.

Even if the intention wasn’t to re-open parts of me, through hundreds of conversations, just regular conversations, we weaved through feelings and emotions. I removed the protective glass and didn’t just allow myself to feel emotions with her; I leaped toward them. To understand them. To understand her. To understand me. To empathize.

For me, having another person understand me, really understand me, is one of those feelings that simultaneously brings joy, self-confidence, and true community. And that feeling is worth sharing, like your mom shared with me.

When I truly understand another person, it’s impossible not to care about them. I’ve learned to see the best and worst in people and lean into their strengths. I pour everything I have into helping people see the best parts of themselves. If I can seek to understand them so well, care for them so much, and feel with them so they know they’re not alone in their feelings…maybe, just maybe, I can help them find their superpower. And if not, at the very least, I hope they feel what your mom helped me feel–joy, self-confidence, and the community of an advocate. If I can accomplish that, it makes all the surrounding work and struggle worth it.

Recently, as I transition out of my job, I’ve been overwhelmed by the feedback from my colleagues. They told me in so many different words that they’re better because I didn’t just listen—I understood them. I always knew how much I cared about them, and while that alone was enough for me, I didn’t ever really know if it was making the impact I hoped it would. But this week, I realized it has, at least for some. And that is way more than enough for me.

Your mom is why I dream of teaching and impacting others. It just takes one person to care for another person to care. If you multiply that over time, it's hard not to hope for a future where more people understand and care for each other.

When you find your superpower, give it back to the world. It will change lives—including your own.

Lessons from the kid: The power of empathy

"While we try to teach our children all about life, our children teach us what life is all about." 

Angela Schwindt

When you were three, Mom and I sat with you in your playroom. There wasn’t anything magical about that day—no special date or occasion that I can remember. But I do remember Mom and I having a disagreement. We had promised never to have full-blown arguments in front of you, so I know it was relatively mild. But after a few tense words, Mom left the room to keep it from escalating.

As soon as she left, you came over to me, pointing out the window. Your small hand stretched beyond the sill, past the lawn, toward a flower bed near our neighbor's fence. You were showing me a cluster of sunflowers, their yellow petals turned toward the sun.

“Dad, you see those flowers over there?”

“Yes, Lyla, I see them. What about them?”

“Did you know that each one needs a different amount of sun and water to grow?”

“I suppose that’s true,” I said, curious where this was going.

“Well, Dad, you and Mom are like flowers. You need different amounts of sun and light, but you’ll still both grow into flowers.”

It stopped me in my tracks—how you, at just three years old, managed to see through the disagreement and offer an analogy that would take most adults a lifetime to come up with.

That night, I asked Mom if she’d shared that thought with you, but she hadn’t. To this day, we still don’t know where it came from.

What I do know is that your ability, even at that young age, to see through emotions and offer such deep wisdom is a gift. As an eight-year-old now, your emotional intelligence is even more incredible. I had to study and practice emotional intelligence before I felt confident in how to connect with others. Yet here you were at three, showing me how it’s done.

I’m writing these lessons for you, but I realize how much you’ve already taught me. As you get older, you might forget some of the things you’ve naturally known all along—and that’s okay. Sometimes we need to relearn what we already know. But never forget who you are, Lyla. Trust your instincts, your intuition, and never hesitate to guide others, just as you’ve guided me.