“The most common form of disappointment is that you are not who you are.” ~Soren Kierkegaard
A few years ago, I was meeting for coffee with an old friend, whom I’ll call Ray, a trusted guru. He’s a few years older than me, blonde, and down to earth, a man who listens with his whole heart.
We were in a small coffee shop near my house. I told him about my first year as a director, how I went from being a consultant whose identity was based on listening to suddenly managing budgets, writing evaluations, and holding people accountable.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I said, “and every time I ask for help I feel like I’m bothering people.”
Ray nodded slowly. “Sounds tough,” he said. “It makes sense that you’re struggling with change.”
I kept adding to the list, making my case. “And the criticism I get doesn’t help,” I said. “People say I’m too nice, that I’m not strong enough on policy, that I’m not firm enough on boundaries. But they also want freedom.”
“I’m not sure how much longer I can do this,” I told him.
He let me finish my sentence. Then he leaned forward a little. “Can I tell you something I notice?”
“Of course,” I said.
“You’re seeing yourself as a victim,” he said, “as if life is happening to you and you’re just waiting for it to stop.”
I sat there for a while, hoping he would give some advice.
But I knew Ray better than that. He always gave you the truth as he saw it and then trusted you to find your way.
I went home because of a headache. I told myself it wasn’t fair, that Ray hadn’t heard everything, that I had reasons to feel the way I did. But the word he used somehow stuck with me in the car.
It was still there when I tried to sleep. It was still two o’clock in the night as I looked at the ceiling.
victim.
I didn’t want it, but I couldn’t put it down.
I turned that word over in my mind the way you turn a stone in your hand, looking at it from every angle. Even though I didn’t want to admit it, I began to see some truth in it.
I’m holding onto grievances that I never expressed. I was silently accumulating the feeling of being wronged without saying a single word or trying to change things. It has a name, and that name, as much as it stings, is the one Ray had just handed me.
As I lay there in the dark I had a picture in my mind. I saw myself wearing a wooden sign around my neck, as you can see in an old photograph, hanging there like a label.
And the word on the sign was “Victim.”
The hard thing was that I knew I wasn’t being punished by anyone else. Part of me was choosing to wear it. That image stayed with me and it changed something.
I started asking myself a question that I found more useful than feeling sorry for myself. If “victim” was the word I didn’t want to have, what was the word I did want? What would it feel like to stand in the opposite position?
I went through different words. Hero, conqueror, agent, creator, survivor, conqueror. They all had something to teach me, but none of them were what I needed.
Then a word started rising from some deep place. Of all the words that could have been said, this word surprised me. The word that came to me was “steward.”
I looked at it the other night, and the word “steward” has been around for a long time. At its core, it meant keeper of the house, someone trusted to take care of a story bigger than their home.
I didn’t go looking for that word, and maybe that’s why it seemed so important. I asked myself why it came up, what it was pointing to, what it was trying to explain to me. It felt like nothing I had imagined and more like something was given to me.
I learned that a steward is someone who takes care of what he or she has been given, is present with intention and recognizes that what he or she has been given, including the hard parts, is worth taking care of.
It wasn’t exactly unlike suffering, but in my case it was the antidote. A victim is identified by what is done to him. A steward is defined by what he chooses to do with it.
Now, years later, the leadership challenges are still here. I still struggle with criticism, especially when I feel like I’m already doing my best. But what’s different now is the perspective.
A few weeks ago, one of my strongest staff members asked for a formal meeting. She sat down across my desk, calm and direct, and told me that the flexibility I was giving others was making her job harder.
“When people don’t follow through and there are no consequences, the people who do the work end up taking more than their share,” she said. “It doesn’t seem fair.”
Deep inside I was already preparing my response. I wanted to tell her that I was trying to take the pressure off people, I saw how stressed everyone was and I was trying to give them space to breathe.
It was accurate, but it also included the victim talking, saying, “What about me?” A manager does not protect himself from harsh feedback. A steward follows what he is given, and at that moment what was given to me was the truth.
The victim inside me wanted to understand. The manager within me knew that I was serving a greater purpose than I was comfortable with. The department was there to take care of me, not to hide behind.
“You’re right,” I said. “And I’m grateful you came straight to me.” I told her that I’m working on having clear boundaries, that her feedback will help me do it better, and that people who do their jobs with excellence deserve a leader who protects that standard.
The movement from victim to manager is an ongoing process. I haven’t finished it, and I don’t expect to. I’m still staggering, I still feel the scar around my neck and I have to find my way back.
I experienced the difficulty of leadership as if something was happening to me, as if the pressure and criticism were proof that I didn’t belong. What changed was the recognition that this season of my life was asking something of me, not punishing me. I was being called into service, whether I felt ready or not.
Since that night I have thought a lot about management. About what it means to stop just surviving your life and start paying attention to it. These are two very different relationships with the same experience.
That night at the coffee shop, Ray knew me well and told me an uncomfortable truth. He was not soft on this matter. But humility is not what we always need.
Sometimes we need a sign around our neck to be told by someone standing close enough to see it.
I don’t carry that symbol with me anymore, or at least, I’m trying not to. On days when I feel it settled around my neck, I remember the word that took its place.
Steward.
Someone who follows what he is given. Someone who asks what life is expecting from them, listens and answers the call.
This is the person I want to be.
About Daniel H. Shapiro
Dr. Daniel H. Shapiro is a keynote speaker, workshop presenter, and mentor. He is passionate about human connections and the stories we carry with us. For more information about his book, The 5 Practices of the Caring Mentor, or his consulting and speaking services, visit: www.yourinherentgoodness.com.
