A reflection from Lisbon
It was loud.
It was intense.
In many ways, it was impressive.
Seven hours of high-energy programming—
dense, fast, packed with insights, people, input.
And yet, the moment I felt my batteries draining,
I chose something else.
I stepped out.
Gently. Quietly. Courageously.
I left the event a little early today—
not because it wasn’t valuable,
but because I’ve learned to honor my limits
without apology.
I wanted to be fully present with the two people who matter most:
my beloved husband and my little son.
I knew I couldn’t offer presence
if I kept overriding myself in the noise.
Yes, I’m grateful.
I’ve met beautiful minds, inspiring voices.
I even had a brief moment with Michael Steger—
just enough to share a glimpse of my thesis on purpose and sensitivity in leadership.
A follow-up will come. But not now.
What struck me today is this:
depth requires space.
And many high-level events still struggle to make room for that.
No integration time.
No space between presentations.
No real rhythm—just acceleration.
And so, true connection becomes DIY:
you have to carve out dialogue
between the slides.
Between the noise.
Between the metrics.
And something else began to stir in me.
A quiet discomfort.
A sense that despite all the brilliance,
we’re still not fully listening.
Yes, we cite great thinkers.
Yes, we tell compelling origin stories.
Yes, we pitch solutions, frameworks, lives well-lived.
But still—much of it feels centered around the self.
The speaker. The product. The brand.
Rarely do we turn toward those not in the room.
Rarely do we invite the street into the stage.
We talk about inclusion,
but we don’t include.
We speak of common good,
but from within curated bubbles.
We quote Carol Ryff on meaning and art and nature—
but sit in windowless halls under artificial light.
So what would it look like to mean it?
To hold an event not in a ballroom,
but in a forest, or a public gallery.
To co-create with voices outside our comfort zones.
To design spaces where the "audience" isn't just listening—
but shaping.
Perhaps our greatest responsibility as leaders
is not just to inspire,
but to step aside,
and let different kinds of knowledge emerge.
Knowledge from lived experience.
From the quiet ones.
From the streets we walk past.
From the Earth we say we protect.
Because that, too, is love.
And leadership.
And presence.
I'm still dreaming of a Wald-University—
not only of purpose,
but of people.
All people.
And today reminded me again:
every pause, every step away from noise,
is also a step toward that dream.