☕️ We started with coffee, like most chats do. Black for me, cappuccino for Jimothy (he actually prefers Jim, or James). Corner terrace, Singelgracht. One of those confusing Amsterdam afternoons where the sky can’t decide − sunlight breaks through the clouds, then ducks back behind them. Just long enough to let a few leaves blow across the wet stone.

Jim’s good at what he does. Senior technical manager at a mid-sized SaaS company. Knows the systems, understands the roadmap, has decent rapport with his engineers. But somewhere between the first sip and the second, he leans in and says quietly:

> “So I’ve got this candidate who’s… honestly, probably better than me. Sharp, fast. Good instincts. I’m not sure I should hire him”

I let that sit for a moment. Not because I didn’t have a response.
But because I wanted him to hear it out loud.

> “Why not?” I ask.

He shrugs. Looks away.

> “He’ll make me look bad”

There it is.

We talk around it for a bit. He says things like “I’m not sure about culture fit” and “What if he steps on toes?” but we both know what it is: fear. Fear of being “outshone”. Fear of being irrelevant. Or that his peers (the other managers) will start wondering why Jim’s even in the room.

I sip my coffee. The wind picks up. The canal water ripples like a mirror someone just tapped.

> “Jim,” I say. “Is your job to look like the smartest person in the room, or to build the best room possible?”
Yes, I’d had enough time to phrase it that fancy 😎

That seems to land. He doesn’t say anything.

We switch to beer. Cold Guinness glasses sweating in the weak afternoon sun. The conversation gets looser, but the truth gets sharper. Is this the 🗣️ fasten your seatbelts moment?

> “You’re spending half your energy,” I say, “trying not to look exposed. And the other half cleaning up messes caused by people you hired because they wouldn’t dare challenge you”

He flinches, but doesn’t deny it.

> “Micromanaging the ones who aren’t ready, or ghosting the ones who might call you out. That’s not leadership. That’s performance. Or rather, performing. And it’s exhausting!”

He leans back. Watches tram 19 crawl by on the other side of the water.

> “But if I hire someone better… where does that leave me?”

> “Free,” I say. “It leaves you free”

Free to stop tying your worth to your title. Free to stop babysitting every ticket and code review. Free to actually lead: set direction, remove blockers, build alliances. The stuff you’re supposed to be doing, but can’t get to because you’re too busy making sure no one sees the cracks.

Jim is quiet. Then, finally:

> “It’s just… hard to let go”

> “It’s not letting go,” I say. “It’s stepping up”

By getting out of the weeds, you give yourself altitude. And the irony is: once you stop trying to protect your ego, your influence actually grows. Because people start to trust you. Not because you know everything − but because you know who to trust. And you back them.

The pint is almost empty. The wind’s colder now. He rubs his hands together and nods, mostly to himself.

> “Okay. So what do I do?”

---

Here’s what Jim said he’s doing, starting tomorrow:

• Hire the person who challenges me. Even if it stings. Especially if it stings.
• Stop trying to be the hero. Start unblocking, connecting, enabling.
• Let my team shine. And take pride in the fact that I built that.

🍂 The leaves keep falling. The sun comes back out. Jim’s still quiet, but different now − less guarded, more open. He finishes his pint, no longer clinging to his title like it’s a Dundee Award.
For once, he’s not performing leadership. He’s ready to be one.

---

Did Jim read The Motive by Patrick Lencioni after this conversation?
Maybe. Maybe not. But if he did, he probably underlined the bit about leadership being a responsibility − not a reward.
And maybe that’s what finally pushed him from performative to real.

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