When Fatherhood Became a Mirror for Leadership

The Night That Held 2 Lessons

4 November 2025, 11.22 p.m.

The house was finally quiet. Everyone had gone to bed, the last echoes of laughter fading after the birthday candles were blown out. I had just completed an hour of cycling and part of me wanted to collapse into bed.

But Loki, my dog, had other plans. He stood by the door, eyes bright, body ready. He is one of the most consistent members of our family. He does not argue about routine. He lives it. So I picked up the leash and stepped out into the night.

The road was still. The air felt like a pause. It was the kind of silence that invites reflection. It was also the night my second son, Eann, turned 7.

Walking Loki, I felt gratitude and a quiet ache. Gratitude for this boy who has brought so much joy into our lives. Ache for the parts of fatherhood and leadership I still feel I fall short in. Nights like this strip away the noise and leave you with what truly matters.

I thought about my 4 children. I do not have a favourite. Each has a special place in my heart, a different role in the story of my life.

Aden, my eldest, was the one who gave me the paradigm shift about life itself. When I first held him, my world changed from being a single person to being a father. Before that, I could understand “generational” at a head level. With him in my arms, it moved into my heart.

I realised that once a child comes into the world, history is never the same again. Even if he leaves early, his existence still marks the world. I often remember my great grandfather’s grave. Nearby there is a tombstone for his brother, who died around the age of 15. I have never met him, never heard his voice, yet his name stands there in stone. His existence is permanently recorded. Generations later, we still see the evidence that he lived.

That is the weight of life. That is what hit me when I became a father.

And then there is my second son, Eann. My “angel baby.” The one whose birthday I was remembering that night. He did not give me the first shock of fatherhood. He gave me something else. He taught me about sequence, attachment, and the quiet power of visible love.

The Sequence That Built Trust

From the beginning, all my children were closer to their mother. It was natural. She breastfed them. Her body was their first comfort and their first home. My role, at the start, was often focused on taking care of her. I saw my primary responsibility as supporting my wife, and she would take care of the children.

That started to change when she became pregnant again. When she was expecting our third child, we knew she would need more rest. That meant one thing. Someone had to take over more of the caring for our second child, Eann.

I remember making a very intentional decision. I would “wean him over” to me. Not away from his mother in love, but closer to me in attachment. This was not strategy from a parenting book. It was a father searching his heart and deciding to step in.

So I started with something simple. I brought him out to the park. I played with him. I made him laugh and laugh and laugh. I became a child with him. I wanted him to know that my presence meant joy, safety, and warmth, not just discipline.

Slowly, bedtime became my territory. Putting him to sleep became one of my greatest secret satisfactions. He would lie on my arm until he drifted off, his small head resting against me. Many times, when I tried to slowly pull my arm away and slip out, he would stir and wake up. It was frustrating at first.

After a while, I stopped trying to escape. I simply chose to sleep beside him with my arm as his pillow, until both of us rested. Somewhere in that routine, a bond was forged that I did not fully understand at the time.

Even now, he sleeps in a different room. But every morning, when he wakes up, he marches straight into my bedroom. Without thinking, I open my arm. He runs over and tucks his head into that same spot on my arm. It is automatic for him. But I know this “automatic” comes from years of repetition that started when he could not even speak.

There is another story that reveals his nature. One night, when he was still very young, I carried him and went around the house switching off the lights. Normally I would do it in a certain order. That night, I broke the pattern. I offed them in a different sequence.

He started crying fiercely. At first, I panicked. I thought something had hurt him. He could not yet explain what was wrong. So my wife and I had to guess.

Eventually, we discovered the problem. It was the sequence. He wanted the lights to be turned off in the same order as usual. If I missed one switch, or offed another too early, he could not accept it. So, tired as I was, I went all the way downstairs, turned every light back on, then off again in the exact order he expected. Only then did his emotions settle.

At first, we joked and called him “OCD.” He did not know what this meant, of course. It was our way of trying to make sense of his intensity. Over time, I realised it was not just fussiness. It was something deeper.

He is very particular about sequence because sequence gives him safety. The pattern tells him he is in a world that makes sense. That need for structure shows up in other areas of his life too.

When he practises piano, he can sit there for hours. He plays the same part again and again until he gets it right. It is a sharp contrast with my eldest son, who tends to lose focus more easily. In Chinese we sometimes joke and call it 很蛇, “very snake,” meaning he will slither away from the task after a while. But not Eann. When he decides something matters, he gives his whole heart to it.

Researchers have found that children who grow up with stable routines often develop significantly higher emotional security by seven years old. It is not the routine itself that makes them strong. It is the signal behind it. The message that says, “You are safe. The world is not random. I am here.”

There was another moment that made me smile in secret. One day, I overheard a conversation between Eann and his brother. He wanted his big brother to play a game with him, but his brother, being older, was not interested. He rejected him.

Instead of throwing a tantrum, I heard my little boy begin to negotiate. He said something like, “If you do not do this with me, then next time I will not do this thing that you like with you.” I watched carefully. I wondered whether his words would carry weight. After all, he was smaller, younger.

To my surprise, his brother agreed. “Fine, I will play with you,” he said.

And it did not happen just once. I saw similar scenes several times. Somehow, even at that age, Eann understood what mattered to the other person and how to speak to their heart. In Chinese, we sometimes call this 读心术. It sounds like mind-reading, but it is really early emotional intelligence.

He is also shy when praised in public. If I say something good about him in front of others, his face lights up, but he will still tell me, “No, Daddy, I am so shy.” That simple combination, confident enough to receive love, yet humble enough to be shy, is something I treasure deeply.

And then there was the season of MCO. The world called it a crisis. For me, in one sense, it was also a gift. The world paused. God pressed a global stop button and forced people like me to slow down. Before that, I was too busy with work and expansion. During MCO, I finally had long stretches of time with my children.

I remember setting up a small swimming pool at home, just watching my boys play. I remember putting them down for afternoon naps, lying with them until they slept. Those slow hours, which looked unproductive on a business calendar, were some of the most productive moments for my soul as a father.

All these memories came back to me as I walked with Loki on the night Eann turned seven.

The Light That Reveals the Heart

While my heart was full of gratitude for my son, another part of my mind was occupied with something else. Work. Leadership. Trust.

Recently, there had been a situation in the organisation that troubled me deeply. I saw how easily sincerity can turn into strategy. Trust, instead of being given freely, was becoming a bargaining chip. When that happen, something sacred is lost. It reminded me that leadership, like love, cannot be negotiated. The rhythm that brings peace to a child must also guide a team, steady, visible, and pure in intention.

I stayed mostly silent. Outwardly, I did not argue much. Inwardly, I was grieving. Not just because of the inconvenience, but because of what it revealed.

People were picking up certain ideas floating around social media and LinkedIn. But nobody on social media is going to carry the consequences of your decisions for you. You alone are responsible for the long-term effect of how you choose to behave.

I could not help feeling a deep sense of sympathy for this kind of thinking. In good times, people want to celebrate and claim credit. In difficult moments, instead of standing together in the struggle, they jump into negotiation mode.

I also asked myself a few hard questions on their behalf.

If you do this to anyone, can you really expect greater trust tomorrow? Will this pattern help your long-term reputation?

There is a line in Scripture that says a good name is better than fine perfume. Perfume can be sprayed on in seconds to make you smell good from the outside. A name is built slowly over years. In a world that loves perfume, some people forget the weight of a name.

That morning, before the walk, my devotion came from Exodus 13:21:

“By day the Lord went ahead of them in a pillar of cloud to guide them on their way, and by night in a pillar of fire to give them light.”

This picture of God’s leadership is very powerful. Cloud by day. Fire by night. Two different forms. One consistent presence. Israel did not just receive a list of rules. They saw a visible pattern. When the pillar moved, they moved. When it stayed, they stayed.

In leadership language, this is the law of the picture. People do what they see. They follow what they can observe. They look for rhythm.

At home, my son needed the sequence of lights. At work, my team needs the sequence of principles. Both are looking for the same thing. A leader whose inner world and outer actions align.

Our brains are wired to spot inconsistency very quickly. People can sense something is off before they can explain it with words. That is why followers often “feel” confusion or distrust long before any open conflict appears. Consistency is not about being perfect. It is about being believable.

As I walked that night, I asked myself three questions.

First, does my private character match my public leadership? If the people close to me see one thing in private and another in public, they will eventually become confused or cynical.

Second, do my followers feel guided or confused when I move or when I pause? If, in meetings, I say one thing, but in corridors I hint another, what message am I sending?

Third, can my team predict my decisions because they understand my principles? Not the small decisions, but the direction of my heart. Do they know what I will protect, even if it costs me? Do they know which lines I will not cross, even if it is unpopular?

Without this clarity, trust cannot grow. And without trust, leadership is just a performance.

The Fire That Must Stay Lit

The night Eann turned 7, two pictures sat side by side in my heart.

On one side, a little boy who finds safety in a sequence of light, in a father’s arm, in predictable affection.

On the other side, adults who try to use unpredictability as a tool, who treat relationship and responsibility as chips in a negotiation.

I realised again that true leadership and true fatherhood are not about control. They are about rhythm. About visible, honest repetition that tells people, “You can rely on who I am, not just what I say.”

A leader who burns very brightly for a short time, then disappears or flips direction without explanation, cannot light anyone’s long-term path. In the same way, a parent who disciplines based on mood, rather than principle, raises children who are always guessing, never secure.

When I look at Eann’s “quirks” now, I no longer simply see rigidity. I see the early signs of discipline and integrity. The same intensity that insists on correct sequence can become the strength that sees a task through to the end, refuses to give up halfway, and takes responsibility seriously.

In ancient Chinese thinking, the word “序” (xù) carries great importance. It means order or sequence. The classical writings teach that moral order and social harmony start with daily sequence, such as how we eat, how we rest, how we speak. The outside order reflects the inner clarity.

In leadership, sequence is not about controlling people. It is about creating a clear environment where people know what kind of decisions they can expect from you. People follow patterns before they follow plans. They do not just hear your strategy. They watch your habits.

Modern leadership studies have shown that teams led by consistent leaders perform significantly better than those led by leaders who are inspiring but unpredictable. People feel safer, and when people feel safe, they think better, create better, and stay longer.

After that night, I made a quiet decision. Protect your rhythm. Keep the fire lit. Let your principles show up in the small, repeated actions. The way you speak to your staff when they make mistakes. The way you honour commitments even when it would be more convenient to pull back. The way you handle pressure when nobody is watching.

Because children will not remember most of your speeches, but they will remember whether you were there.

Staff may forget your fancy presentations, but they will remember whether your decisions lined up with your stated values.

The Reverse That Redefines It All

Here is the reverse that settled in my heart that night.

The opposite of visible leadership is not invisibility. It is inconsistency.

A leader who hides is still predictable. People know they cannot rely on him. But a leader who says one thing and does another keeps everyone in confusion.

The night Eann turned seven, as I walked with Loki and replayed the day in my mind, I saw how fatherhood and leadership share the same foundation. People trust what they see repeated.

The child who runs to your arm every morning is not performing a cute ritual. He is acting out years of history. He is placing his head on the same arm that carried him, waited with him, and refused to escape when it was inconvenient.

The team that stays with you when times are hard is not doing you a favour. They have seen your fire remain steady on the nights when you could have chosen to be cold. They have watched your cloud and your fire, your decisions in public and your choices in private, and found them aligned.

Leadership is not proven in the big moments when you stand on the stage. It is revealed in the small moments when no one is clapping. In how you respond when people try to manipulate. In how you choose when you are tired. In whether you still walk the talk when it costs you.

Maybe that is why God chose to show Himself as both cloud and fire. Different expressions, same faithfulness. One to guide by day, one to give light by night, both saying the same silent sentence: I am here. You can trust Me.

Psychologists sometimes call this the predictability paradox. The idea that people do not fall in love with your charisma first. They fall in love with your reliability. Charisma might attract them once. Reliability keeps them for life.

When I turned off the lights that night, one, two, three, following the order my son needed, I was not just acting out a quirky routine. I was honouring a rhythm that brought him peace.

He fell asleep, his head resting where it has rested for years. I lay there beside him and realised something quietly eternal.

The same love that puts a child to sleep can wake a leader back to life.