Written on 27 July 2025

It Started with a Call. It Became a Prototype.

In 2020, the world was locked down. The MCO had paralyzed the economy. We were still in survival mode after launching Stellar International School. I was carrying my second son when the phone rang. It was the landlord of Stellar Preschool.

Her voice was kind but direct. The kindergarten next door was shutting down. She said, “Daniel, you should take over. It makes business sense.” I turned her down politely. Too much was on my plate. Too many unknowns.

But she called again.

This time, she said something different. “Every day I hear the children cry next door. The teachers scold them so loudly. We prayed someone better would take over. That someone could be you.”

Something in me shifted. It wasn’t about business anymore. It was about brokenness. She called again, the third time. “You and I can be neighbours. Think about it.” I told her I would.

That moment marked the beginning. Not of a school, but of a burden. A calling. A small decision. A quiet yes. But that yes didn’t launch a school. It launched a leadership prototype.

From Takeover to Tear-Down: Building Anyway

We said yes to take over. But before we could step in, the previous owner tore the place down. Literally. She paid people to dismantle everything. She did not want her competitor to have a head start.

We were stunned. But we moved forward anyway. The building was empty. But the dream was still intact.

We gathered the core team: Samuel, Yvonne, my wife. We asked the real question. Not whether we could afford it, but whether we had a purpose clear enough to carry it.

Johor Bahru had been losing teachers to Singapore for years. What if we could flip that? What if we could build a platform for early childhood educators to rise up, own their centres, stay local, and grow within Stellar?

We would take the business risk. They would carry the operational risk. Together, it could work.

Yvonne suggested the name: Sand and Stars Kindergarten. A tribute to God’s promise to Abraham. Descendants as numerous as sand. Shining bright like stars. We wanted both: scale and substance. Reach and excellence.

But as we began to rebuild, we faced a different kind of challenge. Not the building. Not the budget. It was leadership.

Not Just a Preschool. A Leadership Prototype.

Our first appointed leader resigned unexpectedly. We were caught off guard. That loss became our first lesson. Never outsource what you haven’t first built from within. Leadership must grow from roots, not from résumé.

We turned to someone already in the family. Miss J, a young senior teacher from Stellar Preschool. She had been faithful for years. We saw potential in her. When we asked if she would consider taking the lead, she said yes. We were hopeful. She was excited. But we all underestimated the weight of transition.

Leading a class and leading a centre are not the same thing. The role shift was far greater than expected. She struggled quietly. Not because she lacked talent, but because her pursuit of perfection became a prison. She would rather hide than be seen making a mistake. Her love for excellence turned into fear of failure. She distanced herself from us, not out of pride, but because she felt she couldn’t measure up.

Still, I believed in her.

Toward the end of the first year, I initiated a conversation. I gently asked if she wanted to continue leading. She said she did. I then proposed a structural solution that could ease the burden. Since Sand and Stars and Stellar Preschool were geographically close, we could split the centres by age group. Three- and four-year-olds at Sand and Stars. Five- and six-year-olds at Stellar Preschool. One management. One vision. One united team.

But she surprised me. She turned it down. She didn’t want shared leadership. She wanted to learn to lead fully. To own the responsibility. I honored that. As a founder, I knew the risks. I knew she was still struggling. But my goal wasn’t perfection. My goal was people.

If we wanted to raise leaders, we had to let them lead. Even if it meant watching them struggle.

But just a few months later, she came back to me with difficult news. Her father could no longer work in Singapore. As the eldest, she had to step down from her role to support the family. She was resigning.

My heart dropped.

I honored her decision. But it was not just the loss of a staff member. It was the loss of a prototype in motion. A leadership journey that had barely begun.

And yet, it was also a wake-up call. A quiet but powerful truth:

Succession planning cannot begin when someone leaves. It must begin when someone starts.

Quiet Leadership. Loud Impact.

A few months later, Miss J came to me with news I wasn’t prepared for. Her father could no longer work in Singapore, and she would have to resign. My heart dropped. I honored her decision, but I also realized something important. When we build people, we must also understand their realities. Otherwise, we are building on timelines that are not truly theirs.

This wasn’t just the resignation of a staff member. It was the pause of a prototype. A fragile dream now needing a new carrier.

Before she left, I asked her, “Who do you believe can take your place?”

She gave one name.

Doreen.

At that time, Doreen was only 21. I had few direct interactions with her, but I remembered one encounter clearly. She had joined our Deputy Vice Principal Leadership Program. Quiet. Reserved. Not one to speak out. But when her university changed their policies—demanding that students attend classes in KL after previously agreeing to online study—she approached me.

Not to vent. Not to blame. She simply asked, “Can you help me write to them?”

I guided her through voice recording her message and asked her to convert it into an email. What she returned was clear, mature, and composed beyond her years. She impressed me. Not just with execution, but with poise.

Doreen lacked polish, but she had posture. She had something rare. She showed up. She learned. She delivered.

So we entrusted her with the centre.

The Regeneration Principle: Sand and Stars Didn’t Break. It Re-grew.

The world often over-celebrates loud personalities and underestimates quiet commitment. But nature teaches something different.

In biology, the starfish regenerates. Even when cut, it regrows. Not just survives, but rebuilds. From within.

Sand and Stars became our starfish.

The first leader left. We regrouped. The second leader rose from within. Slowly, steadily, and without drama. Doreen was not in a rush. She took each challenge with humility. She listened more than she spoke. But her growth was consistent.

She turned down offers from other schools. Not because we paid the highest salary, but because she found her place. She believed in what she was building.

Today, Doreen oversees both Sand and Stars Kindergarten and Stellar Playschool. She is no longer just a young leader. She is a symbol of what happens when we build with patience, not pressure.

The Leadership That Doesn’t Shout: From Doreen to Stellar International School

Doreen’s story is not an isolated one.

The same principle built Stellar International School. Our founding team—five individuals without elite backgrounds, without international credentials—carried the early days of the school. They were not recruited from Ivy League institutions. They were not imported from Singapore or the UK. They were ordinary, local educators. But they believed.

Today, that school serves more than 700 families from 25 nationalities. It is run by more than 100 staff and is now preparing to move into a purpose-built campus. Not because we had the biggest capital, but because we had the clearest why. And because we never departed from our original intent: raise leaders from within. Start where we are. Build with what we have.

We were not trying to impress. We were trying to invest.

That is how Sand and Stars was built. That is how Stellar was born. That is how legacy will be sustained.

Alibaba, Tesla, and Every Nation: Different Models, Same Lesson

In China, people often compare two types of companies: Alibaba and Tencent.

Alibaba is synonymous with Jack Ma. Visionary. Vocal. The company reflects his charisma. But Tencent? Most people cannot name the CEO. And yet Tencent thrives. Quietly. Systemically.

In the West, the same contrast exists. Elon Musk is Tesla. His tweets shift markets. His personality moves headlines. But 3M? Their products are found in every home, yet their leadership remains invisible.

We asked ourselves: what kind of legacy do we want?

Then I saw the answer in real life. Pastor Timothy Loh, who passed away recently, led Every Nation Church Malaysia with humility and clarity. After his passing, within days, the leadership announced his successor: Pastor Sean. At first, I was shocked. Why so fast? Isn’t it too soon?

But after reading Pastor Tim’s memoir, I understood.

Succession did not begin at death. It began in discipleship. Pastor Tim had been walking with Sean since 2007. Eighteen years of intentional investment. That is why the transition wasn’t rushed. It was ready.

Succession planning must begin on day one. Because we do not know when day one will end.

Start With the End in Mind. Then Build for Others.

Legacy does not begin at the end of a career. It begins at the start of a centre.

When Miss J said yes. When Doreen quietly rose. When we trained instead of hired. When we gave up control to develop others.

This is the true work of leadership. To raise those who will outshine us. Not by our hands, but because of our trust.

We do not know when our last day will be. But we do know this:

“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.”

(Psalm 90:12)

Leadership is not how far we climb. It is how deep we plant.

That is what Sand and Stars became. A prototype for raising leaders. From sand. Into stars.

The Reverse That Redefines It All

The opposite of leadership is not failure. It is holding on too tightly.

It is thinking we must control the outcome before trusting the next in line.

But true leadership is letting go early.

So that others can rise, not after us, but with us.

Even if they stumble.

Even if they are not perfect.

Even if they are only twenty-one.

Because stars are not born shining.

They are formed slowly. Quietly.

From dust. From pressure.

From someone who believed.