A Leadership Reflection on Inner Stillness, Parenting, and Perspective

The Quiet Change I Did Not Expect

It is difficult to describe, but I have become increasingly aware that something within me has shifted. As I sit here on the evening of 6 August 2025, I can say with confidence that I am not the same person I was just one month ago.

This change has touched areas of my life that I once took for granted. Although it coincides with several recent events, such as the birth of our new child, the beginning of therapy, and increased responsibilities at home and at work, it is not merely the result of external milestones. The transformation runs deeper than circumstances. It has altered the way I view my role, my energy, and my sense of purpose.

I have encountered a new kind of stillness. This is not the absence of feeling, nor is it emotional withdrawal. I continue to engage with the people and responsibilities around me. I still experience emotion in full. However, underneath those daily movements, there is now a calm and grounded awareness that did not exist before.

There is no longer a need to prove anything. I feel a quiet sense of order and a deep trust in something beyond myself. A verse I once read comes to mind: “Be still, and know that He is God.” That stillness has become a centre I return to, not as a performance, but as a posture. It has given me clarity without pressure. It has offered alignment without striving.

The Car That Grew Up with Me

If someone were to ask how I measure personal growth, I would point to the way I now relate to the things that once held symbolic weight. One of those things is my car.

In 2015, shortly after getting married, I bought a Mercedes CLA. It was sleek, compact, and efficient. At the time, it felt like the right decision. It was our wedding car, and it carried both sentimental and aspirational meaning. A decade later, the car is still with us. It remains reliable and well-maintained. Yet my relationship with it has changed completely.

I no longer care about keeping the car spotless. I am not disturbed by scratches or faded paint. What matters to me now is whether the car is safe and functional. It is no longer an extension of my image. It is a tool that serves a clear purpose, especially now that my wife uses it primarily for short city drives.

Recently, I sent the car for servicing. The tyres were completely worn out. The auxiliary battery showed signs of leakage. My friend, who runs a trusted workshop, sent me photos and asked whether I wanted to proceed with replacing several parts. I approved everything. I did not hesitate, not because I am attached to the car, but because I know its safety and reliability matter.

I chose mid-range tyres that offered good value. I repaired what was necessary and replaced the audio system with a basic four-speaker setup. Ten years ago, I would have pursued premium upgrades and customizations. Today, I simply want the car to fulfill its function.

That shift in attitude says more about my inner transformation than anything the car could reveal externally.

The Body Is Not the Driver

The same principle now applies to my body. I no longer see it as the main character of my life. It is the vehicle, not the destination.

There is a verse that asks, “Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit?” I have come to understand that this is not merely a religious reminder, but a spiritual principle. My body must be cared for, not worshipped. It is a means through which greater things can happen, not a prize to be displayed.

I no longer pursue strength for appearance. I no longer eat well to meet some standard of performance. I care for my body so that I can show up for the people who matter, for the work that matters, and for the purpose I carry. I exercise stewardship, not obsession.

That perspective has created more space within me. More patience. More empathy. More ability to listen before reacting. I do not always get it right, but I now have room to try again without the weight of guilt or performance.

That is the fruit of stillness.

A Math Lesson and a New Kind of Parenting

This evening, I sat down with my second son to review his Year 2 mathematics. To my surprise, we found ourselves going through pages from January. It is now August.

We managed to complete only two pages in half an hour. At one point, he asked how to spell the word “nine.” He tried “N-I-N-Y.” I was startled but did not scold him. I gently corrected him, and we both smiled. My elder son joined us shortly after, and together we turned the revision into something casual and almost enjoyable.

What used to be a source of frustration became an opportunity for connection. There were no raised voices. No accusations. No expressions of disappointment. No child left the table feeling stupid or small.

Years ago, I would have reacted differently. I would have questioned the school, the teacher, and even my own parenting. I would have asked why something so basic had been missed. But this time, I chose calm over criticism. And in that calm, something else emerged—laughter, curiosity, and shared effort.

It was not just a lesson in mathematics. It was a lesson in stillness.

What a Hospital Taught Me About Systemic Change

Earlier today, I met with a lecturer from a medical school. We discussed an observation I have held for some time. Many parts of the medical industry are no longer led by doctors. Decisions are often made by business executives and system designers who do not possess clinical expertise.

This is not a criticism. I understand why it happens. Businesspeople are better at scaling systems and managing resources. They see what many doctors do not. But without medical insight, even the best business model can feel hollow. At the same time, many doctors lack the leadership training or systemic thinking required to drive long-term transformation.

It should not be one or the other. It must be both.

Twelve years ago, I had food poisoning while traveling in India. I was taken to a hospital where the conditions were distressing. Patients lay in corridors. Privacy was minimal. Dignity was absent. I received what was considered premium care, yet still felt as though my life did not matter.

In contrast, our recent experience delivering a baby in a Malaysian private hospital felt completely different. The environment was clean. The food was nourishing. The staff were attentive. For the first time, I understood that healing comes not only from medicine, but also from dignity and environment. When a patient feels they matter, the body often responds more positively.

The takeaway is simple. Systems must serve both the function and the spirit. Efficiency matters, but so does humanity.

From Control to Capacity

This internal shift has also affected the way I deal with everyday frustration. Recently, we had to register our daughter’s identity card. It took three separate trips and nearly ten hours to complete the process. I had to involve my wife and all our children. It would have been easy to turn it into a stressful, disappointing day.

Instead, we reframed it. We treated it as a family outing. We went for meals. We made jokes. We created memories. The process was inconvenient, but the attitude changed everything.

I have come to believe that the most important form of leadership is not found in high-level decisions, but in everyday moments like these. When we choose presence over pressure, we create space for love, learning, and laughter to coexist.

That is what stillness makes possible. It does not eliminate frustration. It transforms how we carry it.

The Reverse That Redefines It All

Stillness is not the absence of movement. It is the presence of alignment.

My life remains full. I have a newborn at home. I am still building teams, leading projects, and making decisions. But I am no longer rushing for the sake of rushing. I am no longer performing for the sake of being seen.

I have come to believe that the most impactful leaders are not necessarily the loudest or the busiest. They are the ones who are most anchored. The ones who can pause in the storm. The ones who can create space rather than fill it.

They are still. And because they are still, they can see clearly.

If there is one lesson I carry from this season, it is this: we do not need more activity. We need more alignment. We do not need more pressure. We need more presence.

I no longer lead to impress. I choose to lead from stillness.

And from that place, I know what matters.