What a Watch Alarm, Dyson, and a Friday Breakdown Taught Me About Leadership and Selfhood
The Day That Didn’t Wait
It started with a buzz. Not the metaphorical kind—the literal, tiny buzz of my son’s wristwatch during morning prayer.
The irony? We were reciting scripture. Talking about surrender, confession, the presence of God. We were trying to start our day right, as we always do. And then—bzzz—that small, persistent buzz. A button-battery-sized interruption.
And yet, I lost it. I raised my voice. My tone pierced more than that tiny sound ever could.
The kids froze. Their father—supposed to be their guide, their rhythm keeper—had snapped. And for what? A sound barely audible unless you were looking for something to react to.
But I wasn’t reacting to the watch. I was reacting to the storm inside me.
When Life Becomes Formless
That morning wasn’t unusual. In fact, that was the problem.
Getting the kids to brush their teeth. Out the door. Wrestling with schedules. Planning a Dyson launch event for the first time in Malaysia—at our own Stellar campus. No margin, no prep time, no backup camera. Samuel delayed. Air-con off. VIPs unattended. Even my own lens of presence cracked under the weight of logistics.
When people ask, “Why are you so stressed?” I don’t say I don’t know. I do know. I just don’t have a box to contain it all. The stress isn’t invisible. It’s formless.
Like a gas, it fills every space available—morning rituals, leadership decisions, my tone with my children.
That’s what scared me most. The realization that even my voice—my sacred gift—had become distorted.
The Innovation of Frustration
But then came Dyson.
In a strangely divine juxtaposition, I found myself hours later in a conversation about innovation born out of frustration.
James Dyson—still obsessive, still present in the lab at nearly 80—had made it clear: Frustration is fuel. They don’t hide their failures. They engineer around them.
They don’t label failure a curse. They celebrate it.
Imagine that. A company known worldwide for its design and perfection, built on a culture of studying what’s wrong.
It felt like an emotional mirror. Because I wasn’t frustrated at people. I was frustrated at the formlessness. At not knowing how to compartmentalize the purpose of my fatherhood, my leadership, and my calling in the middle of the mess.
Dyson didn’t try to fix the frustration. They studied it.
I started wondering—what if leadership isn’t about preventing frustration, but directing it?
Between the Pool and the Spotlight
The entire day became a test of self-awareness. A reflection in motion.
Lunch with a man I quietly decided I want to become in ten years—wise, spiritual but not religious, grounded, impactful, humble. A developer with depth. Our conversation wasn’t about land. It was about legacy. We spoke of families. Of intentions behind decisions. Of the weight of responsibility carried lightly because it is carried with clarity.
Then another meeting. A close brother—not long known, but deeply aligned. We didn’t solve anything that day. We just talked. And sometimes, that’s enough.
And in the evening, I skipped the gym. Rare, almost sacrilegious. But I gained something else—a truly intimate life group. A chance to speak not as “the leader,” but as a man in process.
We talked about purpose. About what clouds it:
- Fatigue that distorts truth
- Trauma that warps identity
- Anxiety that hollows out form
And then… we spoke about the remedy.
The Treatment Plan for a Purpose-Wounded Leader
Sometimes leaders don’t need strategy. We need healing.
That night, we wrote a different kind of blueprint:
- Diagnose the damage. Admit what’s broken.
- Rebuild purpose slowly. Don’t rush it. Let it re-form.
- Evaluate your environment. Will it heal or hinder?
- Practice healing habits. Not productivity. Not escape. Healing.
We didn’t find solutions. We found sobriety. A sacred slowing down.
The Audacity to Be Studied
I told them something I’ve rarely admitted: My kids are watching me. Every moment.
Not in admiration. In imitation.
And if I don’t lead myself well, I will wound them unintentionally. If I don’t confess my mistakes, they’ll absorb the idea that leadership means never being wrong.
I’m not afraid of being studied. In fact, I’ve grown to welcome it. When my team watches me swim at the condo gym, when I dive into the pool and push through 500 metres like a ritual—what are they really seeing?
A man on display? No.
A man choosing consistency over concealment. A man trying to live in rhythm with what he preaches.
That’s not pressure. That’s privilege. If living under the spotlight helps me sharpen my integrity, then so be it.
I’d rather be uncomfortable now than hypocritical later.
The Joseph Reframe
And when leadership gets too heavy—when I feel betrayed, exposed, under-resourced—I go back to the story of Joseph.
Sold by brothers. Accused by Potiphar’s wife. Forgotten in prison.
And yet when the time came, he didn’t retaliate.
He reframed.
“What you intended for evil, God intended for good.”
Joseph didn’t waste time seeking revenge. He didn’t even spend time seeking justice. He stayed aligned with vision. He stayed aligned with why.
That story—his story—is now my framework for survival.
Invite the Reader In
So, let me ask you:
What do you do with your buzz?
Not the one on your watch. The one in your chest. The one that makes you snap at your kids, hide in your tasks, or lose yourself in performing.
Do you study it like Dyson—or suppress it like we’re taught to?
Do you reinterpret betrayal like Joseph—or let it rot into resentment?
Do you redefine your break—or keep waiting for a rescue?
Because here’s the truth: No one’s coming to save us. But we can be saved—if we’re willing to lead ourselves gently back to the why.
The Reverse That Redefines It All
The truest leaders aren’t the ones who stand in the spotlight.
They’re the ones who are willing to be studied in the dark.
And sometimes the loudest leadership isn’t a voice—it’s a buzz.
A buzz that breaks you open, just enough to begin again.
