What baking with my son, breaking my pride, and building with purpose taught me about the systems that shape our souls.

A Missing Ingredient—and a Moment of Realization

That was last summer.

I was just trying to bake something with my son. We weren’t aiming for perfection—just sugar, flour, and a memory. The recipe called for vanilla extract, and I thought it would be a simple step. We found ourselves walking through aisles, scanning shelves. I passed the snacks section a few times and still couldn’t see it. Eventually, there it was—tucked in a corner I’d walked past a hundred times.

The vanilla extract had always been there. But I only noticed it when I had a reason to look.

I can’t stop thinking about that moment. Because so much of what shapes us—kindness, morality, grace—is like that. We assume these are qualities people just have. But what if that’s not true? What if kindness isn’t a default setting in humanity, but something that requires intention, repetition, even design?

Human Nature—and the Illusion of Inborn Goodness

In my culture, we grew up hearing “人之初，性本善”—human nature is inherently good. And yet, experience tells a different story. Babies cry, unconcerned about anyone else’s sleep. Children lie to avoid punishment. Adults protect their own interests, not always because they’re cruel, but because fear and self-preservation are instinctive.

Goodness, on the other hand, requires interruption. It demands self-awareness. And more often than not, it emerges only when there’s a reason to seek it out—just like that vanilla extract.

Overflow Begins with Rest, Not Hustle

A few weeks ago, I felt emotionally worn. Not in crisis, but stretched—managing growth, family, decisions, and deadlines. I had a conversation with Samuel, my co-author and teammate, about the book we’re writing—Lead to Impact. He’s a powerhouse—sharp, driven, respected. But he’s also someone who pushes beyond limits, often without realizing he’s doing it.

That day, I realized that leadership isn’t about asking people to give more. It’s about helping them find a sustainable way to keep giving. He didn’t need another challenge. He needed space. He needed to be seen beyond his performance. And I knew that if everyone kept drawing from him without creating space for rest, it wouldn’t be sustainable. Sooner or later, exhaustion would set in, and the very strength I admired in him would begin to crack. Burnout doesn’t just cost productivity—it costs people. And when that happens, there’s no overflow left to give. Without rest, we lose the ability to love from abundance. We end up leading from depletion, not devotion.

We don’t overflow when we’re full of tasks. We overflow when we’ve been given time to breathe.

Five Loaves, Two Fish, and the Design of Multiplication

Leadership, at its best, doesn’t demand more—it multiplies what’s already there. That’s the heart of the Five Loaves and Two Fish principle. In the biblical account, a young boy offers a simple meal—five loaves of bread and two fish. It’s nowhere near enough to feed the thousands gathered. But that small, willing act becomes the starting point for a miracle. Everyone is fed, and more is left over.

It’s a picture that’s stayed with me: impact doesn’t begin with abundance. It begins with intention—when someone is willing to offer what they have, even when it feels insufficient.

That’s what the decision to co-write this book became for me. I originally intended to write it on my own—with input from a publisher and some supporting voices. But when Samuel raised his hand to be part of it, I paused—not because I had trouble letting go, but because I carry a conviction: the author doesn’t just craft the message. The author carries it.

If we’re writing about servant leadership, co-ownership, and overflow, then the way we build the book has to embody those very principles. The process itself must be a reflection of the values we’re inviting others into. Otherwise, what credibility would we have to lead others into it?

That same conviction shapes how we lead at Stellar. From the beginning, we designed our leadership structure around intentional pairing—not out of convenience, but out of conviction. Even in ancient wisdom traditions, leaders were sent out two-by-two—not for efficiency, but for shared accountability and relational depth. We believe real leadership doesn’t stand alone. It’s shaped in relationship. Anchored in trust. Multiplied through humility.

When Maslow Doesn’t Tell the Full Story

I was teaching a young leader about Maslow’s hierarchy of needs—physiological needs at the base, morality and purpose at the top. But my life experience disagrees.

I’ve seen poor families give away their last bit of food. I’ve seen janitors show up early with a smile, while leaders with wealth and position forget how to say thank you. I’ve seen morality in scarcity and entitlement in abundance. And it forces me to ask: Is kindness truly a result of reaching the top? Or is it forged in the fire at the bottom?

Maybe morality doesn’t emerge from comfort—but from conviction.

When Falling from the Top Rebuilds Your Soul

There was a season in my life where I started my career already at the top. It sounds like a blessing—but I now realize it was also a trap. Pride doesn’t always arrive with arrogance. Sometimes, it disguises itself as confidence, responsibility, or competence. I believed I had earned my place. I forgot the grace that placed me there.

When the business collapsed, it didn’t just shake my finances. It cracked my identity. I had to start again—not with a plan, but with questions. Who am I when the applause is gone? Who am I when no one is watching? Do I lead to impress—or to serve?

That fall taught me something success never could: kindness isn’t born from strength—it’s born from surrender.

The Systems We Design Shape the Souls We Lead

The scariest part of leadership is this: you can unintentionally design cruelty.

You can create KPIs that reward burnout. You can promote people for charisma instead of character. You can punish transparency without realizing it. And the worst part? The spreadsheet still looks healthy.

At Stellar, we’ve started asking harder questions. Not just “is this effective?” but “what does this practice teach our people to become?” Because every policy, every calendar rhythm, every leadership choice—it’s either forming character or deforming it.

Culture isn’t just what you say. It’s what you systematize.

Kindness at Scale: Microsoft, LEGO, and Apple

Satya Nadella at Microsoft didn’t just bring better software—he brought better soul. Empathy wasn’t a value printed on a wall. It was something lived through his journey as a father of a son with special needs. He made listening a leadership skill. Microsoft transformed because empathy became infrastructure.

LEGO, once nearly bankrupt, stopped chasing trends and recentered on their core mission: to build the builders of tomorrow. They simplified. They partnered with UNICEF. They began designing for trust.

And Apple? Their simplicity isn’t just aesthetic. It’s respectful. Every decision—gesture, font, interface—says one thing: “We believe in your capacity.” That’s not default. That’s decision.

At Stellar, we’ve tried to do the same—not by mimicking trends, but by building our own culture from a question we ask in every room: Are we designing this process in a way that brings out the best in people—or burns them out? From co-CEO pairing, to how we develop our teams, to how we onboard new staff—we’re learning that kindness has to be embedded in structure, not left to chance.

Just like those global giants, we’ve discovered: kindness at scale only happens by design.

The Reverse That Redefines It All

I used to think kindness was something people had or didn’t have.

Now I believe: it’s something people see—or don’t see—based on what they’re looking for.

The most moral people I’ve met weren’t at the top of Maslow’s pyramid. They were at the bottom—choosing kindness without comfort, integrity without reward.

Kindness isn’t natural. It’s nurtured.

It’s not passive. It’s practiced.

It’s not accidental. It’s architectural.

What I Hope My Children Remember

If my children read this one day, I hope they see more than my words.

I hope they remember that day in the supermarket, searching for vanilla extract. That moment where I realized that what I needed had always been there—I had just never paused long enough to look.

And I hope they know this:

Leadership is not about how much you do.

It’s about who you become—and who you help others become along the way.

Kindness is not a reward.

It’s a design decision.

And it is always worth looking for.