What a five-minute change taught me about fragility, Gen Z, and the future of leadership

When Small Shifts Reveal the Big Cracks

It started as a typical evening. The kids were finally winding down. I was walking them to sleep, anticipating a short call before bed. But the message that came through shifted more than my schedule. A five-minute heads-up: a new traffic reroute outside our school campus. It was nothing dramatic. No major overhaul. Just a small change.

But something in me knew better. It might have been small in scale, but it wasn’t small in impact.

The moment I heard it, I realized this change wasn’t about traffic. It was a test. A mirror. One quick change, and the entire system would be tested: our coordination, communication, crisis readiness, and trust infrastructure.

And as I watched how it unfolded, it became painfully clear: our muscle for urgent adaptation has weakened. The chain of readiness that once held firm now feels a little fragile.

We used to be trained by crisis. I still remember the early days of COVID. The government gave 24-hour notices and entire schools had to shift online. We didn’t panic. We pivoted. We didn’t complain. We showed up. Back then, vigilance was a way of life.

But today? One minor reroute, and it felt like the system shook. Not because the change was massive, but because our capacity to respond has slowly eroded.

This wasn’t about a road. It was about our resilience.

Crisis Memory, Generational Friction, and the Pain of Lost Teams

When COVID was at its peak, we moved with urgency. We were trained to act fast, mobilize instantly, and show up for one another. The staff then understood why quick decisions had to be made. There was no debate. Just deep, unspoken agreement: it had to be done.

But that team, the one forged in the fire of uncertainty isn’t here anymore. Many have moved on. Resigned. Burned out. Chosen other paths. And I understand why. The pandemic not only stretched us. It reshaped us. For those of us still rebuilding, we are working not just with new people but with a new generation and that comes with a whole new reality.

Southeast Asia wasn’t spared from the Great Resignation. In Malaysia alone, the education sector saw over 30% staff turnover by 2022. We didn’t just lose manpower. We lost memory. We lost culture. We lost the kind of quiet synchronization that once allowed us to move without meetings, decide without delay, and act without waiting for permission.

Now we have a mix: those still trying to preserve the old rhythm, and those building a new one. That new rhythm? It’s Gen Z’s rhythm. And it sounds… different.

Earlier that day, a young teammate came to work 30 minutes early. Not for a briefing. But to get bubble tea. Another gave a thumbs-up emoji in response to a five-paragraph SOP message. One even asked if they could bring their pet lizard to the office.

At first, I brushed it off as strange. But the more I sat with it, the more I realized: this isn’t resistance. It’s a new way of relating to work, to leadership, and to purpose.

From Manager to Investor: Gen Z Doesn’t Want a Boss. They Want a Stake.

The traditional top-down model is fading. The days of “do this because I said so” are over. And to be honest, they probably should be.

Gen Z has grown up in a world that centers them. Social media, gaming, and algorithms have taught them they can build a following, design a path, and shape their own journey. They aren’t waiting for permission. They’re searching for alignment.

This generation isn’t lazy. They’re just not built for blind obedience. They want ownership. Not orders.

Herzberg’s two-factor theory used to guide management: hygiene factors (salary, working conditions) prevent dissatisfaction, and motivators (recognition, growth) inspire performance. But this model assumed someone else holds the power. Gen Z flips that script.

In fact, data from a recent Deloitte SEA report showed that 55% of Gen Z workers in Malaysia and Singapore prioritize “being heard” over salary or job title. It’s not about perks. It’s about voice.

One of the best examples of this shift comes from China. CTrip, a travel tech firm, experimented with self-managed mini teams. Two-person squads acted as mini-CEOs and CTOs. They picked their own targets (say, RM1 million in revenue), invested a small stake from their salary, and were rewarded based on how much they surpassed expectations. It wasn’t corporate training. It was entrepreneurial empowerment.

Imagine if we adopted something similar at Stellar. OKR squads. Teacher-led goal setting. Resource pitching. Shared wins. Emotional dashboards that track more than outcomes—that measure ownership, energy, even well-being.

And yes, maybe even the lizard has a place.

Faith, Fragility, and the Trust We Carry

That same day, in a completely different context, something remarkable happened. Our banker called.

After months of negotiation and endless paperwork, our application finally cleared the first round of approval. We were now one step closer to financing our new campus. There was no building yet. No tenants. Just a plan. A vision. And us.

To many banks, it’s too risky. But this one took a leap of faith. And when I heard the banker say, “We believe in you,” I felt a familiar responsibility settle in.

This isn’t the first time.

Back in 2019, when Korean investors backed us without any track record, I made a quiet vow: “I may not be able to promise success. But I promise, you won’t regret trusting me.”

Trust is sacred. And fragile. It doesn’t come with guarantees. It comes with faithfulness.

Years ago, I tutored a student who was completely lost in accounting. Her father pleaded with me to help. I wasn’t sure I could. But I showed up. Week after week. She often came unprepared, overwhelmed with other commitments. I wondered if anything I said was getting through.

Then, out of the blue, years later, I received a message from her, now in Australia. “Accounting was my best subject,” she wrote. “Thank you.”

That’s the reward of consistency. You don’t always see the fruit immediately. But when trust is planted and watered faithfully, it eventually bears fruit.

Whether it’s one student, a banker, or a Gen Z teammate—the principle is the same. People don’t follow you because you’re the boss. They walk with you because they trust who you are.

If You’re Not Rerouting for the Future, You’re Stuck in the Past

So what started as a five-minute reroute became something much deeper.

A reminder. A reawakening. A rerouting of how I see leadership.

We can’t keep asking, “Why don’t people follow better?” when we haven’t asked, “What kind of journey are we inviting them into?”

Gen Z isn’t interested in being part of someone else’s mission. They want to co-build something that aligns with their story. And if we aren’t listening, we’ll lose them not because they’re disloyal, but because we’re inflexible.

In this season of change with new campuses, new economic zones, new risks and responsibilities, we need to lead with open hands.

It’s not about having all the answers. It’s about inviting others to shape them with us.

So I’ve stopped asking, “How do I get people to align?” and started asking, “How do I make it easier for them to belong?”

The Reverse That Redefines It All

We thought leadership meant knowing the route. But maybe real leadership means knowing when to reroute and who to bring into the map-making process.

Because the opposite of leadership isn’t following.

It’s rigidity.

And in a world changing faster than we can predict, the one who clings to certainty is already behind.

The reroute didn’t just change the road.

It revealed what we needed to rebuild inside.