The Illusion of Clarity

Clarity is overrated.

That’s a strange confession for someone whose job is literally to bring clarity to others. But after years of coaching, parenting, and trying to build something meaningful—whether it’s a school, a business, or a family—I’ve realized: most people think clarity is about seeing more. In reality, clarity is about admitting how much you don’t know.

The day started innocently. I went with Yvonne to do a business health check with a potential partner—a publisher from Singapore wanting to set up a preschool in Johor Bahru. The opportunity looked simple: ask questions, spot problems, give advice. The checklists were ready, the frameworks polished. But the moment we started, I saw how easily the conversation drifted toward what everyone already “sees”: marketing, sales, finance. The same tired dominoes everyone blames.

So I tried a thought experiment: “Let’s imagine I give you a cheque for a million ringgit. What would you do with it?”

Blank stare.

It wasn’t ignorance. It was fog. The real domino—leadership and strategy—was buried under layers of habit and certainty. He circled back, again and again, to finance, sales, and customer experience, not realizing he was orbiting symptoms, not causes.

It struck me: the hardest part of clarity isn’t seeing others—it’s seeing yourself. We all have blind spots, but the most dangerous are the ones we refuse to acknowledge.

This isn’t unique to my coaching sessions. It’s everywhere: in boardrooms, marriages, even bedtime with my kids.

Coaching, Parenting, and the Mirror of Resistance

That day, as I tried to guide Yvonne through the health check, it would have been much faster to do everything myself. But legacy isn’t built on shortcuts; it’s built on multiplying, not just executing. My real motive was to empower her, to let her struggle with the messiness of guiding someone else to clarity. It’s slow, frustrating, and deeply human.

I watched as she struggled to help the client see what mattered most. But I recognized that same resistance in myself—impatience, pride, the urge to control the outcome. It’s easy to spot someone else’s fog. It’s much harder to admit you’re lost, too.

Later that day, I found myself facing a different kind of resistance—my eldest son, Aden, in tears after a punishment. He looked up, angry and hurt, and asked, “You can punish us when we’re wrong, but what about you? Who punishes you when you’re wrong?”

Out of the mouths of children, the hardest questions are asked.

I realized, in that moment, that clarity isn’t about authority or being right. It’s about humility—the willingness to apologize, to close the loop, to heal wounds before they become scars. I applied cream for him and held him close, feeling the trust slowly return. But I knew my work wasn’t done. The hole in the wall—once a nail is driven—remains, even if you remove the nail. Tomorrow, I’d need to apologize. Not for him, but for me. For the father I want to become.

Why Clarity Demands Vulnerability

We idolize clarity. In business, it’s strategy and KPIs; in parenting, it’s discipline and routines. But the world’s best leaders know: clarity is forged in vulnerability, not in certainty.

Toyota’s “Mallet Story” is a world-class parable of this. American car factories used to have workers with rubber mallets at the end of the assembly line, pounding doors into place so they’d fit. When Japanese executives were asked why they didn’t need this, their answer was simple: “We make sure it fits when we design it.” They didn’t just see a problem; they knew they had to address the root. True clarity isn’t patching over flaws—it’s having the courage to redesign from the beginning .

Alan Mulally at Ford offers another lesson. When he became CEO, every executive reported green—no problems—despite Ford losing billions. Mulally stopped the meeting and waited. “We can’t fix problems we won’t see,” he said. The first leader to show a red slide, admitting failure, wasn’t punished. He was thanked. That was the turning point. Ford only began to recover when its leaders admitted they didn’t know everything—and were willing to be honest about it.

Satya Nadella at Microsoft led a similar revolution. Microsoft was once a “know-it-all” culture—brilliant, but stagnant. Nadella flipped the script: “Don’t be a know-it-all. Be a learn-it-all.” Admitting you don’t know—embracing uncertainty—is now the foundation of their innovation and growth.

Dr. Atul Gawande’s surgical checklist saved countless lives not by teaching new skills, but by forcing the world’s best surgeons to acknowledge what they might miss. The humility to admit fallibility—world-class clarity—became a discipline, not an assumption.

Steve Jobs at Apple understood that clarity wasn’t about building what customers could see—it was about knowing what they truly needed, even if they couldn’t articulate it yet. “People don’t know what they want until you show it to them.” Vision isn’t about predicting the future. It’s about courageously questioning your own assumptions, again and again.

Back to my own world: Every time I meet a stubborn business owner, or a resistant child, I have to ask myself—where am I refusing to see? Where am I stuck in old narratives, busy hammering away at problems without ever redesigning the blueprint?

From Seeing to Knowing: The Path Forward

Here’s the uncomfortable truth: The journey from seeing to knowing is paved with humility, apology, and asking the right questions—over and over again.

It’s why, as a coach, I always start with purpose: What are you really trying to do? What’s the real domino? Most people don’t like the answer. They want tactics, not transformation. But every world-class leader I know, every parent who raises grounded kids, starts with vulnerability.

Brené Brown calls it “the birthplace of clarity, courage, and connection.” It’s not weakness; it’s the only way to grow . Simon Sinek reminds us to “Start with Why”—to drill down, even when the process is messy or uncomfortable .

As a father, my biggest legacy isn’t perfect discipline—it’s modeling how to apologize, how to restore, how to say, “I don’t know, but I want to learn with you.” As a leader, it’s not how many health checks I perform or reports I write, but how often I’m willing to face the uncomfortable truths and change myself first.

So tomorrow, when I wake up, I’ll do the work I promised: I’ll sit with my son and ask how he feels. I’ll say sorry for what I missed. I’ll thank him for helping me see what I still need to learn.

Because clarity is never achieved alone. It’s a mirror, held up by those we’re willing to serve, to love, and to listen to—even when it hurts.

The Reverse That Redefines It All

The opposite of clarity isn’t confusion. It’s certainty without reflection.

When you’re sure you’re right, that’s when you’re most at risk of being blind. True clarity isn’t a destination. It’s a discipline—a willingness to keep asking, “What am I missing? Where could I be wrong?” World-class leaders, legendary parents, and the most resilient humans all share this trait: they never let seeing become knowing until they’ve questioned themselves first.

And so, if you want to build something lasting—whether it’s a business, a family, or your own life—practice the humility to start over, to apologize, to question your certainty, and to redesign the blueprint as many times as it takes.

Because seeing is not knowing. But the courage to admit you don’t know? That’s the beginning of wisdom, and the heart of every legacy worth leaving behind.