What I Forgot, and Why It Matters: A Leadership Reflection on Communication, Culture, and First Principle

The Failure That Was Not Anyone’s Fault

Not long ago, I missed my own son’s report card. It was not because I was uninterested, nor because anyone was negligent. The truth, as I later realized, was far more humbling. I missed it because I placed full trust in the system I had helped design. No one made a mistake, yet the message never reached me. There was no follow-up, no confirmation, and no one checked whether I had actually received what was sent. And I did not ask.

This incident was minor on the surface, but it unsettled something deep inside me. As I reflected on it, I found clarity. It was not apathy that caused the lapse. It was overconfidence. I had assumed that the system would carry what, in the early days, we used to carry with our hands and hearts. That is the quiet cost of leadership when logic replaces love. We begin to think the structure will do the caring for us.

When a Teacher Chased Me Twice

I still remember a teacher who ran after me twice. My wife and I had just welcomed a newborn. We were exhausted, and life felt chaotic. Yet in the midst of that personal overwhelm, a teacher reached out about a missing workbook. She did not just leave a note or send a reminder. She followed up again the next day, and even offered to deliver it to our home if needed.

She was not chasing the book. She was holding space for care.

There was no frustration in her tone. No blame. Just quiet persistence. It was not about the book. It was about the kind of devotion that refuses to let things fall through the cracks. I was deeply moved. And I was quietly convicted. She cared more about that one workbook than I did.

That moment stayed with me, not because she reminded me of something I had forgotten, but because she reminded me of who we used to be.

The Field Trip That Became a Mirror

Another moment that remains with me is a field trip. The departure time was unclear. My wife and I tried to confirm details but received no definite response. In the end, we were the last family to arrive. The entire bus had been waiting.

No one had done anything wrong. Yet something had still gone wrong.

The system had done its part. Messages were sent. Attendance lists were prepared. But the human experience felt disconnected. There was silence where there should have been assurance. There was ambiguity where there used to be presence.

These were not logistical errors. They were cultural signals. And they reminded me of something we do not often name. Drift does not always feel like failure. But it always costs something. And without honest reflection, we never realise what we are losing.

When Parents Not Showing Up Became a Relief

What troubled me even more was what I heard during a recent Parent-Teacher Conference. The attendance was lower than expected. Instead of concern, I overheard someone say, “At least fewer parents came.”

The tone was not careless. It was tired.

Teachers had endured weeks of back-to-back events: excursions, performances, report submissions, and finally, PTC. The exhaustion was real. The relief was understandable. But the reasoning was revealing.

If we begin to feel relief when parents disengage, even quietly, we must pause. Not to criticise, but to reflect. Because what used to be sacred is slowly becoming a checklist. And when that happens, culture starts to slip.

What Was Sacred Became a Checklist

This led me to a confronting question: what is the actual value of Parent-Teacher Conferences?

If they exist simply to hand over a report card, we have missed the point. If our goal is to reduce attendance to reduce workload, then we are no longer seeing the deeper purpose.

We are not here to do less. We are here to do what matters. And what matters takes effort. Connection takes energy. Impact takes intention.

When we begin to treat sacred moments as administrative tasks, we lose the meaning that built our culture. Not because we failed. But because we forgot.

We Were Not Built by Systems

Stellar was not built by flawless SOPs or streamlined checklists. Those came later. What built us were the people who followed up. Teachers who cared. Leaders who stayed late. Teams who double-checked, not because they were told to, but because they could not bear to drop the ball.

We did not build Stellar by chasing perfection or avoiding mistakes. We built it through a deep, almost unreasonable devotion. Some would call it obsession. We knew it simply as love.

And when that kind of love becomes the foundation, systems exist to protect it, not replace it. But if we forget that order, the structure becomes empty. And eventually, the soul of the organisation fades.

What the World’s Best Organisations Still Remember

At Eleven Madison Park, a Michelin-starred restaurant in New York, a guest mentioned they had never tried a New York hotdog. A staff member left the restaurant, bought one from a street vendor, plated it beautifully, and served it to the guest as part of their fine dining experience. It made no operational sense. But it made perfect human sense.

At Singapore Airlines, a steward once wrote a handwritten note of encouragement to a mother flying alone with a restless child. It was not part of any script. But that single moment of empathy created a memory stronger than any advertisement.

Toyota once recalled thousands of vehicles over a minor issue affecting only a handful. Not because it was logical, but because trust mattered more than efficiency.

At Ritz-Carlton, every employee is empowered to spend up to two thousand dollars to solve a guest issue on the spot. Not because they expect problems, but because they trust their people to care.

These examples are not about customer service. They are about organisational soul. They remind us that obsession, when rooted in love, is not a liability. It is a legacy.

Our Region, Our Responsibility

In Southeast Asia, our culture values harmony and respect. Many parents will not openly voice their concerns. They will quietly withdraw. This is part of our face culture. It does not mean they are satisfied. It means they are silently retreating.

True service removes the pain before it needs to be voiced. It confirms understanding before confusion grows. It ensures clarity so that trust does not slowly erode.

We also have a deep belief in what is often called 危机意识, the awareness of potential crisis not as fear, but as foresight. It reminds us that what is working today may not sustain tomorrow. It pushes us to grow before we are forced to.

This mindset should not drive anxiety. It should cultivate maturity. And maturity means returning to what matters before we are forced to notice what we have lost.

We Do Not Need a New SOP

What we need most right now is not another policy.

We need to return to what built trust in the first place. We need to remember what used to move us. We need to repent not out of guilt, but out of gratitude.

We grieve what we forgot. We rebuild what we still believe in. We recommit to what we used to protect without question.

Because speed is not the same as value. And ease is not the same as excellence.

What We Must Protect

First, we must redefine communication. It is not just about what is sent. It is about what is confirmed, received, and understood. Communication is only complete when it is mutual.

Second, we must restore the sacredness of our most important touchpoints. Parent-Teacher Conferences are not logistical events. They are relational encounters. They deserve space. They require preparation. They must not be stacked between other commitments. Let them stand alone. Let them mean something.

Third, we must empower our teachers. If world-class hotels can trust every employee with high-stakes decisions, surely we can trust educators with the responsibility to follow up, clarify, and serve, not just because they must, but because they care.

Finally, we must embed a clear cultural standard that protects the heart of who we are:

Obsession is not a flaw.

It is the mark of someone who loves what they build.

Let this value shape how we message, how we follow up, and how we choose presence over efficiency.

The Reverse That Redefines It All

The opposite of obsession is not balance. It is indifference, masked as professionalism.

And logic, no matter how efficient, cannot win hearts.

Only devotion can. Only presence can. Only obsession, when rooted in love, can build something that lasts.

Let this not be another quiet reflection we forget. Let this be our return. Let this be our rebuilding.

Because the obsession that built Stellar was never a problem. It was our strength. And it still matters.