“The most common form of depression is not being who you are.” ~Søren Kierkegaard
A few years ago, I was having coffee with an old friend, I’ll call Ray, a trusted mentor. He is a few years older than me, silver haired and down to earth, a man who listens with all his heart.
We were in a small coffee shop near my house. I told him about my first year as a director, how I went from being a consultant whose identity was built around listening and suddenly managing budgets, writing evaluations and connecting people to accountability.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I said, “and I feel like I’m annoying people every time I ask for help.”
Ray nodded slowly. “Sounds tough,” he said. “It means you’re struggling with the transition.”
I keep going, adding to the list, building my case. “And the criticism I get is of no use,” I said. “People say I’m too nice, that I’m not strong enough on principle, that I’m not strong enough on limitations. But they also want freedom.”
“I’m not sure how much longer I can do this,” I told him.
He let me finish. Then he leaned forward a little. “Can I tell you something I’ve been noticing?”
“Sure,” I said.
“You see yourself as the victim,” he said. “Like life is happening to you and you’re waiting for it to stop.”
I sat there for a while, hoping he would offer some advice.
But I knew better than Ray. He always gave you the truth as he saw it and then trusted you to find your own way.
I went home with a headache. I told myself it wasn’t right, that Ray hadn’t heard everything, there was a reason I felt the way I did. But the words he used somehow got in the car with me.
It was still there when I tried to sleep. It was still two in the morning when I was staring at the ceiling.
the victim
I didn’t want it, but I couldn’t put it down.
I turned the word over in my mind the way you turn a stone in your hand, looking at it from every angle. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I started to see some truth in it.
I harbored grievances that I never expressed. I was quietly accumulating feelings of injustice without saying a word or trying to change things. It has a name, and the name, as much as a knock, is the name Ray gave me.
I had a picture in my mind as I lay in the dark. I found myself wearing a wooden sign around my neck, the kind you might see in an old photograph, hanging like a label.
And the word on the sign was “victim.”
The hard part was that I knew I wasn’t being punished by anyone else. Part of me loved wearing it. That image stayed with me and it changed something.
I started asking myself a question that seemed more useful than feeling sorry for myself. If the word “victim” is not what I want to carry, then what word do I want? How would you feel if you stand in the opposite place?
I ran with different words. hero, conqueror, agent, creator, survivor, conqueror. Each of them had something to teach me, but none of them I needed.
Then a voice began to rise from the depths. All the words it might be, this one caught me off guard. The word that came to me was “steward”.
I watched it that night, and the word “steward” has been around for a long time. At its core, it refers to the keeper of the house, someone trusted to look after matters in a story larger than their own.
I didn’t go looking for that word, and maybe that’s why it seemed so significant. I was asking myself why it appeared, what it was indicating, what it wanted me to understand. It felt less like what I thought and more like something I was given.
I learned that a steward is someone who takes care of what they’ve been given, is present with purpose, and recognizes that what they’ve been given is worth taking care of, including the hard parts.
It wasn’t exactly the opposite of hunting, but it was the antidote in my case. A victim is defined by what is done to them. A steward is defined by what they choose to do with it.
Now, years later, the leadership challenge is still here. I still struggle with criticism, especially when I think I’m already doing my best. But what is different now is the perspective.
A few weeks ago, one of my powerful staff members asked for a formal meeting. He sat across from my desk, composed and direct, and told me that the flexibility I was giving others was making his job harder.
“When people don’t follow through and there are no consequences, those who do bear more than their share,” he said. “It doesn’t seem fair.”
Inside I was already forming my response. I wanted to tell him that I was trying to ease the pressure people were feeling, I saw how stretched everyone was and I was trying to give them room to breathe.
It was right, but it was also about victimhood, one saying, “What about me?” A steward does not protect himself from harsh reactions. A steward tends to what he is given, and what I was given at that moment was the truth.
The victim in me wanted to understand. The steward in me knew I was serving something bigger than my own comfort. The department was mine to care, not hide.
“You’re right,” I said. “And I appreciate that you came straight to me.” I told him that I was working to maintain clear boundaries, that his feedback would help me do it better, and that people who do their jobs with excellence deserve a leader who upholds those standards.
The movement from victim to steward is an ongoing process. I haven’t perfected it, and I don’t expect to. I’m still stumbling, still the sign is settling around my neck and I have to find my way back.
I felt leadership difficulties because something was happening to me, as if pressure and criticism were proof that I didn’t belong. This season of my life was asking something of me, not punishing me, what changed this recognition. I am being called into service whether I feel ready or not.
I’ve thought a lot about stewardship since that night. Just about what it means to stop living my life and start tending to it. These are two very different relationships with the same experience.
That night at the coffee shop, Satyajit knew me well enough to tell me an uncomfortable truth. He was not polite about it. But gentleness is not always what we need.
Sometimes we need someone standing close enough to see the sign around our neck to point it out to us.
I don’t carry that mark anymore, or at least, I try not to. On days when I feel it settle around my neck, I remember the sound that replaced it.
Steward.
No one has given them that tendency. Anyone who asks what life expects of them, listens and answers the call.
That’s the person I want to be.
about Daniel H. Shapiro
Dr. Daniel H. Shapiro is a keynote speaker, workshop presenter and consultant. He is passionate about human connection and the stories we carry with us. For more information about his book, The 5 Practices of the Caring Mentor, or his mentoring and speaking services, visit: www.yourinherentgoodness.com.
