On ego, humility, and why letting go may be harder than we think.
I remember once a professor I had in college talked about power.
I don’t remember exactly what course he taught. I don’t even remember all the details of the story anymore. But I remember what he said about power.
That part stayed with me.
If I remember correctly, he was from Jamaica. At some point, he had to return home to fulfill some kind of official function.
He told us that when he returned, he was treated almost like a hero.
Here was a boy who had grown up with very little, left his home country, built a life for himself, and now returned to people bowing to him, honoring him, showing him deference. People of importance, dignitaries, people who under normal circumstances probably would not have paid much attention to that little boy he once was.
And suddenly, they were paying attention.
He said the feeling was exhilarating.
Almost out of this world.
I remember him telling us that it was in that moment that he understood something about powerful people.
Power can be addictive.
I don’t remember his exact words. It has been too many years.
But I remember the lesson.
He had gotten a taste of something.
People listening when you speak.
People making room when you enter.
People treating your words differently simply because of the position you occupy.
Your ego is brushed constantly.
You feel important.
Maybe even untouchable.
And who would willingly give that up?
He said he was glad that wasn’t the environment he lived in permanently. But after experiencing it, he could understand how someone surrounded by that kind of treatment every day could become addicted to it.
I don’t know why I have been thinking about that story lately.
Perhaps because I have been observing people around me.
People with power.
And one thing I have learned is that not everyone who has power should have it.
Power does something interesting to people.
Or maybe power simply reveals something that was already there.
I am still trying to decide which one I believe.
Does power change people?
Or does it remove the necessity of hiding who they already were?
Maybe it is both.
I have watched people with a little bit of authority become completely different.
Not enormous power.
Just enough.
Enough to make decisions that affect someone else.
Enough to make people wait for them.
Enough to know that their words carry more weight in the room.
Sometimes that is all it takes.
But I have also met powerful people who surprised me in the opposite way.
I remember sitting with someone who had considerable authority and hearing her ask, genuinely and humbly, what she could do better.
What could she improve?
How could things work better?
I was impressed.
Maybe because humility becomes more noticeable when someone has no obligation to be humble.
She could have assumed she knew best.
She could have reminded everyone of her position.
Instead, she asked.
And listened.
I have met other powerful people like that too.
People who somehow manage to remain human when everyone around them has every incentive to treat them as something more.
I think that takes a certain kind of discipline.
Because maybe my professor was right.
Maybe power is intoxicating.
Imagine walking into rooms and everyone knowing your name.
Imagine people laughing at jokes that aren’t particularly funny.
Imagine rarely being challenged.
Imagine people agreeing before you even finish speaking.
Imagine having the ability to change someone’s circumstances with a decision, a signature, sometimes even a phone call.
How long before you start believing you really are more important than everyone else?
Maybe that is why humility matters so much in leadership.
Not performative humility.
Not the carefully rehearsed “I am just like everyone else” while an entire room rearranges itself around you.
Real humility.
The ability to ask, “What am I getting wrong?”
And then actually listen to the answer.
The ability to hear no.
The ability to be corrected.
The ability to remember that authority does not make you wiser than everyone around you.
And perhaps most importantly, the ability to remember who you were before people started bowing.
I still think about that professor sometimes.
I don’t remember the class.
I don’t remember exactly what position brought him home.
I don’t remember his exact words.
Funny how memory works.
You forget all the details and somehow keep the lesson.
And all these years later, I think I finally understand why that particular lesson stayed with me.
The frightening thing about power may not simply be that some people abuse it.
It may be that power feels so good that we can slowly stop recognizing when it is changing us.
Perhaps the true test of a powerful person, then, is not what they can do with power.
It is whether, while everyone else is bowing, they can still remember how to stand among them.
Until next time,
Xoxo,
JP
