Leading with Looser Hands

For a long time, I believed that deep care meant tight control.

That if I loved something—whether it was a relationship, a project, or a team—I had to hold on tightly. Protect it. Nurture it. Guide every step.

But over time, I’ve learned that the more tightly we grip, the more we risk suffocating what we love.

Leadership, like love, isn’t about holding on.

It’s about holding space.

Space for others to rise.

Space for nuance.

Space to fall and recover.

Space for people to understand their own why’s.

It’s not about being everything for everyone.

It’s about creating the kind of presence where people feel like the best version of themselves—capable, seen, respected. But here’s where it gets complicated: At some point—or really, at every point of significance—what I led, who I partnered with, what I built, and what I cared for…

became fused with my identity.

Marriage.

Parenting.

Impact work.

Startups.

Every reinvention.

Every emotionally charged relationship.

Every success and every heartbreak.

They all left behind stories—struggles and joys—that shaped my mental state, my coping skills, my emotional intelligence, and even my sense of what I “know.”

Only to discover: what I know is always reshaping.

In this entanglement of memory and meaning, I began to confuse evidence of success with evidence of self-worth.

I started to mistake entanglement for purpose.

And here’s the hard truth I’m learning:

Entanglement is not enlightenment.

Not when it comes from fear.

Not when it comes from survival.

Not when the nervous system is overstimulated, emotionally over-identified, and bodily disregulated. In those states, emotional intelligence breaks down. We lose our ability to distinguish clarity from collapse, presence from performance. We forget the wisdom that breathes beneath control. But even in that fog, there is hope.

Letting go of control isn’t the loss of leadership.

It’s the deepening of it.

It’s the return to breath.

To being.

To trust.

It holds the space of creation and free will. Sometimes, leadership isn’t a strategy.

It’s a moment of shared laughter.

A pause.

A piece of gum.

A willingness to simply be human.

I’m learning to lead with looser hands. Not because I’ve stopped caring.But because I’ve started listening—to the deeper rhythm beneath the roles, to the part of me that doesn’t need proof to know I still belong.

And if any part of this speaks to you—pause here.

Breathe. Ask yourself:

Where am I gripping too tightly?

What might soften if I chose to lead with looser hands?

And who could I become—if I stopped needing proof of who I already am?

You don’t need to have the answers.

But you do deserve the space to ask.

If this resonates, I’d love to hear how it lands for you. What are you learning to loosen?