Category: Growth

Leadership in education is often described as noble, purposeful, and people-centred. Yet, for those positioned in the middle of the hierarchy, leadership can feel less like inspiration and more like constant translation—between strategy and execution, ideals and constraints, people and performance.

As a millennial middle manager, my leadership journey has been shaped profoundly by managing two very different generations at opposite ends of the employee lifecycle: first, a team of Gen X long-tenured employees, and later, a team of Gen Z newcomers.

In both contexts, I found myself “sandwiched” between expectations—managing upwards to Gen X and Boomer leaders, while managing downwards to teams with fundamentally different motivations, fears, and definitions of work.

This reflection is not an attempt to label generations as good or bad, committed or entitled. Rather, it is:

“An honest examination of what it means to lead when competence and commitment do not always coexist, when support risks becoming dependency, and when the role of a middle manager is less about authority and more about endurance, judgement, and growth.”

Managing Gen X: Experience Without Engagement

When I first managed a Gen X team, I inherited six long-serving employees—individuals with deep institutional knowledge, years of experience, and a sophisticated understanding of organisational culture.

“They knew the systems, the loopholes, the informal power structures, and, importantly, how to survive. Many had reached the ceiling of their salary bands. Their benefits were better than those of newer staff. Career progression was no longer a realistic motivator. “

The organisation’s 9-to-5 role had effectively become a safety net rather than a professional calling. They did what was required to get by—no more, no less. Growth, innovation, or discretionary effort held little appeal. From the outside, this behaviour might easily be framed as laziness or entitlement. From the inside, however, it was clear that this was not a lack of ability, but a lack of incentive.

What made this particularly challenging was the broader leadership context. My boss at the time, a Gen X leader with extensive organisational experience, was focused on ensuring results within existing structural constraints.

With a team that had reached career and compensation plateaus, re-engagement was difficult to engineer, and the leadership emphasis leaned toward maintaining performance standards.

As a result, much of the responsibility for driving day-to-day execution and managing disengagement naturally fell on middle managers. This placed me in an impossible position. I was expected to deliver outcomes through people who had no meaningful reason to change, while simultaneously absorbing pressure from above and resistance from below.

“I was managing a broken psychological contract—one where loyalty had been exchanged for security, not growth. The emotional toll of this should not be underestimated. I was not just managing tasks; I was buffering dysfunction.“

This experience taught me an early and painful lesson: effort does not always correlate with reward, and middle managers often carry responsibility without power. It also shaped my leadership instinct to be cautious about over-functioning. I learned that carrying too much—for too long—can lead to exploitation and resentment.

Transitioning to Gen Z: Commitment Without Confidence

Managing Gen Z, however, presented an entirely different challenge. My new team also consisted of six staff, but this time they were all early-career professionals with less than two years of experience.

“They were fast learners, digitally fluent, and highly teachable. Their energy was refreshing. Their willingness to engage was evident. “

Yet, alongside this came a different set of struggles.

Unlike my Gen X team, Gen Z staff were not disengaged—they were anxious. They hesitated to take on new responsibilities, worried that doing more would result in being overloaded or taken advantage of. They required frequent reassurance that support existed and that mistakes would not be punished disproportionately. If guidance was not visible, confidence quickly eroded. Independence, at this stage, was fragile.

Their fears were not irrational. This generation has grown up witnessing burnout culture, economic instability, layoffs despite loyalty, and the erosion of traditional career promises. They have learned to be cautious. Where Gen X had learned to conserve energy, Gen Z has learned to manage risk.

Further to this dynamic was my boss—another Gen X leader, but one with a markedly different leadership style. She was nurturing, present, and deeply supportive. Her “motherly” approach created psychological safety for the team. They trusted her. They felt held. And it worked—for this stage of team’s development. Yet, for me, this clarity came early.

While I appreciated the level of support provided and recognised its value for a young team, I became acutely aware—within just the first two weeks—of the direction I did not want to take. My experience managing a long-tenured Gen X team had already taught me the cost of dependency, stagnation, and over-reliance on individuals rather than systems. I did not experience internal conflict; instead, I experienced a sense of enlightenment.

“I knew that while support was necessary at this stage, it could not become the defining feature of my leadership. I wanted this team to grow into confident, independent professionals, capable of functioning without constant reassurance.”

I was determined not to raise another generation of employees who could not operate without me.

The Millennial Middle Manager Dilemma

At the heart of this struggle is my position as a millennial middle manager. I am close enough to senior leadership to understand organisational constraints, accountability, and risk. At the same time, I am close enough to frontline staff to see fear, fatigue, and uncertainty. I carry expectations from both directions.

Managing upwards requires diplomacy, translation, and credibility.

Gen X and Boomer leaders often value stability, delivery, and institutional memory. Their caution is shaped by experience. When advocating for younger teams, I must frame ideas in terms of outcomes, compliance, and sustainability—not ideals alone.

Managing downwards, however, requires empathy, clarity, and patience.

Gen Z does not respond well to ambiguity or silence. They need feedback, context, and psychological safety. This is particularly true in education settings, where quality, compliance, and ethical responsibility intersect daily.

“The tension I feel is not between generations, but between two extremes: competence without engagement and engagement without confidence.“

My resistance to “mothering” is not a rejection of care, but a fear of creating learned helplessness. Yet, withholding support in the name of independence is equally damaging.

Reframing Independence as a Designed Outcome

What ultimately shifted my perspective was reframing independence not as a personality trait, but as a designed outcome. As someone working in education, this realisation felt almost ironic. We would never expect learners to master complex concepts without scaffolding, feedback, and gradual release of responsibility. Yet, emotionally, that was what “be independent” sounded like to my team.

“Gen Z does not need endless reassurance, nor do they need abrupt withdrawal of support. They need structured support with intentional tapering. Support that is explicit, time-bound, and developmental—not emotional dependency disguised as care.“

This reframing allowed me to reconcile my values. I could remain supportive without over-functioning. I could encourage autonomy without abandoning my team. Independence, I learned, is not demanded—it is built.

Middle Management as the Architecture of Growth

In an ever-evolving education setting:

“Middle managers are often invisible when things work and highly visible when they do not. We translate strategy into practice. We absorb tension so that systems appear stable. We are asked to deliver transformation without disrupting continuity.”

Leading across generations has taught me that leadership is less about charisma and more about judgement. How much support is needed? For how long? For whom? These are not questions with fixed answers.

“My Gen X team taught me that disengagement is often a rational response to stagnation. My Gen Z team is teaching me that confidence grows where safety exists—but only if safety does not become a crutch. My bosses have taught me that leadership styles are shaped as much by life stage as by values.“

Conclusion: Choosing Growth Over Comfort

Being “sandwiched” between generations is uncomfortable, but it is also where meaningful leadership happens. As a millennial middle manager, my role is not to replicate the leadership I experienced, nor to mirror the leadership above me perfectly.

“As a middle manager, my role is to design conditions for growth—for my team, for my organisation, and for myself.“

Managing different generations in education has shown me that leadership is not about choosing between care and accountability, but about holding both. It is about recognising that independence is not the absence of support, but the outcome of it.

In an environment defined by change, uncertainty, and generational shift, the most important work of middle managers is not just delivering results. It is shaping people who can eventually deliver without us.

Now that’s the meat I want in my sandwich.

Some years arrive loudly—announced by promotions, milestones, and visible wins.

But 2025 was not that kind of year for me.

It was quieter.

Slower.

A year that worked inward rather than outward. It asked me to sit still long enough to hear what I had been avoiding—and brave enough to act on what I heard.

Looking back, I see now that 2025 was not about accumulation or acceleration.

It was about alignment.

Career

Early in the year, I made a decision that, from the outside, looked like walking away from stability. I left a leadership role in a renowned corporate organisation—one that came with credibility, comfort, and a familiar rhythm.

But over time, I realised that safety is not the same as sustainability.

The role required a kind of endurance I had normalised for years: absorbing dysfunction quietly, carrying misalignment as a personal burden, and tolerating systems that prioritised optics over people.

I told myself this was professionalism—maturity, resilience.

When in truth, it was erosion.

Staying would have cost me my clarity, my energy, and eventually my integrity. Leaving was not impulsive or dramatic. It was measured. I chose alignment—not because it was easier, but because it was truer.

For the first time in my career, I understood that walking away does not always mean failure. Sometimes, it means self-respect.

Motherhood

This year also reshaped how I understand progress—particularly as a mother.

Once again, I chose to homeschool my daughter after recognising that a so-called “structured” environment was not producing meaningful growth. The issue was not effort or intelligence. It was fit.

Teaching her at home forced me to slow down: to observe instead of compare, to respond instead of prescribe. I met her where she was, not where a system expected her to be.

Over the months she was home with me, her confidence grew. Coordination improved. Language—especially Malay—began to settle. Independence followed naturally, without force.

This experience reminded me that progress is not linear, and structure only works when it serves the human within it. Children do not need more rigidity; they need responsiveness.

In many ways, teaching my daughter at home reshaped my understanding of leadership itself—less control, more presence. Less pressure, more trust.

Self

The most defining thread of 2025, however, was writing.

This website exists because of my husband. He gifted me a domain—my name—quietly, without expectations or conditions. It wasn’t framed as a project or a plan. It was simply an invitation.

“Write,” he said. “Put your thoughts somewhere they can breathe.”

At first, I hesitated. I had spent years writing for work—polished, strategic, purposeful. Writing for myself felt unfamiliar, almost indulgent.

But I began anyway.

Every Wednesday since September, I wrote. About work, leadership, motherhood, faith, and growth. About questions I did not yet have answers to.

Through that process, something shifted.

Writing revealed patterns I had been too busy to notice. I began to see how misalignment drained me long before I named it, how often I over-explained myself to be understood, and how frequently I pushed through discomfort instead of pausing to examine it.

Writing became a mirror—sometimes gentle, sometimes confronting. But always honest.

Through it, I reclaimed clarity—not certainty, but awareness. And once something is seen clearly, it can no longer be ignored.

Growth

That clarity followed me into conversations, especially interviews.

For years, I had learned to explain my work in ways that made it palatable—simplified, softened, easy to place. When people asked, “What does that mean?”, I would rush to translate, compressing complexity until the impact was lost.

In 2025, I stopped doing that—not out of arrogance, but out of respect for my work and for myself.

I learned to pause instead of over-explaining. To describe my contributions as they were, not as I feared they would be received. To trust that clarity does not require shrinking.

What changed was not how impressive I sounded, but how grounded I felt.

Interviews no longer felt like auditions. They felt like conversations—spaces where I could speak with intention rather than performance. When you speak clearly, people listen differently. Titles fade. Appearances matter less. Clarity carries the weight.

Family

This year also drew me closer to my mother.

She stayed with us for two weeks—an ordinary event that carried quiet significance. Growing up, she was always working, always providing, always holding life together for nine children. Time with her existed, but it was stretched thin.

Watching her in my home—moving quietly, tending to small things—I saw her differently. Not just as my mother, but as a woman shaped by necessity, sacrifice, and resilience.

In her presence, I understood something deeply: the bravest act is not always moving forward. Sometimes, it is pausing long enough to honour the people who carried you when they had no choice but to endure.

In her smile, I saw quiet pride.

In her stillness, untold stories.

She is the reason I lead the way I do. She is the reason I care deeply about systems that serve people—not just outcomes. She is the reason I walk away when something does not align—because she never had that choice.

Marriage

There were moments this year that asked me to look more honestly at my marriage—not to resolve everything, but to reflect.

I realised that I had been practising independence more than partnership. I told myself I was being capable, supportive, progressive. But beneath that narrative was something I had avoided naming.

I was not qanaah.

Qanaah is not resignation. It is a quiet discipline—a willingness to live within what has been entrusted to you, with gratitude and restraint. I had mistaken my ability to provide as virtue, without asking whether I had truly accepted the limits of our shared reality.

I also came face to face with taat.

Not obedience without thought, but something far more demanding: the humility to listen, to honour guidance given with care, and to restrain my own impulses even when I had the means not to.

These realisations were not comfortable. They asked me to loosen my grip on control and examine where pride had disguised itself as independence. They reminded me that marriage is not sustained by capability alone, but by trust, restraint, and mercy.

I am still learning both qanaah and taat. They are not states I have arrived at, but practices I return to—especially when it would be easier not to.

This year did not resolve everything.

But it reoriented me.

Doa

Throughout all of this, faith anchored me.

I prayed often. I asked for much. I waited. I questioned. And as always, answers came—not always in the form I imagined, but always with wisdom. Some prayers were answered through clarity. Others through delay. Many through quiet redirection.

Allah’s generosity this year did not feel transactional.

It felt formative.

I was given what I needed to become who I am now.

Stepping Into 2026

As I step into 2026, my life looks quieter on the surface—and stronger underneath.

There is a new professional chapter ahead, aligned not just with my experience, but with my direction.

My daughter is entering a new school environment—one that feels right for her. Her health now has clarity and direction, replacing years of uncertainty with understanding.

My marriage feels steadier—not because it is perfect, but because it is more honest. I love you, husband!

And I am still writing.

Not to be seen.

Not to perform.

But to remain aligned.

2025 stripped away illusions.

2026 begins with intention.

Alignment is no longer something I aspire to.

It is the standard I live by.

بسم الله الرحمن الرحيم
اللّهُمَّ سَهِّلْ لِي كُلَّ أُمُورِي طُولَ السَّنَةِ، وَارْزُقْنِي رِزْقًا كَامِلًا بِالْبَرَكَةِ.
“In the Name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful. O Allah, make all my affairs easy throughout the year, and grant me sustenance that is complete and full of blessings.”

Bring it on, 2026. We got this. 💪🏻

Recruitment in today’s professional landscape is evolving rapidly, but one thing remains constant: the challenge of matching the right talent to the right role. If you look at it in simpler terms, I’d say hiring is like finding the right person to marry — or what we Malays call “mencari jodoh.”

In marriage, you’d want someone you like, can be with, can communicate with, and share the same values, vision, and wavelength. The point is, as much as you wouldn’t want to marry the wrong person — companies also don’t want to hire the wrong one.

Having worked across corporate, professional body, and academic sectors for over a decade, I’ve had a front-row seat to the realities of hiring, especially when the budget allows and there’s an available headcount in the team.

As for me, do I have experienced hiring before? Yep. I’ve had my fair share of it. And trust me, the process is not easy. It’s never as simple as emailing HR and saying:

“Hey, I need someone for this role. They need to start by X date, and they should be able to do this and that.”

Behind the scenes, there’s paperwork, approvals, workflows, and a whole system to navigate. And depending on the HR system your company uses, the process can become even more complex. Complicated system? Complicated hiring process. Simple as that. If you ask me whether I love hiring — I don’t. Not because I don’t enjoy building a team, but because the process is tedious. Which is exactly why, when I hire, I want to make sure I hire right. Because if I don’t, a few months down the line, I’ll find myself right back at square one. New recruitment. New onboarding. New probation review. New adjustments. New everything.

Now, having recently been active in interviews again reminded me just how often organisations get it wrong. The takeaway? Clarity is everything — and too often, it’s missing.

Experience One: When Experience Isn’t Enough

In one recent interview, I was told — point blank — that I wasn’t fit for the role because I lacked a specific instructional design certification. Never mind that I’ve spent years developing curricula, designing learning strategies, and leading education operations.

When I asked what certification they’d recommend, the answer was, “Any will do.”

That said a lot.

It wasn’t really about certification; it was about not knowing what it meant when you assert requirements onto candidates for hiring. This experience reflected a common pattern in recruitment: organisations sometimes overemphasise formal qualifications while undervaluing practical experience.

“Certifications matter, but they cannot fully capture years of applied expertise, strategic insight, or leadership capabilities. And that’s where many hiring decisions fall apart — when recruiters or leaders themselves lack clarity on what competence actually looks like.”

To make it more interesting, when I shared my expected salary, I was told that based on “what I have on paper,” it was unjustifiable — and that if I were hired, they’d only offer me nearly half of that.

Still, I offered to do their assignment alongside other shortlisted candidates — not to prove my worth, but to show the quality of experience that doesn’t always show on paper.

Their response? “I’d rather not waste your time.”

Imagine that.

Sometimes it’s not that candidates fall short — it’s that recruiters or hiring managers fail to see beyond the checklist.

And really, just imagine asking a world-class actor for a voice-over certification before hiring them for an animation. That’s bonkers, right? Yet in corporate hiring, this happens all the time — dismissing lived experience, instinct, and mastery simply because there’s no paper to validate it, or worse, because there aren’t enough optics to supplement the credentials.

Also, allow me to reiterate — I’ve spent years building learning systems that help professionals earn “certifications.” But here’s the truth — certifications don’t create competence; they validate it. And they cannot fully capture years of applied expertise, strategic insight, or leadership capabilities.

Experience Two: Misaligned Role Expectations

In a separate experience, I applied for a programme manager role to support the development of professional certifications at a large professional body. Initially, I was not shortlisted because the organisation sought a candidate with “core instructional design and content development experience.”

After further discussion, I learned the role had been upgraded to a leadership position intended to set standards for the team. I understood that, because I knew the organisation was currently facing structural challenges (yep. I did my research on all my future potential employers):

• The last major framework was launched years ago, with subsequent certifications largely adapted from external partners.
• Internal teams were siloed, often working based on legacy practices rather than standardised approaches.
• New strategic frameworks relied heavily on outsourced solutions rather than internal expertise.

Effectively, the organisation needed someone who could standardise processes, integrate industry trends, and elevate programme quality. While my experience aligned with these needs, I was not shortlisted. That brought me back to a conversation I had with friend who used to work there, “They have issues. Plenty of internal uncertainty rather than strategic fit.”

Again, the same theme:

“Obsession with “certifications” — and how it has been overvalued by organisations to the extent that they can’t be bothered to check on other things.”

Is recruitment really just ticking a checkbox these days?

Experience Three: Internal Misalignment and Recruitment Challenges

I once left an organisation due to a misalignment of my professional values with its work culture and environment. Shortly after my departure, few other lefts including my immediate supervisor, and there’s plenty of vacant position

During my tenure, there was considerable overlap between senior roles, making responsibilities unclear and, at times, leaving some positions functionally redundant. They weren’t top-heavy, but somehow, I felt suffocated having to work with so many “bosses.”

At the exit interview, I suggested promoting someone internally for the next leadership role — a colleague with credibility, deep knowledge of the team, and strong alignment with the organisational culture. However, the organisation decided to continue searching externally, reasoning that the role was “too senior” for an internal promotion.

This illustrates a broader point:

“Organisations sometimes prioritise external credentials or hierarchical considerations over cultural fit, internal knowledge, and long-term impact.”

Did recruiters not compare the cost-to-hire with the cost of promotion? Does HR, amid their functional silos, even discuss this?

Experience Four: The “Brand Promise”

In my search for the right “next one” for me, an organisation caught my attention. Their brand exuded authenticity — approachable, human, deeply reflective. I thought, “Finally, someone doing this right.”

I clicked Apply to the position that was open, and a few days later, I received an email inviting me to complete an “assessment brief.”

“Before we proceed with shortlisting you for an interview, kindly complete the assessment as part of the screening process.”

I opened the file, and there it was — it felt more like a full-scale consulting project than an evaluation. It required an in-depth strategy proposal, end-to-end design thinking framework, and delivery plan — all without context or compensation.

It wasn’t just “show us what you can do,” it was “build us something we might actually use.”

Now, don’t get me wrong. Assessments are useful when they measure fit and thought process. I’ve done this to my candidates before – but definitely not to this extend. Seems like the assessment is morphing into an unpaid consulting work, the balance tips from fairness to exploitation. Somewhere along the line, the intent of evaluating a candidate’s capability got replaced with a scavenger hunt for free ideas.

It made me pause — not because I didn’t want to put in effort, but because I started asking:

“What are we really assessing here? Creativity? Commitment? Or compliance?”

It makes me wonder.

Dear Recruiter,
In your checkbox to hire, isn’t there a demarcation to note the differences between an assessment to screen and an assessment for work?

Don’t overdo things.

My flair in HR has always been in L&D — hiring, recruitment, or talent acquisition is not my thing. From what I see, and as I mentioned earlier, hiring at its core should feel like finding your jodoh — that deep sense of rightness when values, rhythm, and vision align. You don’t marry someone because they look good on paper; you choose them because they make sense with your future.

A great hire isn’t about perfection. It’s about partnership — where clarity meets intention. Because without good intentions, even the best résumés crumble under the weight of misalignment.

At least that’s how I chose my husband. And I can tell you — I married right. Alhamdulillah.

L&D can bridge the gap between talent acquisition and operational excellence by aligning capability frameworks with hiring criteria. Instead of using certifications as filters, organisations should evaluate how candidates embody operational values — adaptability, process thinking, and problem-solving. Operational excellence, after all, is not just about smooth processes. It’s about people who make those processes work better every day. Imagine a hiring culture that measures success not by how well someone fits an old mould, but by how effectively they can refine, improve, and elevate it.

Because recruitment shouldn’t end when the offer letter is signed. It should evolve with the person — just like a marriage grows with commitment, trust, and shared purpose.

Politics exists in every workplace — whether we acknowledge it or not. It’s the subtle art of navigating power, perception, and influence that shapes how decisions are made and whose voices are heard. For a long time, I viewed office politics as something negative, something to avoid. But over time, I’ve learned that managing politics isn’t about manipulation — it’s about awareness, empathy, and strategic communication.

When I first stepped into a leadership role, naively, I thought the hardest part would be managing tasks. I was wrong. The hardest part was managing people — and not just my team, but those above and around me too.

As an individual contributor, your biggest challenge is often managing up — aligning your work with expectations, proving your value, and ensuring your voice is heard. I was good at that. That’s why I excelled as an individual contributor; my work spoke for itself.

But in that journey, the equation changes. Managing up is just one piece — you also need to master managing across and down. And that’s where things get complex, because in those spaces, your influence matters more than your output.

And sometimes, influence comes with drama.

That’s the reality no one tells you — politics is easy to analyse from the outside, but harder to stomach when you’re in it.

I’ve seen colleagues turn competitive. I’ve experienced how personal agendas can cloud teamwork — once even watching a peer sabotage my success simply because she had her eyes on my seat. It’s a reminder that leadership isn’t just about skill; it’s about stamina — emotional, political, and moral.

Leading wasn’t just about distributing tasks. It was about understanding your team — what drives them, what holds them back, and when to step in or step aside.

That experience taught me that leadership is rarely about being liked. It’s about being anchored.

Recently I joined a Speed Mentoring programme that gave me the chance to sit one-on-one with top management. Those brief but powerful conversations left me with three truths I carry to this day:

• Build alliances. As a leader, you cannot walk alone. Relationships are your real infrastructure.
• Fake it till you make it. You don’t need to know everything, but you do need to learn it all — quickly.
• Have clarity. Always cover your bases, because clarity protects you when perception fails you.

Those lessons reshaped how I view leadership. It’s not about being flawless — it’s about being adaptable, teachable, and surrounded by the right people.

Over time, politics that used to frustrate me, taught me that it is not inherently bad — it’s how you play it that defines you.

As a leader, you don’t just navigate politics for yourself; you carry your team through it. You defend them, represent them, and sometimes, shield them from the undercurrents that run deep. You become their voice — even when yours is shaking.

And that’s when leadership starts to feel heavy. Because you’re not just managing outcomes; you’re managing trust.

After all that, I asked myself: Do I still want to be a leader in my next role?

My answer is a definite yes.

Because despite the politics, the pressure, and the people problems, I still believe leadership is a privilege. It’s a space where you can build culture, protect values, and empower people to do work that matters. It’s where you learn that leadership isn’t about being in charge — it’s about taking responsibility when it counts most.

But here’s the twist — while I’m ready for my next leadership role, I’m also not shying away from an individual contributor role.

This journey has made me empathise with the challenges my past managers faced and enlighten me what else I can do to add more value as an individual contributor in the future.

Managing people is a lot of work — it’s not just about assigning tasks or giving directions. It’s about guiding personalities, managing conflicts, and constantly balancing compassion with accountability.

So, if the next chapter places me back as an individual contributor, I’ll walk into it with new eyes — with empathy, awareness, and a deeper respect for what leadership truly demands.

And if I am back to being a leader – God knows I will be ready for it too.

Not because I have all the answers — but because I’ve lived the questions. I’ve seen what leadership looks like when it’s lonely, messy, and thankless. I’ve stood my ground when it was easier to stay silent. I’ve learned that real leadership doesn’t demand perfection; it demands courage, clarity, and conviction.

I am ready to lead again — this time, with sharper awareness, stronger boundaries, and a deeper sense of purpose.

Because the world doesn’t need more bosses. It needs more leaders who learn — and that’s the kind of growth I’m still choosing, one lesson at a time.

Carpe diem. 😊

Robin Speculand wrote, “The biggest challenge in leadership is not the strategy — it’s driving execution.”

That line has stayed with me for years. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from leading teams, driving change, and sitting through countless strategy presentations, it’s this — vision is easy to fall in love with, but execution is where leadership either lives or dies.

We often glorify strategy. It feels elegant, cerebral, forward-looking. There’s a certain energy that comes with presenting a new vision — the slides look crisp, the objectives sound inspiring, and everyone nods enthusiastically.

But the truth is, most frustration in organisations doesn’t come from what leaders want to achieve. It comes from the gap between the vision drawn at the top and the reality faced by those tasked to make it happen.

I’ve seen this dynamic play out in meetings, project reviews, and daily operations. Subordinates often say, “The boss wants this and this,” while quietly figuring out how to make it happen. I’ve been there myself.

I once had a boss who told me, “Why are you telling me these problems? You should be solving them yourself. That’s what you’re paid for. If I have to solve this with you, I don’t need you.”

That moment never left me. It revealed something uncomfortable — that many leaders have grown so focused on the destination that the route has become invisible. As long as the numbers look good, milestones are ticked off, and the dashboards stay green, the messy, complex journey in between rarely enters the conversation.

At the top, what gets airtime are strategy decks, KPIs, and the “what” and “why.” But the “how” — the space where people wrestle with real obstacles — quietly fights its battles off the record.

Speculand calls this the “execution gap.” He argues that two-thirds of strategies fail not because they’re poorly designed, but because they’re never properly implemented.

I see this in almost every organisation. Beautifully worded strategies that live on PowerPoint slides but never translate into meaningful change. The assumption is that once direction is set, execution will “somehow” follow.

Truth is, it doesn’t.

Execution requires more than intent — it requires infrastructure, rhythm, and courage. It’s not glamorous work. It’s not about high-level visioning, but about navigating constraints, managing dependencies, and facing the uncomfortable truth that not everything planned on paper fits the real world.

And yet, in many boardrooms, execution is treated as an administrative concern rather than a leadership discipline.

Speculand’s Beyond Strategy describes the “chasm” that exists between strategy design and strategy delivery. The design stage is filled with optimism — it’s about ideas, possibilities, and ambition. The delivery stage, however, deals with fatigue, resistance, and friction.

That chasm doesn’t exist because people don’t care. It exists because the system doesn’t make space for honest struggle. The operational difficulties — the trade-offs, the bottlenecks, the imperfect adjustments — rarely make it into executive updates.

And why would they? No one wants to be the bearer of bad news.

We tell ourselves that good leadership means staying positive, moving forward, showing confidence. But when that confidence turns into avoidance of the hard truths, execution silently dies.

In my own experience, I’ve seen brilliant strategies fade into silence — not because of incompetence or apathy, but because there was no structure to sustain momentum. No cadence of review. No space for the “how.”

Here’s the uncomfortable reality: many leaders don’t actually want to hear about the struggle.

They want progress updates, not problems. They want dashboards that tell them everything is on track. They want to know that the machine is running — even if the people inside it are running on fumes.

It’s not because they don’t care. It’s because they’ve been conditioned to focus on outcomes.

Somewhere along the way, leadership became synonymous with control, oversight, and optics — the illusion that if everything looks neat, then everything must be fine.

But execution is never neat. It’s iterative, messy, and deeply human.

Speculand’s idea of “execution excellence” challenges this illusion. He says that execution is not just about discipline; it’s about designing systems that allow people to do their best work — systems that make it easier to act, measure, and adapt.

Speculand calls this shift developing a disciplined execution mindset — the move from saying “We’ve designed a strategy” to “We’re executing one.”

It sounds simple, but it requires a radical shift in how leaders think.

Instead of asking, “Are we aligned on strategy?” they must ask, “Are we aligned on how we’ll deliver it?”

Because execution lives in the how.

I’ve seen leaders, myself included, focus heavily on defining the vision while underestimating the grind of making it real. We talk passionately about innovation, transformation, or culture-building — but seldom ask the practical questions that matter most:

• Do our systems support this?
• Are people equipped to deliver it?
• What needs to change operationally to make it real?

These questions sound tactical, but they’re profoundly strategic. They determine whether the vision lives or dies.

Recently, I attended an interview with a Japanese factory and at the end of the interview came the usual question from the interviewer, “Do you have any question for us?”

I asked them, “In all your transformation initiatives, how do you ensure the execution is smooth sailing?”

Their answer, “The Japanese call it genchi genbutsu — “go and see for yourself.” Our leaders’ pride in doing the job off-screen, they don’t just review reports; they go to the factory floor to see how the work really happens. They understand that the truth of execution lives in the details, not in the PowerPoint decks.”

Their answers wow-ed me!

Leadership isn’t about staying above the details — it’s about staying connected to the reality of those who bring your strategy to life.

When leaders don’t “go and see,” they create a culture where bad news is filtered, problems are hidden and learning stops.

And that’s when the execution engine breaks down.

Speculand describes this as losing the “Strategy Cadence” — the rhythm that keeps execution alive. When that rhythm disappears, so does focus. Initiatives start strong but fade out quietly. Meetings become updates, not discussions. Energy drains out of the system.

In my experience, execution fails not because people lack will, but because they lack rhythm.

Teams move from one task to another, chasing deadlines without stepping back to review, recalibrate, or realign. Leaders, pressed for results, skip the hard conversations and jump straight to reporting.

Speculand’s idea of a Review Rhythm speaks directly to this — establishing regular, structured conversations around progress, not just performance. It’s not about micromanaging; it’s about creating accountability and continuity.

Because execution thrives on dialogue, not directives.

When teams are invited to ask “How can we make this work?” instead of just “What should we do?” they begin to take ownership. They move from compliance to commitment.

That’s when execution becomes a living process, not a checklist.

When subordinates say, “It’s too vague,” or “We don’t have enough resources,” those aren’t excuses — they’re signals.

They signal that the strategy hasn’t yet become operationally real. That somewhere, the translation layer has failed.

Good leaders listen to those signals. Not to react, but to understand where the system is breaking down.

In that sense, leadership isn’t about demanding flawless execution — it’s about designing the conditions for it to thrive. It’s about creating an environment where problems surface early, where clarity replaces assumption, and where accountability is shared, not imposed.

Speculand’s work reminded me that execution isn’t about doing more; it’s about doing less, better.

Leaders often fall into the trap of launching too many initiatives, spreading teams thin across competing priorities. But true execution excellence comes from focus — choosing a few high-impact priorities and pursuing them relentlessly.

When leaders simplify the agenda, teams gain clarity. When they create structure, teams gain confidence. And when they model discipline, teams gain rhythm.

That’s when execution becomes part of the organisation’s DNA, not just another management cycle.

As someone who thrives on structure and process, I’ve learned that real transformation doesn’t live in PowerPoint decks — it lives in behaviours, systems, and consistent follow-through.

Whenever I roll out a new brief or initiative, I ground myself with three simple questions:

• How clear is the execution path for my team?
• What support do they need to make this real?
• How will we know we’re making progress?

Those three questions have become my personal execution compass.

They remind me that leadership isn’t about commanding outcomes; it’s about enabling them. It’s not about setting direction and stepping back — it’s about walking with your people until the destination is reached.

Because in the end, strategy is the choice. Execution is the action.

Robin Speculand’s Excellence in Execution reminded me that organisations rarely fail because they lack vision. They fail because leaders underestimate the grind of making that vision real.

Strategy might inspire — but execution transforms.

I remembered vividly the question I asked my then boyfriend, now husband, when Tun Dr. Mahathir Mohamad was sworn in again as Malaysia’s Prime Minister in 2018.

“Doesn’t Tun have a successor? He’s 92 years old and is now sworn in as our Prime Minister again.”

And he replied, “I think the question isn’t simply ‘did he have one?’, but rather, ‘could anyone succeed him?’”

That moment stayed with me — not because of politics, but because of what it revealed about leadership and succession. It sparked a reflection that has since shaped how I see leadership in both nations and organisations: it’s one thing to lead; it’s another to prepare others to continue leading when you’re gone.

It’s about mentoring — or at least, we like to think it is. But is it really?

When Tun Dr. Mahathir returned to power, it was a moment that symbolised both strength and trust. It represented the people’s enduring faith in his ability to lead — and the remarkable longevity of his influence. Yet it also raised a deeper question in me every time I looked at a great leader and wondered “what happens after him/ her?”.

Just like my other half rightfully pointed out – “the question isn’t simply if they did have a successor, but rather, could anyone succeed them?”

What happens when leadership becomes deeply intertwined with the person, rather than the system?

That event reminded me that even the most visionary leaders can face the timeless challenge of continuity. And that challenge of ensuring the future can thrive without them is one that transcends politics; it’s a lesson every leader, in every context, must eventually face.

Succession planning.

Succession planning is not about replacement; it’s about continuity. In organisational theory, it refers to a deliberate and systematic effort to ensure leadership continuity by identifying, developing, and preparing future leaders to fill key roles. It’s a process that goes beyond naming a successor — it builds a pipeline of capable people who can uphold and expand upon the leader’s vision.

In my HR Analytics class in 2025, we discussed on several theories underpinning this concept.

One of the earliest is the “replacement planning” model, where succession was treated as a contingency — a reactive measure in case of sudden leadership loss. But over time, as organisations evolved, this approach proved insufficient. Leadership transitions are rarely mechanical; they are cultural, emotional, and systemic.

That’s where strategic succession planning emerged — integrating leadership development into an organisation’s long-term strategy. This model focuses on three critical components:

• Clarity of Vision – The successor must not only know what to do, but why it matters.
• Depth of Capability – The system must nurture people who are trained, trusted, and empowered to act.
• Cultural Continuity – The values must be deeply rooted enough to survive leadership changes.

These three principles are as true in corporate life as they are in nation-building.

We then explored how to measure its success — through what’s called “bench strength”. Bench-strength, simply put, measures how ready an organisation is for transition. The formula is straightforward:

Bench Strength Ratio = (Number of ready successors) ÷ (Number of key positions)

A ratio of 1:1 is considered ideal — one ready successor for every critical role. Anything less exposes a fragility that can cripple a company when someone resigns, retires, or burns out.

Strong organisations like IBM, GE, and Procter & Gamble (P&G) are built on this understanding. P&G’s culture of promoting from within ensures a steady flow of leaders who understand not just the business but the brand’s DNA. GE institutionalised leadership development through its Crotonville campus — grooming successors years before the need arose. IBM, too, has long integrated leadership readiness into its performance metrics, seeing it not as a cost but as an investment in continuity.

They all share one common leadership philosophy: succession is not about replacing people — it’s about protecting purpose.

From my own experience, I’ve come to see bench-strength as more than just a number. To me, it’s a form of business continuity planning. In my recent leadership role, I learned this lesson the hard way. I was leading a team of 7 and each of them had their own specialised function — unique, important, and critical in their lane. But it also meant no one could step in for another. Whenever someone took emergency or medical leave, operations stalled, and the only way to keep things running was for me to learn every single role, just so I could back them up.

That season taught me one of my most valuable lessons as a leader: a team that depends on one person — even if that person is the leader — is not sustainable. Building bench-strength isn’t about creating clones; it’s about ensuring the mission can go on, even in your absence. It’s about equipping others with the skills, confidence, and decision-making capacity to act independently. Because leadership, in its truest form, is not about holding control — it’s about creating capability.

Over the years, I’ve noticed another pattern in my career. Many of the projects I’ve been part of — despite being well-intentioned and well-executed — eventually came to an end. Sometimes because priorities shifted, sometimes because organisations themselves closed operations.

That experience made me reflect deeply. It wasn’t about success or failure. It was about legacy. The difference wasn’t in how well the project was managed — it was in whether the system and people were prepared to sustain it.

That’s when it clicked for me: the absence of succession isn’t a failure of planning; it’s a failure of culture.

When we compare national leadership transitions with corporate ones, the similarities are striking. As mentioned, the success of succession depends on three elements: clarity of vision, depth of capability, and cultural continuity. The next person must not only know what to do but why it matters. The system must have trained, trusted people ready to act. And the values must be so deeply rooted that they survive leadership changes.

Just few days ago, me and my husband (same guy from 2018 😉) revisited this topic, and he spoke to me about Singapore’s governance model introduced by Lee Kuan Yew. The model rooted from LKY’s guiding philosophy — “system before self”. He shared a quote from LKY’s book From Third World to First that has stayed with me:

“I have to make sure that whoever succeeds me will carry on the system that will work.”

It was a simple but profound statement. LKY understood that sustainable success cannot rely on personality. It must be built on predictable systems, shared values, and institutional strength. He didn’t just develop successors — he institutionalised succession itself. His leadership pipeline was cultivated through years of mentoring, exposure, and evaluation, ensuring that leadership was always a shared, evolving process rather than a personal legacy.

LKY’s method of leadership continuity followed what modern organisational theorists would call the “integrated development approach.” This model aligns individual development, organisational goals, and succession readiness — so that leadership growth is not accidental but engineered.

He embedded it into every level of governance. Ministers, civil servants, and potential leaders were rotated, mentored, and exposed to complex challenges — not to mimic his leadership, but to embody the nation’s enduring values. He built a governance model that functioned almost like a corporate leadership system — with performance metrics, structured mentorship, and long-term capability planning.

And that’s what made his legacy so enduring. LKY didn’t build Singapore to depend on him. He built Singapore to outlive him.

Today, when I reflect on Tun Mahathir’s and Lee Kuan Yew’s legacies, I no longer see one as greater than the other — only as different manifestations of leadership. Tun represents the power of belief and drive; LKY represents the discipline of structure and foresight. Both are lessons in leadership — one born of conviction, the other of continuity.

As a leader myself, I’ve learned that the hardest part of succession is not planning it but accepting it. It requires humility — to accept that leadership is not ownership, but stewardship. It’s not about being remembered but about ensuring that what you’ve built doesn’t end with you.

Sometimes the true measure of a leader is not how much changes when they’re there, but how little disruption happens when they’re gone.

Succession equals sustainability.

I used to believe that hard work could fix anything. That if I cared enough, gave enough, and pushed through every storm, the results would eventually speak for themselves. But a recent experience I had taught me otherwise.

It all began when I applied for an individual contributor role, but after several interview rounds, I was asked if I am up for a leadership role. Do I want to climb the ladder?

I thought hard before I said, “yes”.

I am not sure whether it’s desperation for being unemployed for 8 months since I took a break to care for my daughter or it’s because I am really ready for the role.

But I did it. I said yes. And when I walked into the office, meeting my “team”, I told myself I was ready — ready to lead by example, stabilise a messy team, and build systems that could outlast personalities. I wanted to bring order where there was chaos, clarity where there was confusion.

After all, that’s what I know best – turning vision into structure, and structure into scalable, people-first impact.

For a while, I did.

I redesigned workflows, set up processes, and coached my team to be more accountable. I learned everyone’s role because I didn’t want anyone to feel unsupported. When someone was on leave or struggling, I filled in — quietly, consistently.

My team appreciated it. They often told me I was patient, structured, fair. They knew I had their backs.

But somewhere between being the dependable one and the one who holds everything together, I lost myself.

I started to realise that when you climbed the ladder it isn’t only about what you do — it’s also about what the environment allows you to do. You can be the most dedicated person on the steps, but if the culture doesn’t support you — if communication breaks down, if trust is thin, if decisions are made behind closed doors — your strength eventually turns into exhaustion.

That’s what happened to me.

The longer I stayed, the more I felt invisible. The meetings I wasn’t in mattered more than the ones I led. The voices that shaped direction weren’t always the ones doing the work. And the more I tried to “fix” things, the more isolated I became.

I kept asking myself: Why can’t I make this work?

I had the skills, the people, the structure — everything that, on paper, defines good ink. Yet I was running on empty.

Then I realised — maybe the problem wasn’t me.

Maybe it was the culture within.

Culture is the invisible hand that shapes everything. It decides whether people collaborate or compete, whether leaders empower or control, whether effort is recognised or overlooked.

And when the culture is misaligned with your values — no amount of passion, hard work, or good intention can make you thrive.

That was my quiet awakening.

I decided to leave then.

I left because I couldn’t grow in a system that didn’t nurture growth. I left because when you are in a position to shape direction, build people and inspire great things to happen –

it should feel purposeful, not painful. I left because I finally understood that culture defines the boundaries of you can take when you are up there.

For a long time, I blamed myself — for not being political enough, not networking more, not “playing the game.” But looking back, I see it differently now.

I see a woman who showed up.

Who tried to protect her team from chaos.

Who built processes from scratch when no one else would.

Who held the line — even when she stood alone.

I was there, in that position, and I see that when you climbed the ladder, and you find yourself up there, it is not about winning every battle but about recognising when a battlefield no longer deserves your energy.

The biggest lesson I’ve learned is your title means nothing if the culture you create, the standard you set through, how you treat people, how you stay grounded, how you choose integrity over convenience, even in small pockets is not aligned with the kind of person you claim to be. Titles fade, but the culture you build through your actions is what truly defines your legacy.

And sometimes, creating that culture means having the courage to walk away from what doesn’t align.

Today, I no longer see my burnout as failure. It was feedback.

Feedback that I had outgrown that space.

Feedback that told me I was ready for a new kind of leadership — one rooted not just in systems and deliverables, but in humanity, trust, and shared growth.

If I could go back, I wouldn’t undo my “yes.” I would still step forward — only this time, with more awareness. I would network earlier, ask for support louder, and remind myself that strength isn’t about holding everything together — sometimes, it’s about knowing when to let go.

Growth doesn’t always come from achievement. Sometimes, it comes from realising what no longer fits — and daring to build a better version of yourself beyond it.

That’s where I am now — learning to lead again, from a place of clarity and calm.

Because I finally understand that leadership and culture are two sides of the same coin.

And the kind of leader I want to be… will never forget the cost of forgetting that.

Fix your culture first. 😉

If I could describe my career journey in one phrase, it would be this – Learning Myself Forward.

I didn’t plan every step perfectly. Even when I took up English as my degree major, it was my parents who made the call. Of course, the fact that I loved the language and had excelled in it since primary one, played a part. But truthfully, I didn’t always know what’s next – come what may, like Nike, I Just Do It. 😉

I took the first job I was offered right after graduation and discovered that I love translating long-winded blueprint into engaging content – long before ChatGPT was even in place!  On the job, I learned to write with clarity, tailor messages for different stakeholders, and coordinate across teams. I created content for internal toolkits, blog posts, newsletters, and product documentation — all of which strengthened my foundation in content strategy and cross-functional collaboration.

I have always wanted to teach – educating has always been at my core. So when I was offered my first teaching role, I couldn’t say “No”, even when the offer is questionable, I took it. It was a small college, located in a shop lot – but I have a classroom full of students.

I remember my first class vividly. It was for a group of SPM school leavers, who are still waiting for their results, but had already started an English preparatory class. I printed Martin Luther King Jr.’s speech, “I Have A Dream”. My intention was to use it to teach figurative language, imagery and repetition – perfect for analysing rhetorical devices. The speech shows emotion, rhythm and vision. I wanted to inspire my class to have and speak of their dreams.

After the lesson, I was called in by the Academic Director. She taught me the first lesson on teaching, “Tina, you need to read the room, know and see your audience, your students. Every classroom lesson has a targeted outcome, but the approach in achieving those outcomes depends on the students you have before you.”

My class was filled with SPM-level students who are not fluent in English. If I had checked their files, I would have known that they never pass English at school. Bringing in Martin Luther King’s speech was too ambitious!  They couldn’t understand it, or relate to it, so the learning outcomes weren’t achieved.  

That moment was a turning point for me. Since then, throughout my years of teaching, I’ve made it a point to put my students at the centre of my focus. Classroom learning, to me, must be experiential — centred on direct experience, reflection, and application rather than theory or lecture. Whether through theatre productions, outdoor expeditions, seminars, or industry collaborations, I designed experiences where students could learn by doing. These initiatives developed not only their academic understanding but also their leadership, creativity, and teamwork — skills essential for life beyond the classroom.

My message to them has always been this: learning a language is like learning how to swim.

You cannot master it by reading books alone — you need to practise. I could give you a Dummy’s Guide on How to Swim; you might read it all night and memorise every step. But if I push you into the pool after that, there’s no guarantee you’ll swim. The first rule of learning how to swim is to get into the water — and it’s the same with language. With regular practice, you build confidence, and that confidence leads to mastery. My role as their English lecturer was to give them the pool — the safe space to try, fail, and try again until they could swim on their own.

I expanded this philosophy when teaching Early Literacy to trainee teachers, understanding their challenges in using English to interact with young English language learners. Whether in first or second language settings, what matters most is the ability to internalise what needs to be taught, so that application becomes smooth, natural, and fluent across all levels.

I have had the opportunity of working abroad – from teaching in Jakarta to shadowing my Vice President for university expansion projects across Africa. I witnessed firsthand how education transforms communities in ways that theories alone could never explain. Each of these experiences taught me more about courage, humility, and adaptability than any classroom ever could.

When I pursued my Master’s in Corporate Communication at UPM, it wasn’t just about deepening technical knowledge. It deepened my understanding of strategic communication, stakeholder engagement, and organisational reputation. I explored topics such as corporate identity, crisis management, persuasive messaging, and cross-cultural communication — all of which strengthened my ability to lead communication efforts in high-stakes environments.

The analytical and planning skills I developed here continue to shape how I approach stakeholder alignment, policy communication, and internal learning engagement strategies in my professional roles.

Later, getting certified in ISO and HR Analytics taught me that quality and quantity should work hand-in-hand — the discipline of precision, the value of data-driven decision making, and how systems thinking shapes sustainable impact.

These experiences strengthened my belief that learning is not confined to classrooms — it lives in systems, processes, and people.

I’ve worked on the frontlines, delivering engaging learning content, and behind the scenes — developing learning frameworks, curriculum structures, and modules. Teaching students, training adult-learners and coaching teachers. I’ve worked in operations within both academia and corporate environments, all to understand how systems and structures function across cross-functional teams in supporting organisational goals. Each experience has added a new layer — not just to my résumé, but to how I think and who I’ve become.

I’ve learned that professional growth doesn’t stand apart from personal growth; they shape and strengthen each other.

Of course, it’s not always sunshine at work. There was a season that taught me one of my hardest lessons yet — that not every place that preaches progress actually practises it. I joined an organisation drawn by its inspiring mantra about growing together. But over time, I learned that slogans can’t substitute culture. Behind the words, I saw gaps between what was said and what was lived.

It was difficult — even disheartening — but it pushed me to reflect on what progress truly means. Sometimes, growth doesn’t come from staying and adjusting; it comes from recognising misalignment, choosing integrity, and walking away.

That experience grounded me. It reminded me that growing isn’t just about acquiring skills — it’s also about discernment. About knowing when to persevere, and when to move on with clarity and grace.

Recognise your boundaries and hold on to your principles.

Today, I see learning as less of a checklist and more of a mindset. It’s about asking:

1. What can I learn from this — about others, and about myself?
2. How can I apply what I’ve learned to make the next step more meaningful?

That, to me, is what learning myself forward truly means — to keep showing up for the process, even when the outcome isn’t clear, and to know when to stop when the purpose no longer fits your being.

Every new skill, every challenge, every “yes” to opportunity becomes a piece of the puzzle that shapes the next version of me. And as I continue on this journey, I remind myself that growth doesn’t always look like a leap — sometimes, it’s the quiet courage to take the next step, mindfully and with purpose.

Stay forward.