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Why We Become Leaders

COURAGE—FROM THE LATIN cor, meaning heart—is herculean in the face of fear. The news that my dad was leaving us was heartbreaking for me. I wouldn't let anyone see or know that though. Not my mother. Not Kevin. Certainly not my dad; he was my advocate. I had already been people-pleasing for years up to this point, but now I was in a desperate position. Sure, I could have voiced how I felt to my father, but I sensed the gravity of the situation, and my survival strategy was to limit any risk in burdening or displeasing him. My future leadership tendency toward pleasing started right here, with this very experience. In my nine-year-old subconscious mind, I couldn't risk losing his love or protection because then I would be alone, with her, and in real danger.

In my heart though, I was disappointed and scared. I was angry at him, too, but I never let myself feel those emotions at the time. They didn't feel like safe emotions to have, so I stuffed them down like I had been doing with my mother all along. They piled up and calcified in my gut, but I pretended everything was fine between him and me. In fact, I put my father on a pedestal because any other subconscious strategy would have meant that both of my caregivers—the totality of my environment—were flawed and therefore unsafe.

More than 30 years later, I have come to realize that he knew my mother better than anyone. He knew what she was capable of, and he knew what was happening in our home. Maybe he was in some amount of denial and emotional repression due to his own experience with childhood physical abuse at the hands of his stepfather. To rescue me from our home would have forced him to engage with his own experience of abuse, and he was unable or unwilling. Relatedly, maybe his own gender-bias—that only men can exhibit violence and aggression to that extent—caused a blind spot for him. And whether either of these is true, I have come to trust that my feelings at nine were entirely valid. I love my dad, and he is fallible just like every one of us.

It wasn't until recently that two epiphanies emerged. First, I want a closer, more connected relationship with my father, but his capacity to engage with his own emotions keeps us in a relational dance that is loving and mostly utilitarian. We banter when we debate a topic, but his nature is reactionary and his default is to sarcasm. More often than not, he's listening to reply—not listening to understand. His wounds don't allow him the space to see what's important to me in a conversation, why I might place such value on the ideals I hold, or what emotion might be underneath what I'm saying. Though he has been the leader of our family, I had never viewed my father through the lens of his own trauma—until now. The depth of his heart is easy to observe, as is his unending generosity; I wonder if watching him is where I first learned that caring for others and being generous with time or resources are a subconscious, strategic duo that also help one gain love and belonging. Like any little boy, he just wanted to feel safe, loved, and appreciated within his family dynamic. I see that play out between us now that I'm in my 40s. And though I can get frustrated by our opposing communication styles, I remind myself of the root of his reactions. Few things would bring me greater joy than for my dad to integrate the traumatic experiences he has endured, but his choices are not my responsibility. I have realized that my nine-year-old self clung anxiously to the relationship because my life literally depended on it, and I've done a lot of work to unravel my insecure attachment style over the last three decades.

Secondly, all that said, I just might be more grateful for him today than ever before. He chose to break the patriarchal cycle of physical abuse within his own family and lineage, and he validated my experiences, no matter how difficult it might have been for him to recall being in my shoes.

One spring morning in 2021, I came across a podcast episode of Tom Bilyue's Impact Theory entitled, “Dr. Gabor Maté on How We Become Who We Are.”1 Dr. Maté is a Hungarian Canadian physician, best-selling author, and world-renowned expert on childhood development and trauma. Less than 15 minutes into the conversation, I realized why my father played such a large role in saving my life as a kid. He showed me kindness, was empathetic, and validated some of my most violent experiences with my mother. During the episode, Dr. Maté explained that many factors help determine resilience—and the greatest one of all is having just one person in your life who provides even a modicum of validation during childhood. I had two: my father and his mother, Ann.

Back then, my father's way of being unconsciously signaled to me that I might be loveable. Maybe I'm not worthless. Maybe I do matter. As a kid, all I needed was a miniscule hole to be poked in the story that I was broken and irreparably damaged. Physical abuse has a way of destroying the magic we come into this world with. I longed for something to counter what was being messaged to me daily by my mother, and my dad's validating words and actions created the possibility for me to become a healthy human. He is one reason why I did the work to remember who I am.

Dr. Maté went on to explain that there are two views each of us can choose from during our traumatic, formative years. We can either believe that there is something foundationally wrong with the world and our caretakers within it, or we can surmise that we must be the broken thing. The former view is much scarier, he says—because if the environment is flawed, how can we ever feel safe in it?

Being Needed Versus Being Wanted

In the documentary The Wisdom of Trauma, Dr. Maté tells a personal and vulnerable story about not feeling wanted as a child. In feeling unwanted, he chose to become a medical doctor so that he would feel needed by his patients. His work in uncovering his own trauma led him to realize how much it plays a role in the positions we gravitate toward as adults.2

Many of us become leaders for one of three subconscious reasons:

1. We need to feel valued or prove ourselves worthy.
2. We need to dissociate from feelings of deep shame and powerlessness.
3. We feel a profound sense of responsibility for others.

When I put my arm around my brother the night my mother told us that my dad was leaving, I was making myself needed as much as I felt responsible to support him. As trauma survivors, we “value being needed because [we] can't imagine being wanted.”3 Many of us become leaders because we believe that if we can succeed, we'll prove to ourselves and everyone else that we have inherent worth.

Shadow Leadership Styles

Trauma can both encourage us to be our best and, at the same time, hold us back from living and leading with higher consciousness. Some people fight their way to the top because their ego needs to protect itself by dominating others. Others cater to the whims of those under them out of fear of abandonment or rejection. We constantly play out our responses to early unmet needs. In other words, many of us who find ourselves in leadership positions are actually attempting to combat or distract ourselves from unresolved trauma.

Let's talk about what kind of leader you've become. To keep things simple, I've broken this down into just two trauma-based styles: People Controllers and People Pleasers. Across these two categories, the need to feel valued and worthy is foundational because it is a basic psychological need of all humans, regardless of the specific type or longevity of trauma. Some of my work is influenced by Positive Intelligence—the work of Shirzad Charmine, a Stanford lecturer leading research on the saboteurs we encounter within ourselves and how they can undermine our leadership efficacy.

People Controllers

When perfectionism is taken to the extreme, it serves as temporary relief for People Controllers. The combination of self-doubt and fear of being judged by others is somehow quelled by doing things the right way, on time, without a single mistake or misstep. This sets up People Controllers for failure because perfection is an impossibility for themselves and for others.

Most controlling leaders don't understand that leadership is about influence more than anything else. The control mechanisms used are an attempt to avoid the deep shame and powerlessness they experienced in childhood. According to Shirzad Chamine, they “might have generated a sense of order in the middle of a chaotic family dynamic, or earned acceptance and attention from emotionally distant or demanding parents by standing out as the irreproachable, perfect kid.”4

People-controlling leaders tend to micromanage, which erodes the empowerment of others. They assume they are always right, and that those within their organization approve of how they lead. They must have the final word in every decision and are deeply uncomfortable with any perceived threat to their authority. This is also referred to as autocratic leadership.

Archetypes include the Patriarch, the Hero, and the Dictator. Anyone who views themselves as a protector, breadwinner, authoritarian, or disciplinarian would likely fall into this category. If they had integrated their past...