My Management Philosophy

The first thing I do with a new direct report is ask them what they need from me. Not what their goals are, not where they see themselves in five years — what they need. From me. This week.

That question took me years to get to. I had a long enough career to see what happened when I didn't ask it.

I am an introvert who has spent twenty-five years in jobs that required me to present to executive teams, advocate for my people in rooms where design had no seat at the table, and build consensus across organizations that were not always looking for consensus. I can do all of that. I've gotten reasonably good at it. But it costs something, and early on I didn't understand the difference between what I could do and what I was actually built for.

That distinction matters for leadership, because before you can read a team, you have to know how you read the room — where your perception is reliable and where your blind spots are. Personality assessments can help. I came out INTJ for years, then INTP; somewhere between cool blue and earth green on a different framework entirely. Susan Cain's Quiet was the first time I had language for why loud, crowded environments drain me while extended one-on-one conversation does the opposite. None of these tools are maps — they're conversation starters for the harder project of actual self-knowledge.

What I eventually figured out: my best work happens when I'm listening carefully and translating complexity for people who don't have time to dig into it themselves. Not presenting. Not advocating. Not landing the room. Listening, and then making the complex legible.

That insight changed how I lead.

For most of my career, the one-on-one was the unit I cared most about. Weekly, thirty minutes, tone kept deliberately loose. Not a status check — there are other meetings for that. A genuine check-in: what are you running into, what do you need, what's getting in the way. I'd answer the same questions in reverse if asked. The goal was connection — and course-correction when needed, but not in a formal way. I ran skip-levels the same way, less frequently. I leaned into asynchronous communication for people who needed more time to formulate ideas before a conversation locked them in. I tried to make sure everyone had a real voice in group settings, not just the loudest voice. Different people need different conditions to do their best work — this isn't a complicated observation, but teams that act on it perform differently than teams that don't.

Two ears, one mouth. The ratio isn't original. The practice is harder than it sounds.

This approach has limits. There are situations where listening is the wrong move — where you have to act quickly, clearly, and without a lot of deliberation. I fired a contractor immediately after witnessing harassment. That was not a listening moment. I placed a direct report on a performance plan after repeated, escalating conflicts with stakeholders; they eventually left. Both were right. Neither came from a careful 1:1.

But those situations are rare. Most of what makes teams work — or not — is much less dramatic. It's whether people feel heard. Whether they can do their best work in the way they work best. Whether the person nominally leading them is paying close enough attention to notice the difference.

Twenty-five years in. Still learning the ratio.