Bloomberg Businessweek
Go To Businessweek.com
Humility is one of those qualities that all leaders say they admire, but few want to experience.
Think about it. Ask any group of leaders if humility is important. Almost every one will nod and tell you that the world needs more humble leaders in every field: business, politics—well, everywhere. Ask that same group if any members would like an opportunity to be humbled. All are likely to decline.
I suppose it’s hard to blame them. Being humbled is by definition awkward, often painful. No one enjoys seeking out discomfort and hurt. Yet there is no getting around the importance of experiencing those difficult moments in life that reminded us that we are more fallible, broken, and human than we like to think.
One of the best opportunities that I’ve found for humility comes in my role as a parent. You might think I’m referring to the unglamorous work of changing diapers, cleaning up spilled milk, and picking up dirty clothes. While those are certainly humbling experiences, I find that the most profound instances of parental humility occur for me when I’m disciplining my children. Or more accurately, when I’m criticizing their behavior.
When I’m scolding any one of my four sons (not that I’m unwilling to scold daughters; I just don’t have any), I often find myself wondering why he acts the way he does. Being an extrovert, I usually verbalize my thoughts and ask something such as: “Where did you learn to act like that?” That’s when—if I’m being honest with myself—I realize that the answer to my semi-rhetorical question is that my son likely learned it from me. (It’s not that I’m unwilling to include my wife in this example; I’m afraid to).
I don’t really teach my sons to misbehave. It’s not as though I sit down and give them instructions on how to provoke their brothers, break dining room chairs, or talk back to their parents. But I must have done something to give them the idea that it would be okay to do those things—or more likely, that the consequences for doing so wouldn’t be significant.
In that moment of realization, I have a choice: I can either humble myself enough to acknowledge that the first person I need to address if I want to change my son’s behavior is me, or I can go on venting about how ornery he is and watch the orneriness continue.
The same thing happens to me—and to all leaders—at work. On a bad day, we often find ourselves complaining about something people in our organizations are doing. We turn to our colleagues on the leadership team (or our spouses) and vent. “The mid-level managers in this company are terrible at giving constructive feedback to their employees.” That’s just one of the common complaints I hear from executives.
Now, if we’re lucky enough to have a colleague on the management team, a consultant, or a spouse who is upfront with us—or if we are somehow struck with a blinding ray of humility in that moment—we will realize that we’re ultimately complaining about ourselves. As a consultant, my favorite way to remind leadership teams of this inescapable conclusion is to ask them: “How many of the people you’re complaining about report to someone outside of this room?”
The answer, of course, is “none.” Some executives quickly understand my point and accept the humble lesson that they’re ultimately responsible for the behavior of employees. But many push back. “Wait a second,” they argue. “Most of these managers work two or three levels below us. We can’t micromanage them and force them to give their people feedback.”
