𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗶𝗻 𝗕𝗼𝗻𝗱𝗮𝗴𝗲

A few weeks ago, I was coaching the Managing Director of a large company. He reflected, “I don’t understand. I’ve built this place on trust and care. I’ve supported my people through every crisis. But now I feel frustrated. I can’t step away without something breaking.”

As he spoke, I remembered something he’d once shared — how the men in his family held power by being loud, intimidating, always right. He had promised himself he’d be different. He’d lead through empathy, not fear.

And he had. People called him kind, available, humane. But as he spoke, I could feel the same structure in a new tone — everything still orbiting around him.

I nudged gently, “𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗱𝗶𝗱𝗻’𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗲𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝗱𝗼𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗜 𝘄𝗼𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝗰𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆. 𝗧𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗿𝘂𝗹𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝗳𝗲𝗮𝗿; 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗿𝘂𝗹𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗲. Either way, everyone’s freedom still depends on you.”

He frowned slightly. “You make it sound like even my decency has an agenda.”

“Not consciously,” I said. “The wish to be good can still carry the same aggression — it just hides in service.”

He exhaled, long and slow. “Maybe I didn’t escape the pattern. I just refined it.”

Something shifted — he saw that his care was genuine yet protective — a way to keep danger at bay by keeping everything under his watch. 𝗔𝗴𝗴𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗵𝗮𝗱𝗻’𝘁 𝘃𝗮𝗻𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗱; 𝗶𝘁 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝗴𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿𝗴𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱, expressed through competence and constant responsibility. His devotion wasn’t the opposite of domination; it was its evolution.

He seemed pensive and said after a few moments of silence – “I think I’ve been trying to earn freedom by controlling it.”

He wasn’t joking. For a moment he sat back, almost weightless — recognising that all his mastery, his care, his perfection, had been a long negotiation with fear. To let go would mean trusting that the world could hold itself. To be free, he’d have to stop being necessary.

That’s where the work begins for many who lead, parent, or heal — not in learning new ways to serve, but in unlearning the old ways we secure love: through usefulness, goodness, control.

Freedom doesn’t come from being different from those before us. It comes from no longer needing to prove that we are.

The moment we stop organising our goodness against their flaws, something loosens.
We begin to act, not in opposition to what we inherited, but in conversation with it.
Power then becomes something we can inhabit — without fear.

𝗥𝗲𝗳𝗹𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗤𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀
• What pattern of power did you inherit — and how have you re-packaged it as virtue?
• In trying to be different from those before you, what are you still compensating for?
• How do you unconsciously recreate the same structure you once resisted — only with softer language?
• And what might true freedom look like if you stopped correcting your lineage and started conversing with it?