
Wisdom In Leadership… Do We Have The Time To Be Wise?
In today's corporate world, where speed often seems like the ultimate competitive advantage, many leaders and organizations risk losing something far more valuable: wisdom. The question is pressing—do we have time to be wise?
I was inspired to revisit this question by Manfred Kets de Vries' essay on wisdom. Kets de Vries reminds us, 'wisdom can't be taught,' it emerges instead through life's crucible: reflection, vulnerability, relationship, and, perhaps most importantly, teaching others. He argues that simply transmitting information—even the best advice—is not enough to cultivate wisdom. It comes from grappling with ambiguity and experimenting in the messy reality of life and work.
As my Organizational Behavior professor at INSEAD, Kets de Vries challenged us to think about how to apply principles, not just learn them. That challenge remains deeply relevant today. In the whirlwind pace of modern corporate life, do we leave ourselves any space to reflect, or are we moving so fast that we undermine our capacity to become wise?
Wisdom vs. Intelligence: Depth vs. Speed
Some leaders still confuse wisdom with intelligence. But intelligence is about speed—how fast we can think, how much we can recall. Wisdom, by contrast, is about depth: it asks not only what is true, but what matters. Intelligence builds tools; wisdom asks if we should use them. That critical pause—questioning not just can we, but should we—is precisely what today's pace threatens to erase.
Robert Sternberg's 'Balance Theory of Wisdom,' published in Review of General Psychology (2003), underscores that wise leaders balance their interests with those of others and the broader environment. Unlike intelligence, which focuses on immediate problem-solving, wisdom weighs long-term consequences, ethical trade-offs, and diverse perspectives. Doing this well requires time, careful consideration, and a willingness to sit in the grey areas of decision-making.How Wise Leaders Teach—And Why That Takes Time
Although wisdom can't be taught like a checklist, wise leaders create environments where it can grow. Barry Schwartz in 'Practical Wisdom' describes how leaders model virtues such as patience and humility, share stories of their own failures, and encourage questioning—all of which require time and a willingness to pause.
Ikujiro Nonaka, describes the power of 'ba' —shared spaces where people engage in collective sense-making. Leaders who create these spaces allow teams to experiment and learn from one another's perspectives, cultivating the collective wisdom that fast-paced, siloed cultures often crush.
Research by McKenna, Rooney, and Boal (2009) shows that wise leaders recognize patterns, reframe problems, and guide organizations through uncertainty—all while helping others do the same. But recognizing patterns or reframing problems doesn't happen in a sprint; it requires time for reflection and dialogue.
From Knowledge Hoarders to Wisdom Cultivators
Many executives mistakenly equate expertise with wisdom. But wise leaders don't hoard knowledge to dominate discussions; they use it to spark exploration. They ask, 'What do you think?' or 'What might we be missing?'—questions that invite deeper reflection and collective insight.
This approach helps others develop independent thinking and creates a ripple effect: teams become better at weighing multiple perspectives, considering ethical consequences, and challenging their assumptions—skills essential in a complex, rapidly evolving world.
Wisdom's Cultural Impact
Organizations led by wise leaders become learning organizations. Employees feel safer to challenge ideas, voice concerns, and innovate. Psychological safety—identified by Amy Edmondson in 'The Fearless Organization' (Wiley, 2018)—is the hallmark of workplaces where wisdom can flourish rather than be stifled. When leaders create time and space for reflection, organizations shift from cultures of compliance to cultures of thoughtful engagement, unlocking innovation and resilience even in turbulent markets.
The Bottom Line: Making Time for Wisdom
Wisdom remains elusive but essential. As Sternberg, Schwartz, and Nonaka show, it cannot be taught by manuals or training programs—but it can be modeled and nurtured in environments that value reflection, humility, and moral courage.
But to do this well, leaders must first acknowledge a hard truth: wisdom takes time. Time to reflect. Time to engage others in dialogue. Time to pause before reacting. Without it, we may become faster—but not wiser.
As the proverb reminds us, 'Knowledge speaks, but wisdom listens.' In our drive for speed, we must not forget to slow down long enough to listen—and to create the time and space for ourselves and our teams to become wise.
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Forbes
14 hours ago
- Forbes
The Paradox Of Power: 3 Fears That Hinder Allyship In The Workplace
Shot of a woman posing with a chalk illustration of flexing muscles against a dark background In today's rapidly evolving professional landscape, allyship and inclusion aren't just buzzwords; they're essential pillars for innovation, growth, and a truly equitable work environment. Yet, for many in positions of power, the path to becoming an effective ally is paved with unseen obstacles – not malicious intent, but deeply ingrained fears that subtly, yet powerfully, hold them back. Understanding these "fear stories" is the critical first step in fostering genuine allyship. The journey to becoming an inclusive leader often demands a paradoxical mindset: embracing vulnerability while wielding influence, and stepping back to uplift others while maintaining one's own standing. There are three key fears that frequently trip up even the most well-intentioned individuals. All Risk, No Reward: The Vulnerability Vortex One of the most significant barriers to allyship is the perception that the risks outweigh the rewards. As Jennifer Brown, author of How to Be an Inclusive Leader, highlights, "it is a big ask for leaders to be more visible and open themselves up to being scrutinized in an unforgiving environment." This scrutiny often manifests as a fear of vulnerability – of making mistakes, admitting ignorance, showing weakness, or being perceived as inauthentic. The reality is, mistakes are inevitable. You will say the wrong thing, use outdated language, or commit a microaggression. That's part of the learning curve in allyship. The crucial element isn't avoiding errors, which is impossible, but rather owning them, apologizing sincerely, and committing to improvement. This willingness to be imperfect fosters trust and demonstrates a genuine commitment to the journey of inclusion. Furthermore, admitting "I don't know" can feel counterintuitive for leaders. Yet, true allyship demands this humility. Pretending to have all the answers, especially concerning the lived experiences of others, is not only disingenuous but actively harmful. It's about asking thoughtful, open-ended questions and actively educating oneself, rather than centering one's own experiences. For instance, if a colleague of color shares an experience of racial bias, responding with emotional upset (even if valid) can shift the focus back to the person in power, burdening the individual seeking support. True allyship requires processing those emotions elsewhere, maintaining focus on the person who needs support. There's also the fear of showing weakness. Leaders often feel compelled to project an image of unwavering competence. However, authentic strength lies in vulnerability. Sharing struggles or uncertainties allows for deeper human connection and creates space for open dialogue. It signals that you're a fellow human on a learning journey, not a flawless savior. People are often drawn to authenticity and imperfection more than perceived perfection. Finally, the fear of being seen as "trying too hard" or having ulterior motives can stifle nascent efforts. While sincerity is paramount, early enthusiasm for allyship might sometimes appear "messy." The key is ensuring actions genuinely center the voices and experiences of marginalized communities, rather than being performative. True allyship is about consistent, selfless action, especially when it's challenging. Status Threat: The Zero-Sum Fallacy Inclusion initiatives, particularly those focused on diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI), can trigger a "status threat" among majority groups. As Harvard Business Review explains, those who have historically benefited from being in the majority may perceive DEI as a zero-sum game, fearing that gains for minority groups necessarily mean losses for them. Mishel Horta, Head of Diversity, Equity, Inclusion, and Belonging at DHL Express Americas, uses a powerful analogy: "It is not about us versus them, it's not a zero-sum game. It is about broadening the flashlight focus beyond the dominant group, they are still centered. It is about sharing and broadening the focus of the light with others outside of the initial focus. We all benefit from being seen by the light." This reframing is crucial: allyship is about expanding opportunity, not reallocating it in a punitive way. Given that a significant majority of leadership positions are held by men (for example, in 2023, women held only 29% of CEO positions at Fortune 500 companies, while people of color held only 15% of CEO positions), this fear disproportionately impacts white men. Allyship can challenge existing gender norms, leading to fears of negative peer pressure, backlash from other men, a perceived loss of masculinity, or being negatively labeled. It can feel like swimming against the current when the unspoken code is solidarity with the group in power. For example, a man speaking out against gender inequality or a white person addressing racism might face pushback. The concept of "masculinity loss" is often rooted in outdated notions of strength. True allyship expands this definition, demonstrating that empathy, compassion, and standing up for justice are indeed powerful traits. It's about being secure enough in your identity to challenge harmful norms. The lack of visible role models can make allyship feel isolating. It takes courage to be among the first or few in your circle actively engaged in this work. This underscores the importance of building communities of allies and sharing experiences. Furthermore, the fear of being "cancelled" or labeled ("woke warrior," "snowflake") can be paralyzing. These labels often serve to silence dissent. However, allyship demands courage to stand up for what's right, even in the face of criticism, particularly from those who benefit from the status quo. Allyship is not about saviorism. Concepts like "white saviorism," where white individuals are portrayed as "rescuing" people of color (as seen in films like Hidden Figures or The Help which, despite their narratives, have been criticized for centering white perspectives), undermine genuine allyship. Active allyship involves taking risks and challenging the status quo, even if it doesn't directly benefit the ally. It's about trusting that a workplace that is better for historically marginalized groups will ultimately be better for everyone. A rising tide truly does lift all boats. Irrelevance: The Ego's Grip Perhaps the most potent fear, as Brené Brown's research on shame highlights, is the fear of irrelevance. In the context of allyship, this manifests as anxieties about loss aversion, worries about retaliation, ego preservation, and the struggle to decenter oneself. Our natural aversion to loss often makes us overestimate what we might lose by embracing change, even positive change. We get comfortable with the status quo, even if it's unjust. Allyship requires letting go of this fear and recognizing that a more equitable world benefits everyone, even if it means relinquishing unearned advantages. The unspoken worry about "revenge" from marginalized groups once they gain power can also be a deterrent. However, research by Melinda Gates in The Moment of Lift found the opposite: when women or people of color gain access to power, they are more likely to share it, not seek revenge. Allyship is about creating a just system, not protecting one's position. Our own ego can be a significant hurdle. The fear of losing control or power can prevent sharing it effectively. True allyship requires checking one's ego at the door, prioritizing what's right over being right, and humbly learning from others. Decentering ourselves is another critical, yet challenging, aspect. We are conditioned to be the main characters in our own stories. Allyship demands we step aside and amplify the voices of others, acknowledging that our experiences are not universal. It's about using our platforms to uplift, not self-promote. The risk of shame can be paralyzing. Shame about past actions, biases, or lack of knowledge is understandable. While shame can motivate change, it can also freeze us. The key is to acknowledge these feelings, learn from them, and commit to moving forward. The fear of a "zero-sum game" – the belief that supporting others means rooting against oneself – is also prevalent. While some resources are finite (e.g., only 500 companies in the Fortune 500), the pie often expands when inclusion thrives, creating new opportunities for all. Moving Forward: Becoming a Better Ally Understanding these fears is the first critical step toward transforming them into opportunities for growth and deeper engagement in allyship. The journey requires self-reflection and courage, but the rewards—a more innovative, equitable, and ultimately successful workplace for everyone—are immeasurable. Want to learn more? August 8 is International Allyship Day. Celebrate and engage people with power in allyship and inclusion.
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Travel + Leisure
16 hours ago
- Travel + Leisure
I Stayed in Julia Child's Cottage in the South of France—What It's Like to Stay and Cook There
Wild dill, it turned out, looked like a tiny bristle, like a hairbrush for a mouse. Squatting in the grass, I plucked a green sprig with my thumb and forefinger. I chewed one end—that was bright, citrusy dill, alright. On my tray it went among its fellow herbs. I didn't usually sample random plants found underfoot, and up until this breezy May afternoon, I didn't know how dill looked in its natural habitat. But edible herbs grew all over this particular garden. On my way back to the cottage, foraging tray full, I also waded past rosemary, basil, oregano, mint, marjoram, thyme, and chives swaying their purple-flowered heads. The cottage was Julia Child's former home in Plascassier, a village in Provence, France, where she lived on and off from 1965 to 1992. It's named La Pitchoune ("the little one"), though she and her husband, Paul, affectionately called it La Peetch. I was staying there as a student at the Courageous Cooking School, a weeklong culinary course that's taken up residence. The kitchen and cooking school. It felt like stepping into a scrapbook of Julia's life: We cooked in her kitchen, where she developed recipes for "Mastering the Art of French Cooking: Volume 2." We unhooked pots and pans from her original pegboard wall. Her pine-green Dutch oven, its enamel worn from perhaps decades of coq au vin, sat heavy in the cabinet. So did her old set of soufflé pans with little heart-shaped handles. The walls were papered with evidence of a well-lived life: a packing list ("writing eqpt. & reading, bottle opener"); black-and-white photos of long, liquid lunches with friends; and typeset directions to the house addressed to the chef James Beard, who stayed there. This was where Julia and Paul Child cooked, drank, and hosted hungry friends. Now, it's where six of us stood, fresh from ransacking the garden and clutching our knives like nervous acolytes, about to be initiated into the Courageous Cooking School's particular brand of culinary heresy: that recipes were suggestions rather than scripture, and that cooking should be an adventure. Details from inside the kitchen and cooking school. Karen Yuan/Travel + Leisure The course operated on simplicity: no printed recipes, just a handful of students and a couple of instructors guiding us through the ingredients that made a dish work—salt, fat, acid, and aromatics. Our teachers were Kendall Lane, a sunny, Florida-born chef who previously worked in Michelin-starred kitchens, and Santana Caress Benitez, a Chopped champion with mise en place tattooed on her shoulder. The course's steward was Makenna Held, an American chef who'd bought the cottage in 2016 site unseen, inspired by French cooking much like her predecessor. They celebrated permission rather than precision: to taste as we went, to trust our senses. After all, Julia herself once famously dropped a potato pancake on the kitchen counter before scooping it back into a pan. ("You're alone in the kitchen—who's going to see?" She said in The French Chef episode.) Perfection was beside the point. The real lesson was learning to cook like someone who knew that dinner, like life, would go on even if the soufflé fell. I sorely needed that lesson. Though I was a big fan of eating , the irony was that I had a lot of anxiety around cooking, thanks to perfectionism and a respectful fear of sharp, pointy things. I ham-fisted recipes as if they were legal documents. The Courageous Cooking School felt like an intervention. Could a week at La Peetch help me loosen up and enjoy putting together a dish? My fellow students were regular folks from Vancouver, Chicago, and New Jersey; they worked in accounting, marketing, and health care. We were all drawn here by La Peetch's mystique and our love for a good home-cooked meal. Julia might have been gone, but she always did love a brave cook. As I tied on my orange apron, I half-expected to hear that distinctive warble from the next room. But the only sound was the snick of my knife against wood, beginning the day's first chop. We'd driven to nearby Cannes earlier in the day, where we'd been dropped at the entrance of the Marché Forville, given an allowance, and set loose to buy any produce—any!—that we felt like. The market assaulted the senses: Stalls bore ripe strawberries that threatened to dissolve into syrup at a touch; their perfume cut through the briny tang of just-landed sea bass; a fromager presented a wheel of Banon cheese wrapped in chestnut leaves. Emboldened, I splurged on donut peaches, melons, and stalks of white and purple asparagus that could double as medieval weapons. I'd never cooked with any of them before, but that felt like the reason to try them. My classmates came back with just-as-tentative expressions and baskets full of red currants, squash blossoms, and heads of frisée. Now, back in Julia's kitchen, I was clumsily cutting that giant frisée into chunks. The mission: Mix fruits and veggies from the morning's haul and make a no-rules raw salad—and have fun. Play with sources of fat and acid. Pile on any herbs and spices that pique your interest. 'So much good stuff can be put in there,' Lane said. So my classmates and I massaged black lime and wild mesquite into the bitter frisée. We paired textures like mad scientists, tossing in crunchy fennel, leek, and red onion, which were sharpened by apple cider vinegar and sweet paprika, which melted into silky strawberries, red currants, and donut peaches, which, in turn, lit up through silk chili, pink peppercorn, hazelnut bits, and a reckless shower of lemon zest. It was the wildest bowl of salad I'd ever made. Miraculously, it tasted sweet, tart, salty, and spiced all at once. We sampled as we went, adjusting acid, fat, and salt until the balance felt right. Each ingredient had a role. No dressing necessary—the layers were noisy with flavor. On our first day, Benitez had instructed us to bury our noses in the pantry's jars of single-origin spices and get curious about them. This included Urfa pepper with its raisin-like depth, verjus cinnamon, and licorice-like grains of paradise. I wasn't familiar with any of them and wouldn't easily find them back at home, and so recognized this for what it was: a rare chance to travel around the world through the flavors and try something new. So my classmates and I poured hearty amounts into our frisée. It was an exercise in cooking with abandon. 'There's always something fun or new to take away from an attempt, even if you don't meet your initial goal,' Lane told us. Through the rest of the week, I often found myself reaching for the zappy, smoky black lime we'd macerated the frisée in. I didn't know if I'd get access to the ingredient back home, but I resolved to bring more of those moments back into my cooking routine: adding something I usually never touched (maybe from the back of the fridge), biting down for a taste in progress, and raising my brows in shocked delight. We cooked in that sunny kitchen through the week, scoring duck breast, caramelizing onions, filleting fish, prepping artichokes, and whipping up mousse. Along the way, we tried to decode what made food sing, flipping ingredients and expectations. The course ranged across starters, entrées, and desserts, demystifying a slew of classic French dishes. When Lane showed us how to make soufflés, her first lesson was that their puffy domes always fall. It was just gravity. 'Release perfection from the start,' she encouraged. Later, she produced two towering soufflés out of the oven, perfectly quivering in Julia's heart-handled pans. Then they slumped, just as promised. We devoured them anyway. Lulu the house cat. Karen Yuan/Travel + Leisure In the evenings, we ate the fruits of our labor and lazed around the cottage. La Pitchoune is tucked off a sloping road, and each dusk did its best impression of a Provençal postcard. We'd list about the garden, where an enormous, centuries-old olive tree anchored beds of herbs, the rosemary planted by Julia's own hands. We'd visit the chicken coop, where Blanche, the white hen, deposited our daily eggs. Or check out the old water cistern, half-hidden in the golden light, where Julia and her cookbook co-author, Simone Beck, had dunked themselves, laughing, to escape the summer heat. We'd lie by the actual pool (a modern fixture). If we were lucky, Lulu, the house cat, sleek as a '60s starlet, would slip out to sit with us. We'd sip wine on the front patio under wisteria that cast lacy shadows over us. At dinner at the end of the week, Megan, a fellow student from Chicago, confessed she'd arrived burnt out on cooking. 'This week reminded me that I love it,' she said, scooping up the remains of a chocolate mousse we'd topped with berries and chilis. We had left the kitchen for the last time, but the lights were still on. Somewhere, Julia was probably tutting at the mousse we'd just murdered. But she'd also taught people to cook without apology. I thought of that wild frisée salad with its layers of sultry mesquite, puckery vinegar, and peppercorns, garnished with dill I'd picked myself. It had been weird, generous, and alive. There were no tidy endings here, no certificates of mastery—just the understanding that cooking was exploring, even and especially if it took you where you didn't mean to go. Some lessons, I guess, were meant to be tasted.


Forbes
17 hours ago
- Forbes
Wisdom In Leadership… Do We Have The Time To Be Wise?
Wisdom Takes Time In today's corporate world, where speed often seems like the ultimate competitive advantage, many leaders and organizations risk losing something far more valuable: wisdom. The question is pressing—do we have time to be wise? I was inspired to revisit this question by Manfred Kets de Vries' essay on wisdom. Kets de Vries reminds us, 'wisdom can't be taught,' it emerges instead through life's crucible: reflection, vulnerability, relationship, and, perhaps most importantly, teaching others. He argues that simply transmitting information—even the best advice—is not enough to cultivate wisdom. It comes from grappling with ambiguity and experimenting in the messy reality of life and work. As my Organizational Behavior professor at INSEAD, Kets de Vries challenged us to think about how to apply principles, not just learn them. That challenge remains deeply relevant today. In the whirlwind pace of modern corporate life, do we leave ourselves any space to reflect, or are we moving so fast that we undermine our capacity to become wise? Wisdom vs. Intelligence: Depth vs. Speed Some leaders still confuse wisdom with intelligence. But intelligence is about speed—how fast we can think, how much we can recall. Wisdom, by contrast, is about depth: it asks not only what is true, but what matters. Intelligence builds tools; wisdom asks if we should use them. That critical pause—questioning not just can we, but should we—is precisely what today's pace threatens to erase. Robert Sternberg's 'Balance Theory of Wisdom,' published in Review of General Psychology (2003), underscores that wise leaders balance their interests with those of others and the broader environment. Unlike intelligence, which focuses on immediate problem-solving, wisdom weighs long-term consequences, ethical trade-offs, and diverse perspectives. Doing this well requires time, careful consideration, and a willingness to sit in the grey areas of Wise Leaders Teach—And Why That Takes Time Although wisdom can't be taught like a checklist, wise leaders create environments where it can grow. Barry Schwartz in 'Practical Wisdom' describes how leaders model virtues such as patience and humility, share stories of their own failures, and encourage questioning—all of which require time and a willingness to pause. Ikujiro Nonaka, describes the power of 'ba' —shared spaces where people engage in collective sense-making. Leaders who create these spaces allow teams to experiment and learn from one another's perspectives, cultivating the collective wisdom that fast-paced, siloed cultures often crush. Research by McKenna, Rooney, and Boal (2009) shows that wise leaders recognize patterns, reframe problems, and guide organizations through uncertainty—all while helping others do the same. But recognizing patterns or reframing problems doesn't happen in a sprint; it requires time for reflection and dialogue. From Knowledge Hoarders to Wisdom Cultivators Many executives mistakenly equate expertise with wisdom. But wise leaders don't hoard knowledge to dominate discussions; they use it to spark exploration. They ask, 'What do you think?' or 'What might we be missing?'—questions that invite deeper reflection and collective insight. This approach helps others develop independent thinking and creates a ripple effect: teams become better at weighing multiple perspectives, considering ethical consequences, and challenging their assumptions—skills essential in a complex, rapidly evolving world. Wisdom's Cultural Impact Organizations led by wise leaders become learning organizations. Employees feel safer to challenge ideas, voice concerns, and innovate. Psychological safety—identified by Amy Edmondson in 'The Fearless Organization' (Wiley, 2018)—is the hallmark of workplaces where wisdom can flourish rather than be stifled. When leaders create time and space for reflection, organizations shift from cultures of compliance to cultures of thoughtful engagement, unlocking innovation and resilience even in turbulent markets. The Bottom Line: Making Time for Wisdom Wisdom remains elusive but essential. As Sternberg, Schwartz, and Nonaka show, it cannot be taught by manuals or training programs—but it can be modeled and nurtured in environments that value reflection, humility, and moral courage. But to do this well, leaders must first acknowledge a hard truth: wisdom takes time. Time to reflect. Time to engage others in dialogue. Time to pause before reacting. Without it, we may become faster—but not wiser. As the proverb reminds us, 'Knowledge speaks, but wisdom listens.' In our drive for speed, we must not forget to slow down long enough to listen—and to create the time and space for ourselves and our teams to become wise.