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What Is Actually Mine to Do?

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In 1206, a young cloth merchant’s heir stood in the public square of his hometown, took off every piece of clothing he owned, and handed it back to his father along with his inheritance. By any reasonable business measure, Francis di Bernardone had everything: a thriving trade business waiting for him, the kind of security most founders spend a lifetime building toward. He walked away from all of it — not impulsively, but after years of watching the family business clarify, with increasing precision, exactly what it would never let him become. What’s left of that decision eight hundred years later isn’t a religious footnote. It’s a case study in founder clarity, and it still has something to say to anyone running an organization, a team, or a life.

The part of the story that gets skipped is what came after the dramatic exit: an organization Francis built from nothing grew faster than he could govern it. Within a couple of decades, what had started as a handful of men with no property and no plan had become a sprawling order with thousands of members, regional factions, and a leadership structure that increasingly made decisions Francis himself disagreed with. He spent his final years watching his own creation drift toward exactly the kind of institution he’d founded it to not be — more land, more rules, more permanence, less of the original bare-bones mission. Every founder who’s watched a board vote to “professionalize” something that was supposed to stay small and sharp will recognize the feeling. Mission drift doesn’t usually arrive as a hostile takeover. It arrives as a series of individually reasonable decisions, made by good people, that add up to a different company than the one you started.

Clare of Assisi fought a longer and more deliberate version of that same battle. She founded a parallel order of women and spent the better part of four decades resisting pressure — repeated, well-intentioned, coming from the highest levels of church leadership — to accept property and guaranteed income for her community’s protection. Multiple popes encouraged her to take it. The logic was sound by any normal organizational standard: own assets, secure your future, reduce your risk. She refused, on the grounds that owning nothing on purpose was the entire point, the thing that kept the mission honest. She got special permission to keep her order poor by choice rather than poor by accident, and the fight took most of her adult life. She won it two days before she died. It’s hard to think of a cleaner example of a founder protecting the model against the very investors trying to help her scale it.

Underneath both of their decisions was a single repeated question, asked daily rather than settled once: what is actually mine to do. Not what’s available. Not what an opportunity is dressed up as. Not what the next well-funded offer implies you should want. I learned a version of that discipline running Varment Guard, and it didn’t look like anything monastic — it looked like sitting alone in the office after everyone else had gone home, going back through the day’s decisions one at a time with a legal pad in front of me. Why this, why not that. Which calls moved the actual mission forward, and which ones were just someone else’s urgency that I’d picked up and carried as if it were mine. It wasn’t elegant. It was closer to triage. But it kept a clear line between what belonged to me and what I’d absorbed because it was loud.

The same discipline mattered later at a board level, where the pulls are quieter and harder to name. A good opportunity. A generous donor’s pet project. A direction that would genuinely grow the organization while bending it slowly away from the reason it existed in the first place. Going back to the mission statement — the org’s, and my own — became the way to test whether a pull toward something new was real strategy or a distraction dressed up as one. It rarely felt efficient in the moment. More than once it meant saying no to something that was, on its own terms, genuinely good.

None of this requires believing anything in particular. It requires the same operating discipline Francis and Clare practiced under far higher stakes: ask the question regularly instead of once, and have the nerve to act on the answer even when the answer costs you something real — a piece of the inheritance, a comfortable expansion, a donor’s good opinion. Most founders never face a square full of people watching them strip down to nothing. Most of us just face a Tuesday, a meeting, a decision nobody else will notice, where the same question is quietly on the table: is this actually mine to do, or did I just pick it up because it was there.

If you’ve got a version of that end-of-day question you run on yourself, I’d be curious to hear what it sounds like.

If you don’t have one yet, start with mine. I built the legal-pad practice from this post into a short downloadable guide — six questions, fifteen minutes, end of day.

Download: What Is Mine to Do? — An End-of-Day Examen

Peace and every good.

 

AUTHOR BIO

Jim Vaive is co-founder of spirit of EQ, a Master Certified Coach (MCC), Certified Spiritual Director, and certified Narrative Enneagram teacher. He writes about emotional intelligence, the Enneagram, and the contemplative life at The Mystical Seeker on substack, where he and his wife Lynette explore the inward journey alongside the work of leadership and formation.

Staying in the Boat: A Practice for Hard Seasons

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Hope Takes Practice

The meeting room was quiet in a way that didn’t feel like reverence. It felt like dread. We’d borrowed the space from the church, a place to meet, nothing more, but everyone was there, all of us together in one room, and that fact alone told people something was coming before I said a word. Outside, the parking lot was full of company trucks and company cars parked in uneven rows, engines off, everyone already inside and waiting. It was early 2008. People sat there that morning the way you sit when you already suspect the news isn’t good — still, watchful, bracing.

They were right to brace. The housing bubble burst that winter, and in the space of three months, Varment Guard lost half its residential customer base. Half. We’d built the company on people buying houses, selling houses, refinancing houses, renovating houses, and on the ongoing maintenance that kept those houses sealed up and pest-free year-round — the kind of steady contract work that depends entirely on people owning and caring for property in the first place. When nobody’s buying or selling or refinancing or renovating anything, that maintenance work doesn’t slow down gradually. It disappears.

So we had the real conversation, right there in that room. Not the version where you reassure everyone and hope it blows over, but the one where you say out loud that benefits are getting reduced, paychecks might be late some weeks, every expense that isn’t keeping a truck on the road or a roof over someone’s head is getting cut, and the only way through is together. What I didn’t say out loud that day was that my wife at the time and I had already maxed out our personal credit cards and tapped our line of credit to keep things afloat — that part of the story was mine to carry, not theirs. We went through what could go and what couldn’t, who we’d call personally to try to win back, what it would take to make the phone ring again. It was painful, and it stayed painful longer than any of us wanted, mostly because none of it was business as usual. People who’d been with us for years were taking real hits, and I felt every one of those hits land. But something happened in that room I didn’t fully understand until years later: people stopped pulling against each other and started pulling toward one thing, which was survival, plain and simple. That shared pull carried more weight than any incentive plan ever had.

Here’s what I learned that week and have never unlearned. People don’t follow your plan first, they follow your face. Tell a room of frightened people that everything’s fine while your hands are shaking, and the room will be more frightened in five minutes than it was when you walked in. But stand up and say plainly, here’s where we’re going and we’re going there together, and mean it, and the people who trust you will get in the boat with you. There’s an old image about who reaches for the lifevest first when the ship is taking on water. If the leader grabs theirs before anyone else’s, the room reads that faster than it reads any memo, and panic spreads quicker than the actual bad news ever could. Hope, it turns out, is contagious in exactly the same way fear is. Somebody in the room has to carry it first, whether they feel ready for the job or not.

I found language for this just last week, reading the daily post from the Center for Action and Contemplation, where the Grammy-winning musician Jon Batiste was asked how we lean into joy as an act of resistance when the world around us feels dehumanizing. His answer has stayed with me. He talked about finding a rooting that’s true for you before anything else, because authentic joy doesn’t show up first — it comes from pain that’s already been transmuted into something that holds, even when the circumstances haven’t changed at all. He said the questions worth asking are who your hope is actually for, who’s in control of it, and what it’s rooted in, because hope that’s tied to outcomes you can’t control will collapse the moment the outcome looks uncertain. We were asking versions of those same questions in that room without knowing it: what are we actually hoping for here, is it the old normal coming back, or is it something we can hold onto either way. And then Batiste said the line that’s been sitting with me ever since — hope is like a contact sport. You work on it. You get better at it.

What Is My Hope Rooted In? Reflection Sheet

That’s exactly what happened in that room, except none of us knew it at the time. We thought we were cutting expenses and rebuilding a customer list. What we were really doing, underneath all of it, was practicing hope in the most unglamorous way possible — one hard conversation, one late paycheck, one returning customer at a time. By the time we came out the other side, the company had survived, but something more had shifted than the balance sheet. I’d started locating my faith somewhere other than the quarterly numbers. I’d watched grown men who fix raccoon problems for a living choose to keep showing up for each other when the easier thing would have been to walk. And I’d learned that hope, the kind that survives a flooded house and a roof on fire, isn’t something you wait around for. It’s something you build, the same way you build a muscle, under load, in rooms that don’t feel hopeful at all while you’re standing in them.

I think about that room often now, the borrowed space, the trucks and cars sitting still in the lot. None of us had any evidence yet that we’d make it. What we had was each other, and a decision, made out loud, to stay in the boat. That turned out to be enough.

If you’re in a season that doesn’t look hopeful right now, I’d love to hear where you’re finding your footing.

Peace and every good

Jim Vaive is co-founder of spirit of EQ alongside his wife and co-founder, Lynette Vaive. A Master Certified Coach (MCC), Certified Spiritual Director, and certified Narrative Enneagram teacher, Jim writes at The Mystical Seeker on contemplative practice, emotional intelligence, and the inward life. He and Lynette also co-host the spirit of EQ podcast.

 

I Damaged Someone & The Truth It Taught Me

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There is a picture my mother drew of my father in his studio. He is standing at the canvas with a brush in his hand, but he is not painting. He is looking. Just looking. My mother told me once that the hardest thing about being an artist is not the making — it is the seeing. Seeing what is there, not what you hoped would be there. Seeing clearly enough to know when something is wrong, even when the wrong thing is something you made.

I have thought about that picture a lot over the years. Especially in relation to leadership. Because leadership, at its most honest, requires the same thing my father was doing in that studio: the willingness to stand before what is real and see it — not manage it, not spin it, not quietly maneuver around it — but see it. And the hardest version of that seeing is always the one that turns inward.

When Lynette and I were building the spirit of EQ framework, we kept returning to a question that came up repeatedly in our coaching and spiritual direction work: why do so many gifted leaders struggle with self-awareness? Not because they lack intelligence. Not because they are unkind or unserious. But because the very qualities that made them effective — decisiveness, energy, forward momentum, the ability to hold a vision and drive toward it — can become the walls of a room they eventually cannot see out of.

The Enneagram has a word for this. It calls them fixations — the grooved, automatic patterns we operate from when we are running on autopilot rather than on presence. Each type has its own shape of forgetting. And the forgetting is not dramatic. It is quiet. It accumulates. It happens in the ordinary press of days, under the ordinary pressure of responsibility, until one morning you look up and realize the wake you have been leaving behind is wider and more damaging than you ever intended.

I know this from my own life. When I co-founded Varment Guard, my business partners were good people — steady, quiet, deeply competent in their domains. But one stands out for me, he did not move fast. He did not think fast. He processed carefully, methodically, and he was almost always right. I am a classic Enneagram Eight. I move fast. I decide fast. I push hard. I burned through rooms in those early years the way a locomotive burns through a tunnel — arriving on the other side with energy to spare, rarely pausing to consider what the air felt like for everyone else inside.

In the beginning, this particular partner and I worked well together. His steadiness balanced my fire. My drive opened doors his caution would have approached more slowly. But as the business grew and the pressure intensified, I lost access to that balance. I stopped seeing my partner clearly. I started seeing only the pace I needed us to keep, and I began — unconsciously, relentlessly — forcing this gentle soul into a shape that was not his. I pushed him beyond the edges of who he was. I did not mean to damage him. But I did. And eventually, he left. Not loudly. Not in conflict. He simply found a way out, and the relationship went with him. It was a wound I have carried for a long time.

What I could not see then — and what took years of coaching, spiritual direction, and a lot of sitting still to begin to understand — was that the truth I needed to face was not about the business. It was about me. The Eight’s deep gift is strength. The Eight’s deep shadow is the refusal to acknowledge the harm that strength can do. I had confused impact with intention. I believed that because I did not mean harm, I had not caused it. That is not how it works. That is not how it has ever worked.

The contemplative tradition is clear about this. Howard Thurman wrote that we are responsible not only for our intentions but for the world we create around us — the quality of the field we generate for those in our care. Julian of Norwich, writing from her anchorite cell in fourteenth-century Norwich, described the interior life as a dwelling place — something that requires tending, requires honest inspection, requires the willingness to see what is there rather than what we prefer to believe is there. “All shall be well,” she wrote — but the path to that wellbeing runs directly through the truth, not around it (Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love).

The research on emotional intelligence affirms what the mystics knew intuitively. Six Seconds, the global EQ nonprofit where Lynette and I served for many years, identifies self-awareness as foundational to every other capacity in the emotional intelligence model. You cannot regulate what you cannot see. You cannot choose your response when you are unconscious of your pattern. You cannot lead others toward wholeness from a place of unexamined wounding. The data bears this out across industries, cultures, and leadership contexts. Self-awareness is not a soft skill. It is the load-bearing wall.

But here is the thing about truth: it requires courage, not just curiosity. Many leaders are curious about themselves in a managed way — they take the assessments, they read the books, they sit in the leadership retreats. What is rarer is the willingness to let the truth land. To let it cost something. To sit with it long enough that it changes not just your language but your behavior, your relationships, the shape of the wake you leave. The contemplative teacher Thomas Keating called this the dismantling of the false self — the slow, sometimes painful process of releasing the persona we have constructed to protect ourselves and facing what is underneath (Thomas Keating, Open Mind, Open Heart). Most of us will do almost anything to avoid that process. Leaders perhaps most of all, because the stakes feel so high and the exposure feels so total.

John O’Donohue, the Irish poet and philosopher, wrote that “the longest journey you will ever make is from your head to your heart” (John O’Donohue, Anam Cara). I think of that line often when I am sitting with a leader in a coaching session, watching them circle a truth they cannot quite bring themselves to name. The truth is right there. They can feel it. But the distance between knowing it in the mind and letting it descend into the heart — into lived acknowledgment, into genuine accountability — can feel enormous. That journey is the work. And no amount of strategy, no quarterly planning cycle, no leadership competency framework can do it for you.

What helps? In our experience at spirit of EQ, several things. The practice of silence — not productivity, not journaling as output, but genuine quiet that creates the interior space for truth to surface. The practice of honest relationship — at least one person in your life who is not dependent on you, not intimidated by you, and will tell you what they see. The Enneagram, used not as a typology to explain yourself but as a mirror to face yourself. And prayer — whatever form that takes for you — as an act of opening, of consenting to be seen more fully than you can see yourself.

I did not get a chance to repair things with my partner. That is a grief I live with. But what his departure gave me — painfully, slowly, over years — was the beginning of something more honest in myself. A willingness to slow down long enough to feel the field I was generating. A willingness to ask not just “Did we hit the goal?” but “What did it cost the people in the room?” That shift did not diminish my leadership. It deepened it. It made me someone I am still, imperfectly, trying to become.

The Truth Leaders Don’t Want to Face

My father’s picture still lives in my mind. The brush in his hand. The stillness of his looking. The courage required to see clearly enough to know what is true and what is wish. That is the invitation for every leader who is willing — not to be perfect, not to have it all resolved, but to stand before the canvas of your own life and look.

The truth will not destroy you. It will, in time, free you.

If this reflection stirred something in you, we’d love to have you join us at mysticalseeker.substack.com — where we explore the inner journey of leadership, EQ, and spiritual formation.

Peace and every good.

mystical seeker.substack.com

Today Is Hard. Tomorrow Is Worse. Why I Kept Going

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The Day After Tomorrow

There is a photograph I keep in my mind from the early days of Varment Guard — not an actual photograph, just the image burned in from living it. It’s a door. A plain commercial door, nothing fancy about it, with a small wooden frame above it. And inside that frame, four words someone had taken the time to put there deliberately: Failure was not an option.

Mike M. and I had been meeting for eight months before we ever turned a key in a lock. Eight months of yellow legal pads and bad coffee and spreadsheets that kept being wrong and late-night conversations that neither of us was willing to end because ending felt like quitting. We were two people trying to think of everything — preparing the way you prepare for something that matters — and when we finally opened those doors, we discovered we hadn’t thought of even half of what was coming for us.

THE FOUNDERS HONEST LOOK WORKBOOK

That’s when Jack Ma’s words would have hit differently. “Today is hard and tomorrow will be worse, but the day after tomorrow will be sunshine.” — Jack Ma, Founder, Alibaba Group.

Hold that sentence for a moment. It isn’t a motivational poster. It’s a map.

WHAT’S BEHIND THE WORDS

Jack Ma didn’t build Alibaba from a position of ease or advantage. He was rejected by Harvard ten times. When KFC came to his city and hired 23 of 24 applicants, he was the one they passed on. China’s first public internet company turned him away. When he finally pitched the idea of an online marketplace for Chinese small businesses in 1999, he did it in his apartment, to a handful of friends who weren’t completely sure they believed him. He knew today is hard the way you only know something you’ve actually lived.

The history of business is, at its marrow, a history of stubborn people who refused to let a bad today become a permanent condition. Henry Ford failed twice before building the company that changed manufacturing forever. Milton Hershey lost everything in New York and again in Chicago before returning home to Pennsylvania with nothing but a process he still believed in. Walt Disney was told he lacked imagination by the very newspaper that had hired him. The pattern is so consistent it might seem like a cliché — except for the people living it. For them, it never feels like a pattern. It feels personal. It feels like an exception. It feels like it might be permanent.

What the ones who make it through seem to understand — sometimes while it’s happening, sometimes only years later — is that the difficulty is not a detour from the path. It is the path. The hard is not a sign you’ve chosen wrong. More often, it’s a sign you’ve chosen something real.

WHAT WE KNEW AND WHAT WE DIDN’T

When Mike and I opened Varment Guard, we believed we were ready for the hard. What we hadn’t prepared for was the texture of it. Not the spreadsheet problems — those were almost welcome, because spreadsheets have answers. It was everything else. The family dinners missed, and then just stopped being expected. The friendships that didn’t end loudly — they just went quiet because you weren’t available and eventually people found their rhythm without you. The money questions that didn’t arrive as dramatic crises but as a low, grinding background hum that followed you everywhere, even into sleep.

Nobody writes that part down. Not honestly. Because the real story of building something is longer and more irregular than any narrative shape can hold, and no one wants to tell you how much it costs before you’ve decided to pay it — because if they did, maybe fewer people would start.

So why did we do it?

Why does anyone?

The easy answers are all true: we believed in the idea, we wanted to build something that was ours, we wanted to see if we could. But the real answer lives underneath all of those. It has to do with identity. With the recognition that there was a version of life available — something that matched what was inside you — and that settling for something smaller would be a slow erosion you weren’t willing to live with. We did it because the alternative was becoming someone we didn’t recognize. And that felt worse than everything that came with the doing.

WHAT WE GAINED AND WHAT WE LOST

What did we gain? That part comes easier now than it did in the middle of it. We built something real — a company with a culture, a reputation, a set of values that held through hard seasons. Over the years, Varment Guard employed hundreds of people. Families were fed. Skills were developed. Careers were built that might not have existed otherwise. There is no dollar figure for any of that. And there is something else, quieter but just as real: you find out what you are actually made of. You discover your own capacity. You learn what you can carry. You don’t find that out any other way. No shortcut delivers it. Only the going does.

What did we lose? That one is easier in the dark than in the daylight. Sleep, certainly — and the kind of easy rest that comes when you’re not carrying something large. Margin, regularly. Time with people we loved, which you cannot really reclaim even if the relationships survived. Parts of yourself that were softer and more patient that got traded, over time, for something harder and faster and more efficient. I won’t call all of it loss, exactly. But I notice the absence of some of it. I think that’s worth naming honestly.

HOW TO KEEP GOING WHEN YOU FEEL ALONE

DAY AFTER TOMORROW WORKBOOK

Here is the part no one tells you about keeping going when you feel like you’re carrying it entirely by yourself: you are. You actually are. And that’s not a crisis — that’s the position.

Every person who has built anything real has sat in a room where no one else fully grasped what they were holding. Not the advisors. Not the investors. Not even the partners — because it’s your specific weight, shaped to your specific frame, and no one else quite feels it the same way. You can resent that solitude or you can learn to read it as information.

What it’s telling you is simple: the decision to continue is yours. Which means it cannot be taken from you. The market can’t take it. A bad quarter can’t take it. A difficult competitor can’t take it. A hard year can’t take it. Only you can put it down.

Jack Ma is telling you something real when he promises sunshine on the third day. But he’s also telling you something harder: you have to make it through the first two. Not around them. Not above them. Through them.

The frame above that door at Varment Guard wasn’t decoration. It was a daily instruction — renewed every morning when someone walked under it. Failure is not an option doesn’t mean failure is impossible. It means you’ve decided in advance that however bad today gets, and however much worse tomorrow is, you are not stopping here. The sunshine isn’t guaranteed. But it’s only available to the ones who are still there when it arrives.

Mike and I didn’t think of half the things that would come for us. But we had made a decision. And on the hardest days, honestly, the decision was the only thing.

Make the decision. Keep making it. The day after tomorrow is real.

Peace and every good.

EQ & SEQ: Leading Teams Through AI and Meaning Now

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When you hear “soft skills do you automatically think “soft results”? Too many leaders still file emotional intelligence (EQ) and spiritual emotional intelligence (SEQ) under the “nice-to-have” column—pleasant, but peripheral. That mindset is a costly mistake. In a world driven by speed, complexity, and automation, EQ and SEQ are not optional extras; they are strategic differentiators. Here’s a clear, evidence-based case for why skeptical leaders should care, two practical insights for how these capacities produce measurable breakthroughs, and why investing in them is essential in the age of AI.

What I am talking about:

  • EQ (Emotional Intelligence) is the set of skills that helps people perceive, understand, manage, and use emotions—both their own and others’—to navigate social interactions, make decisions, and solve problems.
  • SEQ (Spiritual Emotional Intelligence) builds on EQ by connecting emotional awareness with a deeper sense of meaning, purpose, and values. SEQ helps people align personal and organizational purpose, sustain ethical behavior under pressure, and remain resilient amid uncertainty.

Why leaders should stop treating EQ/SEQ as “soft”

  1. Outcomes, not intentions. Leaders who dismiss EQ/SEQ often focus only on outputs—task completion, process adherence, KPIs. But outputs are produced by humans. Emotions and meaning shape motivation, creativity, collaboration, and change adoption. Those drivers directly affect productivity, quality, turnover, and customer experience.
  2. Hard metrics respond. Multiple studies connect higher EQ with better performance: (See links for study’s below) improved team effectiveness, fewer conflicts, faster decision-making, and better customer satisfaction. SEQ adds another layer—lower burnout, higher retention, and stronger alignment with organizational mission. These translate into reduced recruitment costs, higher lifetime customer value, and faster time-to-market.
  3. Risk mitigation. Poor emotional dynamics cause legal risks, reputational damage, and project failure. EQ and SEQ reduce interpersonal friction, ethical lapses, and the silent disengagement that sinks initiatives.

Two insights that lead to breakthroughs

Insight 1 — Emotional fluency accelerates execution and innovation Employees with higher EQ are better at reading the emotional state of teams and stakeholders, regulating stress under deadlines, and reframing setbacks as learning. This fluency creates faster cleaner communication and fewer stalled projects.

Example: Consider two product teams facing the same technical roadblock. Team A lacks emotional fluency: blame circulates, meetings get longer, decisions are delayed, and morale drops. Team B has high EQ: they quickly acknowledge stress, reframe the problem as “what can we try next,” assign clear roles, and agree on short experiments. Team B iterates faster and ships a solution sooner.

Why this is a breakthrough: Speed and quality of execution increase (at the same time). That accelerates business outcomes—shorter time to revenue, better customer feedback cycles, and lower operational drag.

How to operationalize it:

  • Train leaders and teams in core EQ skills: self-awareness, self-regulation, social awareness, and relationship management.
  • Use “emotion check-ins” at the start of meetings to surface unspoken dynamics.
  • Create rapid experiment protocols so teams can fail fast and learn faster without emotional fallout.

Insight 2 — Purpose-oriented leadership (SEQ) reduces attrition and amplifies discretionary effort SEQ links daily work to deeper meaning. People who feel their work matters—aligned to values and a collective purpose—are more engaged, more creative, and more likely to go beyond the job description when needed. Engagement is not “soft”; it’s the multiplier for performance.

Example: Two customer service centers have identical scripts and tools. The center cultivating SEQ frames their mission as “restoring dignity” rather than merely “managing tickets.” Agents are encouraged to find small, meaningful interventions. The result: higher CSAT scores, fewer escalations, and 20–30% lower turnover over a year.

Why this is a breakthrough: Lower turnover saves substantial hiring and ramp up costs; higher discretionary effort improves customer lifetime value and brand advocacy.

How to operationalize it:

  • Embed purpose into onboarding, performance conversations, and recognition systems.
  • Encourage leaders to connect daily tasks to higher-level impact—use stories and metrics.
  • Support reflective practices (brief journal prompts or team reflections) that help employees surface purpose in their work.

Why EQ and SEQ are essential in the age of AI

AI is astonishing at pattern-matching, prediction, and scale. It will automate many cognitive processes. But three key human domains remain distinct:

  1. Emotional nuance. AI can detect sentiment signals, but truly understanding context, relational history, unspoken tension, and moral complexity is still human territory. Complex negotiations, delicate feedback, and trust-building rely on subtle emotional intelligence.
  2. Meaning and ethical judgment. SEQ involves values-based reasoning and purpose alignment. While AI can optimize for specified objectives, it does not inherently hold or steward organizational values. Leaders with strong SEQ guide ethically aligned choices and ensure long-term stewardship rather than short-term optimization.
  3. Motivation and culture. AI can recommend actions, but it cannot inspire people to care. Cultural cohesion, discretionary effort, and resilience in crises depend on leaders who can connect work to meaning, model values, and emotionally sustain teams.

Put simply: as AI takes on more “what” tasks, human beings must double down on the “who” and “why.” That’s EQ and SEQ.

Practical steps for leaders who are skeptical—but results-focused

  1. Start with a business problem, not a course. Choose a measurable KPI—time-to-market, turnover, customer satisfaction—and pilot an EQ/SEQ intervention tied to that metric. If you can’t link training to a business outcome, don’t start.
  2. Measure what matters. Use both quantitative KPIs (attrition, NPS, cycle time) and short, frequent pulse surveys to capture psychological safety and purpose alignment.
  3. Build EQ/SEQ into leadership expectations. Make emotional and purpose-driven leadership a criterion in performance reviews and promotion decisions.
  4. Invest in coaching and practice, not just seminars. Skills like self-regulation and empathy improve with feedback and coached practice—real 1:1 coaching, role plays, and on-the-job reflection are more effective than a one-off workshop.
  5. Use AI as an amplifier, not a replacement. Leverage AI tools for data signals (e.g., sentiment analytics, workload patterns), then apply human judgment to interpret and act on those signals with EQ and SEQ.

A quick ROI sketch

  • Reducing voluntary turnover by 10% in a 1,000-person org with average hiring/ramp up cost of $20k would save millions.
  • Improving customer satisfaction by even a few percentage points increases retention and lifetime value, multiplying revenue.
  • Shortening project cycle times reduces time-to-market and increases competitive advantage.

All of these outcomes correlate strongly with higher EQ and SEQ in leadership and teams. That is measurable impact, not fuzzy feel-good talk.

Final note to skeptical leaders If you care about getting the job done—and getting it done sustainably, ethically, and repeatedly—EQ and SEQ are not optional. They sharpen execution, safeguard culture, reduce costs of failure, and unlock the kind of discretionary effort that fuels innovation. In an era where AI handles more tasks, the differentiating advantage lies in how humans relate, interpret meaning, and guide values-driven decisions. Those are learnable, coachable skills. They deserve to be treated with the same rigor and investment you give to any other capability that drives your business forward.

If you want, I can help you design a pilot program tied to a specific KPI—select a target metric and I’ll outline a six-week intervention with measurement, training components, and expected impact. Jim@spiritofeq.com Which outcome would you prioritize: faster execution, lower attrition, or higher customer satisfaction?

  1. O’Boyle, E. H., Humphrey, R. H., Pollack, J. M., Hawver, T., & Story, P. A. (2011). The relation between emotional intelligence and job performance: A meta-analysis. Journal of Organizational Behavior, 32(5), 788–818.
  • Link (publisher/abstract): https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1002/job.714
  • Google Scholar: https://scholar.google.com/scholar?q=O’Boyle+Humphrey+Pollack+Hawver+Story+2011+emotional+intelligence+meta-analysis
  1. Joseph, D. L., & Newman, D. A. (2010). Emotional intelligence: An integrative meta-analysis and cascading model. Journal of Applied Psychology, 95(1), 54–78.
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When will the least go first?

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If I can be really, painfully honest for a minute, I’ve always been the type of person who believes in being first. As an “8” on the Enneagram with a 1:1 subtype, I have a personality that can be described as “large or go home.” This trait has shaped my life in many ways, often pushing me to the front of the line—whether it was for food, concert tickets, or training sessions. I was the one who would elbow my way through the crowd, determined to secure my spot at the front. But as I reflect on my past, I realize that this behavior was not just a quirk of my personality; it reflected something deeper within me.

Let me take you back to a summer concert years ago to see the MC5 out of Detroit. The excitement was in the air as fans gathered outside the venue, eagerly awaiting the gates to open. I had been looking forward to this concert for months, and I was determined to be at the front of the line. As I arrived, I noticed a group of people who had been waiting for hours, some even camping out overnight. But that didn’t matter to me. I pushed my way to the front, ignoring the annoyed glances from those who had been patiently waiting. I felt a rush as I secured my spot, but as the concert began, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. I knew in my heart that I had messed up.

As the music played and the crowd jammed, I looked around and saw the faces of those who had been waiting just as long, if not longer, than I had. I realized that my need to be first had come at the expense of others’ experiences. I had prioritized my own desire for front-row access over the feelings of those around me. It was a moment of clarity that left me feeling embarrassed and ashamed. Why did I feel the need to be first? Where did this belief come from?

This question rolled around in my mind long after the concert ended. I began to reflect on my life and the patterns that had emerged. Growing up, I was often praised for my assertiveness and determination. I was the one who took charge in group projects, the one who volunteered to lead discussions, and the one who always seemed to be at the forefront of any situation. But as I delved deeper, I realized that this drive to be first was rooted in a fear of being overlooked, discounted or left behind. It was as if I had internalized the belief that my worth was tied to my ability to be at the front of the line.

I decided that I needed to begin a  quest of self-discovery, I started on a mission to find out more, I needed to understand why I acted this way, so I sought out stories from others who had experienced similar feelings. I spoke with a friend who had once been a competitive athlete. She recounted the pressure she felt to always be the best, to always be first. “I remember a race where I pushed myself so hard that I didn’t even notice the girl who fell behind me,” she shared. “I crossed the finish line, but I felt hollow. I had won, but at what cost?” Her story resonated with me, highlighting the emptiness that can accompany a relentless pursuit of being first. And yes, I know, being an athlete means being the best, first and fastest. But does that entitle us to perform like an athlete off the field in everyday life at the expense of others?

Another friend shared her experience of being a manager in a corporate setting. “I used to think that being the first to speak up in meetings made me a leader,” she said. “But I realized that it often stifled others’ voices. I was so focused on being heard that I didn’t create space for my team to contribute.” Her journey of learning to step back and allow others to shine was a powerful reminder that leadership is not about being at the front but about uplifting those around us.

As I continued to explore these stories, it dawned on me that the need to be first is often a reflection of our insecurities. It’s easy to equate being first with success, but true fulfillment comes from connection and empathy. (refer to Jim Collins book “Good to Great” and what makes a level 5 leader) It made sense after deep reflection to practice being more mindful in situations where I felt the urge to rush to the front. I began to ask myself, “What would it look like to let someone else go first?”

One day, I found myself in line at a coffee shop, and I noticed a young mother with a toddler in tow. The child was fidgeting and clearly restless, and I felt the familiar urge to push ahead. But instead of acting on that impulse, I took a deep breath and let the mother and child go ahead of me. As they moved forward, I saw the relief on her face, and in that moment, I felt a sense of understanding that I had never experienced when I was at the front. It was a small act, but it shifted my perspective. I realized that being at the front of the line didn’t define my worth; it was the kindness I showed to others that truly mattered.

This journey of self-discovery has taught me that there is beauty in allowing others to take the lead. It’s about recognizing that everyone has their own story, their own struggles, and their own desires. When we prioritize being first, we risk missing out on the richness of human connection. I’ve learned that sometimes, the least among us deserve to be at the front of the line, not just because they’ve waited the longest, but because they have something valuable to share.

As I continue to navigate this path, I remind myself that it’s okay to step back and let others shine. I’ve found that true fulfillment comes from lifting others up rather than pushing them down. The next time I find myself in a situation where I feel the urge to be first, I’ll pause and ask myself, “How can I create space for someone else?”

In a world that often celebrates the loudest voices and the fastest runners, let’s not forget the importance of compassion and empathy. Let’s strive to be the kind of people who recognize that sometimes, and not always, the least among us deserve to be at the front of the line. After all, it’s not about being first; it’s about being present, being kind, and being human.

Transforming the World Through Spiritual Alignment

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In this world that often feels fragmented and disconnected, the quest for harmony and understanding becomes even more pressing. We search for ways to bridge divides, foster empathy, and cultivate a sense of belonging. What if the key to this transformation lies not in grand gestures or sweeping reforms, but in something as simple and personal as our posture?

I would like to suggest that when we think of posture, we typically envision the physical—how we stand, sit, or move. Yet, posture is so much more than a physical stance; it is a way of being, a manner in which we present ourselves to the world. It encompasses wonder, empathy, openness, gratitude, compassion, hope, and empowerment. You can consciously aligin your physical and spiritual postures, you can create ripples of change that extend far beyond yourself.

The historical roots of how the concept of spirituality has evolved over centuries, originating from the Latin word *spiritualitas* in the 5th century. Initially, it referred to spiritual conduct and devoutness, but over time, it has come to signify an inner, personal spiritual life. This evolution mirrors the way our understanding of posture has expanded beyond the physical to include the spiritual and emotional dimensions.

In the early days, spirituality was closely tied to physical expressions—kneeling in humility, raising hands in praise, or sitting in meditation. These postures were not mere rituals; they were profound expressions of one’s inner state and alignment with a higher power. Today, as we seek to reconnect with the essence of spirituality, we can draw inspiration from these ancient practices, recognizing the deep connection between our physical and spiritual selves.

 

Our physical posture is our reflection to the world and often serves as a nonverbal communication of our internal spiritual/emotional  states. Consider the act of kneeling, which conveys humility and reverence, or the lifting of hands, symbolizing joy and praise. These gestures are more than symbolic; they are powerful expressions of our spiritual alignment to ourselves and world around us.

When we sit with closed-off postures, such as folded arms, we may be signalling a lack of engagement or a guarded heart. Conversely, an open and upright posture can reflect a readiness to embrace new experiences and connect with others. By becoming aware of our physical postures, we can cultivate a deeper understanding of our spiritual attitudes and intentions.

 

The relationship between posture and spirituality is bidirectional. Just as our spiritual mindset can influence our physical posture, so too can our physical stance impact our spiritual experiences. This mind-body connection is a powerful tool for enhancing our spiritual practices.

Remember that what some people call “soul” and others call “energy” is the essence that flows through us. our “isness” if you will. what makes us, us. without it we are not here. And that essence is what we might be calling spiritual or our true nature. More on this concept in later blogs.

Taking an upright posture, for example, allows for better breathing and energy flow, supporting spiritual focus and clarity. Ritualistic body postures, such as bowing or prostrating, can facilitate a deeper spiritual connection, anchoring our beliefs and practices in the body. By consciously adopting postures that align with our spiritual intentions, we can create a more holistic and embodied spiritual/emotional experience.

Our physical postures also have profound psychological effects, influencing our emotions and mental states during spiritual practice. Downcast or constrictive postures may evoke feelings of humility and introspection, while upright or expansive postures can inspire confidence, praise, and a sense of empowerment.

By experimenting with different postures, we can explore the psychological and emotional dimensions of our spirituality and emotions. This exploration can lead to greater self-awareness and a deeper connection with our inner selves, our isness, fostering a sense of peace and fulfillment.

Empowerment is a key aspect of both posture and spirituality. When we stand tall and open, we project confidence and strength, embodying our spiritual identity. This empowerment extends beyond the individual, influencing our interactions with others and our ability to effect positive change in the world.

By embracing postures that reflect empowerment, we can inspire others to do the same. Our physical stance becomes a beacon of hope and possibility, encouraging those around us to stand tall in their own spiritual journeys. In this way, posture becomes a powerful tool for creating a more harmonious and compassionate world.

Gratitude and compassion are integral to both posture and spirituality. When we adopt a posture of gratitude, we open ourselves to the abundance of life, recognizing the beauty and blessings that surround us. This openness fosters a sense of connection and belonging, nurturing our relationships with others and the world.

Similarly, a posture of compassion invites us to extend kindness and understanding to ourselves and others. By embodying compassion in our physical stance, we create a space for healing and reconciliation, bridging divides and fostering unity.

In a world that often feels divided and disconnected, the power of posture offers a simple yet profound path to transformation. By aligning our physical and spiritual postures, we can cultivate wonder, empathy, openness, gratitude, compassion, hope, and empowerment. These qualities become the foundation for a more harmonious and compassionate world.

As we embark on this journey of alignment, let us remember that change begins with us. By consciously choosing our postures, we can create ripples of change that extend far beyond ourselves, inspiring others to join us in the quest for a better world. Together, we can stand tall, embodying the values and virtues that will guide us toward a brighter future.