The problem is not what you think

I've noticed something working with leaders over the years. When it comes to their own development, the problem is rarely what they think it is.

Thomas, head of strategy,  came to coaching wanting to better engage his teams. What he actually needed was to stop turning up the volume on what he thought was right.

Karin wanted to develop vision. What she actually needed was to stop turning down the volume on what she already knew.

Leadership development is often not about learning new skills. It's about noticing where your attention goes under pressure, and choosing what to turn up and what to turn down.

Thomas

Thomas runs strategy for a large tech company. He came to coaching because his teams weren't buying into the changes he was proposing. Necessary changes. But something wasn't landing.

In our second conversation, I asked him to describe a recent meeting where this happened.

He leaned forward. Talked fast. Explained the logic, the data, the business case. His hands moved. His voice sharpened. I could feel him building the argument, brick by brick, trying to convince me the way he'd tried to convince them.

"Thomas, where are you right now?".  He stopped. Looked confused. "In your body. Where are you?" Long pause. Then: "In my head, Manu I'm... I'm always in my head."

We sat with that. And then I asked him to notice what was happening in his chest, his shoulders, his breath. Nothing dramatic, just notice. What he found: his shoulders were up, almost near his ears. His breath short. His jaw tight.

"When did that start?" I asked. "I don't know. Maybe... when I started describing the meeting?"

"Earlier," I said. "It was there when you walked in."

What Thomas discovered over the next weeks wasn't pleasant. Being "in his head" wasn't just a mental state, it lived in his body. The tight shoulders, the shallow breath, the clenched jaw. His body was working as hard as his mind to share his truth.

Thomas had learned early, praised for being the smartest kid in class, that thinking was his value. That if he could out-reason everyone, he'd be safe. Respected. Right.

So he turned up the volume on his thinking. Louder and louder. Until it drowned out everything else.

Including what his teams were actually saying. In one session, I asked him to try something: go into his next strategy meeting and, for the first ten minutes, say nothing. Just listen. Not to prepare his response. Just listen. And notice what happened in his body when he resisted the urge to jump in.

He hated it. "It felt like drowning," he said. "Like if I didn't speak, I'd disappear."

But he also noticed something else. When he stayed quiet, when he kept his attention on the person speaking rather than on his own rebuttal, his breath deepened. His shoulders dropped. And he started hearing things he'd missed before: people nodding but not speaking. Questions forming but not asked. The difference between agreement and resignation.

The shift wasn't that Thomas learned to "listen better." The shift was that he started noticing where his attention went under pressure, and what it cost him.

His teams started buying in. Not because his ideas got better. Because he stopped using his intelligence as a shield.

Karin

When Karin's CEO said she lacked vision, she believed him.

She came to coaching wanting to "see further", to develop some strategic foresight she thought she was missing. But two sessions in, she said something that caught our attention:

Karin: "I can see what the company needs. I just don't know if I'm right."

"Tell me what you see," I said.

She did. It was clear. Specific. Bold. Exactly the kind of vision her CEO claimed she didn't have.

"So what happens when you bring this up?" I asked.

Her: "I don't."

Me: "Why not?"

Long silence. Then: "Because what if I'm wrong?"

We spent the next session not talking about vision at all. We talked about her body.

I asked her to notice what happened physically when she imagined sharing her vision in a leadership meeting. Her breath got shallow. Her voice got quieter. She started qualifying everything: "Maybe..." "I could be wrong, but..." "Just a thought..."

"Where did you learn to do that?" I asked.

She didn't know at first. Then, slowly: "My father. He had very strong opinions. If you disagreed, you had to be 100% certain, or he'd shut you down."

So Karin learned to turn down the volume on her own voice. To test the room first. To wait for permission. To doubt herself before anyone else could. It kept her safe. It also kept her invisible.

The work wasn't about "developing vision." It was about noticing the moment her attention shifted from what she saw to what others might think. And learning to stay with what she saw, not because it was certainly right, but because it was hers to offer.

We decided to explore a practice: Before her next leadership meeting, she would sit for two minutes. Feel her feet on the floor. Feel her breath. Ask herself: What do I actually see here? Not what should I see. Not what they want to hear. What do I see?

Then go in and say one thing from that place. Just one thing. See what happens.

• The first time, her voice shook. Her CEO interrupted her halfway through. But she finished.

• The second time, she spoke without apologizing. Someone challenged her. She didn't collapse.

• The third time, her CEO said: "Now that's the kind of strategic thinking we need."

Nothing about her vision had changed. What changed was the volume.

Where attention goes, energy follows

I used to think leadership was about getting better at things, better at strategy, better at communication, better at difficult conversations. And maybe it is. But underneath all of that is something simpler and harder: noticing where you've learned to turn the volume up, and where you've learned to turn it down.

• Thomas turned up thinking, turned down listening.

• Karin turned up other people’s perspectives , turned down knowing.

Both were survival strategies. Both stopped working.

The shift wasn't learning a new technique. It was noticing, in the body, in real , where attention was going, and what it was costing.

• When Thomas noticed his shoulders creeping up, his breath getting shallow, he had a choice: keep building the argument, or drop into listening.

• When Karin noticed her voice getting quieter, her words getting hedged, she had a choice: keep protecting herself, or speak what she saw.

Not every time. Not perfectly. But more often.

And that's where leadership actually lives, not in the big moments of transformation, but in those small, repeated choices about where to place attention.

A practice

This isn't about balance. It's not about spending equal time "inside" and "outside." It's about noticing where your attention habitually goes under pressure, and asking: Is this serving what I'm here to do?

Here's what I suggest:

Choose one recurring situation where you feel stuck, ineffective, or smaller than you want to be. A type of meeting. A type of conversation. A type of decision.

Next time you're in it, notice:

Where does my attention go? (To my thoughts? To their reactions? To being right? To being safe?)What happens in my body when I keep it there? (Breath? Shoulders? Jaw? Voice?) What am I turning up? What am I turning down?

Don't try to fix it yet. Just notice.

Then, experiment:

Pick one thing to turn up that you usually turn down. If you turn up thinking, try turning up listening. If you turn up doubt, try turning up what you actually see. If you turn up others' expectations, try turning up your own knowing. Not for the whole meeting. Just for two minutes. Just for one statement.

Notice what happens. In your body. In the room. In what becomes possible.

What I'm learning

To be honest, I still catch myself doing what Thomas did, building arguments so tight that nothing can get in. Including reality. And I still catch myself doing what Karin did, waiting for permission to say what I already see.

The difference now is that I notice it happening. I feel the tightness in my chest, the shallowness of my breath, the moment my attention contracts. And sometimes, not always, but sometimes, I make a different choice.

That's what this practice has given me. No big transformation. Just more moments where I'm conscious enough to choose what leadership looks like.

The rest takes care of itself.

Thanks for always reading.

Manu

Manu Henrard is an Executive Coach and an Executive Recruiter based in Brussels. Manu works at the intersection of performance and presence, helping leaders stay true to themselves while navigating pressure, pace and complexity. Manu's professional commitment is to help leaders increase meaningful productivity and achieve inner peace.