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I used to think I was special. It started in high school, when I earned better grades than almost everyone around me. This trend continued into my time at the US Naval Academy. Truth was, I was just a prescient and skilled test-taker, but after graduating and rising to the rank of captain in the navy’s submarine force, I mistakenly concluded that I’d risen so quickly because I was more observant, disciplined, committed, thoughtful, and caring than the people around me. It’s hard to admit, but at the time I felt pretty sure I was better at getting stuff done— and just plain better—than the people I worked with. Secure in my sense of superiority, I became the first one to spot problems and the first to see solutions to those problems, too. I told people what they should do and—through rank, influence, and sheer rhetorical force—coerced them into complying with my instructions. In my haste to get stuff done, I left no time for others to make their own contributions. My division or department was an assembly line, one that cranked out actions instead of cars or lawnmowers. I was the foreman of the action factory because I knew better than everyone else. There were plenty of signs that my view was distorted—had I been willing to see them. People would hesitantly offer a good idea every now and then. Occasionally, they would take smart, decisive action without my direction. Once in a while, I would make a mistake, directing my team in a way that wasn’t optimal or was just plain wrong. In these scenarios, my subordinates would comply with bad orders, despite all my lectures to speak up if they ever saw a problem. Afterward, when things went off the rails, they would shrug and say they were just doing what they’d been told. In response, I would double down on giving clear, concise, and correct orders. I spent twenty-eight years being evaluated and ranked. The navy is highly competitive; top spots are scarce. In this environment of continuous judgment and evaluation, I experienced constant pressure to prove myself. Every exam, every monthly report, every inspection, every meeting, every day was another trial, another opportunity to prove and perform. A single bad outcome might affect a promotion, a pay raise, my social standing, even my sense of selfworth. As I regarded my achievements with pride, I chafed at the sense that others didn’t give me adequate recognition for my contributions. I adopted a closed, invulnerable persona, firmly rooted in a performance mindset. If life was going to be a rat race, you can bet your whiskers I was going to win it, however hard I had to drive my people to do so. Operating this way—conforming to hierarchical roles, maintaining emotional distance from others, avoiding vulnerability at all costs—is lonely and unfulfilling. Although I was proud of my promotions and awards, something profoundly important was missing.