‘Leadership doesn’t begin with managing people. It begins with understanding the person in the mirror.’
I recall a conversation of several years back.
It was late evening and I was preparing to go home. Hearing a knock, I looked up to see a colleague standing outside my glass door, smiling. He was one of the bright managers from our Supply Chains division. As I gestured him to a chair, I sensed something was on his mind. After the usual pleasantries and how things were going at work, I asked what I could do for him.
“Sir, while I seem to be doing okay at work based on the feedback of my Divisional Head, deep down I fear I’m failing as a leader,” he blurted out.
” Hmm! That’s a strong statement,” I replied. “What makes you say that?”
He sighed, “I am trying to be a better leader. I’ve read leadership books. I keep trying new leadership techniques…… but somehow I feel a sense of inadequacy and a lack of being authentic.”
Pondering over what I had just heard, I asked, “When was the last time you studied yourself?”
My colleague frowned. After a few moments he admitted, “I don’t think I ever have.”
“You know,” I said, “most of us believe awareness means noticing what’s happening around us. For instance, the market. Our competitors. Our customers. Our bosses. We become experts at observing everyone else’s behaviour. We know exactly what our colleagues need to improve. We notice the habits holding others back. We can often predict how someone else will react in a meeting. But ask us why we react defensively to criticism… why certain conversations drain our energy… why we repeat the same mistakes… and suddenly the answers become less clear.”
He looked at me for a few moments before replying, “So you’re saying I’ve been looking in the wrong direction?”
“Not the wrong direction. Just one direction.”
Looking out of the window, he said softly, almost to himself, “I’ve been trying to model myself on people I’ve admired.”
“And there’s nothing wrong with admiration,” I said. “The problem begins when admiration turns into imitation. We can borrow someone’s ideas. We can learn from someone’s experience. But we can never build our leadership by becoming a copy of someone else’s story.”
There was a silence. Then the colleague asked quietly, “So what does awareness really look like?”
I realised that we were now entering the deep end of our conversation. I said, “It is knowing your strengths without becoming arrogant. Recognising your weaknesses without becoming discouraged. Understanding your patterns before they begin to define you.”
I concluded by saying, “It is having the courage to ask not, ‘How do I become like them?’ but ‘Who am I becoming?’“
As my colleague got up to leave, he paused at the door and said, “I’ve spent years trying to improve my leadership. Perhaps I should spend more time understanding the leader.”
The conversation stayed with me. The older I grow, the more I realise that personal growth rarely begins with learning something new. More often, it begins with seeing ourselves a little more clearly.
Self-awareness is perhaps the only mirror that becomes clearer the longer we are willing to look into it. Leadership is not the journey from ignorance to knowledge. It is the journey from unconsciousness to awareness. Because the greatest breakthroughs in life seldom come from changing who we are. They come from discovering who we have been all along. Perhaps the most important meeting you will ever have is not with your team, your boss, or your client. It is the quiet conversation you have with yourself.
There is a particular species of Indian that flourished magnificently in the decades before online shopping, food delivery apps and children who believe Wi-Fi is a fundamental human right. I refer, of course, to the Indian middle class, of which I remain a reasonably well-preserved but vanishing specimen.
We grew up in households where economy was not merely a virtue; it was a performing art.
My earliest lessons in finance came from my parents. Nothing was ever thrown away if it still possessed even a faint pulse of usefulness. Plastic bags were washed and dried like delicate garments. Glass jars enjoyed a second career storing everything from spices to mysterious screws. A rubber band could expect a working life longer than that of many government administrations.
Food was treated with similar reverence. I learnt from my mother at a young age that leaving rice on one’s plate was considered a moral lapse bordering on criminal behaviour. Leftovers were not leftovers. They were tomorrow’s menu opportunity. Last night’s dal would return disguised as parathas. Yesterday’s vegetables would reappear as a perfectly respectable breakfast. In our kitchen, nothing retired. Everything was merely transferred to another department.
Clothes followed a similarly circular economy. My elder cousin’s shirts descended upon me in stages. By the time they reached my wardrobe, they had acquired wisdom, faded dignity and collars that had survived several rounds of repair. I never considered this unusual. The idea that some children received brand-new clothes simply because they had grown seemed extravagantly aristocratic.
School textbooks were inherited too. I recall books arriving complete with underlined passages, examination tips and occasional sketches that transformed national leaders into members of a travelling circus. Education was affordable because the same books appeared to educate multiple generations.
Then there was transport. A Tonga ride cost four annas. Four annas! I had been made to believe that such a sum spent without caution could destabilise our home economy, especially during the last week of the month. Consequently, we walked. Distances that modern people would consider suitable for expedition permits were covered cheerfully on foot. If a destination could be reached in forty minutes, spending four annas to arrive in ten was regarded as reckless financial behaviour.
And bicycles! Every middle-class household seemed to possess an ancient bicycle that had belonged to an uncle, a grandfather or possibly a forgotten Mughal emperor. We too had one and it lay peacefully in the courtyard for years until the day I had become old enough to learn cycling. The relic was resurrected, repaired and polished. Following instructions from elders, I climbed aboard with great optimism and immediately fell off. I was told that this trial process needed to be repeated until either I learned to ride or the bicycle surrendered.
Birthdays were modest affairs. A new shirt. A special meal. But what I would look forward to were the gifts of the ludo and the Chinese checker sets. I remember the occasion when I received the princely sum of a ten-rupee note from my uncle, surely during one of his generous and careless moments. That ten-rupee note was treated with the seriousness of an international investment portfolio. Weeks of deliberation preceded expenditure. For me, the pleasure lay not in buying, but in deciding.
Electricity was another matter. Leaving a fan running in an empty room could summon my father from astonishing distances. He possessed an almost supernatural ability to detect unnecessary power consumption. Lights were switched off with military precision. Water taps were closed firmly. Waste was viewed as a personal insult to future generations.
Looking back, none of this felt like hardship. We never considered ourselves deprived. We simply lived with the understanding that money was earned with effort, resources were finite and contentment did not depend on owning the latest thing.
Even today, I cannot throw away a half-used notebook. I switch off lights in hotel rooms. I feel guilty wasting food. Somewhere inside me lives that middle-class boy, still walking to save four annas and still trying to balance himself on an ancient bicycle. And truth be told, I am rather fond of him. For he grew up learning a lesson that seems increasingly rare: happiness is not about how much you have. It is about how little you need.
I recall a conversation from many years back. During an overseas visit, I was having coffee with a colleague and I found him looking frustrated and confused.
He pushed aside his tray and said, “I don’t get it. We’ve analysed the issue of increasing our business share from this market from every angle. We’ve got the data, the reports, the projections. Yet we seem to be still stuck.”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” I replied.
He looked at me, uncertainty writ on his face, “How can having more data be the problem?”
“Because sometimes,” I said, “we can become so busy looking for the right answer that we stop looking for other possibilities.”
He smiled politely—the kind of smile people give when they think you have said something impractical, “So what’s the alternative? Ignore the facts?”
“Not at all. Facts matter. But facts tell us what is. Creativity asks what could be.” That seemed to catch his attention. I related a story.
“In the 1970s, a scientist at 3M was trying to create a super-strong adhesive. The adhesive was weak. By conventional standards, the experiment was a disappointment. It seemed a failure. That’s exactly how most people saw it. But years later, someone else looked at the same ‘failed’ adhesive and saw a different possibility. The result was the Post-it Note.”
My colleague laughed, “So one of the world’s most successful office products began as a mistake?”
“Or perhaps,” I said, “it began as a possibility that nobody had noticed yet.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then he said something interesting.
“You know, in our meetings we’re always asking, ‘Will this work?’ Maybe we should first ask, ‘What else could this become?'”
Now we were getting somewhere. The truth is that most organisations reward certainty. We admire people who have answers. We celebrate expertise. We fill spreadsheets, analyse trends and minimise risks. All these are important. But the future is rarely created by these certain aspects alone. It is often created by someone willing to explore a possibility that doesn’t yet fit neatly into a presentation slide.
The more we talked, the more I realised that creativity is not about being artistic. It is not about painting, music or design. Possibilities which flow out of a creative mindset is the courage to see beyond the obvious. It is the willingness to ask a different question. It is the ability to sit with uncertainty long enough for a new idea to emerge.
Before we left, my colleague said, “Maybe we’ve been trying too hard to find the right path.”
“Perhaps,” I replied. “Sometimes the breakthrough comes when you stop looking for the path and start exploring the landscape.”
A few days later he called, “We’ve found a completely different solution. We stopped trying to prove what was possible and started imagining it. Imagining the end goal, without getting enmeshed with how to make that happen, allowed new possibilities to show up.”
That conversation stayed with me. Because in a world overflowing with information, knowledge is no longer the rarest resource. Possibility is. And every great innovation, every breakthrough and every new beginning starts with a simple question:
A tiger—nature’s embodiment of power—lying quietly on the face of the Buddha. What struck me was not the contrast, but the harmony.
As we grow older, many of us spend years trying to get rid of our inner tiger. Our anger. Our ambition. Our ego. Our restlessness needs to prove ourselves. But perhaps wisdom is not about killing the tiger.Perhaps it is about teaching it to rest.
The tiger is still there. The strength is still there. The fire is still there. But it no longer needs to bare its teeth at every passing challenge.
I have met people who were gentle because they were weak. And I have met a few who were gentle because they were strong enough to choose peace.The second kind are rare.
Looking at this image, I was reminded that the real journey is not from power to powerlessness. It is from power to self-mastery.
Over coffee during an office one to one meeting, a colleague—let’s call him Arvind—looked visibly irritated.
“Honestly,” he said, stirring his coffee with unnecessary force, “I don’t understand how some people get promoted. That guy in Operations is always late, misses details, and somehow everyone thinks he’s brilliant.”
I smiled. “That sounds less like an observation and more like a verdict.”
He laughed. “Come on. I’m just being realistic.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe you’re being human.”
He looked at me curiously.
I asked, “Have you noticed what happens when we judge someone?”
“What?”
“We stop being curious.”
I could immediately see that my words had landed and Arvind had a thoughtful expression. I continued.
“When we label someone—lazy, incompetent, arrogant, unprofessional—we close the case in our minds. We allow no appeal, no fresh evidence and no deeper inquiry.”
Arvind leaned back slowly, “So you’re saying judgment is wrong?”
“N, I would not say that. I think discernment is necessary as Leaders must make decisions. But judgment—the kind that quietly declares I understand this person completely, and I know why they are wrong—that’s something else.”
I could sense that Arvind was listening now. I probed, “Think about the last time someone judged you. You probably didn’t feel inspired. You felt defensive. That’s because judgment rarely creates dialogue. It creates distance.”
After a pause, he said, “But what if I’m right?”
I laughed and said, “Even if you are right, judgment often makes the other person stop listening. The issue is not factual accuracy. It’s emotional impact.”
He went quiet.
Then I asked, “Suppose his lateness isn’t carelessness. Suppose he’s caring for an ill parent. Suppose he works differently. Suppose the brilliance others see is something you haven’t yet noticed.”
“You’re asking me to assume the best?”
“No. I’m asking you to remain open.”
Another silence. Then he said softly, “So where does judgment come from?”
That was the real question. “Sometimes,” I said, “from our own insecurity. Comparison is judgment in formal clothes. When we are fully at peace with ourselves, we spend less energy measuring others.”
“That’s uncomfortable.”
“Growth usually is.”
As we got up to leave, he said, “You know, I was actually upset because I thought I deserved that recognition.”
There it was. It was Hurt masquerading as Anger. It was not superiority, it was vulnerability.
And that’s the thing about judgment. It often enters wearing the mask of certainty, when what’s really underneath is something unresolved within us.
Since that conversation, I’ve been asking myself a different question—not ‘What’s wrong with that person?’ but ‘What story am I telling myself about them—and why?’
Judgment may be instinctive. But awareness is a choice. And perhaps leadership begins there.
More than a decade after my coaching certification, certain ideas still return to me with surprising clarity. One of them is deceptively simple:
The difference between reacting and responding.
Most leaders intellectually understand this distinction. Few recognise how profoundly it shapes their daily impact.
I was reminded of this during a coaching conversation with a senior executive — let me call him Raghav. Raghav was known for his brilliance and intensity. Quick thinker. Decisive. Deeply committed. But his team described him using another word, offered cautiously and repeatedly: “Intimidating.”
When he came into coaching, his concern was framed differently. “My team has become strangely silent,” he told me. “Meetings lack energy. No one challenges anything. It’s frustrating.”
Frustration, I have learned, is often an interesting doorway.
“What usually happens when someone disagrees with you?” I asked. He looked puzzled. “Nothing unusual. We discuss.”
But leaders rarely observe their own behavioural patterns with accuracy. Our reactions are invisible to us precisely because they are so familiar. So, I asked him to walk me through a recent meeting.
He described a discussion where a junior manager questioned a proposal. As he narrated the incident, something subtle appeared — not in his words, but in his tone. “I explained why the idea wouldn’t work,” he said.
Then after a pause: “Perhaps a bit sharply.” “What do you think the manager experienced in that moment?” I asked. He shrugged. “Direct feedback.” “And if we asked them?” Silence.
The human mind is wonderfully efficient at justifying its own reactions.
**
In coaching, reactions are rarely the real story. Triggers are.
“What specifically triggered your response?” I asked. “The suggestion didn’t make sense.” “Was it the quality of the idea,” I continued, “or the fact that it challenged yours?”
That question lingered longer. Eventually he smiled — the kind that signals reluctant insight. “I don’t like being questioned in areas I know well.”
There it was. A deeply human pattern. Trigger → irritation → sharp dismissal.
Repeated often enough, reactions harden into leadership style. Unexamined long enough, they reshape culture.
We explored a small experiment. “Next time you feel that familiar irritation,” I said, “don’t change your opinion. Don’t soften your standards. Simply pause.”
“Pause?”
“Four seconds,” I suggested. “One breath. No words.” He laughed. “That sounds trivial.” “It is trivial,” I agreed. “And extremely difficult.”
Because reactions are automated. Responses are chosen.
**
Several weeks later, Raghav returned with an observation that genuinely surprised him. “The meetings feel different,” he said.
“What changed?”
“I haven’t changed my decisions,” he clarified. “But I’ve started noticing the moment before I speak.”
“And?”
“The irritation is still there,” he admitted. “But the pause stops me from firing.” That single gap — barely a few seconds — had altered the emotional climate of his interactions.
People spoke more. Defensiveness reduced. Energy returned. Nothing structural had changed. Only awareness.
**
Reacting is effortless because it is borrowed from the past — old patterns, old triggers, old conditioning.
“Did you read that piece I sent?” Arjun asked. Sameer frowned. “Who wrote it?”
“Why?” “Because that tells me everything.”
“So the argument doesn’t matter?” “Oh! it does matter,” Sameer said. “All folks who offer opinions always have an agenda.”
Arjun watched him quietly. “So we don’t examine the idea… we examine the person?”
Sameer shrugged. “Background. Bias. That’s how you know.”
Case closed.No thinking required. We like to believe we are rational. But most of the time, we are defenders, not thinkers.
Once a belief settles into the mind, it doesn’t stay a belief for long. It quietly becomes identity. And the moment that happens, any opposing idea stops feeling like information. It feels like an attack. Not on the argument. On us.
“Just look at the data,” Arjun said. “I already know the truth,” Sameer replied.That was the shift.His mind had stopped being a judge.It had become a lawyer. *Not asking, “What is true?”But, “How do I prove I’m right?”*
So the evidence hunt began: “I’ve read studies that agree with me.” “Experts support this.” “Your source must be flawed.”
And when facts refuse to cooperate? The mind does what skilled lawyers do. It bends them. Reframes them. Twists them — until they fit the story already believed.
“But you didn’t even consider it,” Arjun said. “I don’t need to,” Sameer replied. “I know the type.” That’s the final defense. If you can’t defeat the idea, discredit the person. “Who said it?” “What’s their background?” “What bias can we label them with?” Once a label is found, the argument is declared invalid. Comfort restored. Identity protected. This isn’t intelligence at work. This is ego guarding identity.
Psychology calls it confirmation bias — the tendency to search for evidence that supports what we already believe and dismiss what doesn’t. But deeper than that, it’s belief defense. The mind protecting its mental world from discomfort. Because being wrong doesn’t just feel incorrect. It feels like losing a piece of who we are.
Arjun said softly, “You know when real thinking starts?” Sameer looked at him. “When something challenges you… and you still choose to look.” A long pause. “That uncomfortable feeling?” Arjun added. “That’s the doorway most of us shut.”
Because growth never comes from defending what we already know. It comes from risking being wrong.
And in that small, silent moment —when we stop arguing and start examining — the mind takes off its lawyer’s coat…and remembers how to be a judge.
So we compress people into labels—rude, careless, incompetent.
And we expand ourselves into explanations—pressure, timing, constraints, intent.
This is the Perspective & Motivation Attribution Model.
From the outside, a person looks like a trait.
From the inside, a person feels like a situation.
Their one act becomes their identity.
Our one act becomes an exception.
Their failure becomes “who they are.”
Our failure becomes “what happened to us.”
And here’s the uncomfortable truth:
our reasoning is often not a search for what is true—
it is a search for what is forgivable.
The mind is not just a storyteller.
It is also a lawyer.
Wisdom begins when we offer others the same context, we demand for ourselves—
and hold ourselves to the same standards we casually apply to others.
So, what could be the road map forward?
Awareness is the start of moving forward. We start by noticing Perspective & Motivation in folks around us- through their articulations and behaviour. We then turn the searchlight onto our own selves. And we become observers of our own Perspective & Motivation afflictions…….
In an age of selective hearing, understanding whose voices are ignored—and whose are feared—reveals the deeper politics of power and truth.
Abstract
In a world overflowing with voices, some are never heard. Some are never allowed to speak. This article explores the crucial difference between those who are voiceless and those who are deliberately silenced. One group is ignored, the other is feared. Understanding this difference helps us see the mechanics of power, injustice, and the politics of listening in today’s world. As Noam Chomsky famously said, “The smart way to keep people passive and obedient is to strictly limit the spectrum of acceptable opinion, but allow very lively debate within that spectrum.”
**
The idea of this piece came to me when in a social media group discussion about the unevenness of spiritual access in India based on class, caste and privilege, someone quoted author Arundhati Roy’s quote that “There’s really no such thing as the ‘voiceless’. There are only the deliberately silenced, or the preferably unheard.”
The more I thought about what Arundhati had opined, the more I sensed that she had lumped two discrete aspects of our society into one.
What is being Voiceless?
I recall the first few days of India’s response to the COVID – 19 pandemic and the lockdown that ensued. When the country literally shut down with just four hours’ notice, millions of workers—daily wage earners, domestic helpers, factory hands—were stranded without transport, money, or food. With no options available and with little support, around 40 million workers began walking hundreds of kilometres back to their villages. What came to be known as the great migrant crisis of the pandemic.
The workers weren’t silent, in fact far from it. They shared stories, walked in mass protests, called journalists. But their pain barely entered the official narrative. The crisis was, for a time, treated like an unfortunate footnote in a larger national story.
Migrant workers during pandemic
“The working class was not just unseen—they were not considered,” wrote Harsh Mander in The Indian Express. “It was a failure of both empathy and accountability.”
These were people whose voices weren’t suppressed, but simply didn’t count. That’s what it means to be voiceless.
As sociologist Michael Schudson put it, “Communication is a resource distributed as unequally as income or education.” Some voices simply don’t travel—not because they’re weak, but because the world refuses to hear them. This is indeed ironic in an age in which speaking up in fact has never been easier. Through the universal access to tweets, videos, blogs, and platforms are everywhere. But being heard? That’s something else entirely.
Being voiceless doesn’t mean someone has nothing to say. It means that what they say doesn’t register. Their stories don’t make the news. Their ideas don’t get invited to conferences. Their lives rarely shape policy decisions. They live in the blind spots of our systems. One of the main aspects which makes our society unequal.
Now let’s look at the aspect of those who Are the Silenced?
In 2017, the gruesome assassination of Gauri Lankesh hit the headlines in India. A fearless journalist and activist, Lankesh had been a sharp critic of communal violence, right-wing extremism, and state-sponsored misinformation. Her Kannada weekly, Gauri Lankesh Patrike, became a platform for truth-telling and resistance.
Gauri was shot dead outside her home in Bengaluru, her murder was not random—it was a warning.
Gauri Lankesh assassination
As journalist Rana Ayyub wrote: “Gauri’s crime was that she refused to be quiet.”
Gauri Lankesh had a platform. She was being heard. And that is exactly why she was targeted. She wasn’t voiceless. She was silenced because her voice made those in power uncomfortable. To those in power, Gauri’s voice had become too powerful; her words shone light on dark places, threatened the status quo, exposed inconvenient truths.
A recent report by the Committee to Protect Journalists ( CPJ) noted that a record number of journalists were jailed in 2022—not for false reporting, but for exposing the truth. As the CPJ observed: “Censorship is no longer enough; silencing must be enforced.”
Can we now see the intrinsic difference between those who are voiceless, and those who are deliberately silenced? Some people, no matter how loudly they speak, never seem to matter. Others are quickly shut down because what they say matters too much. The first are ignored. The second are suppressed. And both are symptoms of a far deeper crisis of listening in our times.
Why the Difference Matters
At first glance, both the voiceless and the silenced seem to suffer the same fate: not being heard. But the reasons behind their invisibility are fundamentally different.
The voiceless are ignored because they’re deemed irrelevant.
The silenced are suppressed because they’re considered dangerous.
One is a symptom of systemic neglect. The other, of deliberate fear.
Understanding this distinction is vital. It helps us recognize the difference between absence and erasure, between invisibility and targeting.
The Role of Selective Listening
Today, listening has become selective and often algorithmic. Digital platforms and connectivities are amplifying outrage, repetition, and ideology—not complexity, dissent, or nuance. In such a space, it’s easy for the voiceless to disappear into the margins, and for the silenced to be made invisible through force or discrediting.
We need to recognize that the difference between the voiceless and the silenced also changes how we respond. We might decide to support in the following manner.
The voiceless need amplification. Their stories must be brought to the centre. This would require better representation, inclusive platforms, and ethical journalism.
The silenced need protection. They must be defended by laws, by solidarity, and by public pressure. Their speech is often a warning bell the rest of us ignore at our own peril.
Both are vital to a functioning democracy. But only one—the silenced—reminds us that truth still threatens power.
In musing……. Shakti Ghosal
References
Schudson, Michael. The Sociology of News. W. W. Norton & Company, 2000.
Committee to Protect Journalists. Record Number of Journalists Jailed Worldwide. CPJ, 2022. https://cpj.org/reports/2022
Chomsky, Noam. Media Control: The Spectacular Achievements of Propaganda. Seven Stories Press, 1997.
Mander, Harsh. “Locked Down and Left Behind.” The Indian Express, May 2020.
Ayyub, Rana. “Gauri Lankesh’s Murder Was Not an Aberration.” The Washington Post, Sept 2017
This article explores the social behavior commonly referred to as “Puppy Dog Wag Tail Syndrome”—where older individuals attempt to gain acceptance from younger social groups through excessive compliance, self-effacement, or mimicry, wagging one’s tail so to say! While this behavior stems from a natural human desire for belonging, it often compromises one’s authenticity and self-respect. Drawing from research in social psychology, this piece delves into the emotional drivers behind such behavior and advocates for embracing authenticity across generational lines.
Have you ever witnessed an elderly individual awkwardly trying to “blend in” with a younger group? Perhaps they crack out-of-place jokes, adopt unfamiliar slang, or seem constantly eager to please — laughing too hard, offering unsolicited help, or nervously seeking approval. This performative effort to fit in, often at the cost of dignity and self-awareness, is what might be called Puppy Dog Syndrome. Much like an over-eager pet desperate for affection, the individual’s behavior becomes centered around pleasing others, often sacrificing self-expression and confidence in the process.
While it may appear superficial on the surface, this behavior is rooted in something deeply human: the need to belong. Social psychologists Roy Baumeister and Mark Leary (1995) identified belongingness as a fundamental human motivation. Regardless of age, people crave connection, approval, and inclusion. Yet, when belonging feels uncertain — especially in cross-generational settings where values, cultural references, and energy levels diverge — the fear of exclusion can drive compensatory behaviors.
Older individuals, particularly in youth-dominated spaces like workplaces, social media platforms, or casual gatherings, may feel a loss of relevance or influence. In such settings, some try to gain favor by imitating youth or subordinating themselves — often unconsciously — in exchange for social acceptance. But the cost of such behavior can be significant. Carl Rogers, the humanistic psychologist, referred to this pattern as living according to “conditions of worth” — behaving in ways that earn external validation rather than expressing one’s true self.
This misalignment can take a psychological toll. A 2006 study by Kernis and Goldman found that chronic inauthenticity is associated with lower self-esteem, increased anxiety, and reduced life satisfaction. It’s a hollow kind of belonging that demands constant performance, rather than one built on mutual respect and individuality.
What’s most tragic about Puppy Dog Syndrome is that it often masks the rich experience, insight, and stability that older individuals have to offer. Rather than chasing youth, they might be better served — and more appreciated — by showing up as their authentic selves, offering perspective rather than parody.
Intergenerational engagement works best not through mimicry but through mutual curiosity and honesty. Younger generations often value authenticity more than they let on. There’s strength in standing tall in one’s own identity, wisdom in speaking with one’s own voice, and grace in not needing to follow the crowd.
In a world obsessed with fitting in, perhaps the most radical act is simply being yourself — fully, unapologetically, and without the need for approval.
References
Baumeister, R. F., & Leary, M. R. (1995). The need to belong: Desire for interpersonal attachments as a fundamental human motivation. Psychological Bulletin, 117(3), 497–529.
Kernis, M. H., & Goldman, B. M. (2006). A multicomponent conceptualization of authenticity: Theory and research. Advances in Experimental Social Psychology, 38, 283–357.
Rogers, C. R. (1959). A theory of therapy, personality and interpersonal relationships as developed in the client-centered framework. In S. Koch (Ed.), Psychology: A Study of a Science, Vol. 3. McGraw-Hill.
A New Beginning 