So, as I’ve probably mentioned before, I’m a software engineer. And I consider myself lucky - lucky because I’ve been able to make a living doing something I genuinely enjoy. It’s been nearly two decades now, and I still get a kick out of solving problems, building systems, and watching things click into place.

But my role has changed over the years. These days, writing code is just part of the job. A big part of what I do now is about helping other people write code - people across different teams, different time zones, different mindsets. We’re a big company, which means a lot of moving parts. My job, more and more, is about direction: helping make sure the work we’re doing is actually moving us where we want to go.

This shift—from code to coordination, from product to people—wasn’t entirely natural for me. So, like any good nerd in unfamiliar territory, I turned to books. Lots of them. Books about team dynamics, leadership, communication, tech culture. One idea that stuck with me came from a book that claimed, provocatively, that most of us in tech aren't really in the technology business—we're in the human business.

At first, I rolled my eyes. But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. We’re not usually inventing new tech from scratch - we’re applying what’s already out there. The hard part isn’t the tech; it’s getting humans - clever, passionate, independent humans - to move in the same direction. To stay aligned. To collaborate.

And when you zoom out, you realize that raising a child… isn’t all that different. It’s human business, too. Communication business. You’re not coding the kid’s future - you’re nudging, modeling, guiding. You’re debugging bedtime routines and deploying soft skills daily.

One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned - both at work and at home - is this: if you want someone to actually do something, marching in with direct orders rarely works. People resist being told. It triggers pushback. Instead, you have to make the idea feel like it came from them.

It’s a bit like mental judo. You don’t force - you redirect. You drop hints. You ask questions. You offer space. And then, like magic, they adopt the idea as their own. And once that happens? They own it. They’ll stand by it. Defend it. They’ll put their name on it and make sure it works - because it’s not yours anymore, it’s theirs. You won’t get the glory, but you’ll get the outcome. And for me, that’s a better deal.

And the same play works on kids. You don’t bark “Clean up!” and expect miracles. But say something like, “Hey, do you think we can build a toy garage before lunch?” Suddenly they’re stacking blocks, arranging cars, humming while they work - because they had the idea (with a little gentle planting). You’re just there with a sandwich and a quiet grin, watching it all unfold.

With time, you realize that real leadership isn’t about being the loudest voice in the room - it’s about knowing when to step back and let others shine. Sometimes the best thing you can do is fade into the background while others take the wheel - on a route you helped chart quietly, behind the scenes.

It’s not flashy. But it’s effective. And deeply human.