Middle management dilemma

A leader should be strong.
A leader must deliver.
A leader must care, communicate, and carry everyone along.

But somewhere between endless meetings
and mounting targets,
leadership starts to feel like a performance.

Middle management lives in that squeeze.

You are expected to hit metrics,
manage egos upward,
and stay “inspiring” downward
while deadlines press from both ends.

Top management expects results.
Sometimes without clear direction.

Your team expects empathy.
Sometimes when they have not earned it.

And somehow,
you are supposed to give both
without breaking.

Then the thought creeps in.

What if I stopped trying to be inspiring?
What if I stopped checking on how they are doing?
What if I stopped caring beyond deliverables?

What if I chose to be a boss
instead of a leader?

After all,
a boss and a leader
earn the same salary.

What if I focused only on the technical?
On outputs.
On compliance.

It would be easier.

No more pep talks.
No more emotional labor.
No more absorbing tension that is not yours.

And if we are honest,
top management does not always check on you either.

So what if you stopped going beyond your paycheck?

Saved the amor and malasakit
for your family.
For the people who truly belong to you.

You could.

Same salary.
Less energy spent.
Less stress carried.

But then again…

If everyone did that,
who would build people?

Who would stay patient
when frustration is easier?

Who would create growth
instead of just extracting output?

Leadership is not paid for in salary.

It is paid for in impact.

And impact rarely happens
when you do the minimum.

You always have a choice.

To clock in.
Or to show up.

And the difference between a boss and a leader
is not compensation.

It is conviction.

Why I still care

Every boss leader I know

has thought about quitting.

Not the job.

The caring.

Because caring hurts.

It means staying late

to fix someone else’s mistake.

Absorbing stress

that was never yours.

Showing grace

to people who don’t always deserve it.

So you tell yourself to stop.

Focus on deliverables.

Treat work like a transaction,

not a calling.

And for a while,

that works.

You become efficient.

Focused.

Detached.

You stop caring.

And strangely,

it feels peaceful.

But it also feels empty.

Because no matter how tired you get,

something in you still believes

that how you lead

matters as much

as what you deliver.

So you care again.

Even when it drains you.

Even when it feels one-sided.

Not because everyone deserves it.

But because you do.

Because caring is part of your DNA

as a leader.

And you refuse to let exhaustion

rewrite who you are.

Maybe that’s the real mark of leadership.

Not the title.

Not the targets.

But the choice to keep caring even when it hurts.

Do it

even if your boss isn’t leading well.

Even if you have no role model.

Even if no one notices.

Even if no one thanks you.

Do it

even when they’re not “your people.”

Even when it would be easier

to withdraw.

Don’t stop being good

just because others aren’t.

You always have the choice

to care less.

But real leaders

choose to care more.

Not because it’s easy.

Because it’s who they are.

Care.

Build people.

Touch lives.

Everyone wants a 10

Everyone wants a great leader.

A 10 out of 10.

Visionary.

Supportive.

Decisive.

Fair.

But not everyone stops to ask

if they are a great team member.

Some people demand a perfect leader

without checking

if they are even showing up as a five.

Expectations are heavy.

And the truth is,

leaders are often judged more harshly

than the people they lead.

Mistakes are magnified.

Decisions are questioned.

Intentions are misunderstood.

In moments like this,

real leadership is not about resentment.

It is about resilience.

The answer is simple.

We love them anyway.

Even when they are difficult.

Even when they are inconsistent.

Even when they are not easy to lead.

Yes.

Because leadership is, in many ways,

parenting in a professional setting.

Guiding.

Correcting.

Teaching.

Building capacity.

Raising people beyond where they started.

Bosses can demand.

Leaders must lift.

They carry the weight.

They absorb the pressure.

They stay steady

so others can grow.

That is the burden.

And the privilege.

Of leadership.

Results start with guidance

One of the blind spots I often see in leadership
is the gap between asking and teaching.

You cannot ask team members to do something
if you haven’t first shown them how to do it.

You cannot expect people to do something well
if you have never shown them how.

Let’s not normalize demanding output
that we never equipped people to produce.

When leaders skip this step,
frustration follows on both sides.

Unmet expectations for the boss.
Confusion or discouragement for the team.

That’s why clarity and teaching go hand in hand.

It’s the leader’s job to lead,
to set the direction,
transfer knowledge,
and equip people to succeed.

Only then is it fair to ask for performance.

On the other hand,
bosses who only demand output without guiding the way
may get compliance, but rarely get growth.

The distinction is simple.

Leaders build capability before setting expectations.
Bosses expect results without building the path.

Teams thrive when leadership leads first, then expects.

Because when people are taught well,
they will not just deliver, they will excel.

When patience becomes harder

He didn’t get it again.

Same task.

Same instructions.

Third time this week.

You know that moment

when you can feel irritation

climbing your throat?

The kind of frustration you try to hide

behind a “professional tone,”

but it leaks through anyway.

But instead of snapping,

I asked,

“What part was unclear?”

He looked down.

Hesitant.

Then he said quietly,

“I think I understood it…

I just didn’t know how to start.”

That stopped me.

All this time,

I thought I was giving directions.

What he really needed was guidance.

He wasn’t lazy.

He was lost.

And there’s a difference.

Leaders often mistake clarity for understanding.

We assume words automatically translate into execution.

But people don’t follow

what they’re told.

They follow

what they grasp.

Don’t assume your team has the same experience,

the same confidence,

the same context as you.

They don’t.

Not yet.

That’s why you’re the senior.

That’s why you’re the leader.

Leadership isn’t a test

of how well others keep up.

It’s a measure of how far you’re willing to slow down

so they can catch up.

That afternoon,

I stayed a little longer.

We redid the task together.

He took notes.

Asked better questions.

And I saw the spark

I thought he’d lost.

Maybe the real measure of leadership
isn’t how many times you repeat instructions.

It’s how many times you choose patience
when giving up would be easier.

Humility over ego

It was 5:42 p.m. when I typed the message:

“Hey, sorry if I came off too direct during the 1-on-1 earlier.”

Then I stared at it.

For five minutes.

I didn’t hit send.

I told myself,
“He needed that feedback.”

Then another voice pushed back.

“I know it's private. But did he need it delivered that way?”

A firm delivery. Without my usual warmth.

I do and teach communication for a living.

I remind leaders that tone matters as much as timing.

Yet that day, I chose to be direct.

Transactional.

Focused on accountability, not connection.

It was meant to address repeated non-performance.

It was necessary.

I deleted the message.

Went home.

Slept.

Woke up still uneasy.

By morning, I chose the harder option.

I spoke to him in person.

He smiled, almost relieved.

“I was actually about to apologize,” he said.

That’s when it hit me.

Two people willing to apologize

can heal a team faster

than one person trying to win.

Sometimes the message you don’t send

creates space

for a better conversation.

Leadership is not about always being right.

It is about protecting the relationship

while delivering the truth.

And sometimes,

the strongest move

is choosing humility

over ego.

15-million dollar worth of regret

Before evidence.

Before balance.

Before the "truth."

He lost major film roles.

He lost brand partnerships.

He lost professional standing.

He lost years of momentum.

Opportunities disappeared.

Not because of a verdict.

But because of a narrative.

For a time, Johnny Depp carried a public label
he had never been proven to deserve.

Lost trust.
Lost dignity.

That was the real damage.

Then, in 2022, the court finally spoke.

A jury ruled that Amber Heard had defamed him.

He was awarded 10 million dollars in compensatory damages
and 5 million dollars in punitive damages, later reduced due to legal limits.

In simple terms:

She was found liable.

She was ordered to pay.

She was held accountable.

Millions of dollars.

Because words have weight.

Because accusations have impact.

Because stories can destroy lives.

By then, the world had already moved on.

But the law did not.

And that is the lesson.

You can trend today.

You can be believed today.

You can be cheered today.

But if you are lying,
exaggerating,
or manipulating the truth,
consequences will catch up.

Maybe slowly.

Maybe painfully.

Maybe publicly.

But they will come.

This case reminds us:

You cannot casually ruin someone and walk away untouched.

You cannot weaponize narratives without cost.

You cannot play with truth and expect immunity.

For ordinary people, this matters.

Because the same thing happens on smaller scales, every day.

One rumor.

One careless accusation.

One evidence-less statement.

And someone’s reputation is gone.

Sometimes forever.

Be careful with your words.

Be careful with your stories.

Be careful with what you spread.

Because even if the crowd applauds you today,

the truth will still be waiting tomorrow.

And when it arrives, it sends the bill.

Sometimes in money.

Sometimes in regret.

Always in consequences.

Why my wife "retired" from Corporate

Well, not completely.

Just temporarily.

I admire my wife.

She has been very successful.

She finished her MBA.

She was earning more than I was.

Again, more than I was.

Not briefly.

Not accidentally.

She had momentum.

Credibility.

Options.

Then our child was born.

Priorities changed.

And we made a decision that older people quietly question.

She chose to temporarily step out of the traditional 8-to-5 world.

Well, again, not completely.

Her employer kept her on in a consultancy capacity.

She still has other stable income streams.

She still earns.

Still contributes.

But she no longer power dresses.

No longer travels for work.

No longer clocks in office hours.

Instead, she works a role with far greater responsibility.

A 24/7 role that demands more than any corporate job ever did.

Being a hands-on, present mother.

This kind of work does not run on passion alone.

Passion burns out.

This runs on love.

On patience.

On restraint.

On the willingness to give parts of yourself away

without applause.

Why did she do it?

She could have continued her high-paying job.

We could have earned more.

Climbed faster.

Accumulated harder.

But then we had to ask ourselves a question we couldn’t unhear.

What is the money for?

If it’s just to want more, that’s not ambition.

That’s greed.

No matter how much we earn, we cannot buy back time spent raising our own child.

She could have continued her career and let grandparents or a nanny take over the day-to-day.

And then what?

Risk regretting later?

Complain later

that our child’s values are different from ours.

That discipline feels misaligned.

That attachment feels distant.

We’ve seen it happen.

We’ve all seen the Tulfo videos.

The bruises.

The excuses.

The damage that can’t be undone.

This isn’t judgment.

It’s reality.

And this is not forever.

This season is temporary.

A few years of being fully present.

Of choosing proximity over prestige.

Of investing time while it still wants us back.

Soon, our child will go to school.

Grow more independent.

Need us less in that sweet, consuming way

and more in quieter ones.

That window closes faster than people admit.

So we’re choosing it now.

And I want to say this clearly.

What my wife is doing is not stepping back.

It is stepping up.

It takes courage to walk away from applause.

To pause a career you were winning at.

To trade titles for touch.

To choose invisible labor that shapes a human being.

That is not a downgrade.

That is leadership.

To fellow new parents, and those about to become one.

Money matters.

But ask yourself honestly.

What matters most right now?

If one of you already has enough, why chase more for the moment?

You can earn again.

You can rebuild momentum.

You can return stronger.

But these years do not wait.

If you are exhausted, uncertain, or swimming against advice,

and you still choose presence,

you are not falling behind.

You are prioritizing.

And one day,

when your child no longer needs you this way,

you will know

you didn’t miss it.

That matters.

More than money ever will.

Mad respect and love

to my life partner.

Answered prayer

You negotiated with heaven.

In bathrooms lit by fluorescent mercy,

you studied thin pink lines like they were prophecies.

Negative.

You swallowed tablets and herbs that tasted like soil.

You memorized ovulation windows.

You let strangers in white coats measure hope in millimeters.

You knelt in Baclaran and danced in Obando.

Barefoot faith.

Public longing, private desperation.

You promised things.

You bartered sleep and pride.

Then one morning, two lines appeared.

Not faint but certain.

Finally, after years of waiting,
your prayer acquired a heartbeat.

You carried it for nine months like fragile glass.

You walked slower.

You breathed softer.

You loved someone more than yourself.

And then Maternity leave ends.

The calendar does not care

that your body is still stitching itself back together.

Milk still leaks.

Stitches still pull.

Hormones still riot at 2am

But the office wants you back.

8am to 5pm, they say. Nine hours at work, technically.

13 hours away, truthfully.

Because traffic devours daylight.

You leave while your baby is still warm with sleep.

You return when the house smells like bath soap

and someone else’s hands.

You become a visitor in the home you prayed for.

And then the question arrives like a blade.

Who will hold your child while you hold a laptop?

Hire help.

A woman with referrals.

A rate per month.

A stranger 

who will learn the rhythm of your baby’s cry

before you do.

Another pair of arms

becomes the geography of your child’s comfort.

You scroll the news at midnight.

Maid pinches.

Maid slaps.

Maid spits.
Maid whispers cruelty

where no camera sees.

You have seen so many Tulfo videos.

You lock your phone.

But the images do not lock with it.

Fine, grandparents then.

Blood is safer.

But blood carries memory.

Old beliefs.

Old discipline.

Old phrases that once cut you small.

Love, yes. But also legacy.

And not all legacy is gentle.

You wanted to end certain things with you.

You wanted your child to inherit healing.

Now you stand between salary and skin-to-skin.

Between promotion and presence.

Between applause and afternoon lullabies.

You only have five years.

Five years to become their first language.

Not their financier. Not their benefactor.

Their first home.

You prayed for this child.

You wept for this child.

You promised heaven

you would protect what it finally released to you.

So what is protection now?

Is it additional income?

Or is it a mother who knows exactly how their eyelashes look

when they are about to fall asleep?

There is no villain here.

Only choice.

And every choice will cost something.

 

Money will return.
Careers will forgive.
Corporations will replace you in thirty days.

Your child will not.

They will grow anyway.

With or without you.

The question is not whether you love them.

The question is whether they will remember being loved by you.

You prayed for them.

Do not let the world redefine that prayer.