The Unexpected JourneyredactedTwenty years ago, between leaving Credit Suisse and enrolling at Kellogg for my MBA, I spent a year and a half auditioning for independent films, small theater productions, and improv shows in New York. Hints to this chapter appear on my LinkedIn profile in other creative entrepreneurial pursuits - film and television production - but few know I was once a performer. (Some might find a less-than-flattering New York Times review of a play where I played the lead role at the now-defunct Bowery Theatre.) When people learn about my acting background, they tend to try to make sense of it by tying assumptions about performance to their understanding of who I am. Some of these may be accurate, others not. They presume teaching satisfies a performative urge to be in front of an audience. Others infer that my varied career across investment banking, startups, consumer products, software, and private equity indicates an actor's adaptability—that I can manipulate my persona to fit any role. There may be some validity in these perceptions; however, what people tend not to do is ask what, if anything, acting taught me, or how it changed me. The most profound lesson from my performance time had nothing to do with character, backstory, or wanting to be in front of an audience. It came from studying the Meisner Technique, which taught me how to listen. The Meisner Revelation Before the Meisner Technique, my responses to social stimuli were calculated choices. I remained emotionally closed off from the intensity and intimacy of exchanges, deciding how to behave instead of responding genuinely. The feedback I received was telling. In work contexts, being "unflappable" seemed advantageous—I could calculate the appropriate response, but remained serious, analytical, and cold. In relationships, this quality was maddening; I offered only presence without emotion. The Meisner technique is deceptively simple. Two people face each other until one feels motivated to speak, having been touched by something in the other's gaze. The partner repeats back whatever was spoken, infused with the emotion and essence of what they've just felt. Back and forth it repeats. To observers, it seems bizarre—just two people repeating a phrase. But this practice becomes compelling as the emotional give-and-take intensifies. The words lose their meaning. How they are spoken and received matters. Many actors insist that acting isn't therapy, but this study functioned as behavioral therapy for me. It taught me to allow experiences to reach me emotionally and tap into the natural human responses I had learned to suppress in favor of calculated decisions. The Space Between Stimulus and Response I reflect on Viktor Frankl's quote about the space between stimulus and response. In business, leaders use this concept to justify ignoring their instinctive reactions. For years, I did. The Meisner Technique began a journey toward acknowledging the impact of people and circumstances on me. This acknowledgment doesn't mean letting the impact control me, but recognizing that emotional responses make us more human and better leaders. The technique has influenced me in several ways: • It enhanced my ability to relate to others, regardless of hierarchy or prior relationships. • It cultivated a deeper understanding of my internal life and emotional responses. • It lets me witness and acknowledge feelings without surrendering discernment. I work with many accomplished people, as a coach, board member, or advisor, who don't need help being analytical or strategic. They've been rewarded for those qualities. What gets them into trouble is denying their humanity, subverting their values and objectives, or failing to consider what they want from life. The Meisner training taught me to recognize when someone isn't having a commensurate emotional reaction to a situation and the language to communicate with those who are focused on evaluating strategic implications and deny the emotional and personal dimensions. From Acting to Writing This work has profoundly influenced my writing style. I've always been a natural storyteller, incorporating personal anecdotes and self-deprecating humor. I now see this as demonstrating the type of leadership I wish to see more of in the world. When I incorporate my life experiences into my writing and teaching, particularly describing mistakes in painful detail, I model vulnerability and authentic presence. It's a deliberate choice to show up as my true, emotional self rather than as an executive persona. The Therapeutic Power of Expression Writing is therapeutic. Like performance, communicating internal experiences to the world can be a healing experience. In therapy, discussing and exploring something removes its power; similarly, expressing the thoughts that resonate in my mind is cathartic, preventing them from becoming maddening, distracting, or depression-inducing. The expression creates value for me, even though it is uncomfortable to share my internal experiences with the world. By sharing these things, the therapeutic release I experience might stimulate something beneficial for others. After years of denying emotion, I’d trade the discomfort of difficult feelings for the capacity to feel connection, empathy, and joy that I now have. The act of writing regularly reinforces these lessons. The Integrated Leader In a world that rewards analytical thinking over emotional awareness, the journey from unflappable to authentic represents a different path to leadership effectiveness. Acknowledging our humanity—our reactions, vulnerabilities, and stories—doesn't diminish our capacity to lead; it enhances it. By bringing our whole selves to our work, writing, and relationships, we create space for others to do the same. In that shared authenticity lies the potential for deeper connection, more meaningful work, and more compassionate organizations.