One of the things I care most about as a leader is helping people develop a growth mindset. When I notice signs that someone in the team may be struggling in a way that could affect their wellbeing or work, I try not to handle it alone. I call a mentor, describe what I’m seeing, and ask for advice and perspective. I’ve learned that leadership is easier , and kinder, when you use other people’s eyes as well as your own.
And of course, when we call people, we don’t go in cold. We ask how they are. We remember their lives. We ask about the dog, or the move, or the new grant. We do it because we genuinely care, and because those small human details are part of how trust grows. These practices matter. They’ve shaped the best environments I’ve worked in, and I want them in mine.
I have one mentor who is a real anchor in my life. If I call, she answers. If she can’t, she follows up. If she says she’ll call tomorrow, she actually does. She listens carefully, without rushing. She gives advice that is practical, kind, and sometimes a little sharper than I would choose for myself .
So I called her recently about a student and some behaviour I’d observed. I did what I always do: described the situation, talked through my interpretation, and we did the human preamble, dogs, grants, visiting students, the usual. And then, right at the end, when I was ready to hang up and return to my long to-do list, she asked a question I didn’t expect.
“How are you doing?”
I gave the automatic answer. “Quite well.”
Not because I had checked in with myself properly, but because that’s what I tend to say. Because looking after others is familiar territory. Because it is easier to stay in the role of the person who holds things together. There was a short pause. Then she repeated a sentence she had already said to me in our last conversation: “Attenta a non vedere la pagliuzza nell’occhio degli altri mentre non ti accorgi della trave nel tuo / Be careful not to notice the speck in someone else’s eye while missing the plank in your own.”
I had to laugh, not because it was funny, but because it was so unexpected, and because she is a secular person who does not usually quote scripture in casual conversation. (Matthew 7:1–5: “Why do you see the speck that is in your brother’s eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own…?”). A secular mentor offering me a Gospel quote was not on my bingo card for that day. Yet there it was, sitting with me like a quiet weight.
We can try to be good leaders, good colleagues, good friends, good partners, good family members, and still, the plank might be sitting comfortably in our own eye. Leadership is not only about what we notice in others; it’s also about what we avoid noticing in ourselves. Sometimes we seek advice about how to help someone else when what we really need is permission to pause, or to be looked after too.
In the coming months, I will try to experiment more reflective space each day and time off from the to do list. Maybe that is how the plank becomes visible.
I still believe in being present, compassionate, and attentive, as a friend, daughter, partner, leader, aunt. I still believe in calling mentors early, before a problem hardens. I still believe in asking about the dog. But I’m grateful for the reminder that leadership doesn’t exempt us from our own humanity. If anything, it makes our blind spots more consequential.
So this is a note to ourselves: when we notice the speck in someone else’s eye, let’s take a second to check our own line of sight. The plank is not a moral failure. It’s just the part of us we haven’t looked at yet. And apparently, sometimes the best mirror comes in the form of a secular mentor quoting the Gospel while we’re trying to get back to our to-do list. Life has a sense of humour like that.
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