Pressure, potential, and the quiet power of letting people find their own way
In leadership, we’re encouraged to focus on potential. Spot it early. Nurture it. Keep people moving forwards. And when someone shows promise – whether they’re a new recruit or the steady pair of hands we’ve quietly come to rely on – we tend to picture where they could be in six months, a year, maybe more.
But here’s the uncomfortable bit: when someone with clear ability steps back, it can feel like a personal setback. We talk about growth and resilience, but underneath it all, many of us carry a quiet fear that if someone stops – if they walk away – it reflects badly on us too. That we’ve missed something. Or worse, lost something.
I’ve always told myself I understand this. People develop at their own pace. Timing matters. Not everything is linear. I’ve said all of that to my team – and, I’d like to think, believed it.
And then my ten-year-old son gave up cross country, and it turned out I didn’t understand it as well as I thought.
He’d had a strong season. Ran for Merseyside, ran nationally, kept up with older boys, and was named the best Year 5 in Liverpool (awarded to him by Chris Price in memory of his inspirational sister Kate). Then, almost straight after, he said he didn’t want to race again. The pressure had got to him. The nerves. It just wasn’t fun anymore.
Outwardly, I did what most parents would do – I nodded, supported the decision, said all the right things. But inside? I was disappointed. Not in him, but in the sense of something slipping away. All that potential. Gone. And, if I’m honest, a bit of me mourned the small glow of pride I’d felt watching him do so well. It was irrational. But still there.
A year later, something shifted. He told me he’d do one race. No fanfare. No great declaration. Just one.
He won it.
Then another. Same outcome.
He ended up running eight races across Liverpool this season. Won all eight. Quietly. Calmly. On his own terms. City Champion.
He went on to the Merseyside Championships and finished second. Beaten by someone who ran a clever, aggressive race. He took it well. And then, with just a few days’ notice, he decided to run in the National Championships. No pressure. No expectation. He came second in the country.
There’s no big punchline here. Just this: whether you’re managing people at work or raising children at home, sometimes the best thing you can do is let people stop. Let them pause. Let them walk away.
We treat quitting like a failure. But often, it’s just space. A moment to reset. And if they choose to return, they come back stronger. Not because you pushed them. But because you didn’t.
So yes, I’ve learned a lot about potential in the workplace. But I’ve learned just as much standing on the edge of muddy fields, doing my best to say very little, and watching my son quietly get on with things.
Turns out, letting go is a skill too.
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