Where the "Other Chair" Leads

My friend Benedetta is sitting on my couch for a drink, hands knotted, eyes tired, telling me about her teenage daughter’s sudden meltdown.

Sara, a straight-A student of grade 3 of middle school, reliable as sunrise, had simply refused to go to school one morning. Then the next. Then for weeks. At first, they thought it was stomach flu, or fatigue, or one of those vague teenage things that pass if you wait just a bit. Afterall, what to worry, she has been always a diligent and excellent student. But it didn’t pass. The darkness dug in, and soon came the meetings with teachers, the school master, and repeated visits to the psychologist. Nobody had answers, not really, because Sara herself struggled to put anything into words. They guessed it might be the new class setup pulling her away from old friends, or maybe she’d convinced herself she has been the center of gossip. And in Benedetta's most panicked moments, she even spiraled into her own nightmare fantasies about what might have happened to her daughter at school...    

As Benedetta talks, I find myself wondering, not about what has happened to Sara, but about what has happened, or misses happening, between them as mother and daughter. What is the distance that has grown between them? When have the first warning signs slipped by unnoticed? And why does Sara struggle to tell her parents what was happening inside her?

I ask Benedetta, gently, “Do you ever share your own struggles with her?”

“Oh yes,” she says. “I told her when I was her age, I had difficult episodes too, and it’s normal, and she should not feel defeated and can learn a lot from it…”

I stop her. “No,” I say, “I don’t mean the struggles when you were a teenager. I mean the ones you’re having right now in your daily life.”

She looks at me like I’ve just ordered Sushi at a pizza restaurant. And I understand her blankness: even as her friend, I rarely hear what she’s wrestling with while she’s still in the fight (and this is the first time she opens up to me before things are completely sorted out). Benedetta has that aura: polished, calm, capable, infinitely positive. The kind of mother who doesn’t crack. The kind who makes other people feel safe and always cheerful. But sometimes that aura also creates distance.

My question has nudged something in her. She admits she almost never lets her children see her current struggles. “I keep problems away from them,” she says. “I don’t want them to get worried.” Then she flips the question: “Do you share your struggles with your boys?”

“I … actually do,” I respond. “Quite often even".

My sons are 14 and 12. (Søren was the same age as Sara in grade three of middle school, and Mikkel is one grade junior). The conversations I have had when I shared my struggles with the boys are the tiny golden coins to me, so precious that I keep a journal just to remember them before time washes out their vivid color. And whenever it happened, I was surprised by my children's resourcefulness.

So, I shared a recent moment with Benedetta.

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Last week, I was in Riyadh coaching on a leadership program. I’ve coached people from the Middle East before, but this one was immersive as I am a guest in their cultural environment. In my group was a lady often distracted by her phone, with a poker face, unreadable of any signs of emotions.

The phone distracted me. The poker face hindered me from reading her. I tried everything—gentle curiosity, direct feedback, and naming the impact on the group. When I was challenging her, one other team member jumped in, saying that if he had a boss like hers, he probably would be behaving the same. I considered this rescue not very helpful.  She did not push back though, yet the behavior continued.

That evening after work, I called home. Mikkel, my 12-year-old, was FaceTime with me.  He ran in great detail, telling me about school, the fights and jokes with Søren, the gossip he heard from his friend, God knows what else. Suddenly, he stopped and asked: “Mommy, how was YOUR day?”

My heart felt like wrapped in a soft blanket. I wasn’t ready for this question. “Well… good,” I said. “Actually… a bit challenging. There’s a lady on her phone all the time. And she has this poker face I can’t read.”

Mikkel didn’t miss a beat.“Did you ask her questions?”

“I did. Her answers are always crisp.”

“Did you make her do fun activities so that she forgets the phone?”

“We did. All day. But during reflection, she slips back to her phone.”

He paused.“Did you give her feedback?”

“Yes. Direct. She acknowledged… but nothing changed.” I answered.

Mikkel thought a moment and said, in that straightforward way only kids can:

“Mommy… it sounds like you tried everything. How about just ignore her?”

I did not see that coming, and chewing on his words, I burst out in laughter.

Because he was right. It was the only thing I hadn’t tried (and against my nature to try ;-) .

I realized I wasn’t distracted by her phone. I was distracted by my own obsession with “onboarding” her 100%. And maybe, other team members weren't bothered by her behavior at all. In their culture, being responsive to their boss or teams at work when they are away is likely a sign of respect and responsibility.

So the next day, I ignored her.

And a strange thing happened: I noticed how present she was when she did engage in the 90% of the time. I noticed how punctual she has been in coming to the room from the very beginning.  

The problem had been my tunnel vision.

My son freed me from it with one light-hearted sentence.

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When I finish telling this to Benedetta, she is half-amused, half-amazed.

We talk about what this kind of exchange does: how our kids surprise us, teach us, steady us.

I tell my friend, “Sara is smart. There’s wisdom in her you haven’t tapped yet. But perhaps she needs to experience you sitting in the chair of the one-who-struggles, not the one-who-knows? ”

We, adults, stay stuck in the roles of supporter, fixer, teacher, and caregiver. We rarely switch seats to the receiving end. But when we do, when we let our children help us, they step into corners of themselves they didn’t know they had: creativity, intuition, empathy, problem-solving… You name it.

Then, when we let them see the value of their help or just a simple appreciation, we plant in them a sense of inner worth that becomes a solid foundation for any future relationships.

And in doing that, we also model something the world desperately needs: That it’s okay not to know. It’s okay to feel weak or have doubts. It’s okay to ask for help and receive help with open hands and hearts. And relationships grow stronger in that “not-knowing, but we figure out together” space.

As Benedetta and I chit-chat further, I see something lift in her. She realizes that Sara’s perfectionism, her harsh inner judge, isn’t born in a vacuum. It's inherited.

And if she wants to help her daughter, she has to model the antidote herself.

Whether we’re raising children or leading a team of adults, we often cling to the role of the capable one: the fixer, the guide, the steady hand, the dependable pillar. But real connection, real growth, and real trust don’t come from perfection and being always the strong ones. They come from shared experience and a kind of flowing leadership that brings out the best in everyone. When we dare to show our own struggles, we create space for others to step into their strengths. When we stop over-managing someone’s 'gaps-to-close', we may start seeing who they truly are. And when we treat people, young or grown, not as problems to solve but as partners with wisdom to offer, the relationship shifts. Leadership, after all, is rarely about having the answers, but more about creating the kind of relationship where answers can emerge.

Writing this blog gives birth to a reminder question for me, Benedetta, and maybe also for you:

What possibilities can I create when I choose to lead from the "Other Chair"?