Somewhere along the dusty road of the Italian Camino, about 10 kilometres past “my feet hurt” and just before “I’m questioning all my life choices”, I startled a cluster of wild cats. There were so many of them, darting in every direction, that I barely caught a flash of fur before they disappeared into the hazelnut groves like ghosts.
I stopped in my tracks, waiting, hoping one might reappear. Nothing. Just silence and the faint hum of cicadas. I felt oddly deflated. I had wanted to offer something, maybe a soft “ciao gattino,” a gentle pat, a kind moment of connection in a foreign land. But they were gone. I had scared them off simply by existing in their space.
At first, I felt a flicker of frustration, I wanted to connect, to be noticed, to show that I came in peace (and with snacks, if I’d had any). But as I stood there, a bit dusty and probably less graceful than I imagined, I realised their retreat wasn’t personal. It was just their nature. They had learned to survive by reading the world carefully, approaching only what felt safe.
So, I did the only thing that made sense, I sat down on a low stone wall and waited. And after a few quiet minutes, one small cat peeked out again from the brush. Its eyes met mine, cautious, curious. I didn’t move closer or speak. I just stayed, offering presence without pressure. For a fleeting second, the air felt still, as if trust itself had briefly tiptoed into the moment. Then, as suddenly as it came, the cat vanished again.
And that, strangely enough, was the day I learned a small but profound lesson in leadership.
Because people, teachers, students, colleagues, aren’t that different from those wild cats. Everyone has their own rhythm, their own boundaries, their own reasons for hanging back. Sometimes we, as leaders, walk in too quickly, full of ideas, enthusiasm, and plans for improvement, and we forget that not everyone is ready to leap out from the hazelnut grove just yet.
We can’t rush connection or demand trust. It’s not a box to be ticked; it’s a garden to be tended, gently, patiently, and often in silence. Leadership, at its best, is about creating the kind of environment where people want to come forward, where they feel seen, safe, and valued.
The temptation, of course, is to chase, to coax or convince, to “fix” the disengaged. But sometimes the real strength lies in sitting quietly, observing, and letting people know that your door (or your metaphorical stone wall) is open whenever they’re ready.
Those wild cats reminded me that kindness and attention don’t need an audience to matter. Sometimes, leadership is simply the practice of showing up - calm, consistent, and with genuine intent, even when no one is yet ready to meet you halfway.
And who knows, given time, warmth, and patience, the most cautious of cats might one day walk right up and sit beside you. That’s when you realise: you didn’t just earn their trust, you built it, one quiet, respectful moment at a time.
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