Perfectionism, Cat Hair and Leadership: What a Minimalist Home Has Taught Me

I have a confession. I cannot work in a messy room.

If there are dishes in the sink, a fine layer of cat hair drifting optimistically across the hallway, or a small but viciously sharp plastic toy lurking beneath my bare foot, my productivity plummets. My mind does not glide serenely toward strategic thinking. It circles the clutter like a hawk.

Over time, I have stopped pretending this is merely a domestic quirk. It is, in fact, a leadership lesson in disguise.

I am, by instinct, a minimalist. Clear surfaces. Ordered cupboards. A place for everything. When my space is calm, my thoughts are calm. When my desk is clear, so too is my capacity to prioritise, to decide, to lead. Physical order creates cognitive order.

In leadership, the same principle holds. Teams, like homes, accumulate clutter. Not always visible clutter, but clutter nonetheless: unclear priorities, legacy processes no one dares to question, meetings that exist out of habit rather than purpose, assumptions left unspoken. The organisational equivalent of micro toys scattered across the floor.

When we do not deliberately create order, we trip over it.

One of the most valuable lessons my minimalist tendencies have taught me is that clarity is kindness. In my house, it is kind to my future self to put things away properly. It is kind to my family to create systems that make it obvious where things belong. In leadership, clarity about expectations, roles and direction is not bureaucratic rigidity. It is generosity. People do their best work when they are not mentally stepping over clutter.

I also know, however, the shadow side of this instinct. I can become overly focused on the speck of dirt on the skirting board while ignoring the laughter in the next room. I can fixate on the cat hair rather than the conversation. I can, if I am not careful, pursue order at the expense of living.

Leadership carries the same risk. The desire for excellence can quietly morph into perfectionism. The healthy drive for high standards can tip into micromanagement. The leader who wants the room to be tidy can end up rearranging everyone else’s work to suit their own aesthetic. Perfectionism whispers that everything matters equally. It does not. Not every smudge needs scrubbing. Not every idea needs refining. Not every misstep requires correction. Some things are simply evidence of life.

I have learned that effective leadership, like a healthy home, requires discernment. What truly affects performance, culture and outcomes? And what is simply untidy but harmless?

When my children’s projects spill across the table, that is not dysfunction. It is growth in progress. When my team experiments, when ideas emerge half-formed, when processes are tested and reshaped, that is not disorder. It is learning. There is a difference between chaos and creativity. My job is to know the difference.

Another lesson: environment shapes behaviour.

When my home is calm and ordered, we move differently within it. We are less reactive, less distracted. The same is true in organisations. When leaders create structured spaces for thinking, honest conversation and reflection, people show up differently. They are less defensive. More focused. More courageous.

But, and this has taken me time to accept, leaders do not create clarity solely by controlling the physical or procedural environment. We create it by modelling internal order. If I am internally cluttered - overcommitted, unclear, chasing too many priorities, no amount of colour-coded planning will compensate. My team will feel the chaos. If I am calm, focused and intentional, that steadiness travels.

A clear desk is not the goal. A clear mind is.

And yet, I would be dishonest if I pretended, I have entirely outgrown my need to sweep before I sit down to think. There is something deeply satisfying about restoring order. It signals agency. It reminds me that small, consistent actions prevent larger dysfunction.

Leadership is built in the same way. We cannot ignore the small habits: the way we open meetings, the way we respond to emails, the tone we set in moments of pressure. These are the equivalent of daily tidying. Left unattended, they accumulate into culture.

However, I have also had to learn to leave some things gloriously imperfect. The house with children will never resemble a design magazine. The organisation with ambitious goals will never feel permanently settled. Growth is inherently disruptive. If we insist on pristine stillness, we will stifle progress.

So I am learning to ask myself better questions.

Is this clutter obstructing purpose, or is it evidence of life? Am I tidying to create clarity, or am I tidying to soothe my own anxiety? Am I holding high standards, or am I holding unrealistic ones?

Minimalism has taught me that less truly can be more. Fewer priorities. Clearer expectations. Simpler systems. When we strip away the non-essential, we make space for what matters: deep thinking, meaningful connection, courageous decision-making. And perhaps most importantly, joy.

Because in the pursuit of order, we must not forget the reason we are organising in the first place. Homes are for living. Organisations are for serving. Leadership is not about immaculate surfaces. It is about creating the conditions in which people can flourish. If that sometimes means stepping over a micro toy to join a conversation that matters, so be it. The dust will still be there tomorrow. The moment will not.