Leading by Listening: Rhythm, Energy, and Positive Leadership

There are days when leadership feels like a rush of motion — emails, calendars, demands, decisions. The pace accelerates, and we move with it. But beneath the surface of all this activity, there is always a quieter layer: a rhythm.

My recent Positive Leadership course at the University for Peace (UPEACE) helped me remember how to recognize it.

Leadership begins not with a plan, or a metric, or even a vision — but with presence.

The course invited me to listen again underneath the noise of tasks and timelines — to notice the rhythms that shape how we lead and live. We often imagine leadership as direction: setting goals, driving momentum, managing outcomes. But positive leadership asks a subtler question:

What energy do we bring into the systems we inhabit?

That shift — from managing performance to managing presence — reframed leadership for me. It is less about control than about rhythm:  the ebb and flow of awareness, connection, and meaning through time.

Listening for Rhythm

Henri Lefebvre, in his Rhythmanalysis, wrote that every space carries its own pulse — its repetitions and variations, its silences and surges. The city breathes through its traffic and stillness; the body through its circadian tides.

Positive leadership, seen through this lens, becomes a kind of rhythmanalysis — a discipline of attention. It calls us to attune to the living tempos of our work and relationships, to sense when we are in harmony and when we have fallen out of tune.

The course began with this act of listening. We mapped our values, charted our daily energy, and reflected on what gives us vitality and what drains it. Through Simon Sinek’s Start with Why, we traced the pulse of purpose within our professional lives.

Meaning is not an abstraction — it is what sustains motion over time.

When I began mapping my own day, I saw patterns I had ignored: the quiet hours when creativity peaks, the lulls that invite rest, the shifts between solitude and connection.

As one fellow student put it:

“Positive leaders look for lasting impact from sustainable energy, not constant effort.”

Leadership, then, is not about enforcing a steady tempo; it is about composing harmony among these rhythms — the personal and the collective, the urgent and the reflective, the doing and the being.

Leadership as Energy Ecology

Much of what we call leadership is really about studying energy distribution — how attention, trust, and motivation circulate through a system.

Psychological safety, for instance, is not only an emotional condition; it is an energetic one. When people feel safe, energy expands — ideas flow, collaboration deepens, risk-taking becomes generative. When fear or cynicism take hold, energy constricts.

This is where positive leadership differs from the merely productive. It is not about maximizing output but optimizing flow — creating the conditions in which energy replenishes rather than depletes.

The course grounded this in Martin Seligman’s PERMA model of well-being:

  • Positive emotion sustains hope.
  • Engagement anchors us in flow.
  • Relationships generate resonance.
  • Meaning aligns us with purpose.
  • Accomplishment gives cadence and closure.

Together, they form the architecture of flourishing — a living, breathing rhythm that holds both effort and renewal.

To lead positively is to become a rhythmanalyst of well-being: sensing where energy moves freely, where it stagnates, and how small, intentional shifts — a pause, a genuine question, a gesture of care — can restore equilibrium.

When Rhythm Is Broken

Of course, most of us do not work in environments where this rhythm comes easily.  Many of us have known workplaces where urgency overrides reflection, where performance outweighs presence, where people speak carefully rather than honestly.

This is not a failure of individuals — it is a failure of culture.

Psychological safety, we learned, is not simply “nice to have.” It is the precondition for creativity, collaboration, and adaptability. Yet it might be rare. To question, to dissent, to ask for alignment — these acts often feel risky.

Most of us have been in rooms where silence seems safer than contribution.  Where we sense a misalignment between the stated mission and the lived reality — and do not feel permitted to name it.

This course did not pretend otherwise.  It acknowledged that positive leadership often begins in tension — between how things are and how they could be.

To lead positively is not to ignore these fractures; it is to notice them — and then act in ways that widen the space for honesty, curiosity, and care.

Sometimes that means asking a different question.
Sometimes it means slowing the tempo when everyone else is speeding up.
Sometimes it means being the first person in the room willing to say, “We’re out of rhythm. Can we listen again?”

Positive leadership does not assume the rhythm is already healthy.
It creates the possibility for harmony to emerge.

The Sound of Integrity

One question echoed throughout the course:

Why should anyone be led by you?

It’s deceptively simple — and profoundly clarifying.  My own answer emerged through five values: communication, equity, service, kindness, and growth.  They form the chord through which I live and lead.

Leadership, I came to see, is not about volume but tone — not how loudly one speaks, but how well one listens.  Integrity, in this sense, is resonance: the alignment between belief, action, and presence.

When tone matches intention, people feel it.  The room steadies.  Energy gathers.  Positive rhythm returns.

Rhythm as Reflection

In Lefebvre’s terms, the rhythmanalyst is both participant and observer — immersed in the pulse of life yet aware of its pattern. The same is true of leadership.

The leader listens: to the tempo of meetings, to the pauses between ideas, to the subtle signals of fatigue or enthusiasm.

They adjust — slowing down where reflection is needed, accelerating when momentum builds, recognizing that renewal often begins in rest, not speed.

Leadership, reframed this way, is not control but choreography.

Toward a Rhythmic Practice

The course concluded with a Personal Leadership Plan — a living score for the symphony of one’s work.

For me, that plan centers on advancing The Geographical Imaginations Expedition & Institute toward nonprofit status — a project that, like a rhythm, has unfolded over time, layering inquiry, storytelling, and community engagement.

Yet beyond that plan, what remains is a practice:
to manage energy, not time;
to listen before leading;
to treat each day as both composition and improvisation.

Leadership, I’ve come to believe, is less a position than a rhythm — one that must be tuned and re-tuned, like an instrument in ongoing rehearsal.

Coda: Leadership as Listening

Lefebvre urged rhythmanalysts to “listen — listen to your body, to the city, to the world.”

Positive Leadership is that same act of listening applied to human systems.

It is rhythmanalysis in motion: sensing where harmony falters, where renewal is needed, where silence itself becomes a form of care.

If Regenerative Leadership taught me to see systems as living ecologies, Positive Leadership taught me to feel their pulse.

To lead, then, is not to command, but to listen into coherence — to transform effort into ease, intention into flow, and attention into presence.

Leadership, at its best, is rhythm made visible: a steady hand, a compassionate ear, and the courage to pause.  The work is not easy — but it is necessary. Because every culture we inherit was once constructed, and every rhythm can be rewritten.

Regeneration as Leadership, Leadership as Regeneration

Some courses give you tools. Others give you perspective. This one offered both — but, more importantly, it offered a pause.

In studying Regenerative Leadership with the University for Peace (UPEACE), I came to see that regeneration is not, at its core, about projects, outputs, or even systems. It begins somewhere deeper: with consciousness. With how we see, how we listen, how we relate.

We tend to equate leadership with direction: setting strategies, assigning roles, measuring results. These matter, but they are not the heart of regeneration. What regenerative leadership asks is different:

  • Can you slow down enough to see the whole system?
  • Can you suspend assumptions long enough to imagine alternatives?
  • Can you listen deeply enough to hear what is not yet being said?
  • Can you act with courage, not just certainty?

This shift in emphasis — from controlling to cultivating, from planning to perceiving — is what makes regeneration different from sustainability. It calls us to work not only on external structures but also on the inner operating system of people and communities.

Regeneration as Spatial Practice

What struck me most is how this work is not only temporal but spatial. Regeneration requires creating the spaces — physical, social, and symbolic — where new ways of seeing and acting can emerge.

Henri Lefebvre reminded us that space is not neutral; it is produced. Regenerative leadership echoes this insight. It is less about imposing blueprints and more about co-producing spaces of possibility. Spaces where trust can form, where silence can hold meaning, where imagination can stretch.

A workshop circle, a classroom, a village square, a Zoom call — these are not just “settings” for regeneration. They are living spaces, continually produced and reproduced through dialogue, practice, and power. To lead regeneratively is to attend to how these spaces are held, how they invite, how they constrain, and how they can be reimagined.

Regeneration as Liberatory Pedagogy

Here, critical pedagogy offers a vital reminder: education is never neutral. As Paulo Freire argued, it either domesticates or liberates. Dialogue, in this view, is not a technique but a stance — an encounter that affirms human dignity and makes space for learners to name their own reality.

Regenerative leadership, understood through this lens, is a liberatory practice. It resists the “banking model” of leadership — where solutions are deposited by experts — and instead insists on co-creation. It seeks not only sustainability but emancipation: to free people and communities from the limiting stories and structures that keep them from imagining alternatives.

Liberatory pedagogy also reminds us that spaces are contested. Who speaks, whose knowledge counts, whose silence is overlooked — these are questions of power. Regeneration cannot ignore them. To practice regenerative leadership is to surface these dynamics, disrupt domination, and create conditions where power is shared and agency is restored.

Weaving Quadrants, Co-Producing Space

One of the frameworks we studied suggested that regeneration unfolds across four quadrants:

  • the personal interior (mindset, values, purpose),
  • the personal exterior (behaviors, skills),
  • the collective interior (culture, shared vision), and
  • the collective exterior (systems, strategies).

Leadership, then, is the weaving together of these quadrants — tending to both the inner and outer, the personal and collective.

This weaving is a liberatory act of space-making. Every dialogue is a space produced. Every story is a re-mapping of possibility. Every collective reflection is a chance to reimagine power.

To lead regeneratively is to practice leadership as both spatial and pedagogical: shaping the conditions where people can not only adapt but also liberate themselves — from limiting mindsets, from unjust systems, from imposed futures.

Mindset as the Deepest Space

Donella Meadows reminded us that the deepest leverage point for system change is not policy or money — it is mindset. The stories we inhabit shape the spaces we live in. Change the story, and the space shifts.

This is where regeneration becomes both ecological and liberatory. It is about restoring ecosystems and economies, yes — but also about restoring the freedom to imagine, to name, to act. It is about cultivating relational spaces where people can encounter one another differently — and from that encounter, act differently.

Regenerate

I leave this course with new tools, yes — but also with a renewed sense of responsibility: to practice leadership as a regenerative and liberatory act of space-making.

To restore, reconnect, reimagine — and to liberate.
Not just for organizations.
Not just for projects.
But for the very spaces in which we live, learn, and become together.

St. Francis of Assisi and the Making of a Global Citizen

On October 4, communities around the world celebrate the feast of St. Francis of Assisi. He is often remembered as the gentle friar who preached to birds, wrote songs to Brother Sun and Sister Moon, and lived with radical simplicity. But St. Francis’s legacy reaches far beyond the pastoral images. His life embodies values and practices that we might today call the marks of a “global citizen.”

At a time when education is grappling with how to prepare young people for a fractured, interdependent world, Francis offers a surprisingly relevant guide.

A Vision of Interconnection

Francis saw the world as woven together in kinship. He sang to the sun and moon as siblings, called fire and water his companions, and treated all creation as family. In a modern context, this worldview resists the fragmentation that divides people from nature, and one community from another. It reminds us that global citizenship begins with the ability to see connections: between our choices and distant consequences, between our communities and the fate of the planet. To live as a global citizen is to recognize that “my life is bound up with yours.”

Empathy Across Boundaries

Francis’s embrace of the poor and the outcast was not charity in the conventional sense. He chose solidarity, stepping down from privilege to walk alongside those pushed to the margins. In doing so, he modeled a form of citizenship that is not defined by status or wealth, but by shared humanity. Today, when societies wrestle with inequality, migration, and exclusion, Francis’s witness speaks urgently: the global citizen is one who crosses boundaries of fear or indifference to stand with others.

Dialogue in a Time of Division

Perhaps the most radical moment of Francis’s life came in 1219, during the Crusades. While armies clashed, he traveled unarmed to meet with Sultan al-Kamil in Egypt. The meeting did not end the war, but it created space for dialogue where violence reigned. This act of courage reveals another mark of global citizenship: the willingness to enter into dialogue across difference, to risk encounter rather than retreat into hostility. In an age of polarization, Francis’s example calls us to imagine citizenship not as allegiance to one side, but as a responsibility to seek understanding across divides.

Living Simply in a Complex World

Francis’s radical poverty is often misunderstood as mere asceticism. But at its core was a conviction that endless consumption and the pursuit of wealth distort human community and devastate creation. His choice to live simply speaks directly to today’s crises of climate change and overconsumption. To live as a global citizen today is not to replicate Francis’s austerity, but to embrace sufficiency, sustainability, and care. His life invites us to ask: what do we truly need, and how can we live in ways that allow others, human and nonhuman, to flourish?

Education for Belonging

What does it mean to bring St. Francis into education today? It means more than teaching facts about global issues. It means nurturing habits of empathy, reverence, dialogue, and responsibility. A classroom inspired by Francis might ask students to trace the story of their lunch across continents, to listen to migration stories in their own community, to debate with civility across difference, or to imagine sustainable futures together. The point is not to memorize the world, but to belong to it.

Francis as a Guide for Global Citizens

Francis’s life was not easy. He was criticized, misunderstood, and often pushed to the margins even of his own movement. But he persisted, guided by a conviction that the world is one family, that peace is possible, and that humility is the path to freedom. In our own fractured time, his witness reminds us that global citizenship is not an abstract ideal. It is a way of life—seeing kinship, practicing empathy, crossing divides, living simply, and caring for the world we share.

On this feast day, then, St. Francis should not only be remembered with pet blessings or environmental prayers, as meaningful as these rituals are. He should be remembered as someone who embodied the virtues our world needs most urgently: a citizen of Assisi who lived as though the whole earth was his home, and all creatures his companions. In that sense, he was not just a saint. He was, and remains, a model global citizen.

Walking the Labyrinth

A Framework for Designing Inquiry-Based Expeditions

When we imagine planning an expedition, a project, or even a career step, it’s tempting to picture the path as a straight line: define the goal, create a plan, execute. But anyone who has actually walked such a journey knows it’s rarely so direct.

That’s why I turn to the metaphor of the labyrinth. Unlike a maze, a labyrinth isn’t about dead ends or wrong turns. There is only one path, and though it winds outward and inward, you always move toward the center. The gift of the labyrinth is that it reminds us: progress doesn’t mean walking straight ahead. Progress can mean circling back, pausing, or picking up new tools along the way.

For anyone embarking on an inquiry-driven expedition — whether it’s a research project, a service-learning program, or a self-designed summer of exploration — the labyrinth can serve as both metaphor and method.

Step 1: Glimpse the Center

Every journey starts with a vision, even if it’s fleeting. Write one sentence that captures your central purpose. For example:
“If my expedition does one thing well, it is…”

This is your north star, your “center.” Don’t worry if it feels fuzzy — clarity comes later.

Step 2: The Turn Outward

The labyrinth doesn’t take you straight to the middle; it pushes you outward first. That’s the part of the journey where doubt, unknowns, and questions surface. Ask yourself:

  • What don’t I know yet?
  • What feels unclear or intimidating?

Naming these uncertainties is not weakness — it’s the work. By acknowledging what’s missing, you create space to learn.

Step 3: Gather Your Tools

We rarely walk alone. Along the path, you’ll need tools — intellectual, relational, and practical — to carry inward. I like to divide them into four categories:

  • Conversations: mentors, peers, or communities to learn from
  • Concepts/Values: the principles that keep you aligned
  • Methods: research, mapping, storytelling, or observation techniques
  • Practices: reflection, rest, journaling, creative rituals that sustain you

Choose three to five. These will be your companions.

Step 4: Twists and Crossroads

No journey unfolds without barriers. Some are practical (time, funding, logistics). Others are external expectations — from family, institutions, or even society’s ideas about what you “should” do.

The regenerative approach isn’t to push through at all costs but to prepare alternate routes that still honor your purpose. Write a few if/then scenarios:

  • If not this location, then that one.
  • If not formal internship, then independent research or service.

Flexibility builds resilience.

Step 5: Return to the Center

Finally, revisit your original vision. With your tools, your unknowns, and your alternate paths in mind, rewrite it. Make it sharper, more grounded, more alive. You’re not back where you started — you’re back with new eyes.

Why the Labyrinth Matters

The labyrinth exercise is not about perfection. It’s about alignment. In regenerative leadership, we learn that when our values and our actions line up, our work nourishes us instead of depleting us. The labyrinth is a reminder that the path is rarely straight — but it is always meaningful.

So the next time you begin planning your inquiry-based expedition, don’t draw a checklist. Draw a labyrinth. Glimpse your center, name your unknowns, gather your tools, prepare your alternate routes, and walk with curiosity.

Because the truth is, the twists are not distractions from the journey — the twists are the journey.

For a short film exploring the labyrinth as guide, click here.

Learn, Unlearn, Relearn

 

This summer, I took part in the Global Citizenship Education course at the University for Peace (UPEACE), a United Nations–mandated institution dedicated to developing leaders who can build a more peaceful, just, and sustainable world. I am pursuing the Global Leadership Diploma through their Centre for Executive Education, and this was the second of five courses in that journey.

From the outset, I realized this course was different. It was not simply about learning the theory of global citizenship education (GCED). It was GCED in practice — modeled for us each week. Through interactive workshops, design-thinking activities, guest speakers, and sustained dialogue, we were not just studying global citizenship, we were living it together in community.

The most powerful dimension of the course was the exchange among participants from across the world. Each week we brought our lived experiences into the space: teachers, activists, administrators, peacebuilders, and learners representing diverse geographies, cultures, and perspectives. Theory never floated above reality; it was tested against stories from Ethiopia, Finland, Puerto Rico, Madagascar, Afghanistan, and beyond.

In that diversity, we were constantly reminded that everyone is both a teacher and a learner. This, for me, is the best part of UPEACE courses: the way they invite us into community, where knowledge flows in multiple directions and the classroom expands across borders.

Global citizenship education also requires unlearning: questioning the frameworks we inherit, recognizing Western-centrism and tokenism, and naming the power dynamics embedded in education itself. We explored empathy and cultural humility, critiques of soft GCE, and the tensions between local and global approaches.

These sessions challenged me to deepen the lexicon I use in my work. Words like empathy, humility, power, justice, accountability grew sharper in meaning through dialogue with others. Vocabulary is never just academic; it frames the way we act in the world.

At the same time, the course constantly turned us back toward practice. Weekly assignments weren’t afterthoughts; they were vehicles for integrating learning into our lives and work. Drafting vision statements, articulating challenge questions, and creating a personal manifesto pushed us to imagine how GCED might live in us as educators, leaders, or community members.

Here, GCED was not abstract. It was a lived pedagogy — a weaving together of head, heart, and hands. Knowledge and skills (cognitive), empathy and values (socio-emotional), and action (behavioral) came together.

If there is one reflection I carry forward, it is this: global citizenship is not a destination, but a cycle. To learn, unlearn, and relearn — again and again.

It sounds simple, but in practice it is profoundly demanding. To learn is to embrace complexity. To unlearn is to let go of frameworks and assumptions that no longer serve. To relearn is to weave new understandings into our lives and actions — anchored in justice, empathy, and sustainability.

Each turn of this cycle deepens our consciousness, sharpens our practice, and roots our commitments more firmly in care for both people and the planet. The lexicon expands, the meanings deepen, and we are reminded that global citizenship is not just something we teach, but something we become.

For me, the course also became a mirror for my ongoing work with The Geographical Imaginations Expedition & Institute (The GIEI). It sharpened my vision of how mapping, storytelling, and inquiry can move beyond “soft” global citizenship toward praxis — where ethos and action are inseparable.

This is the ongoing challenge: how to design learning expeditions that invite learners to see the world, and themselves within it, with renewed consciousness and responsibility. To keep cycling through learn–unlearn–relearn as a lifelong practice.

To the UPEACE team, my fellow participants, and our guest educators: thank you for creating a space that was equal parts challenging, compassionate, and inspiring. The course didn’t just teach global citizenship education — it modeled it, showing us what it can look like when lived in community.

The seeds we planted together will continue to grow, in classrooms, communities, and collaborations around the world.

Incubating Change

 

When an idea is still a seed, it needs the right conditions to grow: time, structure, support, and challenge. That’s what an incubator provides — a space where fragile beginnings can take root, where ideas can be tested, stretched, and prepared for the world.

This summer, I found myself in such an incubator: the Entrepreneurship, Innovation, and Social Change course at the University for Peace (UPEACE), a United Nations–mandated institution dedicated to developing leaders who can build a more peaceful, just, and sustainable world. I am pursuing the Global Leadership Diploma through their Centre for Executive Education.

Over several weeks, I joined peers from across the globe — educators, activists, entrepreneurs, and dreamers — each carrying a different seed of an idea. Some arrived with projects already sprouting. Others carried only whispers, questions, or sparks of inspiration. Together, we entered a structured, challenging, and supportive environment designed to help our ideas grow.

 

The first thing we were asked to do was deceptively simple: write our mission statement in just eight words.

It was harder than it looked. How do you distill complexity into clarity? How do you pare down all the nuance, passion, and ambition of a project into a single line that still carries weight?

This exercise set the tone. Incubation wasn’t about fluffing ideas up. It was about stripping them down, examining their core, and making sure they could stand on their own.

From there, the course took us through a series of building blocks:

  • Drafting theories of change — mapping how activities connect to outputs, outcomes, and long-term impact.
  • Exploring legal structures for social enterprises — weighing the tradeoffs of nonprofit, for-profit, and hybrid models.
  • Developing business models and lean budgets — ensuring that inspiring visions could also be viable in practice.
  • Practicing the art of the 60-second pitch — learning how to tell a story that opens hearts and opens doors.

Each week built upon the last, and each assignment pushed us further into the real work of turning vision into strategy.

Learning in Community

No incubator works in isolation. The most powerful part of this course was the community itself.

Our cohort represented a tapestry of contexts and causes: a cultural hub in Thailand, women’s empowerment projects in Central America, climate initiatives in Africa, youth education ventures in Europe and beyond. Each week, we shared not only progress but also struggles.

When one participant questioned how to sustain her organization without donor fatigue, others offered models they had tried. When another wrestled with impact measurement, the group provided tools and examples.

The course reminded me that social change does not emerge alone. It grows through dialogue, cross-pollination, and the courage to share half-formed ideas in a supportive environment.

Applying the Lessons: GIEI 2.0

For me, the incubator experience crystallized around the next phase of my own work: The Geographical Imaginations Expedition & Institute (GIEI).

The GIEI has long been a space where storytelling, geography, and community engagement intersect — through podcasts, mapping projects, and learning expeditions. But much of it had remained a side initiative alongside full-time teaching. Entering the course, I had a vision for GIEI 2.0, one that could evolve into a nonprofit dedicated to global citizenship education.

By the end of the course, that seed had sprouted into something tangible.  The course gave me not only tools but also confidence: a sense that GIEI 2.0 is not just ambitious, but actionable.

Lessons that Will Stay With Me

Looking back, three lessons from the incubator stand out most:

  1. Story as a Vehicle for Change
    Every venture, no matter how technical, must carry a compelling narrative. Data alone doesn’t move people. Stories do. The course pushed me to translate abstract global statistics into human-scale metaphors — to help others see the world differently.
  2. Sustainability Beyond Finances
    We tend to equate sustainability with survival. But the course reframed it: sustainability is about alignment. The right legal structure, funding model, and organizational design must not only keep the lights on but also reinforce the mission and values.
  3. Community as Curriculum
    The richness of the course came not just from lectures or readings but from the cohort itself. The exchanges, feedback and stories shared became part of the curriculum. The incubator worked because it was populated with diverse, passionate learners willing to listen as much as they spoke.

Looking Ahead

As I step out of this incubator, I do so with both a project in motion and a renewed sense of purpose.

The journey of GIEI 2.0 continues — with the creation of interactive learning tools, workshops, and, eventually, immersive residencies. But beyond that, I carry forward the conviction that entrepreneurship is not just about starting businesses. It is about cultivating imagination, empathy, and resilience — qualities the world urgently needs.

It is about daring to ask:

  • What if we built economies that measured well-being instead of profit?
  • What if education prepared us to collaborate as global citizens, not just compete as individuals?
  • What if leadership was defined by empathy, not power?
  • What if progress meant leaving no one — and no place — behind?

The Entrepreneurship, Innovation, and Social Change course reminded me that these questions are not naive. They are necessary.

And perhaps most importantly, it reminded me that I am not working alone. Across continents and disciplines, a generation of changemakers is already incubating their own seeds of change — each distinct, but growing together into something far greater than the sum of its parts.

If you are carrying an idea — whether it’s fully formed or just a whisper — I can’t recommend this course (or one like it) enough. It offers more than knowledge. It offers incubation: a structured, supportive space to test, refine, and prepare your vision for the world.

For me, it was the start of a new chapter. For all of us, it was a reminder that while the world’s population is vast at 8 billion, when reimagined as a village of 100 people — or experienced as a cohort of 25 — it becomes a place where we can truly begin to know one another.

And from there, begin to build a shared future.