Excellent leaders create the conditions for excellent people. This is something I have consistently observed in the companies I have worked with. It sounds obvious, yet it is rarely practiced. Many organizations become so focused on profit, efficiency, and measurable results that they overlook a fundamental truth: organizational performance ultimately depends on people.

Leadership is therefore not simply about giving direction or making decisions. It is about bringing people together around a purpose, understanding their capabilities, developing their potential, and creating the conditions in which they can perform at their best.

Leaders with strong people skills, those who can have genuine conversations with their employees, listen to ideas, invite disagreement, and sit at the same table with anyone, tend to have greater influence. They build trust. They encourage people to contribute. More importantly, they are able to bring out talents and capabilities that may otherwise remain untapped.

But leadership is more than relationships. Leadership creates direction.

Leaders determine what the organization should become, what it should stand for, where it should compete, and what kind of value it intends to create. From these choices comes strategy.

Strategy, therefore, should not be treated as a separate force alongside leadership. Strategy is a product of leadership. It is the expression of the choices leaders make about where the organization is going and how it intends to succeed.

Strategy is often confused with financial targets, profitability, or operational efficiency. These are important, but they are not strategy by themselves. Strategy is about making choices: where to compete, how to create value, what capabilities to develop, how to differentiate from competitors, and what the organization deliberately chooses not to do.

Once leadership establishes direction and strategy gives that direction form, management turns strategy into reality.

Management organizes resources, establishes systems and processes, allocates responsibilities, sets measures, and ensures that people have what they need to execute the strategy. Leadership asks, “Where are we going and why?” Management asks, “How do we make it happen?”

But even the best strategy and management systems will not automatically produce excellent performance.

This is where culture becomes critical.

Culture is created by what an organization consistently values, rewards, tolerates, and practices. If leaders say that customer service is important but managers reward employees only for speed and cost reduction, the real culture will reflect what is rewarded not what is written on the wall.

Culture is therefore not simply about making employees comfortable. A strong culture provides both care and challenge. People are trained, supported, recognized, and valued, but they are also expected to meet high standards and take responsibility for their work.

The message is not simply, “You matter here.” It is also, “Because you matter, we expect you to do your best.”

Ultimately, however, the employee remains responsible for the quality of his or her contribution.

An organization can provide good leadership, a clear strategy, effective systems, and a supportive culture, but it cannot manufacture character, discipline, competence, or personal responsibility. Employees bring their own values and motivations to the workplace.

This is why two people working under the same leader, following the same processes, and operating within the same culture can produce very different results.

One may ask, “What do I have to do?”

Another may ask, “What is the right thing to do, and how can I do it well?”

That difference matters.

Organizational excellence is therefore not created by leadership alone, nor by strategy, management, culture, or employees in isolation. It emerges from a chain of alignment:

Leadership creates direction.
Strategy gives that direction form.
Management turns strategy into systems and action.
Culture reinforces the desired behaviors.
People bring everything to life.

And the relationship does not end there. Results eventually return to leadership, informing the next set of choices. A strategy may need to change. Management systems may need to be redesigned. Culture may need to be challenged. People may need to be developed.

It is a continuous cycle.

This is why organizations that focus exclusively on profit and efficiency can struggle to achieve excellence. Profit and efficiency are necessary, but they are outcomes and measures—not substitutes for leadership, strategic choice, culture, and human development.

Excellence begins with leadership. But leadership cannot simply demand excellence; it must create the conditions for it.

It must provide a meaningful direction, make clear strategic choices, build the systems to support those choices, establish a culture of high standards, and develop people who are willing and capable of taking responsibility.

Ultimately, leadership sets the direction, strategy expresses the choices, management builds the system, culture shapes the behavior, and people make excellence real.

That is how an organization moves beyond simply being profitable or efficient and becomes genuinely excellent.

I have been wondering why people today put so much premium to their passion, as if their passions are rulers. I don’t think such is the case, so I did a bit of research. I found out that, yes, before, people lived a good life by putting virtues first. This made me wonder: When did passion become so important, and did it really replace virtue as the measure of a good life?

To answer this, we need to go back to the ancient understanding of what it means to live well.

For Aristotle, one of the most influential philosophers in Western thought, the good life was not primarily about doing whatever makes us happy or following our strongest desires. It was about eudaimonia, often translated as human flourishing. To flourish, a person had to develop virtues—stable habits that enabled him to consistently choose what was good and right.

This did not mean that Aristotle considered emotions or passions evil. Anger, fear, desire, pleasure, love, and sadness are natural parts of being human. The problem was not having passions; the problem was allowing passions to rule without reason. A courageous person, for example, does not have no fear. He feels fear but has developed the virtue to act rightly despite it. A temperate person does not have no desire for pleasure. Rather, he has learned how to desire pleasure in the right way and in the right measure.

The ancient question, therefore, was not simply, “What do I feel?” It was, “What kind of person am I becoming?”

Christianity inherited much of this understanding and gave it a deeper meaning. St. Augustine shifted the discussion toward the idea of rightly ordered love. For Augustine, the fundamental problem of human beings is not that they love too much, but that they often love things in the wrong order. We can love money, pleasure, success, reputation, or even another person, but if we love these things more than God or the truth, our loves become disordered.

St. Thomas Aquinas later synthesized Aristotle’s philosophy with Christian theology. For Aquinas, virtue perfects the human person by allowing reason and the will to govern the passions and direct them toward the good. Passions were therefore not enemies. They were powers that needed to be educated and ordered.

This is an important distinction from how we often think today. We sometimes assume that if we strongly desire something, that desire must be meaningful or authentic. “Follow your passion” has become almost a moral command. We tell young people to find what they love, pursue what excites them, and never settle for something that does not make them happy.

There is certainly wisdom in this. Passion can give us energy, creativity, and motivation. A person who loves what he does can accomplish remarkable things. The problem begins when passion itself becomes the standard by which we determine what is good.

There is a significant philosophical difference between saying “I desire this” and saying “This is good.”

The first is a statement about my feelings. The second is a statement about reality.

The two are not necessarily the same.

The historical development of Western philosophy helps explain how we arrived at our present situation. During the Renaissance, greater emphasis was placed on human individuality, creativity, achievement, and the possibilities of human beings. The Enlightenment further emphasized the individual as an autonomous and rational person capable of making his own decisions.

Then came Romanticism, which placed increasing value on emotion, imagination, individuality, and authenticity. The question increasingly became not simply, “What is the good life?” but “How can I become my true self?”

This was followed by thinkers such as Friedrich Nietzsche, who challenged traditional Christian morality and questioned whether self-denial and restraint should always be considered virtues. Instead, he emphasized vitality, creativity, strength, self-overcoming, and the development of one’s own potential.

Sigmund Freud added another dimension by emphasizing the power of unconscious drives and desires. Human beings were no longer understood simply as rational creatures making conscious moral choices. We were also creatures moved by forces within us that we might not fully understand.

By the twentieth century, authenticity and self-expression had become increasingly important cultural ideals. The question became: “Who am I, and how can I express myself?”

Modern consumer culture then took this emphasis on desire and turned it into an economic engine. Advertising does not merely tell us that a product is useful. It often tells us that the product will make us happier, more attractive, more successful, more admired, or more like the person we want to become. Desire is constantly stimulated because desire creates consumption.

Then came television, the internet, and eventually social media.

Today, our passions are not merely present within us. They are constantly being stimulated from outside. Algorithms discover what makes us angry, excited, jealous, afraid, entertained, or curious—and then give us more of it. Attention has become a commodity, and strong emotions are extremely effective at capturing attention.

Perhaps this explains why passion seems to have become paramount today.

But I don’t think passion itself is the enemy.

In fact, Christianity does not teach us to eliminate our passions. Jesus Himself experienced compassion, sorrow, anguish, and righteous anger. The Christian goal is not to become emotionless. It is to become ordered.

The problem is when passion becomes the ruler.

If I say, “I feel it, therefore it must be right,” I have allowed emotion to determine truth. If I say, “I want it, therefore I should have it,” I have allowed desire to determine goodness. If I say, “I don’t feel like doing it, therefore I shouldn’t,” I have allowed my emotions to determine responsibility.

Virtue says something very different.

Virtue says: Feel, but don’t be ruled by your feelings. Desire, but learn to desire what is truly good. Think, choose, and act according to what is right—even when your passions tell you otherwise.

This is perhaps why virtue remains so relevant today.

The question is not whether we should have passion. We should. Passion can be a great source of energy and creativity. But passion needs direction. A powerful engine without a steering wheel can be dangerous. In the same way, a person with enormous passion but little virtue may have tremendous energy without knowing where to go.

Perhaps the ancient philosophers and Christian thinkers were right about something we have partly forgotten: the good life is not simply about feeling good, being authentic, or pursuing what excites us. It is about becoming good.

And becoming good requires virtue.

So, is passion paramount today?

Perhaps it is.

But it should not be.

Passion may give us the fire to move, but virtue gives us the direction. Passion can tell us what we want; virtue helps us determine what we ought to want. Passion can make us act; virtue teaches us how to act well.

The real question, therefore, may not be, “What is my passion?”

It may be something much more demanding:

“What kind of person am I becoming—and are my passions helping me become that person?”

I was at a breakfast gathering earlier where we discussed people’s expectations regarding the practicality and applicability of the Mass, its homily, and even theological lectures.

I remember sharing the same sentiment years ago when I was still a lukewarm Catholic. Although I was raised Catholic and attended Sunday Mass, I studied in a Protestant school. Looking back, that environment shaped many of my expectations. At one point, I seriously considered converting because I found the Protestant service more engaging, and the practicality of the sermon was what attracted me most.

Years later, my perspective changed. I cannot remember who first said it, but the idea stayed with me: the Mass is not primarily a lecture where you come to take something away. It is a banquet to which you have been invited, and the gift you bring is your presence.

That changed how I received the homily. Rather than treating it as information or self-help hack, I took is as a source of transformation. I started asking what does God want me to do? What is He trying to communicate?

Of course, practical insights are good, and a well-prepared homily should help illuminate the Christian life. But the primary purpose of the liturgy is not self-improvement. It is communion with God. The Word is proclaimed not simply to inform our minds but to convert our hearts, reshape our desires, and conform us more closely to Christ.

As soon as I heard the landing gear deploy, a burst of happy memories came rushing back. I hadn’t set foot in Hong Kong in ten years, which explained the sudden, overwhelming wave of excitement that hit me the moment we touched down.

Hong Kong holds a special place in my heart. From 1982 to 1994, our family spent every Christmas break there before returning home to Manila for New Year’s Eve. Like many of us back then, I grew up viewing Hong Kong as a capital of consumption, a place whose sole purpose seemed to be indulging Filipinos with brands that weren’t readily available back home.

As souvenirs, I would always collect the free city guides from hotel rooms and hoard maps and flyers from the airport. I’d even pack away unused wet towelettes from Cathay Pacific or PAL flights, carefully preserving all these ephemera in my red plastic suitcase.

Shopping for toys was always the ultimate treat. By the end of each trip, I’d be taking home handheld mini arcade games like Pac-Man, Donkey Kong, and Cobra, along with Family Computer cartridges that I couldn’t wait to pop into my console back home. At night, we’d head to Mong Kok for cheap finds. Watching annoyed traders react as we bargained fake goods down to half-price, walking away until they chased us down to give in, was always a sight to behold.

One special place we visited every single trip was Hengton Perfumes, a tiny perfume store in the Holiday Inn Arcade on Nathan Road. It was owned by Newton, a short, stout, bald Chinese man. He was a jolly person, always smiling, a total opposite from most Cantonese merchants we have dealt with. Right beside his shop was a funhouse-style novelty store for kids and adults. That was where I’d stock up on stink bombs to pop in our school canteen. Once, I set one off inside Mrs. Rita’s store, a communal lunch spot across from my elementary school, and within seconds, students and their yayas came bursting out, nose covered, complaining about the stench.

I also bought itching powder and sneezing powder, and I claimed quite a few victims with the itching powder, including Newton himself. One afternoon, while my family was browsing another store, I walked into Hengton alone. I called Newton over to the entrance of his tiny shop and told him I wanted to look at his head. Confused, he leaned down anyway. The moment he lowered his head, I sprinkled a pack of itching powder over his bald scalp and bolted. I didn’t know any better; I was eight years old. Minutes later, my family and I returned to his store, only to find him furiously wiping his head with a towel while telling my parents what their naughty kid had done.

Newton and his family eventually left Hong Kong around 1992 in anticipation of the British handover to China in 1997. On the day of the handover itself, I was sitting in my college class, discussing the massive changes that lay ahead for the territory.

It wasn’t just the shopping I looked forward to, either. There were the cartoons on cable TV: The Smurfs and Disney classics, all dubbed in Cantonese. Then came the thrill of watching trailers of pay-per-view adult films as a young kid, alongside obscure short videos warning about haunted hotel rooms where guests had died.

Hong Kong wasn’t just a playground for shopping; it was also a place of learning. This was where my dad taught me to wait a few days and canvas prices before buying so I could get the best deal. I remember having to wait a whole day before I could buy a pair of high-top L.A. Gear shoes I’d spotted on day one. It was the longest 24 hours of my life.
This was also where I first realized I wanted to be seen. During a meeting with a banker when I was seven or eight, my parents forgot to introduce me. It made me feel so utterly invisible that I sat sulking on the sofa. That was my first lesson in what it felt like to be ignored.

Yet, it was also where I first tasted independence. By the age of twelve, I was navigating the city on my own, shopping, bargaining, and canvassing. Once, while browsing video games, I accidentally bumped a game case, causing it to fall. The shopkeeper yelled at me, demanding I pay for the damages. I didn’t back down; I talked right back, telling him nothing was broken and it was just a case.

Now that I’m back, I am still thrilled by its unrelenting consumerism: the mix of small gadget shops and massive retail stores, the street peddlers, the Indian tailors, and the Chinese shop owners. Yet, I realize I don’t miss the Hong Kong of ten years ago; I miss the Hong Kong of the 1980s. I miss seeing people dressed smartly and fashionably on the way to work, walking at a frantic pace with hair so heavily gelled and sprayed it felt harder than concrete blocks. I miss the loud, fiery conversations in market places that used to startle me as a child.

Hong Kong holds a place in the heart of most Filipino ’80s kid. It may have changed in how it looks and moves, but its materialistic soul remains delightfully intact.