Building highly effective teams

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In 1999, I joined Citibank as a young employee with much to learn. I was fortunate to work under two leaders worth watching closely. My team leader was the kind of person you could approach with any technical question — patient, knowledgeable, and generous with her time even when she had none to spare. The department head taught me something different: the power of appreciation. When I hit a target for the first time, she walked over and handed me movie tickets. It was a small gesture, but what it gave me was not entertainment. It was the feeling of being seen. Of mattering. That stayed with me, and I have tried, in my own way, to pass it on ever since.

That team performed well. We passed every audit. Our metrics were consistently strong. Looking back, I believe the reason was simple: we had good leaders. That experience reshaped how I think about leadership. I used to think a leader just needed expertise and the ability to delegate. I was wrong. Building a highly effective team begins with the leader — someone who brings not only technical knowledge but sound decision-making and genuine people skills: the ability to communicate, to build relationships, and to navigate conflict. What I advocate for is a more democratic kind of leadership, one that earns authority rather than just assumes it.

Across many years and many organizations — large and small, local and foreign — I have seen this pattern hold. High-performing teams are almost always led by someone their people look up to. That regard can come from respect or from fear, and both can produce results as well as both positive and negative consequences. But a leader who relies on force extracts compliance. A leader who leads through encouragement and recognition builds something that lasts. Your style, your choice.

In a few weeks, I will be facilitating a team building program for about 60 employees of a printing company navigating a significant transition. A new generation of leaders is stepping forward, and they are asking their people to embrace three values: accountability — owning your work fully; transparency — speaking up, sharing perspective, making better decisions together; and malasakit — genuine care for the work and for one another.

These are not small asks. Leading through transition requires maturity and wisdom. There will be moments when the mission feels too large, when the road ahead is unclear. But that is precisely when leadership matters most — when a team needs someone steady enough to guide them forward.

My hope is that when this program ends, every person in that room walks away feeling what I felt in 1999: seen, appreciated, and heard. Not because of a grand gesture, but because they experienced what it means to be led well. And that when their turn comes, they will know how to pass it on.

Dinner at Izakaya Kikufuji

Kikufuji

We were looking for somewhere to eat. G4 first — the parking lot was full. Then Mile Long, but the restaurant we had in mind was closed, the one everyone online had been recommending. And so, without much discussion, we ended up at Kikufuji. A place we hadn’t been to in a while. Entirely unplanned.

There are worse ways to find yourself somewhere.

I have never been the kind of person who chases the newest restaurant. I would make a terrible food vlogger. Even as a child I wanted what I already knew, or what someone I trusted had already tried. I’m not entirely proud of this, but I’ve made peace with it. Who wants to pay for a meal they didn’t enjoy?

The menu at Kikufuji runs six or seven leaves. I browsed it, then closed it again. Too much. I ordered the Chirashi Don — what I always get here — and Natto, which I order lately if offered.

The food came. It was good. It did not disappoint.

But somewhere between ordering and eating, I noticed something. I hadn’t even been craving Chirashi. Japanese food had come to mind, yes, but nothing more specific than that. The menu arrived and my brain, already tired from the redirected afternoon, simply gave up. Not out of laziness. Not out of fear. Just — there was nothing left. The parking lot, the closed restaurant, the rerouted plans. By the time we sat down, I had used up whatever it takes to want something new. So I reached for what I already knew.

There’s a researcher named Barry Schwartz who studied this. He found that more choices don’t actually make us freer. Past a certain point they do the opposite — they exhaust us, overwhelm us, and send us straight back to the safest, most familiar thing we can think of. We don’t expand to meet our options. We shrink. We become the version of ourselves who already decided, a long time ago, and never had to decide again.

That’s what happened at Kikufuji. Not a character flaw. Just a tired mind doing what tired minds do.

The Chirashi Don was satisfying. That’s true and worth saying.

I enjoyed it with my beer. And what I keep thinking about is not the meal itself but the small moment before it — the menu I closed, the question I didn’t ask myself, the brief window where the afternoon could have gone differently and I let it close without noticing. It’s a small thing. Nobody else at the table would have seen it.

What it cost me wasn’t money or a better dish. It was just — being there. Actually there, in that restaurant, on that particular afternoon, with Ingrid beside me on the bar and a menu full of things I’d never tried.

More choices, less choosing. More options, less presence. That’s the paradox.

The Chirashi Don was good. Kikufuji was exactly what I remembered.

Invisible ordinary day

We are so accustomed to ordinary days that we fail to see how special they are.

Friday felt meh. I woke up, had breakfast, went to work, talked with the boys, attended First Friday Mass, took Ingrid out to dinner at Apero, and met a large orange cat at the Corinthian Hills clubhouse.

Nothing extraordinary happened.

What struck me later was that this day would have been unimaginable to a younger version of myself. There was a time when I wanted meaningful work, financial stability, and someone to share dinner with. Somehow, after years of effort and a fair amount of good fortune, many of those hopes became ordinary.

That may be the problem. Once a blessing becomes familiar, we stop seeing it as a blessing and start treating it as a baseline.

Psalm 118:24 says, “This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.” It does not say to rejoice on exciting days, successful days, or memorable days. It simply says, “this day.” This means, that in all circumstances, we need to be grateful.

Most days are not dramatic. They are made up of work, meals, conversations, errands, and routines. We keep waiting for something noteworthy to happen, while missing the fact that an uneventful day is often a sign that many things are already going right.

That Friday was not exciting.

It was simply a good day.

If God made Adam & Eve in His Image and likeness, why did they disobey?

I fell in and out of sleep during the online video session of Jeff Cavins’ Unlocking the Mystery of the Bible series. Today, we were covering Creation. I would write notes for a few minutes, then fall asleep, wake up again, write some more, and then drift off once more. The cycle continued until the group returned to plenary.

This was only our second class, which Ingrid and I signed up for, and we still have a few more Mondays to go. The first session was more of an introduction than a class, simply explaining what to expect from the series.

The session did not become truly engaging until the plenary discussion, where classmates answered some of the reflection questions. The questions were rarely answered directly. One person would respond, another would offer an opinion, and the conversation would branch into different topics.

One particularly good question—obviously not part of the official discussion guide—was this: If God made Adam and Eve in His image and likeness, why did they disobey? Following that logic, does that make God imperfect? The person who asked it was genuinely curious, as she made clear, and not merely being pilosopo.

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Education is knowing. Application is learning.

Iuri had just returned from a month-long training camp overseas. The next day, he played against someone he had never beaten before — a player who can smell annoyance and use lobs, awkward pace, and irritation to exacerbate the annoyance. That is tennis, it is not cheating.

The match was tight. It went to a tiebreak.

On all four match points, the ball bounced badly in favor of his opponent. Four times. Iuri lost the tiebreak not because he lacked the strokes, but because frustration got to him first.

Competitive tennis is a mental game. At that level, everyone can play. Matches are often decided by how quickly a player recovers from a bad point. One bad bounce can hijack the mind. Players begin rushing. Errors multiply. By then the player has dug their own hole.

That is what makes tennis difficult. Not only the rallies, but the accumulation of emotion over the points. Professionals play matches lasting two, sometimes five hours. By then, the legs are tired, but so is the mind.

After losing the tiebreak came a short tantrum like an 8 year old child whos candy was snatched.

When he had settled down, I told him I never expected him to win every match after camp. Tennis is not boxing where opponents can be chosen carefully. In tennis, losses are unavoidable. I also told him that if he pressures himself, he will only get frustrated more.

Training teaches technique. Application teaches reality.

The camp improved his serve and forehand and all other techniques. You could see it in the match. He stayed in points longer. He competed better. But the mental side of the game cannot be downloaded in a month overseas. That only comes from experience — from accepting the misfortunes of the game like bad bounces, difficult opponents, heat, nerves, and losses that stay with you for a while.

The court does not adjust itself for one player. The bad bounce that hurts you today may save you tomorrow.

Mental toughness doesn’t not only come from physical strength, and from speed of mental recovery but also from accepting that not everything can go your way, that there are circumstances beyond your control. Only then you can focus back on your strategy. No, it is not denying the existence of emotions but knowing that it has to take on the sideline.

If only maturity could be accelerated for young athletes. But growth has its own pace. First comes knowing. Then applying. Then learning.

He remained quiet after the loss, but I noticed something had changed. Before, a defeat like this would ruin his whole day. This time, it only lasted an hour.

We had lunch in Goodah after.

By then, everything was already good-ah.

That afternoon he played again, he was tired but pushed himself. The day after, he played again and pushed himself despite being tired and carrying the mental effect of loss from yesterday