Avoid Extinguishing the Fire. There’s a Better Way.
I still remember the feeling.
I’d just come back from annual leave.
I was full of energy and looking forward to getting stuck back in.
Instead, I found silence.
The customer orders I’d been looking after hadn’t really moved.
Broadband.
Fibre.
Circuits.
The work that normally kept me busy had stalled.
So I did what felt natural.
I picked up the phone.
I apologised to customers for the delays.
I told them I’d take ownership from here.
I promised I’d chase things up and keep them informed.
Nobody asked me to do it.
It just felt like the right thing to do.
I genuinely thought people would appreciate the ownership.
Instead…
I found myself sitting in a review.
The feedback wasn’t about my willingness to help customers.
It was about something else entirely.
I’d unintentionally signalled that my colleague hadn’t covered my work while I was away.
Whether he’d been busy doing other work wasn’t really the point.
The message customers may have heard was:
“Nothing happened until Michael came back.”
That was never my intention.
But intention and impact aren’t always the same thing.
If I’m honest, I left that meeting feeling misunderstood.
Looking back today, I can finally see both sides.
My heart was in the right place.
My awareness simply wasn’t wide enough.
Back then, my definition of people first was actually quite narrow.
To me…
Once I’d built genuine relationships with my customers and helped them achieve the outcomes they came to us for, it was job done.
That was my scorecard.
If the customer succeeded, I’d done my job.
Today I see a much bigger picture.
The customer matters.
So does the colleague covering my work.
So does management.
So does the supplier.
So does everyone trying to move the system forward together.
That lesson quietly changed the way I work forever.
But there was another lesson…
One I didn’t understand until many years later.
Back then, I was comfortable operating on the edge.
Ownership excited me.
Responsibility energised me.
Pressure didn’t make me step back.
It made me step forward.
Not everyone was comfortable with that.
Looking back, it often felt like people wanted the fire to burn lower.
They saw the intensity.
They didn’t see what was fuelling it.
They didn’t see the ownership.
They didn’t see the passion.
They didn’t see how much I genuinely cared.
They just wanted the fire to burn lower.
Imagine a footballer having the game of his life.
He’s winning every 50–50.
He’s lifting the team.
He’s fearless.
He plays on the edge.
Not because he’s reckless.
Because that’s where he’s at his best.
Now imagine the manager calling him into the office afterwards.
“You’re too much.”
“You make us uncomfortable.”
“We don’t trust you when you play on the edge.”
What happens next?
The player doesn’t suddenly become a better player.
He becomes a safer player.
He hesitates.
He second-guesses himself.
He pulls out of challenges he would have won before.
Eventually, he stops playing the game that made him exceptional.
Looking back, that’s how I felt.
I don’t think I needed my fire putting out.
I think I needed someone to nurture it.
To help me understand where the edge was.
To teach me when to lean into it…
…and when to step back.
Because there’s a world of difference between suppressing someone’s strengths…
…and helping them mature.
The fire wasn’t the problem.
It just needed direction.
