“How did you get here before me?”
Not a hello. Just a map snatched from the wind.
She arrived after me but drew the borders, declared herself keeper of the terrain. She wore the illusion of clarity and carried a compass that only pointed to control. She spoke in deliverables, not dreams. Milestones, not mystery.
She called it leadership. I called it command.
She installed herself above me—without field wisdom, without listening—and insisted on managing an emergent program like a pre-cut path. When the forest grew wild, she drew straighter lines. When I offered spirals, she demanded arrows.
And still, I spoke. Fiercely. I would not go quietly. Some flinched at the thunder. Some cheered it. Some just wanted stillness. But I would not fold myself into silence.
My own head tilted — listening, defiant, already writing another map beneath hers.
She asked for answers I could not truthfully give. Tried to project-manage what had yet to emerge. And I? I bristled, I burned. I resisted not just her process, but her very presence.
I see now: the fire I threw back was my own undoing, too. I didn’t just resist her control—I became its opposite. Refusal can calcify. My resistance sharpened into righteousness.
Still, when illness found me, she brought broth and brow-wipes. A queen, kneeling. A hand warmer than her governance had ever been.
I realize now: even in that first clash, there was a map being sketched beneath the argument — a deeper orientation neither of us yet knew how to read.
A Call to Reflect: Where might your resistance be ruling the realm instead of serving it?
Leadership as spiritual practice invites you to wonder:
- In meeting the Cartographer Queen, how might you lay down your sword and still hold your ground?
- In speaking truth, what allows you to do so without stepping into the tyrant’s throne?
This is part one of a Trilogy: Shadows in Leadership — A Modern Myth.