Hand Over the Keys: Beyond Good Intentions

Last time I confessed I was not a team player. Today, the sequel nobody asked for.

Once I finally joined the team... I wanted to drive.

So hi. My name is Sam, and I am a recovering control freak. (Yes, this blog is slowly turning into a support group. I am at peace with that.)

Recovering is the important word there. I am not where I used to be. But I remember the old days vividly, and so does everybody who had to live through them with me.

Back then it showed up everywhere. On road trips, I drove. Every mile. I told people it was because I loved driving (which was technically true). The truth is the passenger seat made my right foot press an imaginary brake for six straight hours. I reloaded the dishwasher after other people loaded it, which is a wonderful way to make your household feel appreciated. And multiplayer video games? Oh, I was THAT guy. Calling out every move, critiquing every teammate's strategy, and quietly convinced we would win if everybody just did exactly what I said. (We usually did not. Turns out nobody likes playing with a backseat general.)

Work was the same, just with higher stakes and fancier vocabulary. I would sit in a "collaborative" meeting where I had already decided the outcome before anybody pulled up a chair. I'd say "great idea!" and then quietly do it my way anyway. If something mattered, I wanted my hands on it. All of it.

And for a long time... it worked. Things got done. Usually on time. Usually pretty well. People even complimented me for it. Which, if you are a control freak, is like handing a sugar addict a coupon for cake.

Then it didn't. A lot.

The cracks came in slowly, and then all at once.

Everything started waiting on me. Every decision, every email, every next step. I had appointed myself the leader and accidentally become the bottleneck.

People stopped bringing ideas. Why would they? They had learned I would rework them anyway. Good, gifted people got quieter in meetings, and some of them eventually stopped coming to the meetings at all.

Partners who signed on as collaborators slowly turned into passengers. And passengers, eventually, ask to be let out of the car.

And when I got worn down, or sick, or just needed to step away for a minute, everything stalled. Because I had built something that only ran with me in the driver's seat. Which is a terrible plan for a guy whose body has started having opinions.

Here's what surprised me most. I meant well the whole time. Everybody involved meant well. That is exactly what makes it tricky. The collaborations I have watched fall apart were usually full of good people with good intentions who never figured out who was actually steering.

Good intentions fill the tank. Somebody still has to sort out the steering.

The better way I'm still learning

It was right there in all that "until it didn't" that I started finding a far better way to do this. These days I really do collaborate more than I control. I still feel the old itch sometimes... the urge to just grab the wheel and get us there faster. The difference now is that I notice it, name it, and keep my hands in my lap. Most days. Three things have helped me get here.

Humility: assume somebody knows more than you. Usually they do. The churches in Central City knew their unhoused neighbors long before we showed up, so at the Good Samaritan Initiative we follow their lead more than we set it. And at our interfaith gatherings, I help get people in the room, but the best ones are always the ones where I talk the least. Humility, in real life, mostly sounds like "what do you see that I'm missing?" and then actually wanting the answer.

Clarity: who's doing what, by when. Okay, I know. Nobody gets misty eyed about clarity. But stay with me, because I have watched good things die for lack of it.

Here's how it goes. A room full of people who genuinely care. Big energy. Great ideas. Everybody leaves feeling hopeful... and then nothing happens. Weeks go by. Because everybody assumed somebody else had it. And the saddest part is that nobody did anything wrong. They just walked out without saying out loud who was carrying what.

When that happens, the people who get let down are rarely the ones in the meeting. They are the neighbor who was supposed to get the ride. The family who was waiting on the call back.

So now, before anybody leaves, I ask three simple questions. Who is doing what? By when? How will we know? It takes about four minutes. It feels a little awkward every time. And it has kept more promises than any amount of good energy ever did.

Shared power: hand over the keys. This was the hardest one for me, and if I am honest, it still pinches.

Because handing over the keys means somebody might drive differently than you would. Slower. A different route. Maybe even a better one, which is its own special kind of humbling.

But here is what finally changed me. I started noticing how it felt on the OTHER side. Every time someone decided something about my life without asking me... a boss, a church committee, a well meaning friend... I felt smaller. Like a passenger in my own story. And I realized I had been doing that exact thing to other people, with the best of intentions, for years.

So now I try to ask out loud: Who decides this? Whose name goes on it? Who gets the credit? And the big one... are the people this is supposed to help actually at the table deciding, or are we deciding for them? Disability advocates have a phrase I can't shake: nothing about us without us.

When people get to steer their own lives, something comes back into their faces. You can actually see it. And honestly? Something came back into mine too, the day I stopped needing to steer everybody else's.

Older than any of us

There's a story in the Hebrew scriptures, shared by Jews and Christians alike, that I find hilarious and convicting in equal measure. Moses is sitting from morning to night settling every single dispute for the entire nation. By himself. His father in law Jethro watches this for exactly one day and basically says, "What are you doing? This is not good. You are going to wear yourself out, and all these people too." Then he helps Moses share the load.

As far as I can tell, it's the first recorded control freak intervention. Moses listened. It took me a few more interventions than one day, but I got there.

The Buddha took it even further. Near the end of his life, his followers asked who would lead them when he was gone. He wouldn't name a successor. No single person in charge. Instead, he pointed them to the teaching itself and to each other. The community, the sangha, is one of the three treasures in Buddhism, right alongside the Buddha and the teaching. The community is that important. Which means one of the world's great traditions was founded by a man who refused to leave anyone in the driver's seat. I find that wildly freeing.

Different traditions, same invitation. Do your part. Trust the circle. Let go of the wheel.

This week

Two small things.

First, end your next shared meeting, project, or family plan with three questions: Who's doing what? By when? How will we know? Write the answers somewhere everybody can see them.

Second, hand over the keys on one thing. Let somebody else lead something you would normally run. Then sit in the passenger seat. No backseat driving. No imaginary brake. (I see your right foot. Mine used to do the same thing.)

Extra credit for the brave: ask one person you work or live with, "Where am I holding on too tight?" Then do not defend yourself. Just say thank you. (This one stings. Highly recommend anyway.)

Next time

We have now walked the whole rhythm. Curiosity, care, connection, collaboration. Which means it is time for the part that keeps all of it honest: circling back. Next post, "Love Returns," is about why love checks back in, learns, repairs, and widens the circle... and why that is how trust actually lasts.

Until then, may you scoot over and make room, may your meetings end with clarity, and may you discover the passenger seat has a surprisingly nice view.

Wishing you grace, peace, and every good...

Sam