The moment I started asking questions, the walls went up.
In one project review, I asked the lead developer why we were adding features not in scope.
“Because the client expects it,” he said.
“Did they request it in writing?”
Silence.
“So we’re building features based on assumptions, not requirements?”
More silence.
That silence said everything.
That’s when it started.
The whispers. The sideways glances.

Soon my boss’s office became a revolving door of complaints.
“She’s too difficult.”
“She asks too many questions.”
“She doesn’t let things slide.”
“She challenges everything.”

Yet I was the same “nice” person they praised two weeks earlier. What changed was my mandate, my questions, my persistence in seeking answers, and my refusal to accept excuses.

I expected my boss to cave.
But he didn’t.
Instead, his reply was three questions:
“Is she respectful?”
“Is she competent?”
“Are her questions valid?”
He would get nods all around.
That’s when I understood.
“Difficult” often just means disruptive to comfort, not destructive to progress.
That day, I decided to wear my “difficult” crown proudly.

I wasn’t hired because I’m easy, nice or popular. I was hired to do what others find difficult.

That moment shaped how I led for the rest of my career.
Since then, I’ve completed formal training and led programs worth hundreds of millions and built teams from 5 to 500.

And today I seek out those people labeled “difficult.”

They’re usually my top performers — the ones who ask hard questions and raise standards.

Not everyone labeled “difficult” deserves defending.
Some are toxic or disrespectful and that is unacceptable.
A good leader must distinguish between transformative “difficult” and toxic “difficult”.

A “difficult” person becomes transformative when:
• Their intent is progress, not ego
• Their method is respectful, not destructive
• Their presence raises everyone’s standard
If you lead, learn to tell the difference.
If you’re led, don’t dim your light to make others comfortable.

So the next time someone calls you “difficult”, listen, seek to understand what you are disrupting.
If it’s comfort, keep going.
If it’s progress, pause and course correct.
The best transformations don’t come from people who make everyone comfortable.
They come from people who make doing the right thing unavoidable.

What are you disrupting?

A few days before, Mama would warn us:
“It is coming.”
And we would protest:
“Do we really need to do this?”

Because we knew the drill.

Furniture moved.
Rugs dragged outside and beaten until dust exploded into the air.
Cupboards emptied.
Fridge scrubbed.
Every hidden corner exposed and cleaned.

It disrupted everything.

We complained the entire time:
Why clean what no one sees?
Why move what is heavy?
Why waste a perfectly good day?

Mama always had the same answer:

“Mold and mildew grow in dark places,
and dust fills the air you breathe.
Ya binti, just because you don’t see it
doesn’t mean it is not there, killing you slowly.
Yalla. Khallas. Stop complaining and bring me the mop.”

And she was right.

Because when the cleaning was done,
the home felt renewed.
Everything worked better.
We moved with ease again.

Until next spring.
When we had forgotten.
And had to do it all over again.

Transformations are the spring cleaning of organizations.
They disturb comfort.
They interrupt rhythm.
They expose what has been quietly growing in the shadows.

People resist because they fear discomfort
more than they fear decay.

And what hides under the carpet,
the outdated systems, silent workarounds,
the slow accumulation of inefficiency,
is what becomes tomorrow’s crisis.

By the time you notice the mess,
it has already spread.

In hindsight, Mama was not just teaching us how to clean a home. She was teaching us how to lead one.

Courage begins with lifting what others would rather ignore.
Progress begins with cleaning what no longer serves.

Transformation, like a Lebanese mom’s spring cleaning, is disruptive, necessary, and worth it.

What’s under your organization’s carpet?
Are you brave enough to check?

Gibran understood something leaders too often forget.
Work done with love inspires, elevates, and endures.
Work without love drains energy, destroys momentum, and breeds resistance.

This is the core of my transformation philosophy.

Organizations call me when a transformation is struggling.
Timelines slipping. Trust fading. Momentum gone.
The root cause is rarely technology or planning.

It is people.

So leaders ask:
“How do you turn transformations around?”

My answer: L.O.V.E.
Not the romantic kind, the kind that moves organizations forward.

After decades driving transformation across industries, I learned that sustainable change requires four forces rising together:

L — Leadership
Direction through example. Leadership is not declaring the path. It is walking it first, visibly and consistently.

O — Ownership
Shared accountability. No passengers. No excuses. Ownership turns spectators into stakeholders.

V — Vision
A future so clear and compelling that it aligns hearts and minds.
Vision without action is inspiration that evaporates by Tuesday.

E — Empowerment/ Execution
Capability. Safety. Support.
Real empowerment is not permission, it is the conditions for people to try, learn, and rise again.

These forces do not add.
They multiply.

• Leadership without empowerment creates dependence
• Vision without ownership creates resentment
• Empowerment and Execution without leadership creates chaos

Technology can enable change.
Processes can organize change.
But only L.O.V.E. sustains change.

Transformation slows down at the weakest pillar.
Identify it. Strengthen it. Accelerate results.

Which pillar needs L.O.V.E. right now in your organization:
Leadership, Ownership, Vision, or Empowerment and Execution?

This is how we transform.
This is L.O.V.E.
Jamal’s Way.

Over time, I began to notice the similarities between playing a video game and navigating the game of life. Whether you are trying to save Princess Peach or save yourself, play the game like Super Mario.
Let me show you how. “Here we go”:

𝟭. 𝗘𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗹𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗹 𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝗱𝗶𝗳𝗳𝗶𝗰𝘂𝗹𝘁𝘆 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗴𝗿𝗼𝘄𝘁𝗵 𝗿𝗲𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗿𝗲𝘀 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘁
World 1 feels simple. By World 8, everything accelerates and one mistake can send you back. Progress is not supposed to feel familiar. If it does, you are not advancing.
“Okey Dokey”

𝟮. 𝗣𝗼𝘄𝗲𝗿-𝘂𝗽𝘀 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗷𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆
Mushrooms, fire flowers, and stars shift the odds. In life, power-ups are skills, mentors, self-care, discipline, and trusted community. Ignore them and the world is unforgiving. Invest in them and you gain compounding leverage.
“Mamma Mia”

𝟯. 𝗙𝗮𝗶𝗹𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝘀𝗶𝗴𝗻
Every player mistimes jumps, falls into traps, and faces fire. You do not abandon the controller. You select Continue. Resilience outperforms perfection.
“All you, it’s all you, baby!”

𝟰. 𝗖𝗼𝗶𝗻𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗮 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻
Coins have utility, but they are not the purpose. Titles, salaries, likes, and status function the same way. Accumulation is not achievement. Do not confuse metrics with meaning. Save princess Peach!
“Woo hoo, just what I needed”

𝟱. 𝗦𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗽𝗶𝗽𝗲𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝗮𝗱 𝗲𝗻𝗱𝘀
Wrong job. Wrong environment. Wrong season. Backtracking is not regression if it leads you to a better level. Strategic retreat is progress in disguise.
“You got it”

𝟲. 𝗘𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗮 𝗕𝗼𝘄𝘀𝗲𝗿
Competition, systems, doubt, and fear do not disappear. You outgrow them. The castle is not supposed to welcome you. It exists to test preparation, courage, and capacity.
“Oh no”

𝟳. 𝗦𝗮𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗣𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗣𝗲𝗮𝗰𝗵 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗻𝘀𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗺𝘀 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝗶𝘁 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗻𝘀𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗺𝘀 𝗵𝗲𝗿
Mario becomes faster, smarter, and more strategic with every castle. Your version of Princess Peach might be integrity, confidence, purpose, or freedom. Pursuit strengthens the person pursuing.
“Here I come”

If life feels chaotic, faster, louder, and more demanding, you are not failing. You are approaching something meaningful. Pressure is the signal.
“Oh yeah, way to go”

Keep leveling up.
Keep collecting power-ups.
Keep moving forward.
“Wahoo”

Your next world is one jump away.
“Thanks for playing my game”

Early in my career, during a performance review, my boss, a man I deeply respected, said something that changed the course of my life.

After praising my work, he paused and said,
“You’ve been doing great, Jamal. People fall into two categories: leaders and followers. We think you’re ready for more responsibility. Would you be open to leading a team?”

My heart raced.
I pictured the title, the raise and the pride on my father’s face.

But as I opened my mouth to say yes, the word stuck in my throat.
A wave of doubt hit.
What if I let my team down?
What if I wasn’t as good at showing the way as I was at walking it myself?

He smiled as if reading my hesitation.
“You’ll do fine,” he said. “You’ll start Monday. The rest you’ll learn by leading.”

I walked out of his office with mixed emotions: proud, scared, and unsure all at once.
I didn’t know if I was ready to lead.
But I was ready to learn.

That first team taught me what leadership really means.
It wasn’t about the title or the power.
It was about caring more, and being first in and last out.
It was staying late to help someone finish a task they were struggling with.
It was taking responsibility when something went wrong.
It was listening more than I spoke.

Fast forward 25+ years later, after leading thousands, I realized my great boss was wrong about one thing.
People don’t fall neatly into leaders or followers.
We are all both, at different times, in different ways.

Every great follower is also a leader.
And every great leader is a great follower first.

Leadership is knowing when to lead and when to follow.

I spent most of my childhood outdoors, chasing squirrels, feeding pigeons, catching spiders, so they thought it was perfect.
I remember feeling grateful for anything at all, and afraid to break the fragile wooden twig.

My father smiled.
“I made it sturdy for you. Let’s go outside. I’ll show you how to use it.”

We walked into the backyard, trees already marked for target practice.
He picked up a few small pebbles and said,
“What you have in your hand is both a toy and a weapon. Be careful where you aim.”

He opened his hand.
“Choose your pebble.”

I picked the biggest one.
He laughed.
“The smaller pebble travels farther. Bigger isn’t always better.”

Then he placed the pebble in the leather piece.
“What you need is friction, and this is in your hand. The further you stretch, the greater the distance and the more powerful the impact.”
“Now stretch the band.”

I hesitated.
“What if it breaks?”

He smiled again.
“Your mind is like this elastic. The more you stretch it, the farther it takes you.
The more powerful it becomes.
And when you let go, it returns to its resting state.”

I focused on my target.
I stretched the band.
I let go and relaxed.

The pebble hit the target at the far end of the yard.
I couldn’t believe the distance.

“Again!” I shouted.

Since that day, I’ve kept stretching my internal slingshot.
It has taken me farther than I ever imagined.

Leadership, like that slingshot, is about tension.
Stretching your comfort zone.
Building power through resistance.
And knowing when to release.

When I’m leading teams, I think of that moment.
How my father gave me tension without fear.
I try to do the same: challenge my people to stretch,
knowing they won’t break,
trusting we will make an impact.

What’s a simple lesson that still shapes how you think and lead today?

My finger hovered over “submit order” before I caught myself.
In that moment, I realized how easy it is to follow the herd without even noticing.

The herd doesn’t stop at trends.
It lives in boardrooms too.
Where we’re paid to think differently, but rewarded for reading which way the room is leaning.

We’ve all watched a good idea die because it entered at the wrong angle, or a mediocre one survive because the right person said it first.
We’ve sat silent when we disagreed.
We’ve nodded when we had doubts.
We’ve shaped our objections into questions so soft they barely registered as resistance.
We told ourselves it was strategy, not fear.

We tell ourselves we’re independent thinkers.
Then we join communities of independent thinkers, reading the same books, nodding at the same conferences.

I don’t actually know if I wanted the Labubu.
I can’t tell anymore where influence ends and preference begins.
Maybe I liked it because everyone else did.
Maybe even my resistance was its own conformity, the need to be different, just another herd.

So here I am, writing about not following the herd.
Posting it where essays about not following the herd get liked and shared by people who pride themselves on not following the herd.

Maybe freedom isn’t about choosing differently.
Maybe it’s awareness and acceptance that there is no moment of pure choice untouched by influence.
No authentic self waiting to emerge once we’ve peeled away enough layers.

Knowing this changes nothing.

I’m still going to post this.
You’re still going to react to it.
We’ll still perform our little dance of awareness, mistaking seeing the trap for stepping out of it.

The Labubu’s still in my cart.
I’ll probably buy it and pretend it was free choice.

I still remember standing at the base of the Burj Khalifa for the first time.
It was not just a building, it was a statement.
A reminder that human beings do not only survive, we imagine, design, and build what once felt impossible.

Every living being shares two fundamental drives: to consume and to reproduce.
But humans took creativity to an extraordinary scale.

We do not just eat, we transform ingredients into cuisine that becomes cultural identity.
We do not just seek shelter, we engineer cities that reshape landscapes and outlast civilizations.
We do not just communicate, we craft language that carries ideas across generations.
We do not just live, we capture the beauty and pain of life in art, music, dance, and story.

The difference is not only that we create.
It is that we create meaning through creation itself.

𝗖𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗶𝘃𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗖𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗪𝗲𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁

Every act of creation leaves a mark.
A redesigned process reshapes how people experience their work.
A response to a child’s mistake shapes how they see failure and growth.
A moment of deep listening creates dignity in a world that often forgets it.

Our choices can build cathedrals, bridges, and the Burj.
They can also build barriers, exclusions, and divisions.

That is why creativity is never neutral.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗗𝗮𝗶𝗹𝘆 𝗖𝗵𝗼𝗶𝗰𝗲

In every meeting, every family moment, every quiet afternoon, we face the same question:
Will I merely consume what exists, or create something meaningful for the shared human story?

I created this post.
Love to hear about what you create today?

“Jamal, this is your weapon or armour,” he said quietly.

That morning, I had finally stood up to the bullies outside Marius Barbeau school.
Instead of looking down when they yelled “bookworm weirdo,” I planted my feet and shouted back:

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but your words will never hurt me.”

They laughed, but I walked home taller.
For the first time, I answered back and felt stronger.

The next day, Mr. Thompson handed me the pen. Just an ordinary Bic.
“Words can wound or heal. They can close doors or open them. The choice is yours.”

That stayed with me.
And over the years, I began to notice it everywhere:
A story that softened anger in a boardroom
A question that shifted a colleague’s perspective
A sentence that turned hesitation into courage

I still carry a pen everywhere.
Not as a sword, but as a reminder: the right words, at the right moment, can change the course of a conversation, a life and sometimes even the course of history.

What’s one sentence that changed how you see the world?

Our first business was a small pizzeria. They perfected the dough recipe and thought: selling pizza might be a good way to build a life.

The restaurant business is hard. When you don’t speak the language, don’t know the laws, have no friends, little money, four mouths to feed, and zero experience running a business, it feels almost impossible.

Immigrants have a superpower. It’s called hope.

Somehow, we made it through. The pizzeria took off. Customers returned. The bills got paid. For me, those early years in Canada were spent in that restaurant: breakfast before school, homework after school, the smell of fresh pizza forever imprinted as home.

One afternoon, I came to the restaurant from school to find my father in a heated conversation with a stranger. My mother, behind the cash register, bit her lip and motioned me to another booth.

When the man left, I ran to my father. “Baba, why are you angry?”

He hugged me, asked about my day, then sat me down.

“Listen to me, Jamoula. People will judge you by what they see and assume. Some will try to take advantage. That man is the landlord. He wants to double the rent now that the restaurant is busy. This is not what we agreed. Never trust someone who breaks his word.”

“Are you going to pay him, Baba?”

“Of course not. I’d rather close the shop than pay him. Don’t worry, we built this once, we can build again.”

My mother was stunned.
“George, after years of blood, sweat, and tears, you would walk away now?”

“Yes. Because when a man breaks his word once, he will break it again.”

And walk away we did.

The landlord misjudged my father. He only saw a hard-working, non-English-speaking immigrant desperate to build a life. He underestimated his character and resilience.

The shop sat vacant for nine months before he found new tenants at a lower rent. I know because the Lebanese family who came after sought my father’s advice before signing.

That lesson stayed with me: who you are matters more than the role you hold.

Your title doesn’t define you. You are more than a job description. You are life in motion.

Years later, I saw people make the same mistake that landlord made. They saw a title, a résumé, a profile, and thought they knew the whole story. They missed the character, the principles, and the experiences that shape judgment.

Your story, the real one, not the sanitized version, is what makes you irreplaceable. It guides decisions under pressure, helps you connect across differences, and lets you see opportunities others miss.

Because in the end, every role played or filled by a human carries that person’s unique story.

You build your personal brand with your words and deeds in life and online. Show the world who you are. Control your narrative. You define you.