In this Deep Leadership monologue, Greg Stevenson recounts a personal incident that revealed a hidden flaw in his leadership style. While reviewing a graduate’s presentation, he gave rapid, transactional feedback that, in his mind, was efficient and clear. His executive assistant, Prue, later reported that the graduate left the office upset, feeling her effort was dismissed. Stevenson reflects on the gap between his intent (efficient, constructive feedback) and the graduate’s experience (feeling devalued). He identifies this as a "people dimension" failure—operating from his own frame of reference without considering the emotional context of the other person. He explains how such gaps erode trust, especially for CEOs, whose power and political dynamics make honest feedback scarce. The story illustrates the importance of empathy, presence, and feedback loops that surface the true impact of leadership actions. Stevenson shares lessons on aligning intent with impact, the cost of unchecked gaps, and the role of trusted advisors (like EAs) in providing reality‑check feedback. He concludes with a call to action for leaders to examine their own intent‑impact gaps and offers resources for further work.
Chapters
I want to tell you about the day I discovered I was a significantly worse leader than I thought I was. I was running a graduate program, and one of the graduates, Liz, had been given a research project. Her job was to produce a presentation for me to present. She'd been working on it for some time, and she came into my office for my sign-off. I went through it quickly, changed this, moved that, took this out, Added this in. 5 minutes, maybe less. Then I sent her back to make the changes. In my mind, I'd just done my job. Efficient feedback for her, clear direction, and on to the next thing that I was working on. 10 minutes later, my EA, Prue, came in and told me the graduate was outside, upset. My EA asked me how the conversation had gone. I said fine. I gave her the feedback, she knows what to do, and it was pretty straightforward. My EA looked at me in the way only a good EA can, the look that means you're about to hear something you need to hear whether you want to or not, and she said that the graduate had found the interaction quite upsetting. That she'd worked hard on the presentation, that she understood there were changes needed, but that my manner had been so matter-of-fact So transactional that she'd felt like the work she'd produced meant nothing. That stopped me in my tracks. Because from where I was sitting, I hadn't done anything wrong. I'd given clear, direct feedback. I'd respected her time by being efficient. I hadn't been unkind. I hadn't raised my voice. I hadn't said anything that wasn't true. But none of that was the point. The point was a gap between what I intended and what she actually experienced. In that gap, a young person who had worked hard and wanted to do well had walked out of my office feeling like she wasn't good enough. That wasn't what I had meant, but it was what happened. And the difference between those 2 things is where leadership either works or doesn't. I sat with that for a while after my EA left. What I recognised And this was generally uncomfortable to acknowledge, is that I'd been operating entirely from my own frame of reference in that interaction. My day, my pace, and my priorities. My standard for how feedback should be received. I hadn't considered for a single moment what it was like to be her. A graduate, early in her career, walking into the CEO's office to present work she'd put genuine effort into. The vulnerability of that moment, the hope that it would land well. She wasn't just receiving feedback on a presentation, she was in a moment that would shape how she understood herself as a professional, whether she felt capable or inadequate, whether the effort she put in was worth it. And I'd walk through that moment like it wasn't happening, not because I didn't care— I did care— but because I hadn't been paying attention to what the moment actually required. This is a people dimension failure. Not a catastrophic one, but a real one. And the fact that it was unintentional made it more important to examine, not less. Because if I could cause that kind of impact without realising it, how many other moments I'd walked through the same way? I went back and spoke to her, not to apologise profusely or to reverse the feedback. The feedback was valid and she needed to make the changes. But to acknowledge what she'd done before I jumped straight into what needed to be different, to show her that I'd actually seen the work, that I understood it represented genuine effort, and that my manner in the previous conversation hadn't reflected that. What happened in that second conversation was completely different from the first. The same information exchanged, the same changes need to be made, but the way she received it was different. Because the relationship in the room was different. What I learned from that experience, and from the many versions of it I've watched play out since, in my own leadership and in the executives I work with, is this: technical competence is not enough. Strategic clarity is not enough. Even good intentions are not enough. What people actually experience in their interaction with you is what matters. Not what you meant, not what you thought you communicated— what landed. And the gap between those 2 things, between your intent and your impact, is one of the most important gaps a leader can learn to close, because it compounds. Every interaction either builds or erodes the trust that makes everything else possible. A leader with a persistent gap between intent and impact eventually finds that people stop bringing them the real problems. They stop being honest in the room. They start managing around you rather than working with you. And by the time you notice, notice it, the cost is significant. The CEO role amplifies this gap in a specific and important way. As you get more senior, people become increasingly careful about how they interact with you. The power differential grows. The political awareness of those around you sharpens, and the honest feedback, the kind my EA gave me that day, becomes rarer. Most CEOs do not have someone in their life who will walk into their office and tell them that a member of the team is outside upset because of how they handled an interaction. Not because it doesn't happen, it does, but because the structure of the role makes honesty progressively more difficult for the people around them. Which means the gap between intent and impact can widen significantly— quietly, invisibly— while the CEO remains completely unaware of it. The leader who has told the truth at every level below the top, heard managers, peers, mentors, and EAs willing to give them the real read, arrives at the CEO office and discovers that the feedback loop has fundamentally changed. What was once corrected quickly now runs unchecked. That is why the people dimension of CEO readiness is not about people skills in the generic sense. It is about the interior work of genuinely understanding your impact on the people around you before you reach the role where the feedback disappears. I was very fortunate. I had an EA, Prue, who told me the truth that day. Not everyone gets that moment, and someone who— someone— some who do don't use it. I've thought about that graduate often over the years. I know she's running something significant now. She deserved better from me in that first conversation, and I'm glad I went back. What she gave me without knowing it was one of the clearest lessons I've ever received about the difference between being technically effective and being genuinely present in a relationship. Those are not the same things, and the CEO role will find the gap between them. If this is landing, subscribe to this channel. There is more of this work here every week. And if you're ready to look honestly at the gap between your intent and your impact, there's a link below where you can start a conversation. I'm Greg Stevenson. This is Deep Leadership, and let's get to work.
