Red
I was lost in thought, until that quiet red glow prompted me: The top is near. Prepare to step off the escalator.
How often do our careers whisper the same? Not with a crisis or applause, but with a subtle change in tempo. An internal tug. A growing mismatch between who we are and the game we are still playing.
We are taught to climb: faster, higher, endlessly. But the truth is, every role, every phase, has an end. Not a failure, not a defeat. An end. Even the most glittering seasons of our work eventually ask to be let go of, if we are to remain alive in what we do.
The question is not whether the ride will end.
The question is: Will you notice the red light before it passes underfoot?
The question is: Will you notice the red light before it passes underfoot?
Will you honour the feeling that the challenge no longer feels like a calling, but a cage? Will you allow the restlessness to become reflection, and then direction? Will you have the courage to prepare before you must?
Too many leaders stay on too long. Not because they don’t feel the shift, but because they have confused endurance with wisdom, and loyalty with growth. But presence is not about staying. It is about being attuned to others, yes, but first to ourselves.
So, if your days have started to feel heavier, if your mornings quieter, your pride more hollow, pay attention. That may be your red light. Not a danger sign, but a reminder that you are not just here to climb. You are here to move on with dignity, clarity, and a story worth telling.
Reflection:
What could the red light in your current season of work be trying to tell you?
And what small step can you take now to get ready for the next level?
What could the red light in your current season of work be trying to tell you?
And what small step can you take now to get ready for the next level?
Green
If you listen closely, you’ll hear them. Not announcements. Not job titles. Not the promise of something concrete. Just murmurs. Fragments. A rhythm out of sync with your current life, but oddly resonant with your longing. They are the signals of imminent renewal.
Not everyone hears them. Fewer still trust them. And yet those who do often find themselves not just responding to opportunity but co-creating it.
Meaningful new chapters do not begin with a plan, but in a liminal space, a between-time where what we know no longer fits, and what’s next has not yet taken shape. This space isn’t empty. It’s pregnant. Not quiet, but teeming with ideas, hunches, questions, and stray encounters that don’t make sense yet.
The skill is not to make sense too soon. The skill is to stay curious, attuned, and brave enough to be unfinished. Those who thrive in this space tend to do a few things well.
They generate more inputs than outputs. They talk to more people, read more widely, ask more questions, and wander more freely than their peers. Not aimlessly — but with faith that clarity comes from contact.
They treat their attention like a compass. What draws their interest? Where do they feel a jolt of energy or resonance? What irritates them — in that fertile way that signals a future idea in disguise?
They honour their intuitions as data. A passing comment. A repeated theme. A new kind of conversation they find themselves having again and again. These are not distractions. They are breadcrumbs.
They resist the urge to decide too quickly. Because some opportunities must be lived into — not chosen, but grown. If the red light warns you to prepare for an ending, the green glows are more like a breeze through an open window.
Not telling you where to go,
But reminding you: there is more.
Not telling you where to go,
But reminding you: there is more.
So ask yourself, not what’s next —
but what is whispering to you now?
And what could you do today to let that whisper grow louder?
but what is whispering to you now?
And what could you do today to let that whisper grow louder?
Reflection:
So ask yourself, not what’s next,
but what is whispering to you now?
And what could you do today to let that whisper grow louder?