Some handlers keep the leash tight. You can see it in their posture — all control and tension, as if dominance itself keeps the dog in line. The dog performs, sure enough, but with its ears back, waiting for the next correction. Then there’s the other kind of team. The leash hangs loose, the line slack between them. The dog glances up, ready but relaxed, reading the smallest cue. It works not out of fear, but fuel — the quiet confidence that it’s part of something good.
That image has stayed with me because it mirrors how people respond to leadership. In the Marines and later in industry, I saw both sides. Some managers believed that fear kept things efficient — that a loud voice or a public dressing-down was what got results. And to a degree, it worked. People performed to avoid the consequences. But they didn’t bring their hearts to the work. They didn’t innovate or volunteer ideas. They survived.
I understand where that mindset came from. My father worked in an era when labor was cheap and expendable. He told me stories of being yelled at, of foremen who led with insults rather than instruction. There was no praise, no appreciation — just another day, another demand. That was the model of leadership he knew. And for a long time, I thought that’s just how things were done.
But somewhere along the way, I noticed a pattern. The more respect I showed the people around me — especially the ones on the floor doing the hardest work — the better everything ran. The atmosphere changed. I started to realize that most workers didn’t need fear to stay sharp; they needed acknowledgment. They needed someone to see them, to tell them when they did something right.
I found that my crews responded best when my feedback was 90 percent positive, 10 percent corrective. That balance wasn’t soft; it was strategic. When the 10 percent came — when I had to step in with clear direction — it landed cleanly, because it was surrounded by trust. Nobody flinched. They knew it wasn’t punishment; it was guidance.
It reminded me of handling a good working dog. When you’re out in the field with one that trusts you, the leash doesn’t stay tight. You give it just enough slack for independence, but not enough for confusion. You both know the boundary. You communicate through tone, body language, and consistency. The leash only tightens when it has to.
A slack leash isn’t neglect — it’s respect. It means the handler has done the work of training, and the dog has learned to listen even without pressure. It’s the same with people. If you build the relationship right, they’ll watch your eyes instead of waiting for your voice. They’ll act from understanding, not compliance.
Over the years, I’ve met people who still believe leadership means control — that trust is weakness. But I’ve also seen how that approach wears people down. You can get a burst of output through fear, but you can’t sustain it. It’s like running a machine past its redline: sooner or later, it breaks.
Fuel, on the other hand, creates endurance. When people are fueled by appreciation and purpose, they work harder and smarter — not because they’re afraid of failing, but because they want to succeed. They take ownership. They look out for each other. They begin to lead themselves.
These days, I watch that principle play out in simpler ways. With my grandson, we use the same 90/10 balance — mostly praise, with gentle corrections when needed. It’s not indulgence. It’s teaching him that learning is safe, that effort is recognized, and that mistakes are just part of the process of getting better. I sometimes wonder what it might have been like to grow up with that same kind of reinforcement — how much more joy might have been mixed into the drive. But I also know that seeing it now gives me the chance to pass something better forward.
When I think of my own life — the Marines, the factory floor, the endless installations and problem-solving — I can see how much energy was spent running on fear-based fuel. It made me strong, but it also kept me braced. Positive feedback, when it finally arrived, hit like an oxygen shot. For the first time, I could run without tension, like a dog trusted to work off-leash — guided not by threat, but by shared purpose.
That’s the kind of leadership that endures.
Fear will make a dog obey.
Only trust will make it run beside you when the leash comes off.
Author John Hamerlinck