Leaders…
Sing, O Muse, of the commuter who braved Broadway,
who rose each day of the week to face the tempest of New York, armed with nothing but sneakers and nerve, summoning courage in the crosswalk as heroes once did at sea.
The pessimist complains about the wind. The optimist expects it to change. The leader adjusts the sails.
Beautiful, John Maxwell. But out here, the sails aren’t stitched canvas—they’re sneakers. And New York? She is no calm sea. She is a tempest, a battlefield, a labyrinth carved in scaffolding and steam grates. Each day of the week begins like the call of the ancient bards: a summoning to step forth, to shoulder your bag, and to test yourself against the chaos of the city that does not care whether you falter.
After months of steady pilgrimage—three miles an hour in one faithful line across America—I return to this arena. Out there, choices stretched across horizons: refill water now or gamble on the next gas station. Here, the gods of the crosswalk grant you half a heartbeat to decide: sprint through the yellow light or stand shoulder-to-shoulder with fermenting trash bags that hiss like serpents.
The pessimist mutters of delays and broken escalators. The optimist trusts the white walking man as if he were a guardian spirit. And the leader? The leader does not wait for omens. The leader sees the Uber chariot surging illegally, the Citi Bike cavalry charging, the stroller brigade advancing without mercy—and still finds a path through, sidestepping like Odysseus himself, quick-witted and fleet-footed.
The city throws down trials fit for myth. Sirens wail down avenues, not to lure sailors, but to scatter traffic in their wake. Cyclopes wander in Times Square, towering tourists with selfie sticks for clubs. The Minotaur lurks in Penn Station at rush hour. Bagels gleam in the deli window like golden apples, prizes worth braving the gauntlet for. Even the scaffolding above rattles like the gods themselves are shaking the dice of your fate.
And yet—what a thrill to be tested again. To feel instinct coil sharp, ready. To remember how to split the crowd like Moses parting the Hudson of humanity. Every crosswalk becomes an epic crossing. Every subway ride a descent into Hades, from which only the strong (and the swift with MetroCards) return.
Because leadership here is no quiet proverb. It is no tidy canvas sail catching a gentle wind. Leadership in New York is sneakers laced like armor, lungs set like oars, courage lit in the chest like fire stolen from Olympus. It is choosing, again and again, to meet the chaos head-on.
The Odyssey doesn’t end. It is lived block by block, corner by corner, day of the week by day of the week. And if you can keep your rhythm—if you can dodge the chariots, outwit the sirens, endure the labyrinths, and still laugh as the storm howls—you aren’t just surviving the city. You’re writing your epic into her streets. You aren’t just adjusting sails. You are captaining the fleet.