It’s a pretty prodigious understatement to say that we’re living in a deeply divided world. Some days, it feels like the fault lines are everywhere—politics, faith, identity, even what news source you read. If I’m honest, I’m a little scared of it. But lately, I’ve been thinking about leadership—what it really means, how it evolves, and how ordinary people step into it.
Here’s what I’ve learned: some of the greatest leaders I’ve known weren’t the loudest in the room. They weren’t the biggest or the boldest. They didn’t grab a spotlight or demand attention. But when they showed up, you could feel it.
One of the first men who taught me that truth did it through music.
Born Claude Russell Bridges, the world came to know him as Leon Russell. Despite being born with cerebral palsy, he became one of the most important songwriters and bandleaders of the 20th century. To my heart, he wrote the finest love song ever penned—A Song for You. And considering how many incredible covers there have been—from Ray Charles to Michael Bublé—I don’t think I’m the only one who shares that opinion.
In 1970, Leon led Joe Cocker and a ragtag band of misfit musicians on the Mad Dogs & Englishmen tour. From the outside, it looked like chaos: dozens of players, wild energy, three-plus hours of music every night. But if you watched closely, you’d see the calm in the storm. Leon wasn’t a flashy front man—he didn’t need to be. His quiet presence held the center, and musicians leaned on him like gravity. He showed me that leadership can look like being the still point in the whirlwind.
I saw that same kind of leadership in my maternal grandfather, Melborn Ivey. Granddaddy passed away over thirty years ago, but his example still echoes in my life. He enlisted shortly after Pearl Harbor, fought overseas, and came home with a Purple Heart. With only a fifth-grade education, he built a successful life in agriculture and real estate. But his influence wasn’t just in what he accomplished—it was in how he carried himself.
He wasn’t big—maybe 160 pounds at his prime—but when he walked into a room, people noticed. He was quiet and soft-spoken, but his steadiness spoke for him.
And when he sat by the fire telling stories, his presence was magnetic. Those stories are some of the biggest reasons I became a writer.
That same thread continued with Mr. Gellington, my seventh-grade English teacher. A former Marine drill instructor, he carried himself with discipline but without intimidation. One day he read aloud a story I had written—an adaptation of one of Granddaddy’s campfire tales. At twelve years old, I hadn’t yet found my true voice as a writer. But hearing my words spoken to the entire class was electric. Despite being the center of attention that day and feeling deeply uncomfortable, that was one of the greatest gifts I ever received. It planted a seed that still grows in me today.
From Leon Russell to Granddaddy to Mr. Gellington, the pattern was clear: leadership isn’t about force. It’s about presence. It’s about love. It’s about believing in others enough to lift them up.
Here’s the part that scares me, though: I’ve spent most of my life hiding from leadership. Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that if I stayed quiet, I wouldn’t be bullied. That silence became a habit. And habits, as you know, are hard to break.
But the world keeps reminding me that leadership is already part of me, whether I claim it or not.
Recently, my manager sat down with me for a long feedback session. After walking through numbers, mystery shop scores, and even bringing lunch, he said something that shook my soul:
“Ryan, if you put your mind to it, you could do anything you wanted to. Hell, you could run your own store as a manager if you wanted to.”
In full transparency, that wasn’t the first time I’d thought about being underused. I’d been feeling it for a while. But the very next day, a coworker from another store called looking for help with a customer. Our manager was away, so the question came to me. And to my surprise—I knew the answer. I gave him guidance, and it worked.
That moment cracked something open in me. Maybe leadership isn’t some distant mountain I’ll climb “someday.” Maybe it’s already here, waiting for me to stop hiding and step into it.
So how do we lead in a divided world? For me, it comes down to three things:
- Tough or gentle, leadership rooted in love is leadership people trust.
- Not religion necessarily, but a deeper place beyond your own ego—a willingness to serve something larger than yourself.
- We all have one. And the world needs to hear it.
I’ve learned you can be quiet and still be a leader. You can be small in stature and still command a room. You can carry your wounds and still carry others.
I used to joke with my life coaching colleagues that to be a leader, I had to be big and bold—like Tony Robbins. Wrong. All I have to be is myself. All I have to be is Ryan Hall.
And make no mistake, all you have to be to be a leader is you.
Because in times like these, the world doesn’t need louder leaders. It needs truer ones. Leaders who aren’t afraid to get real. Leaders who show up. Leaders who love, listen, and use their voices to make a difference.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
