Leadership Self-Awareness: What It’s Like to Be Led by You
Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself I was a decent leader. Not exceptional. Not bad either. Just… aware enough to know my strengths, and not too blind to miss my flaws. That’s what I told myself, at least.
But when I sat down with that radar tool—not expecting much, not really even trying—it started to chip away at that quiet confidence. I wasn’t looking for a breakthrough. Just filling out the numbers. A five here, maybe a six there. Emotional intelligence? Yeah, I’m decent. Clarity? Depends on the day. You know how it goes.
And then I sent it out—to a few people I trusted. Not because I needed praise. Honestly, I thought it would confirm what I already knew. The numbers came back and didn’t slap me across the face. They just… lingered. Off, slightly. Like a shirt that fits until you try to stretch your arms.
Where I saw balance, others saw inconsistency. Where I thought I was giving room, they felt rushed. That contrast wasn’t dramatic—but it was enough. Enough to sit with. Enough to scratch at something deeper.
It wasn’t shame. Not exactly. Just this growing awareness that maybe I’d been moving too fast to notice how I landed with people. Or maybe I noticed and ignored it. I don’t know.
I remember reading one of the comments: “Sometimes it feels like you’ve already moved on before I’m done speaking.” No anger. No drama. Just… truth. And that truth hit harder than I expected. Because I knew exactly what they meant. I just hadn’t thought it mattered.
Now I wasn’t so sure.
I didn’t respond to the feedback right away. I just read it again. And again. It felt like something I should defend against—but I didn’t. For once, I let it sit there without trying to fix it.
Later that week, I tried something small. I stopped answering immediately in meetings. Gave things a beat longer than usual. It felt awkward. One person even asked if I was alright. That’s how tightly I’d wound my reflex to jump in.
The radar chart was still sitting on my desk. I hadn’t printed it for effect. I’d printed it so I couldn’t ignore it. Every time I glanced down, I saw that little dip. That one dimension where the self-score and the peer-score split. Not by much. But enough.
It’s not that I didn’t care how people saw me. I just didn’t realize how much my intent and their experience were misaligned. I thought giving autonomy meant backing off. Turns out, sometimes it looked like absence. I thought brevity meant efficiency. Apparently, it came off cold.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized I’d internalized a version of leadership that looked good from the outside but left people guessing on the inside.
I didn’t need to overhaul my style. I just needed to show up a little differently. With pause. With curiosity. With less fear of being wrong. That part took longer.
But the moment I started owning the disconnects instead of explaining them away? That’s when it shifted. Not dramatically. But enough for someone to say, weeks later, “It feels easier to talk to you lately.” That stuck with me.
A few months in, I stopped checking the radar as often. Not because it wasn’t useful—it was. But because it had already done its job. It cracked the mirror. After that, I started seeing things without needing the reflection.
I began asking different questions. Not, “How do I improve?” but, “What’s it like to be in a room when I’m running late? When I interrupt without meaning to? When I default to solutions before people finish their sentences?” Stuff I’d glossed over for years.
And when I got answers, I didn’t always love them. But they didn’t destroy me either. That was the real surprise. I’d assumed that kind of feedback would take something away. Make me feel smaller. But the opposite happened. I started seeing myself more fully—less as an ideal version, more as the version people actually interact with.
There’s something liberating about that. You stop wasting energy managing perception. You start listening, adjusting, doing the slow, boring work of showing up just a little better.
No one claps for that part. There’s no slide deck. No “ten-step framework.” Just the reality of being slightly more aware today than you were yesterday.
It’s weird—how a tool so straightforward could push that kind of reflection. It didn’t ask me to change. It just made it impossible to keep pretending. And that turned out to be more useful than any big leadership program I’ve been through.
These days, I still don’t claim to be a great leader. That title feels slippery. But I know I’m more open than I was. Less sure. And that’s not a weakness—it’s where real connection starts.
And if you’re wondering whether this kind of shift matters?
Maybe don’t take my word for it. Try the tool.
https://leadershipdnaradar.vwcg.app/
What I didn’t expect was how contagious self-awareness could be. Not in some preachy, top-down way—but quietly. People noticed the pause. They mirrored it. One teammate told me, “You seem like you’re listening for real now.” I hadn’t realized how performative my listening had been before that.
And slowly, the tone of our conversations changed. Not always. Not perfectly. But enough that conflict felt less like combat and more like recalibration. We still disagreed. But it stopped being personal. Or at least, it didn’t stay personal for long.
The tool didn’t create that shift on its own. It just created a moment where I could decide whether I was done pretending. And once I made that choice—really made it—everything else got simpler. Not easier. Just simpler.
So if you’re in the same spot I was… coasting on good intentions, stuck between what you think you’re doing and how it’s landing?
Maybe take ten quiet minutes. Pull up the tool. Don’t overthink it. Just be honest.
That’s where it starts.
https://leadershipdnaradar.vwcg.app/
Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself I was a decent leader. Not exceptional. Not bad either. Just… aware enough to know my strengths, and not too blind to miss my flaws. That’s what I told myself, at least. But when I sat down with that radar tool—not expecting much, not really even trying—it started…