The Hidden Power Of Sensitivity

Loudness is often mistaken for strength and breaks when the going gets tough

The conference room buzzed with numbers and bravado. One manager hammered his chest as he showed his charts. Another bragged about his strong leadership. It felt like one of these military parades where they play pomp and circumstance with cannon fire salutes.

I sank a little deeper into my chair, unsure how to match that energy. The room was full of power, and my silence felt like weakness.

„I’ve tried everything to get my team to work harder,“ one manager said. „I have even fired a few of the underperformers. Maybe I’ve been too soft. How do you push your staff to the limit? How do you make them comply?“

I had an answer, but kept my mouth shut for a moment.

I wasn’t sure if my way of seeing things would resonate with my colleagues.

When I first led a team of ten, I feared that I wouldn’t be tough enough. Loud words and power play were never my nature.

So I buried myself in books, searching for alternative leadership approaches.

From Simon Sinek, I learned that leadership meant service. The Penguin Principle taught me that people thrive when they feel safe and valued. These ideas resonated with me as a sensitive person. I wanted to move like water and not strike like a hammer. Because hammers break things, but water always finds a way.

As Bruce Lee once said: “Be like water, my friend. Soft, flexible, yet unstoppable.”

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„Tim, how did you achieve your numbers?“ the manager asked after everybody had given their answers.

Now I couldn’t keep silent any longer.

„Every morning, I shake hands with each team member. I have a short chat with them. This way I find out how they’re feeling, what they’re going through, and what they are excited about, “ I replied.

„When someone has a low day, I ask a colleague to support them. When they’re full of energy, I give them assignments above their level. That helps them grow.“

“And last but not least: I don’t punish anyone.”

“Instead, I track performance indicators for the whole team. When those improve, I reward everyone together. They love that so much that they end up pushing each other without my involvement. It feels like magic because it works without me ever having to push.”

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My colleagues looked at me in disbelief.

Some even thought I was joking.

But everybody in the room knew that my team was running like clockwork—no squeaks, no bangs, just a silent tick-tock.

They hoped for a secret ingredient they hadn’t discovered yet. But all I had for them was a boring story they could not relate to.

What they missed was the drama they craved and needed to feel powerful.

They wanted to be hammers, loud, bombastic, and impossible to ignore.

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That day I learned something about my culture. Especially as boys, we are taught not to cry, not to show weakness, and to grit our teeth. In short: Just to be a man.

We celebrate those with loud words, the heroes, the warriors who used all their power and force to defeat their enemies.

But almost nobody remembers the silent ones who brought peace without shedding blood.

In our world, the trophy usually goes to those who shout the loudest.

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Eastern philosophy has a different view on this. Bruce Lee’s quote, Be like water traces back to Chapter 78, Tao Te Ching

Nothing in the world is softer and weaker than water.

Yet, to attack the hard and strong,

Nothing surpasses it.

Nothing can take its place.

The weak overcomes the strong.

The soft overcomes the hard.

Everybody in the world knows this,

Still, nobody makes use of it.

Modern psychology echoes Lao Tzu’s ancient wisdom.

A study published in the Academy of Management Journal found that introverted leaders often achieve better results than their louder colleagues, precisely because they adapt and empower others instead of trying to force compliance. Like water, they flow — and in the long run, they move mountains.

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When my father punished me as a child and I dared to cry, he just beat me harder. He probably hoped it would make me tough. But even as a teenager, my parents accused me of being too sensitive.

I could never completely switch off my sensitivity, though I built walls around myself.

Somehow, I always picked up the vibes of those around me, even when it was mostly unconscious. It helped me to connect with people on a deeper level. They felt seen— and they trusted me easily.

I couldn’t really explain it back then.

On the outside, I tried to show no weakness, and managed that quite well for a while. But then came a point when my life literally fell apart. I lost jobs two times in a row, was betrayed by my family, and had no idea what to live for anymore.

But I still had my sensitivity. And that sensitivity saved my life.

It became more intense than ever—not only inside but also toward the outside world.

It helped me reconnect not only with all my feelings, but also with the world around me.

I learned to integrate the now conscious signals of my sensitivity, and it showed me how to find my way through life—softly flowing, like water finding its path.

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Violence is something that is frowned upon for very good reasons. In the animal world, cruelty within tribes is fairly common. As humans, we've evolved beyond that and discovered more peaceful ways to live together.

Still, playing tough, being loud, and pretending to be strong are survival strategies—perhaps relics we still carry from previous war generations.

There is a place for toughness as a male archetype. But in a healthy world, it is balanced by the soft and sensitive qualities of the female archetype.

Looking at the world today, it seems clear: we could use far more soft power.