Some memories don’t fade because they hurt. They sit quietly at the back of the mind, surfacing now and then, bringing with them the sting of shame and the lessons that follow. Two of mine, separated by decades, are bound by the same thread: my loyalty to rules, and the unintended chaos that loyalty created.
The Monitor
As a schoolboy, I was once made class monitor. It felt like an honour. The teacher wanted discipline, and I gave her silence. Not a murmur, not a shuffle, not even the snapping of fingers. Anyone who broke the rule was reported without hesitation. The teacher loved me for it. My classmates did not.
At the time, I believed I was keeping order. In hindsight, I see I was building walls. I thought silence meant respect; in truth, it meant fear. What I enforced wasn’t harmony, but stillness. There was order, yes – but at the cost of belonging.
The Spreadsheet
Years later, I found myself in negotiations, contracts in hand. The classroom was gone, but the instinct remained. This time, the badge of discipline was an Excel sheet. Every figure, every margin, neatly aligned. I held to the numbers as though they were law. Clients saw them as guidelines; I treated them as gospel. And so, opportunities slipped away – not for lack of competence, but for lack of give.
The spreadsheet was my shield against uncertainty. But in clutching it too tightly, I closed the door on trust. Much like the silent classroom, it was order that left me alone.
What Remains
Looking back, these memories sting because they show me the same truth: in chasing order, I sometimes created its opposite. My rules built cages, my precision bred distance. The irony is hard to miss.
And yet, I don’t regret those moments. Discipline gave me a backbone. Structure made me dependable. Without them, I wouldn’t be who I am. What I carry now is the reminder that rules are scaffolding, not the whole building. They help raise the frame, but life lives in the spaces between – where laughter, trust, and a little noise belong.
Learning to Bend
I am still a stickler for rules. That hasn’t changed. The truth is, I am stubborn – everyone who knows me would agree. Stubbornness has cost me friends and contracts, but it has also kept me standing when giving up would have been easier. It is both my shadow and my strength.
These memories remind me that stubbornness must be tempered. Rules without kindness become cages. Figures without flexibility become fiction. Order without openness becomes its own form of chaos. So I try now to bend where I once broke. To let silence make space for conversation. To let the spreadsheet guide, not govern. To remember that people need room to move, not cages to sit in.
A Different Kind of Discipline
When I think back to that boy in the classroom, or that professional in the boardroom, I no longer want to erase them. They were versions of me doing the best they could with what they knew. Their mistakes became my tutors. Without them, I would not have the caution I carry today, nor the humility to admit when I’ve gone too far.
In the end, stubbornness remains part of my identity. But, I now see that true discipline is not about control; it is about balance. It is about knowing when to hold firm and when to let go. About recognising that order and chaos are not enemies, but companions. One shapes, the other frees. And between them lies the living, breathing truth of human experience.
The boy gave me discipline. The man gave me lessons. Stubbornness gave me the strength to keep walking. Together, they gave me wisdom. And that, perhaps, is enough.