The soft, amber light of an Addis evening settles over the city, a time when the relentless pace of day yields to quiet reflection. It is in these hushed hours that the most profound lessons from our journey often choose to make themselves known, rising not with fanfare, but with the gentle certainty of a truth we have always carried. Today, I am reminded of a simple, pivotal moment from my early days, and how its echoes have shaped the leader, the advocate, and the person I am still becoming.

I was young in my career, full of ideas that tumbled out with the urgency of a mountain stream. In a meeting, a senior figure said something meant to diminish, to put a passionate voice in its perceived place. The instinctual fire rose within me the outspoken one ready to engage. Yet, I chose silence. Not a silence of defeat, but a deliberate, heavy quiet.

That evening, as always, my parents asked about my day. In the sanctuary of our home, I poured out the incident every nuance, every sting. My father, a man of profound strategic patience, listened and his eyes filled with admiration. He saw the restraint not as submission, but as strength a calculated holding of one’s ground. My mother, the fierce protector of authentic voice, was baffled. “Why walk away without saying your truth?” she wondered. Two loving perspectives, one moment, no clear “right” answer.

For years, I carried that duality within me. Now, at the prime of my professional life having navigated the intricate ecosystems of both the private sector and public service I look back on that incident with immense fondness. My parents, in their beautiful divergence, exemplified a foundational lesson: Excellence is not born from a monolithic idea of “right,” but from the fine alignment of complementary forces patience and passion, strategy and authenticity, knowing when to speak and understanding the power in sometimes waiting.

Their gift was not a rigid rulebook. Our upbringing was never about right versus wrong. It was an invitation to understand what is: the consequences of actions on self and community, the long-term ripple effects within the living, breathing organism of our society. They granted the freedom to explore, not from a place of infallibility, but from a humble acknowledgment of their own limitations both individually and as a team. They understood they could not be the sole source of our growth. The liberty to learn, unlearn, and relearn was their greatest legacy, forged not from their known strengths, but from the limitations they consciously refused to pass on.

This foundation shaped every endeavor. Each project, each advocacy for buy-in, each policy nuance debated in hushed government corridors or energetic boardrooms, was a learning journey. It refined my perception, expanded my ideation, and crucially, taught me to be present in the room. Yet, somewhere along this worthy path, I faltered. An insidious imposter syndrome, alien to my nature, took root. After over a year of deep reflection aided by tools like Theory U that guide us to listen for the emerging future I understood why my pause had grown so long.

I needed to be still, to let my own silenced voice speak its truth to me.

And what a torrent it was. The memory of countless ideas advocated with gentleness but perceived as aggression; insights offered as a helping hand, misinterpreted as a pointed finger; ethical distances maintained, labeled as walls of naivety; being told “you are wrong,” only to see approaches later adopted; doors knocked upon that remained firmly shut; initiatives designed and dismissed, only to be implemented later… The many, many silences I kept, choosing not to defend, not to claim, not to confront the narrative.

The critical finding that surfaced, clear and undeniable, was this: It was never about the quality of the ideas. The resistance was not to the what, but to the who. To the energy and persona I brought. My reputation had silently solidified: hard to work with, aggressive, a listener to no one. And just like in that early career moment, I replied with silence. This time, however, my mother’s wisdom manifested: not voicing my truth cost me. I allowed others’ narratives to define the space I occupied, and watched as decisions career-altering, life-shifting decisions were made in accordance with that false portrait.

This period of forced stillness became my greatest gift. From it comes a profound lesson, one I share with fellow professionals, public servants, and leaders within our beloved Ethiopia: When you start from multiple rights, the right intention, the right insight from available data, the right commitment to time, the work, eventually, finds its way. I see now the fruits of efforts I once championed taking shape, the motto of “making it impossible” being lived out. And I have made peace.

The most important lesson is this: My past silences were so inept, so foreign to my authentic core, that the quiet pleasure of seeing necessary things eventually flourish has become more important to me than clamoring for credit or recognition for my role in their seed-planting. This is not resignation; it is liberation. It allows me to look forward with clean anticipation to what is becoming of me and what my next venture will birth.

Because now, I know. I know my calling has matured from being just a “doer” to being a holder of vision. A vision for ethical governance, for transformative growth, for a public service that hums with innovative efficiency, and for a private sector that thrives in symbiotic partnership with the nation’s goals. This is a vision I can no not see, and therefore, can no longer turn away from.

My dua for myself, and for all of us engaged in the sacred work of building, is this: May Allah’s guidance and enlightenment be our constant companion. For it is only under that light that our authentic selves with all our beautiful, necessary weaknesses and strengths can finally, and fearlessly, live their truth.

And when you know this… you know.