"Fat John! Red John!" A CEO Finds His Way Home

Author: Majken Lorelei Matzau

John came to me because the employees of the company he was CEO of had filed several anonymous complaints against him. They accused him of being brutal and incapable of listening to others. The same criticism appeared in the company's workplace assessment.

John was shaken. Over the course of the year I worked closely with him, we began to unravel the old patterns in his psychological structures — the ones driving him toward a style of leadership that pushed people away from him and installed fear in them.

One day, well into the process, once we had brought the crisis in the company to rest, I ask John to bring a few photographs of himself from childhood. John brings a picture of himself at five. And a couple where he is ten and thirteen. Together we study them.

"What do you see here?" I ask him, pointing at the photograph of thirteen-year-old John.

John goes quiet. I sense that he feels uncomfortable. "A quiet boy," he says. "An ugly, quiet boy," he says, and tears come to his eyes. Because John is in truth a sensitive man — beneath the hard armor. John holds a great sensitivity, which for most of his life he has suppressed under his enormous focus on steering, controlling, and delivering.

"Ugly?" I ask. "What do you actually think of him there? Don't censor yourself — do you like him?"

"That's the ugly redhead, damn it!" he bursts out. His tone changes, he narrows his eyes suspiciously, and the energy in him shifts — turns sneering. Accusing:

"Are you the red-haired monkey!?" he sneers. "Ha ha! You look like an orangutan! Red John! Cry-baby John! Fat John!"

We both fall silent. John looks down.

"Is that what you think about him?" I ask. "That he's ugly and fat?"

"Of course," he says. "Pathetic! That's what he is!"

"What else?" I ask. "Give me all of it. What do you really think of him there?" I point again at the photograph of the thirteen-year-old.

"Ugly! Looks like an idiot. No damn wonder the girls hate him. The ugliest boy in the class! God, he's ugly!"

"Okay," I say, and put the photograph of the thirteen-year-old away.

We sit together for a while — feeling the atmosphere between us. The atmosphere inside John. A dark energy spirals around him, and I feel his bottomless pain. Like a sob lodged deep in his chest.

"Do you remember the first time you looked your little daughter in the eyes?" I ask him now. "When she was very small — almost newborn?"

"That I will never forget," says John. He is moved again.

"Tell me about it — what is it you never forget?"

"Her gaze! Her eyes. The first time she opened her eyes. She was so small."

John is touched and struggles to put words to his feelings. I help him along:

"What is it that's so special when we look a small child in the eyes?" I insist. "Have you ever noticed how you simply cannot help staring when there's a baby present at a gathering? It's as if everyone's attention is magnetically drawn to babies."

John knows that well, he says. He has, after all, just become a grandfather.

"But why? What is it you see in a small child's expression?" I ask.

John thinks about it. "Innocence!" he bursts out. "It's childlike innocence!"

"Yes," I confirm. "Innocence! And purity? It's innocence itself looking back at you. Isn't that right?"

"Yes! Yes!" he says. "That's how it is."

I let him sit with that insight for a moment. The innocence. The trust. Something so universally inherent in a child. So original. So unveiled. John is visibly moved.

"Can you still see that innocence?" I ask. "Your daughter is thirty-two now — can you still see the innocence in her?"

"Oh yes!" John answers — as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

We talk a little about what it is he sees in his daughter. In both his daughters. The innocence. The purity. The lovable and fine in both his grown daughters. And in his two-year-old grandchild.

Now I bring out the photograph of the five-year-old boy. I have kept him tucked away. But now I play my trump card: I point at the picture of John's five-year-old self.

"What about him?" I challenge him. "Can you see the innocence in him?"

Something jolts through John. It is as though he has never seen this photograph before — despite it having sat in the family album for fifty-seven years.

The tears stream down John's cheeks. And for you who have never seen a grown, hard man's psychological defenses lay themselves down — and the small, fine boy inside him peek out — let me tell you that it is infinitely… infinitely moving.

John still says nothing. He studies the picture of his five-year-old self intently.

"What would you think of him, if he were your grandchild?" I ask. "Would you like him?"

"Yes, damn it. Yes!" says John. "Yes, of course. He's a fine little fellow."

"What about the innocence — can you see the innocence in him? What do you see in his gaze?"

"Yes," says John. "Yes! I can see it. Now I can see it!"

We are both moved. For a long time we sit together. Looking at the five-year-old boy. The five-year-old John. This sweet and fine boy who, through the fabric of time, looks at us with utterly unwavering innocence and trust. With life lying ahead of him — and many great and difficult experiences ahead of him, which will help shape the man he becomes. The CEO he will become.

"It's extraordinary, isn't it?" I ask. "How we condemn ourselves without being aware of it. Diminish ourselves. Sometimes even hate ourselves. Your whole life you have scolded yourself. Made yourself wrong. Condemned yourself. Hated yourself. Wished you were different. Better. More handsome. More capable. Stronger. The list is endless."

John can see it. I let him sit for a while in his own thoughts. In the silence between us, which now feels full and whole — rather than accusing and fragmented. A gentle light stands around him, and his heart feels open, warm, and alive.

The energy around us in the hall becomes light and mild — and in John's eyes I now see a deep warmth and joy. And, sure enough, a humorous glint as well. Because John is a warm, sensitive, and humorous man — with a wonderful, mischievous twinkle in his eye. Sides of him his employees have never seen.

John smiles and wipes his eyes.

"Well, I'll be," he says, shaking his head in disbelief. "Well, I'll be damned."

I nod. It is the first time I can truly feel him. The fine soul that he is. The great and warm loyalty and dedication to his mission. Which has driven him to create an ocean of results, but where, in his dedication, he ended up losing himself and stumbling along the way. Where he fell and hurt himself. Only now to rise and find himself anew. Or perhaps — for the first time in his life.

Because who is he now? What will drive him now? Now that he can no longer feel the old, gnawing voice that drove him to perform, to deliver, and to earn his worth?

"Red John. Ugly John. Fat John!"

The words dissolve into the light, as though they were dewdrops evaporating in the warm rays of the sun. A new day has truly dawned. A new era. A new time.

And together we pack up — the session is over. The work is done. Now John is ready to lead his fellow human beings. With his sword in its sheath, his chest open, and his heart first. As the faithful warrior he is.

The foundation of John's consciousness shifted decisively in this session; his self-image became more loving. A warm gentleness and compassion replaced a lifetime of inner self-condemnation and ice-cold self-hatred.

And with that, the potential opened for John to become a truly great guiding light. A CEO who becomes known not only for his outstanding financial results — whatever the cost — but who also becomes an inspiration for the many who follow in his footsteps.

— This article is an excerpt from Majken Lorelei Matzau's forthcoming book on the psychology of the CEO

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