The Dichotomy of Leadership: Balancing the Challenges of Extreme Ownership to Lead and Win

by Jocko Willink

  I looked at Seth. It was clear that his heart was broken. Both Leif and Seth—as tough as they were on the battlefield, as determined as they were to accomplish their missions, as aggressive as they were in pursuit of the enemy—cared for and loved their guys more than anything else in the world. They would have given anything to trade places with their fallen men. Anything. But that wasn’t an option. That isn’t the way the world works.

  And now here they both were, dealing with the aftermath of the ultimate Dichotomy of Leadership: as much as you care for your men, as a leader you have to do your duty—you have to accomplish the mission. And that involves risk, and it could very well cost people’s lives.

  My last statement was sinking into Seth’s mind. Finally he spoke. “I keep replaying the mission in my mind—trying to figure out what I could have done differently. Maybe I should have put that overwatch in a different building? Maybe I should have told them to set up on the second floor instead of the rooftop? Maybe we shouldn’t have even done this mission?” His voice got more and more emotional as he listed these thoughts.

  “Seth,” I told him calmly. “Hindsight is twenty-twenty. There are a million things that could have been done differently if we knew exactly what was going to unfold that day. But we didn’t. You picked that building because it was the best tactical position in the area. You had guys on the roof because that gave them the best visibility—and thereby the best protection. And you did this mission because that is what we do: we take the fight to the enemy. You had done countless operations like this. You mitigated every risk possible. But you couldn’t know the outcome.”

  Seth nodded. Like Leif, he knew this was true. But it did not alleviate the pain of losing Mikey.

  Over the next few weeks, as we stood down from deployment, turned in gear, and completed administrative requirements, Seth and I talked about his future. Leif and I had orders to report to training commands so we could pass on the leadership lessons we had learned in Ramadi to the next generation of SEALs who would go forward into the fray in Iraq and Afghanistan. Seth was undecided on what to do next with his life. He wasn’t sure if he was going to stay in the Navy. It had been a hard deployment. Under constant pressure for six straight months, Seth had suffered several of his men wounded and one killed. He had faced fear and death on an almost daily basis.

  At the same time, SEAL Team Three needed someone to take over my job as commander of Task Unit Bruiser. They had offered the job to Seth.

  “I don’t know,” he told me. “I don’t know if I can do it again.”

  “I know,” I told him, understanding his mentality. He had been through hell. “You don’t have to take the job. You can do whatever you want. You can get out of the Teams. Travel. Surf. Go get your MBA. Make a bunch of money. You can go do all that. And that is cool if you want to. You’ve done more for me and for the Teams than I ever could have asked of you. But I’ll tell you something else. There are two SEAL platoons that need a leader. They need someone to look out for them and take care of them on and off the battlefield. You have more combat experience than anyone on this team. No one could do a better job leading this task unit than you can. You can do whatever you want—but these guys, they need you. They need a leader. And that isn’t going to change.”

  Seth sat quietly for a few seconds. He had given everything in Ramadi. He had so many opportunities waiting if he got out of the Navy—he was extremely intelligent, creative, and industrious, and he already had an incredible résumé. I knew Seth had aspirations beyond the military, to pursue other, different challenges as a civilian. I would understand if he walked away from the Navy. He had done his share. I sat and watched Seth ponder silently. Then I saw his expression change and a look of confidence come across his face.

  “Alright,” Seth said as he stood up from his chair.

  “Alright, what?” I asked.

  “I’m going,” he said as he moved toward the door.

  “Going where?” I asked.

  “I’m going to tell the executive officer that I’m taking this task unit. I’m taking command of Task Unit Bruiser. I have to,” he said. “There is no decision to make.”

  Seth smiled and walked out the door.

  There is no decision to make, I thought to myself. Even with all those other options in life, there was no other option for Seth. He knew what the right thing was. He knew his duty. And he did it.

  Just as he had in Ramadi, time and time again, Seth stepped forward—he stepped up. He shouldered the heavy burden of command once more, to struggle with the opposing forces that make up the countless dichotomies of leadership. To balance being a leader and being a follower. Being confident, but not cocky. To be aggressive, but still cautious. To be bold, but at the same time thoughtful.

  And most significant, he chose to face the ultimate dichotomy: to train, work with, and develop a team of friends and brothers, to care about those men more than anything in the world and then lead those men on missions that could get them killed.

  That is the burden. That is the challenge. That is the dichotomy.

  That is leadership.

  Principle

  There are limitless dichotomies in leadership, and a leader must carefully balance between these opposite forces. But none are as difficult as this: to care deeply for each individual member of the team, while at the same time accepting the risks necessary to accomplish the mission. A good leader builds powerful, strong relationships with his or her subordinates. But while that leader would do anything for those team members, the leader must recognize there is a job to do. And that job might put the very people the leader cares so much about at risk.

  In war, this is the ultimate dichotomy: a leader may have to send his most treasured asset—his people—into a situation that gets them wounded or killed. If his relationships are too close and he can’t detach from his emotions, he might not be able to make tough choices that involve risk to his men. With that attitude, the team will get nothing done—that team fails the mission. At the other end of the spectrum, if a leader cares too much about accomplishing the mission, he may sacrifice the health and safety of his men without gaining any significant advantage. Beyond the horrible impact it has on the men, it also impacts the team, who recognize the leader as callous and no longer respect and follow him. The team will fall apart.

  While not as extreme, this dichotomy reveals itself in the civilian sector as well. This is one of the most difficult dichotomies to balance, and it can be easy to go too far in either direction. If leaders develop overly close relationships with their people, they may not be willing to make those people do what is necessary to complete a project or a task. They may not have the wherewithal to lay off individuals with whom they have relationships, even if it is the right move for the good of the company. And some leaders get so close to their people that they don’t want to have hard conversations with them—they don’t want to tell them that they need to improve.

  On the other hand, if a leader is too detached from the team, he or she may overwork, overexpose, or otherwise harm its members while achieving no significant value from that sacrifice. The leader may be too quick to fire people to save a buck, thereby developing the reputation of not caring about the team beyond its ability to support the strategic goals.

  So leaders must find the balance. They must push hard without pushing too hard. They must drive their team to accomplish the mission without driving them off a cliff.

  Application to Business

  “These people work hard!” the regional manager told me emphatically. He oversaw five mining operations, which pulled raw materials out of the ground and sold them on the market as commodities. It was a straightforward business: the cheaper the cost of production, the more money the business made. But even with commodities, human beings’ lives and livelihoods come into play.

  “I know they do, I’ve seen them out there in the field,” I replied.

  “You’ve seen them for a few hours. That’s nothin
g compared to the days, weeks, months, and years on end these folks work to make this place function,” the regional manager replied in an aggressive tone.

  The regional manager clearly didn’t think I got it. I looked at it from his perspective—he was right, I couldn’t fully appreciate what these men and women did every day in the mines. But his aggressiveness also came from the fact that he thought I was one of “them,” one of the corporate know-it-alls who had been sent down from the ivory tower to help him try to “fix his problem.” He was, of course, right: I had been sent from corporate to help him fix his problem.

  Eight months ago, corporate shut down one of his mines, moving the number of mines he oversaw from six down to five. The cost to produce had become too high, and the mine simply wasn’t making enough money. When they shut it down, the regional manager kept about a quarter of the employees on board, spreading them around his other mines. Corporate fought this, but he fought harder, assuring his chain of command that with the additional manpower at each of the remaining mines, production would increase across the board. But it seemed evident that what really drove the regional manager’s decision was the fact that he cared about his workforce—truly and deeply cared. He was a third-generation miner. He knew the hardships of the job.

  My conversation with him was not going well. I had to de-escalate.

  “I know that I don’t fully understand how hard they work,” I told him, admitting I didn’t completely know the level of effort his people put in. “I’m definitely no expert. But it is certainly obvious how hard they work, even from only a couple of hours’ worth of observation.”

  That wasn’t good enough for the regional manager.

  “They aren’t just hard workers,” he responded. “They have skills. They are some of the best operators in the world. Take Miguel, over there on the backhoe. He is one of the best I’ve ever seen.” He pointed out the window at a massive backhoe busily moving earth into a giant dump truck.

  “Yeah. He runs that thing like it was part of his body. He is good,” I told the regional manager.

  “And you know what?” the regional manager continued. “He isn’t just a good equipment operator—he’s a good man. He’s got a wife and four kids. Good kids.”

  “Family man,” I confirmed.

  “Damn right,” the regional manager told me. “Damn right.”

  “Well, let’s go to the office and talk through some of these numbers,” I said, not wanting to put off the inevitable conversation any longer. The regional manager knew the numbers better than I did. The surplus of personnel from the mine that had closed had increased production at each of his remaining mines, but not by nearly enough to make up for the added expenses. He had too many employees now, and he knew it. The remaining five mining operations for which he was responsible were not making enough money.

  We went into his office and sat down.

  “I know what you are going to say,” he told me. From the tone of his voice, I could tell he wanted to pick a fight—he wanted to be mad at me. I had to tread carefully.

  “Well. I guess I don’t need to say much, then,” I said. “The numbers speak for themselves.”

  “The numbers don’t tell the whole story,” the regional manager declared.

  “Of course they don’t,” I responded. “But the numbers tell the part of the story that pays the bills.”

  “There’s more to it than that!” he replied, clearly frustrated.

  “I know there is,” I told him, trying to be empathetic.

  “Do you?” he responded aggressively.

  I decided I needed to put him in check.

  “Yes,” I told him firmly. “Yes, I absolutely do know.”

  The regional manager sat there looking at me, slightly surprised at my tone as I now claimed to understand his business. But it wasn’t his business I was claiming to know. It was the situation he was facing as a leader.

  “I know there are lots of people out there,” I said. “Lots of people who depend on you to make the right decisions—decisions that determine if they will continue to have a job or not; decisions that determine if they can pay their mortgage and put food on the table for their families. Those are heavy decisions and those are hard decisions. I’ve been there. I have had people’s lives hinging upon decisions that I made. On what missions we did. On what areas we went into. On who I assigned to do what. I sent my men—my friends, my brothers—into harm’s way over and over and over again. And the outcome was not always good.”

  The regional manager was now listening—really listening to me for the first time. I had finally connected with him.

  “Look,” I continued, “you are the leader. And that comes with a heavy burden. In the military, we call it the ‘burden of command.’ It is the responsibility you feel for the lives of the people who work for you. In the SEAL Teams, I was dealing with lives—here you deal with people’s livelihoods. It isn’t the exact same thing, but it is close. People are counting on you to keep their paychecks coming so they can feed their families. And you care about these people, just as you should. Just like I cared about my men—they were everything to me. They still are. That is one of the most difficult dichotomies of leadership.”

  “What is?” the regional manager asked.

  “The fact that you care about your people more than anything—but at the same time you have to lead them. And as a leader, you might have to make decisions that hurt individuals on your team. But you also have to make decisions that will allow you to continue the mission for the greater good of everyone on the team. If military leaders decided that they were simply going to shield their troops from every risk at all costs, what would they get accomplished?”

  “Well, they wouldn’t accomplish anything,” he admitted.

  “That’s exactly right,” I said. “Where would our country be without the military doing its job? I’ll tell you: we wouldn’t even have a country. That’s why military leaders have to do what they do. And you are sitting in a very similar position. You’ve done everything you can to save jobs. But the work isn’t there. It just isn’t. You’ve been struggling for eight months. How many employees did you transfer from the mine that closed?” I asked him.

  “One hundred and forty-seven people,” the regional manager answered.

  “And how many people did you employ at your other five mines prior to their transfer?” I asked.

  “About six hundred,” he said.

  “So, in an effort to try to save the jobs of a hundred and forty-seven employees,” I noted, “you are putting at risk the other five mines and six hundred jobs—the entire mission. If you don’t make some hard decisions, that is exactly what will happen.”

  The regional manager sat quietly. It was sinking in. I could see it in his eyes.

  “But … I don’t know … I don’t know if I can do it,” he said soberly. “Some of these folks are like family to me.”

  “Well—let me tell you this,” I replied. “If you don’t step up and lead, what do you think corporate will do?”

  “They’ll either shut us down … or…” He trailed off, not wanting to admit the other obvious possibility.

  “Or what?” I asked.

  “Or get rid of me,” he replied.

  “Exactly,” I agreed. “Now what would be better for everyone here? To get shut down completely? Or to have someone else who doesn’t care as much for the team as you do come in, take over, and drive down costs by chopping the staff to the extreme? I know it’s hard. I know. But if you don’t do what you need to do—what you know you need to do—you aren’t helping anyone. And you definitely aren’t leading. In fact, just the opposite. If you don’t make the hard decision, you will be hurting the people you care about, not helping them. That’s another dichotomy: in order to help your team, sometimes you have to hurt them. Just like a doctor performing a surgery. Surgery is a brutal thing: cutting open a body and removing parts of it, then sewing it back together. But in order to save a life, a su
rgeon has to do just that. What you have to do here is also brutal—I get it. But failure to do it is going to have far more brutal consequences.”

  The regional manager was nodding. He understood. He was a good-hearted leader who cared for his people, an admirable and important quality in a leader. But he had strayed too far and unbalanced the dichotomy by caring more about his people than he did about the mission. He lost sight of what was most important strategically. To protect some employees, he had placed his entire mission and every other employee at risk. Now, he understood that doing so was a failure of leadership. Once he acknowledged this, he could then course correct and rebalance the dichotomy. He had to make the tough decisions. He didn’t like it, but he understood.

  Over the next two weeks, the regional manager let go of almost eighty people. He didn’t like it. But he had to do it. He had to lead. That cost savings moved the mines from the red into the black. They were profitable once again and on a sustainable path for the foreseeable future. The regional manager now understood this most difficult dichotomy of leadership: a leader must care about the troops, but at the same time the leader must complete the mission, and in doing so there will be risks and sometimes unavoidable consequences to the troops. The regional manager now realized that he had to balance caring for his people with accomplishing the mission and that failing to balance those two opposing goals would result in his failure to do either.

  SEAL Team Seven Echo Platoon rolling out on a nighttime direct action mission to capture or kill suspected terrorists in Baghdad, 2003. Note: the Humvees had no armor and doors were removed so that the SEAL operators inside could face outward, enabling them to both return fire with their rifles as well as present their body armor ballistic plates to threats for at least some level of protection.

  (Photo courtesy of Jocko Willink)