Today’s message is different.
It’s personal.

Last month, I lost my father-in-law, Maga Pillay.
A man I grew to know well over 25 years.
A quiet, steady presence in my life.
And my biggest supporter of Scary Management.

Unexpectedly gone.

Uncle Maga read every blog post I wrote.
He replied to nearly every newsletter with his commentary or questions.
He encouraged me, challenged me, and understood what I was trying to build.

I will miss his presence in my inbox.

Uncle Maga loved to play chess.
He was good at it.
And we were evenly matched.
So it made for some great entertainment and rivalry.

Whenever he came to stay with us in Joburg, we had a small ritual every day.
He would wait patiently while I finished work or wrapped up chores.

And the moment I was finally done, he would look at me with that gentle half-smile, and I’d ask the question he’d been waiting for all day:

“Shall we have a game?”

Every time, he would clap his hands once with excitement and answer with the same warmth: “Of course.”

It was never about chess.
It was about time.
About company.

The unspoken understanding that a game of chess was really just a way to sit together and share a moment.

Who will sit across the board from me now?

He was just days away from turning 79 this December.

We had quiet little plans to celebrate properly this year, now that we’re settled in Cape Town.

Nothing extravagant.
Just family, food, and unrushed time.
It’s strange how quickly a plan becomes a memory,
and a memory becomes a lesson you never asked to learn.

Grief doesn’t arrive like a storm.
It arrives like a fog. Slow, quiet, everywhere at once.

And yet, life keeps moving.

Emails still come in.
Teams still need clarity.
Your kid still needs breakfast.
People still look to you for steadiness.

All while you carry the quiet ache of the moments that will never happen now. We were supposed to be celebrating. Making plans. Sharing ordinary moments we thought we’d have more of.

Moments like that leave a silence behind them.

I had to practice everything I learnt about emotional intelligence.
Not as a leadership skillset, but as a human trying to keep going.

After he passed, I found myself moving through waves:

grief
numbness
responsibility
logistical chaos
gratitude
exhaustion
brief, surprising calm

I kept coming back to one simple question:

“What am I actually feeling right now?”

Naming the emotion didn’t make it disappear.
But it made breathing possible inside the weight of it.

Books talk about tidy stages.
Real life doesn’t.

I found myself moving back and forth between remembering him,
and doing what needed to be done for everyone else.

Not progress.
Not a path.
Just oscillation.

And somehow, that turned out to be normal.

When everything feels overwhelming, your mind tries to hold the whole world at once.

But grief strips that illusion away. In those early days, I couldn’t manage big decisions or long-range thinking.

In fact, I handled some (work and personal) situations and conversations badly.

All I could do was breathe. Drink some water. Take a short walk. Respond to one message. Show up for my family. Do the next small thing.

And strangely, that was enough.

Somewhere in all that fog, a lesson I thought I understood finally made sense: Covey’s idea of the Circle of Influence.

It’s the simple idea that we regain strength when we stop fighting what we cannot control.

It wasn’t productivity hacks.
It wasn’t bravery.
It wasn’t discipline.

It was smaller, quieter things.

A slow morning coffee.
A short walk.
A conversation with my wife.

Letting myself move at half-speed without calling it failure.
Letting messages wait until I had the emotional space to answer them.
Letting myself be human in front of my team instead of pretending to be made of steel.
Letting support in.
Letting the meaning come later.

Grief has a way of stripping life down to essentials.
And when everything feels too heavy,
The essentials become enough.

This one is dedicated to the man who reignited my passion for chess, and kept it going in our family.

“Shall we have a game?”

This wasn’t just a question. It was a doorway into connection, time, stillness. A gift I never realised I’d someday lose.

If you solve it, take a moment to think of the people who taught you.
The ones who shaped you quietly, consistently, lovingly…
The ones whose lessons stay long after they’re no longer sitting across the board.

Solution here

Grief has a way of bringing you back to what truly matters.

It reminded me why emotional intelligence matters more than ever. Not as theory, but as something leaders reach for when life gets deeply human.

And so next week, we begin a new series on Emotional Intelligence. The tools, insights, and inner skills that help us lead through pressure, uncertainty, conflict, and the unexpected turns life brings.

It feels like the right time.

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