I found myself thinking about titles recently. Not in a grand, philosophical way at first, but in that very ordinary, almost irritated manner that comes from watching something unfold and quietly asking, So… what does that title actually do?Not what it promises on paper, not what it implies in a hierarchy chart, but what it actually does when things feel uncertain, when trust wobbles, when people are watching closely but saying very little.
It wasn’t a dramatic moment. No shouting. No obvious rupture. Just that familiar sense of dissonance—the feeling that the words being spoken did not quite match the reality being experienced. And in that gap, that small but significant space between authority and credibility, the question surfaced: when things are difficult, when confidence is shaken, what exactly are we relying on? The title itself, or the person behind it?
Titles are meant to reassure us. They signal authority, competence, experience. They tell us who is in charge so we know where to look in moments of confusion. In theory, a title should make leadership visible and stable. It should calm anxieties and anchor decisions. In reality, titles sometimes do the opposite—they make us question whether leadership is present at all.
We often talk about leadership as though it is something that can be conferred the moment a role is assigned. Manager. Director. President. Head. Chair. The assumption is that leadership arrives neatly packaged with designation, like a complimentary accessory that comes with the job description. Once the label is in place, we expect behaviour, wisdom, and moral clarity to follow.
But lived experience tells us something else. Influence does not always obey organisational charts. Trust does not automatically follow rank. And respect, once lost, cannot be restored by reminding people who outranks whom. If anything, insisting on hierarchy in moments of doubt often accelerates disengagement. People may continue to listen, but they stop leaning in.
When leadership begins to feel distant or performative, something subtle starts to happen among the people. Not rebellion in the loud, cinematic sense, but something quieter and more persistent. A kind of silent resentment. A collective tightening of the jaw. People still show up. Still comply. Still go about their lives. But the faith that once made them believe in the system begins to erode, replaced by cautious distance.
This silent resentment is not always destructive. Sometimes, it is observant. It watches carefully who speaks with clarity, who acts with consistency, who listens without needing to dominate the room. It notices who acknowledges uncertainty instead of hiding behind jargon. Over time, people begin to orient themselves not around titles, but around trust. Around the colleague who shields their team quietly. The community figure who explains instead of dismissing. The neighbour who steps up when no one is watching.
Perhaps this is where leadership begins in its most ordinary and accessible form: conversation. The willingness to speak, to question, to articulate what feels unsettled even when the answers are not fully formed. Starting a conversation is, in itself, a quiet act of leadership. It is taking responsibility for one’s own opinions and having the courage to place them in the open, trusting that others might recognise themselves in them. When enough people do this, ideas begin to gather momentum—not because everyone agrees, but because the conversation creates direction. Even differing views, when held with honesty and restraint, can point us towards something more balanced, away from extremes and closer to a shared sense of what feels right.
History reminds us that many leaders first emerged in precisely this way—long before they were recognised, and often without ever seeking recognition. Mahatma Gandhi was not given a title by the British Empire. He did not hold office. He did not command an army. For a long time, he did not even command unanimous agreement among his own people. And yet, people followed him. Not because they were told to, but because his actions articulated what many were feeling but could not yet name.
Gandhi’s leadership did not begin with speeches delivered from a position of power. It began with posture. With restraint. With choosing to live the consequences of the injustice he was resisting. By walking, fasting, and enduring discomfort publicly, he made abstract ideas tangible. He led by collapsing the distance between principle and practice, between leader and neighbour. He understood the pain points of the ordinary Indian not because he studied them from afar, but because he placed himself firmly within them.
This pattern repeats itself across history. Rosa Parks matters not because she was the first to feel injustice, but because her quiet refusal gave shape to what many had already been enduring in silence. Her action was small in scale but enormous in symbolism. She did not mobilise people through charisma or command. She did so by drawing a moral line and standing still long enough for others to gather around it.
What is striking about such figures is not how loudly they spoke, but how clearly they acted. They did not rush to claim authority. Authority gathered around them because their actions resonated. Their leadership was recognised, not declared.
Titles, in contrast, often come with insulation. They create distance. They encourage leaders to speak about people rather than with them. And when that distance grows too wide, leadership turns performative. It becomes about maintaining authority rather than earning trust. About optics rather than outcomes. About managing perception instead of addressing lived experience.
This is not an argument against titles or hierarchy. Structures are necessary. Organisations cannot function on good intentions alone. Titles help distribute responsibility and clarify accountability. They provide order and efficiency. But when titles become substitutes for credibility, we run into trouble. When leaders rely on their designation to demand trust instead of cultivating it, people comply outwardly and disengage inwardly.
True leadership often feels lighter than authority because it does not need to announce itself. It shows up consistently. It absorbs criticism without deflecting it. It adapts when reality changes. It understands that influence is fragile and must be renewed daily. And perhaps most importantly, it recognises that people are not obstacles to be managed, but participants to be understood.
Maybe the real question, then, is not “What is the value of a title?” but “What remains when the title is stripped away?” When applause fades. When compliance is no longer guaranteed. When all that is left is the relationship between the individual and the people they claim to serve.
Because when history looks back, it rarely remembers titles with fondness. It remembers posture. It remembers courage. It remembers who listened when it mattered. And often, it remembers who dared to start the conversation—long before anyone thought to give them a name for it.
Written by: Adi Jamaludin
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