There’s a switch inside me that never really switches off. It’s more like a blinking control panel with buttons that scream “Solution A!”, “Suggestion B!”, and the loudest one of all—“Just Do This!”. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been wired to fix things. Problems felt like knots waiting for my fingers to untangle them.

In my line of work—banking and consulting—this reflex was almost second nature. Projects in unfamiliar territories, systems that belonged in museums rather than modern banks, and deadlines that made you wish for time machines—all demanded quick thinking and fixes. My reputation was built on offering solutions.

But one ordinary afternoon in Baghdad quietly taught me that sometimes, the best solution is none at all.

We were knee-deep in a digital transformation project—an effort to drag outdated systems into the modern era. The work was heavy, the stakes high, and the timelines brutal. My colleague Ahmed, one of the most committed team members, had been pushing himself relentlessly.

That afternoon, he came into my office carrying the kind of weariness you don’t need words to describe. His shoulders sagged, his face drawn, and his frustration spilled out like water breaking through a dam.

He spoke about systems that simply refused to cooperate, the lack of training, the looming deadlines. And true to form, my inner control panel lit up. I immediately launched into “solution mode”—additional training, phased rollouts, revised milestones. The ideas flew faster than I could organize them.

Then I noticed something. His eyes weren’t searching for direction. They weren’t asking me to rescue him. They were simply saying: I’m exhausted. Please let me be heard.

And so, for once, I pressed pause.

Instead of offering another suggestion, I asked: “Ahmed, are you telling me this to vent, or are you asking for my advice?”

The effect was almost magical. His expression softened, the heaviness lifted, and for the first time that day, he smiled. “I just needed to get it off my chest,” he said.

That moment rewired something in me. Not in the way a core banking upgrade does, but in the way a roadside meal does when you’ve been on the highway for hours—it nourished me differently.

We live in a world full of unsolicited advice. From parents to colleagues to complete strangers online, there’s always someone ready to tell you what you “should” do. Sometimes, though, people don’t want instructions; they want companionship in their frustration.

Psychologists call it the fix-it mentality. It comes from care, but it can unintentionally shut down deeper connection. Active listening—nodding, acknowledging, simply being present—does the opposite. It builds trust.

It reminded me of my favorite stop on the Prayagraj–Varanasi–Ranchi road, the Rajput Dhaba at Gopiganj. You don’t go there because the food is “solution-oriented.” You go because it’s comforting, familiar, and exactly what you need in that moment. Sometimes people don’t want gourmet; they want dal, roti, and someone to refill their glass of water without asking. Listening works the same way.

That day in Baghdad taught me a lesson no training program or business school could have offered: leadership isn’t only about charts, plans, and solutions. It’s also about presence.

I carry a new mantra with me now: resist the reflex to fix unless asked. And instead, after listening, I lean on the question that Ahmed unknowingly gifted me:

“Are you telling me this to vent, or are you asking for my advice?”

More often than not, people just want to vent. And in those moments, my silence is worth more than my solutions.

Because sometimes, the real transformation doesn’t happen in the system—it happens in the conversation.

Looking back, I see echoes of this lesson scattered across my career. From managing a branch in curfew-stricken Aligarh to implementing core banking systems in Naxalite-affected Jharkhand, and later steering Iraq’s Trade Bank through complex reforms—the challenges were always immense. My instinct was always to “fix.” But whether in Ranchi, Delhi, or Baghdad, the truth held steady: people don’t just need solutions, they need solidarity.

In the end, it isn’t only the systems we build or the strategies we draft that define us. It’s the human connections we nurture along the way. And sometimes, the most enduring legacy of leadership isn’t the fixes we delivered, but the moments we chose to listen.