The simplest leadership lesson I keep relearning

April 12th, 1976. A plane landed in the Netherlands. It carried around 20 children from India, along with some guides. Each child had a band-aid on their wrist with their name written on it. They were traveling toward new families they had never met.

My sister was one of them. She was almost five years old back then.

Every year on that date, we mark the anniversary. This year was the fiftieth, so we decided to celebrate in a special way.

Meet my little sister

My sister has a minimal brain dysfunction (that’s how they called it back then). This means her intellectual development stopped early. It was probably due to oxygen shortage during birth. At 55, her cognitive age is still close to that of a child. She is emotionally sensitive, but her limited vocabulary often stops her from putting her feelings into words.

My parents were not aware of this when they adopted her. The diagnosis came later. Once it did, my mother in particular, gave an enormous amount of herself to making sure my sister had everything she needed. Special schools, specialist care, daily presence, unconditional love. My mother passed away sixteen years ago. The more I reflect on what she gave, the more I understand how profound a commitment that was.

My sister is cheerful and caring. She lives in a supported home with about ten others in a similar situation. She has her own apartment, which she looks after herself. She has a social workplace she visits during the week. She has a boyfriend. She enjoys Dutch folk singers. She has a phone and uses it enthusiastically. Her life is genuinely hers.

Time to celebrate

She had been calling me every week since we made plans for her 50th anniversary. Sometimes more often, just to tell me how much she was looking forward to it. That is how she works. When something good is coming, she wants everyone around her to know about it. And she will keep reminding you. It can be a little much sometimes. It is also charming.

My wife and I picked her up together with her boyfriend on Saturday afternoon. We started with coffee and cake. Then we went shopping for a new bag. She had been carrying a worn-out bag. I thought a proper leather one would make a good gift. We went into a shop and explained to the owner what we were looking for.

At first, my sister stood quietly next to me, a little timid, letting us do the talking.

Then I invited her in. Feel the leather of the bags. Try the zippers. Inspect the inside. Hang them on your shoulder and look in the mirror.

And slowly, she unfroze. She started pulling bags from the shelves. She tried them on, held them up, and commented in her way. She became confident and knew what she wanted. The choice was hers. I stood back and tried not to show how proud I was of her gradual transformation. Watching that happen was one of the nicest moments of the day.

Memories

In the evening, we went to an Indian restaurant. It used to be an annual tradition, but somehow it drifted. Other restaurants, missed years, schedules that didn’t align. But fifty years felt like the right moment to go back. My kids were there too, all three of them, around one table. The food was amazing. By the end of the meal, we all agreed this should become an annual tradition again.

My sister has no memories of India. She was too young when she left. Her condition means those early years left no trace to be retrieved. When you ask if she would like to visit someday, she is not particularly drawn to the idea. She is Dutch. This is her home. Yet she watches Bollywood films. I only found that out this Saturday. She does not remember India, but something in her recognizes it. I find that quietly remarkable.

Lessons learned

When my sister is in a group, and someone else is clearly in charge, she retreats. She becomes quiet and content, but not really present. People then start speaking for her rather than to her.

But when you engage with her directly, on her level, something shifts. There is no one governing the conversation. She opens up and participates. She will occasionally surprise you with a remark that is sharper or funnier than you expected.

The lesson I take from that is not just about my sister. It applies to anyone who is seen as different: by ability, background, style, or pace. If you speak about them instead of to them, they will go quiet. Not because they had nothing to offer, but because the environment signaled that their contribution was not wanted or expected.

Engage directly. Create space. Reach out to others rather than expecting them to reach out to you. You will be surprised by what shows up.