and politics, a trend that ruled well into the twentieth century. Then, after women gained the right to vote and began to enter the workforce in increasing numbers, a revolutionary shift occurred. More collaborative, relationship-oriented, mutually supportive practices began to emerge as the daughters and granddaughters of the pioneering spirits of the women’s movement gained advanced degrees, excelled in professional fields, and were promoted to management positions.
Inc. magazine’s editor-at-large Leigh Buchanan divides the subsequent evolution of leadership into three rapidly shifting eras: the Age of Autocracy (ancient times into the 1980s), the Age of Empowerment (mid-1990s to the mid-2000s), and the Age of Nurture (mid-2000s to present). Buchanan describes this sequence in her June 2013 article “The De-Machoing of Great Leadership,” but all three styles continue to exist side by side, allowing us to compare them in real time.
Modeling himself on samurai principles, Oracle’s Larry Ellison is a modern poster child for the Age of Autocracy, “as he attacks competitors and pushes employees to the limit.” Buchanan also cites General Electric’s Jack Welch “for his propensity to get rid of employees while leaving buildings intact,” gaining him the uniquely disturbing nickname “Neutron Jack.”
To exemplify the Age of Empowerment, Buchanan cites Starbucks CEO Howard Schultz’s strategy to “rely on store-level employees making decisions based on knowledge of their regions.” She also looks at eBay’s Meg Whitman “whose business model is all about autonomy, which requires her to trust people while insisting on integrity.”
For the Age of Nurture, interestingly enough, Buchanan lauds the antics of three men: David Neeleman, who “dons an apron and serves snacks to JetBlue passengers”; Whole Foods’ John Mackey, who “contributes $100,000 annually to a fund for workers with personal struggles”; and Tony Hsieh, who “enshrines honesty, humility, and weirdness among Zappo’s core values.”
“Increasingly,” Buchanan asserts, “the chief executive role is taking its place among the caring professions. It takes a tender person to lead a tough company.”
And, I would argue, it takes a tough person to lead a caring organization. But not in the way we usually define “tough.” I’m not talking about a Larry Ellison or Neutron Jack. I’m thinking more along the lines of an Abraham Lincoln or a George Washington, two exceptional leaders who upheld controversial, socially conscious goals during exceedingly dangerous, pivotal moments in history.
What we’re really talking about here is a long-standing, though initially slow-moving, trend toward balancing assertive, goal-oriented behavior and compassionate, relationship-oriented behavior that reached a tipping point in the late-twentieth century. In her June 2013 article “Between Venus and Mars: 7 Traits of True Leaders,” Buchanan cites Lincoln as “a man for our times,” one clearly capable of “merging masculine traits (strength of purpose, tenacity) with feminine ones (empathy, openness, the willingness to nurture others).” America’s sixteenth president went to war to uphold his convictions, and yet his “humility and inclusiveness made possible the ‘team of rivals’ described by Doris Kearns Goodwin in the popular book of that title. Generous and empathic, he made time for people of all stations who approached him with their troubles.”
Still, it’s important to appreciate the level of emotional heroism it takes to combine “masculine” and “feminine” qualities, especially in challenging situations. In The Power of the Herd, I analyzed George Washington’s impressive career in several chapters and came to the conclusion that in triumph — and, more importantly, in long, drawn-out periods of confusion and despair — he was a far more compassionate and inventive leader than most people realize.
“Let your heart feel for the affliction and distress of everyone,” Washington advised. This was no small feat for a general who shivered with his troops and felt helpless as many of them starved to death at Valley Forge. Yet letters to trusted allies and friends reveal that he dealt with his own heightened sensitivity for years, struggling to maintain composure in the midst of searing empathic responses to the settlers he encountered during the French and Indian War: “I see their situation, know their danger, and participate in their sufferings without having it in my power to give them further relief than uncertain promises,” he wrote to his British superiors in 1756, asking for support. “The supplicating tears of the women and moving petitions from the men melt me into such deadly sorrow that I solemnly declare, if I know my own mind, I could offer myself a willing sacrifice to the butchering enemy, provided it would contribute to the people’s ease.”
Though Washington was able to renew himself in Mount Vernon’s pastoral embrace after the French and Indian War, rest and success did not make him complacent. As Washington repeatedly reentered public life, supporting one desperate cause after another, the turmoil he endured voluntarily is truly staggering. Rather than shield his heart against the disappointment, anguish, and sheer horror he witnessed, Washington remained steady and thoughtful in the midst of feelings that would have short-circuited the average person’s nervous system. His was not the coolness of the sociopath who feels no fear, but the authentic hard-won calmness of a man whose emotional stamina was so great that he was willing to accompany people into the depths of despair, and stay with them, offering hope through sheer presence.
In situations that most leaders would find hopeless, Washington’s unique combination of fierceness, fairness, authority, courage, self-control, and empathy kept people from lapsing into seemingly justified selfish, revenge-seeking, survivalist behavior. His open heart wasn’t hardened by adversity, nor did it keep him from making tough decisions. He refused to coddle deserters or looters, ordering severe floggings of men caught stealing food. On rare occasions, he executed soldiers planning widespread revolt. And yet, he instituted a policy of humanity for prisoners of war, even as the British executed and tortured his own captured troops.
It’s reasonable to say that Washington was one of those rare individuals capable of combining “masculine” and “feminine” forms of leadership, but it’s more accurate to say he was a “Master Herder,” someone capable of performing five crucial leadership roles fluidly, interchangeably, as needed.
In The Power of the Herd, I built a case for the fact that this at-once innovative and ancient approach to leadership stemmed from Washington’s own experience taking care of large herds of powerful animals. He found and trained horses capable of enduring the challenges of war, and he rode and cared for all the others daily in times of peace.
Washington’s ability to use the Five Roles of a Master Herder was developed over decades, though this nature-based wisdom supported his many goals at a subconscious level, like a musician who plays brilliantly without giving technique a second thought. He never wrote about using these skills — though the animals he relied upon would have demanded he hone this balance every day (just as my own herd introduced me to the same set of skills over two hundred years later). Even so, this experiential wisdom helped Washington become an exceptional leader capable of transcending the problems of a dualistic approach, allowing him to move beyond the human preoccupation with “opposites” like male versus female, power versus collaboration, mind versus heart, logic versus feeling, and assertive, goal-oriented behavior versus compassionate, relationship-oriented behavior. This ambitious, socially intelligent perspective is what our current, fast-changing culture increasingly asks both men and women to adopt.
The Five Roles of a Master Herder make sense of previously confusing group dynamics, while helping people to develop a mature, balanced, mutually empowering approach to leadership and social intelligence: at work, school, home, and in larger cultural contexts. This model helps us navigate change, handle conflict, and support innovation that serves the individual as well as the group, and perhaps most importantly, the health and well-being of all species and countless generations to come.
What more could we possibly
