This is the first in a series of essays where I explore how we take up space, hold complexity, and shape the world around us. Not from the usual playbooks—or the usual voices—that no longer serve us. I want to look sideways. From the edges. From art, from the body, from the places that whisper instead of shout.

Today, I begin with jazz, although this isn’t just a piece about jazz. It’s about how to hold something important without suffocating it. How to take center stage—and then step back. How to move through uncertainty without losing the beat. This came to life, vividly and viscerally, in the streets and stages of Umbria Jazz this July. And it moved me deeply.

I want to focus on three figures that, of all the concerts I attended, left a lasting impression.

Isaiah Collier played with fire. He leads with precision, intensity, and gravity. His band revolves around him—tight, focused, brilliant—but still somewhat contained. It’s the energy of a founder who hasn’t fully handed over the reins. A master still learning when to let others shine.

Melissa Aldana was something else entirely. Her saxophone speaks in full sentences. It aches, it provokes, it reveals. But her presence on stage is still evolving, as if her sound was already fully there, while the center of gravity she’s meant to hold is still emerging.

And then, there was Samara Joy. At 25, she commanded the space with astonishing grace. She doesn’t dominate. She doesn’t need to. Her voice is timeless and her presence soft but total. Around her, a band of extraordinary musicians—each one powerful in their own right—plays not to compete, but to connect. Each brings their greatness and pours it into the collective. What stunned me was the beauty of a shared frequency. A kind of power that doesn’t need to assert itself. It just is.

As I listened, I found myself tuning in not only to the music but to how they were relating. Who leads, who listens, when someone steps in—or out. These are the same questions I bring to rooms where decisions are made: strategy meetings, board sessions, crisis conversations. I thought: what would it take for a team, or a system, to function with this level of mutual awareness?The festival itself was extraordinary. The atmosphere, the level of talent, the generosity of the music—all of it stayed with me. I listened to many more artists, each with something remarkable to offer. But I’ve chosen to focus on these three, deliberately. Not because they were the only ones who moved me, but because together, they reflect a range of ways we show up under pressure, in the spotlight, and in relationship with others.

Sitting there—in the warm Italian nights, surrounded by ancient stone and the pulse of music—I realized something I already knew, but hadn’t put into words: I want to look at influence, impact, and decision-making from another angle. Not from theory. Not from doctrine. But from the real, the felt, the embodied.

Because jazz, when it happens, isn’t just music. It’s a living system. A choreography of complexity. A way of listening, of responding, of trusting. Of creating something together that none of us could create alone.

What I saw on those stages is what I want to bring into rooms of power. Not as metaphor, but as method. As insight. As practice. Because the way we move in these spaces—how we show up, how we hold space, how we hand over the mic—shapes everything. And I believe we’re being called now to move differently.

As I reflect on the musicianship I witnessed, I think about how each musician navigated the delicate dance between presence and absence. In jazz—as in life—the most powerful moments often occur in the space between notes—when a player pulls back, allowing others to fill the silence. This balance of giving and receiving energy, of stepping forward and stepping back, is crucial not only in music but in leadership and collaboration as well.

From today on, I’ll be sharing fragments and stories from the borders—between disciplines, cultures, and languages—to invite new conversations. Today it’s jazz.

Next, another scene, another signal, another way of engaging with complexity.

Because in the end, it might just be about this: awakening and tuning the genius within us. The one that knows how to stand still without hardening. To hold tension without dominating. To live complexity with grace. And sometimes, to turn it into something that makes us cry from beauty.

Turning Edge Into Action

Jazz and leadership: both require us to move through complexity with grace, presence, and trust. To navigate these spaces, I offer you a tool — “Flow’, inspired by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi’s groundbreaking work on the psychology of optimal experience.

In Flow, Csikszentmihalyi describes how individuals can enter a state of total immersion and performance when the challenge matches their skill level, creating a sense of timelessness and effortless mastery. It’s the perfect balance between presence and absence, just like the musicianship I witnessed — knowing when to step forward and when to pull back.

Now, I invite you to reflect on this dynamic in your own leadership practice. Ask yourself:

• Am I taking up too much space right now?

• When should I step back and let others shine?

• How does it feel to release the need to dominate?

Flow offers the kind of fluidity that allows teams and systems to truly thrive —where leadership shifts from control to trust, rhythm, and collective genius. It’s the perfect space to explore and embrace in these times of change. Enjoy it.