The Leadership Dilemma of Dead Weight

Leadership is not for the fainthearted. It is not for those who seek neat equations where effort equals outcome, where ambition fuels progress. No, leadership is the art of carrying weight, some of it willing, some of it dead. And therein lies the paradox: the most burdensome are often the ones who neither rise nor collapse, merely existing in that tedious middle ground where nothing is ever quite bad enough to break, nor good enough to build.

There is a quiet truth, spoken in hushed conversations among leaders: What do you do with those who have mastered the careful science of staying afloat without ever moving forward? They neither sink nor strive; they exist in the space between adequacy and apathy. They have refined the delicate art of exerting just enough effort to avoid scrutiny, blending seamlessly into systems that reward presence over performance.

These are the passengers on a ship they refuse to steer yet demand to remain aboard. They know the tides but never row. They recognise the storms but never brace. They demand direction yet resist the journey. They measure their effort in the currency of minimalism, ensuring that no extra sweat is wasted on dreams they do not own.

To lead them is to carry them. Carrying them is to strain under their weight while they master the fine art of passive resistance, where urgency is a suggestion, and excellence is an inconvenience.

The hardest truth? They do not move unless the waters do. They do not respond to vision; they react only to disruption. They do not answer the call of leadership; they shift only when forced by the changing tide.

So, the leader has three choices: bear the weight, drag it at great cost until it slows the entire journey, or change course—stirring the waters until what was once comfortably stationary is suddenly compelled to move.

But what is the cost of such a storm? It is paid in the quiet agony of knowing that those who can be forced into motion were never truly committed to the journey in the first place.

Worse still is the realisation that some will not move, even when the sea turns against them. They will clutch at familiarity, even as it erodes. They will dig in their heels, even as the tide swallows them whole. They will watch the rising waters, not in fear, but in defiance: waiting for someone else to build them a bridge.

But some cargo is meant to be left at sea.

This is not cruelty. This is not failure. It is the discipline of survival.

Every great voyage has a moment when the captain must decide: Do we keep everything we set out with, or do we lighten the load to go further? Some cargo is indispensable. But some? Some are merely relics of obligation, kept aboard out of guilt, habit, or fear of what it means to let go.

A ship that refuses to release its dead weight does not sail; it drifts—directionless, at the mercy of the currents.

So, the leader must decide: Is this ship a place of refuge, or is it a vessel of purpose?

Not all who embark are meant to reach the shore. Some were only ever passing through. Others linger because the journey demands nothing of them. And some never had the will to sail at all—only the fear of being left behind.

But here is the truth we often refuse to admit: sometimes, the weight we carry is not theirs. It is ours.

We spend energy on the reluctant while the willing strain at the oars, waiting for us to choose them instead. We tell ourselves that holding on is leadership, that persistence is the mark of great captains. We believe that letting them go is our failure—a reflection of our inability to inspire or ignite something within them.

But the real failure is this: while we exhaust ourselves on those who resist movement, we neglect those who are ready to sail.

And when the moment comes, it is not the sea that takes them. It is the leader who finally understands: to move forward is to leave some behind.