In January 2019, some 42,000 active-duty service members woke up to find their Leave-and-Earnings Statement balance read $0. Two weeks later, it happened again. During a particularly partisan government shutdown, for which the whole of government has come to brace for every October, the U.S. Coast Guard went unpaid along with most other federal employees. Unlike other federal workers, however, the Coast Guard’s obligations as an armed force required their continued service, underway patrols, radio monitoring, and lifesaving measures, albeit now in a compulsory volunteer status. Never before had a uniformed service gone unpaid. Now it had happened twice. Official channels suggested these members sell their possessions to make ends meet. Emergency food pantries were established. Second jobs became authorized. Morale was at an understandably all-time low.
Amidst all the chaos, a new managerial buzzword emerged: intrusive leadership. The concept had been pushed around military blogs for nearly a decade, but it had not permeated the Coast Guard jargon with recurring regularity until the shutdown, when leaders needed to swiftly account for the personal safety and security of those charged with maintaining national safety and security. It became the mantra for all-hands briefs, the rallying cry for senior officers and command senior enlisted leaders to push upon their beleaguered junior officers and chiefs mess, weary from their own financial concerns and wary of this new intrusion into their private affairs. In theory, the idea is a noble, righteous call to ensure no one is left out, going hungry, facing crisis, or otherwise in too deep. It is a call to care—not for mission, or metrics, or efficiencies, but for people.
But to those unfamiliar with their bosses’ sudden enthusiasm for exploring their private lives, the well-intended intrusive leadership felt . . . intrusive. In practice, the act became a perfunctory authorization to snoop into junior members’ affairs, veiled by half-hearted empathy. It was systemic coercion to get supervisors to know their people, people who just weeks prior were employees, maybe acquaintances, perhaps drinking buddies, and on very rare occasion friends. Leaders were asked to step up, and though most answered the call with considerable emotional intelligence, far too many were unprepared to do so. In that moment of crisis was not the time to begin to learn one another.
Once we got paid, and the world started to look and act more familiarly, the titular importance placed on upholding the pillars of intrusive leadership seemed to fade. There was no longer an overemphasized expectation to care for each other, understand each other, or know each other the way we had been asked to before. Newfound military workplace compassion receded in favor of a return to the status quo of arms-length leadership: “First name.” “Spouse’s name.” “Number of kids.” To get credit for knowing your people, be able to fumble out two of three on any given day. This is a problem. Modern leadership requires much more than confidence and competence in leading operations; it requires compassion and commitment in leading people.
Intrusive leadership has two distinct and unrecoverable flaws. First, by its own definition to be intrusive is to cause disruption or annoyance through being unwelcome or uninvited. Under duress, it is vital to understand your people’s situations to make informed decisions that affect their wellbeing. If your boss requested unrestricted access into your most vulnerable corners—your financial, familial, and emotional health—you would surely be guarded; certainly this new information will remain in your boss’ impression of you and your character long after the crisis has passed. A level of trust must have been developed prior to this prodding, lest you brush those intrusions off with a dismissive “I’m fine,” restricting you access to helpful resources and assistance. The groundwork of having confidence in someone else’s ability to safeguard your information must have been laid out well in advance. If your sudden and feigned interest into your subordinates’ situations at a time of crisis makes them uncomfortable, your intrusion into their lives demonstrates how little you have cared for them. It runs contrary to the intent of Intrusive Leadership; it leads to marginalization, isolation, and resentment from those you are charged with leading.
The second and much larger problem with intrusive leadership is that is implies that there is any form of leadership that could exist without a deep and personal understanding and caring for one’s people. Intrusive leadership is leadership—period. Drop the qualifier. It exists all the time, regardless of circumstance. The best bosses I have worked for have been smart, and capable, and confident. They told me what to do, and how to do it, and why it matters. But more importantly, they asked me how I was, and what did I need, and if I understood. They cared about my performance, but more importantly they cared about me. There is no faking that. Intrusive leadership, or perhaps more appropriately Invested Leadership, is the act of demonstrating the compassion and commitment to one’s people that makes them excited to work for you. Makes them excited to strive for more. Makes them be their best self. Investing in one’s people cannot begin in a time of chaos. It may be fortified by chaos, but it cannot start there. It is grown, little by little, in passing moments of authenticity: during impromptu conversations in the passageway, or a quick note of appreciation, or just taking a few moments away from your inbox to have a coffee or take a walk or answer a question. Fleeting pauses out of your day, performed over time with some regularity, nourish the possibility of long-term trust and two-way commitment. And in times of crisis, the necessity to be intrusive becomes much easier because the trust is already established.
The role models I had the opportunity to work for during the 2019 shutdown solidified my conviction that invested leadership is the only way to lead. I observed how they cared for their people in the years prior to the distress and paid close attention to the genuine thoughtfulness and love they showed to those under their command before, during, and after the disorder. It was in that time that I decided the kind of leadership I wanted to model my career after. I have chosen to invest in learning my people, and I am certainly a more effective leader for doing so. The opportunity to influence and direct another person’s life and career is the highest honor and greatest responsibility I as a military leader am charged with undertaking.
In January 2020, a new challenge struck the world. The COVID-19 demands an intimacy amongst crews never before seen. This time, the Coast Guard already had forged an understanding of leading their own through existential crisis. With the muscle memory of the previous year’s Intrusive Leadership fundamentals not yet atrophied, we are better prepared to assist one another. The sweeping adoption of technology has turned living rooms into wardrooms. I’ve held qualification boards via FaceTime. My all-hands over Zoom have allowed me insights into the real lives of my people: I’ve seen the inside of my executive officer’s guest room, had family pets and home-schooled kids photobomb my conference calls, and interrupted the plan of the week to (virtually) meet newborn babies. Without the trust built among me and my team, without that demonstrated two-way commitment, I do not think I would be invited into their unfiltered lives. I would not have the understanding or appreciation I do for those I have the opportunity to lead.
The authenticity derived from caring for your people cannot be feigned, or framed, in moments of need. If a leader is forced to rapidly deploy “intrusive leadership” to elicit information about their people’s wellbeing in a time of crisis, there has been a previous failure to care for their people. Intrusion should never be problematic because there should never be an unwelcome feeling to share information. The responsibility to erode a subordinate’s apprehension over divulging personal needs falls squarely on the superior. There is a time to worry about the mission, but there is never not a time to worry about the people.
The legacy of invested leadership will persist after your departure from both your current team and your time in service, as those whom you mentor matriculate into having their own people to learn and develop. Your actions positively influence not only those immediate people you interact with, but the teams those people make up in the future. Your proactivity can transcend your personal influence; it can shape units and personnel with which you will never come into contact.
Future challenges will test our personal resiliency. When it does, you do not want to start to learn who works for you. The time invested in developing meaningful and authentic relationships early will be of much greater utility when the time is needed for real, earnest accounts from those most unlikely to provide them. Having proven your ability, and equally importantly your willingness, to listen, and understand, and remember who your people are and what they’re seeking will aid in your ability to draw from those relationships and make meaningful positive changes in their lives in those critical moments.
The Coast Guard’s greatest strength is its workforce. If people truly are our greatest asset, then we as leaders need to lean into that responsibility. Learn your people. Learn the human behind the nametape. The reward will be greater, your relationships stronger and more valuable, and your service more meaningful for the effort.
