I recently came across an article about Ammar Shams, an accomplished executive and academic, who made the surprising choice to drive a taxi on the streets of Dubai. Not out of necessity, but out of curiosity and a desire to connect with the pulse of real life. What he learned from that experience struck a deep chord with me.
He said, “Everyone is carrying a burden, some heavier than others.” That line brought me right back to my formative years.
You see, my father owned a taxi company. Once I got my driver’s license, I struck a deal with him. I’d pick up his early-morning fares—mostly older women headed to work as domestic helpers. They were quiet, tired, and carried stories in their silence. On Friday nights, I’d switch gears—literally—and drive into the early morning hours. My passengers were a mix of club-goers, families with groceries, and people headed home from late shifts. On Sundays, it was those heading to church, dressed in their best, often riding in silence, perhaps deep in prayer or reflection.
Each passenger came with a different story. They didn’t need to speak for me to learn. Being behind the wheel gave me a front-row seat to humanity. Just like Ammar, I realized that the car was more than transportation—it was a classroom. The lessons weren’t in textbooks, but in observation, patience, and empathy.
But my learning didn’t stop there.
On weekends starting in 9th grade, I worked in a barbershop. I began as the shoeshine boy. Eventually, I became certified as a barber. The barbershop, like the taxi, was another theatre of real life. People let their guard down in that chair. Conversations flowed—from politics to family, to dreams and disappointments. I learned to listen—not just to words, but to what wasn’t being said. I saw confidence built with a fresh cut. I witnessed vulnerability in the smallest gestures.
These weren’t just jobs. They were life labs.
I remember one morning especially. My father had just finished his first round of rides and joined us for breakfast. But something was different. He shared that one of our neighbors had lost their home in a fire the night before. He quietly told my mother to write them a check—and to hand it to them when she saw them that day.
At the time, I just thought, “Wow, that’s generous.” But now, years later, I realize the deeper lesson: we are all walking through something. And if we are in a position to help—even in small ways—we should.
We often think learning only happens in classrooms or training seminars. But life teaches us daily—if we’re willing to pay attention. Every day we walk out the door, we enter a kind of exam room. No multiple-choice questions. No grades. Just moments—quiet and loud—that offer us chances to grow, to choose compassion, to hold back judgment.
When I think of leadership today—whether in boardrooms, classrooms, or communities—I carry these early lessons with me. Lessons from the taxi seat, the barber’s chair, the breakfast table. They keep me grounded. They remind me to listen more, assume less, and lead with heart.
Because, just as Ammar Shams discovered on his journey, the world doesn’t always need another expert. Sometimes, it just needs someone willing to see, to hear, and to care.
