Let’s talk about kings.
Not the fairytale version wearing a gold-plated crown, disconnected from reality and real responsibility. Not the tyrant who confuses fear for respect, who puffs out his chest and demands allegiance because he doesn’t yet command it. And definitely not the insecure man who’s addicted to validation and attention, chasing power because he’s terrified of presence.
I’m talking about the kind of king whose throne isn’t earned through dominance or noise, but through grounded stillness, moral clarity, and the capacity to hold his position—not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually, and energetically—when everything around him is demanding he flinch.
This is the work I do, and this is the battlefield I know best. I walk with men who have had enough—who are done pretending, done performing, done playing by rules that were never written by them in the first place. I work with men who are ready to stop chasing, start choosing, and begin leading not just their careers or their companies, but their lives—from the inside out. And I support the women in their lives who are either longing for a man willing to stand in that kind of sovereign power, or are learning how to awaken and embody that same masculine presence within themselves.
But today, this conversation is for the men.
The Piece That Doesn’t Move
If you’ve ever played chess, even just casually, then you understand that each piece carries a different function, a unique style of movement, and a specific form of influence across the board. The knights twist unpredictably. The bishops slice diagonally through tension. The rook crashes down the file with force. The queen, in all her glory, is the most powerful piece in the game.
But the king—he barely moves at all.
In fact, the best games are the ones where the king never has to move, where he stays rooted, immovable, steady in his square while everything else does what it’s meant to do.
Because if the king is moving too much, it means the board is breaking down.
The king’s greatest strength isn’t in speed or style, but in stillness—in becoming the unwavering center around which every other piece orbits and organizes itself.
Stillness Isn’t Weakness—It’s the Highest Form of Strength
Let me be very clear: the king’s stillness is not laziness, complacency, or resignation. This isn’t Al Bundy from Married with Children, slouched on the couch with one hand in his waistband and the other wrapped around a remote control, checked out of his marriage, his manhood, and his meaning. That is not stillness—that is exile. That is a man who has abdicated his throne long ago and replaced it with cynicism, sarcasm, and a thin layer of shame he tries to mask with humor.
Stillness isn’t the new-age “Zen bro” either, the guy who quotes Rumi and talks about “sacred space” but conveniently disappears every time a difficult conversation with his partner demands he bring some backbone. And it’s not the man who calls himself calm when what he really is… is numb, disconnected, and emotionally unreachable.
True stillness—the kind I’m talking about—is a form of leadership that requires you to feel everything, absorb the full complexity of a moment, and still stay centered without running, rescuing, or reacting. It’s the ability to listen longer than you want to, to sit in silence when your ego wants to scream, and to bear witness to other people’s storms without making them about you.
The king doesn’t ground the board because he’s the loudest or flashiest or most aggressive piece. He grounds the board because he holds, because he does not abandon himself, and because he is clear on what matters and is unwilling to betray it for cheap validation or temporary comfort.
He doesn’t stand still because he’s stuck.
He stands still because he’s anchored.
The Pawn Who Couldn’t Be Found
I’ve worked with hundreds of men across all stages of life and leadership, and what I’ve seen again and again is that two men can look exactly the same on the outside—same income, same age, same success story—but underneath, they are playing entirely different games.
Ben, for instance, looked like a solid man from a distance: he had a good job, a decent marriage, kids in a nice school, and a house with a well-kept lawn. But once we peeled back the layers, it became painfully clear that Ben was not leading his life—he was simply reacting to it, bending to it, and shape-shifting within it, hoping no one would notice he had no real center of gravity.
Ben was a pawn, not because he lacked potential, but because he had spent his entire adult life adjusting who he was in order to avoid conflict, stay liked, and keep the illusion of peace. He told himself he was being flexible, emotionally intelligent, and easy to live with, but what he really was… was nowhere to be found.
He shifted his parenting style based on what other dads were doing, one week enforcing discipline with lectures on accountability, the next tossing iPads to his kids at breakfast to avoid another argument. At work, he would preach budget discipline on Monday and approve a bloated, unnecessary consultant contract by Thursday because someone persuasive made him feel special. And at home, he’d promise his wife emotional intimacy in therapy but then ghost her the moment she brought up real pain.
He changed his “values” the way a politician changes talking points—based on the audience, the climate, and whatever would generate the least amount of tension.
Ben wasn’t leading anyone, because he wasn’t standing anywhere.
His wife couldn’t trust his word—not because he lied, but because it constantly shifted. His kids didn’t come to him for grounding, because there was no gravity in his presence. His team followed his emails, but not his example.
And because Ben wouldn’t claim a square and stay rooted in it, his kingdom—his marriage, his household, his leadership—slowly started drifting into confusion, exhaustion, and quiet collapse.
The Climber Who Came Home
Now, contrast that with Elias.
Elias was a man who looked, by all appearances, like the real deal. High-level executive. Razor sharp. Highly respected. He wore the suit well, delivered the keynote, closed the deal, crushed every metric you could throw at him.
But behind the curated image, Elias wasn’t ruling anything. He was sprinting through life in pursuit of achievement, but completely disconnected from presence, from purpose, and from the people who actually mattered to him. His wife felt distant. His kids described him as “busy.” His body was breaking down from stress, but he wore that as a badge of honor.
Then came the rupture.
Not a scandal, not a demotion, not a financial collapse—just grief.
The sudden death of his best friend shattered the illusion of control he’d spent his entire life trying to maintain. All the titles, the possessions, the accomplishments—none of it could shield him from the reality that he had built a kingdom of motion with no center.
But instead of spinning harder, Elias stopped.
He sat down, not in defeat, but in return.
He walked into his living room, put his phone down, and just was with his kids—no agenda, no distraction, just presence. He sat across from his wife and told her the truth—no script, no spin, just soul. He pulled his team together and admitted what most leaders never do: that he had drifted away from himself, from his values, from his vision—and that he was back.
Not back to dominate.
Back to hold.
Back to his square.
Back to the throne he had left behind in pursuit of things that never really mattered.
And the moment Elias reclaimed that square—not with bravado, but with presence—his kingdom didn’t just notice. It reorganized around him.
This Is the Work of Kings
You don’t become a king by grabbing more, hustling harder, or demanding recognition.
You become a king the moment you stop giving away your ground to people who haven’t earned it, stories that aren’t true, and patterns that no longer serve you.
You lead not by command, but by coherence. You rise not by sprinting, but by staying.
And when you do—when you finally stop running and start reigning—the world around you begins to move in rhythm again. Not perfectly. Not painlessly. But powerfully.
Because when the king holds his square, the board stabilizes.
The queen rises.
The knights charge.
The bishops sweep.
The pawns progress.
Not because he forces them to—but because his presence makes it possible.
Your Square Is Waiting
So if you’re tired of playing the Nice Guy, or the Corporate Climber, or any hollow masculine caricature in between—if you are done drifting, shape-shifting, or sitting on the sidelines of your own life—then it’s time to stop moving.
Don’t hustle harder.
Don’t perform more.
Don’t spend the second half of your life searching for something that was yours to claim all along.
Take your square.
Stand still.
Hold.
Because the king who doesn’t budge?
That’s the king who reigns.
