A Musing on how we see, misread, and form one another.
Last week, one of the resident caregivers paused beside me and asked,
“Were you in the navy?”
I laughed. “No,” I said, “not even close. Why do you ask?”
She shrugged in that soft, honest way people do when they’re simply naming what they see.
“Because you’re so disciplined,” she said.
“So organized. So steady.”
I thanked her and went back to my cart, but her words stayed with me.
What she noticed was real.
What she assumed about it was not.
She was reading my steadiness as the kind of discipline shaped by control —
the discipline we associate with command, hierarchy, and pressure.
But the rhythm she was actually feeling was something gentler:
a discipline born from care, not command.
Devotion, not domination.
And it made me wonder how often we confuse the two —
how often we mistake someone’s devotion
for something harder, colder, more forceful than it is.
Because discipline may look the same on the outside,
but its spirit is always different:
Some discipline comes from domination.
Some from devotion.
What We See vs. What We Sense
The more I sat with her comment, the more I realized this:
Most people don’t actually see discipline.
They sense its spirit.
But because we rarely slow down enough to name what we’re sensing,
we default to the most familiar story —
the one our culture has rehearsed for generations:
Discipline = control.
Discipline = command.
Discipline = domination.
So when people encounter someone who is steady, committed, intentional —
someone who moves with care instead of chaos —
they interpret it through the only category they’ve been given.
We don’t ask,
“What is this person devoted to?”
We ask,
“Who trained them to be this way?”
It reveals something quiet and sad about us:
We expect discipline to come from pressure,
not presence.
From authority,
not affection.
From domination,
not devotion.
We’ve become so used to seeing discipline wielded as a tool of control
that we’ve forgotten it can also be an expression of love.
So when devotion shows up in ordinary work —
washing dishes, tending elders, helping coworkers —
it feels unfamiliar.
Almost foreign.
Almost suspicious.
Not because devotion is rare,
but because our language for it is fading.
We don’t have many spaces left
that teach us how to recognize discipline
when it comes from the heart instead of the hand.
The Two Spirits of Discipline
Over time I’ve learned that discipline isn’t one thing.
It has two spirits, two motives, two entirely different roots —
and we feel the difference long before we understand it.
1. Discipline as Domination
This is the discipline most of us were raised to notice.
It comes through:
- pressure
- urgency
- hierarchy
- fear of falling short
- the belief that people change when controlled enough
It sharpens.
It tightens.
It demands.
Even when it’s efficient,
it is rarely gentle.
This is the discipline of clenched jaws and clipped instructions,
the kind that feels like being managed rather than met.
It produces order, yes —
but it rarely produces trust.
2. Discipline as Devotion
Then there is the quieter kind.
This discipline is not forced but formed —
grown the way roots remember where the water is.
It comes through:
- care
- reverence
- intention
- a desire to honor the work
- a sense of responsibility to something larger than ego
It steadies.
It softens.
It strengthens without tightening.
This discipline doesn’t insist.
It invites.
It creates a space where people breathe easier,
not brace harder.
You can feel it in the way someone moves,
in the way they clean a counter or carry a plate —
a presence that says:
“This matters, and so I’m here.”
What Happens When Discipline Shifts
Something subtle happens inside us when discipline moves from one spirit to the other.
We don’t always name it, but we feel it — in the body, in the room, in the way we breathe.
When discipline shifts toward domination,
the world tightens.
Breath shortens.
Shoulders lift.
People speak less and apologize more.
The space between humans turns into a hallway — narrow, directional, monitored.
You stop feeling guided
and start feeling managed.
You begin to work from vigilance, not vision.
You perform instead of participate.
You brace instead of belong.
Even if the work gets done,
something inside goes quiet.
Some part of you — the part that wants to care —
steps back.
Because domination can produce results,
but it cannot produce relationship.
But when discipline shifts toward devotion,
everything softens.
Breath deepens.
Voices return.
Mistakes become moments instead of warnings.
The room expands — like a window just opened.
You feel met instead of monitored.
You feel trusted instead of tested.
You start moving with intention,
not obligation.
With steadiness,
not strain.
With care,
not caution.
Devotion doesn’t lower standards;
it restores spirit.
It turns effort into integrity.
It turns rhythm into meaning.
It turns work into something that feels
— somehow —
like love.
And the remarkable thing is this:
The behavior might look the same.
But the experience is completely different.
Domination orders the world.
Devotion opens it.
One compels.
The other cultivates.
One shapes behavior.
The other shapes being.
And we know, without needing explanation,
which one we’re built for.
How This Shows Up in Leadership
Leadership is where the difference becomes unmistakable.
You can feel it the moment a leader walks into a room.
You don’t even need words — the body knows before the mind names it.
Domination in Leadership
This leader’s discipline tightens the space.
People sit up straighter, but not because they’re inspired.
They’re bracing.
Conversations get shorter.
Breaths get shallower.
Mistakes get quieter.
The room becomes a place of:
- monitoring
- managing
- performing
- proving
This is leadership shaped by domination —
where discipline exists to maintain control,
not cultivate character.
It can produce results,
but it rarely produces people.
Devotion in Leadership
This leader’s discipline feels entirely different.
They walk in with steadiness, not severity.
The room settles, but doesn’t shrink.
People relax into themselves.
Voices open.
Ideas breathe.
This leader doesn’t lower standards —
they lift the space.
Because their discipline isn’t about tightening the world around them.
It’s about tending the people within it.
Devotion shows up in:
- quiet consistency
- unhurried presence
- honoring commitments
- caring for details
- the way they listen
- the way they respond to tension with a deeper breath, not a louder voice
Devotion doesn’t make people obedient.
It makes them courageous.
It turns work into belonging
and expectations into shared purpose.
Why Domination Became the Default
If domination feels familiar and devotion feels rare,
there’s a reason for that.
Most of us grew up in systems built to manage bodies,
not nurture spirit.
Schools taught us to stay in line.
Work taught us to stay productive.
Families taught us to stay obedient.
Even faith communities — the places meant to hold the heart —
often taught us to stay compliant.
Somewhere along the way,
we absorbed a quiet lesson:
“Control creates order.
Order creates safety.
Safety creates success.”
So domination became the universal template —
the way we disciplined ourselves,
the way we disciplined others,
the way we experienced being disciplined.
We inherited a world where discipline was synonymous with:
- punishment
- pressure
- performance
- perfectionism
- proving your worth
And because that version was everywhere,
we assumed it was the only version.
But here’s the truth no one names:
Domination isn’t natural.
It’s memorized.
It’s a survival rhythm learned from environments
that didn’t have the time, resources, or language
to teach tenderness.
Domination is efficient.
That’s why it spreads.
But devotion is effective.
That’s why it heals.
Why Devotion Is So Easily Misread
Devotion should be the most recognizable thing in the world.
It’s steady.
It’s warm.
It’s attentive.
It’s patient.
And yet —
in our culture, devotion is often the last thing people see.
Why?
Because most of us lost the ability to name devotion.
We grew up around discipline that sounded like domination,
looked like domination,
and felt like domination.
So the only story we learned was:
“Discipline = control.”
When devotion shows up with that same intensity —
the same steadiness,
the same commitment,
the same attention to detail —
people don’t associate it with love.
They associate it with training,
with hierarchy,
with authority.
They feel the weight,
but not the warmth.
Most people have never been formed by devotion,
so they don’t recognize it when they meet it.
How We Return to Devotion
If domination became our default,
we return to devotion through something much slower:
Noticing.
Noticing the way your hands move when you care.
Noticing the difference between tension and presence.
Noticing how your breath shifts when you rush
versus when you mean something.
Devotion isn’t dramatic.
It isn’t loud.
It doesn’t announce itself.
It’s the smallest form of honesty:
This matters, and so do I.
It’s the way you honor simple work.
The way you carry yourself through ordinary moments.
The way you show up even when no one is measuring.
Domination creates order.
Devotion creates life.
And somewhere inside each of us,
life still knows which one it belongs to.
A Closing Reflection
If discipline can come from devotion or domination,
the invitation isn’t to judge yourself —
it’s simply to notice.
Here are a few gentle questions to carry:
- Does my discipline soften me, or does it tighten me?
- Do people breathe easier around my steadiness, or do they brace?
- Is the rhythm I keep rooted in care… or in control?
- What spirit sits behind the way I hold what matters?
Because discipline is never just action.
It is always spirit.
And when we begin to notice the spirit behind our discipline,
we begin to remember the place in us where devotion still lives —
quiet, steady, waiting to be practiced again.