The Weight of Caring
How I built teams by putting people first, and what it cost me
Dִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִִo you ever think that maybe you care too much about certain things, that it costs you something? Like, maybe you think you are “too kind” and people take advantage of you, or maybe you care too much about one aspect of your profession but then people think you are not good at other things?
Throughout my career as a product designer, I’ve received feedback that surprised me more than once. “I think you will make a good people manager.” “Oh God, why do you have to leave? You are our last savior.” “Thanks for advocating for me — I got promoted.” Looking back at those moments, I feel validated and grateful. I never thought of myself as a natural people manager, and honestly, I still don’t.
At the same time, I once received feedback that I needed to get better at managing up and around. That note has stayed with me.
Being a manager means balancing three things at once. Managing up means keeping your leadership informed and accountable for your team’s outcomes. Managing around means building good relationships with peers and cross-functional partners. Managing down means keeping your team supported, motivated, and productive. I’m most comfortable in the middle and bottom of that triangle. Managing up is where I’ve historically been weakest, and I’ll be honest about that. Part of this comes from how I grew up professionally as a designer. What I always wanted from my own managers was trust, autonomy, and a gentler style of leadership. So when I became a manager myself, those were the qualities I committed to giving my team. I told myself: if I take care of the people below me well enough, everything else will follow. I may have been wrong, or at least incomplete in that thinking, but that was my starting point.
I have a high level of empathy, shaped by years of being on the receiving end of pressure, unclear expectations, and poor psychological safety. That experience made me deeply attentive to how my words and actions land with others. Two weeks into one role, teammates were already sharing difficult personal experiences with me, stories about being burned out, feeling mistreated by a previous design director who couldn’t manage expectations. One designer told me she spent an entire night at the office because of it. I’ve had a design intern cry in front of me during a farewell one-on-one, not because of anything I did, but because she felt inadequate throughout her internship. I’ve had a team member desperately want to attend a travel exhibition because it was the only place she felt in control of her work, able to talk to customers without being buried by constraints and deadlines. Her request was denied by a design director who had good intentions but, in my view, didn’t have enough read on what the team needed emotionally.
These moments aren’t unusual in creative teams with low psychological safety. Research backs this up: Google’s Project Aristotle, which studied over 180 teams, found that the single strongest factor behind high-performing teams wasn’t intelligence or technical skill, but psychological safety, the sense of security that allows people to express ideas, admit mistakes, and ask questions without fear of embarrassment or punishment.
An ex-colleague once described me as an inclusive person. I hadn’t thought of it that way. To me, I was simply paying attention to people. I don’t police when someone works from home or what hours they keep. I negotiate timelines for my team when they need breathing room. I treat trust as a default, not something people have to earn back after every mistake. In January 2026, I spoke about this on a podcast with Curious Core, exploring what compassionate leadership looks like inside high-tempo teams. My honest answer: I put more than 50% of my energy into my team’s wellbeing, even if that leaves only 25% each for managing up and managing around. This is supported by research. The Center for Creative Leadership found that managers who practiced empathetic leadership toward direct reports were actually viewed as better performers by their own bosses, a consistent finding across their sample. And studies on empathetic leadership show that leader empathy has a significant effect on follower performance, with job satisfaction and innovation both acting as pathways through which that effect flows.
I know managing up is a gap for me, and good management in all three directions matters. But I also know what I value, what I’m good at, and what kind of leader I want to be. I believe that teams who feel psychologically safe, trusted, and genuinely cared for produce better work and stay longer. Data from Project Aristotle showed that psychological safety was correlated with 43% of the variance in team performance, with high-safety teams showing 19% higher productivity than others. If that means some employers read this and decide I’m not a fit, I’m okay with that. I’d rather be honest about who I am than perform a version of leadership I don’t believe in. Even if this would cost me a job (which it did), I think I would stick to this philosophy.
In conclusion, I believe in these, and nobody can change this for the foreseeable future. This is the recipe for psychological safety in your team. according to me:
Trust first, earn it back later. Autonomy isn’t a reward for good behavior. It’s the starting condition.
Your team’s wellbeing is a business outcome. A burned-out, psychologically unsafe team doesn’t deliver. Caring for people is not soft, it’s strategic.
Listen like you remember what it felt like. The best thing you can bring to a 1-on-1 is the memory of your own worst days as an employee.
Negotiate for your team, relentlessly. Timelines, expectations, space to breathe. A manager’s job is to create conditions where people can actually do their best work.
Be honest about your gaps. Managing up is hard. Admitting that openly, without dressing it up, is itself a form of integrity.
Listen to the podcast: Episode 52 — Compassionate Leadership in High-Tempo Teams, Curious Core. Thanks Daylon Soh.