That morning felt like any other. We followed our usual routine, the same path and the same quiet rhythm, with Jasper happily trotting along beside us. We saw our neighbor, the one we always run into around the same time. His dog looks so much like Jasper that we have always joked they are cousins. It is one of those small, familiar connections that makes a neighborhood feel like home.

We exchanged our usual good morning. Nothing felt different. His dog just was not there. My husband, being kind as always, asked, “How’s your puppy dog?” And just like that, everything shifted. The neighbor’s face fell, and he said softly, “He passed away.”

It is hard to explain what happens in a moment like that. My heart sank immediately. Not just for him, but for the weight behind those words. The absence of something that used to be so present. In that moment, I did not just hear him. I felt him. And I realized that a version of me from years ago would not have felt it the same way.

Growing up, I did not really have a dog. There was one, Pee Wee, who belonged to a family friend who lived with us for a short while, but he ran away. That was the extent of it. Dogs were around, but they were not central to my life. They did not hold that deep, emotional place.

I remember a friend of mine who got a dog. Suddenly, everything in her life seemed to revolve around it. She would leave early, adjust plans, and sometimes, in the middle of hanging out, she would say she missed her dog and wanted to go home. At the time, I tried to understand. I really did. I told myself her dog was like her child, and I respected that. I was not annoyed or frustrated. I believed I was being empathetic.

At least, I thought I was.

Then Claudio and I adopted Jasper.

And everything changed.

There is a difference between understanding something in your mind and feeling it in your body. Before Jasper, I could understand my friend’s attachment to her dog. After Jasper, I felt it. It became real in a way that did not require explanation.

Now, I find myself wanting to spend most of my time with him. It is not even a decision. It just feels natural. If someone invites me somewhere, I pause in a way I never used to. Before, I might go just to go, just to be polite or keep plans. Now, I think about the depth of the interaction. I think about whether it truly matters. If it does not, I would rather stay home with Jasper.

That shift did not come from logic. It came from connection.

Claudio and I used to love traveling. Flying, especially. We had our routine. He would give me the window seat, I would settle in with my blanket, and we would relax into the flight. There was something comforting about it. Easy and familiar. We loved all inclusive resorts in Mexico. The calm, the simplicity, and the way time slowed down. We went three times in one year once, and going twice a year was not unusual for us.

That was before Jasper.

Now, travel looks different. It is not that we cannot go. It is that we choose not to go in the same way. Jasper is too big to sit with us, which means he would have to go in cargo. For us, that is not an option. So we adjusted.

Our vacations became road trips. Places we can reach together. Oregon, San Diego, San Jose more times than I can count, Paso Robles, Los Angeles, Orange County. Jasper has been wine tasting, riding along like he has always belonged there. He is calm in the car, easy, present. He fits into our life in a way that does not feel like a compromise. It feels like alignment.

And that is where something deeper started to take shape for me.

Because this is not just about a dog.

It is about how our priorities shift when something truly matters to us. And more importantly, it is about how differently people define what matters.

Some of my friends love traveling the world. They hear our story and cannot quite wrap their heads around it. How do you stop traveling for a dog? They ask it kindly, but I can see it in their eyes. They do not fully understand.

And I understand why.

Because I was once in that same position. I was respectful. I tried to be empathetic. But I did not feel it.

This is where the leadership lesson comes in, even if it does not look like one at first.

As leaders, we often believe that understanding is enough. We listen, we acknowledge, and we think that means we truly get it. But the truth is, we do not always feel what the other person feels. We do not carry their values, their attachments, or their lived experiences in the same way.

And that gap matters.

Because people do not operate based on what is logical to us. They operate based on what is meaningful to them.

A leader might look at an employee leaving early to take care of something at home and think, that can wait. But to that person, it cannot. It holds weight that is not visible on the surface. The mistake is assuming that if we would not make the same choice, then the choice must not be as important.

That is where empathy often falls short.

Empathy is not always about fully understanding someone’s feelings. In many cases, that is not even possible. Real empathy is recognizing that something matters deeply to someone else, even if it would not matter to you in the same way.

It is choosing to respect that difference without needing to measure it against your own standards.

Looking back, I can see that when my friend used to leave early for her dog, I respected her, but I did not fully honor what that meant to her. Now I would respond differently. Not because I learned a rule, but because I experienced a shift.

That is how growth usually happens. Not through instruction, but through experience.

And that is what makes leadership difficult.

You will not always have the experience needed to fully understand every person you lead. You will not always feel what they feel. But you are still responsible for how you respond to them.

The question becomes whether you can lead without needing full understanding.

Can you make space for someone’s priorities without needing to agree with them?

Can you respect what matters to them without filtering it through your own lens?

That is a quieter form of leadership. One that is less about control and more about awareness.

That morning with our neighbor stayed with me. Not just because of the loss he shared, but because I could finally feel the weight of it in a real way. The kind of understanding that only comes from living through something, not just observing it.

It reminded me that we move through the world thinking we understand people, when often we are only seeing a small part of their experience.

And maybe that is where better leadership begins.

Not in fully understanding everyone, but in recognizing that you do not.

So the question becomes:

How often do we assume we understand someone, when we have never actually felt what they are feeling, and what would change if we chose to lead with respect, even in that gap?

-Loann Capra