I am endlessly fascinated that playing football is considered a

The words of Dee Dee Myers—“I am endlessly fascinated that playing football is considered a training ground for leadership, but raising children isn't. Hey, it made me a better leader: you have to take a lot of people's needs into account; you have to look down the road. Trying to negotiate getting a couple of kids to watch the same TV show requires serious diplomacy”—speak with wit, humility, and profound truth. Beneath the humor lies a revelation that echoes through the ages: that the essence of leadership is not forged solely on the fields of power or in the arenas of competition, but in the quiet, unseen struggles of daily life—particularly in the sacred duty of raising a family. Myers, a trailblazer and one of the first women to serve as White House Press Secretary, reminds us that leadership begins not in the boardroom or the battlefield, but in the home, where patience, foresight, and compassion are tested every day.

In her reflection, she questions society’s narrow definition of leadership—one that glorifies dominance, hierarchy, and conquest, while overlooking the equally demanding art of nurturing, guiding, and reconciling. To raise children is to lead without fanfare; it is to teach without applause. It requires vision, for a parent must look far beyond the present tantrum or quarrel and see the adult the child will become. It requires empathy, for one must balance many hearts, each fragile and unique. And it demands diplomacy, as Myers wittily notes, for even small conflicts—like deciding what to watch on television—mirror the delicate negotiations of statecraft. Her insight reminds us that leadership is not about command—it is about care, the ability to guide others while tending to their needs and growth.

The origin of such wisdom comes not from politics, but from life itself. History is filled with examples of leaders who learned their art not from academies or armies, but from the school of human experience. Consider Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-king of Rome, who learned patience and perspective not from war, but from fatherhood and reflection. Or Eleanor Roosevelt, who raised six children before becoming the moral compass of a nation. Both understood that leadership was, at its core, an act of love—an unending balancing of will and tenderness. Myers stands within this lineage of truth: that one who governs with empathy is far more enduring than one who governs by force.

To understand her point more deeply, imagine the home as a small republic. Each child has desires, passions, and emotions as strong as any citizen’s; each parent must balance justice and mercy, discipline and encouragement. The parent learns, through endless trial, how to lead not through fear, but through example. When a mother or father stays calm in chaos, listens in anger, or sacrifices comfort for the good of the family, they are practicing the highest form of governance—self-governance. For how can one lead nations, companies, or armies if one cannot lead oneself or guide the hearts closest to them? The home, in truth, is the original training ground of civilization.

Myers’s words also expose a long-standing bias in how society defines strength. For centuries, masculine models of leadership—rooted in war, competition, and control—have been praised as the standard, while the patient, nurturing labor of parenting—often borne by women—has been dismissed as lesser. Yet what could be more difficult than shaping the soul of another human being? What greater responsibility exists than preparing the next generation for the burdens of freedom and love? In this sense, Myers’s remark becomes a quiet rebellion against a culture that undervalues the invisible work of care. She lifts the curtain to show that leadership is not born only in the roar of the crowd, but also in the soft firmness of a parent’s voice at midnight, guiding a child through fear.

The deeper lesson within her words is one of redefinition. Leadership is not about titles or victories—it is about influence and stewardship. A true leader—like a parent—sees beyond their own desires to the needs of the whole. They anticipate, mediate, and cultivate harmony amidst conflict. Whether in government, business, or family, the same laws apply: listen deeply, act wisely, and love fiercely. The leader who cannot care for others cannot sustain trust; the parent who rules by anger cannot nurture peace. In both realms, the key is empathy guided by vision.

So let these words of Dee Dee Myers be carried forward not as humor, but as heritage. Let the world remember that the truest preparation for leadership lies not in victory, but in service—not in domination, but in devotion. Those who have raised children, healed wounds, and guided hearts have already practiced the finest form of leadership humanity has ever known. To the ancient philosophers, the household was the seed of the state; to the wise, it remains so still. Therefore, let every parent, every teacher, every quiet caregiver know this truth: that each act of patience, each lesson taught, each conflict soothed, is a mark of leadership. And as Myers reminds us—with gentle irony and eternal wisdom—the diplomacy that keeps a family together is the same that keeps the world from falling apart.