I was a middle child. I grew up in Brooklyn with three sisters

Hear the words of Richard Parsons, a man who rose from humble beginnings to lead vast enterprises, yet who never forgot the lessons forged in the small battleground of family: “I was a middle child. I grew up in Brooklyn with three sisters and a brother. You know what that means: everybody is constantly fighting with everybody and you are in the middle of the storm trying to make peace. That is your life. Making everybody work and play well together.” In these words lies the wisdom of one who has learned that leadership is not born in palaces, but in the kitchens and courtyards of childhood, where strife is constant and harmony must be crafted.

The meaning is both simple and profound. To be a middle child is to live always between forces—the older siblings demanding authority, the younger ones crying for attention, each voice loud, each will stubborn. The one in the center is pulled both ways, forced to balance, to mediate, to calm quarrels, and to hold the fragile unity together. This, Parsons teaches, is the early training ground of leadership, where the true art is not command, but the weaving of harmony among competing voices.

The origin of this insight is Parsons’s own life, forged in Brooklyn, a place of noise, struggle, and ambition. In his family of five children, arguments were as common as meals, and the storm of sibling rivalry never ceased. Yet in that chaos, the young Richard found his role: not the loudest, not the strongest, but the one who made peace, who ensured that the family did not shatter but remained whole. From that crucible, he carried into adulthood the skill of bringing people together, which later shaped his career as a leader in business and society.

History too reflects this lesson. Consider Nelson Mandela, who grew up not in silence but in a divided land. He too found himself in the “middle of the storm,” where factions clashed, each side hardened by decades of bitterness. And like the middle child, Mandela bore the burden of listening to both, of calming rage, of persuading enemies to sit at the same table. His life proves Parsons’s wisdom: the one who chooses the path of peace amid conflict becomes the true guardian of unity.

O children of tomorrow, understand this: the world is itself a great family, filled with quarrels, rivalries, and divisions. Nations fight like siblings, brothers and sisters wound each other with words and pride. To live only for oneself is easy, to take sides is tempting, but the higher calling is to be the one in the middle—to reconcile, to remind all of their shared bond, to keep the circle from breaking. Such a role may not bring glory, but it brings greatness, for it sustains the very fabric of community.

Reflect also on your own life. In your home, your work, your friendships—are you the one who fans the fire of quarrel, or the one who cools it with words of peace? Do you cling to being right, or do you labor to keep unity? Parsons’s words challenge us: greatness is not found in overpowering others, but in making them “work and play well together.” This requires patience, humility, and the courage to stand between forces that would otherwise destroy one another.

The lesson is clear: to be in the middle is not a curse, but a calling. Embrace the role of peacemaker. Seek to understand before you judge. Step into quarrels not to win, but to heal. Let your life be defined not by division, but by reconciliation. For those who carry this spirit keep families whole, communities strong, and nations from tearing apart.

So let Parsons’s wisdom endure: “That is your life. Making everybody work and play well together.” In this, the middle child becomes more than mediator—he becomes a builder of harmony, a guardian of peace, and a teacher of unity for all generations.