December 2006 is etched into my memory in a way that time has not been able to erase. I was serving with the Special Anti-Crime Unit of T&T (SAUTT), and we were deep into an investigation involving a high-profile kidnapping. The kind of case that grips the nation, commands headlines, and places immense pressure on every officer involved. The days were long, the nights were short, and stress was an ever-present companion. Sleep was scarce, adrenaline was constant, and the weight of responsibility followed us everywhere.
At that time, work did not end when the shift ended. It followed me home in my thoughts, my tone, and tragically, in my priorities.
One night, well after dark, I drove into my driveway still on the phone, immersed in a work conversation. My mind was racing through operational details, risk assessments, and contingencies. I walked into the house, phone pressed to my ear, voice firm and focused. In that moment, I was still “on duty.”
My five-year-old son heard me come in. Excited, he ran up to me with a small piece of paper clenched in his little hand. He was eager, proud, ready. But I didn’t stop. I didn’t kneel. I didn’t listen. Without malice, but with damaging indifference, I brushed him aside and continued the conversation.
I noticed the paper. I noticed him. But I chose work.
He stood there, small and silent, his joy dissolving into disappointment. He looked up at me with a sadness that, in that moment, I was too distracted to see. I kept talking. The call went on for another ten minutes, ten minutes that would later feel unbearably long.
Then my wife intervened.
She didn’t shout. She didn’t argue. She simply looked at me with a stern, steady gaze and said, calmly but coldly,
“Your son is trying to speak to you.”
Those words cut through the noise.
I ended the call. For the first time that night, I truly looked at my son. In his crumpled little hands was a piece of paper with four simple words written on it,
“The Night Is Cold.”
That was his line for the church Christmas Nativity play. He was a shepherd. All he wanted, after rehearsing and memorising his part, was to show his father that he knew his lines.
In that instant, the weight of what I had done came crashing down on me. I hadn’t just missed a moment. I had wounded a spirit. I had allowed the stress of my profession to invade the sacred space of my family. I had communicated, without saying a word, that my work mattered more than my child.
Tears filled my eyes. Not because of the case. Not because of the pressure. But because I saw, with painful clarity, how easily leaders can fail at home while succeeding at work.
That night changed me.
I realised that while the kidnapping case was important, while national duty mattered, while leadership required sacrifice, none of it justified neglecting the hearts entrusted to me. No operation, no client, no title could ever replace a father’s presence.
Since that night in December 2006, I made a deliberate and lasting shift in how I manage work demands, projects, and professional obligations. I learned that leadership without boundaries is dangerous, not just to oneself, but to one’s family. I learned that bringing the stress of the job home is not a badge of honour; it is a slow erosion of what matters most.
Today, I tell this story,“The Night Is Cold,” to leaders across sectors. To executives, pastors, law enforcement and military, managers, and professionals who carry heavy responsibilities. I remind them that leadership is not proven by how much we sacrifice at work, but by how wisely we protect what is sacred at home.
Children do not need perfect parents. They need present ones. Spouses do not need impressive résumés. They need engaged partners. Families do not measure love by promotions or accolades; they measure it by time, attention, and care.
The tragedy is not that leaders work hard. The tragedy is when leaders forget how to switch off.
That little shepherd’s line,“The Night Is Cold,” became a mirror for my own life. It reminded me that the world can be cold enough without us making our homes colder by absence, distraction, or misplaced priorities. Our families should be our refuge, not collateral damage.
Leadership begins at home. If we cannot listen to a five-year-old with a piece of paper in his hand, we must question our definition of success.
So today, especially to leaders, I say this, guard your family time. Create boundaries. Be intentional. When you walk through your front door, let it mark a transition. The emails can wait. The calls can pause. But childhood moments cannot be recovered.
Because one day, your child will no longer run up to you with crumpled paper and eager eyes. When that day comes, no case, no boardroom victory, no professional achievement will compensate for the moments you missed.
Remember the lesson.
The night may be cold, but your family should never be.
