How I am (and am not) like my father

On repairs, responsibility, and knowing when to ask for help

Just this morning, a client told me he’d recently added oil to his truck because it was running low. He thinks it might be leaking. That simple sentence pulled me back ten years almost to the day.

I was newly CEO at DePaul, with two young kids and more responsibility than margin. I was driving a Volvo XC60 that I absolutely loved. It also leaked oil.

I didn’t have time to get it fixed. I barely had time to put gas in it. So I kept quarts of oil in the back. Every so often, I’d pull over, sometimes still in a dressy CEO outfit, pop the hood, and pour more oil in.

And you know what? It worked. For that drive. For that day.

It didn’t fix what was wrong. Fixing it would have meant less trouble in the long run. But I couldn’t see the long run. I could only see what I needed to get through that day.

The last conversation I ever had with my dad was about that car. I called him on my way home from work, a few days after he’d been discharged from the hospital following heart surgery, a surgery they had called a success.

My dad was an Air Force mechanic and spent his career working on military planes. He taught me how to change my oil when I was sixteen, standing next to my first shabby Honda. Cars, engines, systems - he understood them deeply.

Sitting in that car, listening to his voice through the speakers, he fussed at me for not getting it fixed. Looking back, what he wanted was simple: for me to call a mechanic. I didn’t need to understand the problem. I didn’t need to fix it myself. I just needed to use the right resource for something I didn’t understand.

Then he said something I still carry with me: “Mandi, there is something wrong with me, and I don’t understand what it is or how to fix it. Cars, I understand. Cars I know how to fix. I wish what was wrong with me was fixable.”

He had sensed something wasn’t right with his heart. He was unsettled by it. He was right. He died the next day.

His last advice to me was to use resources to fix the things I can.

With things I don’t understand and tend to take for granted (cars, bookkeeping) I’ve learned I don’t actually need to become the expert. I need to take responsibility for getting the right help. I call a mechanic. I call my accountant. (I resist first, but I eventually come around.)

But with things I do understand and refuse to take for granted - workplace culture, leadership, how people experience their work - I’m exactly like him:

I know when something isn’t working.I can envision what better looks like.I know it can be better.And I know how to fix it.

Culture needs maintenance. Sometimes it needs a real look under the hood. Sometimes it needs time in the shop. And sometimes, adding more oil - more effort, more hustle, more tolerance - just delays a bigger breakdown.

Many leaders keep adding oil because they don’t understand what’s wrong. Or they don’t have time to fix it. Or they don’t want to know how bad it might be. Or they resist issues that reveal they aren’t the expert. I empathize strongly with all of this.

Leadership isn’t fixing everything yourself. Or pretending everything is fine. Or prioritizing work based on your own skills. It’s honest observation, thoughtful interpretation, and intentional, timely intervention.

So in this way, I choose to be like my dad.

Do something about it.Use the right help.It can improve.But it won’t get better on its own.

A proud culture mechanic carrying on her dad’s legacy in new and fun ways,

Amanda

Another example of dad's fixing style: Whenever we were sick, he'd bring us these "pills."