A Tribute To My Dear Friend, Lew Sterrett (SOTM)

March 1, 2026

The dust settled slowly that afternoon, as if it had all the time in the world. There was a stillness inside the corral that didn’t match the tension you could feel standing just outside of it. A group of us—leaders from different places, different industries, different stories—had gathered along the fence line, boots pressing into the dirt, eyes fixed on what was about to unfold. The sun hung high, warming the ground beneath us, but it was the kind of heat you forget about once your attention locks onto something deeper.

In the center of the pen stood a horse that had never been taught to trust.

You could see it in the way it carried itself—alert, guarded, ready to react at the slightest shift. Every muscle seemed coiled with both strength and suspicion, as if experience had taught it that pressure would come before understanding. It wasn’t wild in the sense of chaos. It was wild in the sense of self-protection. And then Lew Sterrett stepped into the pen. There was no rush in his movement. No attempt to assert dominance in the way you might expect. He didn’t enter with volume or force or any outward display of control. Instead, he carried something quieter. A presence that seemed to fill the space without needing to push against it.

At first, nothing obvious happened.

The horse moved, keeping its distance, circling with cautious awareness. Lew adjusted, not chasing, not retreating, but responding. There was a rhythm forming between them, though it wasn’t yet cooperation. It was more like a conversation without words, where both were listening, both were learning the other’s language. Pressure would come, but only in moments, and never without purpose. Release would follow just as quickly. There was no punishment in it, no frustration, no emotional reaction bleeding into the interaction. Just clarity. Just consistency. Just presence.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, something began to change.

The horse’s movements softened. The distance shortened. The tension that had defined its posture started to give way to something else—something less guarded, more curious. Not fully trusting yet, but no longer fully resisting. It was in the middle of that quiet exchange that Lew said something that seemed simple enough on the surface, but landed with a weight that reached far beyond the corral.

If I can win the heart of a horse, why can’t you win the heart of your people?

The words didn’t echo outward. They turned inward.Because in that moment, the corral was no longer just a place of demonstration. It became a mirror. And what it reflected wasn’t a leadership technique. It revealed something much closer to home. At the time, my son was fourteen. And he wasn’t living with me. Life had shifted in ways I hadn’t fully anticipated. A career change had pulled me fourteen hours away, and what was already a strained relationship had stretched even thinner under the weight of distance, misunderstanding, and the quiet complexity of a young man trying to find his footing. There were things I didn’t yet understand—struggles that would later be named, patterns that would eventually make more sense—but in that season, all I could see was the gap growing wider. And standing there in that corral, watching a man build trust with an animal that had every reason not to give it, I realized something I had not fully allowed myself to see before. I had been trying to correct without connection.

I had been leading without relationship.

I had been enforcing what I believed was right without first understanding what was actually needed. And it had not led to restoration. It had led to resistance. The truth didn’t come harshly. It came clearly. Rules without relationship do not produce trust. They produce distance. And distance, left unaddressed, eventually becomes something else entirely. What I was witnessing in that pen was not control. It was connection. The horse was not being forced into compliance. It was being invited into trust. Every movement Lew made was intentional, but it was also relational. He was not trying to win behavior first. He was working to win the heart. Because once the heart responded, everything else could follow.

There is something in us that longs for that kind of leadership, whether we can articulate it or not. Not leadership that demands, but leadership that understands. Not leadership that corrects from a distance, but one that draws near enough to see what’s actually happening beneath the surface.Because people, like that horse, may move under pressure. But they only trust through relationship. And trust is where influence lives. That day did not resolve everything at once. There was no immediate restoration, no sudden shift that erased the distance I felt with my son. But something had been planted. A recognition that if I wanted something different, I would have to lead differently. Not with more force, not with more rules, but with more presence.

So, I began to move toward him.

I did not move with an agenda, but with intention. Conversations that weren’t centered on correction. Time spent without needing to fix anything. Listening that extended beyond the surface into the places where words were harder to find. It was not fast. It was not always easy. But slowly, over time, something began to rebuild.Trust returned the same way it is always built. Consistently. And today, when I look at the relationship we share, I don’t see perfection. But I do see strength. I see connection. I see something that was once fragile now carrying weight in a way it couldn’t before. Those lessons in the corral did not stay in the corral. They continued to unfold in every place where leadership required more than direction. Because the truth is, whether in a home, a team, or a quiet conversation between two people, the same principles remain.

Here’s what I’ve learned. There is a drift that happens when connection is neglected. It is rarely loud. It doesn’t announce itself. But over time, distance grows where intentionality fades. And without realizing it, we begin to manage people instead of knowing them. We address behavior without understanding what’s driving it. We attempt to guide outcomes without first earning the right to be heard. And eventually, resistance shows up. Not always in open defiance, but in disengagement. In guarded responses. In a quiet withdrawal that says more than words ever could.

But the opposite is also true.

When people are known, when they are seen beyond what they produce, when their identity is spoken to as much as their behavior is shaped, something shifts. They begin to lean in rather than pull away. They respond rather than resist. Not because they are being controlled, but because they are being led. There is a kind of freedom that emerges from that kind of relationship. Not freedom without boundaries, but freedom within them. The kind that grows as responsibility is entrusted and affirmed. The kind that understands that alignment is not restriction, but direction. And that true influence does not come from authority alone, but from a life that reflects what it is asking others to follow.

That kind of leadership requires something of us.

It asks us to slow down when we would rather move quickly. To listen when we would rather speak. To remain present when it would be easier to withdraw. It calls us to align ourselves before attempting to align others. Because power that is not grounded in alignment will always fracture under pressure. And yet, this is the way it has always been. Long before we ever stepped into positions of leadership, we were being led ourselves. Not through force, not through control, but through a patient, persistent invitation to trust. To surrender what we hold tightly. To respond not out of fear, but out of relationship.

The pattern is consistent.

Faith is always invited before force is ever applied. Understanding is always extended before correction is enforced. And the heart is always pursued before behavior is shaped. We see it in the way God leads us. Not demanding the first step without offering His presence first. Not requiring perfection before extending grace. But drawing us, consistently, into something deeper. Not to control us, but to restore us.

There is a humility required to lead this way.

It means releasing the need to be right in order to be effective. It means valuing connection over immediate correction. It means trusting that influence built slowly will last longer than compliance achieved quickly. It also means recognizing that what we honor, we ultimately shape. When we choose to honor the people in front of us, whether they respond immediately or not, we create a space where trust can grow. And where trust grows, influence follows. Not forced, not demanded, but given.

Over time, that becomes legacy.

Not the kind of legacy measured in results alone, but in relationships that endure. In people who return not because they have to, but because they want to. In hearts that remain open because they were never handled carelessly. And perhaps that is where this settles most quietly.Not in the techniques of leadership, but in the posture of it. Because at the center of everything is a simple, unchanging truth. We move toward what we trust.

And trust is built where relationship is present.

So, wherever you find yourself today—leading a team, raising a child, walking alongside someone who feels distant in ways you don’t fully understand—there is an invitation waiting beneath the surface of it all.Not to press harder. Not to speak louder. But to draw closer. To listen longer. To trade control for connection. And to believe that hearts are not won by force, but by presence. It won’t happen all at once. It rarely does. But step by step, moment by moment, something begins to shift. And you may find, as I did standing in that corral all those years ago, that the most powerful form of leadership was never about winning behavior.

It was always about winning the heart.

-Rob Carroll