On Power
What Geneva and a monastery in France taught me
We’re watching traditional power structures crumble in real time. Titles no longer reassure us. Wealth doesn’t inspire trust. Institutions that once promised stability feel performative, or hollow.
What’s becoming clearer to me (and what has always been a little clear) is this: true power has never lived outside us. Not in status, not in job titles, not even in money. True power is inside of us.
It may take time for us to metabolize what we’re witnessing right now. But alongside the grief and disorientation, I see glimmers of possibility—especially in the sheer number of people sharing their truth, heading to the streets in protest, writing openly, and claiming their voices on platforms like Substack. Even Threads, surprisingly, feels more alive to me than Facebook or Instagram. There’s a collective restlessness there. A sense that people are done performing for systems that don’t see them.
I believe we’re moving toward a moment when more people will recognize that their power lies within—and that we’ve been enslaved to structures that don’t actually work for the majority. We won’t worship power the way we once did. We’re already watching that unravel.
Fiftee years ago, I worked for the World Economic Forum in Geneva. I had a three-year contract and was recognized as a Global Leadership Fellow. I managed a community of leaders under forty in Asia. On paper, it was a dream job. In reality, it was the lowest point of my life. Being in that environment wasn’t good for my soul.
Through that role, I caught a glimpse of what it was like to be around—really, to organize meetings and events for—some of the most powerful people in the world. And it felt toxic. I remember thinking, if these are the people shaping the future, we’re in trouble. Two decades later, that thought feels uncomfortably accurate.
When I first arrived in Geneva, I sat in a café overlooking Lake Geneva, the jet d’eau rising in the background, reading The Art of Power by Thich Nhat Hanh. Two women nearby rested their Longchamp bags on empty chairs beside them. I sipped a double espresso served with a small glass of sparkling water and a square of chocolate. They talked about their six weeks away, their European travels.
In the introduction, Pritam Singh wrote about how he had the pleasure of accompanying Thich Nhat Hanh to the World Economic Forum annual meeting at Davos. He wrote:
“Before an estimated thirty heads of state, two hundred of the world’s richest men and women, and a few thousand of the most influential movers and shakers alive, Thich Nhat Hanh spoke with love, compassion, and total fearlessness. He was not there to seek support or approval from the great and famous. He was there hoping to awaken in them their best, to help them change the world by touching their own true selves. In a gathering dedicated to wealth, influence, and power in all its fabulous manifestations, he spoke in a soft and quiet voice. He asked nothing of them, only reminding them to please always remember their common humanity. On its Web site, the World Economic Forum proudly displays the motto “Committed to Improving the State of the World.” That day, in Davos, Switzerland, Thich Nhat Hanh asked everyone to adopt the motto “Committed to Improving the State of Every Heart.”
Most people believe power lives outside themselves—in influence, wealth, recognition. But true power comes from internal peace.
At the time, I didn’t fully understand how stark the contrast was between his teachings and the reality of the world I was inhabiting. I just felt the dissonance in my body.
I didn’t last long in that environment. There were personal reasons—a relationship ended, another unhealthy one began. I was unhappy, actually at the lowest I’d ever been in my life. But more than that, the ecosystem itself was wrong for me.
That winter, I spent a week at Plum Village, Thich Nhat Hanh’s monastery in the south of France. The contrast was immediate. Everyone participated in caring for the community—washing dishes, cooking meals, sweeping common spaces—alongside walking and sitting meditation.
One evening, I heard a novice monastic shriek outside. I rushed out, worried something had happened. Instead, she stood there pointing at the full moon, marveling at its beauty. I remember feeling envious of the pure joy she felt simply by noticing it. I didn’t have that inside me yet.
When I returned to Geneva, I knew I couldn’t stay—neither in the city nor in the job. Something had shifted. I hadn’t found peace, but I had seen what real power looked like.
Looking around now, years later, I think we’re collectively being pushed toward that same reckoning. The old symbols of power no longer persuade us. What’s emerging instead feels quieter, more interior, and more honest. People writing not to impress, but to clarify. Sharing not to dominate, but to connect.
Maybe this is what it means to improve the state of every heart—not all at once, not from the top down, but one person at a time, choosing truth over performance, presence over power as we were taught to define it.
And maybe that’s where real change has always begun.