By Lieutenant Frank V. Fanelli
After more than three decades in law enforcement, I’ve learned that leadership often begins before anyone else realizes it. It starts in those few moments before a meeting, a briefing or a difficult conversation, when we’re deciding what version of ourselves is about to walk into the room.
Oddly enough, one of the best leadership lessons I have learned did not come from a police academy, a supervisor or a leadership conference. It came from filmmaker Jon Favreau. In a recent interview, Favreau described how his film crews survived the long days of production. Whenever fatigue set in and everyone felt worn down, someone would suggest the simple ritual of changing their socks. To the crew, it marked a fresh start, a chance to leave the first half of the day behind and begin the second with a different mindset.
At first, I laughed. It sounded too simple to make a difference. That interview flipped a switch, making a connection I had never considered before. Then it occurred to me that the socks were never really the point. The reset was. Sometimes we simply need permission to leave behind whatever we’ve been carrying.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized how often that opportunity presents itself. A meeting goes sideways, a project stalls, someone questions your judgment, an employee frustrates you or you receive disappointing news.
Before long, the next conversation is carrying the weight of every conversation that came before it. The circumstances may not have changed much. We have. So the question becomes, Who do I want walking into this room?
That question forced me to confront something I wasn’t expecting. The hardest person I have ever had to lead wasn’t a difficult employee, an angry citizen or a room full of skeptics. It was me.
That realization did not come all at once. It came through experience. Years ago, while serving as a supervisor, I applied for a promotion. I finished first in the promotional process and believed my opportunity had arrived. Instead, others were promoted ahead of me. I was disappointed, frustrated and convinced I had been treated unfairly.
I carried that disappointment into every shift. I vented to the people I supervised, and they stood by me. At the time, their loyalty felt validating. Looking back, I see it differently.
As supervisors, we naturally become close to the people we lead. We celebrate successes, work through difficult days and often begin to feel more like family than coworkers. That’s one of the best parts of this profession. But with that closeness comes responsibility. Our teams shouldn’t have to choose sides in our disappointments or carry burdens that belong to us.
It wasn’t fair to put my team in that position. My responsibility wasn’t to recruit them into my frustration. It was to lead them through my disappointment. The way I handled that setback wasn’t worthy of the position I hoped to earn. It took me years to understand that the promotion wasn’t the lesson. My response to it was.
Throughout my career in traditional policing and later in school policing, I have taught officers how to communicate during difficult situations. We teach officers to slow down, listen before speaking, ask questions before making assumptions and approach others with calm instead of confrontation.
Eventually, I realized I wasn’t following the same advice. When I became frustrated, intimidated or mentally exhausted, I talked over the rational voice in my own head. I replayed conversations that were already over while arguing with people who weren’t even in the room yet. I was doing exactly what I had spent years teaching other people not to do.
That’s when one lesson finally became clear. Before you can de-escalate a situation, you have to know how to de-escalate yourself. Sometimes the first person who needs to be de-escalated is the one in the mirror. Maybe that’s where leadership really begins, with the conversation we have with ourselves before anyone else hears us.
Years later, I recognized those same emotions in an employee who had just been passed over for a promotion. He was angry, openly frustrated and letting that disappointment shape the way he approached work. I listened because years earlier I had carried those same emotions myself. Then I told him something I wish someone had told me: “Don’t let your response convince leadership they made the right decision.”
The promotion was already over. His reaction wasn’t. As the words came out of my mouth, I realized I wasn’t simply offering advice. I was passing along a lesson I had learned the hard way.
The same principle applies to difficult conversations. One of the hardest lessons experience teaches is that being right and being effective are not always the same thing. We’ve all watched people make perfectly valid arguments that no one ever heard because frustration drowned out the message. I’ve been that person, too.
That’s why one of the most important questions we can ask ourselves isn’t, “What am I going to say?” It’s, “Who do I want walking into this room?”
There are moments in every career when the outcome simply isn’t ours to control. I’ve walked into meetings knowing minds were already made up. I’ve stood outside classrooms wondering whether I was the right instructor for the people inside. Chances are, you’ve had your own version of those moments.
Every time, the same choice remains. We can’t always control what’s waiting on the other side of the door. We can control who walks through it.
That’s what changing your socks has come to mean to me. It isn’t pretending everything is okay. It isn’t ignoring disappointment, frustration or fear. It’s refusing to let those emotions introduce you before you introduce yourself.
Maybe your version of changing your socks is taking a walk around the building, getting a cup of coffee, saying a prayer, taking a deep breath or simply sitting quietly for two minutes before the next meeting begins. The ritual isn’t what matters. The decision is.
I still keep a spare pair of socks in my desk drawer. I’ll admit there are days when a fresh pair really does feel pretty good. Mostly, though, they’re there to remind me that every meeting, every briefing and every difficult conversation gives us another opportunity to decide who walks into the room.
Sometimes that decision begins with changing your socks.
About the author
Lieutenant Frank V. Fanelli is a published author and 33-year law enforcement veteran who has spent the past 25 years serving in school policing. His experience includes patrol, community policing, investigations, training, leadership and school safety. He currently serves with the School District of Palm Beach County Police Department in the Violence Intervention Techniques and Language (VITAL), Special Projects, and Compliance Division, where he develops training, safety initiatives and crisis response programs. He writes about leadership, school safety and the practical lessons learned through public service.
