The word retreat has been on my mind a lot over the last few days, and for two different reasons.

There’s retreat in the sense of withdrawing from the day-to-day. Stepping back to reset, recharge or escape circumstances we don’t like. This is the kind of retreat you hear about a lot in the personal development world. Creating calm spaces for people who are tired, stretched or overwhelmed.

I have a lot of respect for that work.

But it isn’t really how I’m wired.

My default response to challenge is to face into it. To push on. To endure. I have a strong internal narrative about resilience and progress, and a fairly well-developed capacity for suffering. That doesn’t make me better than anyone else, but it is true of me.

Which means I also come face to face with the second kind of retreat.

The retreat that happens when effort isn’t enough. When a strategy doesn’t just stall, but starts to work against you. When continuing would mean doubling down on something that is no longer fit for the situation you’re actually in.

That kind of retreat doesn’t feel restorative. It feels like failure.

And yet, over time, I’ve learned that this is often the most important kind of retreat to do well.

Not as escape, but as reorientation.

On a personal level, this shows up whenever we have ambitions that stretch us. We push, we adapt, we keep going. And then something subtle changes. What used to work feels useless. Decisions take more effort. Progress is incredibly slow.

Recently, I had to face the fact that a business strategy I’d been using for some time wasn’t just ineffective, it was actively reducing my chances of doing good work with the right people. That was uncomfortable to admit. I regretted some of the decisions that led there.

But once I stopped framing it as personal failure, something else became clear.

What I’d missed were the signals.

The context had changed. The system I was working in had become more complex, but my approach hadn’t adapted. I was responding with more effort, when what was actually needed was clearer thinking.

So I retreated.

Not dramatically. Not all at once. I stopped promoting. I asked for honest, and at times quite brutal, external perspective. I tested new thinking with people I trusted. I paid attention to where things felt strained rather than forcing momentum.

Out of that process came a much clearer way of naming what was going on, not just for me, but for many of the people I work with. I re-remembered my own expertise.

As systems grow, change and interconnect, pressure often shows up before anyone names it. Decisions carry more consequence. Roles stretch without being renegotiated. Autonomy works until pressure rises and control creeps back in.

That’s not a personal weakness. It’s a signal.

I’ve put together something called the Complexity Pressure Check to help make those signals visible. It’s a short, system-level review designed to help leaders see where complexity may be putting pressure on decision-making and ways of working.

It’s not a fix, and it’s not a judgement. It’s simply a way of orienting yourself before deciding what to do next.

Retreat done well isn’t about giving up.

It’s about stepping back far enough to see clearly, so you can move forward without fighting the wrong battle.

If this resonates, the Complexity Pressure Check is there if it’s useful.

Stephen

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