The Moment Agency Announced Itself

By Sarah Redgrave

Photo by Art Institute of Chicago on Unsplash

I first started thinking about agency when I spilled beer on my son’s head.

Context matters here. We were in an airport. Asher was about two and a half, tired and on my lap after a long day of travel that was only half done. I lifted my glass, out sloshed a small splash of IPA — right on his head. I dabbed it with a napkin, unbothered, and was raising the glass again when he looked up and said: “Mommy, did you spill your drink on me?”

I was floored. Because until that moment, I realized, I had genuinely thought of Asher as an extension of myself. Getting a splash on him was no different than getting one on my own arm. Anyone whose body has grown, birthed, and fed a child doesn’t need that explained — the line between where you end and they begin gets deeply blurred.

But that moment — a two-year-old calmly, rightly naming what had just happened to him — was the moment agency announced itself. He wasn’t just reacting. He was asserting a perspective, from his own distinct vantage point. It turns out, that’s exactly where agency begins.

I sometimes catch myself as a leader making the same mistake.

When a team is really vibing — everyone working toward a shared vision, bringing their unique energy and commitment — it’s easy to forget that a team is still a collection of individuals. Each one with their own inner world, their own questions, their own relationship to the work.

I was reminded of this during a major program rollout a few years ago. I was proud of my team. We were engaged, hard-working, known for delivering. I genuinely believed I had painted a compelling vision — that everyone was as locked in as I was. Then, in the middle of an important project meeting, one of my direct reports said quietly: “I just don’t understand why we are doing this.”

Not unlike the moment Asher questioned whether I’d spilled on him, I was floored. I had assumed connection. I hadn’t checked for it.

That’s the trap. It’s precisely when a team feels most cohesive that it’s easiest to forget they are not one organism — they are individuals who are choosing to give you their energy. That choice is not automatic, and it is not permanent.

What I’ve learned, sometimes the hard way, is that respecting agency means meeting people where they are. It means not assuming the mission, the culture, or your own enthusiasm is doing the work of making people feel connected. Those things matter — but they are not substitutes for helping each person feel safe, feel seen, and feel themselves genuinely reflected in the work rather than swallowed by it.

The day Asher showed me he knew he was his own person — by calmly, rightly, asking if I’d spilled on him — it permanently changed our relationship. I love him fiercely. But I never again made the mistake of seeing him as just an extension of me.

Your team deserves the same.