My wife stopped shouting at me.

We were several weeks into a leadership development programme, and participants were sharing changes they had observed. One man said, "My wife stopped shouting at me."

We wanted to know more.

"Oh," and then he smiled, "And my daughter's speaking with me again!"

He told us that for many years, his wife had been shouting at him. It had never even occurred to him that he was to blame for the shouting.

And as for his daughter — well, she was a teenager. He didn't really expect her to talk to him anyway.

On that leadership programme, he learned to listen deeply. He was no longer just listening for facts. Now he was truly listening — without interruption, taking everything in.

As deep listening became his habit at work, it happened at home too. His wife no longer needed to raise her voice to get his attention, and their relationship improved.

And as for his daughter — she had withdrawn because there was no point trying to talk to somebody who wasn't listening. But when she saw that he was listening to her mother, she realised her father was available again. She started sharing her life with him.

That man had no idea he hadn't been listening. He had a perfectly reasonable explanation for his situation — an angry woman and a withdrawn teenager. The problem was them, not him.

That's a classic example of a blind spot. Do you think you might have a blind spot or two? Of course you do. You're human.

Human psychology is complex, and its operations are mostly invisible. We unknowingly hide from ourselves things that might challenge our self-image or damage our self-belief.

Think of the micromanager who genuinely believes they are the most committed person in the room. Their controlling behaviour doesn't feel like insecurity to them. It feels like dedication. It feels like caring more than anyone else. And there's enough truth in it to make the story stick. They probably do see things others don't — that's partly how they got to where they are. But striving to be indispensable is insecurity disguised as commitment.

We are all capable of this kind of self-deception. We construct stories about ourselves that feel completely true. And we defend those stories with considerable energy. The man in the story wasn't unusual. He was entirely normal. His blind spot was simply invisible to him — the way blind spots always are.

After thirty years of working with senior leaders, I can confidently say: nothing strengthens leadership more effectively than helping people raise their self-awareness.

I've seen smart people learn the latest leadership theories, acquire highly rated management techniques, develop clever strategies, and deploy useful systems. But without clear self-awareness, the ability to implement their ideas is seriously diminished.

You can have a brilliant strategy, but you'll struggle to sell it if you can't read the room. If you don't see yourself clearly — your perspectives, your drives, your motives — how can you read the room?

The thing is, we can't see our own blind spots. That's what makes them blind spots.

And without a high level of self-awareness, it's pretty much impossible to truly see others.

There is another problem. The higher a leader rises, the less likely people are to tell them the truth. Those around them have learned — sometimes painfully — that honest feedback is not always welcome. So the leader becomes increasingly insulated. The blind spot grows. And it grows precisely when the stakes are highest.

The only way to discover your blind spots is through the eyes of other people. They can see what you can't. Which is why listening — and creating conditions where people will actually tell you the truth — matters.

In ancient Greece, leaders would visit the Temple of Apollo to seek guidance for their major decisions. Above the entrance to the temple was a sign: Know thyself.

Whatever you can do to develop your self-awareness — do it.

You might start with one of these chapters from A Handbook for Hoteliers: Beliefs, Stories, or Me, Myself, and I.