I learned about leadership from my father as a child. My father enlisted in the U.S. Air Force (USAF) and went through basic training. He was a “slick sleeve,” no rank insignia on his shirt sleeve as an Airman Basic. It took him the bare minimum of time, five years, to be promoted to technical sergeant because of his skills in electronics. The USAF selected him for Officers Training School. The USAF promoted him “below the zone” (BTZ), a competitive, early promotion opportunity offered to a limited number of exceptional officers in the U.S. military, to the rank of major and was about to be promoted again (BTZ) to lieutenant colonel to take command of a C-130 transport squadron before he was killed in a C-130 crash as a passenger.
At 11, I shattered my elbow in Japan. Surgeons rebuilt it, and my father rebuilt me, by showing me what leadership looked like. We went to my father’s office to take in the news that with extreme effort I could regain use of my arm. Instead of fancy paneling, my father had a floor-to-ceiling view of the assembly and maintenance floor. My father served as operations commander for the largest ground electronics facility outside the continental U.S. Orange and white radars, instrument landing systems, and navigational equipment filled the floor. As a treat for me, he brought me down to the floor to give me a tour. [Image of radar equipment maintenance floor]
My father had a remarkable way of making everyone feel seen. He knew every airman and NCO by name. When I called one “sir,” my father’s smile and thumbs-up taught me that respect is the foundation of command. He let me glimpse the intricate, unglamorous machinery that kept the air squadrons running and the planes flying safely. In that moment, I understood why his men would follow him to the ends of the earth.
Looking back, I realize how much that tour shaped me. My father’s encouragement to ask questions, to learn from others, and to show gratitude for their answers wasn’t just about that moment, it was about instilling a mindset. That day on the shop floor, I saw firsthand the power of respect and curiosity to bridge gaps, to build understanding. It’s a lesson I’ve carried with me ever since, one of the many gifts my father left me.
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It took great effort for me to regain the use of my right arm. The elbow was locked at a 90-degree angle, and the muscles were foreshortened from disuse. It was a DIY effort as there were no American physical therapists in Japan in 1968. Three months later, I was bowling with my right arm, forcing strength back into muscles that had forgotten their work.
Years later, Theodore Roosevelt’s “Man in the Arena” speech gave words to what my father had already shown me. That speech formalized for me the lessons taught to me by my father during my childhood and the shop tour:
“It is not the critic who counts. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, who strives valiantly, who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”
Readers of KevinMD may wonder why I am free with criticism of the existing health care system. I was in the arena at 11. Criticism from the sidelines is cheap. Leadership in action is earned. Our health care “leaders” retreat into committees, metrics, and awards while patients suffer. They are cold and timid souls. I earned the right to criticize because I am in the arena still.
We are at the precipice of war. Our “leaders” dissemble and point fingers at each other while people die. Call it war crime or call it murder, the civilian is just as dead. I swore two holy oaths: “First, do no harm” and “I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic.” I intend to keep both oaths. That is leadership.
Ronald L. Lindsay is a retired developmental-behavioral pediatrician whose career spanned military medicine, academic leadership, and national advocacy for dignity-centered neurodevelopmental care. His NIH-funded work with the RUPP Autism Network helped define evidence-based approaches to autism and related developmental disorders.
He directed the LEND Program at The Ohio State University and founded JBLM CARES, a $10 million autism resource center for military families. His writing spans clinical scholarship and long-form fiction. He is the author of The Mercy Directive and the six-novel Cassandra series, a completed political and medical fiction saga tracing the rise of the Cassandra system from its origins to its national and international legacy. His forthcoming memoir, The Quiet Architect, examines how conscience and structure collide in modern medicine.
He shares updates on LinkedIn.
