MAY 29 — I was never the loud one. Not in school. Not at family gatherings. Not in lecture halls, faculty meetings, or boardrooms. I’ve never felt the need to raise my voice just to be seen.
I don’t dominate a room. I don’t seek the centre. But I’ve always been there. And over time, I’ve come to realise: being loud isn’t the same as being effective. And presence doesn’t require volume.
We live in a world that often rewards noise. The loudest voices get the clicks. The most confident ones, the spotlight. The extroverted, the assertive, the performative — they’re labelled natural leaders. But here’s the truth: visibility isn’t leadership. And performance isn’t presence.
Back in school, I wasn’t the most brilliant, nor the most charismatic. I was somewhere in the middle — quiet, observant, a little nerdy. I didn’t attract crowds, but I built friendships that spanned groups: the overachievers, the rebels, the in-betweens.
I was the guy who would listen while others talked, who helped organise without demanding credit. Somehow, that made me trustworthy. And maybe that’s why I ended up as president of the Arts Club — not because I asked for it, but because people knew I’d show up, get things done, and treat everyone fairly.
That moment taught me something that stayed with me: leadership isn’t about drawing attention. It’s about holding responsibility — even when no one’s watching.
Years later, that same quiet rhythm carried into my professional life.
As an academic, I’ve led departments, managed student communities, sat on panels, and even directed a corporate communications centre for a major university. I’ve helped the Universiti Malaya (UM) community (lecturers, staff, students) to appear in the media nearly 2,000 times.
But you won’t find me making grand speeches or chasing virality. My approach is different. Quieter. More deliberate. I lead by doing. By writing. By connecting people. By creating room for others to grow.
Silence isn’t awkward; it’s respectful. Pauses carry meaning. What is not said can be just as powerful as what is. Speaking less doesn’t mean knowing less; it often means knowing when to speak. — Unsplash pic
And still, I’ve never needed to shout.
Malcolm Gladwell, in his 2013 book David and Goliath, talks about the “advantage of disadvantage.” He reframes how we see strength. David didn’t win because he defied the odds — he won because he understood the odds better. Goliath was heavy and slow. David was agile and precise. What looked like weakness — being small, being quiet, being underestimated — was actually an edge.
The same can be said for leadership. What we dismiss as passivity might actually be perspective. What we see as indecision might be reflection.
Being quiet doesn’t mean you’re unsure. It often means you’re thinking. Planning. Choosing your words carefully. That kind of leadership — the kind that listens more than it talks — is desperately needed today.
Some cultures understand this better than others. In Japan, there’s a deep cultural appreciation for ma — the space between things. It’s found in music, in design, in conversation.
Silence isn’t awkward; it’s respectful. Pauses carry meaning. What is not said can be just as powerful as what is. Speaking less doesn’t mean knowing less — it often means knowing when to speak.
Imagine how different our institutions, classrooms, and boardrooms would be if we respected that principle more. If we didn’t equate noise with knowledge. If we made space for quiet leadership to rise.
I see this often in my students and colleagues. The ones who speak softly but think deeply. The ones who hesitate before answering, not because they’re unsure, but because they’re weighing their words.
I make a point to notice them. To encourage them. Because I know what it feels like to be overlooked simply because you’re not loud. And I know what it feels like to carry weight silently.
So, if you’ve ever felt like you don’t fit the mould of a “typical” leader — if you’re the one who stays in the background, who observes more than you interrupt, who writes rather than performs — I want to tell you this: you don’t need to raise your voice to raise the bar.
You don’t have to be loud to lead. You don’t have to be the centre of attention to make a difference. Let your work speak. Let your presence speak. And when it’s your time to speak, make sure it matters.
Because not all leaders shout.
Some listen first.
Some build from the edges.
Some lead with calm, with care, with quiet consistency.
And in the end, when the noise fades, it’s often their impact that lasts the longest.
* Ir Nahrizul Adib Kadri is a professor of biomedical engineering at the Faculty of Engineering, and the Principal of Ibnu Sina Residential College, Universiti Malaya.Nahrizul Adib Kadri is a professor of biomedical engineering at the Faculty of Engineering, and the Principal of Ibnu Sina Residential College, Universiti Malaya.Nahrizul Adib Kadri is a professor of biomedical engineering at the Faculty of Engineering, and the principal of Ibnu Sina Residential College, Universiti Malaya. He may be reached at [email protected]
** This is the personal opinion of the writer or publication and does not necessarily represent the views of Malay Mail.
