What Propels Us, What Holds Us Back

Downtown Montreal, Peel Avenue, Mount Royal.

In my mid-thirties, I stepped out of the work grind to pursue an Executive MBA at the University of Montreal’s School of Hautes Études Commerciales. First class, first professor: I.T., inquisitive. “Why the English cohort?” he asked. I was French—already fluent. I shrugged: “Might as well learn English.”

Badass? Maybe. But from his expression, I could’ve sworn I’d said something treasonous. Language politics in Quebec are like dry pine in wildfire season: one spark and boom. That day, I made a quiet vow: I wouldn’t stir that pot again—at least not until I’d earned the right to call myself a Canadian citizen.

A decade later, on a warm May morning, I watched the Portuguese parade from my modest balcony on rue Marie-Anne, sunlight tickling the walls of my Plateau apartment. Montreal: the city that raised me again in my adult years. Over 150 mother tongues woven into her urban skin, this island—Tio'tia:ke on the Kaniatarowanenneh River—had become my heart’s terrain. When we arrived, we were a family of four. Kathleen returning to her homeland, Westmount. Nicolas, five, starting kindergarten at his mother’s old school. Chloé, one, in her stroller while I wheeled her to lectures. I saw the World Trade Center fall on a television in a Sherbrooke barbershop. My memories are carved into these streets. I am a Montrealer in exile.

We were forty in that MBA class—a vibrant collective with roots across the globe. We learned as much from each other as from the curriculum. We wore our years of experience like seasoned armor. I had led teams over a hundred strong. Made decisions that moved millions. Tasted money, power, glory—and acquired a palate for all three. People said yes to me in boardrooms. I called big shots, and people listened.

Then came the fall. A shipbuilding project collapsed under the weight of ambition and misaligned contracts. I sued. Years of appeals, all the way to France’s highest court. We won—and the case shook the industry. But the ship, metaphorically and financially, had already sunk. I learned to steer through bankruptcy. Learned that even an “honourable exit” can leave you depleted. One day, I drove myself to the ER. Burnout is not poetic; it is cellular. Lesson one: the flavour of glory turns bitter when consumed without limits.

Chuck was one of us—a former naval officer turned financier of risky mining ventures. His business depended on drilling in untamed lands and spinning stories to keep the capital flowing. He chose me as his French-speaking sidekick. We told tales. We laughed. There’s a trickster in me still. Words are my playground, and I rarely decline the invitation to play.

Humour was my shield, my calling card. Laughter on campus became my signature. But Sophie saw the sorrow behind the smile. She was wrestling with her own decision—whether to claim her place in the family’s fast-growing chemical business. I nudged her to explore beyond the golden cage, perhaps projecting my own regrets about stepping into the family trade too soon. She stayed. Twenty years later, she had no regrets. Lesson two: sometimes, we give advice from wounds, not wisdom.

At graduation, we played Baz Luhrmann’s Everybody’s Free. That one line hit me like a gut punch: “Advice is a form of nostalgia.” I’ve never heard truth spoken so softly and so sharply.

Then there was Jen. Former Air Cadet. Glider pilot. Younger than most, wise beyond the syllabus. We shared coffees, stories, silences. One day she said she valued our conversations, wanted to hear more. My chest swelled with quiet pride. Then she added—she wanted to learn from my mistakes. My poker face held, but inside something cracked. I wasn’t the mentor I imagined—I was the cautionary tale. Lesson three: sometimes, your value is not in your victories but in your failures—honestly shared.

There was a class on leadership. The task? Craft a one-minute lesson from our lived experience. An elevator pitch for wisdom. No slides. No prep. Just one minute to distill decades.

What emerged was this:"Before we accelerate, we must release the brake."

Too often, in work and life, we slam the gas—rushing into action, ambition, achievement. But we rarely pause to notice what’s holding us back. The tensions. The hidden fears. The unspoken grief. The interpersonal drag. The brake lines no one checks.

My metaphor was simple. Maybe too simple. But it was true. And it was mine.

The applause rang out, but louder still was the debate in my head. “Too basic,” whispered my inner critic. “Too honest,” said my fear. “Maybe you’re onto something,” nudged my deeper self. That small flash of resonance would become a compass. I began speaking at conferences, offering workshops. In them, I returned again and again to the same question:

What propels us—and what quietly restrains us?

For years, I let myself be the guinea pig. I got bruised. I bruised others. But the inquiry was real. And it remains alive.

Next: Sammy's Witness: A Story of Truth, Loss, and Love Transformed

© 2025 Dominique Bel. Cardboard Wings: A Constellation of Becoming. All rights reserved.