text: Once upon a time, when I was a fierce Product Manager, I was invited to the Company's Top Hundred annual meeting. Neither I nor any of my group colleagues - invited as well- were part of such a select group, but our manager had decided that year to do a bit of self-promotion and convinced the organization that we were worthy of being included. So when the day arrived, we were there, the top hundred, a few organizers, and the ten extra-worthy ones, in a remote location, surrounded by greenery and chirping birds, ready to discuss the organization's mission and vision during the day and drink and eat at night. One of the first topics of the day was the human side of the business or, better said, the classification of the humans in that room. A few days before, we had worked on a questionnaire to give us (and those around us) an idea of our character and traits as professionals. The results were supposed to divide the group into a healthy mix of "personality colors" because mixed organizations should be better performers. There should be "Red": aggressive and goal-oriented. "Blue" were the calm ones, detail-oriented. "Yellow" were the energetic fellows who pulled everyone to work with smiles and enthusiasm. And finally, "Green" were the empathetic people who would build bridges, able to listen and process emotions and information. So we filled in all the questions days before and waited patiently for the results of the workshop morning when the organizers distributed letters around. Then, they asked us to identify ourselves with the round sticker in the letters on our shirts. Everyone opened the envelopes, and shortly after, the colorful dots started to pop up: red, red, red, red... everything was red. There was only a green one, the human resources representative, a little woman, who wore her little green dot like a champion for the two days we were offsite. After discovering that most of us were alpha-to-be, aggressive, and goal-oriented, it was a challenge for each of us to let go of our objectives and dreams. The real test came when we were asked to work in teams (very homogeneous teams). The day, which had started with nervous energy and pride in being in a place where I was not supposed to be, continued with the discussion of the different business segments' values and goals for the following years. I found myself in a group with Mr. Bright, the owner of the newest and most future-oriented group of products, and a couple more people working in other areas of the Company. The segment I was responsible for had the most significant market volume. Still, some people considered it old-fashioned and "easy" compared to the newest technologies. But before I could introduce myself, it was clear none mattered. When we were about to introduce ourselves to the work team, it seemed there was a contest to see who had the "biggest one," and I had been somehow disqualified from the competition before even saying my name. Together with the Human Resources lady, I was one of the two women in the room, and the men around (the ones who did not know me before that day) were amazed when they saw the red circle in my shirt. "Red?" asked Mr. Bright. "Expecting something else?" I replied. "It does not help diversity," he said, smiling at me before walking away to speak with someone else. The rest of the day was not much better. Whenever I tried to speak up, the others buried me in questions and doubts. After all, my work was easy, and Mr. Bright's products were the pride of the Company. It did not matter that my segment was the cash cow, the one paying for other projects. To them, I had an easy life. I should smile more and be more... green. By the end of the afternoon, we presented the results of our discussions, and what a session that was, with everyone trying to speak over the others, joking about the value of this and that, showing how valuable each and everyone was for the organization... It was a nightmare, but it was over. Or that's what we thought. After several rounds of presentations, the organizers announced a surprise for us. They led us to the main room of the convention center and asked us to take our seats. As we settled in, our attention was drawn to a massive curtain and a pair of overly enthusiastic individuals in front of it. The curtain was dramatically pulled back, revealing our surprise: a group of horses, each attached to a small chariot, lined up on the other side of the glass. "Today, you'll race," said one of the organizers. Hundreds of people sitting in that room looked at each other like they had seen a UFO. Fifty-five chariots with fifty-five horses waited for us. Before we were asked to meet our new afternoon companions, we were told what we were supposed to do. "You'll be paired. Each chariot will have a driver in front and a steer person in the back. You will do a first round of recognition with the horse owner and a second round on your own. You'll be timed, and the team with the best time will be the champions." No one moved. My nervous energy from the beginning of the day was long gone. Right there, the only thing I had was much closer to a panic attack. When the organizers started calling for the sets of two names that would join each horse, I never thought the other person to ride with would be my biggest issue... until I heard his name. Mr. Bright smiled at me, and when he was near enough, he put his hand on my shoulder and, in the most condescending tone ever imagined, told me: "Don't worry, I will care for everything; you don't need to be scared." At that very moment, I felt my blood boiling, but I said nothing. I smiled back and walked with him outside to meet our new team partner. Growing up, I had no pets and never experienced "country life." I had seen horses close before, but those beasts- despite being magnificent- never made me desire to take riding lessons or care of them. Next to the horse was its owner, a calm middle-aged man who told us that if we took care of the horse, the horse would take care of us. I thought then that the man was selling his product too optimistically, but after a few not-so-glorious discussions that day, I kept my opinion to myself and sat by his side in the chariot to start the recognition ride. When the horse started to move, the sun was shining, and there was a light breeze and a few clouds in the sky. We rode in dirt paths and crossed little creeks; we moved below trees and saw birds and squirrels above us. It felt nice, almost peaceful... until it stopped and the man asked us to choose who would be on top. I was already sitting by his side, so, in a very casual way, I picked the reigns and didn't let go of them even when Mr. Bright told me it would be better if he drove. I did not move; I just smiled and told him to get ready to start. It was funny to see his face. It almost felt like no one had ever told him "no" to anything. When we were waiting for the sign to start, I realized the weather was changing. There were more clouds, darker. The wind was not a light breeze anymore but something much stronger. The trees looked like they were dancing to a violent tune, and the birds seemed disoriented, but I did not care. I was laser-focused on driving that chariot and having the best time ever. Another horse stopped by our side, and a few seconds later, I heard a "go"... and we... didn't. I did what I had been told, but the horse did not move. Our neighbors in the race were long gone when I finally made the horse move, but not even in a straight line. The horse, utterly uninterested in whatever I told him or commanded, did zig-zag across the field, peed, and stopped to eat grass. At the same time, Mr. Bright started screaming because I was "doing it all wrong," and when I was about to reply to him with what I thought about his behavior, the horse ran. The animal did not gently move or pick up its pace. No, it ran as if a bee had just stung him, and it did not matter what I said or yelled at that magnificent creature: it just carried us along. I had branches hitting my head, it started to rain, and my partner, Mr. Bright, did not seem as cheerful and confident as before. When we arrived at the creeks, the water splashed everywhere, and from then on, I heard a weird "chouf, chouf" for the rest of the trip. I tried to gain control, but it was in vain, and at a certain point on the way, I just convinced myself we would only stop whenever the horse wanted... and so it was. The animal did the whole route as it wished to, and when it saw the green spot where we had started, it suddenly reduced the speed and moved with such gracious movements that no one could understand why we were in such a disgraceful shape. When we stopped, I did not see Mr. Bright. He was not in the little platform behind me. I looked again and saw him on the ground, secured to the back of the chariot, all muddy and bad-tempered. He stood up, furious, and walked towards me, mumbling something (probably not nice) when the organizer of the race came to us, microphone in hand, euphoric first, surprised when he saw the mud monster by my side: "Oh my God, you were awesome! We've never seen such a fast race! How did you do it?" I was about to start laughing, but then I saw the red dot on my shirt, covered in mud. I removed the little sticker and looked at the horse. "Teamwork, I guess," I said, and everyone around started to clap and cheer.