Conflict rarely announces itself with clarity. It often arrives in disguise: a sharp email, an unexpected challenge, a tone that lands too hard. As leaders, we are told to stay composed, to model maturity. But what happens when the moment feels personal? When something in us flares before we have time to think?

This is where CPR: centre, probe, respond, becomes more than a technique. It becomes a way of choosing presence over reaction, clarity over control. Not to avoid conflict, but to stay grounded enough to meet it with care.

These moments have outsized importance. Not because they are dramatic, but because they ask us to choose how we will respond when our certainty is shaken, when our status feels vulnerable, when our leadership is not assumed but tested.

Most of us are not taught how to meet these moments. We are taught how to explain, how to manage, how to justify. Less often are we invited to consider what kind of presence these moments require.

CPR is a simple sequence, but not a small one. It is a way of reclaiming authorship in the heat of relational tension. It does not promise to fix the other person. Instead, it offers a path to become more faithful to yourself, and more trustworthy to others, especially when it matters most.

Centre: return to yourself before you reach for the other

The first move is inward. Not toward the other person. Not toward the issue. But toward yourself. When something lands as a personal attack, our bodies often know before our minds do. Breath shortens. Muscles tighten. Shoulders rise. The nervous system, scanning for threat, moves quickly to protect. This isn’t failure. It’s a perfectly intelligent system trying to keep us safe. But protection and presence don’t always work together. What keeps us safe physiologically can also trap us in defensiveness, silence, or overcorrection. And so the first task in a moment of conflict is not strategy or explanation. It’s coming back to ourselves enough to restore choice.

To centre is to interrupt the automatic and make space for intention. It doesn’t require stillness or silence. It requires awareness. That awareness might come through a breath, fuller than the one before. Through noticing your feet on the floor. Through dropping your shoulders or relaxing your jaw. It might come through an inward question: what’s being stirred in me right now? What story is my body telling before I’ve said a word? These practices aren’t just calming techniques. They are acts of leadership. They say: I am not governed by this moment. I am choosing how I enter it.

Sometimes centring means getting grounded in your physical body. Other times it means returning to your core intention. What kind of leader do I want to be in this conversation? What matters more than winning? Done well, centring is not withdrawal. It is preparation. It’s what allows us to stay in the conversation without surrendering our presence. Without this pause, we risk becoming part of the escalation we wish to prevent. With it, we move from instinct to authorship. This is not about being calm in a performative way. It is about locating yourself, so that when you do speak, it is from a place aligned with your deeper commitments, not just your immediate emotions. Centring is not a delay. It is the beginning of dialogue.

Probe: the courage to be curious outward and inward

Centring gives us the ground. Probing asks us to step forward, first toward the other person and then, just as crucially, toward ourselves. We often think of probing as a way of asking questions, and it is, but not questions that aim to trap or corner. These are questions that make room. They carry a tone that says, I want to understand what matters to you, even if I don’t yet agree. Probing seeks the human behind the behaviour. It asks what might this person be needing, fearing, or trying to protect. Not to excuse, but to connect.

Yet the most powerful form of probing often turns inward. In the heat of a challenging moment, it is easy to fixate on the other person’s intent. But the deeper work is to ask what is being stirred in me. What story am I telling about this interaction? What fear is being touched? What old belief or past pattern might be shaping how I’m hearing them? These inward questions are not indulgent. They are a form of internal honesty that shifts us out of reaction and into responsibility. They help us avoid confusing our interpretation with the whole truth of what is happening.

To probe in both directions is to choose a slower, braver path. It is to move away from the certainty of blame and toward the ambiguity of relationship. By bringing curiosity to the surface, we interrupt the reflex to defend and invite something more human to emerge. When we do this well, we begin to see the other not as an adversary but as someone caught in a moment, just like us. And we see ourselves not as victims or heroes, but as participants in shaping what happens next.

Respond: choose what you want to reinforce

Only after we have centred and probed are we ready to respond. And by then, the response carries more weight, not because it is louder or smarter, but because it arises from steadiness rather than impulse. To respond is to act from intention. It is not about retreat or appeasement, nor about asserting dominance. It is about offering something that respects the moment, the relationship, and the future we still share.

A response might begin with acknowledging the emotional charge in the room. I can see this really matters to you. It might be a shift toward shared purpose. I think we both care deeply about getting this right. Let’s work out how. It might also require a boundary. I want to stay in this conversation, but I need us to speak to each other differently. These are not techniques to manage others. They are decisions to stay in relationship without sacrificing integrity. What matters is not the script, but the posture behind it.

Responding is also an act of culture-making. In that moment, you are reinforcing what kind of space this is. One where people defend positions and rehearse old battles, or one where people are allowed to stay human, even when things get messy. When you respond with clarity and care, you are saying that discomfort does not need to become disconnection. You are refusing to escalate or withdraw. You are choosing to contribute rather than react.

And that choice, quietly and consistently, begins to shape what others expect from you, and what they begin to offer in return.

More than a method

CPR is not a technique to master. It is a posture to practise. A way of walking through difficult moments with clarity, care, and a little more humility. It offers no guarantees. But it does offer a path, a rhythm, for meeting tension without letting it own us. What we practise becomes our presence. And what we model becomes our culture.

When leaders centre themselves, probe both outward and inward, and respond with dignity, they are not just managing conflict. They are stewarding the tone of their team. They are creating the conditions for honesty, even under strain. They are building trust, not through perfection, but through consistent care.

This is leadership in its relational form. Not about being in charge, but about being responsible, for our impact, our choices, and the space we co-create.

When the room feels sharp, you are being invited not just to hold your ground, but to reshape the ground on which the conversation stands.

So the question becomes:

What do I want this moment to mean?

What kind of space do I want to co-create, even in conflict?

And am I willing to begin with myself?

Do you have any tips or advice for managing conflict when it feels personal?

What has worked for you?

Do you have any recommended resources to explore?

Thanks for reading!