Stop calling them the future

Telling a 28-year-old founder who employs people, pays salaries, negotiates contracts, and carries the livelihoods of others that they represent the “future of leadership” is absurd. What, precisely, are they doing right now? Rehearsing? Doing a sound check for success?

We do this constantly — and by “we”, I mean those of us in the older millennial bracket veering towards geriatric. We label them emerging talents, rising stars, next-generation changemakers, and, most patronisingly, ones to watch.

Our vocabulary places them perpetually on the cusp of something greater, as though their present accomplishments remain preliminary until they reach an age that makes the rest of us sufficiently comfortable.

This is a peculiar contradiction in Singapore, where we have spent generations cultivating an almost obsessive relationship with achievement. We encourage excellence from childhood, measure progress relentlessly, and applaud exceptional performance: the student who tops the examinations, the undergraduate who launches a venture, the founder who secures capital before turning 30. We have little difficulty celebrating precocity, as long as we can keep treating it as such.

Yet somewhere between admiring youthful accomplishment and conceding youthful authority, our enthusiasm turns conditional. We are happy to acknowledge that someone has achieved something extraordinary for their age. We seem considerably less comfortable acknowledging that their age might have nothing to do with the legitimacy of what they have achieved.

The age of permission

This discomfort sits at the heart of what I wanted to examine in this year’s edition of Strictly Zillennial, featuring ten individuals between 26 and 32 working across technology, mobility, theatre, hospitality, design, and consumer goods.

Their achievements differ considerably, as do their motivations. Some are scaling commercial enterprises; others are pursuing cultural ambitions whose value revenue or valuation metrics cannot adequately capture. Some are fighting to preserve traditions that older generations allowed to erode, while others are challenging conventions in industries that existed long before they entered the workforce.

What interests me about these individuals is precisely how little they resemble one another. Beyond their ages, no convenient philosophy of leadership binds them together, no shared manifesto, and certainly no singular definition of success. And yet, we persist in discussing younger leaders as though belonging to the same generation tells us something definitive about how they think, what they value, and what they might accomplish.

It would be convenient to claim that this generation possesses a unique instinct for disruption, or that its members are inherently more adaptable, creative, or courageous than their predecessors. But generational exceptionalism is lazy flattery. Every generation, at some point, convinces itself that it has uncovered truths its parents failed to grasp.

The more useful conversation concerns competence, and why we remain so inclined to associate it with seniority.

Experience matters, as does institutional memory. There is considerable value in recognising a pitfall because you have already stepped into it. But experience and competence are not interchangeable. Age can confer perspective without guaranteeing wisdom, just as youth can bring energy without guaranteeing originality.

A 32-year-old executive may demonstrate sounder judgment than someone who has spent 25 years climbing the corporate ladder, and the reverse may be equally true.

The difficulty arises when we treat seniority as presumptive evidence of competence while demanding that younger leaders repeatedly establish theirs. In doing so, we create an informal hierarchy of permission, where authority must first receive the endorsement of those who have held it longer.

And perhaps this explains why some younger leaders are increasingly uninterested in following the routes previous generations used to gain that endorsement.

Ambition without the old blueprint

We often assume younger professionals want the same things their predecessors wanted, only faster: the promotion, the corner office, the impressive designation, and eventually, a seat at the highest table.

But what happens when the destination itself begins to lose its appeal?

Deloitte’s 2026 Gen Z and Millennial Survey revealed that while 81 per cent of Gen Z respondents in Singapore expressed interest in leadership roles, only six per cent identified reaching the executive suite as their primary career goal. Financial independence topped their priorities instead.

The distinction is revealing. An appetite for leadership does not necessarily translate into an appetite for the traditional rewards of corporate advancement. Younger professionals may want responsibility, autonomy, and influence without subscribing to the hierarchy that earlier generations regarded as the natural route towards acquiring them.

This complicates the familiar accusation that young people are entitled, impatient, or unwilling to commit. Perhaps some have simply examined the bargain their predecessors accepted and concluded that the rewards no longer justify the sacrifices. Others may still desire conventional success, but refuse to accept that seniority alone should determine when they become eligible for it.

Of course, the freedom to reject established pathways remains unequally distributed. Not every young person has the financial cushion, connections, or family support to pursue an unconventional career, much less start a business. We should resist romanticising independence as though everyone enjoys the same freedom to exercise it.

Nevertheless, these changing ambitions force us to reconsider what leadership actually signifies. If the executive suite is no longer the definitive aspiration, and institutional rank no longer commands automatic deference, then our conventional markers of achievement become less useful. We must pay closer attention to what individuals accomplish, the decisions they make, and the consequences they accept.

Which brings us to an uncomfortable question about the way we celebrate young achievers ourselves.

Recognition demands scrutiny

For all our enthusiasm for giving younger leaders the recognition they deserve, we have developed a rather unfortunate habit of letting their ages overshadow the substance of their work.

A founder becomes notable simply for being 27 rather than for building a sustainable business. A creative director attracts attention for reaching a position unusually early rather than for the calibre of their work. We celebrate the speed of their ascent without adequately questioning what they have done once they arrive.

I recognise the irony of making this argument in an issue whose defining editorial criterion is age. Strictly Zillennial features people between 26 and 32, after all. But I would argue that the distinction lies in what we do with that criterion. Their ages explain why we have brought these individuals together; they should not determine how we assess their achievements.

Taking younger leaders seriously means extending to them the same scrutiny we apply to anyone else exercising power, managing resources, or influencing the direction of an organisation.

A young founder should face rigorous questions about governance, unit economics, and organisational culture. A young artistic director should be expected to defend their aesthetic choices. A young executive should be held fully accountable for how they exercise authority and treat their staff. We cannot demand that society regard younger leaders as equals while expecting the market to judge them by more forgiving standards.

And we should be equally careful not to mistake early momentum for permanent triumph.

Some ventures highlighted in this issue may stumble; others may fail. Founders may abandon business models they currently champion with absolute conviction. Others may discover that the ambitions driving them at 28 hold little appeal by 38. None of this necessarily diminishes what they are accomplishing today.

Indeed, the insistence on describing young achievers through their future potential creates a peculiar burden. Once we have proclaimed someone a rising star, we begin expecting an uninterrupted ascent. Every subsequent decision becomes part of a story whose ending we have prematurely written, and any deviation risks looking like disappointment.

That seems an unnecessarily restrictive way to regard another person’s life, particularly when we know how frequently our own ambitions have changed.

Perhaps genuine recognition requires something more generous, and considerably less theatrical: the freedom to succeed, miscalculate, change direction, and outgrow the version of oneself that first attracted public attention. Younger leaders deserve that freedom as much as their older counterparts do.

They also deserve to have their work assessed on its present merits, without having their identities perpetually mortgaged to future potential.

They are already here

When I conceived Strictly Zillennial, I wanted to highlight individuals doing consequential work outside the usual circuits of self-congratulation. Three editions in, I find myself increasingly preoccupied with the language we use to describe them, and what that language reveals about those of us who use it.

We tell young people their time will come. We invite them to discussions about tomorrow’s workforce, tomorrow’s economy, and tomorrow’s challenges. We offer mentorship, advice, encouragement, and visibility, often with the best of intentions.

But a profound difference exists between nurturing someone’s potential and respecting the authority they have already established. The first allows established figures to remain benevolent gatekeepers, generously making room for those waiting to follow. The second requires them to look across the table and recognise a peer.

That recognition is neither an act of charity nor an endorsement of everything a younger leader does. It simply acknowledges that responsibility, judgment, and accountability do not begin at some predetermined age.

The ten individuals featured in this issue have made different choices, pursued different ambitions, and arrived at different understandings of what constitutes meaningful work. Some will go further in their chosen fields; others may eventually choose something else entirely. I find that considerably more interesting than the idea that they collectively represent the next generation of anything.

Their achievements deserve consideration because of what they have already undertaken, the risks they currently carry, and the decisions they must answer for. Their youth provides context, but it should never become either an excuse or a qualification.

Leadership, after all, is neither an heirloom that older generations magnanimously surrender nor an entitlement that younger generations automatically inherit. It emerges through execution, the clarity of one’s decisions, and a willingness to own the consequences.

And if someone is already carrying those consequences at 26, 29 or 32, perhaps the least we can do is stop congratulating them on what they might become and acknowledge what they already are. They’re here, and they’re not going anywhere.

Art direction: Fazlie Hashim
Photographer: Athirah Annissa
Stylist: Dolphin Yeo