The first lesson of farming — and of leadership — is simplicity. Growth doesn’t come from piling on more; it comes from clearing space.

I learned this one afternoon at Yili Farm, standing in the rows with Alan Toh, its owner. Founded in 1996, Yili is one of Singapore’s largest soil-based farms, known for its steady supply of fresh leafy greens grown on living soil.

Many farms in Singapore have closed over the years as land leases shortened or were taken back, but Yili has persevered.

The sun was high, the air thick with the scent of earth and green leaves. Alan moved slowly but with purpose, inspecting one row at a time. He didn’t rush. He didn’t cut corners.

Every plant received the same quiet, steady attention. When I asked him about his approach, he smiled and said, “Healthy vegetables start with consistent care.”

Watching Alan and his team — many of them foreign workers — move through the field during harvest was almost therapeutic. Each motion was deliberate, steady, unhurried. The rhythmic sound of leaves being gathered and baskets being filled carried a calm energy.

For someone like me, who grew up in the city, the sight of an entire field ready for harvest felt rare and humbling. In a country where most people buy vegetables wrapped in plastic under supermarket lights, standing there among rows of living greens felt like a privilege.

It was also a reminder of the sheer hard work behind what seems so ordinary.

The sweat, the repetition, the constant attention to detail — it explained why so few young Singaporeans see farming as their calling. Yet for Alan and his crew, there was quiet pride in that rhythm.

When I asked him how he managed to achieve 15 to 18 harvests a year, far more than many farms in nearby countries such as Malaysia or India, he smiled. “It took years of trial and error,” he said. “Finding the right rotation, the right balance. We plant, we rest, we plant again. Every day matters.”

Singapore’s tropical climate allows for continuous planting; leafy greens mature within three to four weeks.

By rotating crops and maintaining healthy soil, Yili keeps its land productive all year.

In contrast, farms in Malaysia and India face seasonal slowdowns — heavy monsoons, dry spells, and temperature variations that interrupt planting cycles especially for soil-based vegetables farms. While many can still achieve multiple cycles a year, weather variations create pauses that farmers must work around. Alan’s ability to maintain up to 18 cycles consistently is remarkable — the result of patience, adaptation, and years of fine-tuning.

His words stayed with me.

Farming, at its heart, isn’t about control — it’s about understanding cycles. You learn when to plant and when to pause, when to add and when to clear.

The discipline lies in patience, not haste.

As I watched him, I realised how different that rhythm was from the one I’d been living.

I had been chasing growth in another form — sales targets, new projects, the next opportunity. I said yes to everything. My calendar was full, my inbox overflowing, my days stretched thin.

It looked like progress, but it wasn’t. Deep down, I was just trying to keep myself busy to feel like I was moving forward. The harder I pushed, the less grounded I felt.

Alan’s field offered a different kind of wisdom.

Sometimes, growth, real growth, doesn’t come from speed or volume. It comes from the daily simple act of care — small, steady, repeated work that respects rhythm and space.

 

Simplicity is not the opposite of ambition

As I watched Alan’s team at work, I couldn’t help but think about my own beginnings in the landscape business.

Like farming, our industry was labour-intensive and relied heavily on foreign workers. It was hard, physical work under the sun — the kind that few locals wanted to do.

Horticulture and landscaping, much like farming, were often seen as trades for the less educated. I had grown up with the same belief system that many in my generation carried: study hard, get a degree, and work in a multinational company.

That was the dream of every graduate — and the wish of every farmer parent who worked so their children could escape the fields.

My family’s story is one of those generational journeys.

As a fourth-generation member, I’ve inherited the fruits of their sacrifices — my great-grandparents who toiled the land, my grandparents who held the business together through difficult years, and my parents and uncle who worked relentlessly so that our generation could have the freedom to choose a different path.

Because of them, I have had the privilege to learn, to explore, and to pursue purpose beyond survival. Yet with that freedom came another challenge — the search for why.

Over the years, I’ve realised that while change is constant, what grounds us is knowing why we do what we do.

Every generation adapts to meet the needs of its time, but our roots — our values — must remain clear. The question that guided me was no longer how do we keep up, but what do we stand for as we move forward?

Standing in Alan’s field, I saw that same principle at work.

He didn’t resist change — he learned, adapted, and rotated his crops — but he never lost sight of his purpose: to grow good food with care. That clarity, more than any technology or system, was what kept his farm alive.

It made me realise that simplicity is not the opposite of ambition. It’s what gives ambition depth. When we lose sight of that, we mistake motion for progress and noise for achievement.

 

Clearing the Field

That realisation returned years later when I attended a talk by Don Norman, the pioneer of human-centred design and author of The Design of Everyday Things. He was introducing his latest work, Design for a Better World, and one idea stayed with me: that we should have been talking about humanity-centred design all along, not just human-centred design.

He explained that design had focused too narrowly on individual users. What we need now, he said, are systems designed for humanity — for communities, for the environment, for the world we share. We had made things easy, he reflected, but not necessarily better.

He shared an example that brought this home. At one McDonald’s outlet, a store manager discovered that one of her staff — a single mother — was struggling with her shift timings.

Instead of penalising her, the manager rearranged schedules so she could care for her child and still keep her job. It was a small act of empathy, but one that built trust and stability across the team.

Listening to Don, I realised that simplicity is never just operational; it is relational. When we remove unnecessary barriers, we make room for people to do their best work.

Leaders, like designers, must learn to design for humanity — to create environments where values and systems align, where doing the right thing becomes the easy thing.

That day reminded me that simplicity is not the absence of effort but the presence of empathy. It is the discipline of shaping conditions where life can thrive.

I’ve seen that same truth in our family business.

Our long-time administration manager — a steady presence for over 30 years — once shared her story with me. She had been a pillar for my uncle and dad as they scaled up the company, holding the weight of human resources changes, new technologies, and growing pressure from the business.

Without complaint, she described the dedication and adjustments she had made over the decades to keep her work steady. Her words weren’t bitter; they carried a quiet pride. Listening to her, I felt the weight of her contribution.

What she wanted in return was simple: to be seen, to be appreciated, to know her work mattered. Complexity tries to systematise recognition; simplicity remembers to notice people as people.

Farmers clear weeds not to leave empty soil, but to make space where crops can grow strong.

Leaders must do the same — removing what distracts, clarifying what counts, and focusing energy where it matters most.

 

The Power of Focus: Apple’s Turnaround

When Steve Jobs returned to Apple in 1997, the company was near collapse. IIt had more than 70 products competing for attention and no clear focus.

Steve’s first act wasn’t to add more; it was to clear the field. In a meeting with senior leaders, he drew a simple grid on a whiteboard — a 2×2 chart with “Consumer” and “Professional” on one axis, “Desktop” and “Portable” on the other. The message was clear: four great products. That’s it.

He cut 70 percent of Apple’s product line and shut down redundant divisions. “Deciding what not to do,” he later said, “is as important as deciding what to do.”

That act of simplification brought focus and unity back to Apple.

It gave every team a shared sense of direction and renewed energy. From that clarity came the iMac, the iPod, and later the iPhone — products that redefined design itself.

When Tim Cook took over after Steve’s passing, he didn’t abandon that philosophy. He strengthened it.

Tim’s quiet discipline ensured that even as Apple grew, its focus remained clear. He often reminded teams that excellence isn’t about doing everything; it’s about doing a few things extraordinarily well.

Apple’s story reflects a truth that farmers and leaders alike understand: growth doesn’t come from expansion alone; it comes from clarity, consistency, and care.

 

Simplicity as Discipline

This lesson runs against the rhythm of our age. Everywhere, leaders are told to do more — launch more initiatives, track more metrics, add more features.

Yet the more we add, the harder it becomes to see what truly matters.

Simplicity is not about doing less for its own sake. It is about designing clarity into our work and our systems. Without clarity, even the best seeds cannot take root.

It is also the entry point to deeper leadership.

Without simplicity, purpose becomes blurred, resilience becomes brittle, and collaboration turns chaotic. With it, leaders and teams feel lighter, more focused, and more aligned.

It is not glamorous work. Pulling weeds never is. But it is the work that makes everything else possible.

Simplicity is a discipline — a steady practice of editing, refocusing, and letting go. It asks us to pause before adding and to ask: What can I remove? What deserves focus? What will I give consistent care?

When I look back at Alan’s quiet rows at Yili Farm, at Don’s call for humanity-centred design, and at Steve’s grid that changed Apple’s fate, I see the same truth: growth begins not with addition but with subtraction.

It begins in the clearing.