The Intelligence We’ve Overlooked

On embodied knowing and leading in a world of volatility

I was wondering… what if the most powerful intelligence doesn’t come from the centre - but from the edges, where we sense, reach, and respond?

Five hundred million years ago, our evolutionary paths split. We grew spines and skeletons; octopuses became soft-bodied shapeshifters. Their skin flickers from rock to coral to shadow in a blink. Their arms taste, touch, and decide. Their bodies think. It is both alien and intimate - a living reminder that the world remains more intricate, more alive, more mysterious than we can fully fathom.

Two-thirds of their neurons live in their arms. Their limbs can taste, touch, even make decisions without consulting the brain. Philosopher Peter Godfrey-Smith describes meeting an octopus as “encountering an intelligent alien.” And yet, in their curiosity, adaptability, and watchfulness, they feel uncannily familiar.

The octopus doesn’t lead with a single brain issuing instructions to the rest of its body. Its intelligence is distributed - each arm sensing, deciding, adjusting in real time. There is no rigid hierarchy. No central command. And yet, its movements are coherent, responsive, and precise. It’s a kind of intelligence that isn’t centralized, but distributed. Not enforced, but felt.

What if this wasn’t only true of octopuses? Humans hold the same kind of intelligence - one that arises not only from our bodily senses, but also from our higher senses: intuition, heart, and soul. Nerves weave through our skin, muscles, and gut, carrying signals before the mind has time to form words. A stomach tightens before we can name fear. A chest softens before we realise we are safe. The body speaks in sensations long before the mind translates them into meaning. Yet we’ve grown unaware. We shrink intelligence to the brain alone, ignoring the knowledge carried not only by our bodies, but also by our souls. We override the signals. We prioritise thought over sensation, control over awareness - forgetting that intelligence often begins not with knowing, but with noticing.

If threatened, the octopus vanishes in an instant. Chromatophores in its skin expand and contract, shifting it into rock, coral, shadow. Papillae raise texture across its flesh. In milliseconds, it becomes something else entirely. We, too, are shapeshifters - moving between identities: parent, partner, leader, friend. We adapt to survive, to grow, to belong. But while the octopus transforms to protect itself, we often shift to meet expectations - to stay visible, acceptable, in control. In a world that keeps changing, the question isn’t whether we’ll shapeshift - but whether we can do so without losing what makes us human.

And then, there is their curiosity. Octopuses play. They explore. For a life often no longer than two years, play itself becomes bravery. Curiosity becomes survival. The octopus reminds us that aliveness is inseparable from curiosity. To reach out, to touch, to explore - this is what keeps us moving forward.

But in the age of AI, curiosity has become endangered. We outsource our searching to machines. We follow what’s recommended, predicted, prescribed. We are offered so many answers, we forget how to wonder. And in a world where algorithms anticipate our next move, and dashboards track our every action, the cost of losing curiosity isn’t just personal - it’s collective. When wonder disappears, so does the space for discernment, care, and real leadership.

And yet, while this kind of knowing lives in all of us, we’ve built systems that rarely trust it. Especially in leadership.We reward the polished voice, the fast answer, the illusion of certainty - even when what’s needed is not more speed, but a wiser kind of responsiveness: one that rises from the body, heart, and instinct.We lead as if wisdom arises from the head alone. But what if real wisdom begins in the intersections - where body, heart, and soul meet - in our ability to notice, to wait, to move without needing to control?

For generations, leadership has followed a familiar pattern: control at the centre, decisions at the top, action at the edges. It’s a model built for stability, not for change. For command, not for complexity. But when the ground won’t stay still - when truth itself feels blurred - that model becomes brittle. It cannot stretch where life requires stretch. And today, in a world marked by ecological upheaval, polarisation, burnout, and deep systemic distrust, stretch is not optional - it’s essential.

That’s the world we’re now leading in. The rise of AI, misinformation, climate urgency, and political instability have reshaped what leadership requires. Certainty is rare. Complexity is constant. And many of the systems we relied on - for knowledge, for meaning, for direction - no longer hold in the same way.

What the octopus offers is not decentralisation - it’s something deeper: a form of intelligence that lives in relationships. Each arm doesn’t just carry out instructions - it listens, senses, and responds as part of a living whole. As philosopher Peter Godfrey-Smith suggests, the octopus isn’t a creature with a mind in one place - it’s more like a mind extended through its body.

This is not intelligence as control. It is intelligence as coherence. And that’s the kind of leadership we now need - not command from above, but clarity across the self. A way of leading that is fluid, relational, and responsive to complexity without collapsing under it.

In many ways, this is the kind of Knowing leaders are being called into now. Not knowledge as accumulation - but as a living, breathing system of awarenes and understanding.Not speed, but sensitivity. Not clarity as certainty, but clarity as coherence: the ability to hold multiple signals without being split apart by them.

The shift is subtle but real. For decades, we’ve rewarded the leader who moves fast, speaks first, stays ahead. But what we need now is not less speed - but a different kind of speed. The kind that moves responsibly fast - built on a deeper foundation of knowing, awareness, and care. Not less cognitive, but more embodied. Not louder, but wiser. Not about having the answer, but about staying close enough to what’s real to respond with integrity.

Knowing that doesn’t end in the mind. Knowing that moves through Being. Knowing that shapes Doing - not just what we do, but how we do it, and why it matters.

This is where Knowledge Mindfulness becomes essential. It is not a framework to follow - but a practice to return to. A way of remembering what leadership truly serves. A way of staying in touch with what matters, even as the ground keeps shifting.

It asks leaders to:

• Notice what pulls their attention. Not all signals deserve their focus. In a world of noise, discernment becomes an act of care.
• Stay rooted. When pace replaces presence, it’s easy to lose coherence. Being isn’t stillness - it’s your anchor.
• Choose action that reflects what matters. Doing is never neutral. Every move expresses a way of Knowing. Let your Doing protect the integrity of your Being.

Because in an age of artificial knowing, what sets leaders apart is not how much they carry - but how deeply they are rooted in what matters. And how consistently they return to it, especially when the world pulls them away.

For all their strangeness, octopuses invite intimacy. Divers describe being studied by their wide, searching eyes, as if the creature were wondering about us too. Author Sy Montgomery calls them “curious, flexible, wild minds.” To look into their gaze is to feel both alienness and recognition - to sense that awareness is not ours alone.

Perhaps this is the octopus’s final lesson: That life’s greatest gift is not certainty, but wonder. That to be human is not to master the world, but to stay curious within it. To keep reaching - like an octopus arm - into the unknown.