It has been a noisy and heavy year, in the world and for many of the leaders I work with. In my coaching conversations lately I'm hearing a cluster of questions that seem to belong together: How do I speak up when someone says something that troubles me, when I'm afraid of conflict or of making things more divided than they already are? How do I stop going quiet when I have something to say? How do I add my voice among the louder voices in the room? How do I give myself the time I need to think something through, while still offering what I have to say when others are there to hear it?
These questions come from thoughtful, capable people, and I've come to see that they usually hold two different kinds of difficulty. One is about courage. The other is about pace. And sometimes it's about both.
I think pace, in the leadership space, is often misunderstood. Many leaders I work with are deep, reflective processors. They take information in, turn it over, notice its layers and implications, and arrive at something considered and wise. For some, this sequence extends beyond the conversation or the meeting, and the opportunity to speak can feel lost. Many workplaces reward speed: the first idea offered, the most confident delivery, the person who can think out loud. It's common for people to feel like their voice matters less, or that they simply need to become faster. I don't believe either is true. Our thinking is not less valuable because it arrives later. It may simply need a different doorway in.
Sometimes that doorway is as simple as saying, "I'd like to sit with this and come back to you" and then genuinely coming back, in a follow-up note or at the start of the next conversation. Sometimes it's asking for the agenda ahead of time so that some of your thinking is done before you walk in. And for those who lead meetings, there's an opportunity here too. Nancy Kline's work on Thinking Environments reminds us that people think best when they feel at ease rather than rushed, and when everyone is genuinely given a turn. Noticing who tends to go quiet in meetings, and then purposefully making room for them, may be one of the most generous things a leader can do.
One of my clients had spent a long and accomplished career moving at a million miles a minute, until long COVID brought her to a standstill. In her recovery she had to pace herself in ways that once would have seemed unimaginable: working one hour a day, answering only two emails before lunch, walking to the edge of her driveway and back. This became her real work, and all of it was about pacing, giving her body what it needed to heal and recover.
I've thought about this client often, and about what it truly means to pace ourselves. Spending long stretches of time, over many years, in demanding and fast-moving spaces can gradually deplete us. When we're depleted, it's often our most considered voice that slips away first, the calm and wise one that knows what it wants to say. In its place we tend either to go quiet or to become reactive, saying things that aren't helpful, productive or even entirely true. The way back to our energy, and to that wiser voice, is rarely more of the same. It isn't more speed or more pushing. It's finding a different pace altogether, a new way of going forward, much as my client discovered, one walk to the edge of the driveway at a time.
The other difficulty is courage and it can feel more charged. Someone says something that sits badly with us. Perhaps it's dismissive, unfair, or simply untrue, and we feel the familiar pull to freeze, fight, or flee. Perhaps we don't want to create conflict. Sometimes we're not entirely sure which voice will come out if we do speak, the considered one or the reactive one. So, the moment passes, and later we replay it, wishing we'd said something.
What I've seen help is the realization that speaking up doesn't have to mean winning or delivering a perfect rebuttal. It can be much simpler and more human than that. It might be speaking from our direct experience: "That doesn't sit right with me". It might be naming impact rather than judging the person: "I'm noticing how that might land for some people including me". Or it might be genuine curiosity: "Can you help me understand what you mean?" These are small acts, but they change what's possible and are less likely to create the rupture we fear.
The longer we wait to speak, the higher the bar we tend to set for ourselves, and the harder it becomes to say anything at all. Coming in early, even with a question or a small build on what someone else has said, can break that spell and make it easier to offer something more later on. It's worth noticing the quiet voice that tends to appear in moments of hesitation, the one that says 'I don't know enough yet' or 'someone else will say it better'. We don't need to know everything before we have something worth saying. A fresh perspective or a good question is often exactly what is needed.
Our voice lives in the body long before it reaches words. When we feel unsure, our body responds. For some, the breath becomes high and held. Others notice their shoulders curl forward, or their hands tuck out of sight. It can be helpful to get curious about what happens in our own body in those moments. From there, we might experiment with taking a slow breath that drops down into the belly, letting our feet rest flat on the floor, or sitting more upright. Small changes like these can shift how we feel from the inside and give our voice somewhere to come from.
None of this is about performing confidence. Most of us assume we need to feel confident before we can speak with confidence, but it often works the other way around. The body often leads, and the mind follows. You may already know this from experience: the way a walk can clear your head before a difficult conversation, or how differently you feel taking a hard call standing up rather than hunched over your desk.
A practice I've shared with clients is Notice, Name, Nudge. Begin by noticing the moment you hold back, perhaps the tightening in your throat or the breath you don't quite take, without needing to change anything yet. Then silently name what's happening: I'm protecting the relationship. I need more time. I'm worried about how this will land. And when it feels right, nudge yourself toward one small act of voice. It might be one honest sentence, one question, or one return to something you weren't ready to say earlier.
When I sat down to write this month, I found myself asking a question of my own, a close cousin of the ones I shared at the start: With so much happening in the world, and so many voices already speaking, what could my voice possibly add? I didn't find an easy answer. What I'm finding as I write is my own reminder: the voice I hold back is rarely as small as I fear, and it tends to find its way through when I offer it with honesty rather than waiting until I'm certain it's enough. So, this reflection is, in its own way, my small nudge.
I want these Reflections to be genuinely useful in the lives you're leading. If we've worked together, or are working together now, is there something that has come up in our conversations that you'd like me to explore or share here? Anything you share would always be written about with care, and never in a way that would identify you. If we haven't yet worked together, I'd love to know what you're navigating in your own leadership right now, or what you find yourself curious about in how other leaders are thinking and finding their way. Would you be willing to share that with me? You're welcome to simply reply to this email. I'd be truly grateful for whatever you feel moved to share.