Practically Speaking, LLC

Want to hear something that absolutely drives me nuts?

People on airplanes trying to yank their carry-on luggage down from the overhead bins. Gah.

It’s usually the person with a “carry-on” that’s not really a carry-on but a wildly overstuffed, awkwardly-shaped bag. (Whatever happened to those metal bins we used to test bag size? Do we no longer follow rules? Sigh...)

They’re slow. They block the aisle. They’re in the way of people (i.e., me) trying to make a connection, get to the bathroom, or just get off the plane.

For. The. Love.

Being calm, patient, and understanding in that moment? Hard. But here’s a trick I use to manage my angst:

When I’m frustrated with someone who isn’t behaving the way I want them to, I say to myself,
“Oh... that’s me. Hello, me.”

And I literally picture myself doing the exact thing they’re doing.

(Insert image of Alex struggling with her own awkward, overstuffed bag in the overhead bin.)

And just like that? The person becomes a little less annoying.

Why?

Because sometimes, we’re more empathetic with ourselves than we are with others.
What I call a "mistake" in myself—like overpacking—is a character flaw in someone else.

“They don’t follow rules.”
“They’re lazy.”
“They’re inconsiderate.”

This, my friend, is called the fundamental attribution error. And it’s everywhere—especially at work.

Like when someone:

doesn’t read an email all the way through

shows up late to a meeting

makes a mistake on a report

So what?
If you find yourself frequently frustrated with others, maybe it’s not just about them.
Maybe it’s you, seeing in others what frustrates you about yourself.

What might change if, the next time you’re irritated, you pause and say:

“Oh, that’s me!"

Picture a seasoned executive in a performance review. She leans across the table, looks someone in the eye, and says, “This isn’t working, and here’s how to fix it.”

No fluff, no ten-slide preamble, no “per my last email” snark. Just clear, firm truth delivered without setting anyone on fire. That’s not softness; that’s kindness with teeth.

It’s easy to get this wrong.

It’s easy to go too soft, trying to spare someone’s feelings and avoid awkwardness. It’s just as easy to swing too hard the other way, too blunt, mistaking harshness for strength.

I’ll be the first to raise my hand here (insert shudder as I think of the times I’ve embarrassed myself trying to strike the right balance).

And no, this isn’t the “tough love” many have experienced, the kind that sounds like, “I’m saying this for your own good,” but leaves behind bruises and resentment.

Genuine kindness doesn’t puff itself up with superiority or hide cruelty under the banner of honesty. It’s not about control or punishment; it’s about helping, supporting, and respecting even when the message is hard.

Softness tiptoes.
Kindness walks in, steady and clear.

Softness says “yes” to dodge discomfort.
Kindness says “no” with respect, knowing honest boundaries build trust.

Some of the kindest people are the ones who hand over tough truths wrapped in care, no sugar, no syrup, just the solid stuff.

Kindness isn’t weakness; it’s the disciplined practice of strength, delivered well.

Let’s just get this out of the way: you are not a vending machine.
I know.
Shocking.
You do not exist to spit out perfectly packaged answers whenever someone pushes your buttons. You're not here to deliver a crispy solution to every problem that drops into your lap. And you sure as heck aren’t stocked with unlimited wisdom treats waiting to be dispensed.
But wow, does it ever feel like that sometimes, right?
Someone walks into your office, sighs dramatically, stares off into the middle distance like they’re in a Hallmark movie, and says something like, “I just don’t know what to do.” And your brain? Oh, it kicks into overdrive. The cape comes out. You’re ready to solve. Ready to deliver. You’ve got an A4-sized “What You Should Do” list ready to roll.
And that’s the problem.
When leaders get into the habit of solving everything, they accidentally create an environment where people stop thinking for themselves.
Here’s the truth: constantly dispensing solutions doesn’t help your team grow.
It doesn’t help them build confidence or capability.
It just creates more dependency. And eventually? Burnout for you. Because guess what happens when you try to be a vending machine in a world that keeps shaking you for snacks? You fall over.
Your job as a leader is not to be a vending machine. It’s to be a support. A coach. Maybe an occasional gentle challenger. Sometimes the person who just sits in the room and says, “Hmm, tell me more about that,” and lets the silence do the heavy lifting.
It's harder than it sounds. But it's better than standing around waiting for someone to jam a quarter in your side and demand a fix.
So the next time someone brings you a problem, before you serve up a silver-plated solution, try this instead:
Ask them what they think.
What have they tried?
What do they think might work?
What’s getting in their way?
Give them space to think. And then maybe, maybe, offer a little feedback. But only if they’ve earned it by putting in some thought first.
No free Reese Cups around here, folks.
Don’t be a vending machine.
Be the person who keeps Reese Cups in their desk but only hands them out when someone’s done the work to deserve one.

Carmen, my not-so-little, little, and I were chatting about work.

She’s employed at a small, not-too-busy boutique. It’s not hard work, but it’s also not a lot of fun standing on your feet for hours waiting for someone to buy a Pandora bracelet.

She said, “I’m not cut out for the oil rigs. And TBH, a corporate job, even though a lot of people complain about them, sounds pretty good to me.”

“Tell me more,” I replied.

“I mean, come on! You get a desk, a CHAIR, a little computer to bee-boop-bee-boop on, and PTO? SIGN. ME. UP.”

Now, I don’t know precisely what “bee-boop-bee-boop” means in corporate terms, but it sounds better than retail.

She makes me laugh.

But why am I sharing this with you?

Because her perspective is worth considering.
People complain a lot about their jobs. But Carmen’s words remind us that what’s an “awful” job to one person might be a dream to someone else.

A chair.
A desk.
Paid time off.
To some, those are givens.
To others, they’re luxuries.

It’s all in your perspective.

"No one lives in my head with me."

She said it with a smirk and a healthy dose of sarcasm.

Funny because it’s true. In the context of our conversation about people’s inability to read minds, it’s an important reminder: they can’t.

If we’re carrying a buried grudge, frustration over silence, or an unmet need—and waiting for someone, anyone, to do something about it we could be waiting a long time.

Maybe forever. And none of us has that kind of time.

Chances are, the person (or people) we’re struggling with won’t pick up on our clues, especially if those clues look like stonewalling, sarcastic comments, or pouty faces.

So while it might be awkward, uncomfortable, or even painful to share what’s really going on in our heads, it’s necessary.

For them. For us. For work. For home.

So if you’re avoiding a conversation, hoping it’ll just go away, chances are, it won’t.

Stop waiting. Start talking—because they can’t read your mind, and if they could… would you really want them poking around in there?

Sam’s a rockstar. A sharp, high-performing VP with a reputation for results. He’s on the shortlist for the next big promotion—but (and it’s a big but), there’s a hitch.

Sam’s got a communication problem.

And not the "needs to pause more in meetings" kind. The "turns into a robot with a bad Wi-Fi signal anytime he’s in front of leadership or the board" kind.

His exec team sees it. His boss sees it. Sam? Not so much.

In high-stakes conversations, Sam leans hard into posturing, trying to look tougher, smarter, and more alpha than he is. Instead of being the collaborative, energetic leader everyone likes to work with, he becomes a tight-lipped “try-hard” with a side of insecure, gym bro energy.

Why?

Because Sam is stuck in that old trap: fake it ‘til you make it.
He’s got a head full of trash telling him that authority = force, that confidence = perfection, and that executive presence = sounding like a Navy SEAL with a PowerPoint.

Spoiler: none of that works. Especially when everyone in the room knows you’re trying too hard.

So, how’d we fix it?
We didn’t try to turn Sam into a TED Talk star. We took out the trash.

First, we tackled the stories he was telling himself about leadership, confidence, and what he thought execs wanted to see. (Hint: It wasn’t a robot.)

Then, we gave him tools. Skills. Frameworks. Not scripts. He learned how to show up polished and real. Clear and human.

Finally, we doubled down on his natural strengths: his collaborative style, dry sense of humor, and ability to rally a team. The goal wasn’t to turn Sam into a different person. It was to help him stop pretending and start communicating with personality and precision.

Sam stopped faking it. He made it.

You can’t posture your way into the C-Suite.

Confidence isn’t a costume—it’s a skill.

Many of us have been taught that "better" is just a few fixes away.

We live in a world that says "better" is always one more course, one more transformation away.

But what if our bravest act isn't chasing "better" but simply recognizing that you, right here, right now, are OK?

What if being OK isn't small? What if it's sacred?

When we speak to ourselves, those inner words shape our reality far more than any external feedback the world sends our way. Instead of treating ourselves as an endless self-help project (is it just me or do you do this too), what happens if we pause and say "I'm OK." ?

This isn't about skipping growth or settling for less; it's about giving ourselves a foundation of compassion that makes growth possible. It's honest, admitting where we are without spin. It's grounded, acknowledging where we are in this moment, and it's hopeful, giving us space to see our uniqueness and beauty.

This kind of OK-ness comes from a place of strength. Not from brokenness.

So maybe you can give yourself permission to give ok-ness a try today. Give that wonderful face of yours a good, hard look in the mirror and say, "I'm OK," and see how it lands.

It just may be that over time, that sacred "OK" becomes your fuel for genuine joy and connection.

"How long did it take to get here?"

That’s what my physical therapist asks me every time we work on my shoulder.

(I'll spare you the gory details.)

Each time she asks, I have to admit that my shoulder has been a problem for a year. (Probably longer, but hey, who's counting?) She just nods and reminds me that it took time to get to this point, and it’s going to take time to get things working right again.

Wait...what?

She doesn’t have a magic wand?

Dang it.

But she’s right. And the same goes for you.

The habit you’re trying to change (like saying “um” or “right?” every five seconds)? That took time to settle in.

The new skill you’re learning (like pausing in a presentation without panicking)? That takes time and practice to feel natural.

Those nerves that show up like clockwork? They’re just well-worn brain patterns, and yep, they’ll take time to rewire.

So the next time you’re feeling frustrated or impatient with your progress, ask yourself:

“How long did it take to get here?”

Then take a deep breath… and keep going.

I heard Alan Alda say this once and I haven't stopped thinking about it since:

"Would I have this look on my face if I understood you?"

Oof. Right? You can practically see the furrowed brow, the confused squint, the pursed lips that scream, "I'm trying really hard here but I've lost the plot."

We've all seen it. Whether you're chatting one-on-one over coffee or standing in front of a room of 100 people, there comes that moment when someone in your audience makes that face. The one that says, "I'm confused," "I don't follow," or my personal favorite, "Are you still talking?"

And here's the kicker: it's usually not because your message isn't important—it's because we get so caught up in our own enthusiasm, our own brilliant ideas, that we forget to do the most important thing in communication...

Check. For. Understanding.

Let me say that again, but slower (see what I did there?):
If someone looks like they don't get it, they probably don't. And that is not their fault. It's our cue to pause, rewind, and try again.

Instead of plowing forward (full speed ahead on the S.S. Monologue), consider stopping to ask a question.

"Does that make sense?"

"What are you hearing so far?"

"Should I back up and explain that a different way?"

Not only does this show that you care, it also gives your audience the gift of clarity—and saves you from delivering a TED Talk that lands with the emotional impact of a tax form.

So the next time you see someone with that confused look, don't take it personally. Take it as your sign.

Get curious. Ask. Listen. Adjust.

Because as much as we love the sound of our own voices (guilty), communication is only effective if someone walks away with something other than a headache.

Remember: If they're wearing the face of confusion, it's your moment to stop talking and start connecting.

After all, what's the point of being heard if no one understands you?

Stay curious. Or at least learn to read the room. 😏

During a recent talk, I shared a simple yet powerful truth: a quick check-in with an employee can help create a psychologically safe environment.

A short message, a moment of connection, can make such a difference.

At the end of the session, during our wrap-up, an audience member spoke up. He shared how much it meant that his company president had checked in on him during a tough time. He didn’t elaborate then, but the emotion in his voice was unmistakable.

Later, after the conference, I had the chance to talk with him one-on-one. That’s when he told me he had just lost his mom the week before. Those small, thoughtful check-ins from his president had meant everything. They were a reminder that he wasn’t alone. That someone saw him, that he mattered.

Checking in costs nothing. But to the person on the other end? It might be worth everything.