The day I learned vulnerability is an act of generosity
"Help" is the bravest word you can say.
“I love you Mike, and I respect what you've done. But I can't be on your team.”
I looked at the man sitting across the conference room table. "What the hell are you talking about?” I replied thinking he was joking as there was no way he would be saying this in front of the entire team during my first day as sales manager.
“I’m sorry,” he said, with his normally confident eyes glued to the floor. “It’s your stutter. I can't have you talking to my clients. I got kids, man. You understand, right?"
Like a lot of people who grow up with a speech impediment or any other trait that isn’t the “norm,” I got picked on and I got called names. Stupid. Slow. And the one that sent me into a state of silent seething — Retard. Even though I’d often laugh along as a survival mechanism as a kid, these comments destroyed me. However, none of the jokes, jabs, and laughs behind my back compared to the pain and rage I felt that day when a 37-year-old man whom I’d sat beside from day one on the job said he wouldn't be on my team because of my stutter.
I wish I could say I remained calm at that moment. But I didn’t. I jumped out of my chair and dug into the man as if I was trying to reach China. The remainder of my team sat speechless, unable to blink. “What do you mean you can’t have me talking to your clients?” I implored. “You didn’t seem to mind last Friday night when I saved your deal while you were getting wasted across the street!”
The more I laid into the man, the more he fought back. He was easily twice my size. The entirety of my body could have fit in his left shoe while still having room for a pillow. Realizing I may end up in the hospital if I kept stoking him, I told him to screw off one last time before storming out of the office doing everything I could to hold back the tears swelling in the corner of my eyes.
I don’t know what was going through my head as I got in my car and drove a mile down the road to continue to curse at the world behind a Panera Bread. But it couldn’t have been good. I sat in my car for over an hour thinking about what I was doing and what I was going to do. I'd been whacked across the face with the hard reality that just because I'd learned how to effectively build rapport with people, it didn't mean everyone was ready to embrace me as a leader.
Vulnerability Is an Act of Generosity
Deciding to return to the office that day was one of the most difficult decisions I’d ever made. I’d just turned twenty-five and received a significant promotion to sales manager, which should have been a momentous occasion considering my starting point growing up as a shy kid with social anxiety. However, my joy was short-lived due to the actions of a callous coworker. I hadn't even had the chance to enjoy the view from the top before it all came crashing down. I considered not only stepping away from the position but from the company. The awful feeling of being irate while simultaneously feeling humiliated gave me a sneak peek as to why reasonably good people sometimes do bad things. As I shakily walked back through the office doors, however, two conversations convinced me to see things through, and ultimately, played a role in opening my eyes to the type of leader I was best positioned to be.
After giving the man one last jab by telling him the next time he decides to level someone to do it in private, I went to talk to the founder and CEO of the company. I thought he’d have my back, and I was right. One of the reasons I was promoted in the first place was because I was the only person in the interview process who challenged the company’s way of training new hires. The corporate trainer had extensive sales experience but he was new to the industry and he didn’t yet know the details of the products we were selling well enough which was my strength. I presented a hybrid approach where I would get involved earlier in their training process to ensure new hires knew not only how to sell but what they were selling.
When I barged into the CEO's office, it was clear that word of what happened had already made its way up to him as he immediately said, “I’m glad you came back. I’m not sure I would have.” He then sat me down and told me what I’d been able to accomplish was nothing short of incredible, he didn’t promote people out of pity, and in an attempt to break the tension, he told me that my secret to success of trying not to talk very much was genius. Most importantly, he reinforced a notion growing inside of me that I had a knack for teaching.
The CEO's boost to keep moving forward helped. But I still needed to get with what was left of my team. I wasn’t even six hours into my first management role and I was faced with the daunting task of trying to stop what I thought was sure to be an all-out mutiny. To my surprise, with the exception of the man who opted out, the other team members were waiting in the conference room before I got there. Rather than having to give a sales pitch as to why they should work with me, they told me how much respect they had for me. For the next couple of hours, we talked about not only what I could do to support them, but what they could do to support me.
It was obvious to everyone in the room that I wasn’t the average salesperson, let alone society's traditional definition of a leader. But rather than act like I knew what I was doing, I expressed my uncertainty and shared where I lacked confidence. Admitting I needed their help to get moving possibly more than they needed mine wasn’t the conversation I thought I would have that day. But I’m glad it happened. The reason the man’s comments hurt so much—apart from being a criminal offense—is because he surfaced lingering doubts I had about myself. The very words he said about not being confident in my abilities to hop on a call to save a deal going south were the very thoughts that made me hesitant to even apply for the role. If he hadn’t brought it up, I wouldn’t have had the courage to talk about it or ask my team for help.
Like a lot of people, growing up, the world made me believe the word “vulnerable” was synonymous with “insecure” or “weak.” Due to the circumstances that day, by choosing to come back to work I was put into a position of forced vulnerability. I’d been exposed. Reaching for a mask wasn’t an option. The support of my team opened my eyes to the fact that leaning on them and expressing my uncertainty didn’t make me weak. In fact, that day marked the moment the connections I had with the other team members strengthened. By discussing my fears, my team members let me know I didn’t have to go through it alone. We talked about how we could cover each other’s weaknesses. This experience allowed me to see first-hand the power of vulnerability through a new lens.
The lens where we’re strong enough to admit we don’t have life all figured out.
The lens where we’re strong enough to ask for help.
The lens through which we see vulnerability for what it truly is; an exercise in extreme bravery and the ultimate act of generosity.
This post is an excerpt from my book which is released into the wild tomorrow.
If it resonated — or have a friend, family member, or colleague who falls on the quieter side yet has a yearning to build meaningful relationships and go after what they want without sacrificing their shy nature — grab your copy today.
Shy by Design: 12 Timeless Principles to Quietly Stand Out.
“In a world that lionizes loudness, it’s actually the quiet and shy among us who are best set up to thrive. Thompson provides an important new understanding of what it really takes to stand out!”
— Cal Newport, NYT best-selling author of Deep Work and Slow Productivity
"The awful feeling of being irate while simultaneously feeling humiliated gave me a sneak peek as to why reasonably good people sometimes do bad things."
Powerful stuff, man. I feel like this line was the most vulnerable share of the story. When people say "I am torn," I would bet money that "torn" arose from that visceral feeling of having no idea what to do with the magnitude of the hurt except racing thoughts, back and forth at the edges. The one thing you feel sure of is that something important to you is now gone... and then you survive it. And the world is nothing like the one through that lens.
As is common in today’s society, when I read, I usually scan, skim, and graze through content to pick up the main points.
Not with your articles.
It’s like the slow food movement. I want to taste each word. Chew it thoroughly. Feel the textures on my tongue. I even find myself whispering your words to myself.
Thank you.