What Silence Is Not

Silence is rarely neutral.
When it appears at the wrong moment, it can unsettle us quickly, inviting doubt, self-questioning, and stories we didn’t intend to tell ourselves. I was reminded of this recently in a conversation with a leader navigating new responsibility.

He sat across from me, noticeably tense. His hands were clasped, shoulders slightly raised, his mood hovering between confidence and doubt.

Recently promoted to lead his company through its AI adaptation, he was operating at a different altitude now. Influence mattered as much as expertise. His peers were no longer managers but division heads, each carrying their own pressures and priorities, along with the quiet pride that comes with being taken seriously. Understanding was uneven across the group, and the work itself was complex.

Just a week earlier, the leadership team had expressed enthusiasm about exploring how AI could reduce costs and accelerate production. They asked him to draft an initial proposal to help shape next steps. He left that meeting energized.

It felt like an invitation, a chance to contribute strategically and to be seen.

He worked late into the night two days in a row, sharpening ideas, pulling data, rereading sentences until they sounded confident without being defensive. He wanted to contribute well, but he also wanted to belong.

Instead, his proposal was met with silence.

Days passed. He checked his inbox more than he wanted to admit. No responses, no questions—nothing he could hold on to or learn from.

“It’s confusing,” he said quietly. “If they asked for my thinking, why ignore it?”
Then, sounding more vulnerable than frustrated, he added, “It feels like they don’t take me seriously.”

His competence was real, but his footing was still new—a rookie heart in an experienced body. There was a lot he knew, and even more he hoped to prove. Their silence found the soft spot where those truths met uncertainty.

His interpretation formed quickly. He moved from uncertainty to self-doubt, wondering whether his ideas had landed poorly and whether he had misjudged his place in the room.

There is a part of leadership no one warns us about: the loneliness of new responsibility. You are suddenly visible before you feel settled, expected to project confidence while you’re still finding your footing.

When the Mind Rushes Ahead

I asked him to consider, “What else might be true here?”

He looked down, shrugged slightly, and said, “Maybe I’m telling myself a whole story without enough evidence.”

That is where emotional generosity begins: not as idealism, but as discipline. We can’t control the story someone else brings. But we can choose the one we tell ourselves about them.

Instead of escalating publicly or retreating inward, we explored a quieter option: private check-ins with each peer, grounded in curiosity rather than defense.

Language like:
“I wasn’t sure how to interpret the silence. What’s your reaction to the proposal?”
“What questions are coming up for you as you think this through?”

Questions leave room for truth to show up.

When he followed up, what he heard surprised him.

One leader had been traveling internationally and skimmed the document at 2 a.m., intending to return to it later. Another thought the proposal was promising but needed time to consider resourcing implications. One assumed the silence signaled alignment and expected him to move forward. Another felt embarrassed to admit he didn’t yet understand the technical aspects well enough to comment.

None of them were dismissing him.
They were simply processing their own uncertainties.

As Anaïs Nin once wrote:

“We don’t see things as they are; we see them as we are.”

The next time he joined a strategic discussion, his posture had changed. He still cared, but he wasn’t reading threat into every pause. He was learning to lead without taking ambiguity personally.

The truth hadn’t changed. Only the story he told himself had.

“I assumed the worst,” he said, “because I was afraid I didn’t belong. Turns out that assumption was the only thing threatening my belonging.”

When we interpret silence as threat, curiosity collapses. And when curiosity disappears, connection follows.

Emotional generosity isn’t naïve optimism, and it doesn’t excuse harm or ignore red flags. It is the courage to remember there is almost always more to the story than what we can see in the moment.

Silence is rarely empty. More often, it is unfinished.

A Practice Invitation

• The next time silence unsettles you, pause before you fill it.

  Ask yourself what else might be true.
  Then check in with others, gently and directly.

  Staying open just a little longer often keeps the door open for connection to arrive.

*******

And that’s The Gist of It™: insights on relational courage — the courage to know and be known by others.
These practices help relationships breathe rather than tighten, deepen rather than fracture.

Thank you for reading. If this resonated with you, I’d be honored if you’d forward it to someone who might appreciate it. They can subscribe below:​

Marilyn Gist, PhD