Yvette and I were at a busy restaurant recently when we finally got the chance to connect with Sean and his wife — new friends we’d been looking forward to getting to know. It felt like one of those rare moments where schedules aligned and conversation could unfold without rush, the kind of gathering that invites both laughter and real connection.

The energy in the place was lively. People leaning across tables to hear each other. Silverware clinking against plates. Servers weaving through narrow aisles with practiced ease. That collective hum of conversation you expect at a packed brunch — loud enough to feel alive, but familiar enough to feel communal.

Yvette was sharing a story about her late father — specifically, memories from camp, where they’d spent cherished time together every year. Her voice carried a little more than usual. She was animated, lit up by the memory, laughing, remembering, letting herself be fully present with the joy and tenderness of what she was recalling. We were all leaning in, caught by the warmth of the moment.

And then —
a woman seated diagonally across from Yvette caught her attention. She was motioning with her hand rapidly, her expression tight. A kind of “cut it” gesture that felt abrupt and unmistakable.

Yvette paused, surprised, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.
“What is that?” she asked, genuinely confused.

The woman didn’t hesitate.
“Quiet down. You’re loud.”

I was stunned — not only by the words, but by the tone and the public nature of the correction. Before I could gather myself, Sean calmly said, “We’re in a public setting.”
I followed with, “That’s unkind.”

Let’s Pause There.

What happened in those few seconds is a masterclass in human behavior under pressure — a snapshot of how emotional regulation, assumptions, and communication play out in real life, often faster than we realize.

Here’s the thing: Yvette didn’t know she was being loud.
She wasn’t shouting or trying to draw attention.
She wasn’t trying to dominate the space.

She was simply sharing something personal, something emotional, something alive in her body. And in the natural swell of that moment, her voice followed suit — as voices often do when memory, love, and grief intersect.

The woman across the way? She wanted a quieter experience. That’s not wrong. Wanting peace in a noisy space is human. But her approach — public correction, shame, assumption — was not only ineffective, it was emotionally expensive. For her. For Yvette. For all of us at the table. And perhaps, most of all, for the kind of connection that had just been unfolding.

What Could She Have Done Differently?

She could have paused — even for a breath.
Checked her assumptions.
Considered that maybe Yvette wasn’t being loud on purpose.
That maybe something meaningful was being shared.
That maybe curiosity might serve her better than correction.

She could’ve kindly asked.
She could’ve moved tables.
Written a discreet note.
Or said nothing and regulated her own discomfort in the moment.

But instead, she chose to shame. And here’s the deeper insight:

She armored up.

She led with righteousness instead of vulnerability.
She chose to protect herself from the discomfort of asking for something she needed — and instead made someone else feel small.

Leadership Isn’t About Never Having Needs — It’s About How You Ask

Leaders are humans too. We have needs. We get overwhelmed. We crave clarity, quiet, structure, or stability. But how we ask for those things — how we communicate those needs — says everything about our self-awareness and emotional maturity.

When we assume someone “should know better,” we create a story that justifies harshness.
When we’re afraid to look needy or vulnerable, we often choose control or judgment instead of honesty.

But here’s a radical idea:
What if we all stopped reaching for righteousness and started reaching for vulnerability instead?

It’s braver to say:

“I’m having trouble hearing and I’d love a quieter space — would you mind?”

than to say:

“You’re being too loud.”

One is a request.
The other is a reprimand.

What This Means for Leaders

In a boardroom, in a team meeting, in a hallway conversation — your words carry weight. The way you ask for what you need creates ripple effects that extend far beyond the moment. So here are a few takeaways from a moment in a crowded restaurant:

• Assume less. Ask more.
  Just because someone is doing something you find disruptive doesn’t mean it’s intentional.
• Use kindness as a strategy.
  It’s more effective — and far less damaging — than shame.
• Don’t outsource your discomfort.
  Regulate first. Then communicate.
• Remember: People aren’t usually trying to ruin your experience.
  They’re just living theirs.

So the next time you’re tempted to correct, interrupt, or “fix” someone else’s behavior — pause. Consider the cost of righteousness. And the power of a well-placed, kind request.

Because emotional regulation isn’t about pretending you’re fine —  it’s about learning to own your needs and communicate them with clarity and care.

Here’s to your greatness.