A few months ago, something happened that my body did not register as small.
I was playing with my six-year-old neighbor—full of energy, laughing, moving fast. At one point, I came down toward him with full gusto, ready to scoop him up and hug him. At the exact same moment, he came up toward me with the same intensity.
We collided.
His head hit my chin with such force that it felt like he broke my teeth. Everything in me lit up instantly—pain, shock, fear. For a moment, I didn’t know what had just happened or how bad it was.
And I didn’t pretend I was okay. I couldn’t.
Tears came. My body needed to release what had just moved through it. I heard myself say, “I think I’m okay… I’m just scared.”
And then something else happened. My mind moved fast.
If I don’t have a jaw… if I can’t talk… if I can’t eat… who am I? Do I still belong? Do I still matter?
In a split second, my body moved from impact to identity—from pain to meaning, from a moment to everything.
Because this isn’t just about a collision. It’s about how quickly our sense of safety can disappear—and how much we rely on things we don’t think about until they’re threatened. Our bodies.
Our voice. Our ability to connect.
And maybe that’s why everything else feels louder right now.
The conversations about AI replacing jobs. The instability in the world. The strain on our healthcare systems. Rising costs. Uncertainty. All of it lives somewhere in us—even when we’re not talking about it. Even when we’re pretending we’re fine.
Someone close to me said, “You’re okay.”
But what I needed wasn’t reassurance.
What I needed was simple and human: “I see you. I hear you. This is scary. I’m here.”
Not fixing. Not dismissing. Presence.
I realized something else, too. If I had pretended I was fine—to make the child feel better, to make the adults more comfortable, to move things along—I would have lost something inside of myself.
Trust.
Trust that I can feel what I feel. Trust that I can honor what’s true.
And without that, there is no foundation for connection. No foundation for love. No foundation for leadership.
This is exactly where it shows up at work.
Leaders want more engagement, more innovation, more ownership—but avoid the very conversations that create those things. The uncertainty. The fear. The “I’m not sure.” The “This doesn’t feel right.”
Here’s what I’m learning: if people can’t bring the scared parts of themselves, they will not bring the creative parts of themselves.
Because it’s the same system. The same voice. The same risk.
When we avoid what’s hard, it doesn’t go away. It goes underground. And when it does, trust decreases. People become careful. Energy tightens. Creativity shrinks.
But when someone can say, “I’m not sure,” “I’m concerned,” or “I’m scared,” and be met with, “I hear you. Let’s stay with it,” something opens.
Trust builds. Energy shifts. People come forward.
Environments like that don’t happen by accident. They are created by leaders who are willing to stay present when things feel uncertain—who don’t rush to fix, don’t shut down discomfort, and don’t confuse silence with alignment.
Later, once I had taken care of myself, I could turn toward the little boy.
He was scared too.
And from a grounded place, I could meet him there—not from pretending, but from truth.
I’m still in pain today. And I’m listening. Taking care of myself. Trusting what I need. Staying with what’s real.
Because I’m learning something I don’t want to forget:
The more I tell myself the truth, the more alive I get to be.
And the truth is—
what people are afraid to say is already shaping your culture.
The only question is:
Are you willing to meet it… or will you leave it underground?
Here’s to your greatness,
Misti Burmeister
About: Misti Burmeister helps leaders transform internal fear into external courage—and communication into connection. She is a keynote speaker and coach focused on building trust, awareness, and more human-centered leadership.