I almost created a problem a few weeks ago that didn’t actually exist. Not because of anything that happened, but because of the story my mind started telling.I’d reached out to someone I respect—a leader who works closely with an organization I’ve been building relationships with locally. After following up with a few people connected to that organization, I noticed something shift inside me. Did I step on his toes? And almost immediately, another thought followed. What if he’s now talking to them about working with him instead of me?
There was no evidence for either possibility. No conversation, no signal, nothing that actually pointed in that direction. And still, I could feel the concern. This is something I’ve become increasingly interested in, both personally and in my work with leaders. How quickly do we turn an uncomfortable feeling into a story about what’s happening? And what happens when we begin responding to that story as though it’s true?
I could have pulled back from the relationship. I could have become guarded. I could have started interpreting every interaction through the lens of competition. Instead, I reached out.I sent him a voice text, expecting a quick response in the same way. A couple of hours later, he called. And the first
thing he said surprised me. “Can you tell me a little bit about why you use voice text?”
I felt another flicker of discomfort. Is he trying to tell me not to send them? Did I do something wrong? There it was again. My mind was already trying to assign meaning to a question I didn’t yet understand. I could have explained myself defensively. I could have apologized for something he hadn’t actually said was a problem. Instead, I answered his question.
“For me, it’s easier,” I told him. “I can listen while I’m doing other things. I can’t do that with emails.” Then he explained his experience. Voice texts disrupted his workflow. They were harder to track, easier to lose, and more difficult to follow up on. Email allowed him to stay organized, even in the middle of a busy day.
I understood, and I appreciated that he’d asked. He could have simply told me to send emails instead. That would have been perfectly reasonable. But by asking first, he gave me an opportunity to share how I work before explaining how he works. Neither of us had to be wrong.
Then we moved into the reason I’d reached out in the first place. I asked my questions, and he answered them directly. There was no indication that I’d stepped on his toes. No suggestion that I’d created a problem by connecting with other people in the organization. The concern I’d been carrying had no 
evidence behind it.
And I realized something. I’d nearly allowed a story I created in my own mind to change the way I approached a relationship I valued. Then, when he asked an unexpected question about voice texts, I’d almost done it again. Two different moments, but the same pattern: an uncomfortable feeling, an interpretation, and an impulse to protect myself.
What interrupted that pattern wasn’t a brilliant communication technique. It was curiosity. First, my willingness to reach out rather than assume I knew what was happening. Then, his willingness to ask about my experience before sharing his own. And finally, my willingness to notice my discomfort without immediately treating it as evidence that I’d done something wrong.
I think about how easily that conversation could have gone differently. He could have said, “Please don’t send me voice texts. They’re difficult to manage.” I might have heard criticism, even if none was intended. I could have become defensive or embarrassed.Instead, his question made room for understanding. And because I didn’t rush to defend myself, I was able to receive what he shared.
That’s an important distinction. Curiosity doesn’t guarantee that a conversation will be comfortable. It gives us a chance to understand what’s actually happening before we decide how to respond.
In leadership, we encounter these moments constantly. Someone doesn’t respond to an email. A colleague asks an unexpected question. An employee challenges a decision. A client seems less enthusiastic than usual. Something registers inside us. Maybe irritation. Maybe embarrassment. Maybe fear.
And before we know it, we’ve constructed an explanation. They’re disrespecting me. They don’t trust my judgment. I’m losing this opportunity.
Sometimes our interpretations are accurate. But sometimes they’re simply the stories our minds create when we don’t yet have enough information. The challenge isn’t to stop those stories from appearing. It’s to notice when they’re appearing—and become curious before we allow them to shape our behavior. That’s where I believe so much of leadership begins. Not in having the perfect response, but in recognizing what we’re bringing into the conversation before we respond.
I’m grateful this leader asked me about voice texts. It was a small moment, but it reminded me how much difference one genuinely curious question can make. And it reminded me that the stories I tell myself deserve curiosity, too.
Before your next difficult conversation, consider this: Am I responding to what’s actually happening—or to the story I’ve already created about it?
Here’s to your greatness,
Misti Burmeister
About Misti Burmeister
Misti Burmeister is an executive leadership coach, keynote speaker, and bestselling author who helps leaders communicate so people care and take ownership. Through Inspirion, she helps executives and teams navigate difficult conversations, strengthen trust, and recognize the internal reactions that undermine effective leadership. Her current body of work, Before the Reaction, explores how awareness in the moments before we respond creates greater clarity, choice, and connection.
Explore a speaking engagement or leadership conversation at MistiBurmeister.com or email [email protected].