In praise of discomfort (unlearning white politeness, masking and conflict avoidance)

I’ve spent a lot of time in the five years since being diagnosed with ADHD thinking about masking, and how I might consciously or unconsciously choose to modify my behaviour in order to be more socially acceptable. Lately, I’ve noticed a desire and a tendency to put less effort into this, though it feels risky and exposing to do so. At a certain point in the life of many neurodivergent people, especially those diagnosed later in life, the mask begins to slip, perhaps because we no longer have the capacity to spend energy on maintaining it, or because we choose to take it off. It’s interesting to look at how this is received in different contexts – the world is changing, and our understanding of different neurotypes is developing quickly, even though this feels like something that’s still in its infancy. In some situations, people are accepting of, and accustomed to unusual communication styles, movements, ways of thinking and requests for adjustments. In others, we might be judged more harshly (like the time someone on a training course told me that nobody will ever take me seriously if I continue to move my hands like that when I talk). Masking, or toning ourselves down in order to fit in or be ‘taken seriously’ is more about others’ comfort than the needs of the person wearing the mask. Sure, it might stem from a deep seated need to belong (or a less deep but equally crucial need to be employable). But holding back our need to manage our nervous systems and energy levels, admit that we’ve forgotten someone’s name, bow out of small talk, zone out or follow a mental tangent is largely about managing others’ comfort. We might try not to do something because we’ve learned that it’s received as impolite or thoughtless – a classic example of this being the tendency to relate to others by sharing our own equivalent story when someone shares an experience. It might be read as one-upmanship or self-centredness, rather than a genuine attempt to connect. This is an example of what has been referred to in recent years as the ‘double empathy problem’. Essentially, the neurodivergent and neurotypical person in this scenario might be trying to connect with each other in different ways, but we’ve tended to locate the ‘problem’ within the neurodivergent person. It might be assumed that an Autistic person is less capable of empathy, while in fact a lack of understanding exists between people who have different ways of mentalising and communicating. Since neurodivergence is generally a pathologised and ‘othered’ identity, there is often pressure to conform to social conventions that might serve to make others more comfortable. There are many ways in which neurotypical people might experience pressure to mask, adapt and suppress instinctive behaviours or needs in order to maintain a sense of social cohesion or ‘civility’.

During these last few years, I’ve also become increasingly aware of a link between this phenomenon and the idea of ‘white politeness’. Being ‘civilised’ was (and in so many ways, continues to be) a concept weaponised in colonialism, positioning white European societies as morally, intellectually and culturally superior to the global majority. This offered apparent justification for the violent and dehumanising practices carried out by colonisers, and assumed anything outside of the cultural mores of Britain and other northern European countries at the time to be ‘barbaric’ and in need of control and assimilation. Civility during the heyday of the British Empire was inextricably linked with a hierarchical, monarchist social structure in which those with inherited wealth and power separated themselves from the lower classes in part via a system of ‘good manners’ that involved indirect communication, repressing emotions and bodily sensations, presenting ‘modestly’ and avoidance of conflict. We can still see the legacy of this in the ways in which politeness is sometimes weaponised and used as a way to wield power – for example, the continuing positioning of Black women who are communicating directly or expressing an emotion as ‘aggressive’. This form of bias and prejudice is something I’ve been aware of for a long time, but I was less aware of how a culture of ‘white politeness’ was shaping some of the spaces I inhabit until it was pointed out to me. That’s not unusual - it’s so often the case that we can’t see what we’re in while we’re in it, and also a feature of privilege to not have to notice something if it’s not obviously disadvantaging us. Even in some spaces where care and communication skills are highly valued, I started to notice the slightly awkward ways that we unconsciously attempt to avoid discomfort. We might start to put masks on if things are getting a little emotional, heated or weird. We’ll often use small talk, humour or subject changes to take the edge off when things threaten to get a little uncomfortable. Even those of us who are well versed in therapy speak and big fans of emotional literacy will lean on our learned social crutches when something threatens the relative politeness of the space sometimes. And there’s nothing inherently wrong with this, if it’s a conscious choice that fits with the social contract of the space – maybe we’re in this space together as a way to have some respite from big feelings, or maybe it’s a workplace and there are limited opportunities to fully unmask, process our emotions and process what’s unsaid in the space. But what I’m finding less helpful is the unconscious post-colonial hangover that has us subtly policing our own and others’ behaviours, bodies and words in order to maintain a sense of decorum. There may be a time and a place for showing up in all of our flawed, messy, noisy glory, but if we haven’t found enough of these times and places, it’s likely that our repressed emotions, sensations, movements etc. will cause us harm in some way, whether we realise it or not.

There’s also the impact of all of this on our ability to communicate with courage and integrity. Growing up in cultures (whether family, community, country or all of the above) that prioritise immediate comfort over voicing dissent, setting boundaries and sitting with difficult feelings has the potential to push us towards avoidant, people pleasing and incongruent behaviours and communication styles. Avoiding conversations and situations that might involve challenge, conflicting needs, awkwardness or inconvenience is only likely to bring short term gain, while problems go unaddressed and unmet needs grow into resentments over time. It feels very familiar to me to provide facilitation in workplaces that prioritise a veneer of ‘niceness’ over tackling the far less pleasant challenges that are festering beneath the surface because it’s so difficult and not in keeping with a ‘nice’ working culture to address them. Employees who were grappling with how to raise their concerns and struggles in these situations have told me how scary it can be to consider speaking up in an environment that has become profoundly silencing. This is a direct example of a culture of politeness and ‘civility’ preventing issues from being addressed and upholding a hierarchical structure where people who aren’t in charge may not feel safe to share feedback, challenge, concerns or even ideas that deviate from the norm. This is something I find concerning when I see signs of it, and I’m always keen to unpack the assumptions, beliefs and fears that contribute to this culture. And in the spirit of honest communication, I’ll level with you… I’m not here to criticise or shame anyone who has (intentionally or otherwise) contributed to a culture like this, partly because I don’t think that would be particularly useful, and partly because my own tendency is towards conflict avoidance and over-adapting in order to maintain a sense of belonging. This is something that I’ve spent years working on, and will likely continue to work on for the rest of my life – I don’t have it all figured out by any means. I notice at times an inner conflict between my learned defence mechanisms (‘avoid conflict, rejection and upsetting others at all costs’) and the communication style that I value and need (direct, open, congruent, assumes a healthy balance of care for self and care for others). I believe that moving beyond repressive cultures of ‘politeness’ and towards deeper connections and more equitable communities starts with curiosity and critical thinking. Maybe it’s a feature of my particular type of neurodivergence, but I’m grateful to have never lost the instinct to ask ‘but why?’ that we tend to associate with exhaustingly inquisitive toddlers. I find social conventions and unspoken rules fascinating. I can’t help pondering where they came from, what purpose they serve, whether we’re finding them helpful, and what else might be possible if we’re not. Taking space to examine the cultural norms, communication preferences and expectations within a community might yield some rich insights and opportunities about how different people are supported, excluded, silenced or relatively unaffected by them. And the prospect of examining this might in itself provoke anxiety – there’s a distinct possibility that, in spite of our best efforts to prevent conflict and offence, we will discover ways in which avoiding discomfort is inadvertently causing harm. It seems important here to both take our capacity to cause harm seriously, and at the same time, hold it lightly. If we find out that we have contributed to someone else’s pain or exclusion, we can take the gift of that learning and apply it in future, rather than entering a shame spiral that seems to threaten our sense of identity and values. Sometimes that’s easier said than done - I’m sure most of us have been horrified at some point to discover that our well intentioned words, actions or contribution to a wider culture have been harmful. But getting comfortable with the short term discomfort that might arise from sharing or receiving challenges, needs, boundaries, concerns and emotions is likely to offer longer term gains. And a culture of compassionate honesty, valuing each other’s contributions and welcoming an array of different feelings and perspectives seems to me to be a great hangover cure for the last vestiges of Empire and its restrictive grip on the human experience.

‘So what is it that you actually do?’ – Stories from a coach and facilitator with a niche job title (Part 1)

I have a confession to make. I sometimes dread the question ‘what do you do?’, because my work might sound like a very specific niche that I need to spend some time explaining. I offer services based on concepts like ‘embodied communication’, though I realise that they may be unfamiliar for a lot of people. So, in the interests of practicing what I preach and communicating authentically, here is an explanation of some of the things I actually do in my professional life.

I’ve spent many years working in the charity sector, part of which has involved considering and discussing how to make services more inclusive, fair and easy to access for service users, staff and volunteers. Sometimes, it also involved discussing our response to global and local events and injustices. These conversations and reflections ranged from life affirming, to awkward and uncomfortable, right through to downright traumatic. Conflicts and competing needs could arise, even in close knit, emotionally intelligent teams. We sometimes found ourselves grappling with shame, guilt or defensiveness as we considered privileges given to us by society at large; and conversely, we may have experienced fear, anger or exhaustion if marginalised elements of our own identities were up for discussion. I vividly remember the emotional intensity of discussing gender as a social construct and gender roles in the workplace with one team I was very invested in working with. And the discomfort of reckoning with my own white privilege in an organisation where I was one of two white team members (and also in a position of authority). I learned a lot from spending so many years in environments where we were all so invested in social issues, but still struggled at times to formulate what felt like a ‘good enough’ response.

Meanwhile, on my days off, I was training in various body and psychology focused modalities. I’d experienced these as a client, working with performance psychology practitioners on recovering from a vocal fold injury and slowly learning to trust my body to help me to communicate clearly again. I learned to tune into physical sensations, to give myself physical support and to regulate my Autonomic Nervous System when I found myself in a nerve-wracking, emotionally charged or even exciting situation. Initially, this was focused on supporting performance and public speaking, but it soon became clear that these techniques were useful in other aspects of life and communication. I started to notice subtle physical warning signs during difficult conversations, and respond to them in order to prevent escalating into unproductive and stressful conflicts.

When I set up my full time coaching and consultancy practice in 2020, I seemed to fall into Equity, Diversity and Inclusion (EDI) work as one of my main areas of focus – partly because of my experience in this area, and partly because so many people and organisations were thinking about issues related to this in the wake of the murder of George Floyd and other horrific events that brought structural inequalities sharply into focus while the world went into lockdown. A theme that quickly emerged in my work was a palpable sense of anxiety around confronting complex and difficult topics related to power, privilege and identity. There was often ambivalence or resistance among people in positions of authority and those with societal privilege – sometimes based on a sense that perhaps they were going to be shamed or ‘told off’ for things that may be out of their control. And there could also be a question for people with any role or identity about whether a group environment in the workplace was a psychologically safe enough space in which to openly and honestly discuss any challenges related to inclusivity, accessibility and fairness. I found that it was getting increasingly difficult to get a group of professionals together in a room to discuss these issues or, in fact, anything else that required quite a lot of vulnerability, risk and trust in order to be tackled well. Some initial projects I facilitated that had an EDI focus moved painfully slowly, as leadership teams tried to decide how invested they were in this work. This could be frustrating, but it was also important to accept the pace of change, and it also offered me some further learning.

These experiences led me to become really interested in how I might use the resources available to me from the world of body focused, trauma-informed work to help set up the conditions for difficult conversations in groups and teams. One way to offer this might be through individual coaching with leaders, with an element of focus on deepening awareness of the client’s communication preferences, physical warning signs of overwhelm, triggers, assumptions and preferred resources for getting calm and grounded. Another is to work in a group setting, taking time to co-create a space where people feel enough of a sense of rapport, calm and safety to tackle difficult conversations with courage and honesty. This can be a big ask, particularly in an organisational setting where not everyone is on board with either the subject matter or the addition of my approach to holding space for it. In an ideal world, I would focus on people who want to be there – if something feels forced or coercive, it’s much less likely to be effective. But sometimes, people have felt able to give voice to their resistance, and exploring what’s behind that can be powerful. I really appreciate it when people can show up and say how they’re really feeling, rather than feeling pressure to conform to social expectations and telling me what they think I want to hear. Of course, there are limits to how people’s real feelings might be helpfully communicated, and we’ll have created a group contract that outlines how we will attempt to create a compassionate, courageous environment during sessions. But discussing feelings of reluctance, resentment, anxiety or uncertainty, and doing a bit of myth busting early on in a piece of work can be a good way into authentic communication. And I’ve had people who were deeply sceptical at the outset offer some of the most usefully challenging and insightful contributions to a conversation, and also sometimes tell me that they felt very differently by the end of a session.

Part of what I do in sessions involves offering people ways to tune into their bodies and sit with how they’re really feeling underneath the social veneer that we tend to bring to professional situations and groups where we don’t have established, comfortable relationships. For some, this might feel like a risky approach – particularly if they’ve been working hard to keep emotions out of the way in case they ‘splat all over the walls when the lid comes off’, or if they feel a general sense of disconnect from their body. It’s really important to offer choices, adaptations and ways of letting everyone involved know that they are in control and are encouraged to do what they need to do in order to keep safe. Another simple strategy that can be helpful is an extended process of checking in to share a bit about how everyone is feeling and what’s on their mind as we form our group and ‘land’ in the space. This has two purposes – helping everyone to feel more focused and present, and also reminding us all that everyone here is a fellow human who might have had a stressful time with public transport, a joyful school drop-off, or a frantic rush out of the door with toast in hand before arriving to a session. We might also explore different ways of connecting with each other, and creative approaches to reflecting on subjects that might bring up fear or other difficult emotions.

It's important to draw a distinction between this type of work and therapy – that’s not to say that there can’t be therapeutic elements. But it’s helpful to inject an element of lightness into discussions that can get heavy at times, and to emphasise that, while all of our emotions are welcome in the space, the aim is to notice them and sit with them, then move to a place of working out where we collectively go from here. If things get particularly intense, there may be a need for reflection and support beyond the scope of the session. I learned this early on in my journey as a freelance facilitator – sometimes, I was asked to come into organisations where conflicts were all-encompassing and raw, and found that there was a need to be very clear about the scope of the work and what we could hope to achieve in a space where emotions ran high and traumatic experiences were very recent. It’s also helpful to pay special attention to rapport building, even in groups where everyone (with the exception of me as facilitator) knows each other. Deepening trust is one of the keys to encouraging authentic, courageous communication.

I’ve worked with teams on subjects including making a women’s space more trans-inclusive, exploring why specific groups are critically under-represented in an organisation, tackling white fragility, and discussing staff members’ anger at a ‘sticking plaster approach’ to vicarious trauma and burnout. I really appreciate being part of a group where there is a real willingness to meaningfully take on sensitive topics, rather than keep things compliant, operational and superficial. It’s a privilege to have people share their thoughts, feelings, ideas and challenges in a way that can sometimes be risky. And I’m delighted every time I see, hear or feel a difference in the atmosphere in the room, or the depth of communication after I’ve supported participants to connect with themselves and each other with curiosity and compassion.

If this sounds like it might be useful for you or a team you’re part of, why not book a free exploratory call?

Embodied communication – using body wisdom to support difficult conversations

Dealing with disagreement

It’s an interesting and turbulent time here in the UK and further afield, politically speaking. I’ve found myself having lively debates at the pub, emotionally charged conversations with family members, colleagues and acquaintances, and difficult interactions with people who hold fundamentally different views and values to my own. This has led me to think about how we might connect with the wisdom our bodies have to offer in order to support us with sensitive, challenging and potentially triggering conversations. How might we tune in to signs and signals of potential overwhelm, re-regulate our nervous systems during and after a charged interaction, and stay grounded enough to actively listen and speak from a thoughtful place?

I have had an embodiment practice of some kind in my life for many years. I know what works for me when I need support, and I help others to connect with their bodies and to communicate from as calm and grounded a state as possible. And yet, I don’t mind admitting that there are some times when all of this awareness temporarily goes out of the proverbial window, and I find myself reacting from a place of emotional impulsivity, waiting impatiently to speak instead of listening and finding myself in a state of hyperarousal. The reason I got into embodiment work and found it so transformative is that I have a highly sensitive Autonomic Nervous System,  and I tend to feel things intensely on a physical and an emotional level. Recently, I found myself in one of these situations, as I found myself hooked into a discussion where someone expressed views that I found distressing. The sudden and unexpected feeling of being unsafe had me holding my breath, feeling a little dissociated and ‘spaced out’, and then moving into a state of preparation to fight it out. I did my best to maintain a level of diplomacy and to try to listen to what the other person had to say, though no doubt on some level, they will have sensed a disconnect between my attempts to maintain a calm, curious and measured approach and whatever signs of stress were visible in spite of my efforts. In the end, this wasn’t the right time and place to delve further into a sensitive, contentious topic, and we left the discussion feeling unresolved. I was aware of carrying some of the tension created by the situation into the rest of my day, and had to make a conscious effort to decompress later. I’d like to give myself some grace and consider that this might have been the best I could do under the circumstances. But what could a really good version of this conversation look like, and what else could I have done to use an embodied approach to support myself in this situation?

Re-regulating our nervous systems and listening to our bodies

Firstly, it’s worth considering the environment in which a difficult conversation is taking place. Are there distractions and external stressors? Can you and the others involved in the discussion give each other your full attention? Is there some level of privacy and a sense of containment offered by the space (particularly if you are sharing deeply personal experiences, feelings and views)? Personally, my neurotype means that I am easily distracted and stressed by conversations in busy, noisy environments – putting a lot of energy into blocking out conversations happening at the next table in the pub doesn’t leave a huge amount of capacity to keep myself grounded and regulated. If stress levels begin to escalate during a conversation, it can be helpful to check in with how your body is feeling, and notice if anything external is contributing to any sense of discomfort. You might consider suggesting that the conversation is moved to a space that offers a sense of containment and calm, or rescheduled to a time when you’re able to focus more easily.

In our fast-paced, dopamine-fuelled world, it’s easy to forget that it’s okay to slow down. But when a difficult conversation begins to feel stressful and escalate into a place of conflict and distress, hitting the brakes can offer an opportunity to check in with ourselves, breathe and consider what might help us to begin to build bridges instead of putting up walls. A simple way to slow down is to pause and consciously notice what your breath is doing. Do you feel it high in your chest, shallow, fast, or are you holding your breath and bracing for impact? Taking a moment to send the breath lower into the body (in other words, ‘belly breathing’, which engages your diaphragm) can instantly help to re-regulate your nervous system and let you think more clearly.  Related to this, getting comfortable with moments of silence can help – we don’t need to respond to another person’s point straight away, and we’re not communicating at our best if we’ve been waiting to get our tuppence-worth in, rather than listening to what’s being said. Taking a moment to ponder and consider our response can help to slow down a potentially escalating conversation, and also offers a chance to check in with and adjust what’s going on in our bodies. When I unexpectedly found myself in the aforementioned difficult conversation, I was vaguely aware of the fact that I was holding my breath and physically bracing against the psychological impact of the other person’s words. But I was also aware that time to continue the discussion was limited, and it seemed as if I couldn’t possibly slow down for long enough to take a breath and consider my response. Of course, this wasn’t true, and if nothing else, taking a moment to ground myself would have allowed me to walk away from the situation feeling calmer.

Responding to warning signs for stress

Are you aware of your body’s equivalent of warning lights on the car dashboard, alerting you to a need for something to shift before you find yourself in an inconvenient or dangerous situation? There may be some experiences that many of us will share in common in terms of early warning signs of stress or trauma triggers (such as changes to our breathing patterns), but each person and body is so different, that it’s useful to spend some time getting to know your own patterns. Often, our bodies react to a situation well before our conscious minds have a chance to process and interpret what’s going on and how to respond. Some of my own warning signs now feel so glaringly obvious to me that I sometimes wonder whether people around me notice them too (for the most part, I’m pretty sure they don’t). Developing a sense of what our bodies might be trying to tell us can save a lot of time and energy, particularly in stressful situations where we might lose our ability to think and express ourselves as clearly as we can when we’re calm. The next step in the process of connecting to this part of our body wisdom is considering what we might need when the ‘warning light’ we’ve identified is illuminated. Is it trying to tell us to take a break, to ground ourselves, to re-energise, to leave the situation entirely, or something else? Developing this awareness and slowing down to tune into our bodies can really help to strengthen connections with others and improve communication, as well as reducing the stress often associated with conflict and difficult conversations.

What are our bodies communicating?

It can also be interesting to consider what we’re communicating with our bodies – much has been made of body language, and I’m sometimes a little skeptical about the idea of consciously trying to manipulate what we want to convey through careful use of body positioning and movement. But, as previously mentioned, people are often skilled (whether consciously or subconsciously) at picking up incongruence or mismatched words, actions and signs of emotional states. So if body language, words and the slightly harder-to-pin-down ‘feeling in the room’ seem to be at odds, we might experience a general sense that something isn’t quite right. As such, I’m advocating for an approach based on authentic, honest communication. But we can nevertheless use our bodies to help us change our psychological and physical state, and to convey the message we want to get across without being inauthentic. Sort of a ‘fake it ‘til you make it’ approach, but I don’t consider it to be ‘faking’, so much as embodying the state we’re aiming for, and noticing any shifts that happen in our emotions and communication as a result. For example, coming into a conversation that we feel nervous about having, perhaps with an uneven power dynamic or with a person who we think might not take us seriously. It might help to engage supportive muscles in our lower body and to feel a sense of having a solid base, as well as considering how we take up space in the room. I’m not suggesting the full ‘power stance’ option favoured by key players at the Tory conference a few years ago (I still remember the memes that circulated off the back of a slew of pictures of MPs in identical power poses). But sending subtle signals to ourselves through our physical state and how we position ourselves can help to shift our emotional state and the relationship dynamics in the room. This isn’t about getting ‘one up’ on another person or playing games, but it can be a useful experiment to consider how we are reinforcing or undermining what we want to communicate through what we’re doing with our bodies. With all that said, it feels important to offer nuance – this isn’t about being constantly aware and ‘in control’ of what we’re doing, or about shaming different ways of being in a body and taking up space. Before I understood my neurodivergent identity, I remember being hugely shamed at a leadership programme by a fellow participant who told me that she couldn’t take me seriously as a leader because I ‘moved around too much’ and ‘talked with [my] hands excessively’. For a while, I considered how I might be able to shift my way of being in order to convey a bit more gravitas. And there are some situations, like giving a formal presentation, where I might be more conscious of slowing down and stepping into my power in a more physical way. But otherwise, I came to realise that I don’t need to change who I am and how I move in order to be ‘taken seriously’ – that was the other person’s issue, not mine.

Decompressing after difficult conversations

Finally, let’s explore what happens after a difficult interaction. How might we decompress and let go after a situation that’s caused us stress and filled us with adrenaline? Maybe you already have a practice around this, whether it’s talking to a trusted contact to process what happened, going for a walk, or making a cup of tea. If there are residual feelings of tension, it’s worth considering how you might let them go, and whether there are physical ways of doing this. A good start might be to notice what your breath is doing, and whether you’re holding it. Breathing exercises can offer a mini reset, a bit like switching yourself off and back on again. You might feel like you need to move your body, in order to let go of the tension and ‘shake off’ anything you’re left with that you don’t want to carry through your day. Or you might feel spaced out and disconnected, and need something that offers a sense of grounding and containment, like using your arms to ‘give yourself a hug’ (or getting one from someone else, if you enjoy that). You might have words or sounds that need to be released in some way, whether through talking, journalling, singing, or screaming into a pillow. Decompression looks different for each person, but it can be a good way of drawing a line under an interaction, and releasing anything you don’t need before moving on to the next task or interaction. I’d suggest taking a few minutes to note down what you find helpful after a stressful situation, so that you have a list to refer to when you’re feeling too stressed to recall what you need in the moment.

If you’d like more information and support with embodied communication, please feel free to contact me.