A story about the mask, rigidity, and the act of naming.
The scene is ordinary, almost insignificant.
A Sunday evening, in a lovely house in the near suburbs, around the kitchen table, two charming kids teasing each other.
His partner had asked him to go down to the cellar to get a good bottle, and music was playing in the background.
That morning, the executive I was working with didn’t talk to me about his fundraising rounds, or the latest crises at the board.
What he remembered was that dinner.
Because he had caught himself giving orders — to everyone, about everything.
“Put that plate there. No, the cutlery like this. Leave it, I’ll do it.”
Until his wife gently said:
— Why are you still giving instructions? We just want to have dinner. This isn’t a staff review.
He told me:
— I couldn’t respond. I was still in the role. Even there. Even at home, at the very end of the weekend.
That’s when he realized the mask had fused with his skin.
Contrary to what we think, it doesn’t happen at the office, or in front of clients, or during pitches.
It happens in those spaces where the costume should be able to fall away — but doesn’t anymore.
And with time, we start to stiffen.
Personality traits tighten, humor becomes rare.
We don’t really delegate anymore: we demand.
The heart closes, silently.
Impatience creeps in, always unsatisfied, every little moment becomes tense.
And at home, we become just as unreachable as in meetings.
This mask — it’s not the problem. It’s normal, even healthy.
But when it becomes permanent, it ends up wearing us down.
And often, we only realize it too late.
Another leader told me too, in her own way.
From CFO, she had just been appointed CEO (how familiar…) of an international nonprofit that had branches in the biggest cities across North America.
The previous executive had just been pushed out.
She had always been strong, respected, loyal — but behind the scenes.
And there she was, suddenly thrust forward without real support (cf. The day they promoted the CFO… and set her up to fail).
She was thrown in with just enough power to be responsible, but not enough recognition to command authority.
A woman, moreover, in a mostly female environment… except at the very top, where women could still be counted on one hand.
In front of her: a room of 96 North American executives.
She was supposed to present her city, her achievements — in short, to make it shine.
But here’s the thing:
She was a numbers person.
And stepping into the spotlight, in front of all those familiar faces from the network,
those charismatic, loud, self-assured men…
This wasn’t her world.
She came from the numbers. The field. The teams.
She called me the night before. She was trembling.
— They’re expecting a show. I don’t have that. I don’t have their flair. I don’t want to fake it, but I can’t say I’m not ready.
I told her:
— You’re going to do it differently.
You’ll tell them where you come from. That you don’t have their style, but you bring something else.
And you’ll talk to them about the ground truth — the one they forgot.
You’ll give them something real.
And that’s what she did.
She got on stage. With just one PowerPoint slide.
She spoke calmly, with a touch of self-deprecating humor,
and she said:
— Here’s what I know. The rest — I’m counting on you to share it with me.
Silence. Surprise.
Then applause.
Because she had done what none of them would have dared:
Removed the mask.
And laid something more solid down.
It’s not a matter of posture.
It’s a matter of connection.
The mask is useful — it sets the right distance when needed.
But it can’t carry everything. Not all the time.
It needs to be set down, somewhere.
Otherwise, we lose connection. First with others, then with ourselves.
And even our right decisions end up feeling off-key.
You’ve surely lived this before:
That moment when you say no, clearly, without justifying —
and the other hears it and respects it.
Then that other moment:
when you explain your no at length, dressing it up with arguments,
but you already feel something inside you wavering,
and you see the other begin to lose respect.
That’s when the mask had taken over.
The idea isn’t to help you pitch better.
We’re not here to teach you how to inspire.
We’re not pushing you to become “better.”
We hold a mirror.
Not to judge you, not to steer you.
But so that, for a moment, you can truly look at yourself.
And name what you see.
When that CEO spoke to me about his kids,
I didn’t offer him a tool.
I listened. And he saw.
And when everything had been named,
he was able, consciously, to choose what he wanted to rebuild.
She wasn’t “coached” either.
I simply held up a mirror.
And I asked her:
What do you want to carry, up there, in front of them?
Not to shine.
But simply —
to be exact.
Seedz / Silent Guest
Not a coach. Not a therapist. A clear mirror — to see plainly, before you choose.
