Are You a Hider?
I never thought I would be a hider.
Six months after I joined the corporate world in 2008, my supervisor conducted an anonymous 360 review of my performance. The feedback was overwhelmingly positive, but one of my colleagues reported that he found me “abrasive.” That one label discolored all the others for me. The colleague who labeled me as abrasive was someone who didn’t like to be questioned. For one thing, he was an ex-pastor. For another thing, he was male. Over a decade later, I can look back and see how these factors probably played a role in my review. It was my job to ensure that projects were on track, and he had to be accountable to me, but he really wanted me to just leave him alone. Any time I asked for more details or questioned what I was being told, he got bristly. In my mind, I’ve changed “abrasive” to “assertive,” which has much more positive connotations–and more truth, I believe.
In entering corporate America, I moved from an overwhelmingly female profession (teaching in the public schools) to an overwhelmingly male-led one (Christian publishing). It was a big adjustment. I was used to being surrounded by women who had to be strong (to manage a classroom of 30 or so teenagers, one must be strong–there is no other option) to one where there was an almost palpable dislike of strong women, especially by sensitive people (my supervisor was one of these strong women, and I saw how many people responded to her). I will never forget, though, that when I interviewed for that first job in publishing, I met with the Editor-in-Chief, who said he had only one question for me: “Do you have moxie?” As I learned during those first six months, my moxie would not be liked by some, but it would be necessary to do the job for which I was interviewing.
Assertiveness or moxie, or whatever you want to call it, is particularly hard for sensitive people. I’ll admit, I’ve made people cry by pressing in on them, by asking more questions, by trying to get to the bottom of things. For a long time, and even more so after I became a mom, I prayed to become more gentle, more sensitive, softer in my delivery. Not just in dealing with my kids, but in dealing with everyone. I learned to soften my written words in emails and texts, to add just the right openings and closings, which would take the edge off words that could otherwise seem critical. It was always easy for me to separate facts from emotions, the impersonal from the personal, but those things are tremendously difficult for some people. I practiced making it easier for them.
Slowly, over time, the pendulum began to swing the other way.
Much of this change was fruitful. I learned to let go more easily, to not feel the need to save every situation, resolve every crisis. I learned to offer my knowledge/opinion/experience and then walk away. If people disregarded what I’d held out to them, well, that was out of my hands. It was a new kind of freedom. It felt healthy.
But it also meant that in my personal life, I began to be what Brené Brown terms a hider. I hid my natural assertiveness and confidence in favor of what I thought was more peace–and sometimes, it was. But I also hid my true self at times. Being a hider isn’t always a good thing.
It had begun to feel like so much work to engage challenges and conflicts with family and friends the same way I had to engage them in my job. So I stopped. I can’t even look back and see a progression now–it’s like I simply flipped a switch. If I didn’t want to deal with a situation, I just didn’t. I would essentially shrug my shoulders, wipe the dust off my hands, and turn away. If the situation was painful for me, I stuffed the pain deep down, where I didn’t have to deal with it (note: this is never a permanent solution–pain demands to be heard). If the person was someone I didn’t want a relationship with anyway, there was freedom in walking away. I no longer felt obligated to stick around for more dysfunction, even when the dysfunctional person was a family member. You want to slam the door in my face? Great. When you decide to open it again, I won’t be here. And that’s fine with me.
The path behind me grew a bit littered with broken relationships. Some of these afforded me healthy freedom. I learned to identify and walk away from codependency, manipulation, passive-aggressiveness, and other unhealthy dynamics. I learned to set boundaries. But when the relationship was one I didn’t really want to lose, I struggled to see how to rebuild and rebuild well. And when a sensitive person hurt me out of their own brokenness, I struggled to stand up for myself, knowing that my natural frankness likely wouldn’t be well-received.
Now, I’m trying to stop being a hider. Because there has to be an in-between place where we can stand up for ourselves in a healthy way, where we can move forward rather than checking out. Sometimes letting go is good, but sometimes letting go can mean a loss we may not want to bear.
Recently, the newly elected leader of an organization I belong to invalidated me in a meeting. When I objected to a leadership decision and cited the factual reasons for my objection, she deflected the objection by citing a list of personal and emotional hardships rather than addressing the objection itself. Then she changed the subject. I felt like I’d been sent to a corner. The next day, the decision I’d questioned was retracted, but the interaction we’d had in the meeting was never addressed. I decided to let it go, but I found myself avoiding contact with her.
Then, it happened again. A situation arose, I communicated facts, and again, she emotionally deflected. I realized then that we had established a pattern, in part because I hadn’t addressed her deflection the first time.
I had a clear choice. I could not continue to have my voice dismissed based on her emotional and personal situation. I could be a hider again, stepping out of the situation, but if I chose that path, I would have to leave the organization. If I was going to remain part of the organization–an organization I was invested in with the long haul in mind–I had to know my voice would be heard, respected, and valued, even if we disagreed. But there could be no more deflection.
So I responded in writing. I was careful to try to address the interactions I had experienced without making it personal–to keep it about the dynamic that had occurred and why that wasn’t the right dynamic for the organization’s health. She didn’t respond.
The relationship isn’t restored–and it may not be; I don’t know. But I can continue on as part of the organization because I refused to be a hider this time. And that feels like a win. The pendulum has swung back in the other direction, landing somewhere in the middle.
Are you a hider? When and where do you choose to disengage? Is it for the right reasons, or are there times you regret checking out? It’s worth taking a deeper look at how our hiding practices affect the way we move in the world and in our relationships.
has loved the written word for as long as she can remember. A former English teacher turned editor, she has spent the past nine years in the publishing industry. A writer herself in the fringe hours of her working-and-homeschooling mom life, Harmony also has a heart for leading and coaching aspiring writers. Harmony lives in Memphis with her husband and two small daughters. She blogs at harmonyharkema.com.
Photograph © Joseph Antigua, used with permission
