I spent years believing that good work speaks for itself. That if an idea was sound, if a solution was elegant, if the logic was airtight, people would simply see it. When they didn’t, I assumed the problem was with them.
I was wrong about that.
The Clarity Trap
Here’s what I believed: clarity is universal. If something is obvious to me, it should be obvious to anyone paying attention. So when people didn’t understand what I was trying to accomplish, I explained harder. I added more detail. I made my case more thoroughly.
It never worked. And I grew increasingly frustrated watching what I considered straightforward solutions get ignored, questioned, or misunderstood.
The problem wasn’t that people weren’t listening. The problem was that I was optimizing for my own understanding, not theirs.
What Changed
I had to confront an uncomfortable reality: the way I see things is shaped by specific experiences, knowledge, and patterns of thinking that others don’t share. What feels obvious to me is obvious because of my particular lens, not because it’s objectively simple.
This sounds basic when written out. It was humbling to realize how long I operated without really believing it.
When you assume your perspective is the clear-eyed one and everyone else is missing something, you stop being curious about what they’re seeing. You stop asking questions. You start treating every interaction as a test others are failing rather than an opportunity to understand a different viewpoint.
What I Do Differently Now
I assume I’m missing context. When someone doesn’t see what seems clear to me, my first question is now “what are they seeing that I’m not?” rather than “how do I make them understand?” Most of the time, they have information or constraints I haven’t considered.
I test ideas as questions, not conclusions. Instead of presenting fully formed solutions, I share observations and ask if others see the same pattern. “I’m noticing X – does that track with what you’re seeing?” This invites collaboration instead of requiring agreement.
I separate the work from my identity. When something I’ve created gets criticized or rejected, it’s feedback about that specific thing, not a judgment of my competence. This distinction sounds simple but it’s changed how I receive input. I’m less defensive because less is at stake personally.
What This Actually Looks Like
In practice, this means more draft conversations and fewer big reveals. It means showing unfinished work and asking for input early, when changes are cheap. It means being genuinely interested in why someone disagrees rather than preparing my counter-argument while they talk.
It also means accepting that some of my clearest insights will never land with certain audiences, not because they’re wrong but because the fit isn’t there. That’s information, not failure.
Why This Matters
I’m not advocating for diluting your perspective or abandoning conviction. Strong points of view are valuable. But conviction without curiosity becomes rigidity. And when you’re rigid, you miss opportunities to refine your thinking, to find unexpected collaborators, and to actually move ideas forward.
The goal isn’t to be right less often. It’s to be useful more often.
If you’ve ever felt frustrated that people don’t see what you see, that your work isn’t understood the way you intended, or that you’re explaining the same things repeatedly without traction – this might be worth considering. The problem might not be that others aren’t getting it. The problem might be that you’re solving for the wrong thing.
I’m still figuring this out. But I’m asking better questions now than I was before. And that’s made more difference than any amount of being right ever did.
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