Using Our Story To Help Others

It wasn’t the setting I expected for an intimate encounter—but often the most meaningful conversations happen in the most unexpected places. Of all locations for a deep, honest exchange, the bathroom at our co‑working space wouldn’t have been my first choice. And yet, there we were, standing side by side at the sinks, washing our hands.

It began with a simple observation: a haggard, worn‑out expression staring back from the mirror. Then came an equally simple question. “Are you doing okay? You don’t seem like yourself.” And just like that, the proverbial floodgates—faucet included—opened.

To this day, I’m deeply grateful that he felt comfortable enough—with me—to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

I’m getting wrecked at my job. I’m in a managerial position, and no one seems to be responding well to me. It’s hard to read people through a Zoom screen, but it feels like people aren’t buying what I’m selling. I’m doubting myself. I feel like a fraud. I have no idea what I’m doing.

I don’t normally respond with quick fixes or silver bullets—quite the opposite, actually. Rarely, if ever, does empathy look like throwing solutions around like paper towels into a trash can. Most of the time, listening—pure, unhurried listening—is what’s needed.

But occasionally, when there is trust, intention, and genuine care, sharing a piece of our own story can be helpful. Not to redirect attention. Not to solve the problem. But to offer companionship in the struggle.

In that moment, I chose to share a small part of my own story. Not to shift the focus to me, and not to fix anything—but simply to let him know he wasn’t alone, and that what he was feeling made sense.

Almost immediately, I noticed a change. His shoulders softened. His breathing slowed. The conversation deepened.

Coincidentally, we had just received copies of our latest book, Listening 2by2: A Paradigm Shift for Leaders. I sensed that the message we share in those pages might offer him both hope and perspective—not as a solution, but as a reminder of what’s possible when listening is taken seriously.

I gave him a brief snapshot. The story follows a CEO who finds himself at a crossroads when a trusted leader reaches a breaking point. Communication has fractured. Trust is thinning. Change must happen—or something meaningful will be lost. With the help of two guides, he begins to relearn how to listen with intention, curiosity, and humility—at work and at home.

What the story reveals is simple, but not easy: listening isn’t a “soft skill” or a box to check. In fact, it’s the most important skill of all.  It requires presence. It takes patience. And when it becomes foundational—rather than optional—it opens the door to connection, collaboration, and real change, even when circumstances (and screens) make it harder to be human.  In our listening training, we often talk about the role of vulnerability. When shared appropriately and with intention, vulnerability can strengthen relationships. It becomes a bridge.

But it only works when the spotlight remains on the other person—when our story serves their healing, not our need to be heard.

Out of the bathroom, we walked as if we were leaving a locker room after a pep talk—with a renewed sense of energy and a willingness to BELIEVE again (a little Ted Lasso moment).

I handed him a copy of the book and reminded him of the good I see in him every single day: the way he shows up for others in the co-working space; the intentionality he brings to each interaction; how he remembers names, places of work, and personal details; how he uses humor to create genuine human connection.

At the end of his meeting later that day, he approached me again—this time with joy written all over his face.

You’ll never believe what happened,” he said. “I told my team that I haven’t been listening well to them. That work had become just about work, and I hadn’t been taking the time to really get to know each of them as people. I apologized.

He paused, almost in disbelief. They responded with so much grace. It turned into this incredible moment of connection—new purpose, new energy.” Then he added quietly, “All because you listened to me. And because you wrote that book from a place of vulnerability. Your vulnerability gave me permission to do the same.

That’s the quiet power of sharing our story well. When vulnerability is offered with care—and the spotlight stays on the other person—it doesn’t take over the moment. It opens it. It creates space for trust, connection, unity, and community to grow.

Our stories matter. And when we share them thoughtfully, they can help others believe again—and remind them they’re not alone.

So the invitation is simple: whose story might be changed—not because you fixed them, but because you were willing to listen and share just enough of your own?

Photo by Mindspace Studio on Unsplash