Asking for clarity feels risky, but staying quiet costs you more.

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(Olek sits on a park bench, holding a half-eaten wrap, staring at a pigeon with only three toes…)

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“In the meeting this morning . . . Jon presented this ridiculously complex slide full of data, Sarah just held up her hand, and said, ‘I don’t follow this. Could we go back three slides?’

No panic or awkwardness.
Just total cool.

And as she said it, half the room sighed with relief and visibly relaxed.

If I’d jumped in and asked that, my stomach would be in knots.
My brain panicked thinking, ‘They’ll realise I’m in over my head. They’ll think I wasn’t paying attention.’
So instead, I sat there. Nodding along to stuff I didn't know, pretending I was absorbing every word, making notes to secretly search things later.
Spending double the energy trying to look competent than it would take to just ask the question.

Why is it when a senior asks for clarity, it looks like authority, but when I think about doing it, it feels like exposing my stupidity?”

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(A pause. Olek sighs, then swallows his last bite of wrap.…)‍

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“How can I be more fearless like Sarah?

I suppose asking the question she did, earned respect because she wasn’t afraid to show she didn’t know everything.

She cared more about actually understanding than looking like she was perfect.

And here I am, sitting on a bench with my tasteless wrap, exhausting myself trying to protect my perfect appearance in front of the others. Nodding to keep my ego safe, but panicking inside.

It’s bizarre that I’d rather miss the clarity, just to avoid a couple of seconds discomfort.

And ironically, not only would I get clarity, I’d actually gain some respect. Like Sarah did.”