The Unforeseen Anxiety of a Wayward Ball
As I meander along one of many winding footpaths that make up Princess Park, I hear laughter in the distance. A group of friends are engrossed in a game of football, passing a ball amongst themselves with reckless abandon.
Suddenly, a kick, forceful and misaimed, sends the ball soaring above its intended mark. It lands softly, rolling away from the group. My pace slows as I notice. The ball teeters on the edge of a slope, as if scanning for a new would be playmate. My presence beckons its attention and it slowly begins its descent towards me.
I dare not look directly at it. To look is to acknowledge its presence. And to acknowledge its presence is to commit to this ball’s devious game.
In a bid for escape, I reach for my phone with a feigned sense of urgency, pretending to be caught off guard by an unexpected call. My fingers clumsily grasp at the device, as if amplifying the suddenness of the act.
I tell myself this absolves me of commitment.
As I continue my walk, muttering words into my phone, I dare not look behind me, lest I catch the eye of the balls ball's rightful participants. The game soon fades behind me as does the threat of the wayward ball.
A sense of relief washes over me as I pocket my phone. I've survived once again. One less opportunity to look foolish.
While the anxiety of a wayward ball might seem a rather trivial experience, it reflects some deeper patterns in my professional life. It's not merely the ball itself that stirs unease but the prospect of how to handle it. Do I kick it? Do I pick it up and throw it? Do I throw it underhand or overhand? If I must kick it, how much force should I use? What if I kick it sideways and make it worse?
What follows is a series of professional vignettes, much like the moment with the ball, where my reluctance to confront situations has led me to drop the ball.
It was the blurst of technical reviews.
All but one square box on my screen glowed with activity as the speaker lamented his new architectural diagram. This was meant to solve a great need within the organisation, something that could scale effectively and set us up for future innovation. Adrift in a sea of technical jargon, I tried to make sense of every word that was uttered. It was time for questions and I had but one: “What problem are we trying to solve?”. But in the quiet that proceeded that talk, not one question was asked. My hesitation only made worse by the fear that my question is too stupid for this audience. Surely, the others understood and their silence was simply an acknowledgement of the solution? I was convinced to ask now was to invite ridicule.
Just read the docs.
“Read the onboarding docs, it should have everything you need”. I took that to heart as I struggled to get this project running locally. I followed every numbered instruction, every troubleshooting guide, and yet nothing worked as it should. “Surely someone has come across this problem before?”, I asked myself as I searched through the company’s Slack messages for any sign of a similar experience. Nothing matched and so I trudged on in silence for much of the day. I eventually found a way to a solution the next day but I asked myself: “Did it have to be this way?”
It wasn’t a simple suggestion.
A new team, a new codebase and a new pull request. The problem I tackled was complex, yet the solution I proposed was elegantly simple—just a few lines of code. After requesting a review in the Slack channel, I shifted my focus to the next task, awaiting feedback.
It wasn't long before notifications began to populate my inbox. Initial comments were minor—simple suggestions and nitpicks. However, not all reviewers approach the task in the same manner. I soon found myself staring at a wall of text that reconsidered my approach. The suggestion less a suggestion and more a demand. While I could overlook the tone, the complexity of the explanation was another matter. My back and forth on this PR would be publicly visible. If I were to ask for clarity, I would be asking in public and my confusion could only suggest one thing: I’m not smart enough to understand.
A simple solution is not enough.
It was my turn to describe a new proposed architecture. I had immersed myself in the problem, emerging with a solution whose elegance lay in its simplicity. I wouldn’t need much to pull this off. Yet, as I reviewed my presentation, a seed of doubt took root in my mind. Would my technical audience find my solution sufficient? Have I considered the myriad of possibilities that might occur? I still had time to make this perfect and I would.
As I worked well into the night, I found myself wrestling with an array of hypothetical questions. My solution felt sound, yet the fear of overlooking some glaring oversight loomed large. I know there will be questions, but had I forgotten something so obvious that to not even acknowledge it, I was only making obvious my own incompetence?
The weight of leadership.
I was invited to a seat at the big table, a large oblong mahogany piece overlooking the parking lot of a sleek new office. This is where my leaders would sit, discussing everything from finances to promotions. It was my turn to have a seat at this very table. I was given the authority to speak on behalf of the others in my team. To represent their capabilities amongst potential customers. As I fiddled with my new non-hoodie attire, I listened vehemently to every word in the meeting.
Before long, all eyes turned to me, prompted by a technical question that was the primary reason for my presence. My response emerged as a croak, followed by a nod. Scanning the room, it seemed I had managed to satisfy them. Yet, as I replayed my answer in my head, I recognize my error. The dilemma of whether to correct myself loomed large, but, in a bid to save face, I chose silence.
In order to not appear foolish, I worked on a foolish feature in hours of unpaid work.
In each of these vignettes, lies a common thread: the fear of looking foolish. Yet, as Richard Feynman's approach to "dumb" questions teaches us, there's a profound strength in embracing this vulnerability. In not embracing it, you may just find yourself missing out on experiences and opportunities that can only further your career or your relationships.
The next time you hesitate to ask a question, or present your code for review, consider the alternative. The risk of temporary embarrassment pales in comparison to the potential for growth.
Kick the ball.
Then run if you did it wrong.