Oops, They Said It Again
How Trained Coaches Get Trapped By Dinner Conversation
You're going to ruin dinner parties.
Not on purpose. You're not going to say anything out loud. But you're going to be sitting there, food getting cold, and some part of your brain is going to be filing things:
Oh, that's the third time she's told that story this year.
Oh, he just did the thing where he explains why nothing can change right now.
Oh, there it is, the sigh before the "I know, I know,” as their shoulders slump in resigned acceptance.
You see it. You hear it. Everyone else at the table ignores it – are they being polite, tolerant, or just plain ol’ oblivious?
You can't unknow what you know.
They have a curse too. They know you’re a coach, and they think you’re evaluating them; every word, in every moment of silence.
The dynamic just makes conversations weird.
And the tough part is you genuinely love these people. That's what makes it hard. You're not judging them, you're not sitting there feeling superior. You're sitting there a little heartbroken because you can see exactly where this is going and you also know that nobody asked you.
Pop quiz, hotshot. What do you do?
Before this work, you would've just listened and moved on with your life. Most people do. But you logged the hours, you sat in the chair, you learned to hear underneath what people are saying, and now that's just how your brain works at dinner.
Congratulations. You did this to yourself.
Why do people keep telling the same story?
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
The productivity model of shampooing is the anti-productivity model of conversation.
For some reason, our friends and family (well, humans in general) feel compelled to repeat themselves. Maybe it’s to verbally process the challenge; maybe it’s to make sure you’re listening; maybe it’s because misery loves company; or maybe they’re stuck, and like a frozen TV, they need a firm sla….er, tap to start functioning again. (C’mon, be honest, you know you really want to…)
Before you were trained as a coach, you probably heard these reruns and like most of us, tuned them out. Because, just like watching your favorite show over again, you don’t need to pay attention unless you’re looking for a specific scene. (And be honest, you’d just fast-forward to it on Netflix. You wouldn’t sit through an hour for 30-seconds of gratification.)
We’ve been there too.
I used to blissfully ignore casual conversations (Dan here). When my friends noticed I’d tuned out, they’d say to each other, “Oh, I guess we’re boring him again,” or they’d sarcastically apologize, “We’re sorry we’re not as intellectual as you,” or more often than not, they’d be so caught up in their loops that they never noticed.
Maybe ignorance is bliss. Maybe that’s why the opposite is called the Curse of Knowledge.
The friends who understood and accepted this about me were fine with it. We could joke about it. The ones who were insecure, who thought I was psycho-analyzing their every word, well, we had problems.
And all of this happened long before I was trained to listen like a coach.
What changes once you've been trained to listen like a coach?
You can't tune out anymore. Not really.
You try. You show up to dinner telling yourself, “tonight I'm just a person who eats food and laughs at things.” And then someone starts a sentence with "I just feel like nothing is ever going to change" and your brain goes, oh here we go, and now you're watching the whole thing like you've seen this episode before, because you have.
The patterns are obvious. And the really annoying part? The better you get at this work, the worse the dinner parties get. Nobody warned you about that in training.
So, you do the only thing you can do. You sit there. You let it play out. You pass the bread. You laugh when you're supposed to laugh. You get very good or at least try at being a person in the room instead of a coach at the table.
And it turns out that's the actual skill. Not the listening… the not doing anything with it.
Then you start noticing your own loops. But that's an entirely different article.
We all do this. Some of us just get paid to notice it now, which is either a gift or a punishment depending on the day and honestly sometimes the hour.
We didn't get into this work because we had it all figured out. We got into it because we were curious about people, and ourselves, and somewhere along the way the curiosity turned into a credential and the credential turned into a way of seeing the world that we can't exactly return.
So yeah. You're going to ruin some dinner parties.
You're also going to be the person in the room who actually sees people. Not to fix them. Not to run a session on them over appetizers. Just see them.
And sometimes, they feel it.
Some will get defensive, even before you can ask a question, “And don’t YOU try to coach me right now.” That's the loop talking.
Others will appreciate knowing that you see them; they’ll welcome being recognized, and accepted. Even if they never say a word, their expressions will speak volumes. And hey, you’re a coach – you catch those non-verbal cues.
What happens when coaches turn off coaching mode with friends and family?
Interestingly, these dinner parties are just like coaching sessions.
You showed up.
You were present.
The others in the room brought their stuff, to talk about, or to avoid.
Conversation was had. There were laughs; maybe there were tears.
Everyone went back to living their lives.
Did you really ruin the party? Or is that the story you’re telling yourself again?
The loop doesn't stop. But you can get better at living inside it.
That's what we teach at MCXI. Come see how.
