Low diatribe

Susie was home for winter break, helping in the kitchen for breakfast. She watched her mother carefully cut the sausages in half before putting them in the skillet to cook. "Mama," asked Susie. "Why do you always cut the sausages in two before you cook them?" "I don't know dear," replied her mother. "It's the way my mama always cooked them. You'll have to ask Granny." Susie went to visit Granny and asked her, "Granny, why do we always cut the sausages in two before we cook them?" "I don't really remember, darling," replied Granny. "But I do remember it was the way my mama always made them. You'd have to ask her." So Susie made the trip to visit her Great-grandmother, just so she could ask her the burning question. "Great-Granny, why do we always cut our sausages in two before we cook them?" "Oh for heaven's sake!" cried Great-Granny. "Are you still using that itty bitty pan?"

There's another version of this story. Same journey, same questions, different punchline. When Susie reaches Granny, the answer is different: "I don't really remember why, dear. But I do remember it was the way my mama always made them. I never thought to ask her. I guess we'll never know."

In that far less funny version of the joke, the superstition is canonized — now it's dogma.

Superstitions are the stories we tell ourselves — either to make sense of the world or to protect us from danger. Sometimes they're inherited, passed down without question. Sometimes we construct them ourselves, building elaborate narratives to explain what we don't understand or to guard against what we fear.

Not all superstitions are bad. Walking under a ladder is considered bad luck because something might actually fall on you. Judaic dietary laws kept nomadic tribes alive in the desert. Many superstitions encode practical wisdom that worked even when we didn't understand why.

The problem isn't the superstition itself. It's when we stop questioning whether it still serves us — or whether it ever did. Stevie Wonder maybe put it best: "When you believe in things that you don't understand and you suffer. Superstition ain't the way."

We inherit superstitions without questioning them. Not always the kind about black cats or broken mirrors — the ones we build about ourselves. The stories we tell about how we're perceived, the patterns we're convinced others see in us, the flaws we're certain everyone notices.

These aren't based on evidence. They're based on fear.

I've watched this play out in myself and in every leader I've worked with. We construct elaborate narratives about our weaknesses, our gaps, the ways we don't measure up. We become convinced that everyone sees what we see when we look in the mirror at 3am.

But here's what I've learned: the gap between how we think we're perceived and how we're actually received is almost always wider than we imagine.

The superstition goes like this: I notice my hesitation in that meeting, so everyone must see me as uncertain. I stumble over my words in that presentation, so they must think I'm unprepared. I don't have all the answers, so they must question whether I belong here.

We take our internal experience — the doubt, the second-guessing, the imposter syndrome — and project it outward as fact. We assume our anxiety is visible, our uncertainty obvious, our struggles transparent.

But most of the time? People aren't seeing what we think they're seeing.

Later I learn that my hesitation was read as thoughtfulness. That my stumbling over words came across as genuine enthusiasm. That asking questions signaled curiosity and growth, not ignorance. The flaws I was certain disqualified me were barely noticed — or noticed and interpreted as something else entirely.

I've had conversations where someone apologized for being scattered, and I had no idea what they were talking about. Where a leader confessed they felt like a fraud, and I'd been struck by the authenticity of their message. Where someone worried they talked too much, and I'd been grateful for their willingness to open up and share.

The superstition breaks down when you realize: everyone is too busy managing their own internal narrative to scrutinize yours.

This isn't about toxic positivity or pretending perception doesn't matter. It matters deeply. But the perception we're managing is often imaginary — tilting at windmills we've conjured from our own fears rather than anything grounded in how others actually experience us.

I think the real work isn't fixing the flaws we're convinced everyone sees. It's questioning whether those flaws are as visible — or as damning — as we've decided they are.

I've started asking myself: what evidence do I actually have for this belief? Not the story I've constructed, but the data. The feedback. The patterns over time.

Usually, the evidence is thin. Or contradictory. Or entirely absent.

What I find instead is that people remember different things than I do. They recall the moment I asked a clarifying question, not the moment I felt lost. They remember the time I admitted I didn't know, not as weakness but as honesty. They notice the consistency, not the occasional stumble.

The superstition we build about ourselves is almost always harsher than the reality.

And here's the paradox: the more we try to hide what we think everyone sees, the more energy we waste on performance. The more we manage the imaginary perception, the less present we are for the actual relationship.

I've learned that vulnerability isn't about exposing every doubt or insecurity. It's about releasing the superstition that everyone is already seeing them anyway.

When I stop performing confidence to cover perceived weakness, I can be present. When I stop managing the narrative I think others have about me, I can actually listen to what they're saying. When I let go of the superstition, there's space for something more honest.

This doesn't mean perception is irrelevant. It means the perception that matters most is the one built over time through consistency, not the one we're frantically trying to control in each individual moment.

People don't remember your hesitation in one meeting. They remember whether you showed up, whether you listened, whether you followed through. They remember the pattern, not the performance.

The superstition tells us we need to be flawless to be trusted. But trust isn't built on perfection — it's built on reliability. On being the same person in different contexts. On admitting when you don't know instead of pretending you do.

I've found that the leaders I trust most aren't the ones who never stumble. They're the ones who stumble and keep going. Who admit uncertainty without making it everyone else's problem. Who are human enough to be real and steady enough to be relied on.

The gap between self-perception and how we're actually received isn't a problem to solve. It's a reminder that we're almost always harder on ourselves than anyone else is.

And maybe the most radical thing we can do is stop believing our own superstitions — and start trusting that people see us more clearly, and more kindly, than we see ourselves.

I'm curious what superstitions my grandchildren will inherit from me. Right now, they know you're supposed to wash your hands before playing video games to keep the Takis dust off the controllers. Practical wisdom, clearly explained.

But fifty years from now? When controllers are neural interfaces or whatever comes next? I wonder if they'll still be washing their hands before gaming, unable to remember why, just knowing it's what their Great-great-grandfather always insisted on. Perhaps it will have evolved into a performance-enhancing ritual. "It takes clean hands to win!"

Maybe that's not the worst superstition to pass down.