Alice Steerwell had always prided herself on being the kind of manager people felt comfortable approaching. She kept photos of her team’s children on her desk, remembered birthdays, and genuinely cared about her developers’ career growth. When the annual 360 reviews came back with comments about her being ‘supportive but sometimes micromanaging’, she dismissed them as outliers. After all, she was just being helpful, wasn’t she?

You might recognise this story. Perhaps you’ve been Alice, or worked with someone like her. The patterns that follow aren’t unique to managers—they appear in coaching conversations, consulting engagements, team facilitations, and peer collaborations across all kinds of working relationships.

The first crack in Alice’s self-image came during what seemed like a perfectly ordinary team standup.

‘Jake, you need to finish the authentication module today so we don’t fall behind’, Alice said, scanning her notes. ‘And Sarah, make sure you coordinate with Jake before you start on the frontend integration—we really can’t have any miscommunication.’

Jake nodded, but something flickered across his face. A tightness around his eyes that Alice almost caught, then missed. She moved on to the next item, satisfied that she’d prevented potential problems.

If you’ve ever run team meetings, facilitated retrospectives, or coached individuals, you might pause for reflection here. How often do your suggestions emerge as directives? How frequently do you tell people what they ‘need to’ do rather than exploring what they think might work?

Later that week, Alice found herself in the break room with Marcus, a senior developer who’d mentioned feeling overwhelmed.

‘You should take some time off after this sprint’, Alice said, stirring her coffee. ‘You need to recharge before you burn out. I’ll talk to HR about getting those holiday days approved.’

‘Actually’, Marcus said carefully, ‘I was thinking of maybe just doing some lighter tasks for a bit. I don’t really want to take time off right now.’

Alice felt that familiar spike of frustration. How could he not see the obvious solution? ‘But Marcus, you just said you’re overwhelmed. You have to take care of yourself. I’ll handle reassigning your critical tasks.’

Marcus’s smile became strained. ‘Right. Sure, Alice. Whatever you think is best.’

The phrase echoed in her head as she walked back to her desk: whatever you think is best. When had Marcus, usually so opinionated about every technical decision, started defaulting to her judgement on everything?

Whether you’re managing direct reports, coaching team members, or consulting with clients, you might recognise this dynamic. When did the people you work with stop offering their own ideas and start deferring to your expertise?

But she pushed the thought away. She was helping him make better decisions. That’s what good leaders do.

The real wake-up call came during a one-to-one with Emma, one of her junior developers.

‘How are you feeling about the new project structure?’ Alice asked, genuinely wanting to know.

‘It’s fine’, Emma said, but she was fidgeting with her pen.

‘Emma, I can tell something’s bothering you. You need to be honest with me so I can help.’

Emma looked uncomfortable. ‘It’s just… sometimes I feel like I can’t suggest alternative approaches without it seeming like I’m not following the plan you’ve already decided on.’

Alice blinked. ‘But I always ask for your input.’

‘You do’, Emma agreed quietly. ‘But usually after you’ve already explained what you think we need to do. And when I do suggest something different, you tell me why your approach is better.’

The words hung between them. Alice felt confused—wasn’t that her job? To guide the team towards better decisions?

‘I’m just trying to help you avoid mistakes’, Alice said. ‘I’ve seen these patterns before.’

Emma nodded quickly. ‘Of course. I understand.’

But that night, Alice couldn’t shake Emma’s words. She replayed the conversation, trying to understand what had gone wrong. She’d been supportive, hadn’t she? Sharing her experience? Preventing problems?

Take a moment here. If you coach others, facilitate teams, or guide decision-making in any capacity, when did you last share your expertise without it sounding like instruction? When did you last say ‘I don’t know’ or admit uncertainty about the best approach?

On impulse, she pulled up a recording of their last team meeting—something she’d started doing for remote workers but had never actually listened to herself.

‘We need to prioritise the security audit this week’, her voice said through the laptop speakers. ‘Jake, you need to focus on the authentication bugs first—they’re the highest risk. Sarah, you’ll want to tackle the frontend validation after Jake’s done. This is the most logical sequence.’

Alice paused the recording. Something about her tone struck her as odd, though she couldn’t quite place what.

‘What if we parallelise some of it?’ Jake’s voice suggested. ‘I could handle auth whilst Sarah works on input sanitisation?’

‘That could create integration issues’, Alice heard herself respond. ‘We need to stick to the sequential approach. It’s cleaner and less risky.’

Alice frowned. She’d used ‘need to’ three times in less than a minute. When had she started speaking like that? She kept listening.

‘Marcus, you have to refactor that authentication class before we can move forward.’

‘Emma, you need to update those test cases. We can’t merge without proper coverage.’

‘Team, we all need to be using the same formatting standards. I’ll send out the configuration file.’

Alice stopped the recording. Every sentence was a directive. Every suggestion was a requirement. When had she started talking like a drill sergeant?

But these weren’t commands, were they? They were just… practical necessities. The work needed to get done. Someone had to make decisions. That’s what management was.

Wasn’t it?

Over the next few days, Alice found herself listening to her own words with growing discomfort. In casual conversation with colleagues:

‘You should really check out that new restaurant on Fifth Street.’

‘You need to see that documentary about climate change.’

‘You have to read this article I found.’

Even her helpful suggestions sounded like orders. When had she become someone who told people what they needed to do about their lunch plans?

Perhaps you’ve noticed similar patterns in your own conversations. How often do you find yourself telling colleagues, team members, or clients what they ‘should’ do? How frequently do your recommendations come across as the obviously correct approach rather than one possible option among many?

The revelation came gradually, then all at once. Alice realised she couldn’t remember the last time she’d asked someone what they thought without first explaining what she thought they ought to think. She couldn’t recall saying ‘I don’t know’ about anything work-related in months. She was someone who had an opinion about everything and assumed others wanted to hear it—needed to hear it.

But the most unsettling realisation was how natural it felt. This wasn’t deliberate manipulation. She wasn’t consciously trying to control people. She genuinely believed she was being helpful, sharing expertise, preventing problems. The controlling language didn’t feel controlling from the inside—it felt caring.

In her next one-to-one with Emma, Alice decided to try something different.

‘I’ve been thinking about our conversation last week’, she said. ‘I realised I do use a lot of directive language. More than I thought.’

Emma looked surprised, then cautiously hopeful.

‘What would be helpful for you?’ Alice asked, then immediately winced. Even her attempt to be less controlling had come out as ‘what would be helpful’—positioning herself as the helper and Emma as someone who needed help.

She tried again. ‘Actually, what’s your experience been like? I’m genuinely curious.’

The difference was subtle but profound. Instead of offering to solve Emma’s problem, Alice was asking to understand Emma’s perspective. Instead of positioning herself as the expert who could provide help, she was admitting ignorance about something important.

Emma sat up straighter. ‘Sometimes it feels like you’ve already decided everything, and asking for input is just… procedural? Like, if I disagree with the plan, I must be missing something obvious.’

Alice nodded, noting her impulse to explain why that wasn’t her intention, to defend her approach, to clarify what she’d really meant. Instead, she just listened.

‘I think’, Emma continued, gaining confidence, ‘maybe when you have an idea about how to approach something, you could present it as one option? Instead of the logical approach?’

Alice felt something shift. For months, she’d been treating her judgements as universal truths. Her risk tolerance became ‘the sensible approach’. Her technical opinions became ‘what we need to do’. Her experience became ‘how these things work’.

‘That makes sense’, Alice said, and meant it. ‘I think I’ve been confusing my preferences with facts.’

Over the following weeks, Alice began catching herself mid-sentence. ‘You need to—’ became ‘Have you considered—’ became ‘I’m wondering if—’ became ‘What do you think about—?’

The changes felt uncomfortable, almost frightening. Alice realised how much psychological security she’d derived from being the person with answers, the one who knew what needed to be done. There had been safety in certainty, power in being the person others looked to for direction.

Whether you manage teams, coach individuals, or advise organisations, you might recognise this discomfort. How much of your identity rests on being the person with solutions? What would it feel like to lead with questions instead of answers?

But the team’s response was almost immediate. Jake started volunteering technical ideas during meetings. Marcus began pushing back on timelines and suggesting alternatives. Emma proposed an architectural approach that was, Alice had to admit, more elegant than the standard solution Alice had been advocating.

Most surprisingly, Alice discovered that saying ‘I’m not sure’ or ‘What do you think?’ didn’t make her appear weak or incompetent. Instead, it seemed to unlock perspectives and expertise she hadn’t even known existed among her colleagues.

Though even that realisation carried its own uncomfortable truth: her team. Alice caught herself using the phrase and winced. When had she started thinking of these accomplished individuals as belonging to her? Jake had fifteen years of experience. Marcus was a senior developer with expertise Alice didn’t possess. Emma brought fresh perspectives from her computer science degree. Yet Alice’s mental model positioned them as ‘her people’—as if they were resources she managed rather than colleagues she worked with.

The possessive thinking ran deeper than language. Alice realised she’d been unconsciously organising her entire worldview around ownership and control. She thought about ‘her projects’, ‘her deadlines’, ‘her deliverables’. She evaluated success based on whether people followed ‘her plans’. She felt responsible for ‘her team’s’ outcomes in a way that assumed their work belonged to her rather than emerged from their expertise and effort.

Even her caring had been possessive—she wanted ‘her people’ to succeed, to avoid mistakes, to make good choices. But the underlying assumption was that she knew what success, good choices, and right approaches looked like for them. She’d been benevolently governing rather than collaboratively working.

If you’re reflecting on your own working relationships—whether with direct reports, clients, coaching relationships, or team members—you might recognise this pattern. How often do you think in terms of ‘your’ teams, ‘your’ transformations, ‘your’ improvements? When do you find yourself taking credit for others’ success or feeling responsible for their setbacks in ways that centre your expertise rather than their agency?

In her next team meeting, Alice tried something that felt almost revolutionary: she asked a question she didn’t know the answer to.

‘I’ve been thinking about our deployment process, and honestly, I’m not sure what the best approach is. What’s everyone’s experience been with it?’

The silence felt eternal. Alice resisted every impulse to fill it with her own analysis, her own suggestions, her own expertise. Finally, Jake spoke.

‘Actually, I’ve been wondering about the testing pipeline…’

What followed was messier than Alice’s usual meetings—more uncertain, less efficient, full of half-formed ideas and competing perspectives. But it was also more alive than anything her team had produced in months.

Alice found herself taking notes instead of providing guidance, asking follow-up questions instead of offering solutions. For the first time in years, she was learning what her team actually thought instead of watching them respond to what she thought they ought to think.

The mirror of language had shown Alice something she’d never noticed: that her caring was in actuality controlling, that her expertise was an exercise of authority, that her desire to help was in reality her need to direct. She hadn’t set out to dominate—she had thought she’d genuinely been trying to support and guide.

Later that week, Alice found herself browsing leadership books, searching for something to help her understand what had happened. A colleague had mentioned Adam Kahane’s Power and Love, and as Alice read, she felt a recognition that was both clarifying and uncomfortable. Kahane wrote about how both power—the drive to self-realisation and achievement—and love—the drive for unity and connection—were necessary for healthy relationships and organisations. But when power dominated love, it became oppressive. When love operated without acknowledging power dynamics, it could become controlling paternalism.

Alice realised she’d been living in exactly this distortion: using her power (her position, her experience, her authority to make decisions) whilst telling herself it was love (caring for her team, wanting their success, protecting them from mistakes). Her ‘care’ had been power disguised as love—perhaps the most insidious form of control because it felt so righteous from the inside.

Now that she could see it, could she begin to change it? Could she ask one genuine question at a time? Share one honest admission of uncertainty at a time? Express even one moment of curiosity about what others might know that she didn’t?

Alice’s story reveals patterns that transcend role boundaries. Whether you manage teams, coach individuals, consult with organisations, or facilitate groups, the gap between your intentions and your impact often lives in the smallest details—the difference between ‘you need to’ and ‘have you considered’, between ‘the logical approach’ and ‘one possible approach’, between imposing expertise and having curiosity.

The question isn’t whether you recognise Alice’s patterns in others—it’s whether you recognise them in yourself. And if you do, what might change if you started with genuine questions instead of helpful answers?

Argyris, C. (1990). Overcoming organizational defenses: Facilitating organizational learning. Prentice Hall.

Kahane, A. (2010). Power and love: A theory and practice of social change. Berrett-Koehler Publishers.

Kegan, R., & Lahey, L. L. (2009). Immunity to change: How to overcome it and unlock potential in yourself and your organization. Harvard Business Review Press.

Schein, E. H., & Schein, P. (2017). Organizational culture and leadership (5th ed.). Jossey-Bass.

Stone, D., Patton, B., & Heen, S. (2010). Difficult conversations: How to discuss what matters most (2nd ed.). Penguin Books.

Tannen, D. (1994). Talking from 9 to 5: Women and men at work. William Morrow.