You know that relationship where you’ve explained yourself multiple times… and they still don’t see it your way?

You leave those conversations thinking you’ve been clear, and yet you end up right back where you started.

When I’m brought in to help resolve conflict, there’s a moment early on that I’ve come to expect.

It usually starts with someone saying, “Can I just explain what’s actually happened…” and then off they go. Detailed, well thought through, often completely justified.

You can see the logic, you can understand the frustration, and in many cases, you can absolutely see why they believe they’re right.

Very quickly, it becomes clear what they’re really looking for.

They’re not looking to understand their impact.
They’re looking for validation.

They want me to confirm that their intent was good, that their actions made sense, and that the issue sits with the other person. And this is where things get stuck, because in our work, we always start from a different place.

Own your impact, not your intent.

You can have the best intentions in the world, but if the impact of your behaviour is frustration, confusion or disconnection, that’s where the problem lies.

And until you’re willing to look at that honestly, nothing shifts.

What I’m seeing in that moment isn’t clarity or strength.
It’s armour.

Protective, defensive, ready.

And I get it, because when you’ve been in conflict for a while, that armour can start to feel necessary. You’ve replayed the conversations, built your case, tightened your arguments, and by the time you’re sitting in front of me, you’re not just frustrated, you’re prepared.

The problem is, armour is heavy.

It might feel like strength in the moment, but it takes effort to carry. It keeps you guarded, it keeps you certain, and it keeps you closed. And that’s exactly why these situations don’t move. You can’t resolve anything when both people are focused on protecting themselves.

Which is why, in these moments, there are really only two choices.

You can armour up and go in to prove that you’re right. You can double down, push your point, hold your ground and try to win the argument. Plenty of people do exactly that, and sometimes they even succeed. They land their points, they get the acknowledgement, they “win.”

But they walk out with exactly the same relationship they walked in with.
Or worse.

Because you can win the argument and still lose the relationship.

The other choice is harder, and this is where courage comes in. Not the loud, performative kind, but the quieter version that Brené Brown talks about when she describes courage as the opposite of armour.

This is the moment where you take some of it off.

You acknowledge your part, even if it’s small. You get curious about how your actions might have landed, not how you meant them to land. You’re willing to hear something that doesn’t quite fit with the story you’ve been telling yourself.

And yes, it’s a risk.

Because you don’t know how the other person will respond. If anything, your instinct is telling you not to do it, especially if your inner Cheetah has already decided that this is something to win. That part of you is wired for results, for momentum, for getting over the line, and in conflict that can quickly turn into needing to be right.

But it’s worth asking yourself what you’re actually trying to win.

Because if the goal is a high trust, working relationship, armour won’t get you there.

In fact, it will keep you stuck exactly where you are.

What we see again and again in our work is that the fastest way to shift these dynamics isn’t through better arguments, it’s through vulnerability. When one person drops the armour, even slightly, it changes the tone of the conversation. It creates space. It makes it easier for the other person to do the same.

Behaviour is contagious.

Not always immediately, and not always perfectly, but far more often than people expect.

So when you find yourself heading into a difficult conversation, and you can feel that familiar pull to tighten up, prove your point and come out on top, just pause for a second and ask yourself one question.

Am I trying to win this argument… or build a relationship that actually works?

Because those two things rarely happen at the same time.

Rock on,

Jo

P.S. If you walk into a conversation needing to prove you’re right, you’re already wearing armour. And you can’t build trust in armour.

Do you know what the most valuable leadership tool is?

Nope, not the sh*t sandwich.
Not Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, nor whatever shiny new framework is doing the rounds this month.

It’s the humble mirror.
Yep. The mirror.

Not to check your lippy or make sure this morning’s latte isn’t still round your chops, but to check what it’s actually like to be on the receiving end of you.

Not how you think you’re coming across.
Not what you intended.
But how you’re actually landing.

And not just when you’ve had 8 hours sleep and everyone’s behaving themselves either.

I mean the real days.

When you’re tired, frustrated and frankly not in the mood for leadership.

Because that’s when it matters most.

Because here’s the bit most leaders try to skip, instead wanting to go straight to focussing on everyone else’s behaviour:

Owning your impact, especially when things are hard, messy or unfair.

And yes, I bang on about this all the time… because it matters:

If you can’t lead yourself, you’ve got very little chance of leading anyone else.

Self-leadership isn’t about being perfect.

It’s about being honest enough to look in the mirror and say:
👉 “Ah. That didn’t land how I thought it did.”
👉 “I was aiming for assertive… and came across as arsey.”
👉 “I thought I was being clear… but actually I was just being blunt.”

Once you get used to owning your impact, particularly on the hard days, that’s when leadership gets interesting.

Because then (and only then) you can start holding up the mirror for others.

And if your immediate reaction is, “Yes, but I’m not the problem. They need to stop being so difficult…” can I gently point you back to our mantra:

Claim, don’t blame.

Because, frustratingly, the only behaviour you get to control is your own, regardless of how much you’d like to rewrite somebody else’s.

So start with a look in the mirror.

Then, when it’s time to help somebody else reflect on their impact, you can do it without sugarcoating the feedback or wrapping it in two bits of fluffy praise and hoping they’ll spot the point.

Instead, you help them see:
“This is what you did.
This is how it landed.
This is the impact it had.”

Not by telling them they were rubbish, but by asking the kind of questions that hold up a mirror they can’t ignore.

Because great leaders don’t force insight, they create it. They help people reflect on reality, not their imagination, their assumptions or their carefully crafted excuses.

Is looking in the mirror easy?
Nope.

Is holding it up for others easy?
Also nope.

Is it a learnable skill?
Absobloominglutely.

And is it worth it?
Total game changer.

As someone said to me recently after finishing our Leadership Conversations programme:
“The mirror technique really, really, really does work in those ‘yikes’ moments, doesn’t it?”

Yes.
Yes, it really, really, really does.

And if you’re still blaming someone else for everything that’s not going well… chances are you haven’t looked in the leadership mirror properly yet.

So… one final question:

When was the last time you looked in the leadership mirror… and didn’t just see what you wanted to see? 👀

Rock on,

Jo

P.S. If you’ve got a conversation you’re avoiding right now… there’s a good chance the mirror is the place to start.

Humans are messy.
Relationships don’t have to be.

The quality of your relationships determines the quality of your life.

At home.
At work.
Everywhere.

Because the moment another human is involved, there will be differences.

Different views.
Different instincts.
Different priorities.

And if you can’t disagree well?

Those differences become fractures.

You can be brilliant at your job.
You can operate a supermarket checkout with Olympic-level efficiency.
You can build rockets.
You can run a P&L, lead a team, write policy, close deals.

But if you can’t disagree well?
You will come unstuck.

Not because you’re not smart.
Not because you’re not capable.

But because life isn’t a solo sport.
And humans are messy, opinionated and gloriously different.

My husband and I have been together for 30 years.

Do we argue?
You bet we do.

Does he wind me up?
Absoflippinglutely.

Does he do it on purpose?
Only when I steal the last piece of chocolate.

Let’s keep it real. I find him really bloody annoying sometimes. And yes, he absolutely finds me annoying too.
He has high Ant traits. Creative. A professional photographer who sees ten angles before I’ve even chosen one. He wants to explore every possibility.

My Cheetah?
Wants to pick one and move.

That difference used to drive me mad.

Can we just decide?
Can we just crack on?

But that same wiring is also why our new house currently looks like a building site.

He can see the finished version. I can only see dust and invoices.

But we would never have created what we’re building without his creative mind.

Take paint colours.
I was ready to choose straight from the sample card in the Dulux shop. Done. Decision made. Let’s move on.

He insisted on choosing a few. Painting patches on the wall. Looking at them in different light. Sleeping on it. Taking a few days to decide.

Of course he was right.

It just took longer than I would have done. Because my Cheetah wants to move quickly.

We wouldn’t have made it 30 years if we hadn’t understood something simple:
We are wired differently.
We both have good intent.
Disagreement is not a threat.

It’s part of the deal.

Work is no different.

You need people who think differently.
Strategists. Creatives. Analysts. Drivers. Harmonisers.

But by definition, different thinking means different views.

So it’s not about avoiding people who frustrate you.
And it’s not about recruiting clones.

It’s about learning how to disagree without being dragged into your vulnerabilities, otherwise:

When a Cheetah feels slowed down, impatience takes over.
When an Ant feels rushed, defensiveness shows up.
When a Lion feels out of control, it can tip into intimidation.
When a Dog fears rejection, it goes quiet.

Same disagreement.
Different fear.
Very different outcome.

If you can’t disagree well:
❌ Your team will stop being honest.
❌ Your culture will become polite but brittle.
❌ Innovation will quietly die.

And at home?
Resentment quietly builds.

We’re still here after 30 years not because we avoid disagreement, but because we don’t make it mean the relationship is unsafe.

That skill is everything.

And it just so happens that at The Training Rock, we are bloody marvellous at training leaders to do exactly that.

So let me ask you:

How well do your leaders disagree?

Imagine your culture if every leader could hold a hard conversation without people going into fight, flight or silence.

Rock on.

Whenever I kick off a new cohort of leadership training, I always ask the same question early on.

“How would you describe the culture in your organisation?”

What I usually get is a variety of thoughtful answers.

Different perspectives. Different experiences.
Usually with some clear common themes running through them.

And when we start discussing those answers in the group, there’s almost always a moment where someone says,

“That’s not how it feels in my team.”

Which makes sense.

Because while there is an organisational culture, there’s also a sub-culture in every team.

A slightly different flavour.
A different lived experience.

And that experience is shaped, day in and day out, by the leader.

I lead my team with my personality, my behaviours, my defaults under pressure, my leadership style.
You do the same.

So no, culture doesn’t feel identical everywhere. And it never will.

What really matters isn’t personality. It’s alignment.
Alignment to the organisation’s values.
Alignment to the behaviours in the competency framework.
Or whatever your organisation calls “how we expect leaders to show up around here”.

And yet, I hear this all the time:

“What are they going to do to improve the culture?”

As if culture lives somewhere else.
With HR.
With the exec.
In a strategy document or a town hall deck.

But the uncomfortable truth?

We contribute to the culture every single day.

By how we respond when things go wrong.
By how well we disagree.
By how safe it feels for someone to challenge us.
By whether people can speak up without paying for it later.

And another thing (here I go…)

People often assume the culture must be great because there’s a fancy coffee machine, free snacks, or some other shiny perk.

You can have the best coffee in the world, but if people are scared to challenge, afraid to disagree, or get slapped down for speaking up, the culture isn’t great.
It’s just well-caffeinated.

Yes, some things need to be in place;
Clarity on the culture you are trying to build.
Clear expectations.
Consistent standards.

But after that, the question isn’t:
“What are they going to do?”
It’s this:
“What am I doing to build the culture I say I want?”

Because culture is happening wherever leadership is happening. Not just at the top.

What would your team members say if I asked them to describe the culture in your team?

Not what you think it is.
Their lived experience.

What do you think they’d say?
What would you like them to say?

And what do you need to do more of or less of to make that happen?

Because culture isn’t built by what you believe.
It’s built by what your team experiences.

Rock on.

(Psst! If you want culture to change without changing how you lead, that’s not culture work. That’s fantasy.)

We’ve just moved house.

Which means we’ve spent months in and out of conversations with estate agents.
Lots of them.

And here’s what surprised absolutely no one.

Most of them struggled to be honest.
I know, shocking, eh? 😉

I have a very effective inbuilt bullsh*t detector and tolerating being lied to really isn’t my forté.

Not in leadership.
Not in business.
Not when you’re standing in my living room telling me that you can absolutely sell my house for the best price by this time tomorrow and yes, of course, you operate differently from all the other estate agents in this area… bla bla bla.

Agent after agent came in selling themselves. Their services, their stats, their shiny promises, their websites full of words like honest, human and client-first.

It was all me, me, me, as if they’d pressed play and I got their spiel.

So the relationships were short. Very short.

My trust levels were so low we even told agents we’d put cameras up for viewings.
They still lied. #ImpressiveInAllTheWrongWays

One agent invented a viewing. A fictional human. True story.
You know the drill: house spotless, windows and mirrors cleaned, hob gleaming.
Only to discover there’d been no viewing at all.

Would you tolerate that?

And then one agent, Harry, did something radically different.

He asked about us.
Why we were moving.
What our situation was.
What mattered.
What we were looking for.
What we wanted from an agent.

He didn’t perform.
He didn’t pitch.
He didn’t pretend.

He was honest, human, communicative and funny.

And just to be clear, this wasn’t about being nice.

Harry sold our house fast.
At a good price.
#Results

Because relationships lead to results.
Not the other way round.

And here’s the bit I didn’t expect.

The hardest part of moving house wasn’t the logistics.
It was being messed about when we were already stretched.

Clearing out a house after 28 years is emotionally exhausting. You’re making hundreds of decisions, reliving memories, and running on reduced bandwidth before the day even starts.

So the last thing you need is someone adding friction, wasting your time, or inflating their ego instead of understanding your situation.

And this is where leadership really shows up.

Not just in meetings, strategy days or performance conversations, but in unexpected, ordinary, human moments like this.

Your team members are always carrying more than you can see.

Stuff at home, stuff in their heads, things quietly draining their capacity before they even show up to work.

In those moments, they don’t need spin, a performance, or your ego.

They need you on their side.

Because when leaders put relationships first, results follow.

Every single time.

That’s leadership.
And it shows up everywhere.

Sometimes, it looks a lot like Harry turning up, getting curious, and putting the human first.

If you want better results, start where Harry did: with the person in front of you, not the outcome you’re trying to impress.

Rock on.