But What Will People Think?

Last weekend, I went to a 70s party in Johannesburg.

I very nearly didn’t.

It's that time of year when my anxiety levels skyrocket and I'd spent the week leading up to this having to manage that, so part of me was afraid of having an anxiety attack in public. But it was a party for a friend I’ve known for nearly 25 years, and my tickets to Johannesburg were already booked. So I decided to see it through.

There was no time left to go shopping either. So I did something I wouldn’t have done a year ago. I took photos of a pile of options from my wardrobe and asked ChatGPT to put outfits together for me.

It turned out to be the most fun part of the whole preparation. I’d try on one of its suggestions, tell it what I thought, and we’d go again. It felt a lot like getting ready with a girlfriend, talking through which combination worked best, from dresses to jewellery to shoes to accessories.

Somewhere in all that trying on, another feeling started to creep in.

Further than I usually go

The outfit we settled on wasn’t how I’d normally present myself. It felt more exposed. I usually turn up somewhere in a less exposed way, and this was a step outside that.

The hesitation came to the party with me (probably because the anxiety didn't disappear with a change of scenery).

Would I fit in?

Had I gone too far?

Was I showing too much skin?

It didn’t help that Johannesburg was sweltering that weekend and I was wearing long suede boots.

I also knew fewer than ten people there. A few were good friends, but many were largely strangers. As an introvert, a room like that is uncomfortable for me at the best of times, and I was still asking myself those questions as I walked in.

Then one of my friends insisted I join him on the dance floor for a sokkie. I’d never done a proper sokkie with an Afrikaans man in my entire life. I argued against it for a while, but eventually I gave in. Somewhere on that dance floor, I decided to stop thinking about what everyone else thought and just be in the moment. That was when I relaxed into the evening.

Nothing about the room had changed. I had just made a decision.

The same question in a different room

I’d like to say that was just a party feeling.

It isn’t.

I ask myself “have I gone too far?” almost every time I write a piece like this one.

Much of what I write starts with a personal story. I do that deliberately, because I want women to know they aren’t alone in the situations they find themselves in. A neat framework can explain a pattern, but it rarely makes anyone feel less alone.

Writing that way means letting people see more of me than a polished professional profile ever would. It comes with the same questions I had walking into that party.

Is this too much?

What will people think?

Should I have kept this one to myself?

You may know that feeling from different rooms.

The opinion you soften in a board meeting before you’ve finished making it.

The personal reason behind a decision that you swap for one that sounds more acceptable.

The version of yourself you trim down so nobody can say you overdid it.

It’s also one of the questions I hear most often from the women I coach.

What will people think?

What the hesitation might be telling you

That night helped me see the hesitation differently.

The worry that you’ve gone too far tends to arrive right at the edge of being seen. It’s what it feels like to stop protecting yourself. Most of the time, it doesn’t mean you’ve done something wrong. It means you’ve done something unfamiliar.

While I was busy monitoring how I was coming across, I wasn’t really at the party. I was standing slightly outside it, watching myself. Once I let that go, I was there.

Leadership asks for something similar.

The energy that goes into managing how you’re perceived has to come from somewhere. Usually it comes at the cost of being fully present, and of giving your full attention to the conversation, the decision or the people in front of you. You can’t be fully there while you’re still protecting yourself.

Comfort came second

That weekend involved two decisions.

The first was going at all.

The second was letting go once I was on the dance floor.

Neither one waited for me to feel comfortable. In both cases the decision came first, and the comfort followed.

AI could help me choose the outfit. A friend could talk me onto the dance floor. Neither could make those decisions for me.

So where are you still standing at the edge of the dance floor, waiting to feel comfortable first?

Sometimes the feeling that you’ve gone too far is simply the feeling of being seen.