Some time ago, in a cross-functional project setting, I found myself working closely with someone whose values, pace and approach differed radically from mine. At first, it seemed like a promising opportunity for complementary collaboration. But over time, subtle cues and feedback began to accumulate, signalling quietly: You need to adjust who you are to belong here.
I’m naturally assertive, quick to make decisions, process-driven, and proactive. I don’t like fluff. I value clarity, structure, and efficiency. I set and uphold boundaries, lead through service, and don’t shy away from uncomfortable truths. Over more than a decade supporting C-level executives, I’ve come to be known – fondly, repeatedly – for getting things done. Precision is my nature. Clear communication and a steady feedback loop are my norm. I seek systemic and sustainable solutions, and I take pride in the results.
My counterpart had a different professional profile. They often aligned with group consensus, valued emotional harmony over objective clarity, and avoided direct conflict. Their communication style was relational and adaptive, sometimes contributing before fully understanding the broader context. They did not typically take the initiative or operate in a leadership capacity, and structure did not appear to be a natural strength for them.
It’d not be the first time I worked with someone with a different perspective, and it was never a problem. In fact, diverse approaches are enriching, and I’ve always come away from such collaborations, having learned one or two valuable tricks. Mutual respect was always present, and the differences of the stakeholders were always utilised to enrich the outcome.
The challenge arose when the difference in styles shifted from coexistence to correction.
Over time, they began offering repeated suggestions and comments aimed at adjusting aspects of my behaviour that were the expressions of my natural working style:
“You should smile more” – offered in moments of focused concentration.
“Try to be more open-minded” – when I pointed out an uncomfortable truth.
“We’re all in this together” – when I refused to take on unrelated extra work.
These suggestions weren’t overtly hostile, but they were persistent. They carried the quiet implication that my way of working, despite being effective and professionally sound, needed softening or change.
Attempts to address this openly did not lead to meaningful change. Whether it was intentional or not remained unclear. The cumulative effect, however, was undeniable: I began to feel under pressure to alter my nature to maintain professional peace. Over time, the emotional toll began to take its toll: it drained me, resulting in a quiet fatigue that I couldn’t pin down at first. It slowly blurred the line between who I was and who I felt pressured to become.
And that is where the deeper issue lies.
Soft control, especially when delivered with politeness and good intentions, can be more difficult to confront than overt dysfunction. Because it’s not framed as conflict – it’s framed as care. When you try to resist or name it, you become the problem. The one who is too sensitive. Too defensive. Too difficult.
Inclusion has become a corporate value – one we reference in vision statements and team principles. But what does it look like in practice?
Inclusion means accepting different ways of being, not merely tolerating them but making room for them without expecting change. It means refraining from shaping others in our image, even when we believe we’re doing so for their benefit.
Having more seniority, being older, or holding strong interpersonal skills does not justify attempts to correct others into a preferred behavioural mould. Inclusion does not mean guiding people towards similarity. It means allowing differences to exist without challenge.
Even if no harm is intended, the impact of repeated corrective suggestions can be substantial.
At first, I internalised the discomfort, questioning whether I was too rigid or too direct. But over time, I began to see a different pattern emerging.
It took reflection and distance for me to understand that this wasn’t personal. It was a projection of their values, in the same way that – if I’m not mindful – I might also project mine. Recognising that helped me detach and recover clarity. And that clarity gave space for insight.
This experience served as a strong reminder of something we often overlook:
Our preferences shape our professional values and behavioural norms
We often try to nudge others into them
Inclusion and respect begin when we stop doing that
Diversity and inclusion aren’t passive ideals. They require active practice and constant review.
When was the last time you examined your habits?
Do you offer unsolicited advice framed as helpfulness?
Do you assume your way of working is the benchmark for others?
Do you accept differences even when they challenge your comfort or slow down your rhythm?
Do you listen to understand – or to correct?
Respect is not agreement. It’s not sameness. It’s not comfort.
It’s recognising the wholeness of the other, even when their way is not your way.
It’s letting people show up fully without feeling the need to change them.
It’s trusting that strength wears many forms – and that none need to be softened to be worthy of space.
Respect is not resemblance. Inclusion is a verb. And differences do not need permissions. Let’s practice respecting and including those around us the way they are – starting with ourselves.