When Feedback Isn’t Helpful (But Still Hits Hard)

A few weeks ago, I found myself in a situation that left me feeling deeply unsettled. It started with a message—simple, brief, and well-intentioned. A third party let me know that someone I had recently spoken with had “struggled with an aspect of our conversation.” That’s all the information they had. No further context. No details about what was said, what caused the struggle, or even what the impact had been.

Just a vague conversation.

And despite how little it offered, it sent me into a tailspin.

As someone who teaches, writes, and lives in the world of leadership, communication, and psychologically safe workplaces, that comment landed with a thud in the middle of my chest. My inner critic—got loud. What did I say? Did I hurt someone? Did I dominate the space without realizing it? Did I miss a cue, overlook discomfort, or fail to hold space the way I try so hard to?

Without information, my brain filled in the blanks. And, predictably, those blanks weren’t kind. The spiral began: self-doubt, shame, embarrassment, frustration. I pride myself on being intentional and present. I care deeply about how people experience me—especially in conversations that matter. And now I was wondering if I’d completely missed the mark.

To be clear, I don’t hold any ill feelings toward the person who brought this to me. They didn’t do anything wrong. They were passing along a concern in good faith, without judgment. But I was left with a dilemma that many of us—especially those in leadership—will face at some point:

What do you do with feedback that gives you nothing to work with?

In leadership and life, I've always thought of feedback as a gift. That it helps us see our blind spots, grow as individuals, and deepen our relationships. And most of the time, that’s true. When someone has the courage to tell us, “Hey, this didn’t land well,” and offers context, it opens a door to understanding, accountability, and repair. But sometimes, feedback is vague. General. Mysterious. Instead of being helpful, it can feel like an echo with no origin.

So now what?

First, I had to sit with it.

I won’t sugarcoat it. This shook me. Not because I was being accused of anything specific, but because the unknown gnawed at me. I value being someone who creates safe spaces, not just in theory, but in actual human interaction. And the thought that I might have done the opposite, without even realizing it, was painful.

I combed through the memory of the only two conversations I had with this individual, searching for anything that might explain the reaction. But it was like trying to read a sentence with half the words missing.

In the absence of clarity, I did the only thing I could: I reflected.

I sat with the discomfort, the not knowing, the desire to fix, and the realization that I couldn’t.

Then, I reminded myself: not all feedback is actionable.

This is something we rarely talk about. We assume all feedback should lead to change, or an apology, or a learning moment. But sometimes feedback is incomplete. Sometimes it's passed along second-hand, or it reflects something personal for the other person that isn’t ours to solve. Sometimes it’s about timing, emotion, or a completely unrelated experience that shaped how the conversation was received. None of that means we ignore the feedback. But it does mean we need to approach it with discernment.

In this case, I had no concrete behavior to reflect on, no context to make sense of, and no way to reach out without potentially breaching confidentiality or causing more harm. So I had to accept that I couldn’t do anything with it in the traditional sense.

Honestly, that was hard. As a leader, I like resolution. I like clarity. I like knowing where I stand and this experience reminded me: leadership isn’t always about resolution. Sometimes, it’s about sitting in ambiguity with grace.

So, I reframed it.

After the shame and self-doubt subsided, I asked myself: What can I take from this, even if I don’t know the details?

And this is what emerged: Maybe the learning isn’t about fixing. Maybe the learning is about deepening my intention moving forward.

Since then, I’ve started incorporating more check-in questions during conversations—especially the kind of conversations that carry weight.

Questions like:

• “Am I communicating in a way that makes you feel safe, heard, and valued?”

• “Is there anything I’ve said that didn’t land the way I meant it to?”

• “How are you feeling in this moment—do you feel comfortable sharing more?”

These aren’t magic words. They don’t prevent misunderstandings or discomfort. But they do something equally important: they create openings. They signal care, attentiveness, and a willingness to repair in real time. They remind people that I want to know—not just what they think, but how they feel and that it's safe to tell me that I messed up, that I will not become defensive but curious about their experience.

And perhaps most importantly, they remind me that leadership isn’t about being flawless. It’s about being in process. It’s about the way we respond when something stings, when we feel unsure, and when we don’t get the kind of closure we crave.

What I’ve learned is this:

Not all feedback requires immediate action. Sometimes the most powerful response is reflection and a subtle shift in awareness.

Clarity matters. If we want to help others grow, we need to be specific, kind, and direct in how we share impact.

Curiosity is our best tool. When we lead with curiosity—of ourselves and others—we create a culture where nuance and humanity are welcome.

Self-trust is essential. It’s easy to spiral when something feels off. But we can’t let uncertainty erode our confidence in who we are and how we lead. Check your patterns, listen to your gut, and give yourself the grace to keep learning.

So no, I may never know exactly what went wrong in those two conversations. But the experience gave me a chance to slow down, re-anchor in my values, and recommit to showing up with even more intention.

And that, I think, is a version of growth I can live with.