The Room Kept Trying To Be Warm

For years, everyone had been kind. Nobody had told him the truth.

The air smelled chemical. The chairs were designed for standing. Sitting reminded your spine you’re doing something wrong. Seriously, if you design chairs like this, at least sit in them once. Whiteboards on the walls. People had forgotten to erase their discussions. Decisions taken, decisions dried up.

The sun came in low, it was late afternoon. Late winter. The light rays illuminated the modern furniture. Picked their spotlight. It was on Malik today. A column of light painting his left side orange. I was sitting in the shadows. I wanted to stand up. I didn’t.

“The only reason I didn’t get the job is that I’m black.”

I stopped. Whatever I did right then. The room felt hotter suddenly. I wasn’t sure what to say. How to react at all.

He’d just accused a colleague of mine of racism. He went on to explain that this was why Lisa got the architect role. He just blurted it out like it was the most normal thing to say. As if I’d casually talk to him about that and respond.

Lisa got the job because she was clever. Not just clever. Insanely pro-active in finding technical solutions no one else thought about. Implementing the most complex solutions during a long evening. She’d happily take support and work with the team. The support she didn’t need herself. Communicating tech stuff to tech and non-tech people equally easy. Not just working with different teams, directing and helping all the time. Deeply respected by half of the company.

Did Malik seriously expect me to nod along to an accusation that severe against someone I knew well? To sympathize with him. I was furious. My face got stuck, went cold. Despite the hot room. The seconds ticking by, my brain turning, trying to rein myself in, preventing me from saying things I wouldn’t be able to take back. The warmth drained out of the room. Beneath my fury.

I’d been his manager for a few months by then. I came in quiet, as always. Watching, observing. Asking, every now and then. Finding the buried bodies. The deep and not-yet-cold ones. And Malik talked. God, Malik talked. More than anyone I’ve ever managed, before or since. Thirty minutes straight, often enough in our one-on-ones. Especially about private stuff. His childhood and his father and his father’s expectations. Fights, love, court. All parts of the stories. I knew more about Malik than I knew about some of my actual friends and I hadn’t asked for any of it. I didn’t even want to know these things. I just let him fill the silence. He liked filling the silence. Talking about himself. I let him. Maybe that was the source of his trust in me.

He was emotional. Deeply emotional. Not in a way of passionate LinkedIn posts about a new job. He felt things at full volume. When he was happy everyone felt it, I saw it happen. Every now and then. When he was frustrated everyone in earshot carried some of that home. He was good at his job too. Solid, delivered what he promised. Good enough to have, not good enough to miss though.

Still, there were other small things I had been observing in the few months I had taken over the team. They, the team, some of them were subtly avoiding him. Not aggressively. Or open. Not unfriendly. They ditched a conversation here and there though. They smiled, nodded, and then talked about something else.

And his previous managers, boy. They’d all told him he was doing great. Even one manager I personally respected very much and had learned tons from. Still, every single review. All of them, stretching back years. “Great employee”. “Strong technical skills”. “Good team player.” They’d wrapped him in warmth his whole career. Warmth that feels like caring but functions like neglect.

Yes, I know. That sentence sounds overly architected for the sole purpose of being used as a fancy Substack notes quote later. Still, I will argue it’s one of the truest things about management I have ever written.

Malik was so fundamentally wrong about Lisa. Which wasn’t even the point. The point was him being so fundamentally wrong about himself.

“I’m only going to say this once.” My voice came out surprisingly steady. Despite the fury. Let such an accusation sit unchallenged and it takes root. This whole thing was suddenly such a mess. And I was right in the middle of it.

“Your accusations are wrong. Completely unfounded. There is no place for racism in this team or any other team in the company. I will not have you throw around that stuff carelessly. There’s serious damage in these words.”

Surprise. His face. He’d probably been expecting sympathy and comfort. Warmth. The practiced, professional nod that commits to nothing. He didn’t expect me to be that clear, that cold.

“Then why? Why did Lisa get it?”

“Did you apply?”

“No. But neither did Lisa. They asked her. She told me.”

“Do you think you’re ready to be an architect?”

“Yes. All my previous managers told me I’m a great developer. I also did a specific course on software architecture last year and finished it with high grades.”

“I have a different opinion.” I leaned back. “You’re solid. You’re fine.” I let silence do its work. Fine. That word has probably cost people more years of their lives than any other word. “But you’re not outstanding. You’re a good intermediate developer. Not even a senior yet. You are not capable of handling complex features on your own. The others need to help you. You are not teaching and mentoring your younger colleagues. They are not looking to you for technical guidance.”

“That’s not true. I can show you—”

“I don’t know what your previous managers told you. But I think they took the easy way out.”

I waited. The ventilation system being the only thing to fill the quiet. “There’s another problem though. One that’s way more severe. The way you work with your team.”

He stared at me.

“Many team members are avoiding you. They only talk to you if they must. Some feel like you’ve backstabbed them. They say you care more about being right than the team’s success.”

“No.” He was quiet, very quiet. The ventilation though. “That can’t be.”

I said nothing.

He asked who said it. Which team members. He wanted names. He told me he couldn’t really believe it. The thought had never crossed his mind before. The warmth was too thick.

“Have you ever, like really, asked them what they actually think?”

“They’re happy working with me. We talk.”

“Are you sure your relationship with all of them is that good? That they’d really tell you?”

No answer.

“Go talk to them. Like, actually really talk to them. Ask them individually if they avoid you. Tell them you’d rather hear the truth. Tell them you won’t be angry or get into fighting mode.”

Nearly two months later, same room, slightly less chemical smell. The sun wasn’t as low, the shadows smaller. I was still hiding in them. Not only observing anymore. I didn’t see any hurt on Malik’s face. Nor any hint of rage. Not broken. I hadn’t in the last couple of weeks. I’d been worried I might have broken him, in the beginning. He told me he had sent out an anonymous survey to everyone on the team asking for honesty. He promised, and actually meant it, there’d be no consequences. This mattered. Maybe not to them. But to me. I believed him. After the survey, he talked to them one by one. He listened and he didn’t defend himself. He just took it. Well, that’s at least what he told me. So, probably semi-true.

He showed me the results on his laptop. The screen a rectangle of reflection in the orange light of the room. I heard him though. He read them to me. His colleagues said good things. Real things, not corporate things. How motivated he was. How much he cared. How he always got his things done on time. Reliably. That was all true, as true as things can be. I’d seen them myself.

They’d also said that working with him was annoying sometimes. That he created confusion, blocked things for reasons nobody understood. They named two occasions in which they felt like he seriously backstabbed them. Where he made the team look very bad in front of our stakeholders. When being right was more important to him than the team.

He showed me every sentence that I couldn’t read in the reflecting sunlight. He wasn’t embarrassed anymore. He was rather excited. It took him some time. First, back when I told him, I had noticed sadness. A lot of sadness. In the days following. But there was definitely excitement now.

“You see this? They never told me before.” He stopped. Looked at me.

He told me he was trying to improve. I believed him. He talked about concrete things, not intentions. Checking in with others before review meetings instead of after. Asking whether something was a team priority before he decided to get on with his own stuff. Having the team tell him when he was getting them off-track or delaying things again. Ensuring he spoke the same language as his team when talking to stakeholders.

He sat there and looked at me. Expectantly. Again, there was surprise. Genuine surprise. On my face. I had feared I might have broken him. Or at least whatever relationship we had started to have. I had feared him going batshit crazy defense mode. But no. So I told him I’d be there. To help. To give further feedback. To guide. To praise if earned. “You did really well. What you did takes guts. To actually ask your colleagues. And listen. Respect.”

Another few weeks later we had a retrospective online. That’s where software teams discuss what works and what doesn’t. It’s all about culture, quality, productivity, people, fights and takeaways.

Helen talked about a sticky she put up about meeting efficiency. Her voice soft, me turning up the volume of my speakers.

“I’ve noticed that Malik isn’t asking as many off-topic technical questions anymore in our refinements. Less distraction. I like that.”

Malik’s face lit up on screen. He looked fucking delighted. I am still unsure whether I let him get off the hook too easily. When he made those accusations.

The room though. The room will always feel wrong to me. Too hot.