When You Feel Too Small to Matter

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(A reflection for the What Matters series)

There are times when the world feels like it’s shifting too fast to steady, when institutions we trusted seem fragile, and good people wonder if anything they do still matters.

It’s easy to feel powerless. You can vote, write, speak, reach out, and still watch the world tilt toward noise, anger, or indifference. You tell yourself: “I’m just one person.”

But that single sentence, I’m just one person, has never told the whole story.

Change rarely begins with power; it begins with conscience. Every conversation grounded in honesty, every act of restraint when others react, every sentence that clarifies rather than inflames, those are the small hinges that move history, even if they don’t make headlines.

You don’t have to fix everything. You just have to remain the kind of person who still believes clarity, kindness, and truth are worth defending, not through shouting, but through example.

Our influence isn’t always visible, but it’s cumulative.
The quiet work of integrity spreads in ways the loudest voices never see.

So write. Speak. Listen. Hold to your values even when you doubt their reach. Because in a world that feels out of control, how we act and communicate may be the only kind of control that truly matters.

“Rommel, You Magnificent Bastard: Why Words Reveal Strategy”

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“Rommel, You Magnificent Bastard: Why Words Reveal Strategy”

“Rommel, you magnificent bastard! I read your book!” — General George S. Patton Jr.

General Patton’s famous quip is more than military bravado. It’s a sharp reminder that words reveal strategy. Every speech, book, or article tells the world how you think. Sometimes that works in your favor; other times, it arms your competition.

The truth is, what we say and write always gives us away. Our patterns, priorities, and blind spots leak through. For leaders, professionals, and entrepreneurs, that’s both a risk and an opportunity.

The Risk: Giving Away Your Playbook

When you publish an article, launch a book, or share your story, you aren’t just building your brand—you’re handing others a glimpse into your strategy. Competitors may notice your focus areas. Colleagues might catch weaknesses you didn’t intend to show. Even silence on certain topics tells a story.

That doesn’t mean you should stop writing or speaking. It means you need to be intentional. Decide what message strengthens your credibility and what details should stay behind the curtain.

The Opportunity: Reading Between the Lines

Patton’s edge wasn’t just in reading Rommel’s book—it was in learning how his opponent thought. You can do the same in business and life.

• Read your competition’s work. Their blogs, reports, and talks show you where their energy is going.

• Notice what’s missing. Absences often reveal as much as statements.

• Study their framing. How someone tells their story says a lot about their priorities and fears.

This isn’t about copying. It’s about awareness. When you know why others say what they say, you’re better positioned to anticipate, respond, and lead.

The Magnificent Bastard Mindset

In literature, the “magnificent bastard” archetype is the character who is always one step ahead—clever, strategic, and impossible to outmaneuver. Patton’s quote suggests we can all learn from that mindset. Not by being manipulative, but by staying informed, thinking critically, and preparing before others do.

The Takeaway

Every word you share is a signal. Every word your competition shares is a clue. Use both wisely.

Patton’s lesson is as relevant in boardrooms and LinkedIn feeds as it was on the battlefield: knowledge isn’t just power—it’s positioning.

Question for Readers: How do you “read between the lines” in your industry? Do you actively study your competition—or let them study you?

Words Are More Than Just Words: Why How We Say It Still Matters →

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Two people can say the same thing, but only one of them is heard. I’ve seen it happen in conversations, meetings, interviews—even in the quiet moments between friends. Someone speaks clearly, and yet the message doesn’t land. Meanwhile, another person uses almost the same words, and suddenly the room shifts. There’s understanding. There’s a connection.

What changed? Not the facts. The difference was in the language.

Words aren’t neutral. They’re not just carriers of data. They carry tone, emotion, intention—and history. Even the simplest phrase comes wrapped in personal experience, shaped by culture and context.

That’s why I believe terminology isn’t just about technical accuracy—it’s about how we connect. It’s not academic. It’s human.

Take a look at the difference between these two questions:

“Can I help you?”
“How can I support you?”

Or these two responses:

“I don’t care.”
“It’s up to you.”

Same surface-level meaning. Totally different emotional effect. One leaves room for agency. The other shuts it down.

We often underestimate how much power these subtle shifts in language hold—not just to express ourselves, but to shape how others feel, respond, and remember what we said.

In relationships, this matters deeply. I’ve had conversations where miscommunication didn’t come from disagreement—it came from different interpretations of the same words. Tone wasn’t the issue. It was terminology.

It turns out that how we speak to others is often how we make space for them. It’s how we say: I see you. I want to understand.

Professionally, the impact is just as real. The way we describe ourselves on LinkedIn, in a résumé, or in a job interview doesn’t just reflect our skills—it signals how we think, what we value, and how clearly we can communicate.

A poorly chosen phrase can diminish a strength. A well-placed word can reframe a whole story.

In a world where attention is fragmented and conversations happen fast, it’s easy to reach for what’s familiar. But slowing down—to think about not just what we’re saying, but how we’re saying it—is a small act of care.

Care for the listener. Care for the relationship. And care for the story we’re telling about who we are.

Because when we speak more intentionally, we’re not just choosing better words.
We’re choosing to be seen.
We’re choosing to be understood.
We’re choosing to connect.

And that still matters.

If this reflection resonates with you, I explore more of these ideas in my book, Terminology Is More Than Words—but this stands on its own as a simple reminder: language isn't just a tool. It’s a bridge.

The Truth in Nonfiction Isn’t Always the Same: On Meaning, Perspective, and Why Communication Still Matters →

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We often treat nonfiction as the realm of clarity—facts, truths, lessons. But even in the most well-intentioned writing, something curious happens: each reader walks away with something slightly different. The same sentence might inspire one person and confuse another. A personal story might feel universal to some, but irrelevant to others.

That’s not because the writer failed.

It’s because understanding isn’t fixed. Meaning is shaped by the reader’s own experiences, assumptions, and readiness to receive it. No two people truly read the same book. Even when the words are identical, the interpretation lives in a different place.

This is what makes human communication both fragile and deeply beautiful.

We’re not just sharing information—we’re shaping connection. The power of words isn’t in how precisely they land, but in how honestly they invite others in.

I write books and reflections that try to be helpful. But I know that what someone finds in them might not be what I intended. And that’s okay. Sometimes the value lies in the conversation a sentence sparks, not the sentence itself.

So the next time you find yourself wondering whether what you wrote, said, or shared was understood exactly as you meant it—pause. The fact that it reached someone, and they made meaning of it, is a kind of success we don’t always name.

That’s the quiet miracle of communication: it may not always be exact, but it’s still connection.

The Fragile Beauty of Being Understood →

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Why Meaning Isn’t Fixed—and Why That’s What Makes Communication Human

We often speak as if communication is simple: say what you mean, and others will understand.

But the truth is more complex—and more human.

Even in nonfiction, no two people read the same sentence the same way. Experience, emotion, and perspective shape how meaning is received. That’s not a flaw in communication—that’s the beauty of it.

It means that understanding isn’t fixed. The words you speak or write may be clear in your mind, but they’re interpreted through someone else’s lens—through their story, their mood, their readiness to receive.

And that’s what makes human communication both fragile and deeply beautiful.

Because when someone does understand you—when your words, shaped by your experience, are received by someone else in a way that moves them—that’s not just communication. That’s connection.

It reminds us that words are not just tools; they’re bridges.
That listening isn’t passive; it’s an act of empathy.
That saying something well doesn’t guarantee being understood—but saying it honestly increases the chance you will be.

This doesn’t mean we should stop trying to be clear. It means we should try to be present.
To listen as well as we speak.
To ask, not just “Did I say it right?”—but “Did they hear it the way I meant?”

We don’t need perfect understanding to feel understood.
Sometimes, we just need the effort.
And that, too, is what makes communication matter.