The promotion meeting at AWS wasn’t just a meeting—it was a battlefield. The air was thick with tension as managers clashed, their voices rising over one another like swords crossing. Everyone was desperate to stake their claim, to prove their perspective was the right one, and to justify their choices. It wasn’t just about evaluating performance—it was about posturing, about who could control the room and leave their mark.

I sat back in my chair, still, while the noise raged around me. It wasn’t time yet. My mind wasn’t on the arguments themselves but on the dynamics beneath them. I wasn’t just hearing their words—I was mapping the room. Watching who leaned in, whose gaze flickered with unease, whose crossed arms spoke louder than their voice. It wasn’t chaos to me. It was a system, and I could see every moving part.

Meanwhile, my manager’s instant messages lit up my laptop screen like a flashing “GO” sign at a drag race. “Speak up!” he typed again. “Say something!” He was panicking, caught in the noise, convinced that jumping in and adding to the mess would somehow make a difference. I didn’t reply right away. I could already hear his voice in my head: ‘You need to make yourself heard.’ But here’s the thing—being heard isn’t about volume. It’s about timing. So I replied, simple and steady: “I will when I have something to say.”

That moment came when the conversation turned to one of my employees. Someone brought up their lack of a degree, and the room shifted. The tone sharpened, no longer about potential or performance but about what the employee didn’t have. I could see it happening—the way they were boxing this person out, reducing them to a single bullet point on their resume. “No degree, no promotion,” someone said. It was clear they weren’t debating anymore—they were deciding. The argument wasn’t even about my employee now. It was about reinforcing their own worldview.

The noise was rising again, circling the same tired points, but I waited. Timing is everything, and if I’d jumped in too early, my words would’ve been swallowed by the chaos. I let them talk, let the certainty build until it reached its peak. And then, just as the momentum hit its highest point, I spoke.

“I understand that degrees are important in technical fields,” I said, my voice calm but deliberate, cutting cleanly through the noise. Heads turned. Some managers leaned back in their chairs, surprised by the sudden shift in tone. “But we’re not in a technical role, and a degree isn’t a requirement here. What matters is performance, and this employee has consistently delivered.”

The silence that followed wasn’t relief—it was tension, thick and palpable. I wasn’t done. “In my experience,” I continued, “the strongest push for degrees often comes from those who value them as validation for themselves.” I let that hang in the air for a moment before finishing: “For those who don’t know, I don’t have a degree either. And yet, here I am.”

The room went still. No one challenged me. No one could. The fight drained out of the conversation, and the discussion shifted back to what actually mattered: the employee’s performance. Both of my employees were promoted.

But that moment wasn’t just about the promotions—it was about everything that led me there. Growing up, I didn’t have the luxury of speaking freely or without consequence. Words weren’t just communication—they were a lifeline. Saying the wrong thing could make everything worse. I learned to listen, to watch, to pick up on the things people didn’t say. I didn’t talk unless I was sure my words would help, not hurt. What started as survival became strategy. I wasn’t just listening to what was happening—I was piecing together why it was happening. And over time, I learned how to step in when the moment was right and redirect everything with a single sentence.

It’s the same instinct I use every day. Like the time I noticed one of my team members wasn’t themselves. Their words were short, their energy distracted. I didn’t need them to explain—I could feel the weight they were carrying before they said a word. Instead of pushing them or brushing it off, I asked, “Are you okay? You don’t seem like yourself today.” And I told them why I was asking: “I want to make sure you’re good.” It wasn’t about fixing their problem. It was about showing them I saw it. That shift in energy made all the difference—not just in the work but in the trust we built.

It’s not just about work, though. I’ve been in personal relationships where words were wielded like weapons, sharp and deliberate, designed to cut. And I’ve been tempted to throw those same weapons back. But I’ve learned there’s more power in stepping back, pausing, and choosing my words with intention. Sometimes that means setting a boundary; sometimes it means saying nothing at all. It’s not about letting things go—it’s about shifting the dynamic without feeding into it.

Words are subtle, but they’re never small. They don’t shout or demand—they shift. They steady the room, crack open what’s stuck, and remind people that the moment belongs to everyone in it. For me, it’s not about speaking first or loudest. It’s about stepping in when the weight of what’s unsaid is ready to be carried. The magic isn’t in the words—it’s in what they leave behind: the calm, the clarity, the space for something to change. That’s where everything moves.