In the nurse's room at our GP, my middle daughter watched both her sisters have their COVID vaccines without a tear. Then it was her turn, and she was terrified.
Her big sister had been working on her since the waiting room. She told her it wouldn't hurt. It hadn't hurt her. It felt like a scratch, she said, and it was over in seconds. And afterwards, there'd be a Chupa Chup!
It was a kind thing to do. Most of it was even true.
💡 ONE IDEA WELL
None of it helped.
Children read the small print. Nobody gets a Chupa Chup for something that doesn't hurt. The promise of a reward told her exactly what the reassurance was trying to hide.
She cried anyway. Her big sister stroked her hair, and I got frustrated. I wanted her to suck it up like the other two. That says more about me than it does about her.
The nurse got on with it, and by then the tears were so big I doubt she felt the needle at all.
Afterwards she had her lolly, and nobody said, "See, that didn't hurt."
🧰 LESS MESS, MORE MESSAGE
Her sister loved her, and watching someone you love be frightened is hard. "It won't hurt" was the fastest way to make that feeling stop.
That's who the little lies are for. They protect the person telling them from an uncomfortable truth. The truth in that room was that it would hurt for a second and none of us could change that. My impatience came from the same place.
Speakers do this all the time. "I'll be brief" protects us from the truth that we're about to take twenty minutes of someone's day. "Bear with me" protects us from admitting something has gone wrong. And like the Chupa Chup, the reassurance gives the game away. Nobody who is going to be brief needs to say so.
The audience pays twice. Once when the promise breaks, and again the next time you tell them something true, because by then they've learned your reassurances don't mean much.
⌨️ TRY THIS
First, a translation guide. Here's what the room hears:
"I'll be brief." Settle in.
"I won't keep you long." I will keep you exactly as long as I was always going to, and I'm already apologising for it.
"I'm sorry for this busy slide." Not sorry enough to fix it.
"You probably can't read this, but…" I knew you couldn't read it when I made it, and I left it in anyway.
"I'll come back to that." I won't.
"Bear with me." Something has gone wrong, and I'd like you to share responsibility for it.
"I'm not really a public speaker." Please lower your expectations so I can't fail them.
"I'll take questions at the end." There will be no time left at the end.
"Great question." I need four seconds to think.
"In summary…" We are roughly halfway through.
The fix isn't to stop reassuring people. It's to make the reassurance true. "It'll hurt, but only for a second" works because it names the hard part and puts a limit on it. The lectern versions sound like this:
"This will take twenty minutes, and the last five are for your questions."
"The video's broken. Give me thirty seconds."
"This slide is busy. Look at the bottom row and ignore the rest."
Then do what her sister did once the words ran out. Stay with them.
🧭 ASK YOURSELF THIS
Who is your reassurance for?
Forward this to someone who opens every talk by apologising for it.
Speak soon, Andy
PS. My middle daughter is twelve now and unbothered by needles. I'd love to take the credit. The honest answer is that she grew up, and the boosters stopped.
