staceybooks

Today I spent the afternoon with my grandsons and my youngest bonus son, and like most days with kids, it turned into a masterclass in human behavior. We were playing outside when one of the boys kicked the ball a little too hard, sending it rolling across the road. Of course, my youngest grandson, determined to be the one who retrieved it, darted across without thinking twice.

Even though we live at the end of a dead end, his T (that’s what he calls his grandfather) immediately corrected him. We’re trying to teach them early that safety matters, even when danger feels far away. After the scolding, my grandson came running to me, tears welling up, declaring that his T was mean. Not because he didn’t understand why he got in trouble, but because being called out—especially in the moment—felt unfair.

And somehow, watching that little scene unfold reminded me of the workplace.

How often do we charge ahead in our careers without pausing to think about the consequences? We chase the ball. The goal. The next big opportunity. We want to be the one who grabs it first. We tell ourselves the road is clear. We’ve done this before. It’s just a small risk.

Then comes the moment someone calls us out. Maybe it’s a boss reminding us to slow down. A teammate who pushes back. Or a leader who tells us no. Suddenly, it feels personal. We feel misunderstood or targeted. So we go to our “safe” person at work—the coworker we vent to, the friend who always agrees with us—and we say, “They were mean to me.”

We don’t always say those exact words, but it’s there. The same instinct to shift the narrative, to protect our pride, to soften the sting of correction by turning it into an offense.

Just like my grandson, we sometimes forget that being corrected doesn’t mean we’re unloved. Or incapable. Or wrong forever. It just means someone saw us take a risk we weren’t ready for and cared enough to say something.

Workplaces would be a lot healthier if we all recognized the difference between being held accountable and being attacked. Just like childhood, our professional lives are full of lessons that only make sense after the tears dry and the emotions settle.

At the end of the day, T wasn’t being mean. He was being wise. And sometimes, the people who care enough to stop us are the ones who help us grow the most. Even when we don’t want to hear it.