What Leaders Learn When They Can’t Speak

The first time I stepped into a grocery store in Prague, I realized I couldn’t speak a word that would be understood. The letters looked familiar, the products seemed ordinary—but the sounds, the rhythms, and the way people moved through the space felt completely unfamiliar. Everything looked familiar, yet I had lost what normally connects me with other people. I couldn’t even say “excuse me” as I tried to move through the aisles.

For the first week, nothing sounded recognizable. Running through the checkout line felt almost like stepping onto an alien planet—like Superman landing in Bizarro World. In that moment, I realized just how much I take language for granted, and how disorienting it can be when words fail. I was not just navigating a task—I was navigating the world without the tool I normally rely on to connect with others: speech.

One of the most striking aspects of traveling was experiencing these moments repeatedly. Not because I didn’t want to speak, but because I literally could not communicate in any meaningful way with the people around me when we shared no common language. Google Translate offered some help, but much was lost in translation, especially when I lacked the cultural knowledge to interpret certain interactions.

In Japan, we needed help with directions. A cabby kept asking me through Google Translate if I wanted to go back to my children. At first, I thought the app wasn’t working properly. After the fifth time, I realized this was his polite way of saying, “Lady, I’m unable to help you. Good luck and have a nice day.” He was visibly relieved when I finally stopped trying to communicate.

Even the simplest exchanges such as a casual "hi, how are you? or "have a nice day" were impossible in places like Southeast Asia. Not for lack of trying to learn the language. In Vietnamese, for example, one word can carry five entirely different meanings depending on tone. Even when I knew the right word, I had no idea how to inflect it correctly, and the risk of saying something unintended and inadvertently offending someone loomed large.

With words off-limits, my ears felt as if they stretched wider, straining to take in everything around me. I began noticing details I might otherwise have missed—gestures, body language, rhythms of interaction. It was as though new neural pathways were forming in real time, rewiring how I understood communication.

As I adjusted to these moments of enforced silence, I began to wonder: what would happen if coaches, leaders, teachers, or parents walked into a situation with the mindset that verbal communication wasn’t an option? How might it change the way they entered the room? Would they take more time to notice the atmosphere before speaking?

Would they pay closer attention to subtle cues—crossed arms, hesitant glances, small shifts in posture? Would they recalibrate their role, realizing that authority doesn’t always need to be asserted through words, but can emerge from presence, from how one listens, and from the energy they project? Would they stop thinking about what they wanted to say and instead focus on what the other person needed them to hear?

While wandering through markets in Tanzania, India, Vietnam, and Brazil, I discovered the answers firsthand. In a Tanzanian market, for example, I relied entirely on presence. Nodding, offering a soft gaze, smiling. People met my gestures with their own, reassuring me and inviting connection without a single word. It was a vivid reminder of how much listening and observing can teach, even when spoken language isn’t an option.

Photo caption: “Moving through a market in Tanzania, I had to rely entirely on observation, gestures, and presence to connect with the world around me.”

This shift has stayed with me. As a coach, leader, and parent, I often ask myself: am I listening to respond, or am I listening so the other person feels truly heard? The former centers my voice; the latter centers their need. And what people most need to hear is not always words—it’s the unmistakable sense that their story, their struggle, or their perspective has landed with someone who cares.

Perhaps that is the hidden gift of these moments: they don’t strip us of connection; they sharpen it. When spoken language isn’t an option, attention deepens. We begin to hear, see, and sense more fully—not only others, but ourselves.

In cultivating this awareness, we can enter rooms, conversations, and relationships with more patience, presence, and empathy. The practice of attentive presence, honed in these moments of silence, translates directly to leadership, coaching, teaching, and parenting. It reminds us that sometimes the most profound communication happens when we are quiet enough to truly notice.