The title is blunt, I know. But some convictions, before they become a reasoned argument, begin like this: as a sentence that helps us keep hold of the point. Mine is this: if I walk into a room to ask for a pay rise, I don’t want to walk out convinced I’ve got it just because someone has made me feel important.
The pay rise is an example. It could be a promise to keep, a responsibility to share, a problem to solve. The point isn’t to expect other people always to say yes to me. It’s to make sure that, during the conversation, the reason I came in isn’t replaced by something more pleasant to hear and much less useful to take home.
First the compliment, then the ‘however’
There’s a way of disagreeing that makes me wary. It begins with praise for the other person’s idea, recognition of their intelligence, approval of the sensitivity with which they’ve raised the problem. Then comes the word that changes everything: ‘However…’ From that moment on, what sounded like agreement turns out to have been the preparation for a refusal. The person speaking to me may have a goal of their own: getting me to accept a decision, avoiding conflict or closing the matter without conceding anything. And they may choose their words with that outcome in mind.
I imagine an answer along these lines: ‘You’re absolutely right to ask for recognition. You’re a valuable member of the team, and your contribution is essential. However, this isn’t the right time.’ By the end, I may have received plenty of reassurance about my worth and no favourable answer to my request. If I don’t keep those two things separate, I risk saying thank you for a result that never happened.
I don’t think every compliment before an objection is insincere. Saying something difficult with respect can be a way of showing consideration. Courtesy becomes a problem when it serves to make me lower my guard, or when I’m expected to give up my right to press the point once I’ve been praised. It isn’t the ‘however’ that deceives me: it’s the possibility that praise is being used to buy my silence.
Being appreciated is not getting what you asked for
Perhaps part of the power of this kind of talk lies in the fact that we all want to be valued. Being told ‘we care about you’ can feel good. There’s nothing foolish about taking pleasure in a kind word. The risk comes when that pleasure takes the place of what we asked for.
If I’ve asked for a pay rise, appreciation isn’t the pay rise. If I’ve asked for a hand, gratitude isn’t that helping hand. If I’ve asked for someone’s behaviour to change, being told I’m a special person doesn’t mean the behaviour has changed. Words can accompany an action, explain a difficulty, open up a possibility. On their own, they don’t automatically make that action happen.
So I can reply sincerely: ‘Thank you. I’m glad to hear that. But my question still stands.’ That isn’t rude. It’s an attempt to hold on to two truths at once: I’ve received a compliment, and I haven’t yet got what I was asking for. I don’t have to erase the second to prove I appreciated the first.
Deciding beforehand what matters
That wariness led to my own small defence: going into the conversation knowing what I want to achieve. Not just ‘I hope it goes well’, because a conversation can go beautifully as a conversation and terribly in terms of its purpose. I want to know what, at the end, will allow me to say: we’ve taken a concrete step forward.
With a pay rise, that means being clear about my request and knowing which alternatives I would actually consider. Not to play a part, but to avoid inventing a more convenient measure of satisfaction afterwards. If a clear answer mattered to me before I went in, I don’t want to decide on my way out that being called indispensable was enough. If I’ve decided that a refusal will leave me unhappy, praise mustn’t make me count it as a success.
Before I listen to how they put it, I want to remember what I went there to ask for. That’s the secret weapon, if we want to call it that. Not a trick cleverer than theirs, but a point of reference I chose before I was caught up in the atmosphere of the meeting.
I may also discover a solution different from the one I had imagined. But I’d like to recognise it by what it actually changes, not by the enthusiasm with which it is presented. A worthwhile alternative meets at least part of the original need. A distraction simply invites me to forget it.
A well-worded no is still a no
Explanations matter. They can make a refusal understandable, respectful, even reasonable. But understanding why something can’t be done isn’t the same as seeing it done. I can acknowledge that the other person has treated me fairly and still be disappointed by the outcome: there’s no contradiction.
Then there are answers that are neither yes nor no: ‘We’ll see’, ‘we’ll talk about it again’, ‘hang in there’. They aren’t necessarily lies, but they aren’t firm commitments yet. If a date is proposed, if the conditions are made clear, if we know what will happen next, I can assess a way forward. If everything stays vague, I need to be honest enough to call it what it still is: waiting.
A good explanation can change my judgement of a refusal. On its own, it doesn’t turn that refusal into a result. It’s a simple distinction, yet for me it is crucial. It lets me listen without having to turn every civil conversation into a victory.
Being firm doesn’t mean refusing to listen
My rule has a limit that I think matters: knowing what I want doesn’t mean I already know everything. I may have misjudged the situation. Information I didn’t have may emerge, or consequences I hadn’t considered. If I weren’t willing to acknowledge them, I wouldn’t be protecting myself from persuasion: I would be closing myself off to reason.
That’s why I don’t want to confuse changing my mind with being taken for a ride. There’s a difference between revising a request because I’ve understood something and abandoning it because someone has showered me with compliments. In the first case, I could explain what I’d learnt. In the second, perhaps all I could say is that the other person was very persuasive.
And I don’t want to assume bad intentions whenever someone doesn’t give me what I want. A no doesn’t prove deceit, just as a gentle tone doesn’t prove sincerity. I prefer to look at whether the conversation really addresses the question, whether the facts match the words, whether there’s room for me to disagree as well. Distrusting everyone would make me less free, not more clear-headed.
I don’t have to leave happy
So when I say ‘I’m leaving pissed off’, I’m not thinking of a slammed door, an insult or a scene. I’m thinking of the right not to say I’m satisfied when I’m not. I can say goodbye politely and leave feeling annoyed. I can thank someone for their time and say that, as far as I’m concerned, the matter remains open.
But my anger isn’t proof that I’m right either. It tells me that something mattered to me; then it’s up to me to work out what to do with it. I can reflect, return to the discussion, consider other possibilities. I shouldn’t use it to punish the person in front of me, but nor should I hide it from myself just to give them a more comfortable ending.
I’m under no obligation to leave happy, and I’m under no obligation to nurse a grievance either. What matters to me is leaving with a clear understanding of how things actually went. If I didn’t get the pay rise, I didn’t get it. Perhaps I understood why; perhaps I agreed on a next step. Those things deserve consideration, each for what it is, without muddling them together so we can all feel better about ourselves.
What I would like to leave my children
My children, learn to speak well, but don’t let other people’s way with words make you forget what matters to you. Listen carefully even to those who disagree with you. Not every objection is an attack, and not every kind person is trying to use you. I wish you discernment, not constant suspicion.
Before an important discussion, ask yourselves what you’re asking for and why. Having a line ready isn’t enough: you need to understand the need beneath it. That way, you can recognise a different solution if it’s a good one, without accepting a stroke to your ego as a solution.
Don’t be embarrassed to bring the conversation back to the point. You can say: ‘I understand what you’re explaining. But what can we do about my request?’ You can be firm without being aggressive, grateful without giving in, open to discussion without handing the other person the job of deciding how you ought to feel as well.
I’d like all three of you to know how to receive a no without losing your dignity, and a compliment without losing your clarity. If you realise you’re wrong, correct yourselves. If you still have a point worth defending, don’t bury it beneath the desire to be liked. Being reasonable doesn’t mean you have to make every encounter satisfying for the person in front of you.
The pay rise may never come. What I wouldn’t want to give up is the freedom to recognise that it hasn’t. That is the thought, beneath the slightly angry title, that I’d like to leave you with: don’t ask words to lie about the facts, even when those words make you feel good.
Papy