🎙️ Weekly Insight #41: The Quiet Power of Giving the Benefit of the Doubt

A lesson from teaching—and from the detective's chair

Early in my teaching career, I worked with a senior lecturer who wasn’t tenured but had a steady, thoughtful way about her. One day, in a conversation that didn’t feel particularly momentous at the time, she said something I’ve remembered ever since:

“Give students the benefit of the doubt—every time you can.”

She wasn’t saying to ignore problems. She just believed that trust should be the starting point. That idea shaped how I approached not only teaching, but also conversations, feedback, and the way I listen to people when they speak.

Over the years, I noticed how often the opposite happened. Behind closed doors, some students were quietly labeled. Sometimes based on a single mistake. Sometimes for not fitting the mold. Publicly, we talked about inclusion. But in private conversations, you could hear who had already been written off.

The contradiction wasn’t theoretical. It showed up in how voices were treated—what was heard and what was dismissed.

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The Stoic Thread: Understanding Before Judgment
Epictetus offers this reflection:

“If someone is mistaken, instruct them kindly and show them their error. If you can’t, blame yourself—or not even that.”
(Enchiridion 42)

It’s direct, but not rigid. It puts the responsibility on the speaker—not to dominate or correct, but to engage with care. And when care isn’t possible, the next move isn’t judgment. It’s restraint.

This reminds me of a coaching I had when I was a young apprentice artist at Lyric Opera of Chicago. I was working with the head chorus master on two arias—Provenza il mar from La Traviata and Largo al factotum from The Barber of Seville. At one point, we were going over a passage, and it was clear I wasn’t quite grasping what he was asking for.

In most settings like that, the usual response would be to keep repeating it until it matched the expectation—until you got the approving nod.
But instead of pushing me through rote repetition, he paused and said:

“Clearly you’re intelligent. If you’re not getting this, then I need to find a better way to explain it.”

There was no edge to it. No frustration. He didn’t assume I was being difficult or slow. He assumed it was his job to reframe what he was saying so I could meet him there.

That moment helped reshape how I understand communication—especially in situations where someone doesn’t respond the way we expect.
It’s not about lowering the bar. It’s about taking responsibility for clarity.
And clarity, when it comes to voice, changes everything.

Another line from Epictetus comes to mind:

“When someone does wrong, immediately ask yourself: ‘What mistake of mine most resembles this one?’”
(Discourses 1.6)

It doesn’t mean we excuse harm. It just asks us to remember we’ve all been there, in some way. And if we’re honest, that awareness can shape how we respond—with more calm, more care, and less performance.

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What This Has to Do with Voice
Recently, I was part of a role-playing session where I was asked to play a detective.
Each person in the room had a character to portray. It was meant to be lighthearted, but what struck me was how quickly people were reduced to their assigned roles.
Assumptions were made based on how people looked, how they spoke, or what their titles suggested.

And even though we were just playing, you could feel people adjusting their voices. Some exaggerated to be heard. Others held back. A few got quiet altogether.

It reminded me of those faculty meetings. It reminded me of classrooms. And it reminded me how easily people change their voice—not because they’re trying to deceive anyone, but because they don’t feel fully seen.

That’s not just a performance issue. That’s a human issue.

And no, it’s not about being soft-spoken.
It’s not about extroversion or introversion either.
It’s about being clear—and deliberate—with your thoughts, your breath, and your presence.

In every setting—teaching, coaching, performance, or business—the voice reflects how we’re received.

Grace gives the voice space to come forward. That grace has to be modeled.

And it includes what Epictetus suggests: "forgive others over and over again, and then forgive yourself, too."

He reminds us that improvement is never linear. It's often two steps forward, one step back. If we expect perfection from others—or from ourselves—we tighten the space in which voice can emerge. The tension rises. And people speak less, not more.

That’s something I’ve had to learn as a teacher.
There were moments when I thought, I’ve said this clearly—why don’t they get it?
But what does frustration offer in that moment?
It certainly doesn’t lead to more clarity. And it rarely builds trust.

Epictetus says when someone doesn’t act the way you wish they would, you can “exercise the muscles of your good nature” by simply shrugging your shoulders and saying, Oh well.

Then let the moment go.

That doesn’t mean you never revisit the issue.
It just means you don’t carry it around like a brick.
You don’t speak from the weight of your disappointment.

That’s what my former colleague understood so well. She wasn’t naïve. She just knew that most of us are doing the best we can in that moment. And that teaching—and leading—with that in mind makes room for the kind of voice that isn't defensive or afraid.

It makes room for learning, for listening and for growth.

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Try This
Before your next conversation, pause and ask:

“What would it sound like if I gave this person the benefit of the doubt?”
“What would shift if I gave myself that same grace?”

You may find the answer not in what you say, but in how you listen—and how your voice responds when you do.