Happy Tuesday,
I’ve been thinking a lot this week about how we carry ourselves. Not just how we show up professionally, or how we present in a meeting, teach a class, coach an agent, sit across from a client, record a podcast, or walk into a room where people are watching. I mean how we really carry ourselves.
How do we share what we know? How much do we talk? How much do we listen? How badly do we need the moment to land? How often do we jump in because we have a story, an example, a quote, or a connection we just know will make the point better?
And maybe sometimes it does.
But maybe sometimes it doesn’t.
Maybe sometimes the thing we thought was adding value was actually our anxiety trying to find a microphone.
That is uncomfortable to admit, but I think it is real. Presence is not confidence, at least not the way we usually define it.
Confidence is often mistaken for volume, quick answers, big energy, strong opinions, or the ability to hold the room. But overtalking is not confidence. A lot of times, overtalking is insecurity dressed up as certainty.
It is the internal need to prove we belong. To prove we understand. To prove we are smart enough, seasoned enough, successful enough, funny enough, thoughtful enough, or interesting enough to be in the room.
And the confusing part is that we can be completely grounded in one setting and unable to stop talking in another. We can walk into a conversation with the right intentions, then suddenly feel that pressure start building inside us.
Say something. Add something. Make the point. Tell the story. Land the line.
And before we know it, we are not serving the room anymore. We are trying to be seen by it.
That is where self-awareness gets real. Awareness is not just knowing, “I talk too much sometimes.” That is the easy part. The harder part is catching the moment before the words come out, feeling the anxiety rise, recognizing the urge to jump in, and choosing not to let that urge drive the conversation.
Awareness without discipline is just observation.
I’ve always been drawn to writing that moves. The kind of writing where a sentence has rhythm, where a conversation builds, where the right line at the right time can make a room feel different than it did a few seconds before. Maybe that comes from the movies I’ve watched, the shows I’ve loved, the books I’ve read, or the stories that stayed with me long after they were over.
Whatever the source, I know it has influenced how I write, how I teach, how I present, and how I think about impact.
I have never wanted these weekly articles to just be information. I want them to feel like something. I want someone to read them and think, “I know exactly what he means.” Or maybe, “I needed to hear that.” Or even, “I have done that too.”
That is the hope.
But that hope comes with a little danger, because when you care about impact, it is easy to start chasing the moment. The line. The ending. The pause. The mic drop. And before long, what started as a desire to connect can quietly become a desire to perform.
That is the fine line.
We all want the movie moment. Maybe we do not say it out loud, but it is there. We want the room to pause. We want the sentence to land. We want the person across from us to sit back and think differently because of something we said.
And there is nothing wrong with that. Impact matters.
In teaching, coaching, leading, selling, and serving, we are not just transferring information. We are trying to move people. We are trying to help them see something differently than they did before. But somewhere between impact and performance, things can get messy.
A story can create connection, but too many stories can quietly turn the conversation back toward us. Humor can make a room comfortable, but too much humor can make us the distraction. A quote can frame the lesson, but too many quotes can make it sound like we are trying to prove what we have consumed instead of showing what we understand. Passion can help people remember the message, but too much performance can make them remember the performer instead.
And that is where the real question comes in.
Is the real me still present underneath the version of me I think the room needs?
That one has been sitting with me.
There is the article side of me, the podcast side of me, the leadership side, the trainer and instructor side, and the person who wants the message to land, the room to feel something, and the takeaway to matter. I do not think those versions are fake. They are all real parts of me. But they are still parts.
The question is whether the core of me is still coming through, or whether I am managing perception so carefully that the realness gets edited out.
And I do not think I am alone in that.
We all have versions of ourselves. The version that shows up with clients. The version that teaches. The version that leads. The version that posts online. The version that walks into a room full of people we respect and quietly hopes we sound like we belong there.
Some of that is healthy. Some of that is emotional intelligence. Some of that is leadership. Some of that is simply knowing your audience. We should adjust to the room. We should read people. We should understand what the moment calls for.
But adaptability and performance are not the same thing.
Adaptability is healthy when it helps us serve the room. Performance takes over when it helps us protect our image.
That is the difference.
And in business, especially in real estate, people can feel that difference. Clients can feel when we are listening versus waiting to talk. Agents can feel when we are coaching versus trying to impress. Recruits can feel when we are curious versus when we are pitching. Teams can feel when leadership is grounded versus when leadership is trying too hard to look like leadership.
People may not always have the words for it, but they know.
They know when someone is present.
They know when someone is performing.
They know when someone is trying to help.
And they know when someone needs to be seen helping.
That matters because trust is not built only through knowledge. Trust is built through how we carry what we know.
Can we ask one better question instead of telling one more story? Can we let silence work? Can we let someone else’s comment stand without swinging at every pitch? Can we be funny without needing to become the distraction? Can we be passionate without making the room manage our energy? Can we lead without needing everyone to validate that we are leading?
That, to me, is presence.
Not the perfect line. Not the polished answer. Not the big moment. Presence is the ability to stay real when the script runs out.
And the script does run out.
That is the thing about life. We do not always get the best screenwriters. We do not always get the perfect line at the perfect time. We do not always get the scene where the music swells, and everyone understands exactly what we meant. Most of the time, we get real conversations with real people, real stakes, real emotion, and no script.
So maybe the discipline is not becoming less expressive. Maybe it is not becoming quieter, smaller, safer, or less passionate.
Maybe the discipline is learning to let the message matter more than the moment. To let the room matter more than our role in it. To let the person in front of us matter more than the story we were about to tell.
The goal is not to remove personality from the room. The best communicators do not remove personality from the room. They regulate it. They know when to bring energy and when to create space. They know when the story helps and when the story has already done its job. They know when to land the line and when to let the silence land instead.
That is the work.
Not being less ourselves. Being more rooted in ourselves.
Because at the end of the day, the room does not need a performance. It needs presence.
And presence begins with one honest question:
Is the real me still present underneath the version of me I think the room needs?
Onwards,
DDD