When organizational courage becomes one person’s responsibility.
A former coworker reached out to me recently. During our conversation, she shared that she had stepped into a gap I left behind when I departed the organization. Normally, you might consider that a good thing. Someone recognizing a need, stepping up, and taking ownership. But this wasn’t that kind of gap. It was a responsibility that should never have belonged to me in the first place. And it was most certainly not one she should now feel obligated to carry.
What was the gap? Being the person willing to say the hard thing.
We’ve all had to deliver difficult messages or navigate uncomfortable conversations. That’s part of leadership. It comes with the territory. But this is something different. This is the kind of situation where you feel compelled to put your reputation, relationships, and professional standing on the line because you can see the consequences of a decision—or the failure to make one—and you believe someone needs to intervene before the damage is done.
It’s the professional equivalent of throwing yourself in front of a moving bus to keep everyone else from going over a cliff. And while that might sound dramatic, for those who have repeatedly found themselves in that position, it probably sounds painfully familiar.
That kind of responsibility should never fall to just one person. And yet, sometimes it does.
How You Become That Person
I lost track of the number of times I sat through meetings with colleagues and senior leaders, watching everyone dance around an uncomfortable truth. I had participated in the conversations before the meeting. I knew people in the room had legitimate questions, concerns, and perspectives that deserved consideration. But when the opportunity came to raise those concerns, there was silence.
We would work our way through the agenda, carefully navigate around the obvious issues, and eventually reach that familiar moment when someone was preparing to say, “Okay, let’s wrap this up.” And there I would be, raising my hand. Again. Time to put the proverbial smelly fish on the table.
I’d ask why we weren’t discussing the obvious problem. Why we hadn’t addressed concerns A, B, and C. Why were we moving forward with a decision when we already knew there were significant questions about its consequences?
I wasn’t particularly interested in disrupting an otherwise pleasant meeting. And contrary to what people might assume, I don’t enjoy conflict. But I had two reasons for speaking up.
First, I felt secure enough in my role, my knowledge, and my relationships that I was willing to spend some of the professional goodwill I had accumulated. I recognized that others might not have the same confidence, experience, or psychological safety to challenge decisions openly. If someone needed to raise the concern, I was willing to be that person.
Second, I had seen what happened when organizations ignored the warning signs. Too often, my team would be among those left scrambling to manage the consequences of decisions that hadn’t been sufficiently challenged—or decisions that had been avoided altogether. And while I certainly cared about my team, this wasn’t simply about protecting them. It was about protecting the organization.
The problem was that the people who stayed silent during the decision-making process were rarely the same people who ultimately paid the price when things went wrong. I would rather have an uncomfortable conversation today than watch people spend the next six months cleaning up a problem we could have prevented. That felt like responsible leadership. And for a long time, I believed it was.
Interestingly, organizational researchers have spent decades examining this very dynamic. In her 2023 review, Employee Voice and Silence: Taking Stock a Decade Later, Elizabeth Wolfe Morrison explores why employees choose to speak up or remain silent and the implications of those decisions for individuals and organizations.
The research reinforces something I learned through experience: silence in a meeting doesn’t necessarily mean agreement. People may have valuable information or legitimate concerns that never make it into the conversation. And when those concerns remain unspoken, the organization may move forward without the benefit of information that could have changed the outcome.
When Courage Becomes an Unofficial Job Description
Somewhere along the way, something changed. I stopped being someone who occasionally raised difficult questions and became the person everyone expected to raise them. It happened gradually enough that I didn’t initially recognize the shift.
Colleagues knew I would bring up the uncomfortable issue. Leaders knew I would challenge the decision that didn’t make sense. People who had expressed concerns privately seemed increasingly comfortable allowing me to carry those concerns into the room. Eventually, I found myself invited to conversations for the express purpose of saying the thing nobody else wanted to say.
These weren’t necessarily invitations from my own leadership. Often, they came from leaders across other teams, divisions, or business areas who recognized that something needed to be addressed. And after I spoke up? Sometimes I would receive private messages thanking me profusely for raising the issue. I appreciated the acknowledgement. But eventually, I began to recognize the imbalance. I received plenty of private gratitude for conversations that required public courage. What I needed wasn’t more appreciation. It was more participation.
Think about that for a moment.
An organization can reach a point where it recognizes that difficult conversations need to happen, knows who is willing to have them, and begins relying on that person rather than developing the expectation that everyone shares the responsibility.
What began as an act of individual courage had quietly become an organizational dependency. And I began to resent it. Not because I stopped believing the conversations were necessary. Not because the concerns were any less legitimate. But because I knew I wasn’t the only person who could see the problems. Other people had the knowledge. They had the experience. They had the opportunity. And yet, time after time, the responsibility landed with me.
Were they complacent? Afraid? Did they simply believe I would handle it? I don’t know. What I do know is that a shared leadership responsibility had become one person’s burden.
When the Message Becomes Less Important Than the Messenger
There is another consequence of consistently being the person who challenges the room. Eventually, people can stop seeing the value of the questions you’re asking and start seeing you primarily as the person who asks uncomfortable questions. You become the challenging one. The person who pushes back. The person who is resistant to change. The person who is intimidating.
I heard those last two descriptions more times than I care to remember.
Being described as resistant to change was particularly frustrating because I wasn’t opposed to change. Quite the opposite. I frequently challenged decisions precisely because I wanted the organization to succeed at changing. I wasn’t questioning whether we should move forward. I was questioning whether we understood the consequences of the direction we had chosen.
Organizational researchers Jian Liang, Crystal Farh, and Jiing-Lih Farh make an important distinction between two types of employee voice. Promotive voice involves suggesting improvements or new opportunities. Prohibitive voice involves identifying existing or potential problems that could harm the organization. Both are forms of constructive input. But they don’t necessarily feel the same to the person receiving them.
There is a difference between hearing someone suggest a new opportunity and hearing someone explain why your current approach may be setting the organization up for failure. The latter can be considerably more uncomfortable. Yet that doesn’t make it any less valuable. And when leaders begin treating the identification of risk as resistance to change, they risk discouraging the very input that could make their transformation successful.
Then there was the word intimidating.
That was another interesting experience, particularly when the characterization came from male colleagues and leaders at my level or above. I have spent considerable time reflecting on that description. I recognize that confidence, directness, and strong opinions can sometimes make other people uncomfortable. I also recognize that how we communicate matters, regardless of our intentions. But there is an important distinction between behaving in a way that is genuinely intimidating and making someone uncomfortable because you are willing to challenge their thinking.
Those are not necessarily the same thing.
Research suggests that gender expectations can also influence how assertive or vocal leaders are perceived. In Who Takes the Floor and Why, Victoria Brescoll found that powerful women who spoke more than others could face negative evaluations of their competence and leadership suitability, while comparable speaking behavior by powerful men was evaluated differently.
That doesn’t mean every criticism of a confident woman is rooted in gender bias. Nor does it mean every person who is described as intimidating has been unfairly characterized. But it does raise an important question about whether we consistently evaluate the behavior itself—or whether our expectations about who should be speaking influence our judgment.
Perhaps the most frustrating part, though, was a pattern I experienced repeatedly. I would raise a legitimate concern. Professionally. Respectfully. With context and an explanation of the potential consequences. Nothing would happen. So I would raise it again. And again.
I’d try a different approach. Provide additional information. Offer alternatives. Ask for a decision. And eventually, after the issue had been raised more times than I could count, my frustration would begin to show. Suddenly, the problem wasn’t the concern I’d been raising. The problem was my delivery. Somehow, the fourteen times I had raised the issue appropriately became irrelevant because the fifteenth time, I sounded frustrated.
The conversation shifted from the issue that needed to be addressed to the behavior of the person who had grown tired of asking for it to be addressed. Let me be clear: frustration doesn’t excuse poor communication. We remain responsible for how we deliver our messages, even when we believe our concerns are justified. But accountability for delivery should not become a convenient substitute for accountability for addressing the underlying issue. And when that happens repeatedly, the reputation of the messenger can suffer while the underlying organizational problem remains unresolved.
The Personal Cost of Being the One
Over time, the responsibility gets heavy. Emotionally. Psychologically. Sometimes even physically. There’s the preparation before a difficult conversation, the tension during it, and the inevitable second-guessing afterward. Could I have said that differently? Was I too direct? Did I damage a relationship? Will this affect how people see me?
And then there’s the frustration of knowing you’ll probably have to do it all again.
I eventually began trying to step away from the role. Sometimes that meant recognizing when a particular issue simply wasn’t mine to own. If someone had a vested interest in avoiding a conversation and I knew I would be fighting a battle alone, I became more willing to share my concerns privately and leave the decision where it belonged.
Other times, I would join a meeting with the deliberate intention of not being the person to speak up. I would sit quietly, hoping my body language and expression communicated that someone else was going to have to take this one. But often, the silence became unbearable. And I’d raise my hand. Again.
I suspect my colleagues had learned to call my bluff. Because the truth was, I couldn’t simply stop caring.
But in hindsight, I also recognize something uncomfortable about my own role in perpetuating the dynamic. By consistently being willing to speak up, I made it easier for other people to remain silent. They knew I would eventually raise the concern. They knew I would challenge the decision. They knew I would put myself in the uncomfortable position. And perhaps without intending to, I had helped create the very dependency I was growing to resent.
I also assumed responsibility for outcomes that weren’t necessarily mine to own. I justified that because I believed I was acting in the best interest of the larger organization. And often, I was. But caring about an outcome doesn’t automatically make you responsible for ensuring it happens. That was a lesson I learned the hard way.
When Caring Becomes Self-Sacrifice
There’s an evolution that happens when you’re consistently the person willing to say the hard thing. In the beginning, you speak up because you care. You care about the organization, the people, the outcomes, and getting things right. You’re willing to risk being unpopular because you believe the conversation matters more than your personal comfort. But over time, something shifts.
You still care about the organization. You still care about the people and the outcomes. What changes is how much you care about the personal consequences of speaking up. You stop worrying quite so much about whether your honesty will damage your reputation, limit your opportunities, or make someone uncomfortable. Not because you’ve become indifferent to the work, but because you’ve become increasingly indifferent to the price you’re personally paying for trying to make it better. And that shift—from being willing to pay the price to no longer caring what the price is—can be the beginning of the end.
Because when someone who has spent years fighting for an organization stops fighting to protect their own place within it, something fundamental has changed. They haven’t stopped caring about whether the organization succeeds. They’ve stopped believing that their own future needs to be tied to its success.
Looking back, I recognize that carrying this responsibility was a significant contributing factor in my decision to leave an organization where I had spent many years of my career. It wasn’t the only factor. But it was a heavier one than I fully appreciated at the time.
The Responsibility Doesn’t Leave When the Person Does
And that brings me back to the conversation with my former coworker.
When I left, my formal responsibilities were redistributed. Projects changed hands. Reporting relationships shifted. People stepped into roles and assumed ownership of the work that needed to continue. But this particular responsibility wasn’t formally addressed. It couldn’t be found on an organizational chart. It wasn’t listed in a transition plan. Nobody had assigned it to me in the first place. And yet, it was real.
The need for someone to challenge questionable decisions, raise uncomfortable concerns, and insist on addressing difficult truths hadn’t disappeared. It was simply sitting there, waiting for someone else who cared enough to pick it up. And she did.
She’s experienced. She’s intelligent. She’s committed. She sees the big picture and cares deeply about the people and the organization. I knew she was capable of stepping into that space. But when she told me she had, my heart broke a little. Because I knew what she was carrying. And I knew what it could cost her.
In fact, I worry that the toll may be reaching her even faster than it reached me. Perhaps because when I was still there, she had someone willing to stand beside her. Someone who would raise the concern, challenge the decision, or share the consequences of being the uncomfortable voice in the room. Now, I wonder who is doing that for her.
More than anything, I had hoped that when I left, the responsibility would be assumed where it belonged: more broadly across the leadership team, rather than settling onto another individual’s shoulders.
What I Would Tell the Next Person Who Picks Up the Mantle
If I could offer advice to someone who recognizes themselves becoming this person, it would be simple. Tread carefully. Not because the hard conversations aren’t important. They are. Not because speaking up isn’t part of leadership. It absolutely is. But because your professional goodwill, emotional energy, and psychological safety are not unlimited resources. And you shouldn’t be expected to spend them all on behalf of people who aren’t willing to contribute their own.
Start by asking others to participate. If someone shared a concern privately, invite them into the public conversation. “John, when we spoke the other day, you mentioned some concerns about this approach. Would you be willing to share those with the group?” Open the door. Then step aside.
You don’t have to carry every concern into the room yourself. And learn to distinguish between raising a concern and owning the outcome. You can offer your professional judgment, explain the risks, propose alternatives, and make sure the appropriate people have the information they need. But when the decision belongs to someone else, so does the accountability for making it.
Perhaps most importantly, recognize when your willingness to speak up has stopped being simply an act of leadership and has become an act of self-sacrifice. If people are routinely asking you to deliver uncomfortable messages on their behalf, pay attention. If you’re beginning to feel the emotional and psychological toll, pay attention. If you’re growing resentful of the silence around you, pay attention. Those may be signs that something is fundamentally out of balance. I wish I had recognized them sooner.
And What I Would Tell the Leaders Around Them
If you’re a leader reading this and someone immediately comes to mind, I hope you’ll do something. Not simply thank that person for their candor. Not privately tell them how much you appreciate their willingness to challenge the status quo. Do something that actually changes the dynamic.
If you’re comfortable doing so, raise the issue with someone in a position to help. Tell them what you’re observing. Explain that one individual has become the unofficial voice of difficult truths and that the responsibility is taking a toll.
If necessary, send them this article and say: “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but this is happening in our organization. And I think we need to do something about it.” Because this isn’t a problem that the individual can—or should—be expected to solve alone.
And if you’re the senior leader who has the authority to make a difference, ask yourself some difficult questions. Why do people feel safer sharing their concerns privately than raising them in the room? Why does the same person consistently have to challenge decisions? Are we truly listening to uncomfortable feedback, or are we more interested in hearing our own ideas reflected back to us? Are we rewarding constructive candor, or quietly penalizing the people who demonstrate it? And perhaps most importantly, are we creating a culture in which everyone shares responsibility for speaking up, or are we relying on a few individuals to absorb the risk on everyone else’s behalf?
Amy Edmondson’s foundational research on psychological safety demonstrated its relationship to team learning. Her work describes psychological safety as a shared belief that a team is safe for interpersonal risk-taking. That word—shared—matters. Having one confident, experienced person who is willing to challenge leadership doesn’t necessarily mean you’ve created an environment where everyone feels safe doing so. In fact, the repeated reluctance of others to speak up may be a signal that the organization needs to examine its culture more closely.
Psychological safety isn’t demonstrated by having one person who is brave enough to speak up. It’s demonstrated when everyone feels able—and responsible—to do so.
The Conversation I Wish We Didn’t Have to Have
I hope my former colleague doesn’t have to carry that burden for much longer. I hope others recognize what’s happening and begin to share the responsibility before the toll becomes too great. And I hope leaders everywhere consider what it means when the same person is consistently the one willing to say what needs to be said. Because there is something deeply troubling about an organization that depends on an individual’s courage while allowing that courage to become a liability for the person demonstrating it.
When someone becomes known as the difficult person in the room, perhaps the first question shouldn’t be why they keep speaking up. Perhaps it should be why everyone else keeps letting them do it alone.
References and Further Reading
Brescoll, V. L. (2011). Who takes the floor and why: Gender, power, and volubility in organizations. Administrative Science Quarterly, 56(4), 622–641.
https://doi.org/10.1177/0001839212439994
Edmondson, A. (1999). Psychological safety and learning behavior in work teams. Administrative Science Quarterly, 44(2), 350–383.
https://doi.org/10.2307/2666999
Liang, J., Farh, C. I. C., & Farh, J.-L. (2012). Psychological antecedents of promotive and prohibitive voice: A two-wave examination. Academy of Management Journal, 55(1), 71–92.
https://doi.org/10.5465/amj.2010.0176
Morrison, E. W. (2023). Employee voice and silence: Taking stock a decade later. Annual Review of Organizational Psychology and Organizational Behavior, 10, 79–107.
https://doi.org/10.1146/annurev-orgpsych-120920-054654
