What We Bring

The unseen weight we carry into conflict

The table was set for two—water glasses sweating in the summer heat, a small vase holding a single wilting daisy. Neither of them noticed.

Rachel arrived first. She set her laptop bag down too hard and didn’t bother adjusting it when it tipped. Her phone stayed clutched in her hand like armor.

Evan came in two minutes later, tie loosened, brow already furrowed. He gave her a tight smile as he sat.

“Thanks for meeting,” Rachel said.

“Didn’t seem like I had much choice,” Evan replied, unfolding his napkin without looking up.

A flicker of irritation passed over Rachel’s face. She pressed her lips together.

“This isn’t about cornering you,” she said. “It’s about clarity.”

Evan huffed. “Clarity? Or control?”

The waitress appeared, placed menus between them, and left. Neither touched them.

“You made a unilateral decision on the Peterson account,” Rachel said. “It undercut everything we’d planned.”

“I made a call because the client was unhappy,” Evan shot back. “You weren’t in the room.”

“I wasn’t in the room because you moved the meeting without telling me.”

His jaw tightened. “You’re always so quick to assume I’m out to undermine you.”

“Because it feels like you are,” Rachel said, her voice rising.

A pause. Long enough for the table to catch it.

Evan pushed his water glass in a slow circle.

“I’m not your last boss, Rachel.”

“And I’m not your ex-wife, Evan.”

That landed. Hard.

Evan looked down. “Fair.”

Rachel exhaled. Softened. “Look, maybe we’re both dragging other stuff in here. But we’ve got to figure out how to work together.”

Evan nodded. “Agreed.”

The menus stayed closed. Neither of them was hungry. But they stayed at the table, shifting from accusations to awkward problem-solving.

The table held it all—the sharp words, the ancient wounds, the tentative truce.

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What Humility Looks Like

Last week, we talked about the courage it takes just to show up—to take your seat at the table when conflict feels too heavy or too risky. That’s the first step.

But showing up is only the beginning.

Because once we sit down, we don’t arrive empty-handed. We bring stories. Memories. Old wounds that whisper in our ear: You’re being attacked. You’re being dismissed. You’re going to lose again.

That’s what Rachel and Evan carried with them. Rachel brought the shadow of a boss who undercut her one too many times. Evan brought the echoes of a failed marriage where every disagreement felt like a trap.

For a moment, neither could see past their own baggage. But then they named it—not fully, not perfectly, but enough.

Humility doesn’t mean pretending your baggage isn’t there. It means noticing it, owning it, and trying not to let it steer.

That small, imperfect shift changed the conversation. And maybe, the next one too.

More at ayearofhumility.net.