October 30, 2025
Alex McPhail
Some time ago, I hired a business coach to help me communicate more effectively at work. I’ve always felt confident one-on-one, and I’m comfortable in front of a large audience. But in the boardroom—surrounded by peers or superiors—I would often grow frustrated. Something about that setting exposed a blind spot. Despite my preparation and expertise, I’d leave those meetings feeling like I’d alienated the very peopleI was trying to connect with.
So, I hired Laura, a communications coach.
My goal was straightforward: to become a better communicator in small group settings, especially with decision-makers. After a few sessions of observation and general coaching, Laura asked me a question that stopped me dead in my tracks: “How do you make a decision?
”I stared blankly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what thought process do you go through to make a decision?” Laura clarified.
I had no idea. I had never thought about it. That became my first assignment: spend a week thinking about how I think—about how I come to conclusions—and report back to Laura. It stymied me like a riddle with no answer. But then, one afternoon at a softball game, standing on third base waiting for a teammate to drive me home, it hit me. (The realization, not the ball.)
Here’s the best way I can explain it:
In my mind, I picture a wireframe globe—like a spherical spiderweb. It has no surface, just interconnected lines. That’s the model I use to visualize ideas. As I encounter new facts, I mentally place them on that spherical globe. With each new detail, the picture reveals more of itself, like on a spherical jigsaw puzzle. Even with just a few pieces in place, I can glean insights into what the full picture will look like. The more data I gather, the clearer the picture becomes. I can also “look at” the incomplete globe from different angles—different perspectives. That’s how I make decisions—by rapidly assembling a mental model until it coherently reflects reality.
I described this process to Laura the next week, proud of having cracked the code. She smiled and asked, “How many times do you need to encounter a piece of information before it becomes part of that model?”
I thought for a moment. “Once,” I said, “maybe twice.” One exposure is usually enough to let me place a fact in the puzzle and feel its implications ripple throughout the bigger picture. Later, as I analyze the picture, and integrate new data into the model, my interpretation of that original fact may evolve, but I only need to encounter that piece of data once to integrate it into my spherical model.
Then came my next assignment: How do you know when you’ve arrived at a decision? In other words, when do you know to stop researching and weighing alternatives, and how do you know you have selected the best option?
I have a point deep inside my chest—just below my sternum—that activates when I’m certain. I call it my “truth button.” It’s physical, visceral. When it “lights up,” I know the decision is made. Ironically, the same spot activates when someone’s lying to me. So, I also call it my “bullshit detector.” It doesn’t rely on facts alone—it’s a gut feeling, but a highly calibrated one. And it’s been uncannily reliable over the years.
Laura listened carefully and then laid out a few key insights—truths I’ve come to appreciate over time. First, most people need to encounter the same piece of information six to twenty times before it clicks. Through different media (spoken, visual, written) they integrate new information. For me, one or two exposures is enough. That makes my decision processing speed unusually fast.
Second, this so-called “truth button” is known in neuroscience as a somatic marker—a physiological signal that helps guide cognitive reasoning. They’re not uncommon, but few people trust them as fully as I do. It gives me high confidence in my choices. That’s not the same as being right, Laura warned—it just means I feel right, and others can sense my certainty, even if they don’t share it.
Third, a significant proportion of people—about one in three—talk through a problem to understand it. They verbalize ideas before they arrive at a decision. This is not the same as discussing it. They literally speak out loud as part of their thought processing. I, on the other hand, process everything instantly and internally. I rarely need to say things out loud to sort them out. That makes me efficient—but not always relatable.
“Can you see,” Laura asked, “how that might make you intimidating or frustrating to the people you work with?” She listed a few scenarios—ones that struck uncomfortably close to home:
· Do I often know the answer long before others do, and do I get impatient waiting for them to catch up?
· Do I grow frustrated when the group aims in the wrong direction, or in circles, only to eventually arrive at the solution I proposed from the outset?
· Do I finish other people’s sentences because I already know what they are saying?
· Am I dismissive of opinions from people that I think lack relevant expertise?
Yes. Yes to all of them.
Laura’s diagnosis? My poor communication habits crushed any benefits my exceptional decision-making skills generated. “Guard your decision-making process like a rare gift—because it is,” Laura counselled, “but stop wielding it like a blunt instrument.”
She offered a few suggestions:
· Let others finish their sentences.
· Let the team wade through less-promising ideas before they reach what I already know to be the right conclusion.
· Respect the importance of the journey to others, even (especially) when I’m waiting at the destination.
· Recognize the difference when someone offers information versus when they are processing information out loud.
· Keep my decision-making process to myself (I violate that rule in this article).
People don’t need to know how my mind works, but they do need to trust that I value and respect their ideas.
Early in my career, I received feedback at a performance evaluation in which my boss complained that I stated information with certainty, and I was usually correct, but not always. When he acted on my information with the certainty I projected, it reflected poorly on him when that information proved inaccurate. He asked me to qualify future statements with a rating of certainty. Although I complied, it was not until I hired Laura, many years later, that I more clearly understood my role in that dynamic, how my truth button was both a blessing and a curse, and how communication style impacts performance and trust.
In the judicial system, a large body of procedural justice research shows that litigants and victims care deeply about their opportunity to state their case. Even when the court rules in their favour (through case dismissal or withdrawal), people feel cheated if they did not have their “day in court.” They report lower satisfaction and a sense of injustice when the court resolves a case without affording them an opportunity to be heard. I mention this observation because it applies directly to my own communications. In my case, I learned that, even though I knew the answer, I must still give others the opportunity to present their case—not just to speak, but to be seen to be heard. Even when I already think I know the outcome, I now listen and pay careful attention to all arguments before announcing my decision.
That knowledge and skill changed the way in which I participate in decisions. It has made me a better decision-maker and a better communicator, because, by forcing myself to sit through other smart people’s ideas, I gain greater understanding and perspective than if I had just leapt to my own conclusion. Usually, I gain deeper insights into the context and impacts of my decision. Occasionally I find myself refining or even reversing my original decision as compelling alternatives come to light. As others join me in that collaborative process, they begin to trust that my decisions are fair and appropriate.
It turns out that learning how I think, how others think, and how I communicate might be one of the most powerful decisions I ever made.
