The Conference Room Vacuum
The fluorescent lights hum at a frequency that makes the back of my skull itch, and I am standing here with a dry throat while 12 people wait for me to explain how we’re supposed to survive Tuesday. This conference room, usually a site of aggressive brainstorming and lukewarm lattes, has become a vacuum. The silence isn’t peaceful; it is the kind of silence that has weight, like the water currently soaking into the floorboards of my bathroom because I tried to fix a toilet at 3am and only succeeded in making the leak angry. I’m exhausted, I’m shivering from the residual cold of that plumbing disaster, and I have absolutely nothing of value to say.
“
You are looking at me for a cue. You want me to tell you that the Q3 deliverables are still the priority, or maybe you want me to tell you that nothing matters anymore. I am your manager. I am supposed to have a map for this terrain, but the map I was given in management school only covers productivity, conflict resolution, and the 22 ways to give ‘constructive’ feedback without getting sued. It doesn’t tell me what to do when Sam’s desk is still covered in 32 half-dead succulents and he is never coming back.
I open my mouth. I want to say something profound.
