Did You Hear What I Meant?

Do you ever feel like people aren’t really hearing you, not just catching your words, but hearing the nuance, listening for something deeper, something beyond the dictionary definition, the kind of hearing that comes with time and presence and curiosity? I think about this a lot. I’ve noticed I use certain words differently than most. If a word has three meanings, I tend to lean into the abstract one, the emotional one, the layered one, and not everyone meets me there, and sometimes that creates a disconnect.

Recently, I told a friend who was preparing to speak at a conference, “I hope people hear what you’re saying, not just listen.” What I meant was that I hoped people would internalize his words, take them in, carry them, maybe even be changed by them. But he responded, “I think you’ve got it confused. I want people to listen, not just hear.” It caught me off guard.

To him, listening is the active part, being focused, being present, taking it seriously. To me, hearing is about absorption, about when someone’s words land somewhere inside of you and make you shift a little. Neither of us was wrong, but we weren’t fully understanding each other either. We were using different translations of the same language, and it made me wonder how many times we miss each other, not because we aren’t speaking, but because we aren’t fully present, because we think we already know what someone means, because we’re listening for content but not context.

It happens with other people in my life too. I have a close friend who’s an engineer, very logical, very structured, likes things to follow a certain order, and he wants conversations that begin somewhere and end up where they’re supposed to. I’ve had to tell him, “Think of talking to me like opening a bunch of tabs on a browser. I’m searching for something, and I might not know exactly where it’s going to land, but I’m on a journey and you just have to follow me.” It’s not messy. It’s just layered. That’s how I make meaning. That’s how I process and connect.

And now that I think about it, that might be why people often describe me as an inspirational speaker. Not because I follow a straight path, but because I invite people to click into something deeper. I’ll follow a thread that most people might scroll past, and I invite them to slow down, lean in, and maybe see it differently. I speak from the space between the lines. That’s where truth often lives.

And I know that part of the way I speak comes from my mother. She’s one of the best storytellers I know. Our conversations are some of my most cherished. She’s from the South, and she has a way of using sayings and phrases that carry wisdom, humor, and a rhythm that doesn’t need explaining. They just work, especially when spoken by someone who knows exactly when to drop them. She’ll give a phrase a rhythm you didn’t see coming, pull out a word or expression no one else would think to use, and it fits the moment completely. It’s not about whether it matches a definition. It’s about how it lands. It’s about timing, intention, and knowing how to make a moment feel true. So maybe I come by it honestly.

What I’ve learned is that whether I’m talking to someone who wants things to make logical sense or sharing something personal with someone I trust, what I really want is the same. I want to be heard. Not just listened to politely. Not just nodded at while someone waits to speak. I want someone to follow the tabs, to lean in, to catch the subtle turns in my meaning, to hear me, not just my words, but the space around them, the emotion, the curiosity, the intention.

And I think I care so deeply about being heard because for a long time, I didn’t feel safe using my voice at all. I grew up in an all-white town in the Midwest, and my cadence, my rhythm, the way I speak, it didn’t match what people expected from a Black woman. Someone once told me I sounded like an eleven-year-old white girl. When I moved to Detroit, someone said I sounded like a vanilla ice cream cone dipped in chocolate. I wish I was making that up. It stuck with me. It made me shrink. It made me question how I showed up. It made me quiet.

So when texting became popular, I was relieved. I didn’t have to perform. I didn’t have to navigate how my voice was being received. I could just say what I wanted to say. And writing felt safe. It still does. It’s where I get to be fully myself without interruption or correction.

And a quick side note, because it matters, there’s something else that affects how we’re heard, and that’s bias. Especially in cross-cultural conversations. People don’t just hear what we say, they hear what they expect to hear. Whether it’s someone deciding I don’t sound Black enough, or assuming I need to sound a certain way to be credible, or the loudest version of that, the Karen who says, “Speak English, we’re in America,” it all comes from the same place. It’s about gatekeeping. It’s about deciding who gets to belong in the conversation. And it shapes the way we move through the world, whether we realize it or not.

Okay, let me get back to the initial tab.

The hesitation ran deeper than just conversation. Right after undergrad, I worked as a television reporter at WEYI in Flint, Michigan. I was young, I was on air, I had the job, but I didn’t have the confidence. Not in what I had to say, but in how I sounded. I didn’t think my voice fit the image of what a reporter was supposed to sound like, and eventually I let that insecurity push me away.

Later, I earned a master’s degree in public relations and organizational communication, not interpersonal communication, which is interesting to me now. Maybe it was because I was still trying to find my way into my own voice. I studied structure. Strategy. How to craft a message. How to guide perception. But I hadn’t yet made peace with speaking as myself.

I don’t regret the direction my life took. I’ve done work I’m proud of. But sometimes I do wonder who I might have become if I hadn’t been so caught up in how I sounded. If I hadn’t internalized all those voices that told me I didn’t quite belong. It’s a quiet what-if, but it’s real.

Maybe that’s why I care so deeply now. Because I know what it’s like to silence yourself before someone else gets the chance to do it for you. I used to wonder if I was saying it right. Now I focus on saying what’s true. Because I finally know I don’t have to sound a certain way to be worth listening to.

So maybe the next time a conversation feels off, we slow down. We pause. We ask. What do you mean by that. Do you want me to listen. Or do you need me to hear you. Because real connection doesn’t live in perfect phrasing. It lives in presence. And sometimes, the most meaningful thing we can offer someone is the willingness to follow the journey, even if we don’t know where it will lead.

‘Know what I'm sayin?

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