Ben McEwing
What’s behind the guardedness?
In almost every group I work with, especially in the early stages of a workshop, there’s a particular energy I can feel in the room. People are guarded. Braced. Polite, but hesitant. There’s a holding back, not just in words, but in bodies. Eyes are distant. Jaws are tight. Breath is shallow.
I used to worry about it. Was I doing enough to engage people? What was missing? Now I understand, it’s nothing to do with me: it’s fear.
Not necessarily loud, heart-pounding fear, but something quieter. Protective. It’s the body saying, “Don’t let too much in. It might not be safe. Yet.”
It’s easy to interpret guardedness as arrogance, disinterest, or selfishness, because that’s what it can present as. What I’ve come to believe is this: the thing people are protecting is the very thing that most needs to be seen, met, and offered care.
And that’s the sad part of it. When we guard ourselves, when we lead with coldness, control, or distance, we tend to get met with the same. People keep their own distance. And the inner belief that says “I can’t trust anyone” quietly reinforces itself.
But something else can happen too.
In my workshops, the first few hours, the group is often like this: cautious, uncertain, everyone sizing each other up. Then as we begin to share hopes and dreads, co-create a set of guiding principles, and work in pairs and triads, things start to shift. Gradually, people open. They laugh more. They make space for one another. And something beautiful happens: they begin to feel like they belong.
That thaw doesn’t happen by accident. It happens because safety is cultivated on many levels. We move at a human pace more aligned with the needs of the nervous system, not just the logical mind. There’s space to lean in a little at a time, and be met with kindness, not judgement.
I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately. About how sensitivity, which we all have, gets masked. About how guardedness is a survival strategy, a creative adjustment to something painful from the past. And about how much energy it takes to maintain those protective walls, long after we’ve outgrown the original hurt.
I wish more people knew: they’re not broken for being guarded. And they’re not weak for being sensitive. That part of us we’re working so hard to hide? It might be the very part that connects us to others.
This kind of change, from guarding to revealing, takes courage and time. It takes self-awareness, and a willingness to sit with the discomfort of not knowing what will happen when we stop avoiding others to stay safe, and start creating safety through connection.
The good news? It can change. I see it every time a group softens. Every time someone takes a small risk and is met, not rejected. Every time a little more warmth enters the space between us.
It starts with the smallest lean forward and a few deep breaths.
Who is Melis Senova?
I am a coach and advisor to design leaders, C-level executives and leaders in government. My work in This Human is dedicated to the next generation of designers and leaders.
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