We’re managers, not firefighters

“Can we talk?”

This question used to send waves of anxiety through my body. And when I was a manager, it appeared in my chat window all the time.

In the split second it took to reply “Of course!” I was already trying to predict what the person on the other end was going to say.

“I’m quitting.” Always my first assumption. Then my brain would run through all the other possible scenarios: A project spiraling out of control. A conflict with a teammate. A scary life event walloping the person out of nowhere.

I didn’t enter those conversations with curiosity — I entered them with dread.

Am I equipped to handle what this person is dealing with?

Am I about to be plunged into something super uncomfortable?

And, I’ll admit:

How much chaos is this about to bring into my day?

I loved being a manager. I loved supporting my people — frankly, all people. It’s why I became a coach. But in the midst of my own burnout, deadline pressure, and project drama, that support was so much harder to give.

It wasn’t the conversation itself I dreaded, but the work that would come after. My people were my responsibility, and I took that very seriously. That meant coming up with strategies and plans, backchanneling and advocating, and checking in again and again to make sure my people knew help was on its way.

It’s my job to fix this. It’s my job to make this right.

I’m cringing as I type those words. If that sounds like a savior complex coming in hot, that’s because it absolutely is.

I didn’t start my coaching training to be a better manager. I started it to help people outside of work. But a funny thing happened when my new coaching skills started seeping into my 1:1s. My physical and emotional reaction to “can we talk?” cooled down. And the exclamation point at the end of my “of course!” started to actually feel genuine.

A belief we have as coaches is that the person we’re talking to is the expert in their experience, not us. Our job is to help people unpack their dilemmas, challenge limiting beliefs and assumptions, and support them as they decide what to do next — based on their own needs and strengths.

The calls where I rushed into fix-it mode didn’t follow that process at all. I’d seen myself as a helper — and rescue missions as a key part of the job. I took a lot of pride in playing that role.

But it came at too high a cost.

When I showed up as a coach and not a fixer, the weight on my shoulders suddenly didn’t feel so heavy. I still needed to step in directly sometimes, but significantly less often than I needed to before. My 1:1s felt collaborative and generative — and my people started to show up with more confidence. Instead of asking me to fix things, my team started asking for help working through their own solutions.

In my rush to be a savior, I now realize I was robbing people of their agency. I wasn’t only exhausting myself. I was disempowering my teammates too.

Management can be a tough and lonely job. But I think a lot of us make it harder on ourselves than it needs to be. We weren’t taught how to lead people well — and we certainly weren’t taught how to lead in a way that takes our own wellbeing into account.

I want you to give something a try—and see how different it feels.

The next time you get the urge to fix someone’s problem, stop yourself. Ask one curious question. Then ask one more. Challenge yourself to believe that the other person knows what to do and what they need — and that your job is to help them uncover that for themselves.

Is it a relief to not need to have to save the day? Savor that feeling. You’ve earned it.

This essay was originally published in Nice Work—the Active Voice newsletter.