I remember the screen door slamming shut, a faint tremble still in the kitchen air. Not from the wind, but from the echoes of my manager’s words, still swirling like invisible dust motes. “You’re a great team player,” he’d started, leaning against the doorframe, hands jammed in his pockets. I was making coffee, the clatter of the mug against the saucer a small, nervous punctuation mark. “Some people,” he continued, the steam from the machine a convenient veil, “felt the tone of your email was a bit sharp. A little… direct.” He paused, looking away, then back with a manufactured smile. “But we really value your passion! Keep that up.” He’d then walked off, leaving me standing there, a coffee cup in one hand, a simmering, unproductive confusion in the other. Sharp? Direct? Passion? What was I supposed to do with that? My phone screen, usually spotless, suddenly felt covered in an invisible film, reflecting only my bewildered face. I wiped it clean, again and again, as if the clarity of the glass could somehow transfer to my thoughts.

It’s a coward’s tool, a mechanism for conflict avoidance, polished and presented as a virtue.

We use it to sidestep difficult conversations, avoiding the friction of directness, all while patting ourselves on the back for “being nice.”

But what if being nice, in this context, is actually harmful? What if it actively hinders growth? When you cloak a criticism in platitudes, when you dilute its potency with vague language and then immediately try to soothe any potential sting, you rob the other person of the opportunity to truly understand, to truly learn, to truly change. They walk away, just like I did, with a fuzzy, indistinct notion of what might have been wrong, but no clear path forward. It’s like being handed a treasure map where half the landmarks are described as “a nice tree” and “a good rock.” Good luck finding the buried gold.

I once spent a solid 26 minutes trying to dissect such a sandwich, turning each crumb of feedback over in my mind, searching for a single, actionable insight. It was exhaustive, inefficient, and ultimately fruitless. The message was so watered down, so deliberately non-confrontational, that it ceased to be feedback at all. It became a riddle, an exercise in deciphering unspoken anxieties.

I recall a specific instance early in my career, perhaps 16 years ago, where I fell victim to the allure of the sandwich. A junior designer submitted a logo that, frankly, missed the mark by a significant margin. It wasn’t just off-brand; it was functionally problematic. My gut reaction, honed by years of receiving vague “passion is great” feedback, was to go straight for the sandwich. “This is a really creative approach,” I started, trying to sound encouraging. “The use of color is certainly bold. However, it doesn’t quite align with the client’s established guidelines for brand recognition, and the typography makes it quite difficult to read at smaller sizes. But your commitment to exploring new ideas is truly commendable!” The designer nodded, smiled, and then submitted another version that was almost identical, just slightly different colors. Why? Because my feedback, while superficially “nice,” hadn’t been clear. It hadn’t given them the precise information needed to understand the problem and fix it. I was so worried about hurting feelings that I effectively wasted 36 hours of both our time. That’s a mistake I carry with me, a lesson in the high cost of emotional preservation at the expense of professional clarity.

This struggle isn’t unique to me, or to Hans A.J.’s clean feedback philosophy. It’s woven into the very fabric of organizations that prioritize harmony over truth. We’ve become so conditioned to avoid direct confrontation that we’ve forgotten how to be direct without being aggressive. We fear hurting feelings, so we deliver messages so indirect they become meaningless. It’s a deeply ingrained cultural habit, and it’s stifling genuine professional development. We tell ourselves we’re fostering a positive environment, but often, we’re just cultivating a garden of polite misunderstandings, where everyone smiles but no one truly understands where they stand or what they need to improve. It’s a collective delusion, a widespread agreement to pretend that being indirect is synonymous with being kind.

The irony, of course, is that clear, direct feedback, delivered with genuine empathy and a focus on improvement, is the truest form of kindness. It respects the individual enough to tell them the truth, to give them the tools they need to grow. It values their time and their potential. It says, “I see you, I believe in your ability to improve, and here’s exactly what you need to know to get there.” There’s no ambiguity, no need for endless introspection to decode hidden meanings.

Think about the sheer cognitive load involved in deciphering a feedback sandwich. You receive two compliments and one critique. Which one is the real message? Is the praise genuine, or just a buffer? Was the criticism serious, or just a minor quibble? It forces the recipient to become a detective, sifting through layers of pleasantries to extract the kernel of truth. This is not only draining but often leads to misinterpretation. People tend to fixate on the positive framing, ignoring or downplaying the actual area for improvement. They might even feel manipulated, sensing the insincerity behind the overly sweet delivery.

We need to start challenging this ingrained practice. We need to dismantle the notion that clear means harsh, or that direct equals rude. It’s about calibrating our communication for impact, not just comfort. It’s about having the courage to be transparent, to articulate precisely what needs to change, and why. And yes, it requires more effort from the feedback giver initially. It demands that we understand the problem well enough to articulate it clearly, that we choose our words carefully not to soften the blow, but to maximize comprehension and action.

It requires us to step out of our comfort zone, out of the ingrained habits that dictate we must always appear agreeable. It might feel uncomfortable, like a stiff new shirt that needs breaking in, but the long-term benefits for the individual and the organization are immense. Imagine a workplace where feedback is a gift, a clear guidepost, rather than a puzzle wrapped in a bow. Imagine the collective energy saved, the hours reclaimed from deciphering vague messages, the rapid acceleration of skill development.

There was a time when I worked in a poorly ventilated office, the air thick with stale ideas and even staler conflict avoidance. It felt like breathing through a wet sponge. The lack of directness permeated everything, including our physical environment. We joked about needing to clear the air, both literally and figuratively. What we truly needed was a system to refresh our perspective, to bring in new thinking, and to ensure that issues were addressed head-on, not left to fester in the background like unmanaged humidity. A healthy environment, much like a healthy feedback culture, requires constant attention and the courage to open the windows, even if it brings a temporary chill. It needs that feeling of Restored Air, where everything feels fresh and clear, allowing everyone to breathe easier and think more clearly.

This isn’t about being mean or unfeeling. It’s about being effective and respectful. It’s about understanding that true respect means giving someone the complete picture, not a curated, filtered version designed to protect your own emotional state. It’s about equipping them with accurate information, so they can make informed choices about their actions and their development. It’s about building a culture where truth isn’t feared but sought after, where vulnerability isn’t a weakness but a strength.

And it’s a practice, not a destination. I still catch myself sometimes, formulating the opening compliment, automatically reaching for that comfortable, familiar sandwich wrapper. It’s a deeply ingrained habit, a reflex almost. But then I stop. I pause. I clean the mental smudges from my own internal screen, take a deep breath, and rephrase. I ask myself: “What is the single, clearest, most actionable thing this person needs to hear? How can I deliver it with respect and a genuine desire to help them improve, without any unnecessary layers?” Sometimes, the clarity is startling, almost brutally simple. And that’s usually when it’s most effective.

This shift isn’t just about changing a technique; it’s about changing a mindset. It’s about recognizing that kindness isn’t always soft, and strength isn’t always loud. Sometimes, the kindest thing you can do is also the most direct, the most honest, and ultimately, the most empowering. It means having 6 ounces of courage to say what needs to be said, clearly, concisely, and with a genuine commitment to the other person’s growth. It means replacing the stale, comfortable sandwich with a fresh, nutritious, and sometimes bracing, meal of truth. It offers a path to genuine growth, rather than a cycle of polite, unproductive confusion that can drag on for 46 weeks, leaving everyone feeling unfulfilled. It’s a bold step, but it’s the step towards building truly resilient, high-performing teams, where clarity is king and growth is the true currency.