Body of Work: Beyond Socks & Lotion

The first time I understood how much bad questions can erode trust, my feet were freezing.

I was living in Denver and had just spent a February weekend in Aspen, worrying more about my feet than about the mountains. I wore thick socks. I tucked my feet under blankets. I wriggled my toes to get my blood moving. I even bought new, fur-lined boots. Nothing changed. At some point, the cold stopped feeling like winter and started feeling like, “Something is wrong with my body.”

So I called the doctor’s office.

I tried to be the ideal patient: clear, concise, respectful of their time. I described what was happening and what I had already tried. The person on the phone listened and said she would have a nurse get back to me. Before we hung up, I asked her to include one more thing in my record: “Could you add that this isn’t about footwear? There seems to be something wrong with my body, and I don’t want to begin the discussion with the nurse by talking about shoes.” The request wasn’t meant to be cute or funny – just direct.

When the nurse called back, I explained my symptoms and the efforts I had taken to rectify my cold feet. And then she asked, “When you’re outside, do you wear socks? Do you wear closed toe shoes?” She went on to explain how important it is to wear appropriate footwear on cold days. (I was thinking she needed to share this message with the DU undergrads who seemed to wear flip flops yearround, not me!)

In that one moment, the message was clear: she was following a script, not dealing with me. I understand why those scripts exist and how much structure they provide, but I didn’t feel like a person with data about my own body; I felt like a box to check on her to-do list.

Later, I learned that persistently cold hands and feet can signal things like Raynaud’s or other circulation issues. The point is that she could not, or would not, move past the most basic scripted question after I’d already told them I was beyond that. (Or she could have started with, “I’m required to go through a list of questions, even if some are basic.” That acknowledgment alone would have made a huge difference.)

Recently I’ve lived through a sequel.

This time, it was my skin. I had become intensely itchy. Not a patch, not a rash, nothing visible. Just a constant, annoying itch that started on my face and later moved to my back, legs, everywhere. It went on for weeks. I changed laundry detergents. I switched soaps. I moisturized like it was my job. Other than a cool compress to soothe the irritation, nothing helped.

My PCP encouraged me to make an appointment with a dermatologist. By the time the medical assistant walked in and asked why I was there, I was desperate to figure out what was happening, so I explained carefully: “I’ve been extremely itchy for weeks, most often on my face. There’s no rash, no hives, just itching.”

Her first question: “Do you use lotion?” She went on to explain that dry skin can cause itching.

I wanted to shout, “Of course I use lotion. I wouldn’t have taken time off, paid money, and waited weeks just to sit here because I didn’t think to put on lotion.” I guess there are ashy people who go to the dermatologist complaining of dry skin, but I was not one of them. Once again, I had already tried the obvious. Once again, the script took over the relationship.

In that second exam room, the details had changed but the feeling hadn’t: the script was in control, not my experience and not our relationship. I understood she needed to go through certain questions, but surely there was a better way to inquire about what brought me to a specialist’s office. 

Those two experiences – cold feet and itchy skin – have taught me more about leadership, facilitation, and teaching than many workshops I’ve attended.

In both cases, I showed up having already done careful thinking and experimenting. I had data: what I’d tried, what had changed, what hadn’t. I wasn’t asking anyone to start from scratch. I was asking someone to join me where I already was. Instead, I got the same interaction twice: a professional clinging to the first item on their standard list, ignoring me and what I had presented.

That is exactly what bad leadership looks like.

Bad leadership doesn’t just arrive with a pre‑set script; it clings to that script even when the person in front of them is clearly past step one. It sounds like, “Have you tried the basics?” when the basics were the first things people tried weeks ago. It sounds like, “Let’s start with the usual,” when the situation is clearly not usual. It acts as if the leader is the only one with knowledge in the room and everyone else is an empty vessel to be walked through a checklist, no matter what they’ve already noticed, tried, or learned.

Those medical visits gave me a frame for the questions I ask in the roles I play.

As a leader, when someone brings me a problem, I try not to open with the equivalent of “Are you wearing socks?” or “Do you use lotion?” I’m not the only one with expertise in the room, so instead of assuming I need to march us through my list, I ask things like, “What have you already tried, and what happened?” or “What feels off to you about this?” That gives us a starting point grounded in their reality, not just in my assumptions.

As a facilitator, I don’t assume a team has been doing nothing simply because I’m just hearing about the problem. I don’t ask, “Have you thought about talking to each other?” when they’ve been having painful, messy conversations for months. Instead, I ask, “What have you already tried as a team?” and “Where do you feel like you’re running into the same wall over and over?” I’m using a framework, but I’m not bound to it at the expense of what they already know; we start from their experience and build from there.

As an instructor, I try to meet my graduate students where they are instead of dragging everyone through my prepared lesson when I can tell they’re already further along. I recognize that I’m not the only one with knowledge, so I don’t open with, “Do you know what this is?” as if the answer is probably no. Instead, I might start with, “What do you know about this?” or “What has been your experience with this?” That way, I’m treating their prior knowledge and lived experience as assets to build on, not gaps to correct.

Across all three roles, I’ve made myself a quiet promise: when someone brings me their version of cold feet or itchy skin – a problem they’ve been living with, thinking about, and trying to solve – I will not respond with the first line of a tired script. I will not ask them to prove they’ve done the basics before I take them seriously. I will start with questions that say, “I believe you. I believe you’ve paid attention. I believe you’ve already tried some things. Let’s begin there.”

Because in those exam rooms, I didn’t just need a diagnosis. I wanted to feel like a partner in my own care, not a checkbox in someone else’s process. That’s the kind of leader, facilitator, and teacher I respect: someone whose first questions make people feel seen, not dismissed; respected, not reduced to a checkbox; invited into real problem‑solving, not pushed back to step one.

I offer the following questions for your consideration:

• When are you most tempted to stick to your checklist instead of really listening to the person in front of you?

• In your next hard conversation, what’s one way you could show that you trust the other person’s knowledge of their own situation?

• What is one “Are you wearing socks?” question you could retire in your own practice? 

  
  

Postscript: It turns out that antihistamines and steroids, not lotion, are what the doctor ordered for my itching.