My Story
I was born without a poker face. Well, I suppose we all are, so the point of interest here is that I never developed much of one.
This deficiency burned me more than a few times over the course of my life. Countless losses of strategic board games, of course. Some failed negotiations. That time early in my career where I was all but asked to leave a business meeting as my face betrayed what everyone in the room was thinking but wasn’t appropriate to say.
Over time, I learned from these facial faux paus and the negative consequences that followed. I developed some semblance of a straight face I could pull out in situations where it was absolutely necessary.
This meant that I got way better at bluffing when planning a surprise party. And of course, improving my straight face also became part of my professional development as I climbed the ranks of big consulting and tech firms. I would try it on when speaking to large groups, in an effort to convey gravitas. And then of course there was the version of my poker face that I needed in order to hide the scars being left behind by my compulsion to compare myself to colleagues or the ‘right’ standards and to strive for perfection at every turn.
I would literally coach myself in my mind, ‘Joy, you can do this. Straight face, nod, soft smile, don’t forget to blink.’ I probably looked more like someone transfixed by an evil spell than a neutral observer, but it usually seemed to do the job fairly well. I wasn’t capable of wearing it all the time, or even very frequently, but I never left home without it in my back pocket so that it was within reach when I sensed that it was especially important to compensate for this shortcoming of mine.
At first blush, this was a really handy addition to my professional toolbox. My poker face helped me muscle through some tough conversations and challenging moments. However, when I really paid attention, I would notice that the simple act of putting it on would usually cause a sinking, uneasy feeling inside of me. I found myself resenting the situations in which I ‘needed’ it. While I was getting more and more skilled at whipping it out, I craved the occasions where it wouldn’t be necessary.
Then one day, as if on cue, I was presented with an opportunity to craft and tell a very personal story to an audience of complete strangers. With excitement and terror, I accepted the challenge knowing that it would require me to firmly stow away the poker face I’d developed and come to rely on. When my moment came, I took a deep breath and let my story flow. I told a version only I possibly could, and without any version of my poker face to hold me back.
I was floored and exhilarated by the tremendous sense of freedom this experience brought on. What’s more, the connection I felt with my audience was palpable and utterly meaningful.
The experience of speaking without my trusty mask made me think that while my hyper-transparent nature could have its drawbacks in certain settings, it also had a LOT of benefits. Thinking back, I realised that almost all of the moments I was most proud of or held most dear - professionally or otherwise - had something in common, and that was an abandonment of that faux straight face I’d developed over time. I remembered the dream job I landed because I wasn’t too cool to express just how passionate I was about the company and the role. Or that time I shared my personal and professional dreams with my direct reports. We became an extremely tight-knit team and went on to exceed all expectations for the year. I realised that this natural state of expressiveness, my tendency to wear my heart on my sleeve, could actually be an asset, dare I say, a superpower.
It seems obvious now that my non-pokerfaceness is the embodiment of that ‘authenticity’ thing everyone talks about. It’s what made me a great leader in the best moments of my corporate career. And now, it’s what allows me to connect deeply with my audiences, and to partner with my clients to tap into the answers and success already residing inside their own hearts and minds.