You really don’t have to share an opinion about everything
When I was a kid, my dad would cross the road to the newsagent in his dressing gown early in the morning to buy The Age and The Australian in the morning, and The Herald in the afternoon (before it became the Herald Sun!). He’d sit at the kitchen table with a highlighter, marking what stood out, cutting out stories and filing them away. If something really moved him, he’d write a letter to the editor — and many were published. I did think it was a little bit nutty and embarrassing at the time.
When I think back, I realise that was his version of social media: reading other people’s opinions, writing his own, and waiting to see if it made print. It was slow, deliberate, and authentic. He passed away when I was in my first week of university, and I often wonder what he would make of today’s world, where an opinion isn’t shared with a letter to the editor, but with a single tap.
Perhaps that’s why I think often about how communication has evolved. After many years in the field, I’ve seen wave after wave of new technology, each one promising connection. I know, because I introduced things like intranets and enterprise social networks, and encouraged adoption in previous roles. But with every new tool, the noise has grown louder, and the pauses between truly meaningful ideas have become shorter.
I think we’ve confused immediacy with insight and a big part of the problem is how easy it’s become to publish. AI can write a post in seconds. Templates tell us what to say and how to say it. The result is more words and more words out there, not necessarily more wisdom.
The rhythm of thoughtful communication, to pause, think, edit, think some more and share, has been replaced by post, scroll, repeat, post scroll, repeat. It’s no wonder our professional feeds feel more like noise than conversation.
That’s not a criticism of the technology itself; it’s my reflection on how we’re using it. We’re producing more content than ever, but we’re not necessarily saying more. We’re stating the obvious. In the rush to contribute, the craft of considered communication risks being lost.
This reflection feels a little ironic, even to me. Ten years ago, I was one of the people encouraging others, especially women, to speak up, share what they knew, and take control of their digital presence. I even urged communicators, who happily stood behind the curtains, to use their voices with confidence and generosity.
Back in the day, the air was clearer. There was space for new voices and room for thoughtful exchange. The digital world felt full of possibility. But somewhere along the way, the openness tipped into overload. We went from empowering people to share what mattered and what was insightful, to rewarding people for sharing everything.
I’m not walking back what I once believed, but I am definitely recalibrating. I still think sharing what you know matters, but perhaps now the real act of leadership is knowing when not to add to the mix. The challenge has shifted from expression to discernment — from speaking up, to knowing when to step back and listen.
Over the past year, as I stepped away from the noise to care for my mum, I found myself observing more than participating. That distance brought a different kind of clarity and reminded me that our words carry more meaning when they emerge from reflection.
I’ve also noticed something else. The more experienced communicators often speak less online. They’ve learned that credibility doesn’t come from constant output. They know how easily words can land the wrong way, or get stripped of nuance.
Meanwhile, younger communicators — many of whom are doing brilliant, creative work — are navigating a system that rewards frequency over thoughtfulness. They’re building visibility in a world that moves at break-neck speed. Neither approach is wrong, but somewhere between the two sits the craft we’re all trying to protect as communication professionals: communicating with care.
I think there’s something valuable both generations can learn from each other. Younger communicators remind us of the courage to show up, experiment, and share ideas openly. More senior practitioners can offer perspective, including how to translate speed into strategy. When those perspectives meet, the result is far more powerful than either alone.
The best communicators I’ve known over the years don’t rush to fill silence. They pause. They watch for context. They choose moments when their words will genuinely help others understand.
In leadership communication, timing is everything. The right message said too soon, or too often, can do more harm than good. Sometimes the smartest thing you can do is wait to listen, to test your thinking, and to see what unfolds.
Silence, when it’s intentional, is discernment.
In the past year, I’ve learned that restraint is a form of respect for your audience, your profession, and for yourself. We don’t need to be in every conversation to make an impact.
There’s a confidence that comes with experience and knowing that your reputation isn’t built by how frequently you post, but by how consistently your contributions add value. It’s the same in organisational communication. People remember the messages that helped them make sense of something important and forget the ones that simply filled their inboxes.
If communication is about connection, then discernment is about protecting that connection. It’s knowing that the quality of what we share matters more than how often we share it. I’ve come to see this as part of a communicator’s professional legacy — leaving behind conversations that made people really think, not just scroll.
My dad bought the papers every day and wrote letters to the editor. Because it was old-school, he had to be discerning — to think before he wrote, to care about what he said. I know he found a lot of satisfaction in contributing his voice that way. I suppose, in his own way, he was an old-time communications professional. And if he were still with us, I’d bet even he would say: you really don’t have to share an opinion about everything.
