TL;DR

This one’s a bit of a ramble because I care a lot about this topic. So here’s the TL;DR for anyone who doesn’t have the energy (or executive function) to read the whole thing:

  • Feedback isn’t just critique. It’s care.
  • Giving it well takes emotional labor, timing, and trust.
  • Receiving it well takes reflection, not defensiveness.
  • Direct doesn’t always mean kind. Praise isn’t always welcome in public. And just because you heard something doesn’t mean it’s yours to pass along.

Bottom line: Feedback should be thoughtful, specific, grounded, and mutual. If you’re not doing it with intention, you’re not doing it right.

Feedback is not an attack. It’s a mirror.

I just got back from a conference, and over dinner one night, the conversation turned, like it often does, to work. But not the surface-level stuff. Not metrics or launches or hiring challenges. We started talking about feedback.

Not just how to receive it, but how to give it, the emotional calculus involved in saying something hard, the risk of being misunderstood, and the quiet toll it takes on people who care enough to do it well. That conversation has stuck with me.

Because I’ve been on both sides of feedback, and the truth is, neither one is easy. I’ve flinched when I’ve received it, even when I knew it was right. I’ve carried the weight of giving it, knowing that no matter how carefully I worded something, I couldn’t control how it would land. I’ve delivered feedback that was misunderstood as a directive, simply because of my role. I’ve asked a clarifying question and watched someone brace themselves like they were in trouble, when I was just trying to understand. That’s the thing about feedback: it doesn’t just exist in a vacuum. It carries weight, context, and power, whether we intend it to or not.

When I receive feedback, I don’t always respond with perfect openness. Sometimes I feel embarrassed by something I hadn’t noticed. Sometimes I spiral, wondering how long I’ve been doing something wrong or if other people have been silently noticing and just not saying anything. And when the feedback is coming from a manager, especially a skip-level, it introduces an entirely different kind of vulnerability. I catch myself wondering: does this impact my performance review? Will this change how they advocate for me? Are they embarrassed by me?

That tension, that flicker of fear, is very real. Because feedback doesn’t just touch our behavior. It touches our sense of belonging. It pokes at that very human fear that we might lose status, trust, or support because of one misstep. That’s why I find it fascinating how different people respond. Some shut down. Some deflect. Some make excuses. Others take it all in, but carry the weight of it too long, unable to tell what’s fair and what’s projection.

Personally, I tend to assume feedback is true, even when it’s not. I rarely question it in the moment. My default reaction is, “Yep, they must be right.” Whether or not that holds up later takes some time to uncover. It’s not that I lack confidence. It’s that I’ve never believed that tenure guarantees insight. Even if I’ve been in the industry longer than someone else, I don’t think that makes me right. Everyone has different experiences. Everyone sees something I might not. And if I walk into every situation assuming I’m the expert, I’m probably not listening closely enough.

That mindset, what researchers would call intellectual humility, is part of why I crave feedback, even when it’s hard. But I also know I sit on the other side of the spectrum from folks who instinctively resist it. There’s a psychology to how we receive feedback. Some people view it as a threat to identity. Others view it as a mirror. I try to see it as the latter. Not always immediately. But eventually.

Because the truth is, feedback can land hard. Even when it’s accurate. Even when it’s kind. Even when it’s necessary.

And yet, it’s still one of the clearest forms of care we have. Especially when it’s offered with intention, received with curiosity, and held in an environment of trust. Feedback is not an attack. It’s a mirror. And the point isn’t to feel ashamed of what you see, it’s to adjust the lighting, stay open, and keep building.

The Myth of Direct Feedback

One of the first things I ask when someone joins my team is how they like to receive feedback. It’s part of a longer survey we fill out together, questions about recognition preferences, food allergies in case I send them snacks, recent promotions, even how they like to be celebrated. It’s not just a feel-good form. It’s a way for me to get to know how they operate and what matters to them, especially the things they may not say out loud.

Almost everyone checks the box for “direct feedback.” That’s the default answer. And I believe most people genuinely want to believe that about themselves. Direct feedback sounds efficient. Honest. Grown-up. But what I’ve learned over time is that what people say in theory and what they respond to in practice don’t always match.

So once a quarter, during review season or whenever we’ve had enough shared experience to notice patterns, I pull up the survey again. We go over it together, and I’ll say something like, “You said you prefer direct feedback. But I’ve noticed that when I offer it directly, something shifts. It doesn’t seem to land easily. Can we talk about that?”

And that’s when the real answer usually surfaces.

It’s rarely that they don’t want feedback. It’s that they want it with more context. Or more softness. Or more space. “I do want direct feedback,” they’ll say, “but not in a group setting.” Or, “It’s helpful, but I need time to process, Slack is better than live.” Or, “It’s not what you said, it’s how surprised I was. I didn’t know anything was off.”

These are all valid responses. That’s the nuance I want to get to, not the checkbox version, but the lived version. And when we get there, I say the same thing every time: “Let’s update your survey.” Because if I’m going to use this to guide how I support you, I need it to reflect where you’re actually at, not what you thought I wanted to hear.

At GitHub, we use Human User Guides now, and while the format is a little different, the spirit is the same. It’s a way to document what makes you feel safe, respected, seen. I’ll admit I haven’t kept mine as up to date as I’d like. This team has been running fast. It’s easy to let rituals like that slide. But writing this is a good reminder that the clearer we are about how we like to receive feedback, the easier it is to build a culture where feedback actually works.

Because the myth isn’t that people don’t want feedback. Most people do. The myth is that they want it unfiltered. In reality, what most people want is feedback that’s direct and kind. Honest and safe. Delivered with enough clarity that it’s useful, and enough care that it’s not destabilizing.

And when we figure out that balance, when we can be honest without being careless, that’s when feedback stops feeling like a performance. That’s when it starts to feel like trust.

Feedback Takes Work (and It Should)

Giving feedback isn’t just a moment, it’s a process. A decision. A weight you carry long before the words leave your mouth, and sometimes long after. Before I give someone feedback, I spend real time evaluating whether it’s worth saying. Will it help them grow? Will it unlock something in their leadership or deepen their impact? Is it something that will make them better, or is it just something I would do differently? That discernment matters. Feedback should never be given just because it occurred to you. It should be given because you’ve thought it through and know it’s worth the risk of saying out loud.

That’s the part people don’t always talk about: the emotional labor of giving feedback. Once I’ve decided something’s worth saying, I don’t just blurt it out. I consider timing. Are they already overwhelmed? Will this derail their week or distract from something else they’re working through? I think about tone. Do I lead with a question or go straight to the point? What will they respond to best? I consider delivery. Is this a conversation I should have directly, or should it flow through their manager? Will hearing it from me feel like guidance, or like escalation?

I manage managers now and this part is even trickier. I’m constantly thinking about whether giving direct feedback myself will unintentionally override their role. Because it’s not always about who’s right, it’s about preserving trust. If I correct someone two levels down for something minor, it sends a message, whether I intend it or not. It can undermine the manager in the middle. So I’ve learned to hold that power with more care. Not everything needs to come from me. And when it does, I try to be clear: this is not a directive. This is not disciplinary. This is a conversation. Even so, the weight still lands. And I carry that too.

Because even when it’s delivered well, feedback has impact. It shapes how someone sees themselves. It reshapes the space between you. So when I say something, I want it to be something I’ve earned the right to say. Something grounded. Something intentional. Not performative. Not impulsive. And never lazy. Because that’s the kind of feedback that actually helps someone grow, and that’s the kind I want to be known for.

The Feedback Loop

Feedback should be a conversation, not a broadcast. But too often, it becomes a one-way delivery, an announcement instead of a dialogue. I’ve seen people receive feedback and immediately launch into a string of justifications, not because they’re unwilling to improve, but because they feel exposed. It’s natural to want to explain yourself. To defend. To restore a little bit of control. But when someone spends the entire conversation trying to prove they’re not wrong, there’s no room left for reflection. The feedback gets lost in the noise of defensiveness.

And that defensiveness takes many forms. Some people over-explain. Some deflect. Some immediately point to someone else: “Well they told me to,” or “It wasn’t just me.” Others retreat into silence, nodding along but clearly checked out. And I get it. Feedback can feel like judgment, especially if you’re used to environments where it’s been weaponized. But when the default response is to reject or deflect, nothing changes. The opportunity for growth disappears under the weight of self-protection.

What I want is a conversation. I want to hear their side. I want to understand if there’s context I missed or a reason something unfolded the way it did. I want to be open to the idea that I might not be seeing the full picture. But at some point, the conversation has to move forward. There has to be reflection. There has to be consideration of whether something needs to shift. Otherwise, it’s not really feedback, it’s just friction.

And it’s not only manager-to-report feedback that works this way. Peer-to-peer feedback is even trickier. There’s more ambiguity, more potential for misread intentions. I’ve been in those moments, someone trusts me, sees me as a thought partner, and I feel the weight of whether or not it’s my place to say something. If I’m explicitly invited to give feedback, I’ll give it, with care. But unsolicited peer feedback? That’s a harder line. Unless it’s something egregious, I tend to ask myself: Am I offering this to help? Or am I just trying to shape the outcome to my liking?

There’s a line between support and overreach, and I try not to cross it. The best peer feedback I’ve received came from people who approached me as equals, not enforcers. And the best feedback I’ve given landed when it was invited, not imposed. Feedback only works when it’s grounded in respect, delivered with intention, and open to dialogue. Anything else isn’t really feedback. It’s control dressed up as care. And people can feel the difference.

The Weight of Power and Position

One of the hardest lessons I’ve learned as a leader is that the higher up you are, the heavier your words land. It doesn’t matter how casual your tone is or how gentle your delivery might feel to you. When someone hears feedback from their skip-level, or from someone who has a say in their scope, comp, or performance review, it doesn’t land neutrally. It lands with gravity. It becomes a signal. Even if you’re offering a reflection, it can be mistaken for a directive. Even if you’re just asking a question, it can feel like an accusation.

I’ve seen it happen. I’ve walked into conversations with good intentions, just trying to understand how something happened or get more clarity. But before I’ve even finished my sentence, I can feel the temperature shift. Shoulders tense. Eyes narrow. People start scrambling to explain or apologize. Suddenly, it’s not a conversation anymore, it’s damage control. I didn’t think I was bringing power into the room. But I did. My role did it for me.

Because of that, I’ve learned to be more intentional about when I give feedback directly and when I step back. If something’s critical, if it touches someone’s growth trajectory, team dynamics, or long-term development, I’ll say it. That’s part of my job. But if it’s not urgent or high-stakes, I’ll often ask myself whether the message would be better coming from their manager. That’s not avoidance. That’s respect. Their manager knows the nuances of their relationship, their communication style, their trust bandwidth. Sometimes I’ll share the feedback with the manager and let them decide when and how to deliver it. And sometimes I’ll ask if I should deliver it myself. It’s a judgment call, but it’s one I try to make with care.

I’ve also made mistakes here. I’ve given feedback directly, thinking it would feel collaborative, and instead it landed as top-down. I’ve asked open-ended questions and watched people flinch, because they assumed I was dissatisfied, even when I wasn’t. That’s the invisible weight of power. It’s not about intention. It’s about impact. And if I pretend that my feedback is just one opinion among many, I’m doing a disservice to everyone involved.

So I’ve started naming it. If I’m giving feedback from a skip level, I’ll say something like, “This isn’t a mandate, it’s an observation. I want to hear what you think.” I don’t always get it right, but I do my best to disarm the hierarchy without denying it. Because ignoring power doesn’t make it go away. It just makes it harder to navigate.

Feedback from a position of authority always comes with extra weight. The question is whether you’re willing to carry it with care, or let it crush the conversation.

Experience Doesn’t Make You Right

One of the things I’ve tried to hold onto, especially as I’ve moved into more senior roles, is that experience doesn’t make me right. It makes me experienced. That’s it. It gives me more data points, more patterns, more context. But it doesn’t make me infallible. And it certainly doesn’t mean that someone earlier in their career has nothing to teach me. In fact, I’ve often found that the freshest, most important insights come from people who haven’t yet learned to tolerate what the rest of us have learned to ignore.

I’ve never been someone who assumes I’m the expert in the room. That’s probably a mix of neurodivergence and switching careers more than once, I know what it feels like to not know, and I don’t mind admitting when I don’t. When someone gives me feedback, I usually assume it’s true, or at least true for them. My first instinct isn’t to push back, it’s to reflect. That doesn’t mean I always agree with it. But it does mean I don’t dismiss it outright just because it came from someone newer, younger, or with less perceived authority. I listen. I stay curious. I try to understand what they’re seeing that I might not be.

And honestly, sometimes the people with the least amount of experience ask the best questions. They haven’t been shaped yet by process or politics. They’re not navigating exhaustion or managing reputational risk. They’re just wondering aloud, “Why do we do it this way?” And if I’m being honest, sometimes I don’t have a good answer. Sometimes I’m just doing it that way because that’s how I’ve always done it, or because I’ve stopped expecting things to change. That kind of insight, especially when it’s delivered without ego, can be a gift.

So I try to treat feedback as a learning opportunity no matter where it comes from. I don’t rank it based on tenure. I don’t filter it through a credibility hierarchy. Everyone has a lived experience, and that experience shapes how they move through the world. That includes what they notice. That includes what they name. And that includes what they offer back to you.

The moment I start thinking I know best just because I’ve been here longest is the moment I stop listening, and that’s when I stop leading. So when someone offers me feedback, no matter how junior, I don’t ask, “Who are they to say this?” I ask, “What are they seeing that I might not?” That posture has never let me down.

Feedback Is More Than Critique

We tend to talk about feedback like it’s synonymous with criticism. But that’s only half the equation, and frankly, the half people expect. Most folks are conditioned to brace themselves when they hear the word “feedback.” They don’t picture recognition. They don’t picture celebration. They picture correction, discomfort, or a conversation that might take something away from them. But the best feedback I’ve received in my life hasn’t just been what I needed to fix. It’s also been what someone saw in me when I couldn’t see it yet. It’s been the moments when someone named a strength I hadn’t realized I had, or reminded me of my impact when I was quietly doubting it.

That kind of feedback, the affirming, specific, generous kind, is just as important. And it needs to be just as intentional. Compliments that are vague or performative don’t build trust. They make people suspicious. If you’re going to praise someone, do it with the same care you’d bring to constructive feedback. Tell them what you saw. Tell them how it landed. Help them understand why it mattered. The goal isn’t flattery. It’s clarity. Praise can be a form of development, too, but only if it’s real.

And just like criticism, praise is personal. Not everyone wants it to be public. Some people love the spotlight. They want their name in Slack, a shout-out at all-hands, a celebratory emoji storm in the group chat. Others shrink from that kind of attention. They’d rather hear it one-on-one, or see it shared quietly up their management chain. I’ve worked with people who specifically asked me to keep everything, good or bad, between us. The same way feedback delivery should match someone’s emotional wiring, praise should too. It’s about what makes someone feel seen, not what makes you feel like a good manager.

The same principle applies when it comes to criticism: keep it private. Unless there’s an urgent, team-wide issue where transparency is critical, there’s almost never a good reason to correct someone in front of their peers. Public feedback, even when it’s technically “right,” almost always backfires. It puts people on the defensive. It makes them feel exposed. It triggers a chain reaction of shame, resentment, and damage control. The moment becomes less about the behavior and more about the embarrassment. That’s not growth. That’s public shaming dressed up as leadership.

And then there’s a whole other layer: feedback you hear about someone, but haven’t seen yourself. That’s tricky territory. It’s tempting to pass it along, especially when it seems valid. But unless you’re directly involved or have firsthand context, your role probably isn’t to deliver the feedback. It’s to facilitate a better path. Can you help the original person share it directly? Can you support the conversation instead of taking ownership of it? Because passing along feedback you didn’t generate can erode trust, on all sides.

Ultimately, whether we’re talking about praise or critique, the standard is the same: be intentional. Be specific. Be grounded in real context. Show up consistently, not just to correct, but to encourage. And most importantly, ask people how they want to be seen. What makes them feel recognized? What makes them feel safe? Don’t assume your style is universal. Don’t assume your best intention will always land as care.

Because feedback isn’t just what you say. It’s how you show up. And people remember how you made them feel far longer than they remember the words you used to say it.

Feedback Is a Form of Care

I don’t give feedback because I want to be right. I give it because I care. About the work, yes, but more than that, about the people doing it. Feedback is one of the clearest ways I know how to say, “I see you, and I believe in your potential.” I want you to grow. I want you to lead. I want you to feel proud of what you’re building. And I want you to know that you don’t have to do it alone.

That’s the intention I bring when I offer feedback, especially the hard kind. I don’t do it impulsively. I don’t do it performatively. I do it because I’ve thought it through, because I’ve earned the right to say it, and because I believe it matters. Feedback isn’t a transaction to me. It’s an investment. And the return I’m hoping for isn’t control. It’s clarity. Connection. Maybe even transformation.

When I receive feedback, I try to stay in that space too. I don’t always get it right. Sometimes I flinch. Sometimes I spiral. But I come back. I sit with it. I sort through what’s useful, and I try to learn something, whether about myself, the person giving it, or the system we’re in. Even when the feedback doesn’t feel true, there’s often a thread in there worth pulling on. A question I haven’t asked yet. A dynamic I haven’t named. A story I didn’t realize I was part of. I want to stay open to all of that, even if it’s uncomfortable.

And the truth is, feedback doesn’t always land because of what’s said. It lands because of who says it, how it’s said, when it’s said, and what the relationship can hold. That’s the part we don’t talk about enough. The power. The trust. The timing. Feedback can’t do its job in a low-trust environment. It doesn’t feel like care, it feels like surveillance. People shrink under that kind of pressure. They play it safe. They stop trying. But in a high-trust environment, feedback connects. It becomes the thing that makes us sharper, not smaller. It strengthens our relationships instead of fracturing them.

If you’re a leader and you’re not giving feedback, you’re not leading. You’re observing. If you’re receiving feedback and rejecting it out of hand, you’re not growing. You’re defending. And if you’re in a culture where feedback is delivered carelessly, without context or consent, it’s worth asking whether that’s a place where growth is actually possible, or just something people pretend to care about.

Because feedback, when it’s done well, isn’t about perfection. It’s about possibility. It’s about telling someone: I see who you are. I see where you’re headed. And I’m not here to judge you. I’m here to walk with you as you get there.

Feedback is not an attack. It’s not a threat. It’s not a judgment.

It’s a responsibility. A signal of trust. A form of care.

And I still believe in it.