The Transparency Tightrope: Leading with Clarity Without Losing Focus

In today’s workplace, “transparency” has become a buzzword—often invoked with the best of intentions, but not always with a shared understanding. As senior managers, we’re frequently asked to walk a fine line: be open, be honest, be accessible—but also, deliver results, protect strategic priorities, and maintain momentum.

But what happens when transparency is interpreted as “tell me everything, all the time”?

This is the tension many leaders face. The desire for openness can sometimes morph into a culture of over-disclosure, where colleagues expect to be looped into every decision, every nuance, every draft. And while inclusivity is vital, so is clarity of purpose.

Here’s how I think about navigating this balance:

1. Define What Transparency Is—and Isn’t

Not long ago, a few team members expressed frustration that they hadn’t been informed about a personnel change until after the action had been finalized. Their concern was rooted in a genuine desire to feel included and informed. But it also revealed a common misconception: that transparency means real-time access to every decision as it unfolds.

I reflected on that moment a lot. The truth is, there are times when we simply can’t share everything—especially when it involves sensitive personnel matters. Transparency doesn’t mean violating confidentiality or prematurely disclosing decisions that are still in motion. It means sharing what we can, when we can, with honesty and context.

This tension is often amplified by generational expectations. For example, younger colleagues—raised in an era of open-source collaboration and instant updates—may expect a level of visibility that feels excessive to more seasoned professionals who were trained to compartmentalize information until it’s fully baked. Neither perspective is wrong—but they do require calibration.

Transparency, in this sense, is not about omniscience—it’s about trust. It’s about ensuring that when we do communicate, it’s with clarity, purpose, and respect for all involved.

2. Anchor Communication in Purpose

When we communicate, we should ask: What does this person need to know to do their job well? Not: What do I know that I haven’t shared yet? This shift keeps transparency aligned with action.

I remember a time when we rolled out a new reporting tool. A Gen Z analyst asked why they hadn’t been included in the early planning meetings. Meanwhile, a Gen X team lead said, “Just tell me when it’s live.” Same project, different expectations. We realized we needed to clarify not just what we were doing, but why certain people were involved at different stages.

Purpose-driven communication helped us bridge that gap. We didn’t need to loop everyone into every meeting—we just needed to explain the roadmap and how each role fit into it.

3. Use Transparency to Build Trust, Not Noise

Trust grows when people feel informed, not overwhelmed. That means being honest about challenges, clear about direction, and intentional about what’s shared. Oversharing can dilute focus and create confusion.

This is especially important in multigenerational teams. Millennials may interpret silence as secrecy, while Boomers may see constant updates as a distraction. The goal is to build a rhythm of communication that respects both preferences.

A few years ago, we tried a “radical transparency” experiment by opening up all project dashboards to the entire department. Within weeks, we were fielding questions about line items that had nothing to do with most people’s work. It created anxiety, not alignment.

We learned that transparency without context is just noise. Now, we focus on curating what’s shared—providing the right level of detail for the right audience. That’s what builds trust.

4. Create Channels, Not Floodgates

Structured updates, regular check-ins, and accessible documentation can satisfy the need for visibility without turning every conversation into a town hall. Transparency thrives in systems, not in spontaneity alone.

During a cross-generational team project, we noticed that our younger staff preferred real-time updates in Teams, while others wanted a weekly summary email. We ended up creating a shared OneNote with key decisions and action items, updated weekly, and linked in both formats.

It wasn’t flashy, but it worked. Everyone had access to the same information, in the way they preferred to consume it. That’s the kind of channel-building that supports sustainable transparency.

And those systems should be flexible enough to meet people where they are. A Gen Z team member might prefer a shared dashboard or real-time doc, while a Gen X colleague might appreciate a weekly digest. The medium matters as much as the message.

5. Model the Balance

As leaders, we set the tone. When we’re thoughtful about what we share—and when—we teach others to do the same. We show that transparency is a tool, not a trap.

I once had a direct report who was hesitant to hold back information, fearing it would be seen as secretive. We talked about the difference between being transparent and being indiscriminate. I shared how I decide what to communicate: Is it actionable? Is it timely? Is it respectful of others?

That conversation helped them find their own balance—and it reminded me that modeling transparency isn’t just about what we say. It’s about how we think.

In the end, transparency isn’t about knowing everything. It’s about knowing enough to move forward together—with empathy, intention, and respect for the diverse ways our colleagues process information.

The Middle Seat: On Liberty & Responsibility

There’s a particular kind of discomfort that comes from sitting in the middle seat on a long flight. Wedged between two strangers—one hogging the armrest, the other nodding off on your shoulder—you’re denied both the view of the window and the freedom of the aisle.. You’re stuck. But you’re also, quite literally, in the middle of everything.

That’s where I’ve found myself lately—not on a plane (even if every seat feels like a middle seat today), but in the broader sense of American life. In the middle. Again.

I’ve spent most of my adult life there—ideologically, emotionally, and professionally. Generationally, I’m a “cusper”—born at the tail end of the Baby Boom but raised with the ethos of Gen X. I remember rotary phones and dial-up internet, but I carry a smartphone that unlocks with my face. I grew up with Walter Cronkite and now scroll through newsfeeds that refresh every 30 seconds. I was taught to write thank-you notes by hand, and now I send emojis to express condolences. I’ve seen the world change—fast—and I’m still trying to figure out how to change with it without losing myself in the process.

That same “middle seat” has defined my professional life as well. I’ve built a career as a translator—bridging the gap between fundraising practitioners and the data professionals who support them. I’ve helped frontline fundraisers understand that data isn’t just a report—it’s a story waiting to be told. And I’ve helped programmers understand that “donor intent” isn’t just a field in a CRM—it’s a relationship. My job, more often than not, is to listen to both sides and say, “Here’s what I think they’re trying to say.” It’s not glamorous. It’s not headline-making. But it’s necessary.

Just as I’ve played translator in my career, I’ve also tried to translate—within myself—the often competing values of liberty and responsibility. I came of age with a healthy skepticism of government overreach, a belief in individual liberty, and a deep respect for personal responsibility. Libertarian ideals made sense to me: less interference, more autonomy, and a general wariness of anyone who claimed to know what was best for everyone else.

But some moments test even the most practiced middle-seaters. And for me, that moment came with the arrival of the COVID-19 vaccines.

As vaccines began to roll out last year, I found myself in a strange place. I believe in science. I trust the data. I want to protect my family (my oldest daughter is an ER doctor, after all), my neighbors, and the most vulnerable among us. I also believe in bodily autonomy and the right to make personal medical decisions without coercion. I can’t ignore the reality that public health isn’t just personal—it’s collective.

That’s the tension of the middle seat.

A few weeks after my "booster" dose, I had a long phone call with a dear friend—someone I’ve known for years, someone I trust and admire. She told me, gently but firmly, that she and her family would not be getting vaccinated.

She asked, so I told her the reasons I decided to get vaccinated. Because of my work, because I believe in the science and the data, because I want to protect the people I love. I told her that I made the decision not because I was mandated to do so, but because I truly believe that doing so is for the collective good.

She shared her concerns about the speed of development, about long-term effects, about what she saw as government overreach. She spoke with conviction, and I listened—really listened—because that’s what I do. I heard the fear in her voice. I heard the protectiveness. I heard the love. And in that love, I heard the echo of my own concerns—quiet, but present.

And still, I couldn’t find the middle ground.

That was new for me. Unsettling. I’ve made a life out of standing in the space between opposing views and building bridges. But this time, the gap felt too wide. I couldn’t meet her halfway—not because I didn’t want to, but because the stakes felt too high. Because this wasn’t just a difference of opinion—it was a difference in how we understood risk, responsibility, and reality itself.

I didn’t argue. I didn’t try to change her mind. I set the phone down with a heaviness I couldn’t shake.. Not because we disagreed, but because I realized that sometimes, the middle seat doesn’t offer a clear view. Sometimes, it’s just a place where you sit quietly, holding on to the armrests, hoping the turbulence passes.

It’s not easy.

Because the middle seat, uncomfortable as it is, gives you a unique vantage point. You see both sides. You hear both conversations. You learn to navigate tension, to mediate, to hold space for complexity. You learn that progress doesn’t always come from shouting the loudest, but from listening the longest.

In civic life, the middle seat is often dismissed as indecision or weakness. But I think it’s where the real work happens. It’s where compromise is forged, where empathy is tested, where democracy either stretches or snaps. It’s where we ask hard questions without easy answers. Where we resist the pull of extremes and try, however imperfectly, to hold the center.

And yes, it’s exhausting.

But it’s also hopeful.

Because I still believe that liberty and responsibility are not opposites—they’re partners. This isn’t a new tension—it’s embedded in the fabric of our democracy, from the Constitutional Convention to the civil rights movement. 

I haven’t come to this belief easily. I wrestled with it. I read. I listened. I asked questions. And in the end, I chose to roll up my sleeve—not because I was told to, but because I believe in doing my part. Because I believe that freedom isn’t just about what we’re allowed to do—it’s about what we choose to do for each other.

So here’s to the middle-seaters—the bridge-builders, the skeptics who still believe. We may not have the best view or the most legroom, but maybe that vantage point is exactly what the world needs right now.