"I Don't Like You"

We rarely say those words out loud. Instead, we find a thousand different ways to communicate the same thing, just without the honesty of the sentence itself.

When I was writing Tightrope, I originally kept in a few stories about people in policing that I genuinely didn’t like. After 27 years there were only a handful, which isn’t bad for a career lived in close quarters. But those stories were eventually edited out, not because they weren’t true, but because they weren’t the heart of what I wanted the book to be.

Lately I’ve been noticing that in our world today, saying “I don’t like you” has become almost taboo, and instead we’ve developed elaborate systems to demonstrate it indirectly. In policing, those demonstrations often looked like being left out of meetings that mattered, never being invited for coffee, being overlooked for opportunities, being told to “watch what you say,” or quietly having doors closed.

Outside policing the signals look different, but the theme remains: micro and macro aggressions, social media pile-ons, public shaming, icy politeness, strategic exclusion, and endless commentary from the sidelines. Somehow, we’ve convinced ourselves that this roundabout way is better than simply admitting dislike, and then perhaps asking ourselves why.

Saying the words plainly matters because it creates a kind of opening, an invitation, even. Once something is spoken, it becomes available for reflection, conversation, curiosity, and reply. You might still not like the person, but clarity at least puts everyone on level ground.

During my career, I had more than one boss I didn’t like. And it was very clear the sentiment was mutual. Because of the hierarchy, I never said it, and neither did they. But our actions made it obvious. Every interaction was padded with tension that neither of us acknowledged, and we both carried the cost of that silence.

Then one day I got a phone call from one of those bosses. The moment I answered the phone, my back went up. I braced for the usual friction. But something was different. His voice was slow and low, almost unfamiliar. There was no sharp edge or control. It felt heavy.

He told me he was calling because his own boss was unhappy with him, and that he had to reverse direction on something he’d previously ordered. But his tone didn’t match that explanation. It sounded deeper than workplace inconvenience.

So I asked: “Is something else going on?”

There was a pause. Then he said quietly, “My father died on the weekend.”

There it was. The human thing. The thing that cuts through almost every defense we carry. I didn’t suddenly like him. But I did understand him. I also had a father. I also knew loss. And none of that required us to agree, or to connect, or to be similar people. It just required that we were both human.

We ended up talking for ten minutes, longer than most conversations we’d ever had. When the call was over, I sat in silence for a long time thinking about how unnecessary all the past friction had been. All the posturing, the clipped tones, the strategic avoidance. How many conversations had been tense simply because neither of us wanted to acknowledge what was clearly true: we didn’t like each other, and we didn’t know what to do with that.

But on that day I didn’t “like” him more. I simply saw him.

Looking back, it wasn’t the content of the conversation that changed things. It was the tone. There was vulnerability in his voice. It was impossible to miss. And once I heard it, I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t.

I ended up adopting that moment as a leadership principle: If I can choose my tone, I can choose the experience I create.

There is no shortage of conversations in policing that irritate or aggravate. There is also no shortage of disagreement. But tone and language influence outcomes more than rank, position, or power ever will. Once you learn that, you can’t claim ignorance again.

In public safety, we often talk about divides, police vs. community, left vs. right, activist vs. institution. We love the simplicity of choosing sides and declaring one “right” and one “wrong.” But truthfully? It is rarely that clean. Most of us are operating with partial information, personal history, trauma, pride, and fear.

What makes everything worse is when we abandon curiosity. When we refuse to engage. When we stop looking for the small human connection that always exists, even when we dislike the person standing in front of us.

The world today rewards rage. It rewards outrage. It rewards content that humiliates rather than understands. But if you want to lead, truly lead, you have to choose the opposite instinct.

Lower your tone. Ask a question. Find the common thread. Don’t confuse dislike with dehumanization. And don’t outsource your peace to other people’s behavior.

You don’t have to like everyone. You don’t have to believe what they believe. You don’t have to agree with them. But you can decide whether you escalate tension or become the balm that cools a conversation.

And here’s the quiet secret: People will follow the one who chooses calm.