The Invisible Black Woman

Today’s group session took an unexpected turn. Aaron, our therapist, kicked off with an exercise that felt part art experiment, part communication boot camp. Standing at the front, he held up a piece of paper only he could see, giving us our instructions.

“What you’re gonna do,” he explained, “is listen as I describe this figure. Based on what I share, you’re going to draw it. But there’s one rule: no questions. You can’t ask anything, and I won’t be clarifying or explaining further.”

No questions? Just listen and try to piece it together? A quick glance around showed we were all quietly processing what this meant—having to follow along in silence without knowing how close we’d get to the real image.

Aaron started describing each shape calmly, giving details in a tone as measured as a science lesson.

“At the top of the page, there’s a rectangle tilted slightly, with the lower right corner as the lowest point. Beneath that, there’s a large square,” he said, listing each shape like steps in a recipe. “To the left of the square, there’s a triangle at a 45-degree angle, pointing right.”

I held my pen over the page, hesitating. Should the triangle touch the square? Was it floating near it? Without a chance to ask, I could only keep drawing, trying to visualize something I couldn’t fully see.

When we finally finished, Aaron had us hold up our drawings. Glancing at mine, I braced for critique—my sketch looked like an abstract Picasso with angles in all the wrong places.

But the reactions were priceless. Each of us had our own interpretation, and none of them perfectly matched what Aaron had on his paper, though a couple of us came close.

Aaron took it all in, chuckling. “How did you all feel about this experience?”

“It was…difficult,” someone said. “I was just trying to describe what I thought you meant, but I wasn’t thinking about how everyone else might interpret it with nothing on the page to guide them.”

Aaron nodded thoughtfully. “Exactly. One-sided communication often leaves gaps, especially when the speaker assumes their instructions will be understood as intended.”

Okay, Aaron! I see what you did there!

Then he shifted gears. “Let’s try it again,” he said, holding up a new sheet. “This time, you’re allowed to ask all the questions you want.”

We reset, pencils at the ready, now with the freedom to clarify.

“Toward the top of the page, there’s a small circle. It’s filled in,” Aaron began.

“Is it centered?” someone asked immediately.

“Yes, more or less,” Aaron replied, nodding as we noted his answer.

Step by step, question by question, we built the image collaboratively. Each clarification brought us closer to a shared understanding of his original vision. When we finally held up our drawings, they looked much more similar—a reflection of true alignment rather than individual guesses.

“How was that different?” Aaron asked, his gaze sweeping across the room.

“So much easier,” someone stated. “Being able to ask questions made me feel like I wasn’t guessing in the dark.”

Another group member added, “It was empowering. Clarifying things made all the difference.”

Aaron nodded. “And how might you use this in real-life conversations?”

That question stayed with me, especially as I thought about work. At work, where I was often handed one-sided “directives” with little to no room for feedback, this exercise hit hard. Too often, communication at work mirrors that first exercise: directives are delivered, and we’re left to figure it out solo. We get a vague picture of the vision—“increasing productivity” or “streamlining processes”—but the specifics and the space for real understanding are left out. The results? “Drawings” of projects and outcomes that don’t look anything like what was intended.

This wasn’t just an isolated exercise for me. It felt like a painful parallel to my daily reality. Managers would roll out plans with broad strokes but leave me to interpret all the missing details, then hold me accountable if the result didn’t match some unwritten, unspoken ideal. I’d been expected to “draw” based on an incomplete vision, with no real chance to clarify or ask for specifics.

And this struggle went beyond missing details. Aaron’s exercise brought into sharp relief the silent toll of corporate culture’s nonverbal cues. I had watched leaders send out mixed signals—nodding along or giving vague affirmations in meetings, yet the unspoken message was always clear: stay in line, don’t ask too many questions, and don’t challenge the way things are. In this system, asking for clarity was a quiet act of rebellion, a perceived weakness rather than a strength. This culture of ambiguity and silence forced me to become “resilient” (y’all know I’m not quite ready to be on board with this term) in ways that had nothing to do with personal growth and everything to do with survival.

Being able to ask questions, as Aaron’s second round of the exercise allowed, was transformative. In those moments of clarification, I could feel a shift—my understanding deepened, my confidence in what I was creating grew. Imagine if work could be like that second exercise, where asking questions was encouraged rather than discouraged. Where clarification was seen as a sign of engagement and commitment rather than doubt or challenge. But that’s the reality I rarely see at work. Instead, I’m left to decode directives in silence, piecing together my own vision and hoping it aligns with theirs.

By the end of the session, the message was clear. Communication isn’t about simply stating facts; it’s about ensuring shared understanding. It’s about making space for people to engage fully, rather than leaving them to fumble their way through the fog. And as I thought about my daily work, I couldn’t help but see how crucial this was.