Twenty years into my career, I found myself in a conference room with a colleague who seemed to own every space he entered. He’d interrupt presentations with pointed questions, dismiss ideas with a slight smirk, and somehow make everyone second-guess themselves before speaking.
I spent months wondering how someone could be so utterly certain of everything. Then, years later, I ran into him at an industry event. He was drunk, rambling about how he’d always felt like a fraud, how he’d spent his whole career terrified someone would figure out he didn’t belong.
That encounter changed how I saw workplace dynamics forever.
Now, at sixty-four and looking back on decades of negotiations and boardroom politics, I understand something that would have saved me considerable anxiety earlier: the people who worked hardest to make others feel small were almost always fighting their own battles with inadequacy. The louder the performance, the deeper the insecurity.
The performance of confidence
Real confidence doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t need to. But insecurity? That puts on a show.
Think about the coworkers who made you doubt yourself. The ones who talked over you in meetings, who dismissed your ideas before you finished explaining them, who somehow made you feel foolish for asking reasonable questions. At the time, their behavior probably seemed like strength. They appeared to have figured out something you hadn’t, possessed some knowledge or authority that justified their dismissiveness.
What I’ve learned through decades of watching these dynamics play out is that genuine expertise rarely needs to belittle others. When someone truly knows their subject, they can explain it simply. When they’re secure in their position, they don’t need to guard it by making others feel small. The people who interrupt, condescend, and dominate aren’t demonstrating strength. They’re managing fear.
I remember a particularly aggressive negotiator who would literally bang the table during discussions. Everyone thought he was fearless. Years later, his assistant told me he’d throw up before every major meeting from anxiety. The aggression was armor, nothing more.
Why workplace bullies need an audience
Here’s something I wish I’d understood earlier: workplace bullies can’t operate without witnesses. Their entire performance depends on having an audience to impress or intimidate.
The colleague who undermines you in meetings but is perfectly pleasant one-on-one? They need the group dynamic to feel powerful. The supervisor who publicly questions your competence but never provides actual guidance? They’re using your discomfort to establish their authority with others.
This isn’t confidence. It’s theater.
I spent years in rooms where status and leverage mattered more than substance, and the pattern was consistent. The people who needed to demonstrate their power most visibly were the ones who felt they had the weakest grip on it. Real power doesn’t need to remind you it exists. It just is.
Consider how these dynamics shift when the audience disappears. That intimidating colleague becomes oddly collaborative when it’s just the two of you. The harsh critic softens when there’s no one around to witness their criticism. They need the performance because without it, they’re just another person trying to figure things out.
The revelation that comes with experience
As you accumulate years in your career, you start recognizing patterns. You see the same types appearing in different companies, different industries. The brilliant jerk who makes everyone miserable. The gatekeeper who hoards information. The credit-stealer who manages up while punching down.
But here’s what becomes clear with enough perspective: these aren’t strong people navigating from positions of power. They’re frightened people using aggression and manipulation to hide their fear.
I once worked with someone who seemed to know everything about everyone, who could make or break projects with a word to the right person. People walked on eggshells around them. Twenty years later, I learned they’d been laid off repeatedly, struggled to maintain relationships, and eventually left the industry entirely. All that apparent power had been borrowed, temporary, built on intimidation rather than genuine influence.
The truly confident people I’ve known throughout my career shared certain quiet characteristics. They asked questions without fearing they’d look ignorant. They admitted mistakes without drama. They helped others succeed without keeping score. They had nothing to prove because they weren’t trying to convince themselves of anything.
Understanding the psychology of workplace insecurity
Insecurity in the workplace operates like a virus, spreading from person to person, creating cultures where everyone’s performing instead of working. The person who makes you feel small is usually responding to someone who made them feel smaller.
During my years in negotiation, I learned to spot insecurity quickly because it affected how people behaved at the table. The secure negotiator could make concessions without feeling diminished. The insecure one treated every point like a life-or-death battle. Guess which one usually got better outcomes?
The same principle applies to everyday workplace interactions. The secure person can acknowledge your good idea without feeling threatened. The insecure one needs to find a flaw, add a caveat, or claim they thought of it first. They’re not evaluating your idea; they’re protecting their status.
What makes this particularly damaging is that insecure people in positions of power create cascading effects. They hire people who won’t threaten them. They promote based on loyalty rather than competence. They create environments where everyone learns to perform confidence rather than develop it.
The cost of misreading confidence
For years, I misread these performances as confidence and adjusted my behavior accordingly. I spoke less in meetings dominated by loud voices. I second-guessed ideas that drew dismissive responses. I assumed that others’ certainty meant my uncertainty was a weakness.
This misreading costs us more than we realize. It keeps talented people quiet. It elevates the wrong leaders. It creates workplace cultures where performance matters more than substance.
The real tragedy is how many careers get shaped by these misunderstandings. People leave jobs, change fields, or limit their ambitions because someone’s insecurity masquerading as confidence made them doubt their own capabilities. They spend years thinking they weren’t good enough when really, they were just surrounded by people desperately trying to convince themselves they belonged.
Closing thoughts
Looking back now, I wish I could tell my younger self a simple truth: the people working hardest to make you feel small are usually the ones who feel smallest themselves. Real confidence doesn’t need to diminish others. It doesn’t need an audience. It doesn’t need to perform.
If you’re currently dealing with someone who makes you feel small, consider that their behavior might have nothing to do with your competence and everything to do with their fears. This doesn’t excuse their behavior, but understanding it can free you from taking it personally.
The most practical lesson I can share after decades of navigating these dynamics is this: when someone consistently needs to make others feel small, they’re telling you something important about themselves, not about you. The louder someone’s confidence, the more likely it is to be a performance. And performances, by definition, aren’t real.
The older I get, the more clearly I see that the workplace bullies, the meeting dominators, the idea dismissers were all just scared people trying to convince everyone, including themselves, that they belonged. Once you see through the performance, you can’t unsee it. And once you can’t unsee it, it loses its power over you.
