The Stories We Tell: How Listening Became My Quiet Strength
And why your authentic voice matters more than following the rules
I was recently watching The Repair Shop while my son snacked nearby and I tidied up the kitchen. As craftspeople carefully restored cherished family heirlooms, I was reminded of what I’ve valued most in every role I’ve held over the past twenty years: listening. Not just hearing, but truly sitting with someone’s story as they unfold it.
That thread has carried through every job I’ve ever had—creative afternoons in paint-your-own pottery studios where people poured themselves into their work, design showrooms where memory met aesthetic, and real estate conversations where home meant more than location. Some of the hardest days were spent answering phones at a permanent supportive housing program, listening as callers sought shelter in freezing weather. Other moments required quiet focus, like helping employees understand life insurance benefits—especially when the claim was for a friend’s funeral.
Businesses and organizations of every kind are made up of people—people living real lives. And in every role I’ve held, what mattered most wasn’t the task, but the trust. I listened. I paid attention. I showed up for the story someone needed to tell.
It took me a long time to appreciate that as a professional skill.
The Paradox of Deep Listening
On one hand, I’ve been told I don’t know my place. That I’m too argumentative. On the other, my family worries I’m too naïve—too open-hearted, too trusting. The truth is, I don’t fully subscribe to either narrative. But I’ve learned to hold space for the reality that these perceptions exist—for others, shaped by their lived experiences, they feel true.
I’ve also learned that we internalize what we’ve been shown. And growing up, especially in environments like small family-run businesses or legacy organizations, leadership sometimes looked like cutting people off, enforcing order through silence, or treating questions as disrespect. When you rarely see leadership modeled through listening, it’s hard not to believe that compliance is the cost of respect.
So yes—I asked questions. And I still do. Not to challenge unnecessarily, but because I needed clarity before I could follow. I’ve come to see that my curiosity was never the problem—only the discomfort it caused in systems that weren’t prepared to hold it.
This contradiction—between wanting to understand and being seen as oppositional—is not a flaw. It’s part of our human design. We hold tension, and we need grace. And it’s in that space that I’ve learned to listen most deeply.
I also want to be clear: listening doesn’t mean tolerating harm. Many people have experienced real trauma—violence, exploitation, exclusion—and I would never ask someone to sit with a person who has caused them harm in the name of civility or “open-mindedness.” Curiosity is not complacency. Listening is not passivity. Real connection honors boundaries.
Still, when done with discernment, I believe listening can be transformative. Not every perspective needs agreement, but some deserve to be witnessed. This ability to hold space for complexity is where I feel most aligned.
The Questions That Drive Us
Can people from different cultural and economic backgrounds share core values?
Does where we begin determine our trajectory?
What does status really mean—and what kinds of worlds are we building through our choices?
These are the questions that guide my work and the conversations I hope Frank & Ethel’s will inspire.
Leadership in Practice
I’ve witnessed leadership in its truest form—people who roll up their sleeves, work beside their teams, and lead with humility, care, and presence. I’ve also seen titles held without follow-through, and authority exercised without regard for the hands doing the actual work. Both have shaped how I understand leadership today.
But before I ever had a job, I saw leadership without realizing it. As a child, I used to wish my mom didn’t always stay late on Fridays—it felt like the weekend was waiting on her. Years later, while managing my own team’s schedule, I understood.
She ran an aftercare program, staffed mostly by young adults. On Fridays, she gave them early shifts so they could start their weekends. She took the late shift herself, quietly waiting for the last child to be picked up. It wasn’t about recognition. It was a gift. Quiet leadership.
My father’s example showed up in structure and stewardship. From Take Your Daughter to Work Day outings to patient whiteboard financial lessons in the evenings, he made knowledge accessible and modeled consistency. He treated leadership not as control, but as care.
Together, my parents built community in motion. Their annual Christmas Eve open house welcomed friends and family from every background. It was joyful, heartfelt, and open—a living example that leadership isn’t about hierarchy. It’s about hospitality. It’s about showing up.
These patterns stayed with me. While studying leadership during my Master’s program, I reflected on what I’d seen and what I hoped to become. I came to believe that leadership isn’t about position—it’s about presence. It’s how we show up, how we listen, and how we honor the contributions of others.
True leadership is practiced, not performed. It’s not about being in charge—it’s about being in relationship.
Building Something Different
That’s why we’ve launched Frank & Ethel’s—inspired by the enduring charm of Fred & Ethel Mertz from I Love Lucy. As Lucy and Ricky’s landlords, they offered shelter and steady presence, while Lucy and Ethel’s shenanigans gave us glimpses of open-hearted plans and stubborn belief that anything was possible. Sure, the plans often went hilariously sideways—but we followed their journey anyway. It reflected our own messy, beautiful lives.
Decades later, Fred and Ethel still connect people—like Erik and me—through laughter and nostalgia. That’s the spirit we hope to foster: a space where every story is welcome and every life is layered with meaning.
The Stories We Tell
Our stories are reflections—of our hopes, values, struggles, and humanity. When we create space for those stories to be shared and heard, we’re not just building a business—we’re building community.
At Frank & Ethel’s, we’re collecting stories that go beyond our own. Stories that illuminate what it means to live with heart. We want to build a more connected society—one with more hope than fear, and more shared values than division.
Because the stories we tell… tell the story of us.
What misunderstood trait have you learned to embrace?
We’d love to hear your story in the comments or in conversation.
Mallorie is the founder of Frank & Ethel’s, cultivating space for authentic connection and meaningful conversation.
Follow the journey at www.frankandethels.com
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