…Had I blown it?

That question followed me for weeks after a mid-year strategy meeting. I was the only remote participant, dialed in from Kraków, Poland, while our department leadership gathered in a Chicago conference room. A new executive, Amanda, recently took the helm of our department, and this meeting was one of our earliest interactions. 

Everyone was trying to make a strong impression. Including me.

Somewhere in that meeting, the team reviewed a new tool, a scoring app designed to help leaders identify high-potential talent. I understood the intent. But something in me bristled. The instinct one develops after years of leading people — of really knowing them — doesn't compress neatly into a scoring rubric. 

I worried our leaders would lean on a tool rather than the instincts built from truly knowing the people in their care. So I spoke up.

Amanda responded, with conviction. I read it as disapproval. At least, that’s what I feared. And unlike my colleagues in that room, I had no hallway, no coffee run, no quiet moment to check in afterward. The meeting ended. My screen went dark.

Had I blown it?...

Weeks later, Amanda and I connected one-on-one. I brought it up directly, I needed her to know where I was coming from. Her response stopped me cold.

"Alan, you're a catfish." I had no idea what this meant, but it didn’t sound good.

Amanda shared an old Norwegian fishing tale. Supposedly, live sardines transported in tanks across seas would arrive lethargic and half-dead. Someone discovered that placing a catfish in the tank kept them alive. The predator's presence forced the sardines to stay alert, active, healthy — and tasty.

"You're the one on this team who asks questions that others are thinking but won't say. You challenge where we're going and how we’re getting there. Don't stop."

What a relief. What I was worried about had actually set me apart.

What I didn't mention: that conversation didn't happen by accident. As a remote worker, I had no organic moments with Amanda. No proximity. So I had to be intentional. I reached out, asked for time, and when we met I named the moment directly, this has been on my mind because you matter to me and this team matters to me. That choice — to be honest rather than safe — is what opened the door. The catfish moment got her attention. My vulnerability built our relationship.

This story happened before AI entered the workplace. It matters now, even more than then.

AI is a remarkable ally. It processes, summarizes, drafts, and optimizes faster than any of us ever could. But AI defaults to satisfying its user. It calibrates toward agreement, approval, and providing exactly what was asked for.

A catfish doesn't. Neither should you.

The remote professionals who will matter most aren't the ones who attempt to out-produce AI, that's a losing battle. They're the ones willing to ask the question that shifts the conversation, and then reach back in with enough honesty to make the relationship stronger for it. AI is a powerful tool in your hands. But only you can decide when the tank needs a catfish.

The question worth sitting with: where are you holding back, and who deserves your full, honest, human presence?