Breaking Bad News: Why Leaders Overexplain and Lose Trust

There are moments when leaders need to explain. And there are moments when they need to, quite frankly, shut up.

This week, I listened to a redundancy specialist channel the fabulous George Clooney in the movie Up in the Air as she spoke about the benefits of keeping it simple when breaking bad news.

One of the great communication myths is that the more serious the decision, the more explanation we owe people.

Often, the reverse is true.

The more sensitive the situation, the more disciplined we need to be about what we say.

You owe people an explanation. You do not necessarily owe the world the autopsy.

And this week we had a great public example.

For those not following the AFL (seriously, you don’t know what you are missing), at the press conference announcing coach Alastair Clarkson’s departure, North Melbourne president Sonja Hood and football boss Todd Viney told us that the club needed a coach who could “coach for the modern game”. They spoke of “gaping holes” in the game plan, too many meetings, too much information and players becoming confused.

These are broad statements.

What, exactly, does “coach for the modern game” mean?

It is vague and, at the same time, damning.

Clarkson’s response was telling. He said he and his family felt “publicly humiliated” and accused the club of having “danced on my grave”.

And here lies a leadership lesson far bigger than football.

They overexplained.

Of course, leaders must explain decisions. Silence breeds suspicion. Evasion destroys trust.

But there is a point where explanation stops being clarification and becomes justification; where justification becomes criticism; and where criticism becomes an unnecessary public autopsy of the person who has just been removed.

Overexplaining is usually well-intentioned.

We want people to understand that the decision was considered, rational and fair. We want to head off criticism. We want to prove we had good reasons.

So we keep talking.

And talking.

And with every additional sentence, we introduce another risk.

The first is that we shift attention from the decision to the person.

“We have decided to change coach” is a decision.

“The players were confused, the game plan had gaping holes and we need someone for the modern game” becomes a public characterisation of the departing coach’s competence.

That is quite different.

The second danger is that explanation begins to sound like self-defence.

The audience starts thinking: Why are they trying so hard to convince us?

This is one of the paradoxes of leadership communication. More words do not necessarily create more credibility.

Sometimes they reveal anxiety.

The third danger is the loss of dignity.

A study of 613 employees in Australia and New Zealand found that people facing redundancy particularly valued dignity and directness. Research on workplace dignity also shows how communication can affirm or deny a person’s sense of competence, contribution and respect.

That matters because exits are theatre.

Everyone is watching: staff, clients, investors, future recruits and, in football, members, players, sponsors and fans.

They are not only judging whether the person leaving deserved to go.

They are judging how the organisation treats people when their usefulness has ended.

That is culture made visible.

North Melbourne could have said something like:

Clarkson was the right appointment at the time. He helped stabilise and rebuild the club. We have now concluded that a different coaching approach is required for the next stage. We thank him for his enormous contribution and wish him well.

Full stop.

Would journalists have pushed for more?

Of course. That is their job.

But answering a question is not the same as surrendering every piece of internal feedback simply because someone has asked for it.

This is where leaders need what I call verbal boundaries: the ability to answer honestly without wandering into material that is unnecessary, damaging or simply not theirs to share.

“We won’t go into individual feedback publicly.”

“The board has made its decision after a thorough review.”

“We want to respect Alastair and keep those discussions private.”

These are not evasions.

They are boundaries.

And there is another point worth making.

Clarkson is no shrinking violet. He has had controversies of his own, and the club had every right to assess whether he remained the right coach.

The argument here is not that he should have been protected from a difficult decision.

It is that dignity is not something we reserve for people with whom we agree, or people we retain.

The test is not whether you can sack someone. Sometimes organisations must.

The test is whether, once you have made the decision, you can resist the temptation to keep prosecuting the case in public.

Because when the message has landed, more explanation rarely makes it land better.

Sometimes the most powerful thing a leader can say next is nothing.