My boss stood in my office doorway, arms crossed. “Victoria, the client presentation needs to be completely redone by tomorrow morning.”
“Absolutely! I’d be happy to make those changes for you,” I replied, my voice rising half an octave. “Is there anything specific you’d like me to focus on?”
The words felt sticky-sweet in my mouth. My jaw tightened from the unnatural smile.
His arms uncrossed. The tension in his shoulders visibly released. He smiled.
“Just make it more… you know… impactful,” he said, already walking away.
“Of course! Thank you so much for your guidance,” I called after him, maintaining my cheerful tone until he rounded the corner.
Then my face fell. The saccharine smile disappeared. My neck and shoulders released from their perky position. My voice dropped back to its normal register. I wiped my palms on my pants, surprised to find them sweaty.
I turned to my computer and typed a quick message to my Nadia, my work bestie: “Just got asked to redo an entire presentation overnight with zero meaningful feedback. Used my customer service voice. He loved it.”
She replied immediately: “Of course he did.”
That’s when I realized I’d stumbled onto something powerful — and deeply troubling. It felt like stepping on a loose floorboard and realizing the entire foundation underneath was rotten.
The voice reserved for difficult customers
Anyone who’s worked in retail or food service knows exactly what the “customer service voice” is. It’s that artificially bright, slightly higher-pitched tone reserved for the most demanding patrons. The voice comes with its own vocabulary: absolutely, certainly, my pleasure, I’d be happy to, thank you for your patience.
I perfected this voice at seventeen, working the morning rush at an upscale coffee house. Sleep-deprived executives were my specialty. They’d barrel in with impossible orders, eyes bloodshot from too little rest, convinced their triple-shot, half-sweet, extra-hot lattes were the only thing standing between them and total collapse.
My manager taught me to raise my pitch, tilt my head slightly, and maintain unwavering eye contact. “Make them feel like their order is the most important thing in your world,” she advised.
It wasn’t just about sounding pleasant. It was about deference. The voice signaled that I acknowledged the other person’s power over me. It smoothed interactions by making clear that I wouldn’t challenge their authority, no matter how unreasonable their demands.
My body would physically transform — shoulders back, spine straight, hands clasped in front of me, face arranged in an expression of eager helpfulness.
For years after that job, I reserved this voice exclusively for entitled clients in my technology consulting work — the ones with ridiculous demands, who could never be pleased, who needed special accommodation beyond what was reasonable.
Never once did it occur to me to use it with management.
Until that day.
A workplace experiment
That night, I kept thinking about it. If my customer service voice could smooth over a terrible request, could it also change how leadership saw me?
For three months, I conducted an informal experiment. Every interaction with my boss and other senior leaders got the full customer service treatment.
The rules were simple:
- Raise my voice pitch slightly.
- Increase my speaking pace.
- Use deferential language and excessive gratitude.
- Never directly challenge or disagree.
- Express enthusiasm for every request, no matter how unreasonable.
Before the experiment, my workplace demeanor had always been professional but direct. If something seemed inefficient or misguided, I said so.
My reputation was built on being the person willing to speak uncomfortable truths. My colleagues valued this trait. Leadership tolerated it because my work was excellent.
During the experiment, that person disappeared. Instead, I channeled the eager-to-please barista dealing with an entitled yoga mom who’s changed her order three times.
The disturbing results
The effects were immediate and unsettling.
My boss began stopping by my office more frequently. He called on me in meetings for input, something that had been rare before. When I submitted work, he responded with fewer critiques. Several times, he mentioned to others what a “team player” I’d become.
At one point, he hovered near my desk so long I wondered if he’d moved in.
My access to senior leadership improved dramatically. The CTO, who previously seemed to avoid eye contact with me, now greeted me by name. The president of our division invited me to a strategy session, noting that he “appreciated my positive attitude.”
The physical toll was unexpected. Each interaction left me exhausted, my facial muscles sore from maintaining an unnatural smile. At home, I’d massage my jaw, stiff from hours of speaking in that higher register.
My stomach often clenched with a familiar knot — the same tension I’d felt when dealing with particularly difficult office workers all those years ago.
The most disturbing shift was in my relationships with colleagues.
Those with less seniority seemed confused by my new demeanor with leadership. A junior analyst asked if everything was okay after observing me with the executive team. “You seem different around them,” she said. Her brow furrowed as she studied my face.
Meanwhile, other women at my level began to treat me with mild suspicion. One colleague who had previously been an ally took me aside after a meeting. “What’s your angle with all the enthusiasm? Are you gunning for a promotion?”
Her arms crossed, creating physical distance where once there had been solidarity.
The hidden language of power
Corporate culture claims to value innovation, critical thinking, and diversity of thought. Yet its reward systems often reinforce hierarchical communication that stifles these qualities.
The workplace operates on hidden power languages, and the most valued one isn’t competence. It’s deference.
For three months, I had been “rewarded” for linguistic behaviors that fundamentally undermined my authority and expertise. By adopting the voice of someone serving rather than collaborating, I gained approval but lost professional respect.
This pattern likely affects women and minorities most severely. Research has shown that women who speak directly face more negative consequences than men exhibiting identical communication styles.
The pressure to adopt deferential communication is immense. My compliance with these expectations showed exactly how much workplace approval depends on signaling submission rather than adding value.
Breaking character
The breaking point came in a high-stakes client meeting. The team was presenting a technical solution, and the client raised concerns about implementation. My boss looked at me, expecting me to smooth things over with my newly reliable agreeableness.
I felt the familiar impulse to tilt my head, raise my pitch, and assure everyone things would be fine. My body prepared for it automatically — shoulders tensing, smile muscles engaging.
Instead, I broke character.
“That’s actually a valid concern,” I said in my normal register, making direct eye contact with the client. My voice emerged from deep in my chest rather than my throat. My shoulders relaxed into their natural position.
“We need to address the implementation timeline before proceeding. I suggest we revise the schedule to accommodate these new requirements.”
The room fell silent. My boss’s smile froze. A few people shifted uncomfortably. But the client nodded.
“Thank you for the honesty,” he said. “That’s exactly what we need to hear.”
After the meeting, my boss pulled me aside. “What happened in there? That wasn’t like you — I mean, the new you.” His eyes narrowed, studying me as if trying to reconcile two different people.
“No,” I said. “It was like the original me.”
He didn’t respond.
Speaking differently, but not less
The corporate ladder isn’t just about titles. It’s about who must defer to whom in daily interactions. This experiment made those power dynamics painfully visible.
Now, I use my customer service voice strategically. It’s a tool, not a way of life. It gets me through bureaucratic nonsense, smooths over moments that aren’t worth the energy. But it’s not the voice I use when it actually matters.
My boss still occasionally looks surprised when I challenge an idea. His posture shifts. His eyes widen slightly.
That moment of discomfort isn’t my problem. It never was.
