This is Fine: You’re “Too Emotional” (and Other BS People Tell You)

This Is Fine: A COO Story

You’re “Too Emotional” (and Other Bullshit People Tell You)

 

“You’re too emotional.”

I’ve heard it in conference rooms. In client conversations. Dressed up as concern, as feedback, as advice meant to help me “protect myself.”

And every time, what I hear underneath it is this: Care less.

Be less invested. Detach. Don’t take it so personally.

Here’s the problem with that advice: this is personal. Even when it’s business. Especially when it’s business.

I am a highly emotional person. I feel things deeply. I absorb tone shifts, unspoken tension, the weight behind words that weren’t fully said. I can walk into a room and tell you within minutes where the landmines are.

I am also a C-suite officer and an attorney who understands risk, strategy, timelines, and consequences. I know when something isn’t about me. I know when someone’s reaction is rooted in fear, ego, or pressure rather than intent. I know the difference between emotion and fact.

Both of those things are true at the same time.

And let’s be honest about the gendered subtext here. When women leaders are labeled “too emotional,” it’s rarely a neutral observation. It’s a credibility tax. The same intensity that gets reframed as passion or decisiveness in men is treated as volatility in women. Our emotional awareness is scrutinized instead of valued. We’re expected to carry the emotional labor of teams, clients, and entire organizations while being told not to show the impact of that labor on us. Be empathetic, but not affected. Human, but not so human that anyone gets uncomfortable. That tension isn’t accidental. It’s structural. And pretending it doesn’t exist doesn’t make it any easier to carry.

Being emotional doesn’t mean I’m unaware. It means I’m aware of more. Pretending not to feel it doesn’t make the cost disappear. It just pushes it underground.

There is a very specific burden that comes with being emotionally invested while also being responsible for hard decisions.

I feel the human impact of choices I still have to make. I feel the disappointment, the fear, the frustration, and then I make the call anyway.

I know when something is “just business.” My nervous system still reacts like it’s a gut punch because the business is my business. The people affected are people I care about. The outcomes matter to me.

I don’t confuse that feeling with indecision. But I do pay for it.

The cost shows up in second-guessing decisions I logically know were right. In carrying other people’s reactions longer than I should. In needing more recovery time after moments where others seem to just move on. And yes, sometimes it shows up as tears. Or anger. Or bone-deep exhaustion.

What no one tells you is that the alternative costs more.

Detachment sounds clean and professional until you realize it also dulls judgment. When you stop feeling the weight of decisions, you stop seeing their ripple effects. You miss risks that don’t show up in a spreadsheet. You lose the ability to read people, anticipate fallout, and course-correct before it’s too late.

Emotion isn’t the enemy of logic. Unchecked emotion is.

My emotions are not running the show. They’re in the room. They’re data — part of how I evaluate outcomes and consequences that don’t neatly fit into a memo or a dashboard. They’re often what makes the difference between a technically correct decision and the right one.

I don’t need to be less emotional to do this job well. I need to be honest about what it costs to do it this way, and keep deciding it’s worth it.

Because it is.

I would rather carry the weight of caring than pretend it doesn’t matter. I would rather feel deeply and decide deliberately than operate numb and call it professionalism.

So yes. I’m emotional. And I’m logical enough to know exactly what that means — and what it’s worth.