There’s a Dostoevsky-adjacent line that has followed me from job to job, like a slightly unhinged little companion: “they insulted me in seventy lines and only the spelling mistakes bothered me.”

It shouldn’t resonate as much as it does. And yet.

Because here’s the thing about being a change agent. No one throws you a parade for it. People don’t like change. They like the idea of change, sure. Growth! Innovation! Transformation! All very sexy in a strategic plan. Much less charming when it shows up in their inbox, their workflow, or their comfort zone.

So they resist. Politely. Then less politely. Then, creatively.

And what fascinates me, truly, clinically fascinates me, is how rarely the resistance is about the actual work. It’s about tone. Delivery. Timing. The emotional punctuation of it all. You can overhaul an entire system, but heaven forbid you used the wrong font while doing it.

Seventy lines of substance. And we’re debating spelling.

I’ve learned not to take it personally (most days). People filter change through whatever story they need to tell themselves. That it’s unnecessary, that it’s disruptive, that you are the disruption. It helps them stay comfortable a little longer. And comfort, as we know, is a very persuasive liar.

But change doesn’t ask for permission. It just arrives. Usually wearing bad PR and carrying a clipboard.

So I do what I’ve always done. I stay focused on the work. I tolerate the noise. I resist the urge to correct every “spelling mistake” thrown my way, even when it’s tempting, even when it’s petty, even when it would feel so good.

Because the goal was never to be liked.

The goal was to move things forward.

And if that means being misunderstood in seventy different ways along the way?

Fine.

Just spell my name right.