The Repair Velocity: What Happens After Someone Says “I’m Triggered”

That breach can become the foundation for a trust we didn’t even know was possible. If we’re willing to take it.

Originally published on Staying Human, my weekly Substack exploring leadership, identity, and dignity in an age of fracture.

This piece is about a conversation that nearly went wrong and what happened when I chose repair over being right. It's also a story about what I call "repair velocity": how quickly leaders move toward problems instead of away from them. In coaching, I work with leaders who are navigating moments exactly like this one where the stakes are high, emotions are raw, and the next 60 seconds will either deepen trust or destroy it.

I was in a hurry that morning. First call of the day, short window, long list. My director and I were on Zoom, talking about a pending staff retreat that had recently taken on unexpected weight.

Originally, we’d floated possible dates with the retreat ending mid-week. But in recent months, everything had shifted: inside the organization, inside our people, inside what this gathering now needed to hold. From my perspective, keeping staff together through Thursday wasn’t a luxury now. It was necessary.

She kept pushing back though.

What I didn’t at first know was why.

From her side, our original dates were now already woven into her life. She had made plans for her husband’s birthday based on when we said the retreat would end. Extending it meant she would need to choose between leaving early or giving up something deeply personal.

But she wasn’t saying anything about that yet.

What I heard was resistance. And it was making me impatient.

I could feel it in my body, the pressure, the clock ticking, the weight of what was at stake. And some judgment:

Why is this so hard? It’s so obvious to me. Don’t we all see how serious this moment is?

That’s when I said to her, “We all have to adapt. This is a tough moment. That’s what leaders do.”

As soon as it was out of my mouth, I regretted it. It’s true, we were in a tough spot. Things were on the line but what I meant was:

Our situation has changed. You and I both know it. We are all being asked to adjust.

What she heard was:

You aren’t adapting. I am. I’m leading. You’re not.

Silence.

She paused. Then, quietly but firmly, she said directly to me: “I’m feeling really triggered right now. I need to stop. You just implied that I’m not showing up as a leader.”

Time slowed even more. I knew I had blown it.

Inside me, two things were happening at once. Part of me wanted to clarify, to explain myself. Describe the bigger picture. Make sure she understood what I meant by my rushed words. Another part of me felt a deep, sinking recognition: my words and my tone had hurt her. That was the very last thing I wanted. That point, my realizing I had hurt her, mattered more than being right.

I wanted to apologize. My first instinct was something like, “I’m sorry you felt triggered.”

But I didn’t say that. Thank God.

Because “I’m sorry you felt triggered” would have been about her perception, not my impact. It would have centered my intent over her pain. It would have been a deflection disguised as an apology, the kind that preserves my sense of myself as careful and good while leaving her holding the hurt alone.

What I did was pause. I felt deep disappointment in myself. I was trying so hard to listen, to care, to be a great leader. And in that instant, I’d completely missed it. Worse, I could have been throwing away weeks of relationship-building simply because I was in a hurry.

After taking a beat and thinking about what mattered to me (behaving like a caring human being) I said:

“My words hurt you. I am truly sorry. I should not have said that, and I should not have said it the way I did. I didn’t mean it the way you heard me, but I did say it. Please forgive me.”

Not a defensive apology. Not a conditional one. Just:

I hurt you. I’m sorry.

And that opened the door.

She told me about her husband’s birthday. About the plans she’d made. About what she was trying to protect in the middle of a season already asking more of her than felt sustainable.

Suddenly, her resistance made sense.

We were both carrying something real. I was carrying the weight of an organization in crisis, and she was carrying something tender and human I hadn’t been able to see.

We talked. We found a way forward.

Before we moved forward, though, I asked her, “Are we okay?”

She said, “What?”

I said it again, “Are we okay now? I don’t want to keep going until we are.”

She paused. “Actually . . . I’m kind of stunned. And I’m really happy. I didn’t think we could talk this way, that I could say I was triggered by something you said, that we could disagree, and then still come right back together. I forgive you. And thank you.”

Her voice was soft. Her demeanor had changed, open again, not guarded.

The Service Recovery Paradox

There’s something in customer service research called the Service Recovery Paradox: customers who experience a problem that gets handled well often become more loyal than customers who never had a problem at all.

At first, that sounds backwards. Shouldn’t flawless service be the goal?

But trust isn’t built by perfection. It’s built by repair.

A flawless transaction tells someone you’re competent. A well-repaired failure tells them you actually care.

That’s not just true for customers. It’s true for humans. Especially the ones we lead.

When something goes wrong, when someone feels hurt, unseen, or dismissed, they’re not asking for you to have been perfect. They’re asking: Will you come close, or will you step back?

In that moment on Zoom, I had a choice. I could have explained myself. Defended my intent. Made it about the organizational stakes.

Instead, I chose repair.

Not because I’m necessarily a good person, but because I believe rupture, when we’re willing to face it, can become an invitation to deeper trust.

The mistake wasn’t the threat. The delay, the distance, the defensiveness would have been.

That’s the paradox: Sometimes our failures, when we repair them well, create loyalty that never would have existed otherwise. Not because we didn’t mess up, but because when we did, we came back.

Repair Velocity

High-performing organizations have what I think of as repair velocity: how quickly and humanly they move toward problems instead of away from them.

Slow repair can equal fear culture.

Fast repair builds trust culture.

Your staff aren’t asking for perfection. They are asking: When I’m hurting, will you come close or step back?

The answer to that question and how quickly you deliver it determines whether rupture becomes fracture or invitation.

Triggers don’t have to break trust. Power doesn’t have to erase tenderness. And rupture doesn’t have to mean rupture forever. That breach can become the foundation for a trust we didn’t even know was possible. If we’re willing to take it.

Working with this in real time.

Repair velocity, moving toward rupture instead of away from it, is something I work with frequently in coaching. The moments that feel most high-stakes are often the ones where the most growth becomes possible. If you're navigating team conflict, difficult conversations, or the challenge of leading with both strength and tenderness, I'd welcome a conversation.