You’re in a Zoom call with a sizable group. You’re sharing your screen, walking through an idea you’ve been quietly developing for weeks. A proposal you believe might lift the fog. Something to solve the problem that’s been dragging the project down for a while.
You’re focused. You don’t see faces. Just your desktop.
But you’re confident.
Your prototype worked (thank the prototype gods). Your slides are crisp. You’ve got three sharp reasons, crafted with help from your AI friends, plucked from a long-running string of chats and redrafts.
You breathe.
You finish.
And you ask the room:
“Any thoughts?”
And then…
Crickets.
You stop sharing your screen.
(Silence)
A checkerboard of blank faces and muted mics greets you.
Eventually, someone unmutes:
“That’s great. Anyone with thoughts?”
(…more crickets…)
“Okay. Let’s keep talking about this offline. Moving on…”
Maelstrom
Wait. That’s it?
Your big, bold, game-changing breakthrough…
Met with red mic icons and a few polite nods?
Why aren’t they as excited as you are? Was this a terrible idea? Did you do something wrong? Did you just waste your time building it? Your breath presenting it?
Now. Before you spiral too far down the “why did I even bother” spiral…
Take a beat.
Breathe.
Swarm
I’ve done many (so many) presentations.
And a lot of them were turning points—moments where the project needed realignment, clarity, morale, momentum.
Sometimes, those moments saved the project altogether.
And many of those moments were met with…
Crickets.
And oh, I try. Believe me, I try.
I sketch by hand. I add little surprises to the deck. I move with my body, talk with my hands like I would in person. I pre-write jokes. I rehearse mic-drop phrases. For the big ones, I print out my script, scribble edits with a red pen, and time every beat like I’m giving a keynote.
And still…
Crickets.
Sting
So here’s the conclusion I’ve come to:
Crickets are normal.
Unfortunately.
It’s not about your idea. Or your energy. Or your slides.
It’s just that we—the people on the other side of the screen—are collectively terrible at making you feel seen and heard. Not because we’re cruel. But because the medium flattens us.
Zoom, Google Meet, whatever tool you’re using—it all strips away the cues you’re used to. The murmurs. The nods. The buzz of shared presence. You get red mic icons instead. And silence.
Silence is negative space. And sometimes, you minds can’t leave negative space alone.
We fill it. With doubt. With assumptions. With every version of “maybe I’m not enough.” You think you’re craving praise, but really you’re craving feedback. Any kind of feedback.
These days, I’m used to it.
Mostly.
I know this is how it goes.
But I’d be lying if I said the silence doesn’t still sting.
Soul
I remember how soul-crushing my first few rounds of crickets felt. How easy it was to let the quiet mean something.
To mistake it for judgment. To confuse silence with failure. To think: maybe they hated it. Maybe I have no idea what I’m talking about. Maybe I have no idea what I’m doing.
Now, when I step up to the freshly unmuted mic, I brace for the silence. I say my piece. And I remind myself:
This is how it is.
But that doesn’t mean I did badly. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean it didn’t matter.
Maybe they’re processing. Maybe they’re distracted. Maybe they want to say something but don’t know how to jump in. Or maybe, they’re just… human.
(Just like you.)
Because I know how heavy that quiet can feel, I make it a point—every single time—to respond when someone else shares. Even if it’s small. Even if it’s awkward. I try to say something with weight. With care. With something realer than “great job” or a thumbs up.
Because sometimes, one thoughtful voice in the silence? Is enough to keep someone going.
And because I know what it’s like to show up with your whole heart… Only to hear nothing back.
Chirp...
Crickets aren’t cruelty. They’re latency. They’re lag in the human feedback loop. Because the silence doesn’t mean no one heard. It just means the impact is asynchronous.
So if the crickets come?
Let them chirp. Let them fill the awkward quiet with their tiny, indifferent song.
Here's the thing. Crickets are a checkpoint. They make you ask—Would I still build this if no one clapped? Would I still say it if no one said anything back?
Because applause is borrowed energy. But conviction? That’s internal power supply. Crickets strip you down to that. No echo. No validation. Just your reason. And if the reason still stands in the quiet—that’s how you know it’s real.
Because you saw something worth fixing. Because you gave a damn. Because you showed up.
You’re not invisible. You’re just ahead of the echo. Keep talking. Keep sharing. Keep building. Keep trying.
Because sometimes... The loudest breakthroughs arrive in the quietest rooms.