One of the most practical, powerful, and professional things you can do in a work setting is to explain something really simply. Yes — even in a room full of (grown-up) peers, managers, or executives. Some of the best, most productive conversations happen when someone explains an idea as if everyone were five years old.
Not to patronize. But out of respect. Of people. And of something no one has enough of: time.
This kind of explanation cuts through the fluff. It trims the decoration around an idea — the jargon, the abstractions, the performance. It takes work. A lot of it.
Not just because you risk being misunderstood in a corporate setting. Or because someone might think you sound “dumb” for using plain language instead of $50 words. But because to explain simply, you have to understand deeply.
You have to listen. Sift. Connect. Distill. And then reassemble all the circling and rambling thoughts into one sharp, clear idea.
It’s hard. But I try to do this in every meeting. Every Slack message. Every day. Because I’ve seen what happens when we don’t.
I’ve seen (and been part of) projects that veered off-course — not because people didn’t try, but because they didn’t understand what was being said… and were too afraid to ask.
(Pausing here — I know there are many reasons someone might not ask for clarification. I’m not judging. But no matter the reason, the result is the same: confusion. And that confusion turns into mistakes that could’ve been avoided. Okay. Back to it.)
The Head Tilt
Have you ever sat through a meeting where someone speaks for two full minutes and… you have no idea what they just said? Not because the words were unfamiliar, but because you couldn’t tell what the words were actually trying to say?
I have.
Sometimes it’s jargon. Sometimes it’s just filler. But often, it’s well-meaning people trying to sound competent — using impressive phrases that accidentally obscure the actual idea.
I used to do this too.
I remember one meeting in particular, early in my engineering career. I was still trying to figure out what it meant to be a “real” engineer — a designer-turned-coder still learning how to speak the language.
I was trying to explain a complex UI system. It had lots of moving parts — performance constraints, reusable components, render considerations. And I rattled off a monologue filled with words like “dependency,” “composability,” “CPU/GPU optimization,” and so on.
Then… silence. A head tilt. The kind where you can tell someone is trying to be polite, but their brain’s quietly buffering. I scanned the gallery of webcams in the Zoom meeting. Nods all around — but the kind of nods that mean “I’m pretending I get it” more than “I actually do.”
What was I doing wrong? I was explaining complicated things using complicated words — just like all the other engineers. I understood what they were saying… most of the time… I think? So was the problem that others needed to do their homework? That they should learn this stuff?
Or was it me? Was I giving bad information? Was I not being clear?
I reflected a lot after that meeting. Probably during it, too.
That silence, the tilt, the squint — it wasn’t new. I’d been in this exact moment before. On both sides.
I’ve been the one tilting my head. When someone’s explaining something and I just can’t connect the dots between A, B, and C. I’ve nodded along with impressive-sounding language I didn’t yet understand — and then quietly messaged someone afterward to ask what the meeting was really about.
That’s when I realized: something had to change.
Not what other people needed to do. What I needed to do.
What is a Machine?
Somehow, somewhere, I came across a random YouTube clip from a Bollywood movie. It’s a scene that changed how I explain things.
A group of engineering students gather around a chalkboard. The professor asks, “What is a machine?”
One bright-eyed student answers:
“A machine is anything that reduces human effort.”
The professor, annoyed, asks for elaboration.
“It’s a warm day. You press a button. You get a blast of air. The fan — a machine.”
The professor grows more irritated. He mocks the student. Dismisses the answer. Calls on another.
That student replies with a textbook definition — a long, technical explanation filled with mechanics and constraints.
"Machines are any combination of bodies so connected that their relative motions are constrained... (etc...)"
The professor smiles. Finally! Intelligence.
The first student is asked to leave.
But before walking out, he turns around. He forgot something. He shared what he forgot, but in with a complicated, jargon-filled definition:
“Instruments that record, analyze, summarize, organize, debate, and explain information…”
Confused, the professor asks what he’s talking about.
“Books, sir,” the student says.
“Why didn’t you just say that?”
“I tried earlier, sir. It simply didn’t work.”
Simplify
If you’ve ever designed anything — a product, a sentence, a story, a sketch, a system — you know this truth:
The hardest thing to do is simplify.
To truly know the essence of a thing. Its bones. Its spirit. What it’s meant to do. How it makes people feel.
And then… to strip away everything else. Making something clear is hard. Making something usable is harder. And making something understandable — to someone else, in real time, in a meeting, under pressure — can feel almost impossible.
Why? Because simple feels vulnerable.
When you strip the jargon, you expose what you actually know — and what you don’t. You risk sounding basic. You risk sounding naive. You risk not hiding anymore. But hiding doesn’t help. And I refuse to hide. Because I’ve seen the alternative.
I’ve seen the silence after someone talks for five minutes and no one knows what they just said. I’ve seen the nodding — the polite, pressured kind — as people try not to look confused. I’ve seen the misalignments compound. The projects stall. The wrong thing get built. And no one realizes until it’s too late.
That’s why I simplify.
Not to impress the room — but to invite the room.
Because when you do that — when you lead with clarity and connection — something shifts. The head tilts go away (or, happen less often). People stop pretending. The work starts moving again.
So the next time you catch yourself scrambling for the right words… when you’ve used the suffix -ized seven times in your sentence and still don’t know what you’re saying…
Pause.
Start over. Say it like you would to a five-year-old.
Start with that. Bring people in. Connect with them. Help them feel comfortable enough to ask. Curious enough to care. And once they’re listening — really listening — that’s when you can bring in the fancy stuff. (If it’s even needed at all.)