People sometimes tell me I seem calm.
I get messages like:
“I appreciate how you don’t panic.”
“You’re one of the least reactive people I’ve worked with.”
“You appear to not be freaking out right now, and you probably should be.
And while I’m grateful for the compliment (concern?), I always feel a little strange receiving it—because it’s not the full story.
The truth is, I often don’t feel calm.
Inside, I’m paddling like crazy.
Like that classic image of a duck gliding across the surface of a pond—serene and composed above water, legs churning like mad just below.
The Myth of Calm = Unbothered
In tech—and especially in quality roles—there’s often pressure to appear fast, sharp, always-on.
Urgency gets confused with competence.
Panic with passion.
Noise with leadership.
So when someone shows up quietly—steadily, thoughtfully—it can read as disinterest or disengagement.
But that’s not what’s happening here.
If I seem calm, it’s not because I don’t care.
It’s because I’ve learned the cost of frantic.
I Was Frantic for Years
Before this, I spent years as a pastor.
And I’ll be honest: I operated in a low-level state of panic for a long time.
The needs never stopped. The boundaries blurred. It was a very meaning-full existence with some amazing human beings, but the weight of holding everyone else’s fear and hope and grief was relentless.
So I got good at looking calm while my body and brain ran in high gear.
But the toll showed up—in anxiety, fatigue, and a sense that everything depended on me.
I’m still unlearning that.
Now, in software, I carry some of that same wiring. But I also carry some tools that help me live differently.
What Helps Me Match the Calm I Seem to Have
Here are a few things I lean on when I really am calm—not just appearing to be:
1. Preparation
I prepare. A lot.
Probably more than I need to.
I write things down. I map risks. I over-document. I rehearse conversations in my head.
It’s not about control—it’s about relieving my brain of the need to hold everything at once. Preparation buys me clarity in moments when I don’t have time to think.
2. Systems
I have systems. Not perfect ones, but good enough.
I use checklists. Templates. A few carefully chosen tools that keep track of what’s important.
If a task comes my way, it usually lands somewhere where I’ll see it again.
This keeps the mental paddling to a minimum.
3. Trust
This one’s harder—but I’m working on it.
I trust my team.
I trust that quality doesn’t depend solely on me.
And I trust—at least half the time—that God is at work in the mess, and that I don’t have to carry the whole thing.
This isn’t about blind optimism. It’s about loosening my grip on the illusion of total control.
4. Recovery
I’ve learned to take walks. To go quiet. To log off.
I still get wound tight, but now I try to notice it sooner.
Because calm isn’t just something I give to the team—it’s something I need for myself, too.
5. Knowing What Can Wait
Unless it’s a life-threatening or business-critical bug, it can wait until morning.
Writing it up, getting it prioritized, coordinating the fix—those are tomorrow problems.
I’ve spent too many nights treating every bump in the road like an emergency. These days, I’m learning to tell the difference.
That boundary helps me keep a clearer head. It protects my energy for the moments that do matter. And it reminds me that sometimes, rest is the most responsible thing I can do.
Calm Isn’t a Performance
If you’re in a testing or quality role and you feel like you’re drowning quietly while others assume you’re fine—just know you’re not alone.
That duck image? It’s real. And it’s okay.
But I’m also learning that I don’t want to live underwater. I want the calm to be real, not just performed. And when it is, it’s usually because I’ve done the behind-the-scenes work to create space and margin.
For preparation.
For trust.
For faith.
For breathing.
And for remembering this:
Calm isn’t about ignoring problems.
It’s about knowing which ones actually need your full attention right now—and which ones can wait a few hours while you recover your soul.
Calm isn’t the absence of motion.
It’s the presence of clarity, enough structure, and a gentler pace.
And that’s something worth working toward.
—
Beau Brown
Testing in the real world: messy, human, worth it.
Testing Tester 
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