Feedback can sting!

Facilitation is, at its heart, an act of service. We create the conditions for others to think, reflect, and sometimes to confront uncomfortable truths. We hold the room so that the group can do the work it needs to do, even when that work isn’t easy or pretty. Most of the time, the role is deeply rewarding, but every so often, facilitation exposes you to moments that are barbed, bruising, and, if we’re being honest, enraging.

I was reminded of this recently while running a training course. It was an in-person programme, stretched over some intensive days and with a group that had grown increasingly familiar with one another. By the second morning, there was a comfortable rhythm: discussions flowed, laughter came easily, and my colleague and I were able to test the group with more challenging material.

During a session on strategic foresight, my colleague took the lead and I stepped back into an observer role. It’s a luxury as a facilitator to be able to watch the group dynamic play out without worrying about your own delivery, and what I noticed was striking: The group, despite their good humour, were painting a picture of the future that was unrelentingly negative. Every idea seemed to be met with a “yes, but…” or “that won’t work because…” They weren’t wrong to see the obstacles, but the energy was heavy and defensive.

When it came time for feedback, I offered this observation. I said, lightly, that they had been rather negative in their outlook. The reaction was instant. They threw up their collective arms in mock horror, denying the charge with laughter and exaggerated protest. It was jolly, not hostile, and I knew they understood the point I was making. Naming the negativity had worked: it was out in the open, and the group could see themselves in the mirror I was holding up.

And then came the moment.

One participant, a CEO who had been dominating discussions throughout the course, cut across with a pointed comment: "You’re choosing to see the negatives. It’s a facilitation technique, and not one I particularly like or appreciate."

The words landed like a slap. They were delivered with the kind of false politeness that barely hides its true intent: to undermine, to put me on the defensive, to assert authority. The remark was personal, dismissive, and it came at a moment when the group’s attention was fully on me.

I carried on. Outwardly, I didn’t flinch. I moved the session forward, kept the focus on the exercise, and made sure we reached lunch without derailment; but inside, I was incandescent with rage. My heart thudded. My jaw clenched. I replayed the moment again and again as the group left the room.

Why such a strong reaction? Because facilitators give themselves to the group. We listen intently, we manage energy, we tune into what’s being said and, perhaps more importantly, what’s not being said. We give feedback not to score points, but to help the group move deeper into its own learning. To have that feedback dismissed not on its merits, but as some kind of manipulative “technique,” cut to the core of what I was trying to do. It was not only rude, it was an attempt to strip away legitimacy.

It’s worth pausing to notice what was really going on here. The comment was less about me than about the participant. People who are used to leading, especially CEOs, sometimes struggle to surrender to the process of being facilitated. They are accustomed to owning the narrative, to setting the frame, to being the voice of authority in the room. When a facilitator names a pattern that challenges that narrative, it can feel threatening. Dismissing it as “just a technique” is a way of protecting status.

That doesn’t make it acceptable, of course, but it does make it explainable. And that realisation has helped the rage subside.

There are three things I took away from the experience.

1. First, it wasn’t about me. The remark was a defence mechanism. It reflected the participant’s discomfort more than it reflected any truth about my facilitation. I have to remind myself of that: the sting is sharp, but it is not a verdict on my capability.

   
   

2. Second, composure is everything. In that moment, I didn’t rise to the bait. I didn’t fire back, or let my face betray my feelings, or make the session about a power struggle between me and the participant. I kept the attention on the group’s work. That’s the real skill in facilitation: not clever exercises, but holding the space even when you are personally rattled.

   
   

3. Third, the group matters more than the individual. Before the barbed comment, the group’s reaction to my feedback had been light-hearted. They had laughed, mocked themselves, and denied their negativity with humour. That told me they had actually heard and accepted my point. One person’s sharp dissent doesn’t erase the wider group’s engagement. It is a mistake to let one loud voice overshadow the silent majority.

Facilitators the world over will recognise the pattern. The over-contributor. The contrarian. The participant who “knows better” and can’t help reminding you. These are not signs of failure; they are part of the craft. If anything, they are proof that you are working with real people, with egos and insecurities, not idealised learners who always nod politely.

The question, then, is what to do with the sting. For me, it lingers. I can still feel the hot flush of anger as I write this; but I also know it will fade, and when it does, the learning will remain. I will carry forward a sharper sense of how status can play out in a room, a deeper trust in my own composure, and a renewed commitment to the principle that facilitation is about the group, not about me.

I share this not to vent (although the writing has helped) but to normalise the experience. If you facilitate, sooner or later you will be undermined, challenged, or even attacked. It doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means you are human, and you are in the messy, beautiful work of helping groups think together.

And perhaps that is the final lesson. Facilitation is not about avoiding discomfort. It is about staying steady in the discomfort so that others can do their work. Sometimes that means holding silence. Sometimes it means naming patterns. And sometimes, it means carrying on with composure even when your insides are burning.

That, I suspect, is where the real learning lies, for both the group and the facilitator.