*Quote in title from Howard Gardner, 1995

INTRODUCTION


I have been preparing to research the topic of self-disclosure using the methodology of phenomenology for much of my life. I cannot remember a time when I was not absorbed in people’s stories. Even as a young child, I was interested in my parents’ tales of their lives and the drama of their friends’ lives. More recently, I traveled to Amsterdam with my father and my aunt. Although the travels were exciting, the highlight of the trip was sharing a room with my aunt and ending each day nestled under the covers as she regaled me with stories of our family lore.

It is no surprise that, for the last 30 years, I have chosen the professions of teacher and therapist. My goal in both the classroom and the therapist’s office is to create a safe haven where people can do their work, find their own meanings and wander about in their life’s journeys.

As I began defining and refining a dissertation topic, I knew that I was interested in the ways that leaders keep themselves healthy and whole during the tumult of change. I was vague and uncertain about exactly what I meant by health and which aspect of that wholeness I would choose to research.

I read Heifetz and Linsky’s (2002) Leadership on the Line and was struck by their differentiation between confidants and allies as targets of disclosure. I was immediately involved in consideration of the confidants and allies in my own career; how I had used them, or perhaps confused them. Still reading, but with my mind traveling in a different direction, I was amused at Heifetz’s story of his wife calling a “meeting” in the bathtub to get his attention and to bring him to his senses. I wondered what he got out of telling that story (and also if his wife knew he wrote it before she picked up her signed copy of the book). I wondered about how he made decisions concerning those aspects of his life that became very public.

Somewhere in the process of formulating my thoughts about Heifetz’s story, it clicked. I wasn’t merely interested in all the ways that leaders maintain a sense of health; I was interested specifically in their self-disclosing as a means of self-care.

I witness self-disclosure all day long. People tell me their stories. I listen and remember. And they are better for the telling. I was committed to this topic.
I had another clarifying moment when I talked with our program director, Laurien Alexandre, about my new-found topic. She asked me to simply talk about what I knew of self-disclosure and why it was interesting. I started rambling—a stream of consciousness. Her immediate feedback noted how many times I mentioned the differences between men and women. She suggested that gender communication might be a theoretical grounding for this subject.

Now I was really excited. I had an immediate flashback to a conversation I had long forgotten. Fifteen years earlier, I remember telling my boss Martha Ezzell that, if I could pursue my Ph.D. in any area, I would choose communication studies (Martha’s discipline) but, since my undergraduate and master’s degrees were not in communication, I knew that would be impossible. So here I was, many years later, pursuing the subject I had assumed would not be possible.

The retrospective aspect of this story does not end here. I digested libraries of books and huge numbers of articles about gender communication and self-disclosure. I organized and outlined and re-read. All of the major works about self-disclosure cited the seminal work by Sidney Jourard, The Transparent Self, written in 1971. As I spent time with Jourard’s work, it seemed extremely familiar to me. Initially, I assumed it was because I now hear self-disclosure in the subtext of every conversation and the basic tenets of Jourard’s work have become part of my cell structure. But somehow I knew this book well. And then another long forgotten memory came to me. When I was completing my MSW in 1978, I did an independent study for my final credits. My topic was the self-disclosure of the social work professional. My primary source was Jourard’s The Transparent Self.

The early reading on self-disclosure broadened my consciousness about the subject. Although self-disclosure may certainly be integral to the maintenance of self, the specific functions of self-disclosure are much more vast than I had previously considered. I was fascinated and intrigued to realize that self-disclosure is a part of many people’s influence strategy, including its use as a currency in social exchange (Cozby, 1973; Petronio, 2002; Pennebaker, 1990), goal-based disclosures (Derlega, Metts, Petronio, & Margulis, 1993), impression management (London, 1995), and organizational management (Gibson & Hodgetts, 1985; Senge, 1990). Self-disclosure is associated with both mental health (Morran, 1982; Sinha, 1974) and physical health (Sloan and Marx, 2004). Self-disclosure is integral to self-awareness (Burnard & Morrison, 1992; Derlega & Berg, 1987). As my understanding of self-disclosure increased, so did my interest and intrigue.

For me, the meaning and importance of self-disclosure has deepened in the past months since the death of my husband. Through the grief of this loss, I have been pondering the enormity of life’s existential questions: What is my purpose? Who am I? At the end of my life, what do I hope to have done? Who will I say that I am? The churning of these questions will remain but, for now, my clear answer is that we share our stories, we hear others’ stories and we connect on the deepest possible level. For me, that sharing is what matters most. I embrace the words of Wheatley (2002):

I believe we can change the world if we start listening to one another again. Simple, honest conversation. Not mediation, negotiation, problem- solving, debate, or public meetings. Simple, truthful conversation where we each have a chance to speak, we each feel heard, and we each listen well. ( p. 3)

I am further living the importance of self-disclosure in my own leadership as I work through the grief of my husband’s death. I simply must talk about him. The relief that comes with that disclosure allows me to continue working and functioning. Stiles (1987) described the fever model of disclosure in which the amount of disclosure tends to increase with the intensity of a person’s distress and that this disclosure tends to help to relieve the distress. [It is called] the fever model because it suggests that disclosure’s relation to psychological distress is analogous to a fever’s relationship to physical infection: both are a sign of disturbance and part of a restorative pattern. (p. 257)

This has certainly been my experience. My need to talk about this loss is a symptom of my pain as well as relief from it. The relief that comes with self-disclosure frees me to pursue my own leadership work.

Not only have I been moving toward this research on the subject of self-disclosure for much of my life, even using the methodology of phenomenology seems like a process for which I have long been preparing. I remember as a young adult arguing with a young man whom I was dating over my dislike for the cocktail parties we were attending. His explanation of my discomfort at these events was due to the fact that I “didn’t talk like normal people.” When I questioned this, he retorted, “When people say something casual like, ‘How about those Steelers?’, you immediately have to zoom in and find out why they like the Steelers, what that means to their lives, and how they formed this opinion.” Although his intent was critical, I remember responding with the relief and delight that comes with new clarity. “Yes, yes, yes, that’s exactly what I want to know.” Borrowing from the language of phenomenology, I was seeking the essence of the Steeler experience. Although it may or may not make for good cocktail conversation, moving toward the essence of lived experience has been my lifetime pursuit.

Van Manen (2002) stated that “wonder is the central methodological feature of phenomenological inquiry” (p. 5). He added that “ wonder is that moment of being when one is overcome by awe or perplexity—such as when something familiar has turned profoundly unfamiliar, when our gaze has been drawn by the gaze of something that stares back at us” (p. 5).

I have wonder in abundance. I began my musings by wondering about leaders in general. I wonder if the gender of the leader affects disclosure. Do women really tell more? In what settings? Does it hinder women’s leadership to disclose? Does it help? Does self-disclosure help or hinder men’s leadership? Are there different definitions of what would constitute privacy and what would constitute disclosure between men and women?

I wonder where and when leaders disclose. I wonder who they talk to when they are confused or losing track of their vision. I wonder where they work it out when they are questioning themselves. I wonder where they take their vulnerabilities and self- doubt.

I wonder where leaders test drive their plans for change. Are they always strategic in getting people privately on board? Do they talk about the private elements of themselves as a way of influencing followers to disclose similarly and/or to follow?

I wonder about privacy and boundaries. What do leaders not tell? Do leaders have a place where they tell everything? Do they have a place where their various worlds come together?

But as I continued my meanderings, I realized that I was most interested in the experience of self-disclosing for a particular leader. I was not interested in generalizing to the whole, but rather in delving deeply into the folds and intricacies of each individual leader whom I would interview. This leads me directly to phenomenology as a methodology.

I have been preparing to research the topic of self-disclosure using the methodology of phenomenology for much of my life. I have arrived.