Stop Calling Communication an Excuse: The Irony of Being Told to “Just Listen” by Someone Who Never Does

Some people don’t understand the difference between explaining and making excuses. And when you try to explain, to take accountability, to actually show you’re listening, somehow you get labeled as “talking too much” or “making excuses.”

Last week, during a Lions game, my manager came behind the bar and screamed at me in front of customers—after already yelling at me out on the floor in front of customers—for not using plastic. The reason I didn’t use plastic? Because I wasn’t about to charge someone for a 16 oz beer and only give them 12 oz. I wanted to give people what they were paying for. And here’s the irony: I had other coworkers using glass non-stop before and after me, yet I was the only one singled out, yelled at, and humiliated. Nobody else was even spoken to.

Then yesterday, during a Tigers game, I was in the kitchen explaining that I was sorry for putting dirty dishes on a clean cutting board. I wasn’t excusing it—I was literally saying, “I didn’t think about it in that moment, here’s why I did it, and I won’t do it again.” But apparently, even saying that much was “an excuse.” He jumped on me again: “You always have to say something. We don’t care about your excuses.” Excuse me, sir, I wasn’t giving you an excuse—I was giving you the respect of an explanation and a commitment to not repeat it.

Later, as I was getting drinks at the end of the bar, he came up and said, “I know you want to say you hate me, Godsey.” My response? “No, I was just explaining myself and letting you know why I thought that way and that it won’t happen again.” His response? “You’re doing it again. You just can’t help it. Just don’t talk.”

And it didn’t even end there. I asked my coworker if I could take five minutes outside and if she’d be okay holding down the bar. She said yes. So I stepped out, sat on the curb outside the bar next door with my water, and put on some relaxing music—just trying to reset.

Then my manager comes outside, gives me this bewildered look, shaking his head like I’d been caught doing something wrong. I told him, “I asked the other bartender if I could take five.” He just kept shaking his head. So I asked, “Am I not allowed to? Because if that’s the case, I’ll come back in.”

And here’s what gets me: this man won’t talk to me, won’t listen to me, but he’ll come outside just to taunt and antagonize me. I wasn’t hiding. I wasn’t skipping out. I was literally sitting right there, trying to breathe.

Knowing your limits is hard. Working past them when you already know you’ve hit them, because you don’t have a choice, is even harder. I needed that minute before the continuation of all of this boiled over and there was no coming back from what was said or done. I know these things about myself. I know I am better than just popping off like that. And I know that when I give in to people who push buttons on purpose, I give them exactly what they want. I am not giving them that satisfaction.

And after my brain injury, I learned I need to communicate these things and explain more as a way of coping—instead of just shutting down because somebody is attacking me. That’s not weakness. That’s survival. It’s how I stop myself from spiraling, and how I keep myself steady enough to move forward.

And that’s the part that gets me. Communication isn’t an “excuse.” Listening doesn’t mean shutting people down. If you want people to grow, you have to let them speak. Otherwise, you’re not actually listening—you’re just silencing.

Sometimes, people don’t want a conversation. They want obedience. They want yes-men. But I’m not built that way. I’ll own my mistakes, I’ll fix them, but I won’t sit in silence pretending that’s the same as listening.

I know everyone says I talk too much—and that’s fine. At least I’m willing to talk and listen to somebody else if they want to. What I won’t do is tell someone to just shut up and “listen.” Because that’s not communication. That’s control.

And the irony of it all? The same people who tell me to “just be quiet and listen” are the ones who never actually listen themselves.

Because real listening? It’s a two-way street.