Dr Emma Burrows

Author: SciPerfIRL

  • Why we should break the habit of calling women “girls” in the workplace

    Language in workplaces often evolves through habit rather than intention. Certain phrases become so common that they pass unnoticed, even when they carry assumptions we might not consciously endorse. One of those habits is referring to adult women as “girls.”

    In many organisations it appears in casual ways: “the girls in the office,” “the girls on the team,” or “I’ll ask the girls to organise that.” It is rarely said with the intention to diminish anyone. Often it is framed as friendly or informal. But language shapes how we perceive roles, authority, and competence, and small habits can reinforce larger cultural patterns.

    The term “girl” refers to a child. When used to describe adult women in professional environments, it subtly shifts how maturity and authority are framed. The equivalent substitution rarely happens in the same way for men. While people might occasionally say “the boys,” it tends to appear jokingly or in informal settings rather than in reference to professional responsibility or capability. More commonly, adult men are simply referred to as men.

    These patterns matter because language helps establish norms. Titles and descriptors signal who is taken seriously, who holds authority, and who is seen as fully professional. When adult women are routinely described using language associated with childhood, it can unintentionally undermine that perception. It places women slightly outside the default category of “professional adult.”

    This is not about policing language or assuming bad intent. Most people who use the phrase “the girls” are doing so out of familiarity or habit. But leadership cultures are shaped by patterns that often go unexamined. Changing language is one small way of shifting those patterns.

    There is also a broader cultural context. Women have historically had to work harder to establish credibility and authority in professional environments. Research on workplace communication consistently shows that language influences perceptions of competence and leadership. Words that signal maturity, expertise, and authority matter, particularly in environments where women are still underrepresented in senior roles.

    Breaking the habit is simple but meaningful. Instead of referring to “the girls,” we can refer to “the team,” “the women,” or simply use people’s roles or names. These alternatives reinforce professionalism and remove an unnecessary layer of diminishment.

    For many women, the issue is not that the word “girl” is always offensive. In social settings, friendship groups often use it comfortably and affectionately. The difference is context. In professional environments, language carries signals about status and capability. Small linguistic habits can either reinforce or challenge the assumptions we bring into those spaces.

    Workplace culture is shaped not only by policies and strategies but also by everyday behaviour. The words we choose are part of that. Breaking the habit of calling women “girls” is a small shift, but it reflects a broader commitment to treating colleagues as the professionals they are.

    Respectful language does not need to be complicated. Often it simply means calling adults what they are: adults.

  • I’ve met a lot of elite athletes who refer to themselves as lazy

    Not publicly, and not in interviews. I hear it in quieter, one-to-one conversations, usually when frustration has built up over time. They will say things like, “I’m just lazy,” or “I can’t seem to get organised,” or “Everyone else manages this better than I do.” These are athletes who train relentlessly, tolerate physical discomfort daily, and operate under constant evaluation and scrutiny. Lazy is rarely an accurate description. And yet it is the label many reach for.

    High-performance environments are physically structured and tightly managed. Training sessions are planned meticulously, recovery is monitored, nutrition is tracked, and performance is analysed in detail. Cognitively, however, these environments are demanding in ways that are less visible. Athletes are expected to manage complex schedules, process continuous feedback, regulate emotion under pressure, switch roles quickly, navigate selection uncertainty, and often plan for life beyond sport. That is a significant mental load.

    For some athletes, particularly those who are neurodivergent, this internal load can be even greater. Executive function differences, working memory strain, and cognitive fatigue are not visible from the outside. What becomes visible instead are the outcomes: timekeeping slips, administrative tasks are avoided, details are missed, or overwhelm presents as disengagement. When behaviour is visible but mechanism is not, the interpretation can quickly shift to character.

    This is where bias quietly enters the system. Words like “lazy,” “unprofessional,” or “doesn’t care enough” close down curiosity. They imply that the issue is motivation or attitude rather than context or cognitive difference. In elite sport, we would never explain repeated soft tissue injuries by concluding that an athlete is simply weak. We would investigate load, biomechanics, and recovery patterns. Yet when behavioural patterns repeat, we often skip the same level of investigation. If an athlete repeatedly “isn’t getting it,” that is data. The question is not what is wrong with them, but what is getting in the way.

    Neurodivergence. including ADHD, autism, dyslexia, and related differences are not rare in high-performance environments. In fact, many traits associated with neurodivergence can be strengths in sport: hyperfocus, intensity, creativity, risk tolerance, and high energy. These strengths, however, can coexist with challenges in task initiation, planning, sequencing, emotional regulation, or managing cognitive overload. Without awareness, those challenges are easily misinterpreted as lack of discipline rather than difference in processing.

    When athletes internalise those interpretations, the consequences extend beyond logistics. Confidence erodes. Anxiety increases. The narrative shifts from “this is difficult” to “I am the problem.” Over time, that self-perception influences performance, engagement, and help-seeking. What began as a difference in cognitive style becomes a wellbeing issue.

    This is why awareness and access to assessment matter. Assessment is not about labelling or lowering standards. It is about clarity. When athletes understand how their brain works, conversations change. Rather than telling someone to be more disciplined, we can ask what system would help them execute consistently. Rather than attributing lateness to carelessness, we can explore what practical adjustments might remove friction. Accountability remains, but it becomes achievable rather than abstract.

    Coaches and leaders set the tone for these conversations. If the language in an environment is judgement, athletes learn to hide. If the language is curiosity, athletes are more likely to engage and seek support. Neurodiversity awareness is not a soft addition to performance culture; it is part of intelligent leadership. It recognises that behavioural patterns are data and that sustainable performance depends on understanding the mechanisms behind them.

    If an elite athlete is describing themselves as lazy, something deeper is worth examining. Talent is rarely the issue. Effort is rarely the issue. More often, there is a mismatch between expectation and support. When we replace labels with investigation, we create environments that are both high-standard and humane. That is not a compromise. It is good coaching.

  • Why High Performers Struggle After Achievements

    Why High Performers Struggle After Achievements

    There is a moment after every pinnacle that nobody photographs.

    The public story of success is tidy: preparation, performance, applause. But the private story is different. It includes the quiet drive home, the empty inbox, the sudden absence of urgency. Something ends, and no one prepares us for the after.

    In elite sport, we have language for this. The post-Games dip describes the emotional and psychological comedown after major competition. Athletes train for years for a single event. When it ends, the structure dissolves and the identity that organised everything is suddenly unemployed.

    But this phenomenon is not confined to stadiums.

    It happens after promotions, graduations, weddings, book launches, resignations. Any period of sustained intensity will be followed by recalibration. The nervous system does not distinguish between “good” and “bad” endings. It only recognises the absence of structure.

    From the outside, nothing looks wrong. From the inside, something essential has shifted.

    Most people interpret this moment as personal weakness. They assume they should feel grateful, motivated, energised. When they don’t, they conclude something is wrong with them.

    But the problem is not performance.
    The problem is that we train people for pressure, not for aftermath.

    Change is fast. Transitions are slow.

    Until we learn to design for the moment after success, we will continue to mislabel normal adaptation as failure — and high performers will continue to struggle in silence.