Speaking from Experience, Not the Crowd

by Angela Sanford

As a teacher, coach, and community member, I’m often asked to provide character references — for jobs, awards, scholarships, or volunteer opportunities. It’s a request that can feel both flattering and weighty. After all, a reference is more than just a letter; it’s a reflection of trust, integrity, and perspective.

   When I agree to write a reference, I base it on my own direct experience with that person. I speak to what I’ve personally observed — their actions, their attitude, their growth, and their way of treating others. I don’t rely on second-hand accounts or the opinions of others, whether glowing or critical, nor do I think I should.

That’s an important distinction.

   No matter how many stories circulate about someone, my role is not to echo the noise — it’s to speak truthfully from my own lens, which may differ greatly from someone else’s experience with the same person. It’s not always easy to tune out what others think. In any workplace or community, stories travel quickly, and it takes real effort not to let other’s words shape our perceptions.

   We all see people through the filter of our own interactions, sometimes vastly differing perspectives, but I try very consciously to ground my judgments in my personal experience alone – and rule out the banter I may have been privy to through social conversations.

   Take, for example, a teacher I once supervised. In their first position in which I knew them, they showed resilience, curiosity, and kindness — qualities that made them a strong fit for that environment. Later, when we were both in a different position, I learned they were finding classroom management more difficult. By the time their position in that school ended, rumours and firm opinions were circulating about their professionalism, their commitment to education, and even questions were abounding about their personal mental health.

   When that teacher later asked me to serve as a reference, I returned to what I knew from my shared experience with them — not the rumours, not others’ frustrations, but my own direct interactions with them. In my experience, they had been capable, professional, and compassionate. That’s what I shared. 

   Because when I write a reference, it’s exactly that: a reflection of my perspective, shaped by the time and space I shared with that person — nothing more and nothing less. Should I have changed my reference to match what others were saying? I don’t think so. My role isn’t to weigh every version of someone that others describe, but to speak honestly about what I have personally witnessed.

   In the end, writing a reference reminds me that our impressions of people are deeply personal — shaped by moments, memories, and shared effort. Each reference becomes a quiet lesson in perspective, a reminder that none of us sees the whole picture, only the part we’ve been trusted to witness.

   I’m often reminded of that truth in our own community. We’ve all known someone who has faced challenges we couldn’t fully see. Sometimes, only later, do we learn what they were living through, and we realize how much grace and strength it must have taken just to show up each day. Those moments remind me to lead with understanding, to look beyond the surface, and to remember that every story is more complex than it appears.

   What matters most, then, is to speak with sincerity — to offer the truth of our own experience rather than chasing consensus. In doing so, we honour both the individual and the integrity of our own word. Because perhaps that’s the quiet power of a reference: it asks us to look closely, remember carefully, and share, with honesty and care, the story worth telling.