What happened when two cautious German professionals stopped performing in English – and started connecting.
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Matthias and Brigitte were already in the digital lobby when I opened the Zoom room. They were always on time.
In three months of working together, a pattern had emerged. Matthias – Marketing Director at a German automotive company – approached English the same way he approached work: with precision and a quiet fear of mistakes. He could write perfect emails but spoke as though every word was a risk. Brigitte, an IT Project Manager, knew all the technical terms but froze the moment conversation turned personal. Her cat wandered into sessions occasionally. She always apologised.
Their company wanted them to “build confidence in conversational English.” But something deeper was getting in the way.
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“Today,” I said, “we’re going to try something different.“
Matthias sat up straight. He didn’t like surprises.
“Instead of business topics – let’s share a childhood memory.“
Silence. I checked my internet connection.
“Personal?” Matthias said, frowning. “I don’t see how this is relevant to business English.“
Brigitte nodded. “We need to learn… how do you say… proper terminologies?“
“The most important business skill isn’t perfect grammar,” I said. “It’s connection. People forgive language mistakes when they feel a connection.“
They didn’t look convinced. So I went first.
I told them about my father’s chinchillas – how he bred them, how we accompanied him to shows where the best ones won prizes, how I never quite understood the fascination. But I did learn one thing: chinchillas are unbelievably soft. Who knew a tiny fluffball could win a prize just for being the best-looking?
Brigitte smiled. “That reminds me of my uncle’s farm,” she said –then stopped, looking embarrassed.
“Tell us more,” I said.
Slowly, she described summers on her uncle’s dairy farm near the Austrian border. Her English wasn’t perfect – she mixed tenses, forgot articles – but as she relaxed, something shifted. She started using her hands. Her voice became more animated. And most importantly, she stopped monitoring every word.
“The cows, they had names! Liesel was my favourite. So stubborn, like me.” She laughed.
Matthias listened, his usual rigid posture softening.
“And you, Matthias?“
He cleared his throat. “I don’t have many interesting stories.“
“They don’t need to be interesting. Just real.“
After a long pause, he spoke about growing up in East Berlin before reunification. Books had been his escape. There was one book of photographs – landscapes from around the world. He’d stared at a picture of New York City for hours.
“That’s why I studied marketing, I think. Those images told stories without words.” His voice was quiet.
By the end of that session, we hadn’t practised a single business term. It felt like the most productive lesson so far.
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The week English got them into trouble
The following session, I asked about cultural misunderstandings.
Brigitte laughed immediately. Last month, she’d told a British client she was excited about their new collaboration – and that she wanted to brainwash him. She’d meant brainstorm.
“He was very polite but looked confused,” she giggled. “Later he sent an email saying he preferred ‘idea sharing’ to ‘brainwashing.‘”
Even Matthias had a story. At a business dinner in Paris, he’d tried to compliment the restaurant’s “unique ambiance” – but used the word peculiar instead. His French colleagues spent the next day quietly debating whether he’d insulted them.
“I didn’t correct them,” he admitted, smiling slightly. “I was too embarrassed.“
“But why?” I asked.
“In Germany, precision matters. Mistakes reflect poorly on competence.“
Brigitte looked at him. “But in conversation, mistakes are normal, yes? My Polish developers joke about their terrible German.“
It became one of our best discussions – about cultural differences, about the British and American tendency to value confidence over perfection, about what it actually means to communicate well.
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Over the following months, our sessions changed shape. We still covered business topics, but every session began with something personal. I learned that Matthias collected vintage cameras. Brigitte was training for a half-marathon. They learned about my love for square dancing and printmaking.
One morning, Matthias arrived late and visibly unsettled.
“I apologise for my tardiness,” he said.
“Everything okay?“
He hesitated. “My daughter has been struggling in school. The parent-teacher conference ran late.”
We set aside the planned session. Matthias talked – haltingly, pausing for words – about his fears for his daughter. Brigitte shared her own experience with her teenage son. I talked about my four children.
At one point, Matthias stopped mid-sentence.
“I don’t have the words,” he said, frustrated.
“But we understand you perfectly,” Brigitte replied.
Six months later – Budapest, Toronto and a decision
Six months in, Matthias joined from a hotel room in Budapest.
“The conference is going well,” he said. “Yesterday I gave a presentation, and afterwards, several people asked me questions.“
“How did it feel – speaking English all day?“
He thought for a moment. “Still nervous before. But during… I focused on the message, not the words.“
Brigitte beamed. “Last week I had a video call with our Spanish team. We spent the first fifteen minutes talking about hiking trails. Just… normal conversation.“
Then Matthias surprised us both.
“My company is opening a branch in Toronto,” he said. “They’ve asked me to relocate for two years. My family and I have decided to go. My daughter is excited.“
“And you?“
“Terrified,” he admitted. “But also ready. Six months ago, I would have said no.“
“What changed?” Brigitte asked.
Matthias was quiet for a moment.
“For years, I treated English like a skill to master. A tool for business. But it’s not. It’s a bridge to people.“
