There is a particular kind of quiet I miss. It lived inside IRC channels in the early 2000s, in the long pauses between messages where the cursor just blinked, waiting. You typed your reply, sent it into the void, and then you waited. Sometimes for minutes. Sometimes for half an hour. The other person was thinking. Or they had wandered off to make coffee. Or they were autistic like me, and they were composing something careful and considered in a text editor before pasting it into the channel. You had no way of knowing which, and that was fine. That was actually the whole point.
I have been in the technology sector for nearly two decades. I have shipped infrastructure, led teams, sat in enough all-hands meetings to have strong opinions about the optimal length of an all-hands meeting (it is twenty minutes, and you are all wrong). I have watched the communication layer of our industry transform so completely that the old protocols feel like archaeology. And what I keep coming back to, in conversations about burnout and neurodiversity and why the most interesting thinkers at every company I have ever worked for tend to go quiet and then go away, is this: we broke the latency on purpose, and we called it productivity.
The baud rate, for those who came up after the modem era, is a measure of signal transmission speed. A 300 baud modem in 1982 could transmit roughly 300 bits per second. At that speed, text appeared on your screen character by character, like the machine was reading the message aloud to itself. Then came 1200, 2400, 9600 baud. The physics of copper wire and analog signal created an enforced ceiling on how fast humans could exchange information. That ceiling, it turns out, was doing a lot of social work that we did not appreciate until it was gone.
Usenet newsgroups operated on a propagation model. A message posted to a newsgroup did not arrive everywhere at once. It traveled from server to server across the network over hours, sometimes days. Threads developed slowly. A question asked on a Tuesday might gather its best responses by Thursday. This was not a bug. It meant that when you arrived at a thread, you were arriving at a conversation that had already had time to breathe, to attract the people who had something worth saying, to filter out the reflexive and reward the considered. The NNTP protocol was, accidentally and beautifully, a cognitive accessibility tool.
I did not know I was autistic for most of my career. What I knew was that I was slow in meetings, that I needed time to think before I spoke, that I gave answers to questions approximately forty minutes after the meeting ended when I sent the follow-up email that contained the actual substance of my thinking. What I knew was that I was fast in writing, in async threads, in the kind of communication where the expected response time was measured in hours rather than seconds. I was, as it turns out, operating at a baud rate that the open-plan office and the real-time chat window were not designed to accommodate.
Slack is an extraordinary product. I want to be clear about that because this is not an argument against the tool. It is an argument against the culture that has grown up around the tool like kudzu around a fence post. The green dot. The read receipt. The “typing...” indicator that appears and disappears, appears and disappears, like someone on the other end of a phone call breathing too loud. These features, individually unremarkable, collectively create an ambient pressure that says: you should be here, you should be fast, your silence is suspect.
The cost of that pressure falls unevenly. For the neurotypical extrovert who thinks in real time and performs their thinking in public, Slack is a native environment. For the autistic brain that needs to move through a processing cycle before it can produce language, the green dot is a constant reminder that the environment is watching you not respond fast enough. For the ADHD brain that has finally, after ninety minutes of deep work, managed to get the problem fully loaded into working memory, the ping from a channel is not a message. It is a core dump. Everything scattered. Start over.
What gets lost is not just the comfort of individual contributors. What gets lost is the thinking itself. The deep thinker, the person who produces their best work in extended, uninterrupted focus, is structurally disadvantaged in a culture organized around immediate response. They learn, quickly, that the way to survive is to perform availability rather than produce insight. They keep the app open, they react with emojis, they respond to the simple things fast so that the expectation of fastness does not attach itself to the hard things. They code-switch, as neurodivergent people have always code-switched, between who they are and what the environment will accept.
The concept I want to offer here is what I have started calling latency-tolerant leadership. It is the organizational equivalent of that old Usenet propagation model, and it is built on a simple premise: the response time of an idea is not a measure of its quality.
Latency-tolerant leadership looks like this in practice. It means your team norms explicitly say that a message sent does not require an immediate reply, and that norm is actually enforced by how leaders themselves behave. It means design reviews have a written comment period before any synchronous discussion, so that the person who needs seventy-two hours to form their real opinion is not steamrolled by the person who has a loud opinion at t-plus-fifteen-minutes. It means the performance review system stops treating “collaborative and communicative” as a proxy for “responds to Slack quickly” and starts asking what the person actually built, thought, and shipped. It means you hire for depth and then create the conditions where depth can do its work.
None of this is new. The engineering discipline has had decades-long arguments about the value of asynchronous communication, and the remote-first movement pushed many teams toward written, async-native workflows out of necessity. But there is a difference between tools that support asynchronous work and a culture that genuinely tolerates latency, that does not flinch when someone takes three hours to think before responding, that does not silently penalize the person whose Slack status goes dark for a four-hour stretch because they were, in fact, doing the best work of their quarter.
The baud rate of empathy is not measured in milliseconds. It is measured in the depth of what arrives. And right now, we are running enterprise culture at the speed of anxiety, optimizing for the signal that comes back fastest rather than the one that comes back true.
The deep thinkers have not gone quiet because they have nothing to say. They have gone quiet because the channel is too loud to transmit what they actually mean.
