What We Miss When We Only Review “Products”
And why your quiet feedback might matter more than you think
We live in what I’ve come to call The Review Economy—a culture where everything gets scored. Restaurants. Deliveries. Professors. Uber drivers. Even people we haven’t actually met.
We rate and review and assign stars not just to experiences, but to people.
And in the process, something has quietly shifted: we’ve stopped offering care to the work-in-progress.
We’re great at reacting to the polished, the published, the packaged. We give feedback when something has already launched—after it’s been declared “done.” But we’re less practiced at reading someone’s half-formed thought and responding with curiosity, encouragement, or even gentle challenge.
In short, we’ve lost the art of showing up for the draft.
Feedback vs. Scoring
When I was a younger teacher, I encouraged students to “take peer review seriously.” Peer review, in that context, simply meant reading each other’s drafts and offering feedback before anything was graded—before it was final. It’s a common practice in writing classrooms, but the spirit of it extends far beyond academia.
Peer review is what we do when we look at something in progress—a proposal, a design concept, a strategy deck—and respond not with judgment, but with insight. It’s the kind of feedback that says, “I see where you’re going. Want to try this?”
I still believe in that kind of feedback. But now I believe in it even more urgently—not just for students, but for all of us.
Because whether you’re offering notes on a colleague’s proposal, reacting to a friend’s script, or replying to someone’s vulnerable post with, “Keep going—I see where this is headed,” you’re doing something rare in the review economy: you’re offering presence, not performance.
And it matters. A lot more than most people realize.
The Power of the Pre-Review
Most people won’t remember who gave them five stars.
But they’ll remember who read their work before it had a title.
Who said, “I think this part is powerful—keep digging there.”
Who offered a question instead of a score.
That kind of feedback? That’s the stuff that shapes careers, projects, even identities.
We talk a lot about the importance of “connection.” About “networking.” But I’ll say this as plainly as I can: being the person who offers thoughtful feedback before the spotlight hits is a networking strategy no algorithm can touch. It’s what makes people remember you—for the right reasons.
So the next time someone sends you something rough—messy, in-progress, still finding its shape—pause before you skim. Pause before you score.
And ask:
What could this become?
How can I help it get there?
What does it take to keep going?
That’s not a review.
That’s a gift.
The People Who Showed Me How
For me, those people were Drs. Judy Fueyo and Patrick Shannon—professors from when I was in grad school who showed me that feedback didn’t have to be a critique. It could be a conversation. Their comments and conversations weren’t accusations. They were invitations. A gentle nudge to go deeper, not because I was wrong—but because there was more waiting to be uncovered.
And that early experience shaped what I came to believe feedback could be. Especially in contrast to the kind of “feedback” I received later in my career.
I once presented a strategy document—50 pages of thoughtful research, structured insight, and forward-thinking ideas.
What I received in return wasn’t dialogue or discussion. It was a swift, one-page rebuttal. Not a curiosity-driven exchange. Not a co-building opportunity. Just a quick defense of how things had always been done—and a quiet closing of the door.
That kind of leadership doesn’t just shut down conversation—it stifles progress. It trains people not to try. And it leaves the draft on the table, untouched.
And maybe that’s why I feel so strongly about what real feedback can be. Because I’ve lived both.
That kind of generous, inquiry-driven response? That’s what helps us grow; that’s what stays with us long after the scores are forgotten.
I’ll never forget the way my high school basketball coach, the legendary Art Taneyhill, put it. He told us no one would ask how many minutes we played, what our record was, or how many points we scored. But they would remember how we carried ourselves. How we stood for each other. "You’re Lady Lions," he said. "And that means something."
The score doesn’t matter.
It’s who you are—and how you show up for others—that counts.
That’s Me, a Lady Lion— number 40 in your program, number 1 in your heart—back row, third from the left—proof that good bangs and better values never go out of style.
Author Note:
Liz Holtzinger is a writer, educator, and former healthcare leader who spent years inside performance-driven systems where speed, image, and ratings often took precedence over clarity, substance, and care. Unfold is her way of pushing back on the pressure to be polished and making space for what’s real—even when it’s still taking shape.