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There’s a false binary in universities that some people are more pure than others. Some are in it for the mission, while others are out for power. It sounds moral, and it feels clarifying. Except that our assumptions are almost always wrong.

I want to talk about this—why university politics feels so polarizing—and what it means to mature our thinking within the system, rather than pretending we can rise above it. I’ve skirted this topic in various posts, but haven’t addressed it directly until now. It’s time.

Politics is the unspoken context of university work. In the 1950s, political scientist Wallace Stanley Sayre coined what’s now known as Sayre’s Law: “The politics of the university are so intense because the stakes are so low.” What Sayre captured is a particular kind of intensity—one that emerges when authority is diffuse, outcomes are symbolic, and conflict feels personal.

But that doesn’t mean it is hopeless, and that all university professionals are doomed to suffer. It is possible to understand the political climate as a structural reality, not a moral one. It’s possible to learn skills to improve relationships and navigate systems without losing your integrity along the way.

For starters, let’s consider the structure of universities and how decisions are made. This used to baffle me, despite a lifetime of context. I remember, years ago, during my first alt-academic job at a university, I was assigned to be the fundraising representative on an institutional strategic planning committee. The committee was populated with some of the most intelligent people I’d ever met—professors of linguistics, marketing, microbiology—and I happily attended the two-hour meetings. We would convene every several weeks, take part in fascinating discussions on scenario planning and strategy, and nothing would get decided.

I remember thinking, what is going on? I named it my “happy hour meeting” because it was fun, yet nothing was ever decided. What I couldn’t see at the time was that alignment was being built horizontally, across relationships.

Politics is the process by which collective decisions are shaped in a system where no single actor has full authority.

Universities are layered sovereignties in which influence replaces command. Authority is diffuse and overlapping, and any given decision may require buy-in from a number of constituents, including faculty, administration, and even volunteer boards. Decisions are also often bounded by state and federal oversight, accreditation bodies, and public opinion too. It’s a gnarly environment that requires tuning a message to each room. But without naming this attunement outright, it often feels sneaky or underhanded—even when it isn’t.

Tenure and contracts are another reality that tends to freeze conflict within the system. Protections l like this are brilliant for nurturing inquiry and protecting workers, but brutal for organizational dynamics. It means that power struggles endure, sometimes for years. Instead of resolution, you wind up with tactics like coalition building, procedural warfare, reputational signaling, and moral framing as leverage.

If that weren’t enough, advancement and external relations teams navigate another layer of nuance. Their work clusters around money, meaning-making, and institutional legitimacy, and their professionals are often navigating contexts in which people do not share a common language or logic. They are tasked with translating the university to the public. Translation is not neutrality; it’s political work. It requires emphasis, omission, and framing.

With all of this, you might start to wonder why anyone would want to work in a university at all. For most, the mission still matters, and outweighs the struggles. Nevertheless, the reality can become untenable. I know people who identify as “recovering academics” as a result. It’s particularly heavy to those who value directness, or like to move swiftly, or prefer to build harmony. Those who choose to stick it out often survive by keeping their head down and not rocking the board.

At their most vulnerable, what most everyone wants to understand is how to act with integrity inside a system that cannot be pure.

This is the underlying premise of my work: in universities, there are no good actors. There are no bad actors. Just conditions.

Growing up, my dad was a professor. As families do, we would discuss his job at the dinner table. There’s a story that once, at a holiday party, we met a man named Dean, and I thought he was the dean. That’s how long this world has been a part of my life.

Leaping ahead, when I landed my first job as a director of communications at a university foundation, I thought I’d landed my dream job. As a strategist, and someone who likes to understand how people work as individuals, and in systems, I immediately began trying to wrap my mind around why the environment felt so toxic. What made it so miserable?

When I got serious about studying coaching a decade ago, I unlocked a few insights right away. One, I came to believe that every university leader should have a coach. Two, this isn’t enough. If we want universities to function better, their leaders need to learn the skills of a coach themselves. Armed with this insight, I set out to develop training programs specifically for advancement shops. It is meaningful work, but until now, I’ve skirted around one of the biggest barriers to adoption: the taboo topic of politics.

This is what I want to make explicit, and what coaching skills help address: there’s a gap between how universities are formally governed, and how decisions actually move. Decisions move through undocumented channels. They move through informal alignments, or narrative framing, sequencing and timing. They move through patterns of who shows up, who speaks, and who stays silent. While formal systems of governance may provide legitimacy, it’s the informal processes that actually create motion.

We can make our systems more intelligent and decision-making more transparent. By intelligence, I mean the system’s capacity to make sense of itself. This isn’t about brilliance or tenure. It isn’t about teaching people to “manage stakeholders” better, or learn new influence tactics, or help to build coalitions, or win internal games. It’s not about making people more persuasive or strategic in a Machiavellian sense. Nor can it make power disappear.

What it does do is develop people’s capacity to act with clarity and integrity inside political systems without becoming manipulative, avoidant, or cynical.

This is where I’ve been pointing for years. I thought I could do it subtly, and now I’ve come to admit we need to address it frankly.

What is the promise of learning the skills of a coach? It can reduce unproductive politics. It can teach you how to work with power without being distorted by it. It can help you move from moral certainty to shared inquiry—from who is right to what are we actually trying to do together, given our reality.

In universities, people seek mission through influence. Normalizing this as a fact allows leaders the safety to stop over-performing purity, and accept the mechanism through which the mission moves forward. It doesn’t have to be unskilled—that’s when it turns ugly. Once the dynamics of influence are neutralized, teams can speak more honestly about ambition too, because fundraising runs on ambition.

It’s worth repeating that there are no good actors. There are no bad actors. Just conditions. Even if only a small percentage of you believes this to be true, nurturing this perspective begin to soften your environment overall. It also begins to create containers in which identity can finally relax.

You can be less captured by the system. But you cannot do it alone. Becoming less reactive, less moralized, and more discerning requires education and support. These are skills. It is a practice. The shift happens when the system itself commits together.

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Why do people in the for-profit and nonprofit sector—which I am making a concerted effort to call the “community sector,” a more accurate term—reason so differently? This has been on my mind.

I’ve considered it before, having led a career straddling both, but my moments of fleeting curiosity have usually sprung from bemusement within a conversation. In a board meeting, or speaking with a donor, I’ve noticed differences in how we think. It’s like a flash of recognition, like realizing the cookie recipe is off but subtlety … needs more salt? It’s not that we can’t relate to each other at all. Business and community people work together all the time. And yet, the partnerships can feel wonky, even frustrating.

I suspect it’s because the seam where the two sectors meet is managed and governed. We’re stitched together by etiquette, rules of doing business, and legal and cultural traditions. We’ve managed our relationships. I think it can be better. I’m interested in understanding our relationships, and giving people the language to articulate differences. Even small insight can get us closer to truer, more authentic partnership.

How do people in each sector think differently? My opening bid is that community professionals are stewards of complexity. Sometimes this can be experienced as bureaucratic, or stubborn, or insubordinate. “They can’t get out of their own way!” is an outrage I’ve heard leveled against individuals and organizations many times. But it’s more nuanced than that. The sector’s source of authority is different.

An entrepreneur or executive’s authority comes from the market—the truth of an idea is proven when customers pay. But for community professionals, ideas are proven when they align with community need or moral obligation. The for-profit world famously considers elimination of complexity to be a great virtue … but what happens when complexity gets bypassed and is not solved for? It lands in the laps of community people.

The for-profit sector optimizes for acceleration and timing. Being first, moving fast, exiting at the right moment is strategic. Entrepreneurs and executives often build from a blank slate. But community people optimize for durability. They seek to hold a mission over decades, even when short-term gains are elusive. They inherit complex systems from governments, foundations, and others that they must navigate with compliance and nuance. “Vision” isn’t just imagining an opportunity, but carrying a mission forward through turbulence.

The sectors consider risk differently too. In the for-profit world, risk is fuel, and failure is framed as productive. You learn from it, hoping to live another day. But risk to community people is contained by a respect for public resources and generosity. Failure isn’t just personal because it may mean a loss of donor trust, funder confidence, or service continuity. The calculus isn’t “will it payoff” but “can I ethically gamble?”

Both sectors do share a sense of courage. But even that is defined in different ways. For entrepreneurs and executives, there’s the risk of failure in the market, which takes courage. For community builders, there’s the courage to stand in the gaps where society falls short. It’s a tolerance for ambiguity, and a recognition that impact unfolds over decades, not years.

If you’re thinking this sounds a bit obvious, I understand. We sense these differences. But sensing and naming are different acts. Naming matters because putting words to our rationale—and acknowledging the roles from which we’re operating—can improve communication.

I came up with some questions that could be used in discussion or decision-making if you’re curious to apply this. They’re designed to bring attention to the roles we play, and the logic that stems from them. You could also use them for personal reflection, especially if, like me, you straddle the sectors, or have made a career pivot:

• Who is advocating for speed? (What is their reasoning? What role (community, corporate, hybrid) are they speaking from?)

• Who is honoring complexity? (What is their reasoning? What role are they speaking from?)

• What do you believe will happen if we do? What do you believe will happen if we don't?

• What are you afraid will happen if we do? What are you afraid will happen if we don’t?

• What does courage look like in this instance? What logic are you speaking from?

• What is your vision? Paint the picture … what do you imagine will happen? Is the gain short or long-term?

• What is your fear? Paint the picture … what do you imagine will happen? Is the impact short or long-term?

The goal isn’t to make either logic right or wrong, but to appreciate both—to engage with curiosity, rather than judgement, about the value each brings to the table. Asking questions like this is a way to soften the field. When we’re locked into positions, then we’re not learning or solving problems together, or not really. We’re managing, but we’re not creating something new.

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I didn’t expect that studying coaching would mean considering narratives about “energy,” but it isn’t as woo as it sounds. It’s very grounded. Energy is the life force that underlies thought, feeling, and behavior. It’s the capacity of a person to direct their attention.

It has a few dimensions. One is physical. This is what we use to animate our bodies, fueled by stuff like sleep, food, and water. Second is emotional energy, which converts the physiological into direction through feelings like enthusiasm, purpose, belonging, awe. The third dimension is cognitive energy, our mental bandwidth, and how we direct it toward curiosity, clarity, and decision-making.

These are the raw ingredients of life. It’s what we have to give. But layered on top is a bunch of cultural coding and ideology, shaped by what we reward, fear, and moralize. That’s where it gets interesting.

We all live with expectations and ideas about what constitutes a good life, and where and how we “should” invest our energy.

For example, there’s the idea that energy should be directed toward productivity—work, checking off a to-do list. Taken to excess, exhaustion is proof of virtue. Another frame is energy applied toward resistance. This may look like activism, confronting systems or situations of injustice. It can show up in smaller, more personal contexts too. Sometimes it’s fueled by rage. Through this lens, depletion is the cost of fighting.

Some think of energy as autonomous. We are responsible for generating our own. Contrast this with the idea that energy is relational. It is cultivated among us. It’s either a battery or a grid.

Still others believe energy originates in virtue. It is granted by divine favor, bestowed, like a calling. Others think of it as an identity, something you cultivated internally, like a manifestation.

Each of us floats in and among these frameworks and more … but we also tend to colonize perspectives in ways that limit how we live, or how we view others. A more liberating way to think about energy it is that is meant to circulate. It is a rhythmic truth.

Who shapes the narratives of energy? Systems do, in part. They translate it into the values they govern.

The medical community shapes it as a diagnostic frame. Your energy is a measurable function, and depletion is pathology. The therapy culture borrowed this model. It thinks about energy through the lens of imbalance or dysregulation. Capitalism sees it as labor potential. Religion sees it as purity; your energy is either virtue or sin. The tech culture consider it something to feed the algorithm, so it engineers dopamine cycles. The political culture sees it as evidence of allegiance, as proof of moral awareness or character. The wellness culture sees it as a vibration to be raised. The art and aesthetic culture considers it something to be expressed.

Reclaiming sovereignty, then, might start with an audit of the influence of systems in your life. This isn’t to make any one of them wrong, but to point out that each holds only a partial truth.

Some things sap our energy universally. Decision fatigue, emotional labor, fragmented attention, unresolved feelings, unexpressed truth—all of these can all leave us feeling depleted. But there are also universal renewals. Movement is one, and so is connection to others, time in nature, feeling a sense of purpose, and delighting in beauty and awe.

Thinking about energy this way is so liberating to me—I hope it is for you, too. It makes the invisible visible, and it helps name patterns. You could think of it like cultivating “energy intelligence,” allowing you to make smarter adjustments instead of sinking into feelings of moral failure or brokenness, which people tend to do, quite quickly, when they feel low.

I’ll end with a personal story as an example. The other day I’d wilted after giving a lot of attention to others. My energy was shot. I knew I needed to refuel somehow, so I went on a slow walk, thinking movement would revive me. I even listened to a playlist that I made for working out. It wasn’t enough. I laid in the grass in the sun, thinking that would fill me up … but every attempt left me lower. What else can I do? I knew as soon as I asked. I was missing connection. I was missing my girl friends, who are great listeners and very silly too. I texted to tell them. It didn’t change anything immediately; I still felt hollowed out. But identifying the missing piece, then reaching out, was enough to begin filling me up.

If considering energy this way resonates with you, you might begin with an audit of your core story. What do you believe your energy is for? Are you living in alignment with your values, or do you feel trapped? If so, what’s missing? What feels restrictive? This is a great conversation to have with someone else, too. If you’d like to explore it with me, please reach out.

Fontainebleau Las Vegas is like a luxury space ship wedged into the corner of Elvis Presley and Las Vegas Blvd. “Giving Star Trek, but couture,” as one of my friends put it. That’s actually, yes. It’s all massive spaces, flowers, giant sculptures, escalators that trigger vertigo, and on. Think Miami’s pale pinks, shades of blue and gold, and breeze block-like patterns of bowties, circles and triangles. Like the namesake resort built in the 1950s, the Vegas property blends art deco with mid-century modern, though it’s not, like, so committed to the theme as to feel pastiche. I saw a woman get on the escalator in a bikini, Birks, and trucker cap, and she still looked like she belonged.

I was at Fontainebleau several times this past week scouting a project. The second time, I brought my laptop to do some writing too, because an idea occurred to me: The Strip is the perfect case study to describe how people embody roles within a system, and how relational energy moves through a system within these roles. Why didn’t I think of this before?

First, for this theory to make sense, you must do one thing. You must shift from thinking of the individual as a unit to considering the collective as the body: we’re speaking about how relationships work in systems, so the system is the organism.

Think of this system like you might a school of fish. For starters, schools have no leader. It’s a decentralized group, so decisions are emergent, not issued. Second, it’s a bit of a mystery how information travels so quickly in them. Finally, at the heart of a school are three principles: 1) stay in alignment; 2) stay close to nearby fish; 3) don’t crowd or touch other fish.

People exhibit more complex behaviors than fish, of course, but we school in a way—we’re drawn toward centers that unify and consolidate us. Fashion trends, market bubbles, political parties, and viral TikTok videos are a few examples of this. See a crowd gathered and intuitively move toward it? That’s school-like behavior. The person who sits too close to you on an empty subway? They might be forming a school.

Within these school-like systems, individuals play distinctive roles that allow the composite body to undulate and evolve. There are seemingly infinite stripes and nuances of roles, but they also fall into specific, broader categories.

Here’s where Vegas becomes a great lens to see this: for decades, we’ve enticed people to come to Vegas to play a new role in an exaggerated, theatrical, or taboo way, no strings attached.

Vegas is a hyperreal, closed system, isolated by the Mojave desert. We like to promote that there’s infinite freedom here, but, in fact, there are specific roles that need to be filled in order to maintain the system’s equilibrium and allure. It’s tempting to say these are Vegas archetypes—that’s how marketers would define it. But I want to suggest that these are collections of behaviors, not identities. We think of identities as fixed, behaviors as fluid.

The high roller is one example of a Vegas-specific role. The high roller owns the place, big-spender or not. Confident. Self-assured. Lots of masculine energy. Or, conversely but related is the role of showgirl. All the world’s a stage. This person is sexy and knows it. Self-assured, seductive, stoking the attention of one-to-many.

The rock star has an entourage in tow, whether a bachelor, a bride, or someone celebrating a birthday. It’s their show, and everyone else is here to serve. The lost soul, on the other hand, is overwhelmed by Vegas’ excess and sadness; their internal architecture cannot withstand the scale and scope of all that rings hollow.

To the elitist, Vegas is cringe. It is basic and embarrassing, a playground for the unenlightened … you may as well be on a Greyhound bus. But to the cosplay capitalist, luxury is everywhere, from high-end retail to spas to exclusive nightclubs. They’re here to get glam and spend.

The pilgrim travels to worship at the altar of their favorite musician, chef, or sporting event. They are seekers of transcendence and transformation. The magician transforms in a different way—master of misdirection, they know how to hide their pain, or loneliness, or even a marriage. Finally, the wizards are the dealers, valets, desk clerks. It’s anyone who sees and knows all, and is willing to suspend reality for guests.

There’s more roles that need no explanation, including the gambler, the enabler, the tagalong. What’s key is that each role is dependent on the others. They move together, and we occupy roles dynamically, sometimes loosely, shifting and maneuvering to maintain connection and balance as a whole.

If you’ve been to Vegas, consider the roles you’ve played. You may gravitate toward one or two more readily, but the request I’d make is to remember that your role isn’t you. We assume roles depending on what is available, or absent, or what we intuit the collective might need. If certain roles are occupied, we fill in the gaps, being careful not to crowd.

I noticed this for the first time on a trip to Vegas for a conference. One of my colleagues, who I would describe as very thoughtful and introverted generally, emerged as the high roller! They had an aura of confidence and power here, as if they were a casino owner in a past life. (This person also had the company credit card to pay for rooms and meals, so that helped elevate their role.) In that particular system, I was a tagalong, happy to follow the crowd. But I also learned how to be the high roller by observing.

Today, when people come to visit, I often adopt the role of wizard because I know how to navigate the city. When I am with elitists, critical of Vegas, I become a bit defensive, more like the partier who doesn’t take it all so seriously. If I’m shepherding lost souls, I take them under my wing. I’ve got you, little one. Come, follow me into the brightly-lit night. I know what I’m doing. … I am the rock star.

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Now, circle back to why this is useful. Each of us can learn to shift the dynamic of a system, any system, by broadening the range of roles available to us. When people fuse with a single role—when they believe their role is who they are, the system around them begin to lose its dynamic energy and flow. It begins to wither or collapse from within.

In contexts outside of Vegas, on a team, for example, you might play the role of leader, but someone else might be the emotional leader. You might gravitate toward the role of skeptic or devil’s advocate when it feels like a system is succumbing to group think, or you might also be the clown when the dynamic feels heavy. You might gravitate toward the edges as a lone wolf. You might cast yourself as the responsible one. These are just a few examples.

It’s true that we may be more experienced at occupying some roles than others. Some might be our comfort zone, or have aspects assigned to us per our title or culture. But that doesn’t mean other roles aren’t available. Get a little experimental—if you usually cast yourself as the driver of change, see what happens if you take a back seat. If you’re the peacemaker, get feisty. If you generally take up very little room, be a diva! If you’re often serious, relax a little. Experiment. To do this intentionally can feel unnatural at first, but I guarantee, you will be surprised by the outcome. When you change, the entire system evolves to maintain balance. It happens in an instant. Just watch.

The first time I was challenged to try this, I was assigned to play the role of a diva. It was painfully awkward. This was in a coaching training, so I had to stand up and act like a diva in front of 30 strangers. I truly did not know what to say or do, and I remember going home and googling “how do I act like a diva?” That’s how foreign it was to me.

Learning to broaden your range in this way is the applied craft of an actor. The goal isn’t to manipulate or deceive, but to become more flexible, because when we moderate how we show up, everyone else gets to change, too. If you’re enticed by this and want to experiment—as an individual or with your team as a whole—please reach out. It’s really fun work, and I’d love to help.

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The other week I wrote about the difference between “efficient” and “effective” organizations in the social service sector. My argument—not a new idea, but one that’s of the moment—is that we should be striving to be more effective.

As a follow-up, I got to thinking about what constitutes an effective organization because the markers are less visible. It may not look like data we include in an annual report; you can’t find it in a 990. Yet, if these aims are important, we need to make them more visible and defensible. To that end, I made a checklist of ten markers.

How did I come up with them?
They’re born from 20 years in philanthropy and nonprofits, and nearly as many years studying coaching, positive intelligence, and relationship and systems coaching. Then, the pandemic gave me the time and space to observe myself, and others, with a fresh perspective. I began to see more clearly how the sector creates feedback loops that pull us away from leading transformational change.

We’re at the mercy of high performance expectations, coupled with impassioned beliefs about our individual calling to effect change. It’s easy to see how these dependent mindsets prod each other. Externally, there’s a prevailing belief that we can always do more with less. The sector is scrappy and self-reliant like that—look at all we’ve done with practically nothing! With even less! Meanwhile, personally, we’re willing to make sacrifices of time, mental wellness, or reward, out of a dedication to the mission. The work is often personal to us, satisfying and meaningful in ways money can’t buy.

We can do more with less; there’s always more to do. But at what cost? At the invitation of burnout, fragile systems, and a focus on short-term gains over depth. One solution is to take more time to envision and explore what effective, sustainable work might look like. To that end, here’s my list.

What are the markers of effective nonprofits?

1. There’s a clarity of purpose

There’s a deep understanding of the mission and vision, why it matters, and how the work gets done. Meaning-making is nurtured through the system at various levels: it looks like clarity in the self (who are you? why are you involved?); clarity in leadership (how does your voice educate and inspire others?); and clarity in decision-making (are decisions vetted with purpose in mind—with democratic, open-minded, and considerate interrogation—and not just for ease, speed, or optics?)

2. They prioritize positive, trust-based relationships

There’s an awareness that all work gets done through relationships, so they work on them. This looks like building a culture of psychological safety—one that prioritizes skilled conflict resolution and communication, shared frameworks for decision-making, planning, and providing meaningful feedback. Stakeholders, including communities, partners, funders, and clients, are treated as true collaborators. (Often this doesn’t happen organically: it develops through skilled, trained facilitation.)

3. They’re nimble and responsive to context

There’s an openness to adjusting, evolving, and learning. Effectiveness is contextual, not a default to “best practices”—a phrase that, I believe, can be a bid for power and control. “Best practices” strips systems of their knowledge, intuition, agency, defaulting to an abstract, omniscient authority. They’re often stories we tell ourselves. Reclaiming a responsiveness to context centers the organization’s truth.

4. They value depth over speed

In defense of work that may not scale; that may be slow, or repetitive; that is not measured by volume, or speed, but by lasting impact. Quick wins don’t overshadow long-term change, and these organizations aren’t beholden to mysterious ideas of what the work “should” cost. (What should it cost? According to whom? How did we come up with numbers for what it takes to save a life, to turn a tide, to change a narrative … let’s interrogate this.)

5. People are transformed, not just served

Human beings transform. Simply, we do. It’s a feature of being alive. It’s up to each of us to determine how. Effective organizations know this, and know how to foster transformation in their clients, communities, and staff, instilling increased confidence, agency, and well-being. Another point—when these organizations tell stories about change, they tie them to systems, relationships, and behaviors—not just transactions.

6. The internal culture matches external values

This is what authenticity looks like. These organization treat all people with dignity and respect. Internal processes reflect the same care and justice the organization seeks externally—and there’s alignment between values, strategy, and everyday behavior.

7. Learning is baked in

Learning isn’t supplemental to the mission—it’s central to it. This goes for the organization as a whole, and the individuals within it. There’s time and space for reflection, experimentation, and growth. Failure is seen as part of the process, not something to hide or fear. Metrics are used to learn, not to prove, punish, or please.

8. Thinking is expansive

Thinking that transcends the bounds of an instance or individual organization—beyond the confines of a strategic plan. Maybe it looks like coalition or relationship building, participating in broader dialogue and engagement. It’s also planning that includes sustainability, succession, and future community needs. It’s an investment in systems, infrastructure, and leadership development—even if it’s not “urgent.”

9. Equity and inclusion are lived values

They’re a practice—not a policy or a well-intentioned aspiration. People closest to the problem have power in shaping the solutions. Diverse voices are part of decision-making, and resources and opportunities are distributed with fairness and intention.

10. They leave a legacy

The other day, a friend whose job is to counsel people newly diagnosed with HIV said, “stigma can end with me.” That’s such a powerful way to understand the agency each of us has to shift narratives, beliefs, or practices beyond our walls—and it’s true. Legacy looks like an influence that ripples outward, even if quietly. The work becomes something larger than itself: effective organizations recognize and respect their narrative power at all levels.

You might be thinking, “Fine, but we’re just trying to stay afloat. How is systemic change our responsibility, too? Don’t we have to be practical and responsive to our constituents and funders?”

I understand. There is no one answer or right way. Here’s a personal story to close out. Once, as executive director, I got an introduction to a program officer of a big-deal funder—a funder that had the capacity to give our organization a huge boost in a rocky time. (Truly, it was an accomplishment to even be considered for support, and we were optimistic because we believed in our theory of change.) But in the end, the program officer declined to move us forward because our work, which focused on depth and quality of impact, wasn’t built to scale. Replicate, yes; scale, no.

After this phone call, we couldn’t help but to question our efficacy and approaches, too. Funders hold tremendous power in the ecosystem, and yet, effective work is effective work. It deserves a voice, a bold defense, and as much protection and love as we can wrap around it.

Love? Yes, I think so.

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• Your feedback, insight, and collaboration mean everything to me, and I want to begin recognizing you for it. Not everyone leaves a ❤️ or comments publicly, but with their permission to share, thanks to Zoie, Jenny, John, Greg, Matt, and Lainie.

• The silver lining in an email hack is the opportunity to reconnect with people you haven’t heard from in a while. (Also, I am sorry to those of you who received that message. I’m so sorry.)

• April is National Poetry Month. I hope you’re celebrating with writing or reading.

• Vegas Breakfast Club is relaunching April 17. Please come!

• I would not have come to find my way to this worldview without the support of my coach. Having a voice of reason, of love and support, is essential for change agents. If you want to speak about coaching for yourself, please reach out. If I’m not the right coach for you, I have wonderful colleagues and am happy to make an introduction.

Among the many working relationships in a nonprofit, one stands out above the rest: that between the CEO, or executive director, and the board chair. As Frank Sinatra might say, it’s like love and marriage, horse and carriage. When this partnership is strong, the entire organization feels it—and when it’s not, everyone feels that, too.

Wanting to strengthen this relationship, specifically, is a big reason why I went to coaching school. I’ve struggled, watched others struggle, and many times said to myself, there has to be a better way. Good news, there is! Turns out, many simple coaching tools can support it, including the one I’m introducing here, a framework that brings greater clarity and alignment to one-on-one meetings in particular.

(You might be thinking this post isn’t for you because you’re neither a CEO nor a board chair. … hear me out. It’s a useful tool in any interpersonal relationship, especially those with inherent imbalances of power.)

Before we dive in, what matters about the CEO-board chair relationship? When the two work together well, there’s alignment between operations and strategy. Decision making is smoother and more effective, including managing through crises. Finally, this relationship tends to set the tone for all others: donors and stakeholders feel more confident and trusting when the board chair and ED are aligned, and staff are more engaged and productive, as well.

On the flip side, when this relationship breaks down? Oh boy. I’ve known exceptional, long-standing CEOs who’ve consider resigning over it. Once, at a conference, an executive director shared that she would hide under her desk and cry, overwhelmed by stress. (I’ve never forgotten her vulnerability because I’ve had meltdowns myself.) Even if you consider it a relationship that you can survive, as if it were an internment, who wants to live like that?

To any partnership, each of us brings our temperament, expectations, and experiences. But between a CEO and board chair, there’s additional nuance and complexity, and a power dynamic like a seesaw. For starters, the CEO is a paid professional; the board chair is a volunteer. The CEO typically has a background in the nonprofit sector or is a subject-matter expert in the mission; the board chair may not be. On the other hand, the board chair could be a significant donor, making it tricky for the CEO to be transparent about how things are going … how they’re really going.

For all of these reasons and more, a solid relationship doesn’t develop by accident. It requires intentional effort.

The tool that I want to share is useful for healthy working relationships overall, and it’s an especially nice approach to ensure more productive meetings. Sometimes it’s referred to as “designing an alliance,” which gets shortened to “let’s do a quick design.”

If your agenda is what you want to accomplish together in a meeting, your designed alliance helps articulate want you want the culture and atmosphere to be like: how you want to be together.

The good news is you already design alliances like this. When you’re headed to a social engagement, you might set boundaries with yourself and others to keep the peace: “Let’s not bring up politics,” or “one drink, then leave.” You might discuss what you want your family vacation to be like: “I want it to be relaxed; not rushing to do this and that.” Ahead of business negotiations, colleagues might assign specific roles each person on the team—”you be the relationship-builder, I’ll be the closer.” Finally, we design through language, attire, and environment. For instance, we’re different people at a black tie event than we are at a pool party. All of these decisions have implications for how we will be together, not only what we will do.

In the workplace, lots of organizations establish guidelines or contracts to suggest conduct and behavior, and that’s wonderful. They can help articulate cultural expectations and express shared values. What I’m speaking of is more like learning to negotiate. If that sounds intimidating, yes. It can feel awkward to talk about our relationships with intention … but let me share a cautionary tale of why it matters.

Of course, in my first role as an executive director, I also had a first-time board chair. We both desperately wanted to be good at our jobs, we were total newbies, and we interpreted the purpose of our partnership very differently. I imagined us as thought partners, dreaming together about the future. The board chair, however, considered us to be strategists who discussed what we could affect and improve right now.

You can guess how the story unfolds. Inadvertently and repeatedly, we clashed. For quite some time, we navigated this misalignment in a polite, professional way, unaware of how much animosity and stress was accumulating, until, one day, it erupted. Over time we recovered, but the partnership was never the same. Missing from our toolkits was a framework to help articulate our wants, needs, and perspectives, because we actually needed them all.

So … how do you do design an alliance?

The designed alliance process is simply an open discussion at the top of each meeting about how you want to be together. Questions to consider are what you want the atmosphere to be like, what values you want to honor, or how you want to resolve conflict if it arises. What would help your partnership flourish? What can you count on from each other?

Here’s the language I use to initiate a design. You can adopt it word-for-word, though you might not need every question, every time:

1. “Before we dive into the agenda, let’s do a quick design.”

2. “What do we want this meeting to be like?”

3. “What approach might help us be successful?” (Let’s hold it lightly, let’s stay focused, let’s acknowledge that everyone is stressed, etc.)

4. “What if we disagree?” (Let’s table any final decisions, let’s get curious about each other’s perspectives, let’s take it to the executive committee, etc.)

5. “What do you want or need?” (I need some time to vent without being judged, I want to talk about this conceptually, I’d like us to play devil’s advocate, etc.)

6. “What can each of us commit to?” (I’ll keeping an open mind, I’ll ask questions, I’ll slow down so we can unpack the details, etc.)

7. “What else?”

For this to work, both people need to approach it with introspection. Note that your attention should be on what you need and what you can commit to—this isn’t a tool to manipulate someone else. Also remember that this design is co-created, meaning both parties contribute. (If it’s one-sided, you’re not building a partnership: you’re either controlling or acquiescing.)

Once you feel at home in this process, you can initiate designs with anyone, even without others being read in. I do this all of the time. Usually, surprised, people will reflexively say they don’t need anything from me—we’re generally unskilled at identifying and articulating our needs because we are rarely asked.

Remember, the CEO and board chair are demanding roles, and these challenging times. Keep working at your relationships, and I hope this tool helps. Be open-minded, be brave. You’ve got this. Reach out if you want to talk.

Letitia Boardman is one of my go-to confidants when I need informal spot coaching. She was the first person I partnered with as a student at the Co-Active Training Institute, and I still remember our initial, clumsy attempts at writing purpose statements together. We’d come from different backgrounds—hers in big tech and global enterprise; mine in philanthropy and nonprofits—and our experiences played nicely off each other.

One of Letitia’s superpowers is her ability to nudge me toward re-engaging with reason when my internal dialogue begins to veer off the road—when I’m feeling like I’m not enough, or too much, or that the world is collapsing and there’s nothing I can do about it, etc. In those moments, Letitia’s signature move is to ask, “what’s the story you’re telling yourself?”

With this intervention, I’m able to come back online in a more level-headed way. The query functions like a rudder, a blade redirecting my thought processes. If you’ve ever used a paddle to turn a canoe, you know the feeling of applying its force, creating high pressure on one side of the blade, low pressure on the other. The water’s resistance is strong at first—but it is possible to change course!

One way this question works is by distinguishing two, almost paradoxical ideas: “feelings are not facts” and “emotions are data.” Both are true at once, and they’re like a confluence of currents. Just because you feel something does not mean it is objectively true, and, emotions provide useful information that can help us make decisions, recognize patterns, and understand needs. Here’s a chart to explain it in more detail:

Here’s a few additional examples of feelings (not facts) and emotions (as data) drawn from the world of nonprofit and philanthropy. These aren’t specific to any one organization, but I’d be willing to bet you’ve heard, or expressed, some of them yourself—as have I. Notice your internal response to each as you read through this list: which ones heighten your anxiety? Which trigger empathy, understanding, or curiosity? Which feels most constructive?

“The board doesn’t help us fundraise!” v. “I’m frustrated that the board isn’t helping raise money—I wonder what’s stopping them?”

“Staff morale is at an all-time low.” v. “Some team members have expressed feeling frustrated and unheard—I’m concerned.”

“This organization doesn’t care about its employees!” v. “I’m disappointed my work isn’t more valued.”

“There’s no vision!” v. “I’m a bit lost—I don’t know where we’re going. What am I missing?”

“The board is totally disengaged.” v. “I’m worried that our board meetings lack participation—what’s preventing it?”

“We aren’t telling our story!” v. “I feel disconnected from our story. I wonder if that’s true for others?”

The first sentence in each pair are stories—they’re interpretations, expressions of feelings as facts. Even if they contain truth, they’re tough for others to engage with because they can’t be verified. (“Would a judge say so?”) On the other hand, when you report your emotion as data, the second sentence in each pair, you own that your feelings of anxiety, concern, frustration, etc., are your subjective experiences. It’s an acknowledgment that you may have a limited perspective, even if you believe that to be only ten percent true.

Expressing emotion as data requires introspection. It’s the request to name the emotional experience (“name it to tame it”) and that can be a challenge. You know how pop culture pokes fun at therapists for always asking “and how does that make you feel?” Well, the stereotype contains some truth: when a therapist or a coach asks this, they are, one, not making assumptions about your subjective experience; and two, encouraging you to gather data on yourself. They’re asking you to own your reality.

One more list. It’s additional reasons why you might consider expressing your emotion as data:

• It improves critical thinking and decision-making. It helps separate bias from rational analysis, making you a more reliable narrator.

• It keeps communication productive. When we express emotion as absolute truth, it shuts down dialogue and escalates conflict.

• It reduces anxiety and emotional stress by swapping catastrophic thinking and panic for problem solving and ownership.

• It enhances emotional intelligence, which helps us navigate personal and professional relationships more easily.

• It shifts us from a victim mentality to a place of empowerment.

• It deescalates conflict, transforming blame and defensiveness into curiosity and resolution.

• It creates space for alternative perspectives.

• It reduces manipulation and misinformation.

I’d be remiss not to point out that we’re prone to hyperbolic and catastrophic expression in part because we live in an age of nonstop self-promotion, advocacy, and personal branding. There’s lots of noise and chaos to cut through, and anger and anxiety are attention-grabbing and contagious … the hot take gets the most hearts, the squeaky wheel gets the grease, the crying baby gets the milk. This is a legit strategy, just not the best one when the goal is to lower the temperature, solve problems collaboratively, and forge authentic connections.

Also note that shifting your narrative approach takes time. You can’t read an article and get it. It’s more like learning to play the piano or water ski—it requires practice. Keep working at it, though. We need more emotional intelligence, rational actors, and engaged, thoughtful dialogue in our world—now more than ever.

Reach out and say hi if you want to talk about it further … would love to hear from you!

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We were halfway through victim advocacy training when, my fellow students and I now chummy and chatty, one mentioned he’d never had a chocolate rabbit in his life. A few days later, as one does, I happened to find myself browsing an aisle of Easter candy and remembered this. I added a dark chocolate Lindt bunny, covered in gold foil, brown ribbon tied around its neck, to my basket.

The rabbit sat on my dining room table for three days before we met for class again because I didn’t want to forget about it. I probably didn’t need to stress, though. Truly, I was so excited to surprise my new friend that I thought about it all week.

This is the power of giving. If fundraising (or asking for what you need) frightens you, shift your focus from the indebtedness that you might feel to the opportunity you are presenting the other person. For eight dollars, I felt anticipation and goodness for days.

Ask for what you want. When you ask, your braveness creates an opportunity for someone else. You set the stage for them to feel purposeful, helpful, and generous. They might want that!

Related, I’ve been helping the Office of Collecting and Design pack up and move from the heart of Las Vegas and into a 42-foot trailer: it’s becoming a traveling museum, a sculptural exhibit soon to be touring the California coast.

Prepping for the move, founder Jessica Oreck mentioned needing help, and someone suggested she should ask for it. She did. We showed up. Weekly for five weeks, a group of us have volunteered to box up the museum’s objects and curiosities, and in the process, we’ve begun unpacking our lives. One recently published a book. One does standup. One is a nanny. One rides horses. One owns a bar and is opening another. One works for an influencer. On and on. We discussed taxidermy, first dates, death, social issues, gluten-free diets, step-children, hecklers, and more.

The benefit to Jessica is extra hands and company while packing. The benefit to me has been getting to spend time with some pretty amazing people. All because of an ask.

As a coach, I must say to clients “what do you want?” at least once an hour. Often, a person comes to a coaching call with a story, and they’re retelling it because they’re snagged, like a fish on a hook, though usually the narrative doesn’t matter. The more interesting part is their desire.

Sometimes I ask the question several times, drilling deeper for more clarity because we weave and dodge and hedge around what we want. We don’t believe it’s possible. We think it’s too much. Or it’s too late. We say it’s not for me, or, who am I to ask?

As a friend likes to remind me, don’t say no to yourself because the world will do enough of that for you.

So, what do you want? Be brave and clear with yourself, then be brave and clear with someone else. Say it out loud. Start with small requests if you need practice—ask for one thing a day. Remember you might be setting the stage for someone else to step into a new sense of self, too. They get to be generous.

Hello and welcome new subscribers! Some of you are receiving Cento for the first time after participating in the workshop Eric Kohner and I led a week ago on emotional intelligence in writing — thank you again for attending, and please reach out if you’d like to connect. (Several people stayed a few minutes after we concluded, giving us the chance to talk through a few specific cases, and it was great.)

We’re offering this workshop again on Thursday, March 27, 10a PT if you want to encourage others to attend. Use code COMP at checkout and it’s no charge.

I want to write about the idea of “deep democracy” because it’s been on my mind. Deep democracy is a great tool to use in working with teams, committees, and even with the self — it’s especially useful for those who play a critical role in advancing, teaching, and demonstrating the values and principles of civic engagement.

Deep democracy has been defined as a political philosophy, a facilitation method, a way of bringing democracy to life, a practical technique to make invisible group dynamics visible, allowing the facilitator to intervene, a POV that values minority (as opposed to majority) perspectives, and a way to foster richer dialogue and inclusivity.

It has been applied to all sorts of conflicts, from terrorism, to revolution, to corporation tensions, to government leadership. Trained, skilled facilitators are essential to guide the process when the stakes are high — and even in ordinary circumstances, this is a skill for advanced facilitators. It also requires a modicum of psychological safety within the team, and the team’s ability to adopt a curious, open approach, considering all points of view, maintaining high regard for those who offer alternative perspectives.

Let’s assume all of this is true. Here’s how a facilitator would guide the process:

1. Collect all perspectives (even those opposing your own)

2. Actively look for the alternative voices (“Does anybody think something completely different?”)

3. Spread the alternative (“Who shares this opinion? Who else could take a stand for this opinion?”)

4. Add the wisdom of the minority to the decision of the majority (“What do you need to go along with the decision of the majority?”)

Switching topics, this week marks the midpoint of my training with The Center to become a nationally-certified victim advocate.

Victim advocates help victims of crime (or those facing systemic challenges) connect with resources—housing, healthcare, legal aid, etc. They also provide emotional support. Think of it at the crossroads of psychology, sociology, public health, criminal justice, and coaching.

When I first learned of this field, I thought it sounded similar to coaching except working with a different population. That’s proven to be true in a few ways. Here are a few principles, mindsets, that transcend both coaching and victim advocacy work:

• Hold the client’s agenda. Trust that individuals know what they want and need. They know what’s best, so no imposing your agenda.

• Assume people are resourceful, resilient, and whole. People who seek help are resilient by nature, and they’ve already demonstrated a desire for and capacity to seek assistance. Honor this. Be their champion, and remember that change takes time. (And you don’t get to decide how much.)

• Participate in collaborative conversations. No fixing, no advising, no setting straight. Approach conversations with cultural humility—be open to learning about others’ cultures, reflect on your own, and demonstrate respect.

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If you are a coach seeking a new challenge, or a rewarding, tangible way to volunteer, I encourage you to consider becoming a victim advocate too. (Also note, there are two kinds of advocates: systems-based, which are going to work within a system, such as the law or healthcare, and community-based, which is what I am interested in, which is helping individuals find resources within the community at large.)

The training itself, from my experience, is more focused on learning about challenges clients may face and resources available to help — the more tactical stuff — so layering this with your skills as a coach is superb. In short, the field needs you.

Please reach out if you want to talk about my experience! I do wish everyone could train at The Center though, where you get an extra 20-or-so hours of instruction specific to the LBGTQI+ community. All of my training is free, too. The commitment I make in return is to volunteer five hours a week. (This has made a huge impact on me, and I will share more next week.)

Two people, in separate conversations, commented to me last week that my writing is philosophical. Another person, a poet, told me it’s poetry (after I mentioned that life doesn’t feel poetic these days.) I agree with both descriptions, though I want this newsletter to be practical and relevant, too. It’s my stance that there’s an abundance of easily-digestible content about coaching and positive psychology online, but there isn’t much that explores it personally and in context of the social sector.

It’s also my stand that everyone would benefit from learning coaching skills, from managers, to parents, to partners, to journalists. I’m a bit of an evangelist because I think it’s that important.

How do we show up? Who do we want to be? What are you taking a stand for?

The other week I was binging World War II documentaries and Frontline with my mom because we like to party. At the time, I was also pecking away at a draft of my Cento post on having a personal code when I found myself linking the ideas and writing down insights from academics and journalists about what it means to be a good citizen in a democracy.

I might not be able to put into words how profound it was to listen this way. At face value, I heard basic facts one might memorize in eight grade civics. On the other hand, having absorbed a profound amount of falsehoods, hyperbole, and genuine criticism about the democratic experiment—everything from “the system is broken” to “politicians are corrupt” to “my vote doesn’t count,”—especially in 2024, when I was an on-the-ground politico registering voters and knocking on doors, I hadn’t noticed the erosion of my own faith in democratic values.

By the way, I’ve been trying to figure out how to be these past few weeks, what to feel and believe in the wake of Donald Trump returning to the White House. It’s fascinating that we look to others to help us figure out our minds … I think we like to pretend this isn’t true about human beings, that we’re independent, autonomous actors. I remember the moment I understood this influence as a leadership skill and became more consciously aware that I was wielding it. I was in the middle of an ordinary, irritating marketing crisis at the university when a junior member of my team said, “If you get upset, I know we have a problem.” He was looking to me to understand how to feel because he had no context.

Well, I have no context for this moment. People around me have no context. Possibly no one does, just first drafts of history, and because I am a spacious thinker, I find myself in agreement with multiple perspectives at once, everything from Ezra Klein’s “don’t believe him” to Jamelle Bouie’s “there is no going back.” The challenge is that each of them is articulating a partial truth, and so one minute I’m terrified, the next confident, the next fucking floored, and all are valid. The other night I said to a friend, “This is different, right? I mean, is this how our parents felt after elections when we were kids?” I was searching for even more context from the rational actors who raised us.

“No,” he replied. “This is definitely different.”

Last week, as I mentioned, I wrote about having a personal code. When things in my mind or life feel chaotic, I double-down on what I know to be true in a meditative way. Now, I’m developing a new type of code—a list of what it means to be a small ‘d’ democrat irrespective of party identity, and also some truths I’ve thrown in about how democracies decline. Here’s what I’ve got so far:

The only way to perpetuate a democracy is to share democratic values.

To be a democrat means to know how to lose elections.

The individual is supposed to be smaller than the institution of the presidency.

Rationalization is a very powerful force.

Bullying works very well.

Transfer of power is when democracies are most vulnerable.

Focus is a fundamental substance of democracy.

What the president says matters.

What I say matters.

Democracy requires cognitive flexibility and rational thinking.

Democracy requires understanding others’ experiences rather than assuming negative intent.

Fair systems ensure that no one is unfairly excluded or discriminated against.

Democracies need predictable rules and processes to prevent impulsive decisions or emotional reactions from leaders.

It strikes me that the list I’m building is conservative! I’ve never felt compelled to plumb my convictions about democratic ideals I hope we preserve before now; more often than not, I’ve been on the side of pushing for progress with a sense of confidence that the center would hold.

Last June I attended, as a member of the Biden-Harris campaign, a “Black Party,” a play on a “block party,” held at Doolittle Park in Las Vegas. It was hot, nearing 100 degrees, and no one felt like talking to me, though I did wind up in a conversation with a man, probably mid-40s, who was an organizer for the Service Employees International Union. In a matter-of-fact tone, he told me about his work, and that no one wants to get involved, just complain. No one wants to organize or mobilize collective power anymore.

Eventually I asked him who he was going to vote for. “The whole system needs a reset,” he said, surprising me, “and if Trump is the one to do it, I might vote for Trump.” I didn’t argue—I have a strong aversion to telling people how to feel or what to do, especially as a white woman speaking with a Black man, which probably makes me a weak political representative. But a return to factory settings is a bit of what I am attempting to create with my list.

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The opportunity in this moment is to get very clear about what we stand for.

I remember once, years ago, I met a friend from college at Houston’s in Phoenix. I don’t recall what we were talking about overall, but sitting in that big, dark booth on Camelback Road, stirring a Diet Coke, I said something like “the government can’t legislate our values.” 

My friend, in graduate school at the time, now is a professor of political philosophy. He is a smarty, and a skilled debater, and he jumped on that comment. “Steph, you don’t really believe that, do you? That is exactly what the government does.” In retrospect, I get his point, though I also defiantly thought, “No. No one can tell me what to believe.” 

Four things are true in this story. One, I am stubborn. Two, personal beliefs cannot be dictated. Three, governments attempt to control public belief systems. And four, our convictions can erode, along with our stamina, empathy, and hope, which is one reason why we feel lost in this moment. Use all the tools you’ve got to ground yourself—make your own list of democratic values if it’s helpful. Stay focused, flexible, kind, and strong.

Soon after the Jan. 20 inauguration, President Trump began signing dozens of executive orders that could affect nonprofit funding and programs, stoking fear and uncertainty throughout the sector. It reminded me of when I was at the mercy of forces larger than myself too, overwhelmed by chaos and disfunction I did not cause and could not control as executive director of a nonprofit in Tucson during the late 2000s recession.

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My story began just a few months before the housing bubble burst. I’d landed a dream job leading an organization that produced after-school and summer programs mentoring youth in the documentary arts. My goal was to quickly build our base of philanthropic support before the government grants and contracts—which paid for salaries, including mine—were redirected from arts organizations to shore up basic community needs, such as housing and food. It was a race against the clock. As a first-time ED, democratic and steady by nature, I felt certain that a more charismatic, forceful leader would be better suited to raise money in this climate. All of my insecurities were on high alert.

My personal life wasn’t faring much better. I loved someone who was pulling away from me and into a world of drinking and new relationships, and I did not have the resources or bandwidth to cope. I lost my sense of self, a big swath of my community, and, at times, even my dignity.

I was down for the count.

But then I remember having a flash of insight one day, almost seeing myself from the outside and thinking, “I don’t recognize this person.” By coincidence, or because I was open to it, soon after I stumbled upon the concept of developing a “personal code,” and took it to heart.

A personal code is a set of guidelines or beliefs to live by. Mine became a list of aspirational mindsets that I wanted to hold but had either fallen by the wayside, or were never internalized to begin with. I opened a new note on my phone and named it PERSONAL CODE, then began curating a list of slogans, truths, and lines of wisdom culled from literature, articles, books, podcasts, etc. Most importantly, I worked it daily: I’d add to it, subtract from it, and meditate on it until these new ideas began to occupy more real estate in my mind, and then, eventually, inform my actions.

It was simple but not easy work.

The economic instability that nonprofits face during a recession is not analogous to the chaos resulting from a political agenda of vengeance. I’m clear about that. But what I had the opportunity (lol, opportunity) to learn, and what I want to share here, is that in addition to the doing—taking action to organize or respond, defend or demonstrate—it’s equally important to work on one’s being. This is the first line of defense, cultivating a mindset of resistance.

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I still have my code on my phone. I don’t refer to it every day anymore—it reads now like an artifact of that time, lessons important to learn then. But I intend to add to it a new set of beliefs about the quality and nature of relationships required to sustain a democracy—that’s my edge now. More on this soon. In the meantime, here’s some of my original personal code. None of the entries are cited, though some likely deserve to be, so please forgive this.

People hold different perspectives based on the same set of facts.

People don’t often act rationally when they are suffering.

Speed and perfection are the enemy of difficult learning.

Keep uncovering the truth about myself and others.

Growth is gradual and painful.

Do the stitches; don’t worry about the pattern.

If we can’t be learners, we can’t be empathetic.

Ask, “what’s worth doing, even if you fail?”

Every little win counts.

Give up being important.

Say what I need.

Money is a game. Not a referendum of anyone as a human.

Other people are praying for things I take for granted.

No whining on the yacht.

Life moves in the direction of our primary conversations.

Leadership is meeting more and more complex needs in a number of environments.

Silence is a form of self love.

Listen more, speak less.

Stay in bounds.

Don’t yell at or threaten other people, and don’t let them do that to me.

Change smoothly.

The insight at the heart of nonviolence is that we live in a tragic gap—a gap between the way things are, and the way we know they might be.

The meaning of life is that it ends.

Befriend your death. Someday it is the last thing you’ll have.

A newer one that emerged during the pandemic is this: the conscious use of power can be medicine. From coaching, I also incorporated the idea that every person is naturally creative, resourceful and whole, capable of solving their own problems. No fixing, no setting straight, no saving.

There’s something substantive about seeing your beliefs reflected back to you in black-and-white. It’s a valuable way to fight negative social contagions that are everywhere, from happy hours, to Instagram, to headlines filled with perspectives that aren’t ours, values we don’t endorse.

Consider stealing the idea a personal code if you don’t have one yourself, and feel free to take what you want from mine for starters. There’s lots of softness and surrender in it, and the paradox is that the more I began to embrace these truths, the more my own sense of self, personal power, and strength amplified. I think you build your code by intuition—who do you want to be? Or, what is this moment ushering forth?

A lot happened this past week. Dear friends were in town for CES. I am working on an intense project for the University of Nevada, Las Vegas around documenting the crisis communications response to the shooting that killed three people on Dec. 6, 2023. And the Palisades and Eaton fires began raging across Los Angeles, devastating the city. I’ve been checking in with my California loved ones, and inquiring about their loved ones, and their loved ones.

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I’m also watching, in California, all the ways nonprofits and grassroots engagement weave together to create a network of support. Community centers and foundations, shelters, hospitals, and other emergency organizations provide their services and expertise; individual helpers rise up too, filling gaps in myriad ways, from organizing food drives, to providing shelter in their own homes, to volunteering—even as firefighters. What I recognize is that grassroots efforts are how we fill in gaps in unforeseen circumstances.

New structured solutions arise, too. This week you might have heard of Watch Duty, a small nonprofit that is playing a huge role in California’s emergency ecosystem. (You might even be obsessively checking your Watch Duty app.)

Watch Duty is a nonprofit that alerts, maps, and tracks wildfires in 20 states in the Western U.S. Its tracking services are operated by experienced fire reporters and other collaborators who diligently monitor radio scanners and data sources around the clock.

The organization was established in 2021 in Santa Rosa, Calif., by software developer John Mills, who had moved from Silicon Valley to a wildfire prone area of Northern California. In this new environment, Mills recognized the need for a centralized source of critical, accurate information about wildfires—including evacuation orders, road closures, public health updates, shelter locations, press briefings, and more. So, he set out to build it.

Mills invested $1 million of his money to develop Watch Duty’s tech, then persuaded people he knew in Silicon Valley to help him write the app’s computer code, according to the Washington Post. (Most nonprofit founders do not have access or funding like this.)

Watch Duty grew from less than $350,000 in contributions and grants in 2022, to $1.2 million in 2023, according to GuideStar. In 2024, the app had reached more than 7 million people and raised $5.6 million in contributions and grants, and I can only imaging the funding that has come in this week.

Beyond the tech, Watch Duty’s other incredible asset is more than 150 volunteers, many of them retired firefighters or public safety personnel who serve as the reporters, monitoring every fire that starts in the American West.

I don’t think I fully grasped the dedication, knowledge, and specialized skill of these volunteers until I read this 2021 Wired profile of Michael Silvester, who lives in New Zealand and who, despite never having been to California, follows its fires expertly:

During California’s long fire season—roughly May through October—Michael sits at his desk all day, sometimes for 18-hour stretches, keeping watch over that single state’s blazes. On his desk sit four phones: one personal device and three devoted to running PulsePoint, an app that monitors the radio channels first responders use. When emergency workers respond to a distress call, the app sends him a notification. The phones let him keep track of more than 100 agencies across California: Los Angeles County Fire, LAFD, Marin County, Sacramento, Napa County. The app only lets him follow 25 agencies per phone, so he runs another two phone emulators on his PC to cover even more departments. When he hears what he thinks is an essential detail of a fire’s movements, he tweets it in real time to more than 100,000 followers.

The story of Watch Duty provides a few takeaways for me. One, the organization’s elegant design is so simple but profound. (The best ideas often are, right?) Two, investments in technology can create positive, real-world solutions when they’re channeled to serve the public good. I really love this. Three, people are generous. And good. They want to give back, to be involved in volunteer work that feels important and relevant.

I know Watch Duty has ambitions to scale and provide public information for more types of disasters. It is also quite young; growth and organizational maturity come with their own challenges. But I hope it can remain as nimble, innovative, and effective as it is today.

I baked a “redemption cake" over the holidays. The idea originated with The Great British Baking Show Holidays New Year’s special, TV that everyone gathered at our Christmas could get behind watching. In the special, four contestants return to the tent from past seasons to prove their mettle after elimination following tragic bakes, including one who forgot to add flour to her pastries, another whose pastries were partially raw, and another whose cake Paul Hollywood described as “inedible.” This precipitated a family dinner-table reveal of our personal culinary fails, including the time my sister added sugar to her waffle batter. My brother-in-law accidentally substituted ground cloves for cinnamon in rolls. Coincidentally, last week I shared a photo of my disastrous cake from a few years ago, so unredeemable that my mom threw the entire thing in the trash, pan and all. (The photo also appeared in several “worst cakes” lists circulating the interwebs at the time; I wish I’d saved the links!) Then, because I did not have a culinary assignment yet, I was nominated to bake the flourless chocolate orange cake for Christmas Day. I’m pleased to say it turned out great. I had supervision.

“I don’t think we really need to sift the cocoa powder.”

“Aunt Steffie, yes, you do. Is this a redemption cake or not?”

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Over the years, lessons from the British Baking Show have been the subject of articles in publications ranging from the culinary to cultural to management focused, so I hardly need to rehash its success. Briefly, writers cite the friendly camaraderie among contestants as one factor distinguishing it from other reality shows in the “I’m not here to make friends” set. Its jokes are goofy, its cohosts quirky, and its contestants humble. Judges’ critiques are doled out with a light touch. All of this could be summed up by the emotional energy of “playfulness.”

CRR Global, through which I studied organizational relationship and systems coaching, named playfulness one of seven attitudes that are particularly useful for coaches, or anyone wanting to develop positive, coach-like workplaces and cultures.

Yet it’s one thing to be lighthearted about messing up a Battenberg cake. It’s another to adopt a playful approach in the nonprofit sector, where I have spent much of my career, and where the pressures of wicked problems, scarce resources, and deep convictions are generally a recipe for organizational cultures simmering on the edge of boiling over.

This intensity doesn’t come from a bad place—it is well-meaning to believe every decision, no matter how small, impacts the mission and bottom line. After all, this is the mindset that creates excellence in high-pressure environments; “every second counts” and all that. Except it is not sustainable to ignore our humanity in pursuit of excellence.

In contrast, playfulness is like a pressure release valve. It is the skill of holding one’s self and each other lightly, while still taking the work seriously. I’ve seen it in action when board members mediate tense committee meetings with humor and a gentle touch, or when senior leaders swap stories of their past mistakes to create an atmosphere of learning and acceptance for junior staff. I’ve seen it in leaders who are willing to laugh at themselves, to admit their mistakes. There’s a saying in recovery circles: do you want to be right, or do you want to be in relationship? The first time I heard this, it was nearly impossible for me to understand how anything might be more important than the “truth.” Sometimes, I still can’t.

It’s easier when I remember failure is universal, and that being partially wrong is almost like an intentional part of the human design. Crushing. It’s as if leavening agents are necessary for us to rise, then, versus collapsing under the pressure of our own weight.

Determined to understand what I was missing, I dug deeper. What I eventually learned about curiosity, and myself, didn’t only matter to my coaching: it improved my life. In the way that I’m referencing it, curiosity is small but powerful tool that can shift one’s perspective. It’s like a screwdriver, or a wrench, but not a hammer: it’s a handheld way to open up one’s self and others to form closer bonds, and I think it can take some of the pressure off the holidays too.

If this sounds intriguing, you’re piqued, you want to be more curious too, etc., here’s some info to get started, plus a big dollop of whipped goodness god bless because, whew. Holidays can be magical, and they can be overwhelming, and you’re doing great.

Let’s begin with more context. In the parlance of coaching, curiosity is what we call a “metaskill.” A metaskill is a mindset, a vibe, or the energy we embody in any given situation. Like shifting gears in a car, we all toggle between different ways of being naturally; the new skill is to choose this angle of approach with intention.

Turning tedious chores into a game is how you might embody the metaskill of being playful. Championing and encouraging your team after a loss is slipping into the metaskill of resilience and optimism. You get it. It can feel super awkward to expand your range consciously because newer ways of being are not intuitive at first. It can feel fake, and you likely will make mistakes and bumble around. But the practice is part of it. Trust me, I was all over the place working out how to be more authoritative in positions of greater leadership; I can think of a few times that I shot real bullets with my words because I didn’t know the boundary between being assertive and aggressive. Luckily, practicing embodying curiosity can be playful and fun.

It turns out that there’s more than one way to be curious, and this was what I had to learn as a coach, and in life. I had honed a particular kind of curiosity as a writer, reporter, and academic; I could be curious about a wide range of topics, but I also had tunnel-vision, which is to say I was narrowly focused on discovering answers to my questions, which were usually great questions for my purposes. This type of curiosity has a drive and forcefulness behind it.

Another way to be curious is with a softer, more diffuse focus. It’s go-with-the-flow curiosity. It’s the difference between going to Target to buy a new coffee grinder, versus going there to wander the aisles and discover what you might want. (I’m betting you know which type of shopper you are!) One of my Cento interviewees described it well when she said the coach’s job was to be “professionally lost.”

Curiosity is tough to measure and define, which is why I struggled to clarify my own, and why people couldn’t pinpoint how to be curious in a new way. But this study out of the University of Pennsylvania might help: university researchers sought to understand different curiosity styles by examining the way people used Wikipedia. Study participants were asked to browse Wikipedia for 15 minutes a day for several weeks with no further instructions. Researchers then were able to observe the digital ground they covered. Turns out, there were those who conducted very clustered searches like hunters, indicating more relatedness between topics and links. In contrast, others traversed a wider range of digital ground, more like gatherers, creating broad, sweeping paths between their searched topics.

As a curious person, I needed to learn how to be curious like a gatherer in my relationships. I had to let go of driving toward answers, and oddly enough, some of this was an adjustment of my physical self. When I am in a focused state, I furrow my brow. I can feel my intellect become more sharp, like a hawk. To cultivate a more diffuse curiosity, I actively think to soften the muscles of my face and shift my awareness. I pay more attention with my senses—what I see, hear, intuit, etc. This takes a lifetime of practice, by the way.

An example might help. A few months ago I was in an Uber when my driver, a woman in her late 30s, began talking politics. (Truly, I did not invite this. Or I might have accidentally, I don’t remember, but here we were.) It quickly became clear that we held different perspectives, and trusted different media sources, and I did not want to debate. Instead, I let go of any agenda and got curious about her as an individual.

She continued speaking about mental illness and homelessness when I heard something shift in her voice—it cracked just a tad. “I heard something in your voice just then,” I said. Not interpreting, just noticing. This is how to get more curious. She softened, and told me a personal story. Now we were connecting.

Yes, it could be easier to engage like this with a stranger. But strangers don’t always open up like that, either; if you’ve hit a spot that’s too tender, like the bruise on an apple, they might wince or pull back. That’s ok! The trick is to let go of an agenda or expectation of what will happen next, and simply pay attention to what you haven’t noticed before. You will move the needle somehow, I promise.

This is a reminder for me as much as it is for you, by the way. That’s the thing about a craft—there’s always more to learn. In the spirit of trying and failing, please enjoy this picture of a cake I baked at Christmas several years ago. Very curious indeed.

Happy holidays to you. Thank you for being a reader, a subscriber, a corresponder, a friend of Cento. Peace. Love.

What a week. A friend flew in from LA to canvass with me. Then Tuesday’s presidential election. Then I met up with college friends from Florida in town to see Adele. On Saturday, I joined them for brunch at Tableau and ordered oatmeal with fruit and a mojito. Yes, I know, that crazy combo—the oatmeal was a spontaneous substitution and I’d already decided on the cocktail. Chalk it up to stages of grief.

After we ate, half of the crew drifted off to the spa for massages, and the rest of us went to the pool to watch football and read, reply to emails about engineering projects, and research articles on civic engagement: three guesses which one was me.1

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I noticed how much I was seeking perspective and direction after the election. I often feel overwhelmed by the glut of advice that swirls around me in podcasts, newsletters, books, articles, etc. (As a learner, I am always absorbing something.) But this week, I was seeking trustworthy voices to guide me: I wanted wisdom on how to think and move forward in these politically divided times.

Campaigns are designed to be ephemeral. But what is the next rung on the ladder of civic participation—where does the energy, the people, the idealism go when it’s all over? Below is an outline of what I’ve been considering. It’s a case, of sorts, for the role that nonprofits play in our civic life as one answer. And while none of this research is new-new, most of the articles I’ve cited were published within the last two years, and they hit differently right now.

The potential of nonprofits in civic engagement

1. The nonprofit sector is the most trusted sector, and that trust has increased by five percentage points to 57 percent today, according to a report from the Independent Sector. In fact, people trust nonprofits more than government, business, and the media.

2. Further, Americans trust nonprofits to reduce national divisions more than they trust the government, corporations, or the media.2

3. The foundation for this trust lies in relationships—“trust is relational, and so is the work of nonprofits.”

   Across the country, nonprofits engage with their communities in ways that for-profit entities and other institutions do not. They work with people to achieve shared goals—and, in fact, they rely on participation from their communities just as much as those communities rely on their services.3

4. There are more than 12 million nonprofit employees in the US, and more than 64 million board members and volunteers. (For comparison, 84 million people voted early in the 2024 election, and almost double that voted in total.)

5. Further, nonprofits are the hubs and laboratories of civic engagement, leadership development, and nonpartisan advocacy. These are the building blocks of democracy.4

If we are seeking frameworks to rebuild our civic infrastructure and engagement, our nation’s network of nonprofits is ready-made: they are trustworthy, and designed and staffed to address our collective action problems.

So … what are the challenges? What does nonprofit involvement in civics look like right now? Well, spoiler alert, it has declined over the years.

The decline of nonprofits in civic engagement

1. Only 31 percent of nonprofits report engaging in advocacy or lobbying over the last five years. But in 2000—the last time this research was conducted—74 percent of nonprofits engaged in advocacy and lobbying.

2. From that same report, 54 percent of public charities knew they could support or oppose federal legislation in 2000. Today, only 32 percent of nonprofits are aware of that fact.

3. And finally, only 13 percent of nonprofits conduct nonpartisan efforts to help people vote.5

4. Related, the percentage of people donating to charity has declined steadily since the early 2000s, and the formal volunteer rate decreased during the early 2010s. The single strongest predictor of volunteering? Education. College graduates are 19.4 percentage points more likely to volunteer.

5. One reason for the decline is that the rules of what constitutes advocacy, lobbying, and civic engagement need to be clarified. Many nonprofit leaders simply don’t know what they can and can’t do—and it’s not their fault. There is a lack of clarity around legal rights and responsibilities when it comes to policy advocacy. Again, education is key.6

And that’s a sample of the rabble-rousing I get into at the pool. Come visit.

What strikes you? What do you see? From my perspective, I have worked in nonprofits—or with nonprofit executives as a coach and consultant—since 2005. But I don’t know that there has ever been a time like this one, where I’ve considered our collective mission, agnostic of cause, with as much curiosity and potential as I do now.

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“Remind me never to donate again,” the Independent moaned. A physician, she has spent extra time with stressed patients over the past week or so: they are frightened, anxious, and making plans to move to Canada—regardless of party. “People are triggered across the board,” she said.

Then the enchiladas arrived and the conversation turned to volunteer work, novels, and workouts. We may hold different political, cultural, and religious affiliations, but our values are more aligned than not in this election, and I’m grateful. I know this isn’t alway the case.

In the past few weeks, I’ve been writing about the edge model of change. Originating in systems coaching, the model looks like a triangle with one side being the primary or known reality, and the other being the secondary or the unknown reality. The tippy top of the triangle is the edge that we cannot see over—the change that is eminent. As you might imagine, everyone is going to approach an edge in their own way and at their own pace, depending on circumstances: some will be ready to leap over, some will inch toward it cautiously, and some will resist.

But when individuals are forced over an edge, like by an election, for example, many will find themselves frightened, angry, and overwhelmed—in unfamiliar, even hostile, territory. When this happens, we say they have entered a “realm.”

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Entering an realm

A “realm,” according to CRR Global’s organization and relationships systems coaching model, is when a person can no longer cope with what is happening in the moment so they enter a state of internal collapse.

Despite every poll or expert prognostication, despite our donating to campaigns, canvassing, and displaying yard signs, despite engaging in persuasive conversations with family members (or even the employees working the drive-through windows at McDonald’s in Boulder City, Nev., for instance) we do not know what the election outcome will be. We do know, however, that roughly 50 percent of those who cast votes will not get what they want, and the fear that they may be on the losing side has thrust many people into realms in advance.

A realm might occur when someone has been held at an edge for too long (like a really long campaign cycle), or is exhausted (by political ads, say), or feeling out of control (by the outcomes.) Collectively, as a nation, I would say we are teetering here—fatigued, overwhelmed, and depleted of coping skills.

Here’s signs that someone has entered a realm:

• The emotional field plummets—it can feel dark, despairing, heavy. It can also feel intractable and absolute.

• The individual has shut down intellectually, or emotionally, or both. They’re blank.

• There’s a resistance to emerging from this state—any new information is rejected.

• It is super contagious.

Familiar, right? The good news is that understanding what a realm is, and how to recognize it, is a great tool for coping and even course-correction.

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So, what do you do with a realm?

Keep in mind that realm states are not rational, and when we fall into them, it’s next to impossible for new information to enter the system. I can spin out and into a realm pretty quickly and furiously, for example, when I’m attempting to work with tech support over cable-internet malfunctions. My ability to problem-solve and reason plummet, and then it becomes practically impossible to stay present enough to follow instructions. Cables? Routers? I’ve collapsed.

If we can realm-out over dumb stuff like access to Apple TV, just imagine what we’re falling into with the election.

So, what do we do? One strategy is to take breaks. Step away, clear your mind. Simple, but effective. Then, when you feel ready, you might begin gently engaging with the realm perspective in yourself or others. With genuine sincerity and curiosity, you might explore questions like:

• What is the world like for you right now?

• If your inner world were a landscape, what would it look like?

• If your inner world had its own weather, what would it be?

• What are your beliefs about the world right now?

• How will you take care of yourself right now?

Notice these questions draw on metaphor or sensory language—first, we’re moving out of problem-solving or debate mode, rational mindsets, and into a place of the realm itself. Think of it like a new land that you’re visiting; this land doesn’t require you to corroborate or agree with its culture and values—you’re just exploring it.

If, for example, someone tells you they are living in a dark, cold land with no light, and stormy skies, well, it is easy to see how that would be stressful and hopeless. But then they might also tell you they have a flashlight, and a raincoat.

These are small conversational moves, yes. Tiny pivots. And yet, I believe education is a mighty antidote—merely knowing what a realm state is, and how to recognize one in yourself or others, could give you just enough skill to break through.

I’m not saying it will be easy. These are pretty rugged coaching skills that coaches practice and practice, not something you read about once and then execute perfectly. (Not to mention we’re starting in an intense place with a pretty realmed-out world.) But my hope is that these insights and skills will be useful in some way, over time. Stay flexible and alert for realms around you, and then give them time, space, and attention. See what can happen.

I returned home this weekend from Wichita, Kansas where I attended a conference for urban and rural community foundations. There were probably 400 or so people at this conference, known for its fundamentals track, and many of them new to the field.

I was a little bit new too, my first time as an attendee, and my first time tabling as a consultant and coach in the sector. Plus, I had lots of questions about what it’s like to live in a town of just a few thousand people, or even smaller. (“When friends ask if you want to come over for dinner, they mean in like 10 minutes.” “We have a small technical college so new people move in and out of town, but basically I know everyone.”)

Living in Vegas is unique to many people there, too. The evening I arrived, I went to Target to buy the requisite candy for our booth, and I ate dinner at the Chili’s next door. I lead a very glamorous life. (“I went to Vegas once,” the bartender said, “I remember everyone was insanely good looking.” “Exactly,” I replied. “That’s one-hundred percent true.”)

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Back at the Wichita Marriott, the conference in full swing, I attended a lunch to hear a senior energy counselor in the US Department of Agriculture give a presentation. The federal government has funds available for rural communities to build or improve hospitals, government buildings, fire or police stations, food banks, etc. Community foundations, in turn, can serve as the connective tissue between the government and community, possibly providing technical assistant to access these funds, or working with community leaders to build a vision for where and how they might be used.

On my flight home, I sat next to Lauren, born and raised in Wichita, now in her first professional job in data management. She was traveling to Vegas for the first time to attend the When We Were Young music festival on the Strip. I watched her carefully study the festival website, placing little stars on the calendar next to the bands she most wanted to see, including My Chemical Romance. Then we discussed whether she like-likes the college friend she was meeting up with. Then she told me she’s always wanted to work with a life coach.

“I don’t know if I’m doing what I want with my life,” she said.

“What do you want?” I asked. “What’s your dream?”

“Maybe to open a restaurant,” she said. “But I know that’s hard.”

When we landed, I walked Lauren to where you meet your Uber driver in the parking garage because it’s tough to find on your own, and she’s only ever used a ride share app once.

Stages of competence

All week my mind kept returning to the model of the four stages of competence, which illustrates the psychology of how we learn—how we progress from unawareness to effortless performance. We begin with unconscious incompetence—in other words, we don’t know what we don’t know.

I thought about this most intently when I’d explain what coaching is to people who are unfamiliar with it, and how coach training improves our relationships.

Here’s the model of the stages of competence and how we progress through them:

Crossing edges

Becoming competent in a skill requires crossing the edges dividing the known from the unknown, the existing from the new, the present from the future, etc. Edges are the line between who we are, and who we are forced to become. In the stages of competence model above, crossing an “edge” looks like moving from one quadrant to another.

People crossing edges demonstrate all kinds of “edge” behavior, from asking questions, to nervous laugher, to negotiating whether they have to move, to making run-up attempts. You don’t have to look too hard to find examples of this—consider the process of putting kids to bed, or getting them ready for school. All kinds of edge behavior. Essentially, it’s an emotional journey, and people cross edges in their own time—or, they don’t.

The US is preparing to be forced over a collective edge with the upcoming presidential election just a few weeks away. You might be experiencing a shift in yourself as well—maybe because you’ve already cast your ballot, or because you’ve reached your limit with campaign ads and coverage, or because you’re beginning to look ahead to the election outcomes and how you, or others around you, might respond. We are a nation on edge.

Networking is just connecting

Final thought from my conference is that networking can be stressful for people. Once, fellow coach Brian Patacca made the observation that “networking is just connecting,” and this simple reframe changes everything. It makes it more human and less transactional.

One of the skills to network well is to become more curious about others. We barely ever talk about curiosity as a leadership skill, but it absolutely is:

Tips for improving your ability to connect

Here’s a list of what I notice in people who want to be better at networking and connecting, but aren’t there yet. This is what I would share with them:

• Let go of the story you’re telling yourself about whether you’re “good” or “bad” at connecting. Everyone can improve. It’s a skill.

• People who socialize easily often have invested in communication or relationship training—like what coaching provides.

• They also seek opportunities to practice, practice, practice (which includes epic failures and weird, awkward moments. This happens to everyone.)

• Glean as much insight as you want from a post like this, but improving interpersonal skills requires interpersonal practice. It’s not head knowledge; it’s experiential, the same way you get on a bike to learn to ride, or in the pool to learn to swim.

• One fundamental mindset shift is to think of yourself less. Shift your attention to the other person … let them be the star.

• You can establish rapport with someone in seconds; there’s no prerequisite length of time before you can go deep. I mean this. Practice with Lyft or Uber drivers if you want to test it out—start with something like, “What’s it like to be a driver?” then “What’s your dream?” They will not think it’s weird as long as you respond with genuine curiosity. I swear.

• People’s pain is often right below the surface. If you’re a receptive listener, they will share it. It makes their burden a bit lighter.

• Everyone needs acknowledgement that they are doing a good job, even with ordinary stuff. Be generous with it.

• Do all of this with sincerity and curiosity. People are amazing if you’re open to seeing it.

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I drove through the vanilla-and-pine scented ponderosa forest of Flagstaff and descended the Mogollon Rim toward Phoenix, passing canyons, cottonwoods, and yuccas, keeping pace with the semis speeding along the concrete arteries of the Valley of the Sun. I stopped for tuna salad and salt-and-vinegar chips at AJs on Ray Road, then spilled out onto the wide, hot Sonoran Desert toward the barrios and neighborhoods that used to be my Tucson home. 

I composed this in my mind along the way. It’s advice of sorts, a short list of insights that have become clear to me as I’ve returned to writing for myself in the past several years after a decade-long-plus break. I believe this is what many of you are endeavoring too, writing what matters to you? I’m not generally big on advice, but this for me as much as it is for you. 

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The other week I was at breakfast with some neighbors and friends, including a talented young man who teaches English in Los Angeles. I asked him if he’s also a writer? Yes, he said, glancing around the table at how the others might react. It was as if he didn’t want to seem better than anyone and, hey, I get it. We’ve all been there. We’ve all swallowed whole the myth of the writer, or someone has told us we have great stories to tell, or that we’re good at stringing words together. Maybe we’ve even written something brilliant, and if so, congratulations! 

But in general, it is time to let this mindset go. Stop thinking of yourself as precious. It turns out that writing isn’t special, it’s just what you do, the same way others might work with wood as carpenters, or food as chefs, or data as analysts. I promise you—and I hope this makes you feel more free, not less—nobody cares whether or if you write. Ours is an ordinary trade.

Now that that’s out of the way, I want to say the opposite is also true: dedicate yourself to your craft and work as hard as you can, because your words matters. Invest in your reading, your education, your journaling, your note taking—whatever fuels your writing process, but take yourself seriously. You don’t have to know everything—you don’t even have to be “good” at this yet! But you do have to trust the doubtful and forceful voices in your mind that are telling you to do this thing. Get in the car and gas up. Drive through the landscapes that are familiar and those that are foreign.

It's true that some people have an aptitude for language (and if you’re going to be the best in the world at something, it’s certainly helpful to have talent.) But talented people still work at their craft daily; in fact, they probably work harder and longer than everyone else. No one escapes doing the work, so just do the work. 

Lastly, stop waiting for permission to be fucking great at this. We are fearful of leaving others behind, I know. I know this. I ran a three-legged race for too many years because I didn’t want to run fast if it meant running alone. I wanted to fit in, to be loved, not to stand out. Similarly, I didn’t know how to be a writer and a worker, how to balance or blend those identities, so “worker” became who I was to the world, and “writer” became my secret self. I thought, there are no solutions to this; mine is a problem too complex to solve. I was wrong, it’s silly, and you do not have to suffer either. This harkens back to my first point—nobody cares. So write what you want.

You might be finding your way to a state of creative flow as we speak, because you are here, reading this now. If not, I hope this advice helps. Oh, and I hope you find your community of writers, too. We need each other to sustain this work. Be humble and self-respecting. Be focused and hard-working. Be bold. Go forth and write.

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On Labor Day morning I watched “My Next Guest Needs No Introduction with David Letterman,” guest John Mulaney, while I ate an omelette and washed sheets. I’d seen the episode before but I wanted to hear David interview John more than listen to John answer the questions; I wanted to see the chemistry between them, and to study the repose that Dave has as an interviewer: how he sat, how he asked questions, how he listened silently to the answers.

The way they were together inspired me to write this, something looser and more spontaneous about what it means to be “coachable.” They straight-away entered a conversation about their addictions to alcohol and drugs, and of course John’s special “Baby J” is about his intervention, rehab, and recovery, which I saw him perform live at the Encore Theater at the Wynn during the pandemic.

To be coachable, you have to open up space within yourself, between yourself and your coach, and also yourself and your topic of conversation. We’ve just shifted into a idea that’s pretty abstract, so let me see if I can ground it. As people, we often live like we are holding ourselves together—we manage and control our projects, our households, our companies, diets, finances, relationships. Our lives depend on us to move them forward.

But here’s a thought experiment inspired by educator and acting coach Viola Spolin. (If you’re reading this, you might switch to the audio version so you can experience it too.) It goes like this. Imagine that you are not holding yourself together, but you are held together by outside forces: you are held together by the space around you. Let the space around you be your only support. Let your spine, your mind, your jaw, face, shoulders, relax. Open up the space between these words you’re reading and your eyes, or your ears, and your hands.

Without giving up this spaciousness, now imagine you’re playing catch with someone. You’re on a beach tossing a baseball; it’s easy and fun. You feel the ball hit solidly in your glove; the sting on your palm. You can smell the leather becoming more supple and soft as it heats up from your sweat. You might feel the sun on your shoulder, your feet in the sand, your muscles stretch. You can also feel the sense of ease between you and your partner in the volley—a back and forth, give and take.

Now switch. The space isn’t holding you, but your spine, your muscles and will, your athleticism are holding you. Notice how different it feels. Notice what it’s like in your mind, behind your eyes, in your limbs, in your throat or core.

Now switch once more. Let the space hold you. Staying anchored to that sense of ease and flow, the space around you holding you, instead of tossing a ball back and forth, you’re tossing words, tossing ideas. That is what it means to be in a coachable mindset.

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David and John. Not without their flaws. But learning to consider and consciously wield energy within themselves and with others is a skill they’ve worked to hone—you can sense it between them on stage.

At one point in their conversation, John was talking about a moment in rehab when he’d gone to see the doctor for a crack in his molar, the result of grinding his teeth during detox. He also told the doctor that he intended to leave and go back to New York City, and the doctor replied, “John, we both know how this movie ends.” John caught this. Then he went back to his room, and he decided to stay.

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Why do we hate icebreakers? They often feel misaligned to the group or the purpose of the gathering—that’s one reason.

In general, people are intuitive and wise, and they can tell when an activity doesn’t fit, or when the facilitator is in murky waters, unsure of what they want to achieve.

Here’s a few more reasons why your icebreaker might not land:

• Many of them are designed to get people to open up, but they all start to feel the same, and a bit performative, like you dig deep to find your “icebreaker character.”

• If a team or a system feels stressed, or if there’s underlying conflict, you’ll likely be met with resistance to icebreakers that are silly or fun. Sorry to say, but you can’t forcefully shift a culture or team dynamic before you’ve dealt with what’s getting in the way of connection.

• If people are coming into a work setting with personal challenges on their minds (and who isn’t), they often don’t have the imagination for something creative. Shifting gears on a dime can be challenging.

So, those are a few reasons why your icebreaker may not land. But there’s a solution, and it’s a pretty simple fix.

First, what’s the point of an icebreaker?

For starters, they’ve become a modern-day workplace ritual—and rituals can be effective. They unify and align us. They help us transition from working as independent actors to members of a collective unit. We already design and participate in rituals like this, from setting intentions before yoga, to creating bedtime routines with kids. But icebreakers, in particular, seem to have lost track of their why.

You can restore it with an activity you already, naturally do well.

You start by taking a break.

This isn’t an ordinary chatty coffee break, but one with a bit more structure. It’s an exercise in which you ask the group to reflect and respond to a single question: “What’s on your mind?”

Here’s a step-by-step of how to do this

• First, allocate about 5 to 10 percent of your agenda for this activity. If you’re scheduled to meet for an hour, that’s only 6 minutes, and trust me, it’s worth it.

• Then, invite people to check in with themselves, and open floor to anyone who wants to share. Remind people to “bottom-line” their contributions so that there’s enough time for everyone to speak—a sentence or two, and anything is welcome. Your daughter made the soccer team. You got a speeding ticket on your way to work. Or, you feel present, and focused, and ready to go.

• The point is to contribute what’s going on with you personally as it may affect the dynamic of the team as a whole—this is introspective work—not a time for project updates or announcements.

• Establish that this isn’t a time to respond to each other, either. It’s not a dialogue. Instead, it’s an exercise in self awareness, self management, and systems awareness—or, broadly speaking, emotional intelligence.

• Next, let participation be voluntary rather than “going around the room.” Get comfortable with a bit of silence if you have to, and normalize that silence might mean people are checking in with themselves but don’t want to speak.

• And finally, pay attention to what happens in the room. You’ll notice that nervous systems and mindsets begin to align as people share. Likely, you’ll get a wide range of contributions—from the fun and light, to the real hardships of life—because that’s how systems find their equilibrium.

Now you know who is at your gathering or in your meeting. Now you are ready to get to work.

Here’s a few additional tips for the facilitator

Your role is to fade into the background and let the team reveal what’s present. Introduce the exercise—ask for a volunteer to be timekeeper if you think people might get sidetracked—then practice attuning to the energy of the group. As you do this, you might even consider any adjustments you need to make to the agenda in response.

You’ll notice, too, that people will open up to the level of their comfort and psychological safety: if there’s accrued trust, they might be more vulnerable. But if not, this is a great way to establish space for intimacy to develop.

Keep in mind, it isn’t your be-all, end-all icebreaker, but a foundation that returns a sense of purpose to the “throwaway” portion of the agenda. We’re much more capable of working together when we take an inventory of ourselves first.

Good luck with it, and make it your own. And let me know how it goes—would love to hear.

—Steph