Author: Sasha

Invisible to Me

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Earlier today, I was reading an email in my Gmail inbox, and I did a double-take. The person who wrote it always writes in Spanish, but this email was in English.

And then I noticed this at the top of the email.

On the one hand, it’s empowering: she and I can keep typing away in our native languages, with essentially no barriers to written communication.

This could be useful in so many ways beyond traditional “translation.”

Think of all the places where we have unseen language barriers. For example, business people talking to product people talking to engineering people. It’s hard to overstate the communication barriers that exist in this game of telephone, and the value of being able to say “I want something that does this” and having that turn into great user stories that could then be handed to the engineers would be…huge.

That said, I have two major worries:

  1. The most obvious is that, while I can check the Spanish to English translation, since I speak Spanish, I cannot check the English to Swahili or English to Igbo or Businessperson to Engineer translation. In most cases the black box nature of translation won’t matter, but that’s certainly giving a lot of power to the machine with minimal / oversight. If the nuance matters, that’s worrisome. And even if it doesn’t matter, that’s giving a lot of power to whoever controls the engine.
  2. The number of things that will fall prey to this sort of magic — and it is magic — will grow at breakneck speed. I assume that Gmail could already have a default reply written for 80% of the emails I receive, and that their quality will keep improving. How soon until I open Gmail and when I hit reply there’s a “suggested reply” email already written out? That sounds good at first, but the “win” we’ll get in terms of convenience would come with an even bigger “loss”: ultimately it’s a person whose mind I aim to change and whose heart I hope to engage. When my email bot is talking to their email bot, two people are, quite literally, no longer communicating.

We’re already seeing the beginnings of tweens and teens trying to get away from their phones because, 10 years later, they know so much more about the downside of being tethered to their feeds.

I wonder what will put the brakes on the millions of conveniences AI provides, and what will happen to business communications over the next two years. Could it be that spending time crafting a thoughtful email to someone working for another company will soon feel like stamps and airmail paper?

The Helsinki Bus Station

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I’ve been reading Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals by Oliver Burkeman. It is decidedly NOT a book about time management. It is about how to escape the tyranny of time in our lives, in the limited number of weeks (4,000) we spend on this planet.

Among other things, I was taken by this passage attributed to Finnish photographer Arno Rafael Minkkinen, about the lines leading out of the Helsinki bus station.

There are two dozen platforms there, he explains, with several different bus lines departing from each one—and for the first part of its journey, each bus leaving from any given platform takes the same route through the city as all the others, making identical stops.

Think of each stop as representing one year of your career, Minkkinen advises photography students. You pick an artistic direction—perhaps you start working on platinum studies of nudes—and you begin to accumulate a portfolio of work. Three years (or bus stops) later, you proudly present it to the owner of a gallery. But you’re dismayed to be told that your pictures aren’t as original as you thought, because they look like knockoffs of the work of the photographer Irving Penn; Penn’s bus, it turns out, had been on the same route as yours.

Annoyed at yourself for having wasted three years following somebody else’s path, you jump off that bus, hail a taxi, and return to where you started at the bus station. This time, you board a different bus, choosing a different genre of photography in which to specialize. But a few stops later, the same thing happens: you’re informed that your new body of work seems derivative, too. Back you go to the bus station.

But the pattern keeps on repeating: nothing you produce ever gets recognized as being truly your own.

What’s the solution?

“It’s simple,” Minkkinen says. “Stay on the bus. Stay on the fucking bus.”

A little farther out on their journeys through the city, Helsinki’s bus routes diverge, plunging off to unique destinations as they head through the suburbs and into the countryside beyond. That’s where the distinctive work begins. But it begins at all only for those who can muster the patience to immerse themselves in the earlier stage—the trial-and-error phase of copying others, learning new skills, and accumulating experience.

“Stay on the fucking bus” indeed.

One of the things I see often is people, three years into a job, getting stuck. They find themselves at the point that Minkkinen talks about, when the gallery owner says their work is unoriginal—but instead of the gallery owner, the voice is their own. It’s a voice that’s saying:

“I’ve learned all that I can in this job.”

“It’s no longer new.”

“I don’t see a clear path forward.”

Those reflections may well be true in some cases. However, if a job has been good for a few years, this discomfort might indicate something else entirely:  that you’re on the cusp of deepening.

Having succeeded in the first three years, you’ve mastered a set of skills. These are the core aspects of the first job or jobs, the stuff that’s easiest to describe.

This discomfort arises on the threshold of a new set of skills, the essential “soft” skills that really matter: managing and leading others; dealing with uncertainty; taking initiative; making tough calls; writing (some of) your own job description…

The list is endless.

It is a list full of skills that are harder to describe in a resume, that don’t boil down to a simple job title or a bulleted list of responsibilities.

But these are the skills that make all the difference.

These are the skills you might never get to if you’re constantly taking the taxi back to the Helsinki bus station.

The Problem with Jargon

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The first one is simply confusion: jargon allows our work only to be understood by the subset of people who speak your language.

In the case of economics, where the jargon is calculus, that might be OK.

But in most cases, jargon excludes people unnecessarily: if they don’t readily understand your language, they won’t understand your message.

The second problem is one of distance and separation. Jargon is a way to hide from reality, because technical language feels neutral, even when it’s not.

For example, in the world of social impact, it’s common to talk about measuring “outputs” and measuring “outcomes.” Both of those “O” words sound pretty good—sophisticated even—and neither carries much emotional content.

That’s why someone can say “we don’t measure social outcomes” and it can feel objective, rational even.

Whereas if someone were to say, “We count how many people are being reached, but other than that, we don’t have any data at all,” that might engender a whole slew of additional questions.

Don’t you want to know who is being reached?

Wouldn’t it be helpful to understand what their experience is?

Isn’t it essential to hear from them directly if the product is helping them — how much and why?

The good news is, hearing directly from people about what’s happening for them is increasingly common.

For example, the third annual 60 Decibels Microfinance Index was launched last week: real, comparable data from more than 36,000 customers representing tens of millions of microfinance clients.

Data about who they are.

Data about what their experience is.

Data about what’s working for them, and what can be improved.

It’s amazing how easy all of that is to understand when we state it simply and directly.

 

Fretting

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A little more than a year ago, I started playing guitar, to keep up with my daughter who has also been learning.

I didn’t know was how painful it is to play a steel string guitar: pushing hard on the strings was excruciating until I started playing consistently.

I’ve been fully self-taught, using the occasional YouTube video for advice and the Tabs app for the music. But a few weeks ago I came across the online course I’d been looking for. It includes the technique tips I’d been missing.

One tip in particular stood out.

It turns out that you are NOT supposed to put your fingers at the midpoint between two frets: doing so makes you have to push twice as hard (remember: finger pain) and it often makes the strings buzz.  Instead, you’re supposed to place your finger as close to the metal fret divider as possible. When you do this, you need less pressure, and the note comes out clean.

D chord finger placement – notice how his fingers are touching the frets.

So often the difference between the expert and the novice isn’t just skill, it is ease. Experts glide through things, novices sweat.

If you’re at the beginning of something, and things are going slowly, look for an expert who can teach you about the fret bar. New things are hard enough without the wrong mental model.

1,000 Breaths

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This year more than most, I’ve had bouts of sleeplessness.

I’ve always been a great sleeper, so this comes as a bit of a surprise. I generally have good sleep hygiene, include a reasonably consistent bedtime, bedtime routine, and no devices or other distractions in the room. I also start my days with a morning dog walk that supplies fresh air, early sunlight, and happy dog energy. And I do my best to remain physically active.

When I have trouble sleeping, I do a version of a breath counting meditation, sometimes with a body scan. I start at 1,000, and with each in-and-out breath cycle, I count down one. 999. 998. 997… At ~10 seconds a breath, I work my way through the numbers pretty slowly.

Most of the time, I get lost somewhere in the 800s. This could be because I get distracted by my thoughts, or because I doze off.

But occasionally this year, I’ve found myself getting further down into the smaller numbers, and I’ve found this frustrating. All the normal thoughts of “why isn’t this working,” “I’m just lying here, again, in my bed,” etc. start circling, and I get agitated.

Lately, what I’ve tried sitting with is the reflection that I am already resting.

The act of lying down, with a clear mind, breathing slowly in the dark, is itself restorative.

Meditating on this thought has help me be less goal-oriented in my relaxation (!!), and helps me be less concerned and tired if, indeed, I don’t manage to get myself back to sleep.

I’m hoping that the next few days don’t bring us all new reasons to feel stressed.

But if they do — and even if they don’t — we are all better served by being the most rested, rejuvenated versions of ourselves.

I hope you find this reflection useful, in whatever way you might adapt it to your body and your life.

The Huge Smile

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As I was walking this morning, from my hotel to the CGAP Financial Inclusion 2.0 meeting in Washington, DC, I passed an older woman wearing a babushka.

She had a weathered, kind face, and she looked me straight in the eye and gave me a huge smile.

It was a smile that said, “Hello stranger. Good to see you. It is a beautiful day, and I’m happy to share this brief moment with you. I give you my blessing. We are connected.”

At least that’s what it said to me to me.

On a crisp fall morning, in the midst of a busy season, this moment made me feel happy and connected. It certainly made my day better.

And so, for the rest of the day, when I could, I gave people a huge smile. I held their gaze for a split second longer and tried to pass on the warmth and kindness that woman gave to me.

I hope that I made someone else’s day a little bit better too.

Where Does Authority Come From?

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Let’s start with a definition.

I define “authority” as “the ability to determine an outcome in the face of uncertainty or opposition.”

As in: we’re huddled around the table, with a set of views about what should be done. Who decides?

To start, let’s think about where organizational authority comes from. Its sources include:

  • Positional (permanent): determined by your role in the hierarchy / your job title
  • Positional (temporary): an official but temporary designation of a role and its boundaries
  • Reputational: (can be based on expertise or respect) when you speak on a given set of topics, your view is weighed so heavily that it carries the day.
  • Relational: when you speak, it’s understood that you represent both your voice and the voice of someone else with more authority, so what you say goes.
  • Action: by acting like a person who decides, and by making decisions, you influence others’ actions and determine / strongly influence outcomes

I’ve listed these in descending order of formality: positional authority is the most widely recognized and easiest to exert; authority that comes through action (also called “leadership”) is less common and harder to exert.

However, none of these sources of authority stands alone, as in:

  • Positional authority can be enhanced or weakened by one’s reputation.
  • It can similarly be strengthened or weakened by how / how often it is used — authority rarely but effectively used will lead to better results than barking orders for every tiny thing.
  • Exercising authority through action alone could communicate relational authority (“She’s deciding. Someone must have told her she’s allowed to do that, so we should listen to her.”)
  • Similarly, it could quickly translate into Positional (temporary) authority (“She’s been acting like she’s in charge of this project. Maybe we should put her in charge of this project.”)

One can quickly imagine drawing a complex systems map of how these five elements play together — submissions welcome.

The interesting question that lurks in the background is: who bestows authority? Over what?

The assumed answer is “someone with more authority than I have.”

This answer presumes a default position of “no authority” with a switch that’s flipped, topic by topic, over time, by those in authority.

Perhaps that’s normal, but we can choose a different default setting, one that starts at the level of culture.

For example, what if our culture says:

  • We want people to step up, to make decisions, and to lead.
  • If there’s uncertainty about whether you have authority, the answer is yes, every time.
  • It is up to the culture (those around you) to communicate if they think you should have consulted more or had someone else make the decision.
  • If the choice is between deferral — having someone else / no one speak up / decide — and action, we expect you to make a call.
  • In the context of this culture, when two or more people step up and make different calls on the same topic, we will invest in becoming skillful at respectfully resolving these differences and/or conferring official authority over this type of decision.

And, since seniority always also matters, you can add on:

  • When we give you this (kind of) title, it means that we have seen you in action enough to have extreme confidence in your decision-making and judgment.
  • For anyone with that (kind of) title, our expectation is that you will be decisive and put yourself on the line, even when (especially when) its risky

As I’ve said before, Culture Graphs teach us that culture is a living thing that evolves daily based on the accumulated actions of each person in an organization. If you want more authority, rather than waiting for it to be bestowed on you, you can instead:

  1. Ask for it
  2. Start exercising it and see if anyone stops you

This last point is where we put ourselves on the hook.

The easy and seemingly safe thing is to hang back.

The braver thing is to ask for authority when we feel it’s important.

The rarest thing is to care so much that you routinely act with authority, that you default to taking brave positions.

If we find ourselves wondering, “do I have the authority to do this important thing?” it’s good to ask ourselves, “have I been stopped before?”

If not, then the person who will give you the authority to take that next step is you.

 

Grand Canyon Rim 2 Rim – Look Only 20 Feet Ahead

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A few weeks ago, I had the chance to do the Grand Canyon Rim to Rim Hike.

It’s the second time I’ve done this hike, and both times it’s been a doozy.

It’s a 24 mile hike that we completed in one day, with a 6am start time and, for me, a ~3:30pm finish. It starts with a 5,000 ft vertical drop in the first 6 miles, followed by a 2,400 foot ascent for the next 9 miles (plus the optional two mile side route to an amazing waterfall), and then, with 19 miles in your legs, a 4,000 foot vertical ascent over the last 5 miles.

That might be why this is the sign you have to pass on your way down the canyon.

Knowing what I had signed up for, I spent the second half of this summer training for this hike, starting with 3-mile runs and ending with 10-milers by late August. And even so, it was really, really hard. As much as I wanted to appreciate the experience—which I did—the last 5 miles are a mental and physical test. It was hard to stay focused and keep the faith.

This route is particularly tricky because it is an upside-down hike: the hardest part coming at the end messes with both your mind and your body.

And it occurred to me that the upside-down hike isn’t so dissimilar from most projects or from building a company. The truth is that the really exciting fun part is often right at the beginning—the downhill where you can see the views, where everything seems possible, where the initial going is easy.

But, for nearly everyone, the hard part lays ahead. It might come in the first few months; it might come a few years down the road. We all have a dip that we need to get through, a hard part that comes long after the initial enthusiasm and excitement has passed.

What did I learn on this hike about pushing my way through the hard part and getting out of the Grand Canyon?

The one behavior that really tripped me up was picking my head up to look too far up the path ahead.

This might seem counterintuitive, but looking too far up the path set off a cycle of doubt. I was so tired, my legs were so shot, and I had so much further to go. Looking up a few hundred vertical feet or, worse, a few thousand—whether spotting a hiker looking to the next ridge—was discouraging. Whereas focusing on my feet, or looking 10-20 feet ahead, worked great.

“I can take this next step, and the next one, and a few after that.” My job was to keep going, without narrative or judgement around how long I thought I could keep it up.

If you find yourself in a hard patch, focus on the now, on that next step, on the work that’s in front of you that you know you can do.

Asking the question “how much longer can I keep this up?” leads to a whole bunch of answers that are inaccurate and that take the wind out of your sails.

Whereas one step at a time can take you a long, long way.

 

Interesting, Useful

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What do we want to be, interesting or useful?

And which are we drawn to?

Each of us is more inclined to discovery via one path or another.

The pragmatist looks for things to employ today, knowing that, if deployed correctly, these useful things will build up over time.

The “ideas person” needs to be engaged first. If the idea doesn’t have a hook it will never keep her attention.

Knowing how we’re wired, and knowing how the people we’re interacting with see the world, helps us see and be intentional about our own actions. It also helps us craft stories that will land with others.

“This will make these three things better” is not the right message for a big ideas person.

And

“Let me tell you a story” won’t work for an impatient pragmatist.

Which are you?

Healing

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Healing, of course always happens.

The muscles recover.

The scar tissue forms.

The heart mends.

Rarely, though, does healing happen on the schedule we expect. “Time heals all wounds,” as they say, but time also waits for no one. Our hopes and are plans are, sadly, irrelevant.

It’s far too easy to get stuck in that gap between expectation and reality.

To find yourself questioning progress and asking, “will this ever get better?”

Or, worst of all, to allow the stuck-ness to become a thing in and of itself, one that has its own story, its own reality, and its own energy.

This can happen in matters of the body, in matters of the heart, at the level of a company or even nationally.

“How well are we doing, really?” is rarely the question we ask ourselves.

Rather, it is, “where did I hope we’d be right now?”

One of the hardest jobs of a leader is to help our teams be clear-eyed about the challenges of the present without letting them lose sight of the daily wins, the accomplishments big and small, the things that used to be hard that today are easy.

Our plans are just that—hopes about what will come to pass.

“Longer than we’d hoped” is so much more common than “that was easier than I expected.”

It just makes for worse headlines.

 

P.S. Last week’s post on how product-market fit might be different for social entrepreneurs generated a great conversation on LinkedIn, in case you want to check that out.