Managing Change

Go Ahead, Criticize

January 7, 2018 By Michele Woodward 1 Comment

Loading the dishwasher can be very instructive.

Once, during a family gathering, a lovely person commented as I added the dishwashing soap and closed the door, “Oh, my mother would kill you. That dishwasher isn’t full – she never let us run it unless it was completely packed.”

I smiled as I turned on the power button and let it run, knowing that we’d need those dishes for the next family meal, and we’d have another huge load to run afterwards.

So, the dishwasher was 7/8s full when I ran it rather than 9/8s full when she wanted to run it.

And I was completely confident in my choice. Because I knew exactly why I was running the dishwasher at that moment. Plus, it was my damn dishwasher.

Some of us go into things with a highly critical approach. We’re wired like Mr. Spock from Star Trek to look at things logically, analytically, coolly. When a kid comes home with an A-, our first instinct is to ask “Why wasn’t it an A?”

Doesn’t that make you wince to see it written like that? But some of us just can’t seem to help it.

And if your critical nature is getting you the results you want, then by all means keep going. If, however, you’re not building the bridges you want, creating the relationships you seek or getting the results you aim for, then you owe it to yourself and others to change your approach.

The drive for analytical perfection eats people up. Executives who create unrealistic standards, impossible goals and nitpick results are executives who have employee churn and, ultimately, lower productivity.They think they’ll do better by applying pressure, but exactly the opposite is true.

I mean, even Spock was half human. And it’s tapping into your human side which changes things.

It’s “I’d love to understand your process – tell me how you came to this conclusion.”

It’s “I can see you worked hard on this and I appreciate it.”

It’s “May I give you some feedback on this?”

It’s “Wow, I would have never approached it this way, but what you’ve got here is really good.”

You might feel like perfection is a dishwasher crammed your way – as full as it can possibly get – but I’m here to tell you that real perfection is paying attention to the reality of the moment. It’s knowing what’s needed yet being aware that someone else might have a very good plan you simply hadn’t thought of before.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a dishwasher to run before I start making dinner.

Things Have To Change

November 27, 2016 By Michele Woodward Leave a Comment

The more I live this life the more I am sure that in order to get anything I have to be willing to let some things go. Sometimes what I need to let go feels very precious – until I release it and realize that what shows up afterward is even better.

I often tell a parable to illuminate this point:

Let’s say you’re walking down the road one day, completely minding your own business, carrying a gold coin held tightly in each fist because they’re the only gold coins you’ve ever had and you want to keep them safe. And, as you’re walking down the road, minding your own business, you happen to meet the leprechaun at the end of the rainbow, sitting by his pot of gold.

He says, in his best Lucky Charms voice: “Good day to you! Dip your hands into this here cauldron of shining gold coins and you can keep whatever you can hold.”

Now is the moment of decision for you.

Do you hold tightly to the two gold coins you have – hey, they’re a sure thing! – and try to scoop with closed fists? How much gold do you think you can gather when your hands are closed?

Or, do you open your fists – maybe losing your two precious gold coins – so you can use your open hands to gather as much as you could manage?

I know myself and I know that I would, without hesitation, make my hands as big as they could be and attempt to scoop up twenty or thirty gold pieces – even if I ended up losing the two I came in with. This is probably why I’ve been able to keep my business running since 1997 – I have a high tolerance for risk and for not knowing how things will turn out.

[The truth is I generally assume things are going to turn out all right and you know what? They almost always do.]

However, if you have a high need for certainty, control, comfort – well, you might just tip your hat to the leprechaun and keep walking down the road. Because, for you, the assurance of your two gold coins matters more than the risk of losing them.

And this is where people get stuck. The proverbial bird in the hand. The demon you know. The at-least-I-know-what-to-expect.

The comfortable.

For all of us, though, there are times when the comfortable becomes uncomfortable. When the demon you know becomes a demon who’s destroying you. When the bird in your hand flies away. When the rules change abruptly or no longer apply.

And those are the moments when you have to – must – let go.

It’s so hard. It can change your definition of yourself. It can hurt.

But to become unstuck – to be happy and fulfilled – you must let go of those two gold coins you’ve been clutching in your tight little fists for so long, and begin to claim the treasure that’s being offered you.

Open your heart and mind. Rethink your assumptions. Allow your open hands to scoop as much as you can hold.

I promise you – it’s right here for the taking.

Nine Eleven

September 11, 2016 By Michele Woodward 1 Comment

I wrote this on the ten year anniversary of 9/11, and re-reading again this year, the fifteenth anniversary, seems appropriate to read it again, this year.

I was feeling rather smug that morning.

I stood on the tee box of the seventh hole, under the bluest sky I’d seen in some time, the crisp early fall air like a tonic in my lungs. And I was playing my brains out – 2 strokes over par after the first six holes of a nine hole golf tournament.

I was even nervously allowing myself to think, “I could win this thing!”

I stood on the tee box in the casual pose I’d seen pro golfers strike, arm on hip, hand on the end of the club, leg crossed over. I posed like a woman who was going to win, baby.But then I saw something. Coming over the ridge, a golf cart. I squinted. It was the young golf pro, and she was barreling directly for me. She screeched to a halt and breathlessly said, “Mrs. Woodward, you have to come in. Your husband called.” She must have read something on my face, because she quickly added, “Your kids are fine. Everyone’s fine. It’s just that both World Trade Towers in New York have collapsed, there’s a bomb at the Pentagon, there’s a bomb at the State Department and something up at the Capitol.” Panic started to well up inside me. “Your husband wants you to get the kids and go home.” I nodded, processing it all, and threw my bag on the back of her cart and we sped off. My playing partner stepped out of the porta-potty just in time to hear me say, “I concede. I have to go.”

And I didn’t think about golf again for a very long time.

It took well over an hour to drive the six miles home. I picked up the kids – confused, frightened – on the way. During those gridlocked minutes in the car, I felt like a sitting duck. The local all-news radio station was reporting on fighter planes scrambling, and commercial planes landing. They also reported that there was one more plane, on the way to The White House.

The White House, where I had worked, and where so many friends were working that day.

Crossing the Chain Bridge, I glanced to my left and saw a column of black smoke streaming over the tree tops. The Pentagon burning.

I could smell it.

It was surreal.

Our house is about a quarter of a mile from the Potomac River. Between the house and the river is the busy and noisy George Washington Parkway, which is traveled by 80,000 people every day. Usually, the hum of the cars whizzing past creates a gentle susurrus that can be as comforting as sitting by the ocean. And we also live under the flight path for Reagan National Airport, and the steady rumble of landing and taking off every six minutes is a part of the environment. It’s a noisy place.

But that morning, under the bluest sky, I stood in my front yard and heard… nothing. No traffic. No planes. Nothing. I held my arms out, as if I could embrace the world and share our pain, when I heard the first one. One deep tone. Then another. The National Cathedral had begun tolling its bells. Then the bells from other churches began to ring. Mournful, yes. But hope, too, in each tone. Hope. Hope. Hope.

I stood there, barefoot, broken-hearted, on one of the most beautiful days of the year. Worried. What could possibly come next?

I did an inventory: I had a husband I loved, I had great kids I could parent full-time. I had my family, my friends. We were blessed. We were safe. We were going to be okay.

That’s what it looked like under the bluest sky. But the reality of the next ten years proved to be quite different than I ever could have imagined.If a visitor from the future had told me, that morning out on my front lawn, that in the next ten years:

I would divorce the man whose ring I wore on September 11, 2001, after learning some hard truths.

He would move away, remarry and start a new family.

I would be a single parent.

I would give up being a full-time mom and go back to work.

I would be diagnosed with cancer.

I would struggle financially.

Family and dear friends would die unexpectedly, some painfully.

My children would face challenges which would stop us in our tracks.

If the future visitor told me all that on September 11, 2001, I would have said, “You have to be kidding. It can’t possibly go that way.”

But if that visitor was telling the truth, he’d also have had to tell me the fantastic parts of the coming years:

That I would be known as a writer, with blogs and books.

That I would work with people all over the world – from Asia to Europe, from Canada to Mexico, from Alaska to The Keys – and help them find more fulfilling work, and meaningful lives.

That I’d meet strangers who would grow dear to my heart.

That a certain 8-year old third grader would become a happy, thoughtful, kind, six foot tall college man with a thriving business he created from scratch.

That a little kindergartner would grow into a willowy high school athlete who studies Latin and history, and never forgets a friend.

That I would fund my own retirement account.

That I would own my resilience, know myself and grow comfortable in my own skin.

If the visitor from the future had told me under the bluest sky that I would grow to be more myself – more happy, centered and creative – than I’ve ever been, I would have said, “Dude, you’re talking to the wrong person.”

Because I hadn’t a clue on September 11, 2001. I thought I was happy. What could possibly change?

Only everything.

And always for the better, I’ve learned. No matter how it seems in the moment.

Looking forward the next 10 years, to September 11, 2021, what will happen? What change will I meet, and how will I handle it?

I have no idea. None. But I do know this: I am not afraid.

Because even all the pain of the last ten years has been exponentially outweighed by all the love. By all the connections. By all the growth. By all the learning.

On September 11, 2001, three thousand people lost their lives. They had no chance to experience the last ten years of living. But we did. We still do.

Don’t you think we owe it to them to embrace whatever it is that’s coming? And embrace it with love? With kindness? With creativity?

Yes, we do. And I will. I will live with my feet in the grass under skies both blue and gray, and remember the sound of bells tolling, hope, hope, hope.

Stand with me?

Photo: © Jamie McIntyre, 2001

It’s Been A Tough Summer

August 1, 2016 By Michele Woodward 1 Comment

May 1st. That’s the last time I wrote a blog post.

All of May went by. Then June. Now July.

And you’re probably wondering why.

Some dear readers have even written to me, asking if I’m OK – thank you. You remind me that the words I write are helpful.

But even that awareness hasn’t been enough.

Because it’s hard to write 10 Things You Need To Know About Networking when people are getting shot.

When Dallas happens. When Orlando happens. When Nice happens. Yemen, Baghdad, Cairo, Munich, Kabul.

Syria. Boko Haram. ISIS.

Philando Castile. Alton Sterling. A therapist trying to help an autistic man.

It seems trivial and superficial for me to write about How To Be Yourself when the US is facing one of the most consequential elections in history. When the UK deals with Brexit. When Turkey has a coup.

I’ve been over here gawping for air like a fish washed up on the shore, people.

Then I remembered my four words for 2016: Real. Presence. Generous. Opportunities.

I’m not being very real or generous by staying silent. I don’t have a presence if I’m not here.

I’m not using the opportunities I have to say the things that might help you (and me) cope through these difficult days.

So, I’m going to try. Let me tell you a story.

About ten years ago – it was a Friday night in January – I was home with my sick son. We heard a loud bang and then smelled the acrid scent of burning electrical wiring. If you’ve ever smelled it, you never forget it.

I ran to every room in the house, trying to figure out what had happened. As I careened down the steps to the basement, I saw thick, white smoke hanging from the ceiling. Not good. Threw open the door to the room where the HVAC system and circuit breaker box is located, and smoke was two feet thick there. I grabbed the phone, dialed 911, took my son by the hand and quickly left the house.

My next-door-neighbor had invited me for wine earlier, which I had declined because my son was sick and I didn’t want him to feel puny and all alone. When I knocked on her door, she was delighted. “You can have wine!” I said, “No. Hear those sirens in the distance? They’re coming to my house.” I explained the situation, she took my son in hand and I went to meet the fire trucks.

Nine of them.

The feeling in the pit of your stomach when firefighters with axes prepare to enter your home is like nothing you can imagine. And seeing the hoses uncoiled, ready to soak your house is both encouraging and terrifying.

The red lights were turning, the fire chief in his white hat was talking with me, and my heart was pounding like I’d run a marathon.

After they had inspected the house, determined that the circuit breaker board had exploded (thankfully, it’s mounted on a cinder block wall or else those hoses and axes might have had to have been used), and turned off all power to the house, the most extraordinary thing happened.

My neighbors started coming.

First, the close in neighbors who I know well, asking if I needed anything. It was January, after all. Did we have a place to stay?

Then, the farther out neighbors. Elderly neighbors. Young neighbors. Could they pitch in? Did I need anything? Did the kids need anything?

Folks walked up the hill, and around the corner. Not looky-loos, but people who wanted to help. Who were ready to help.

It was so kind, and made me feel so connected and cared for. I wasn’t all by myself dealing with a catastrophe – I was part of a community who was looking out for one of its own.

And this is what we need to remember during these trying times.

When we feel like we’re all alone and there’s nothing we can do – there’s always something we can do.

Because when neighbors help neighbors, communities thrive. When communities thrive, nations thrive.

And when your neighborhood extends to those you don’t know, who don’t look like you, whose life experiences are different from yours, who think differently, who are in need…the planet thrives.

So, let’s all be a community, shall we? Let’s be kind to one another and find ways to connect and help.

There’s a lot coming at all of us these days, sugars, and the only way to get past it is to get through it. Together.

What Brave Really Looks Like

May 1, 2016 By Michele Woodward 1 Comment

It’s easy to forget, in the rush of the day-to-day, what brave really looks like – so let me remind you of one or two things:

Sometimes brave simply looks like getting out of bed in the morning.

Sure, it’s brave to try something new. Admitting you have no idea how to do it is very brave.

Brave also looks like voicing an opinion.

Or respectfully disagreeing.

Or admitting you haven’t made your mind up yet.

Brave is being a true and kind friend to yourself.

Brave is extending your hand to a stranger.

And, brave is standing up for the rights of a stranger.

Anyone who creates art – using paint, clay, stone, words, numbers, performance, color, texture, shape – is incredibly brave.

Brave looks like absolutely loving the body you have.

And it’s brave to know you need to change something – and taking the steps toward that change.

Listening is brave.

Loving is brave.

Breathing is brave.

That means you, my friend, are so very brave.

Remember this the next time you have doubt or wonder where your confidence has gone.

It really hasn’t gone anywhere – you just forgot for a minute exactly how brave you are every single day.

What’s Really Important

March 11, 2016 By Michele Woodward Leave a Comment

I’m writing this just before I leave the house to fly to Atlanta for the funeral of my dear friend, the writer and brand strategist Laurie Foley.

You’ve all been so kind these last weeks as Laurie’s condition progressed ever closer to her death.

In fact, you were cheering for her back in 2014 when she went into remission: I wrote this then, You Get To Decide, and I heard from so many of you that her story was inspirational.

And the response to my more recent posts, Real and Raw and last week’s The Price of Friendship have been warm and embracing for me. Just when I needed it most.

So, I thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

And I thank Laurie for bringing friendship, kindness and caring into such sharp focus for so many through her dying process. Even when she had so little strength, the woman had a lot of energy.

Take care of yourselves, friends. And take care of those you love. Make time for them. Honor them. Be kind.

It’s loss like this which reminds us what is really important.

The Price of Friendship

March 7, 2016 By Michele Woodward 8 Comments

I drove out to the mountains last Thursday and took a solitary drive along the Blue Ridge. I could see a storm coming in from the west, clouds like monochromatic watercolor on the horizon.

I needed the space, I needed the solace of nature.

Because my friend Laurie Foley died that morning.

I wrote about Laurie a few weeks ago, after I visited her in hospice. To get a bigger sense of the life she lived, you can read Laurie’s obituary in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, too.

Laurie was an amazing person, yes. A PhD in Computer Science at age 26? Hell, yes, she was amazing.

And she was also my friend.

People ask me, “Oh, did you grow up together? Did you meet in college?”, as if that’s the last chance to meet anyone who matters.

The truth is: I met Laurie in 2008 when she was my student in coach training. Then I became her mentor, her colleague, and her friend.

We liked the same books, and the same movies. She had a dog named Mocha. I have dogs named Milo and Bootsy. She had a kid. I had kids. We both loved puns, and British humor. We both took training in archetypes – different training programs, though – and she not-so-secretly thought her program was better than mine. We both disliked fake, insincere and slick salesmanship. We both believed in the things that cannot be seen. She came to visit me a couple of times, I came to visit her a couple of times. In the last few years, we connected every day as she navigated her life with ovarian cancer.

We were grown-up friends.

Earlier, in my late 30s, a slightly older friend moved away and called to talk with me about how challenging it was to fit in to her new community. She said, with a deep sigh, “No one wants a new friend after forty.” This was not happy news because she was smart, gorgeous, fun, engaging and blonde. I mean, if she couldn’t find new grown-up friends, I was destined to become a friendless bag lady living out of a shopping cart by my next birthday.

It’s true that too many of us struggle to find friends – friends at work, friends in the neighborhood, friends at all. And yet the Mayo Clinic says having the connection that deep friendship provides is vital to your health.

So, having friends is a very good thing.

The downside, of course, to allowing yourself to become deeply and authentically connected to another person is the sad fact that some day one of you will die.

And your heart will break.

And you may think things will never be the same again.

But that pain is the price you pay for having loved deeply, for having cared completely. For allowing another person to have seen you at your best and at your worst – and you them – and loving them anyway.

When you understand just how important connection and friendship is, you can take steps to create and foster relationships. Last year, Koren Motekaitis (also a former student – see a trend developing?) and I spent an entire hour talking about the power of friendships on her How She Really Does It radio show- listen to it here and get some more insight and approaches to growing and appreciating the people in your life.

If you feel less connected than you’d like to be, then today is the day you can start changing it. Be more open. Make eye contact. Find the places where you have things in common with others, and talk about it with them. Make the effort. Be vulnerable enough to be someone’s friend.

You will never regret it.

This week, I’ll head to Atlanta for Laurie’s funeral. This is a day I had hoped would never come, but it has. And as the sun streams through the stained glass next Saturday afternoon, and people say wonderful things about her heart and her spirit, my every breath and heartbeat will be a simple thank you for the deep and abiding friendship we have shared.

What I’m Here To Do

February 21, 2016 By Michele Woodward 1 Comment

A few weeks ago, I told you about my friend Laurie Foley who moved into hospice when it became clear there were no treatment options available for her ovarian cancer. I shared with you that I began to ask myself the powerful questions:

What am I doing with myself and my work?
How do I want to show up?
Is there any place I’m hiding?
Where can I be more real? More raw? More true?

Being me, I undertook a intensive review of these questions and coached myself like a pro.

And in the course of my investigation, I got all up in my own business around an idea I’d had last spring and hadn’t really moved on.

See, it was a big idea, and at the time I came up with it I had a vision of how it needed to be delivered. But, technology wasn’t my friend and that approach had to be scuttled.

Then, I sat on it.

For a while.

Then, picked it back up and considered a new approach.

Which fizzled.

Then, I lost interest.

Or, maybe it just got too complicated.

Or, maybe I was afraid of putting this big idea out there.

But when I asked myself: “What am I doing with myself and my work?”, I knew I had to get this project going.

Then a friend asked me – when I was complaining about some minuscule vexation: “If it was you in hospice, what would you want people to know?”

I’d want them to know what I know.

And that’s why I’m stepping forward with this program.

Welcome to Michele Woodward University.

It’s made up of fourteen webinars on subjects I know inside and out. Fourteen subjects you need to know about to be successful today. Subjects like how to build a network, what to do when you’re stuck, managing toxic work situations, reducing stress and many more.

With each class you’ll get access to the live webinar, a recording of the class, a transcript and worksheets.

It feels big to me. Sort of a legacy piece.

[Taking a deep breath and letting it out slow.]

Take a class or two – the first one on networking is available to all with no charge – and maybe, just maybe, you’ll learn something that will make a difference in your life and work.

That, my friends, would make it all worthwhile.