Michele Woodward

Powerful Coaching. Powerful Results.

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Say This, Not That

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You may know that one of my core values is learning.

There’s nothing I love more than digging in, coming to understanding and integrating that knowledge into my life.

I know, it makes me so fun to be around at parties.

One of the most important learnings of the last ten years has been around how to speak.

Yes, it’s entirely possible that I emerged from the womb reciting Elizabeth Barrett Browning – but that’s talking and anyone can do that.

What I’m talking about is speaking in a way that opens up conversation and relationships.

The simple rule I’ve learned is: Ask so that others can answer fully, and truthfully.

Mind-blowing, huh?

Here’s the example:

“Are you having a good day?”

vs.

“How’s your day?”

In the first instance, the way you’ve constructed the question suggests that the listener needs to experience a “good day” to be in your good graces. You are, in fact, telling them what to feel.

Maybe your intention is to keep things light, superficial. Or you think you’re being optimistic and sunny, all Law of Attraction-y. Regardless, the result is the person responds with, “Yeah…sure”, which might be untrue, and your relationship is now touched by that small little lie.

But when you simply ask, “How’s your day?”, you allow a response that’s real. The person can say what’s on their mind, something like: “It’s a tough day – I had to put my dog down.” How honest. How revealing. How real.

Then you can be with that person, in that moment, in their reality and sorrow.

You have an opportunity to be a supportive friend, family member, colleague. You can know them more fully by understanding their truth. And they can know you, too, by experiencing your kindness.

Yes, being empathetic might take something from you. And you might feel like you’re not up to the task.

I imagine you are, though. Because I know you’re a kind, thoughtful, compassionate person who wants close connections with others.

You can do it. You can be open to hearing the truth, and dealing with whatever that truth brings along with it.

So, say this: “How are you feeling?” rather than “Feeling good?”

Say, “Where are you on the Framastam contract?” rather than “Are you done with the Framastam contract yet?”

Say, “What are your plans tonight?” rather than “You’re not going to that block party on Garfield St., are you?”

Say, “What do you think of the succotash?” rather than “Don’t you love this succotash?”

You can open doors with the questions you ask, or you can close them. It’s a powerfully simple learning that leads to a fuller, richer experience for all involved.

 

 

Worth Failing For

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Workshop and seminar leaders, Little League coaches and life coaches, parents and priests. What do they possibly have in common?

My guess is that at some point or the other they may have asked someone, “What would you do if you knew you couldn’t fail?”

They ask this question in an attempt to figure out goals and dreams. To understand where someone might be holding themselves back out of fear of failing. To inspire.

All well and good.

The amazing, inspiring Brené Brown, though, asks the question in a powerful and different way.

She asks, “What’s worth failing for?”

I mean, really. Brené nails it. That is one piercing question.

So, let me ask you: What are you willing to stand up for? What are you willing to use your voice for?

Regardless of the consequences?

What do you love enough to risk everything for?

I ask it that way because I know myself and if my kids were ever threatened, I’d put myself between them and harm’s way in a nanosecond.

It comes down to this, then: Love is absolutely worth failing for.

Because I love so deeply and passionately about what’s happening in our world, I am conscious that I must my voice to say the things that need to be said. I am willing to put myself out there even if people disagree with me.

(And as an aside – disagreement doesn’t need to mean the end of a relationship. In fact, disagreement can bring people closer together as they grow to understand each other. Remember that next time you get in a Twitter war, will you?)

You may find this hard to believe, but there was a time in my life when I swallowed my words because I felt as though there was going to be a tough consequence if I spoke up. It was only after I was clear of this situation that I realized the toll silence took on me. And I felt the relief and coming-home-ness which came from learning to use my voice again.

When you look at things not from a vantage point of “how can I make sure I don’t lose?” but from the “what am I willing to lose for?” things change.

Even in the face of sure loss.

Even when things are tough.

Even when you know you are not going to win.

When you show up as yourself, put it out there, own it, love it…you’ve already won.

And whatever happens next doesn’t even matter.

What You Fear Most

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If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this lifetime, it’s that anything I fear finds a way to poke its head up routinely.

If I fear bursting into tears in a difficult conversation, guess what happens? I fight tears all the way through until I explode.

If I fear bombing a speaking engagement, guess what happens? I fumble, mumble and fall flat.

If I fear saying something racially, culturally, gender-ly insensitive to a person I care about, guess what happens? I’m not really present and forget that Frances wants to be called “they” and that Ashley is now Chris and I feel like a dope.

Y’all, I am a mistake making machine. And that is because I am a human being. Human beings make mistakes.

And, here’s the trick, I’ve gotten to the place where I no longer fear making mistakes. I know, right?

Because I no longer fear making mistakes – because I know I am a mistake making machine – rather than beat myself up for stuff I do wrong, I take them as moments for learning. I can appreciate the clarity that comes from a mistake. I can find the illumination. The grace.

And, of course, when I make the inevitable mistake, I know the Aftermath Process: I acknowledge the mistake, I make all repairs necessary (including apologies or restitution) and I make a promise to try my very best to never, ever repeat that particular mistake again.

Many of us fear (that word again) being told we’re wrong. It’s like being called out as the mistake making machine that we humans are is the worst possible outcome.

But it’s not. It’s simply our opportunity to learn. To grow. To do something new.

I will admit to enjoying schadenfreude – delight in the misery of others – just as much as the next mistake making machine. And, yet, I have taught myself to not live in that gloating space.

Because I know that one of these minutes-hours-days-weeks it will be my turn.

And when it happens I want you all to help me acknowledge that I screwed up, help me find a way to repair and hold me to my promise to do better next time.

Because when we hold each other this way, we are building something together, rather than tearing one another apart.

And this is a second thing I have learned in this lifetime.

Talking About The Elephant In The Room

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Missed me the last couple of weeks? Yeah, it’s been frustrating for me, too. Try as I might, I’ve been unable to write anything I felt good about.

And that’s because there’s a very large, very gray, very wrinkly elephant in the room. Standing right there between us.

See, it’s like there are competing voices in my head. One says “write things people who might hire you will like because you are a business person, after all.” And another voice says, “Wow, writing like that feels contrived and inauthentic. Don’t do that.”

After some reflection and journaling and a few macaroons (the kind dipped in dark chocolate, if you’re interested), I’ve realized that when I merely show up and show myself, things tend to work out just fine.So that’s my intention with this space.

It’s a crazy world out there and – elephant alert – I want to write about how to cope and how to manage dealing with it all.

Here’s this week’s critical topic: How can you express yourself – how can you show up and be seen – in times like these?

Times where partisanship is applauded more than cooperation.

Times when trolls with screen courage unleash blistering vitriol at the slightest provocation.

Times when you’re not sure if you can take one more news report, one more headline.

But I’m here to tell you that if you swallow your voice, if you make yourself mouse-like, if you keep your head down and mind your own business, you will feel increasingly more awful than you feel now.

You will begin to feel as though you’re vanishing.

I work with clients who are Democrats, and clients who are Republicans, and clients who are independents. And some who live in Europe, Latin American or Asia. All of them – each and every one – are stressed by the tenor and tone of even chatting with people we’ve always thought of as friends these days.

Want to know how I try to navigate?

First, I never assume that anyone believes what I believe or interprets situations exactly how I do. As Stephen Covey suggests in his classic Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, I seek to understand and then to be understood.

This means that sometimes I get to say, “I get what you’re saying. I don’t happen to agree – can I tell you why?”

The best case scenario is when they say, “Yes, I’d love to hear your perspective.” And if they say, no, they’re not at all interested in what I have to say…I move along.

Second, I remind myself all the time that I am a learner. Curiosity is my hallmark and my day is not quite complete if I haven’t satisfied that particular interest. With that framework, I can hear your perspective with and open heart and mind…

Unless, third, you are voicing hateful, exclusionary, racist beliefs. If that happens, I will tell you directly that you are wrong and I will not stand for slurs, epithets or threats. And then I get myself out of your presence.

Because what we need in our world today is far less hate and far more cooperation.

We need people to show up and show themselves – the best parts of themselves – as we find solutions to all the problems we face.

I’m going to do my part in my own little patch. Join me by doing what you can in your own patch. And, patch by patch, we’ll become the change we seek.

A Few Words On Joy

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me-and-grace-stockholm-2016

 

Phew. I’m just back from a wonderful week in Stockholm visiting my dear daughter, Grace, who’s studying at the Stockholm School of Economics this semester.

It’s a long trip from Washington, DC to Stockholm – almost nine hours by air – so I loaded my Kindle with a couple of books and a Great Courses program on Herodotus (which seemed really appealing when I bought it…).

The book I devoured on the plane and while Grace was in class was the new book by His Holiness the Dalai Lama and Archbishop Desmond Tutu – The Book of Joy: Lasting Happiness In A Changing World.

If you haven’t read this one yet, put it on your list. You won’t regret it.

The idea is simple – put these two spiritual leaders in a room for a week and have them talk about joy. What is it? What gets between humans and joy? What can we do to get more joy in our lives? Writer Douglas Abrams asked the questions and compiled the answers into an engaging and provoking book. I highlighted so many wonderful passages I nearly wore out my index finger. Here are a couple that might resonate for you:

“‘We are meant to live in joy,’ the Archbishop explained. ‘This does not mean that life will be easy or painless. It means that we can turn our faces to the wind and accept that this is the storm we must pass through.'”

“As the Dalai Lama has described it, if we see a person who is being crushed by a rock, the goal is not to get under the rock and feel what they are feeling; it is to help to remove the rock.”

“The only thing that will bring happiness is affection and warmheartedness.”

“If you have genuine kindess or compassion, then when someone gets something or has more success you are able to rejoice in their good fortune.”

“Deep down we grow in kindness when our kindness is tested.”

“God uses each of us in our own way, and even if you are not the best one, you may be the one who is needed or the one who is there.”

And, “When we accept what is happening now, we can be curious about what might happen next.”

My trip to Stockholm was pure joy, my friends. Being with my daughter, seeing the city through her eyes, learning about a new culture – it was a delight of discovery and connection. And with the words of Archbishop Desmond Tutu and The Dalai Lama frontmost in my mind, I was open to the light of joyfulness that was right there for me.

Which is precisely what these two Nobel Peace Prize winners – and dear friends to each other – are teaching through their new book.

Joy is found by being present where you are. By coming to terms with how life is. By showing kindness and compassion. By being open to other perspectives, and to changing your own mind.

They say, “True joy is a way of being, not a fleeting emotion.” To which I say, “Yes. Wholeheartedly, unreservedly, yes.”

If you worry that your life has too little joy, read this book.

If you can’t figure out how to be more joyful, read this book.

If you fret that our world is becoming a joyless place, read this book.

If you want to change your way of being to become more joyful, read this book.

If you want to nourish your soul, well, you will find a soulfeast when you read this book.

 

 

 

 

How To Ask Questions So You Get Good Answers

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If you want to be in relationship with another person – really in relationship with your spouse, your child, your co-worker, your neighbor – you have to know things about them. You have to listen.

And to listen in a conversation, you have to ask the kinds of questions which allow true responses.

I will admit, friends, that this is something I had to teach myself to do.

For instance, rather than ask, “Did you have a good weekend?”, I learned to ask, “How was your weekend?”

Because when I ask if you had a good weekend, what I’m telling you what I want to hear. I want to hear it was a good weekend, dammit. And I have not left any room for you to reply, “It was a tough weekend. My kitchen ceiling caved in, my cat ran away and I broke my tooth when a baseball thrown by a major leaguer hit me in the mouth.”

To tell you the truth, for the sake of our friendship, I’d rather hear about that action-packed weekend than hear, “Fine.”

I’m less about superficial and more about real these days.

We need to come to terms with the fact that there’s a teeny bit of bullying going on when any of us ask a question that, in essence, tells the person exactly what kind of response we will accept. And we know being bullied feels cruddy – why would we, even subconsciously, do it to others?

Another thing: You also have to be present to ask good questions, which seems to be a problem facing so many of us. Being present means asking the question and waiting for the response, not asking a throwaway question that prompts a throwaway response.

Me (thinking about getting to my desk and getting to work): “Doing good?”

You (thinking about getting me out of your hair): “Yep, doing fine.”

This interchange doesn’t build anything, doesn’t grow anything, doesn’t lead to us understanding one another. It’s boring. Our relationship is not one iota deeper, truer or more real as a result of our interaction. Neither of us is really present to one another in that moment. Why, then, do we persist in doing it?

There’s another way to ask questions so you get good answers, and you can teach yourself how – it’s:

“What was it like?” rather than “Did you have a good time?”

“How is your mother?” rather than “Is your mom OK?”

“Where are you on the Framastan project?” rather than “You got the Framastan project done, didn’t you?”

“What’s your homework plan tonight?” rather than “You’re going to do your homework tonight, aren’t you?”

Let’s look at that last one a little deeper. The question implies that homework is always an iffy proposition and you know the kid won’t do it unless you’re constantly on them about it. You’re basically saying, with that question, “I don’t trust you, you loser.” Night after night after night of that sort of pressure – does it work to get the results you need? That the kid needs? Is it what any of us need?

Always ask an open-ended question that allows the answerer the freedom to answer however they’d like. With their truth.

You may not always like it or be prepared for the answer – but it’s precisely that kind of willingness to listen and openness to vulnerability that draws people closer together.

And, ultimately, that’s what we all want, isn’t it?

 

Nine Eleven

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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.(c) Jamie McIntyre, 2001

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

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Birdhouses on the wall. Neighborhood and property concept.

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.