Most new year’s resolutions are kaput by January 21st… our hopes and goals for the year to come, unrealized by our own willingness to sink back to the us from the year before. New Year, Same Me. It’s a pretty terrible tradition we welcome, and if 2020 taught us anything, it’s that planning against nature is laughable. So, this year, I’ll reclaim the practice and go to the third definition of ‘resolution,’:

res·o·lu·tion
/ˌrezəˈlo͞oSH(ə)n/

3. the action of solving a problem, dispute, or contentious matter.
“the peaceful resolution of all disputes”

If anything, 2020 knocked us off center enough to give us a bit of 20/20 retrospective clarity on our circumstances and the past that got us here. So, in the spirit of starting the new year off on a better foot, here are my definition #3 2020 resolutions:

1. To friends that have faded — I will always regret not finishing our stories. I hope you know that I would never turn down your call, nor would I stir up the past. There are two sides to every coin and while we may have cared for one another, there is something we never came to know to let it go when we did. I hope you’re happy and that you’ve filled the spot where I once was with something that brings you more joy.
2. To the boys I loved too fast — I want you to know that I know this. As a hopelessly hopeless romantic, it’s very difficult to accept that love can fade, but it does and sets us up to love another even deeper. Thank you for the lessons, the memories and the impact you made on my heart.
3. To those who have hurt me — You are why I am strong for others, and becoming strong for myself. You are why I have very real anxiety and all of the cousins of it. That anxiety is a curse that has prepared me for an extremely impossible year. If every circumstance has a silver lining, the vulnerable power you forced upon me is just that.
4. To the people who made my life harder than it needed to be— I hope you had your reasons for following the ‘rules,’ seeing things as unchangeably black and white, and for not meeting me human to human. I’m moving on and I’ll end the bitterness with this period.
5. To the people that chose non compassionate principals — I won’t pretend to understand you, but I forgive you for negative impact on me. I hope your heart and brain find synergy and that you might be able to feel the freedom of a changed mind and humane habits in the future.
6. To the people I wasn’t enough for — I used to run at full speed at 110%, so my consistent operating mode of 64% this year let people down. I am consistently complimented for being strong, confident, compassionate (thanks, but it’s a lot of pressure)… Sometimes, I am just anxious, lonely, empty, confused and/or hungry. I hope to have less disappointing interactions as we move forward, getting used to being uncharged but wanting to feel like ourselves again. I hope we can all be proud of our best, whatever that looks like.
7. To the people I tried to convince — I wasn’t trying to argue or put you down; sometimes I just care so much that I land grab and try to get everyone I care about in my metaphorical lifeboat. I am learning to respect that you have your own means to survival, and to take a breath when you tell me that.
8. To me — Trust who you are and build from there; don’t erase anything or start over. You are loved and deserve love… right now, you don’t have to work towards that. You are smart and your accomplishments are your own, no matter how the world responds. You are kind and your compassion is meaningful, even when received without acknowledgment. You are strong, but that doesn’t mean you can’t seek help and support. You are a lot of things to a lot of people; you are not alone; do not live as if it’s any other way.

I’m not a saint… this isn’t everything. There’s a lot of personal and collective growth to be had; but, this year, I won’t be fool enough to assume that I can solve those by Jan 21st.

Godspeed friends. This may not be your year, but it can be ours.

She’d probably never admit it, but she was grateful for his goodbye.

It was Gracie’s fourth birthday. No fifth. How she could get a calculation wrong when she has felt every. single. day. would never add up, but here she was adding unicorn horns? tops? pointy things? shipped from a bakery in Seattle, obviously organic, to six dozen cupcakes, knowing full well she’d wake up tomorrow to five dozen of them, as well as pink stained furniture at toddler height. She had been planning this party for months, in the margins of her screen otherwise filled with dozens of comps and copy options, reviews, internal initiatives, and an empty deck for her keynote address. She did it all. She had it all. The kid (said birthday girl, Gracie), the car (an eye-roll worthy BMW in place of the Suburu she really wanted), the house (a craftsman in the canyon), PTA position and local government consulting (to offset the selling of soap) and, of course, the man.

The man was found rather typically as far as LA goes. You see, LA is a city that attracts those who need a next step and don’t know what that is, but know that it’s better than what most deserve, and with a hint of legacy. It’s for people that will be known, for something, anything. Especially by those they left behind. It’s a place where nobody has anybody, until they do. Bianca had been in Los Angeles for three years. She rode on the back of actor’s mopeds, slept with men who had floor to ceiling windows, shared tallboys with surfers in camper vans, hiked trails with boys who had dogs and stayed up all night watching men compose songs heard by… well, her. Through it all, but mostly her work at a flower shop next to a great vegan cafe and equally great salon, she made friends. The kind that band together amidst the flippant background of LA, forming a chosen family type of existence… filling the hours with sun or wine until days become years and you finally switch your Massachusetts plates.

So, flowers were sold, bikes were built, abs appeared, gluten was dismissed, New York was a fling, and she found her way into a big girl job on the west side, selling soap as she told her mom, but otherwise known as the VP of Marketing. Outdoor theaters, run clubs and brunch went into the rotation, as did dinner parties and talks of Craig’s friend from college, Nick’s new boss, Andrew’s trainer, this sommelier at Gwen, and whichever man was still straight and single in the six degrees of her family.

At one of those dinner parties, she was meant to be set up with Todd. Dark, handsome, employed (401k employed), abs and smile to California standards… and her height. Despite being alone, she couldn’t do it. He was perfect through the lens she was meant to see through, minus a few inches. Yes, she fully recognized that she marched with women every year in DC yet wanted her man to bend to her. (She was in LA, remember?) The dinner was great, despite her knowing that dessert would never turn into breakfast or another order. The group walked down to the water, smoked a joint and danced under the stars… not in the way montages and love scenes start, but in the way Malibu spends a Wednesday.

Nothing special happened. It was probably the weed. But, she took off running down the beach, feeling the air the way she used to summering in the Cape… the life she ran from, the life she was running for now. She closed her eyes and began peeling off clothes, nearing the bend in the shore. And then, with the flirt of the moon on the tide, she ran into the water and dove head first. It wasn’t a movie moment; she immediately filled her bra with sand, salt stung her nose and she emerged without one contact. She laughed remembering a time when nothing was in place.

Out of nowhere, or probably more likely just unnoticed in her blitzed escapade, while sitting on the sand wondering right from left with one eye rendered legally blind and the other stinging with salt, he sat next to her.

Come here often?

That can’t possibly be your line.

Not a line, just assumed a person willing to jump in half naked knows what they’re doing…

She laughed, a laugh she noticed hadn’t been true in a while….

She told him she lost her clothes, friends and even vision. He didn’t offer to help but did keep talking. It was a dream sequence from her girlhood diaries… one of those out of those scenarios where two strangers cosmically meet, exchange a tit for tat moment that unpacks their greatest fears and desires… Then, however long later, a car honked.

Shit. I gotta go. But turn left, your friends aren’t that far away, Mary Jane. Glad you got lost with me.

She played the cool girl and let him walk away. She stumbled full of dread, yet light as air, back to her dinner party, collecting clothes along the way, and reunited with her chosen family that barely noticed her absence while she was busy remembering what life could be like.

Two years later, she married him, in flats.

Todd was the oldest of four, from Los Angeles, Magna Cum Laude grad, Stanford, and came into this with a plan. She was merely the expansion pack on the perfect life he was modeling. But, he felt like the right move. Besides being eye level, there was nothing wrong with Todd. Everyone loved Todd… the kids, the wives, the dudes, the cashier at the grocery store, his coworkers, her coworkers… Los Angeles felt like it existed in praise of Todd at times. Being told how smart she was to lock him down energized her. Of all the horror stories of love in LA, she did it, she got the guy, she often thought.

Their love was a well-planned fairly tale. Wedding as expected. Short honeymoon due to both of their schedules. The house. The trainers. The cars. The vacations, often with other couples. The scheduled sex. The therapy, couples and separate, of course.

Let’s talk about why you think it’s acceptable to schedule sex you don’t enjoy.

She made a note to herself to never, ever take Amy’s recommendation again and to get a new therapist. Everyone in LA knows that nobody offscreen has what those on the lot do in the bedroom. That fantasies are for the pages. Her best friend was the smartest woman she knew, and a divorce lawyer. As long as she avoided the pitfalls that took people to court, she could swim with, not against, the tide of the sunshine state. Todd was also great. She was looking for complaints because it felt like the assignment, if she was honest.

So, when he said it was time for kids, from behind the paper one morning, she didn’t question it. The dinner parties were turning into afternoon picnics and the wine weekends were turning into bouncy castle backyard souries and they were bound to get left behind without their own little so and so. So, for the first time since the day they met, semi-passionate sober sex was the ticket, and nine months later, Gracie ruled their world… with the help of his kid sister (better than a mother in law) and Rosa, the nanny.

Here’s the thing. After years in Los Angeles, you know how to show up in a room. So, she did, every single day. All the way to the day when Todd announced he wanted more… this time also from behind the paper. She was too content with what they had. She was supposed to make him his best self, but all she did was leave him wanting more. What about Gracie? What about her, she thought. Divorce is more common than gaining weight in Los Angeles. Co-parenting was the fresh squeezed celery juice du jour. He walked out without breaking a sweat.

So, a year later. A yoga retreat later. A shorter haircut and plump lip year later. A raise and promotion year later, they were hosting Gracie’s fifth birthday, in pure fear that she may actually remember it.

Her friends had been telling her about all the other hot, divorcé dads. She didn’t listen. Craig’s friend from college, Nick’s new boss, Andrew’s trainer, this sommelier at Gwen… Others told her to go for the apps, the 23 year olds, a new enlightened generation. She knew in her heart that she was the happiest she had been since she showed up in Los Angeles, but poisoned by its relentless pull towards belonging, how it saw fit.

In her twenties, she dried many tears. She always told them that you can’t go looking for love. That you need to know yourself, to love yourself, to be comfortable alone, to be happy in love. She never experienced it, but sort of discounted the advice whenever she found someone, stashing it away for her (hopefully nonexistent) eat, pray, love moment.

And then, there she was, putting five dozen cupcakes dressed as unicorns back into the fridge. Todd was upstairs, in her new house, tucking in a very tired birthday girl. And she left.

She drove the car she wished was a Suburu straight to the spot in Malibu where she lost her sight. Where it all went blurry. She stripped from the car to the wave, seemingly hit with the same moonlight as years before. She walked in this time, until neck deep and pushed from the ground and swam. A mile or so out, she turned around to face the shore. Lights were flashing from a car. Realizing she was the only one in the water, she swam back. On shore was a man she didn’t recognize. He smiled at her and said,

Come here often?

It always struck the same. First, she’d suck her cheeks in, smashing the thick skin between her all too perfect smile, forcing her tongue against the gap in her two front teeth. She’d bite down, never piercing the skin, but feeling the pressure in her forehead. It made her squint a bit. The hair would raise on her neck, making her shrug her shoulders and hold them up until the sensation stopped in her ears. The back of her throat and eyes simultaneously filled with warm liquid, and the second she swallowed against her will, her eyes would blink and release the first tear. Some nights, she was able to lie still, controlling her breath and watch the moment pass with a few tears dripping into her left ear. And some nights, she cried big, heavy tears that flooded her mind. Ones that wanted to shake her, toss her over, sit her up, heave with empty breath and restless bones. But she lie still, soaking her cheek and pillow beneath, filling her ear with burning liquid, concentrating on her movement with precision. Like counting sheep, she was often lulled to sleep through forcing stillness in her mind, a habit she came to find painful comfort in.

The next morning, she would shower, dry her hair into place — always the same, put on jeans, a white tee and her black leather jacket, and gather her homemade lunch. In parallel, he would drink coffee, adorn a suit — one of four, and gather his briefcase. Like a duet, they danced around one another in perfect harmony. A walk to the subway, standing across the platform from one another, him looking down at the paper, her texting him, “I love you.”

Each night, they’d meet at home. She cooked dinner, he offered a provocation about the systems of life. She adored him. Always had. She was his girlfriend. Always had been. They’d watch something together, she rarely objected to his idea. She liked romance, which was never the choice. She would let her mind wander about what their life would be one day… maybe they would cook together. Maybe he would surprise her with a date. Maybe they would host dinner parties. Maybe their kids would enjoy cooking. Maybe they would read around a fire. Maybe they would go on walks. One day.

She fell asleep first every night. She did the same thing as a kid, on the couch, feeling safe near anyone in the scarcity of comfort at home. He’d whisper to see if she was sleeping, brushing the hair out of her eyes like her mom used to do, signaling time to hazily wash her face and crawl into bed. Some nights, he’d stand and kiss her goodnight, and others he would enter, smelling of smoke or whiskey and crawl into bed as if she wasn’t there. She was always awake those nights, counting the minutes until he missed her or was tired enough to be near her again.

She took him to Europe for the first time for his 30th. She cooked his boss and his wife dinner around the holidays. They went to brunches with their best friends and godchildren. She got promoted multiple times but downplayed its importance. She celebrated every moment in his life, and his friends’ and family’s. She fell asleep earlier. He stayed up later, always smelling of whiskey and smoke. They walked to the subway together every day; she always texted “I love you.”

Their ten year reunion letter came, this time with both of their names on the same envelope. Tens of thousands a year and they can’t afford two stamps, she minimized as she put it into a drawer, along with every conversation she wanted to have… about children, a home, dreams, fears, risks they could take together, the job she wished to have, the life she wished for him, and a ring to keep them together forever.

Every morning, he woke up ten minutes earlier than her. He found her stifling brilliant, unexplainably beautiful and endlessly impressive. He would do anything for her to shine, and his currency was his own comfort. Every night, she fell asleep on his lap, resting her head in against his thigh, trusting him to watch over her dreams. He let her sleep a little longer each time, selfishly enjoying the moment she relinquished to him. Then he’d wake her. As she sauntered to the bathroom, he felt his chest tighten each time, irrationally fearing she would leave him, then and there, choosing a bigger life, the one he pictured her relishing in with grace. But, she always stayed, and he’d let her fall peacefully to sleep before entering. And each night, in hopes of calming his buried fears, he’d drown out the noise with a single cigarette out the kitchen window or a drop of whiskey, proving his worthlessness to himself to settle in for the night. She made him feel like an imposter, and breaking himself down was the only refuge to sleep. She deserved a sound sleeper next to her.

When she said goodbye that day, standing tall and unafraid, he felt the warm liquid in his throat, bit the thick skin of his cheeks and nodded. When he raised his head, she was already moving away, her back to their door, feet pressing away, a few steps from their life, already in the past. Unexpected tears fell down his chin, past his quivering lip. He wiped them and the smell was instantly identifiable, the smell of her in the morning, when he would kiss her forehead on his way to the shower, the one he took ten minutes early so she would be unbothered by him.

Two years later, he had found someone new. She taught him how to use the laundry machine down the block, his first trip alone. She read books. She painted. She had a trust fund she resented but willingly lived off of. She was easy to love. She was moving in. He painted the walls colors she chose, and cleaned out overlooked spaces. In the junk drawer, under take-out menus, receipts, save the dates and birthday cards, he found the ten year college reunion notice. It had been 12 years since college, 14 years since he said I love you for the first time. And in that moment, all he could smell were morning tears, and all he could taste was the metal of his own, and knew he would always text back this time, and would always, always truly love her.

She stared blankly out the window not even remembering what she had said to trigger the casual intervention. She watched the sun catch the dew on the cars as they drove through town. She looked forward to catching up with her friends back home, but they always seemed to want to save her. She wondered when her cause went up for auction? What qualified them to be heroes? She was the one with the job, the high rise apartment, the attractive boyfriend, the occasional affair they always ate up, the backstage passes, the designer wardrobe they gladly accepted pieces from. What did they have? Surely not a psychology degree. They never even suggested what the “that” was they were addressing… other than a lifestyle they couldn’t make sense of.

“I’m fiiiiiine. I promise. I have yoga. I have rosé. I take weekend trips to places like Lisbon. What more could a girl want?!” she said with dramatic flare. “Oh, and how could I ever forget… I have YOU!” Cassie smiled with begging eyes, holding her hands in the shape of a heart toward Sasha, to which Sasha gifted her the appeasing smirk of a sister, love locked for life. They would drop the subject yet again and go back to looking out of opposite windows.

Like clockwork, Cassie had swopped in for the weekend — driving across the bridge from meetings in San Fransisco, by way of Chicago. They caught up over bottles of wine — who was married or preggers, what books they were reading, new workouts they were attempting, insane things people had said to them, memes and tweets worth re-sharing in person, and, of course, the latest reality tv headlines and their corresponding theories — a love language of sorts for the pair.

They were on their way to their favorite cliff hike, over near Kirby Cove. They’d stop on the side of the road, share a joint, getting higher than either could really handle anymore, never admitting it in favor of tradition. They’d hike for a bit, telling stories they hadn’t gotten to yet in dms, text or over drinks last night. When they reached the edge of their limits, they’d find a place off the path to stop and lay down, Cassie always the pillow to Sasha’s cloud gazing.

Sasha, the more communicative smoker, went on about something that the blank sky revealed to her… this time working out what Emily Dickinson would have written about if she too grew up in Sausalito.

Cassie held her breath and stared at the somewhat rare white anemones in the distance, knowing Emily preferred them, and also knowing Sasha wouldn’t actually care if she interrupted to tell her how academically legitimate her musing was. She closed her eyes.

One. two. three. four. don’t gasp. five. ignore the air behind your eyes. six. you can hold the weight throbbing within. seven.

“Cass — did you hear me?”

keep going. eight.

“Casssssss — I’m trying to talk about a WOMAN author over here. These are revolutionary thoughts we will raise our daughters on. Are you even with me?”

nine. ten. count slower. nine again.

“Cassandra Marie!” Sasha sat up swiftly giving Cassie no other choice than to gasp for air and open her eyes.

She quickly regrouped, shrugged and said she was just enjoying the philosophy. Sasha took the compliment and laid back down, not knowing of, or even suspecting, the ritual she had interrupted… one that Cassie had become quite attached to. Drowning in plain sight. Without the spectacle of water.

She coached herself through it every time. And every time she made it back, she clocked another failure, hidden in an exercise of complete control. Sasha may have ended this one, but she always, begrudgingly, came back for air.

…

Sasha dropped her off at the end of the culdesac, same as she had millions of times since inheriting her mom’s old sports car in 11th grade; Cassie had never even bothered to learn to drive. She stepped into her childhood home, leaving the accomplished adult outside and entering as a very stoned version of her thirteen year old self. She walked past the office, where her dad would have been back then, past her brothers’ now empty room to her own time capsule — redecorated per New Dad’s visiting children’s expectations. Nobody was home.

She laid down on the unfamiliar mattress, shoes still on, within the familiar walls. The still, cool air smelled and felt like it should. Gentle tears began to spill from her eyes into her ears. She didn’t wipe them away. It was silent in, and outside of this big house. She yearned for the sound of morning birds, despite the sun setting outside. The ceiling fan spun. She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to cry anymore, or be someone who willingly missed sunsets. Body still, she clung to the comfort of sinking into this space she knew so well.

What more did she need to add to her list of reasons why she was fine to either make coming home feel like other people seemed to feel when they went home, or to simply remove the obligation all together? What did she have to do to enjoy her hike’s with Sasha they way she once did? To get her mom to be home when she was? To see her brother, post home being their home base?

She began counting. One…six... thirteen. She had never made it past fifteen.

She wanted to know what was past twenty. In the thirties even. When things would get softer than louder, darker than light, weightless vs crushing. But fifteen was her record. And today, it was the thought of Sasha that stopped her. Sasha wasn’t ready for twenty or thirty, so maybe she wasn’t either.

Today is the last day of Suicide Prevention Week. Suicide is the 10th leading cause of death in all age groups in the US, the second for young adults in the US, and takes nearly 1M lives around the world every year. There are hotlines, resources (like this), medicines, organizations… what I ask is that you take care of those around you. The difference between a good and bad day could be your compassion.

He finally moved out of that apartment, the one that didn’t have room for her, or any other girl really… full of ghosts from his first love. Since that breakup, girls were just part of what you did, and they could be really… fun? satisfying? comfortably distracting, mostly. He hadn’t slept in what felt like years, chasing the life he thought he wanted, confident it was a place he would find himself in, ready to start really living. He was in the music industry; he made his money off of people who, night after night, truly felt life in a soul slushing way. He craved an ounce of that ability, tortured to know it existed. This quest was what ultimately drove her away, along with any other commitments. And, now was the moment; he had leveled up. The job was what he envisioned, and there were new goals to chase. It was time to build a life that matched.

But, on his way out, as he held the doorknob for the last time, he heard her laugh, instantly remembering that morning he found so unsettling. Not the her that he let walk out — the one who ate ramen on the floor the night they moved in, the one who sat on the fire escape in nothing but her bra and jeans — unbothered by the newly bolstering brooklyn street below, the one that he patched the holes she left with more work.

This was the laugh of a different her… and it was a giggle more than a laugh, girlish and contagious. This her was even more of a ghost, with missing features and an undeniable presence. The one, who on her first morning there, lingered while he got ready for his day. He didn’t make her leave; he thought it strange she wanted to stay and was either intrigued or too rushed to care. Either way, he strained to remember it quite right. He tensed thinking of how disturbed he was by the unbalance that overcame him that day. As he stood in the shower, he wished he had invited her in with him, extending their night, but didn’t mention it to her. He glanced at the blank kitchen counter with no coffee to offer as he walked back to find her still in his bed, but didn’t mention that either. He remembered looking at his phone to avoid looking at her, or maybe he was actually too focused on what was next, after she was gone, and was now romanticizing an otherwise normal one night stand. He went about his routine and then motioned to the door; it was time for he, and therefore she, to go. No girl had ever stayed over this long before. It was nice, and also suffocatingly triggering. He shook it off in the moment; he thought, sure, the sex was good, but he was only overthinking things.

He walked her to the subway, more-so to make his own meeting on time than anything else. She had the whole morning off; he could have gotten a coffee with her if he wanted, but he didn’t. She was off to Spain, a place he only knew from books. She promised to wave to his favorite artists’ ghosts. Without thinking, he kissed her… hard, which surprised him. He was not invested whatsoever, but no girl had ever flirted with him through literature. He, again, shook it off, said to send a postcard and walked away, without looking back.

She stood there for a solid five minutes, not wanting that kiss to fade from her lips, letting Bedford buzz around her, commuters bump into her, trying to place herself to find her way. He asked for a postcard, she thought. The idea melted into the intoxicating idea that this was the last apartment she’d ever make her way home from. She made a note of the route they had taken, and would come to retrace those steps after her trip… whenever it was somewhat reasonable, of course.

…

Two weeks later, that postcard arrived. He half read it on the way up the four flights of stairs, shrugged to nobody and set it on top of the fridge, realizing he really needed to get a trashcan and move into the place that had been basically vacant since she moved out.

…

He was so close to getting to the next phase. The seclusion, music-related relationships, missed trips home, reputation of being the friend that wouldn’t come to your thing last minute yet invite you to every show… it would all be worth it. He and everyone else would surely forgive the neglect when he made it. And maybe he would move on, find love, move in with another girl, live the songs he peddled. For now though, work was his life, and he fully immersed himself in the dark, cacophony of predicable chaos. Where everyone was fully uncommitted to more than just the next show, the next crowd, the next offer. A shallow, but time-consuming, existence.

He was focused. So much so that everything faded to the background, even events that others found arresting. One evening as he transformed from office to music manager, he barely registered the accident on his street, finding the lights and overwhelming energy a welcome pregame as he darted toward the next gig.

...

She reached out a few times after she got back. Her vulnerability terrified him. The door was open and he knew it. That overwhelmed him. He unfollowed her, making her memory faceless. He still had her number though, and texted a few times, too drunk to feel or really make anything of it. Her responses got shorter. Then, they stopped.

With the door shut on her, he dove into falling more and more in love with work. He never really knew her anyway. Plus, everyone in the biz adored him. He knew that. It’s all he needed, he told himself. He acted surprised every time he was praised, but he worked hard to deserve it. He had made it by his younger standards. This was it.

Yet, the idea of her became unavoidable. With every kiss — of which there were many — he thought of her, entranced with the complicated emotions he was becoming capable of. With every new beginning, she lingered. In every intimate moment, she was there again. Still, he did nothing about it. She was a merely a muse, he told himself.

He spent a significant time missing what could have been, filling in blanks. It would hit him out of nowhere… stopping his breath, holding his gaze, freezing time. He yearned for these attacks, where she dwelled with him.

He couldn’t help but wonder if she was an idea that kept him company, or someone meant for him. He looked for her on each L train, realizing he didn’t know how she actually got home after that kiss. He looked for her every time he had a show at the venue where they met. He wondered, if he passed her, would he recognize her? He went on like this, for, well, forever… she a piece of him and he, hoping, he a piece of her.

…

Julia didn’t stop wanting him back when those texts stopped.

When her sister came to ID her body, she was given Julia’s things from the night she was hit — keys, a tote with a laptop and dirty yoga clothes, some hair ties, crumpled receipts and a book. She flipped through the never been flipped pages of Tendre est la nuit, wondering when her little sis had learned french. A few weeks later, as she wondered for the millionth time what she was even doing on that block, miles from her usual stops, she re-opened that curious novel. This time, she noticed the back cover had a note, dated a few weeks before her death and another from the day of. With a deep breath, or maybe no breath at all, she soaked in her sister’s handwriting:

“Tyler — it only seemed fitting to bring you a novel by your great american author, inspired by my first love, Paris… found in a Spanish bookstore. Our twisted favorites amidst a tale of dark passion, murder and travel… which I now realize is a strange thing to find romantic enough to share, but somehow it felt… right. Here’s to hoping you can read French, and never murder me. Bisou. — J

///

I know we only danced once, but I think of you more often than one should feel ok admitting. I thought our paths would cross again, but new york is fickle. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to separate you from Spain, Paris or american authors again. So, may this novel be your first official homeware in your noticeably empty apartment… read it, use it as a coaster, or find it reason enough to call me again. Life’s too short to only love music. xx Julia”

…

This is another short story published by Gabs in an effort to find her literary voice.

She lifted her chin a bit, enough to gesture a refill, but not enough for eye contact. She wasn’t here for company. She was here out of ritual. To pass the time occupying the part of the day between what you had to do and the part where turning off wasn’t objected against. If she looked close enough at the scratches in the bar, she could almost remember the before. Before, this was her escape — more of a destination than a stop… from a lover, roommate, boss, step mother, debacle, anxiety, etc., etc., etc. A time when getting cut off at the end was the warmest goodbye she knew.

It wasn’t just the bar that had changed, though. This city was never loyal, and she knew that. People stared directly at the bright sun of Los Angeles, squinting out the loneliness, imposed without apology, by its traffic and voluminous neighborhoods. They were Gatsby’s guests, and she, well, she had been there all her life. She knew better than to grow attached to, or believe in anything, or anyone, too much. And now, the city of light had transformed; it had gone black… enveloped in the sort of darkness that occurs when humanity slips off the edge, submerging completely.

But, even then, Los Angeles held onto the dreamers.

This new LA offered a world even more exotic than the strands of sand and sun soaked rooftops once could. Still appealing to those reaching for the edge of the universe, a shimmer of new beginnings— promised, yet precarious. A dependable hug of delusion, she figured.

As she drank another water, perhaps the worst change to adapt to, she wondered if anybody had ever really seen the city through her eyes anyway. They came with a dream to color in. She was just there. She wasn’t seeking anything, like they were. When they all restarted, she sunk lower.

She had always preferred places sealed off from the outside, never one for anything that felt particularly welcoming or idyllic. So, the darkness appealed to her. The way palm trees present a shift for new arrivals, the damp, dimming of the world awoke her a bit. She took stock of her norms… realizing the old favorites, mainly dives, were still around… and was startled to realize she had favorites to begin with. She began to thaw, and settle in a way the warm embrace of a setting sun had never done for her before.

Nostalgia became something erased from minds it seemed. She silently wondered if anyone else craved a cool breeze at night or the kiss of Santa Anas... or if she merely dreamt up those simple luxuries. Letting thoughts like these lap into her consciousness didn’t bring comfort though. Instead, it was like getting caught in a riptide, instantly cutting her off from the buzz around.

Suspiciously, Los Angeles still sounded the same. The hum of traffic that used to absorb the constant chatter of the nothingness had merely been replaced with the weight of waves, filling the voids of culture with the deafening absence of sound.

Neon became the norm, an un-mellow sign of the present vs a preservation of the past. Sour pink lights on La Cienaga led to the atomic lime hues of Sunset to Dukes, renamed Down Under.

Sometimes, she came here ready to plunge into the past. Into times she ironically went home with ‘actors’ to satisfy boredom. Times she got tattoos just to feel, or to displace the saccharine, ego-driven relationships she placated others by having, being forced to pretend to care about nonsensical things. Of times she screened her parents’ calls to avoid explaining what her plan was… and hear how that ivy education wasn’t going to use itself. Or of the time when she had a best friend — one that escaped for higher ground, leaving her just as easily as she swooped in years before. But mostly, she kept coming back because Sunny — unfortunately named — occasionally took pity on her and sampled his latest moonshine. It was never good, but the placebo mixed with the fantasy that Sunny remembered too was the strongest stuff around.

In the new Los Angeles, home would never be here again, and at the same time, it would be found nowhere else. When that thought got too loud, she would step outside. But there’s no air in the new outside. Somehow Los Angeles had managed to become even more suffocating, she would think each time. But, burdened with memories, the ritual helped. Outside, she walked into the darkness, under ten tons of human disregard. She yearned to be standing amongst strangers there, with their degrading compliments and unwanted attention. She imagined taking a long drag of what she used to think would kill her, missing the slow pull of hot air filling her lungs. What was intended to be a comforting memory sent shivers down her spine, with fire now a legend of the past.

This place had become a new blend of gravity, made of shallow souls and plunging depths. One where interacting with anyone outside meant risking drowning, which was really no different than before. Shallow breaths were all they had, a constant need for more.

Yet, the sparkle was still there, she noticed… though less of a metaphor now. Each speck of life from above floated down and around, catching the sun’s light — reminding some of the past, but mostly assuring the newcomers of the future. And it was there both day and night, more magical than before.

With a rare positive thought, she left the bar for the 742 night in a row. As she drifted away, she wondered if there were more like her… those that were told what was coming and didn’t listen, or didn’t have the strength to care.

She couldn’t fully remember the day Los Angeles slipped into the sea and rebuilt this otherworld under the tide. It was another whateverday, 72 and sunny, season unknown. But, she did remember the thought… the thought that all she would have to do was push hard, bend her knees and release, and float up. The encompassing ocean would do the rest.

But, some people aren’t meant to float, or can’t, she thought. Some people only know how to swim against the current, held back by roots so deep, stuck in a place that will never be really be home anyway.

This is the first short story published by Gabs — not counting many printed in elementary school, done as a creative exercise, akin to using adult coloring books. This story is best read to a weird vibe like this.

and how to survive it.

That headline is a lie. I have no idea how to survive this age of online written communication. The rules of literature, and even journalism, don’t hold up. In fact, the debate of the oxford comma divides people, and punctuation and grammar are up for constant emotional debate. And now we have dms, apps and emojis to consider?!

Nobody is safe. Take me for instance. I’m average height. I dress like a toddler in dresses, high tops and the occasional hair accessory. I smile a lot. And, I sound like your next favorite animated character. Nobody in the wild would channel any human instinct to retreat or fight upon interacting with me. And, then there’s the name I go by: Gabs. Best friend or acquaintance, call me Gabs. Even my name has approachable puppy vibes.

With this set up, my world must be all rainbows and sprinkles and full of best friends, right!? Wrong. There’s one major roadblock in my way: the written version of me.

Here’s the thing, I like to write. I respect it as an art and craft. I grew up distinguishing grammar and vocabulary from spelling, learning both to perfection in relation to my parent’s separate talents. My first major was journalism (I switched when my beloved magazines began folding). I’m one of those straight-A-student types who went for a minor and a “concentration” in literature. I took so many writing courses that I ended up in things like “Food & Writing” — before we were a #nomnom obsessed culture. And, it took me YEARS to get there, but I now love classic novels and can appreciate all types of writing styles.

So, it struck me to the core when I was first reprimanded for my “tone” at work… and was told it was entirely attributed to my personal writing style. I was “too formal,” which was offensive. (Nobody complained about the official writing I was doing on behalf of executives, brands and agencies by the way.) I got the same note in every professional review for the next ten years. My know it all, be-the-change-you-want-to-see-in-the-world self thought it was total bullshit that I was considered “too formal” AT WORK.

But, the more I didn’t change, the more I heard the feedback. Then, I got that feedback from a woman that I considered to be a lot like me in every other respect. I was even more taken aback. I think part of me always assumed this was a gender issue. I was told I was too direct, formal, dismissive, rude, made people uncomfortable… the adjectives became more defensive, generalized and personal as the list went on… but were all related to my general “tone.”

I have spent a lot of time thinking about how to solve for business communication being considered too formal and direct.

Things that don’t go over well:

1. Capitalization. Not using it has become a source of power. I can’t be alone in having had multiple bosses that insist on a lack of capitalization in their correspondence. And, these are well-read, well-educated humans. (Nothing about this reads, even though I’m a CEO, I’m relatable. When did this start? Should we blame Blackberries?) On the flip side, all caps = yelling. This is not up for debate and can never, ever be safely used for positive/neutral emphasis or stylistic distinction.
2. Punctuation. Don’t even get me started on the offense people take to a semicolon; I love a semicolon. Lists with sub bullets drive people batty. But you know what does go over well? Too many exclamation points (more on that later!!!)
3. Grammar. In an age where we express ourselves in tweets and texts, we have become offended by proper grammar. People are put off by explanations and anything that requires a scroll. Ditch full sentences, paragraphs and and complete thoughts for maximum conversational acceptance. Even though you’re writing on a computer, assume this is being received on a mobile device with divided attention, or else you may overwhelm and offend the person(s) on the receiving end.
4. Written word. It’s not so much the words that bother us, it’s the use of words where there could be emojis, or abbreviations. I often go through and replace things like tomorrow with tmrw to be more approachable.
5. Tone. We’re a sensitive bunch these days. Without spoon-fed emotional bookends to our correspondence, it’s all too often assumed that you are definitely in opposition with the person(s) on the other end of the note. That’s why our professional emails are riddled with exclamation points (I swear I mean this in a positive tone! It’s not sarcastic! I promise!) and smiley faces (this is most definitely a positive email :) I’m not being sarcastic :) I promise :))

So, now I’m an xoxo sign-off-er who writes their nickname in lowercase letters and employs a mix of smileys and exclamation points, and I haven’t received the tone feedback in over a year. Nothing about what I’m doing professionally has changed, other than my over-personalized notes. Let me be clear: this goes against everything I believe in, and I’m less efficient now that simple thoughts require a re-read with additional editing. But, this is the world we live in, and who am I to rock the boat? *Emoji hug*

xo

gabs

(NOW LET ME DO THE JOB I’M PAID TO DO AND STOP WORRYING ABOUT MY CAPS AND GRAMMAR, PLEASE. AND PLEASE, STOP USING OXFORD COMMAS :)!)

Let that sink in. Take a minute to say out loud what you’re thinking… there’s no way. It can’t be good work. The people are probably weird. How would that even work?

As with most magical things, you have to see it to believe it. But spoiler alert, it works, and it works well.

So let’s go back to six months ago to how I got involved. I wasn’t a super plugged in hand-raiser seeking to do more good in the world. I had never heard of any of these people, or their agency. I was merely the girl on the hook for the space they needed. My good deed was keying people up and down an elevator and making coffee runs to off limit floors of the office.

Each 18 hour day, I would zombie around and try to be helpful while others buzzed around me. Each night, I would clean up the office and sneak a few conversations in with the core crew... but mostly the zombie key card part.

On the last day, after being dumbfounded (and utterly inspired) by Saturday night’s brand identity presentation (yes, an entire brand identity is presented to the client after the first full day — name, word mark, logo, colors, tagline, the whole shebang), I wished I had paid more attention from the start and was participating instead (after-all, I was already losing sleep). In the afternoon on Sunday, the world conspired to get me involved. My now intern — and all of our future boss — heard that I doubled as a strategist and grabbed me.

We jammed on a pitch document for the non-profit and I moon walked out of there, feeling energized but like an imposter having stepped on toes (again, just the keycard girl). I told Alex, one of the co-founders, what I did as a sort of confession and he encouraged it. At the end of the night, I sheepishly asked if it would be ok for me to send some thoughts based on my observations (can’t. not. get. involved). He, along with the rest of the core team, encouraged it enthusiastically. I wondered if all Texans were this nice…

At the end of the night on Sunday, the team of 80 had NAMED the organization (Grounded) and created a full brand identity, social channels, a brand video (and an original music track), new website, headshots and tons of other tools to ensure their success (update: it’s working).

That delivery moment is pure magic. There were tears. There were hugs. There were a LOT of phone numbers being exchanged.

That next week, running on fumes but high from the experience, I had the pleasure of getting to know the team behind it all. There was something magic in it all. No matter the city, no matter the cause, it brings the creative industry together. (No easy task.) How? It’s the model. Not a single resume, interview, salary, or title. The work becomes what we love, what we chose… and not a job or a chore. And there’s no room for egos. It’s never said, they just fall out of the equation in an environment of pure creative collaboration, for good. Nobody wants to let themselves, their new pals, or a cause-based organization down. And they don’t.

Quickly after, I was offered a spot on the core team. I am one hell of a key card operator.

The next few months were spent daydreaming, taking meetings, writing up ideas, connecting everyone on LinkedIn as one agency. And then, Good Measure 004 arrived: San Diego…my first creative sprint, in the mix, and on the core team.

Leading up to it, I wrote a press release, but largely went in unsure of my exact role, ready to do and be all things — like most of our volunteers. (Can we just take a minute to appreciate the fact that over 200 people applied to WORK all weekend with a team they’ve never met, trusting an Eventbrite form.)

While I got to flex my strategy muscle (thanks to gracious team leads), I found my place as something you can’t really apply for in the real world: a friend. a cheerleader. a confidence booster. once again, a key holder. a wing woman. a springboard — for my core team, for leaders, for participants and even our client.

And my suspicions were confirmed. This thing is magic. But the magic isn’t us… it’s the whole team. 100 people dive straight in. Hold hands. Create. But they don’t just make things pretty; they’re intentional and thoughtful; they design for stability and attention; they operate with empathy and compassion. And it happened again: in 72 hours, there was a brand identity, website, pitch deck, anthem video, social content, and so much more. (Premiere coming soon!)

Good Measure was made for many reasons, but the one side effect that is most impactful: 100 guaranteed new Instagram followers. KIDDING.

Every single day, as creative professionals, we create the ads, brands, messages, videos and content that surround people’s lives — shaping our collective culture. Imagine if everyone did that with the intention to spread more good?

Good Measure transforms people. You’re reminded why you love what you do, you’re unconditionally supported by the city and your peers and you get the unique opportunity to shower a cause-based organization with compassion by donating your skillset. Everyone leaves the weekend with a new lease on their professional life… excited to infuse new vibes into their daily life.

—

We get it. It’s hard to believe. So, read it for yourself ( MediaPost, Campaign, The Drum, AdAge, Adweek, It’s Nice That), join us in Austin this December, or take it from these lovely humans:

“It’s crazy what can be accomplished when people put agendas aside and just passionately strive for excellence.” — Ryan, Video Lead, GM004

“We always talk about breaking the rules in our industry, but perhaps forcing a 72-hour environment of talented, versatile strangers aligned on a cause is the most effective way to do so.” — Ryan, Copy Lead, GM004

“We can all leave our egos at the door and adopt a more effective and sustainable form of leadership.” — Kevin, GoodMeasure Board Member, GM003

“What I witnessed over the weekend was a team of strangers coming together to work for the common good. It was uplifting and authentic. It was challenging and rewarding.” — Rodrigo Calderon, NonProfit Lead, GoodMeasure core team, GM003

“…that was amazing. Sunday felt like the last day of summer camp.” — Stacey, Strategy Lead GM004

Just as I’m learning to take a compliment (there are a LOT of them during a Good Measure weekend), I’m also learning to ask for help. So, if you want to ensure Good Measure continues to rehabilitate the creative community, and drive our future culture, please help. Airline miles (seriously), event sponsorship, housing in your city!, hosting with office space, food donations for the crew, your time/connections… we’d love to chat about how you can get involved.

It feels #SoGood to do good. Simple as that.

See you at the next sprint! Good things are coming.

📝 Read this story later in Journal.

👩‍💻 Wake up every Sunday morning to the week’s most noteworthy stories in Tech waiting in your inbox. Read the Noteworthy in Tech newsletter.

It wasn’t a big deal to you, but it changed my life…

My story starts in a conference room, with one executive on a bean bag — drugged from surgery, and another wandering the room swinging a baseball bat. A glass wall is behind me and two candidates are paraded past. I’m interviewing to be the communications lead for Carrot Creative — a small social agency with a big story nobody’s ever heard… except a handful of super fans and the DUMBO community. I get the job… partially based on credentials, and also based on light speed wit and holding my own against all tactics of intimidation.

Carrot was a professional challenge for me. I loved the work. I loved the vision. But the vision came with compromise. Being part of the decision circle meant late nights 1:1 over whiskey in a dark office; traveling for work often meant being the only woman; events meant being showered in compliments that bordered on gawking over nicety; being leadership’s confidant meant being witness to, or directly hearing, misogynistic comments that I was meant to smile and agree with — do you think her boobs are real? I try to only hire girls with daddy issues…; It meant being driven by an executive to his home to pick out a suit for an event (‘my job’ since it was the event I planned). It meant many coffee breaks where conversation blurred between personal and professional. It meant being told that unwanted, lingering hugs, pats on the back and unmet eyes were “innocent because he’s harmless.” It meant being paid to partake in these not so innocent opinions by having to write lines like “no two Carrots can make a baby Carrot” to discourage office romance, or being told to keep a relationship private until marriage, at which point you’ll be rewarded with a check — simultaneously encouraging shame and secrecy.

As the one paid to think like the boss, celebrate the culture and publicize the point of view, I, admittedly, was often caught up in it all and surfing the same wave of cultish individualism. I even actually believed that the abnormal work behaviors were essential to our process, or special because they were dreamed up by those never jaded by another job before. I ruined relationships defending the vision and those who set it.

Then, one action gave me 20/20 vision on the land of grey Carrot exists in. Despite dozens of cases of definition sexual harassment, it took being physically touched for me to really see the poison in the well. It shook me. I immediately knew a line was crossed, that a tower of cards had been built and knocked down. I was full of indescribable shame. Did I ask for it? Did I allow it? What had I done to deserve losing everything I had; did I ever have anything legitimately before? Witnesses of the act immediately accused me of not earning my job legitimately… completely missing the fear in my eyes and emptiness in my heart.

For years, I have struggled with this short, short moment. It turned my life upside down and inside out. Why? Because I immediately did what I thought was right and was met with a battle. I called HR; it was addressed by the book. I came into work the next afternoon, because I had arranged what is still the best article written about Carrot Creative to this day, and needed to facilitate it. We sat together, separated by a journalist, as I compartmentalized it all and built him up to be the king of agency land’s ruling kingdom. I sat, hoping, that what I was told — that he couldn’t bring anything up to me unless I did first, was real. That I had done what was right and all would be well.

After the reporter left, he called me into his office and began to dance around a version of “this is a misunderstanding” and he was sorry “I felt this way.” To this day, I don’t feel he understands what he did or that he ever took true responsibility. I was even told that it couldn’t be what I thought it was because he “saw me as a sister.” The endless explanation ended in him insisting I come over for dinner. I declined, and after we both left the then empty office at the same time, he insisted yet again. I was struggling to understand where I fit in the world, who held what power in our dynamic and couldn’t find the strength to get out of it. His adoring wife hosted me, asked me about my life, and I could see him relaxing thinking the tension was dissipating.

After that, work was never the same. Despite running a substantial portfolio of accounts, I was no longer called on to contribute to the company’s vision; I wasn’t addressed personally as a co-worker or friend; my reviews weren’t taken seriously (coming late and being less familiar with my work than before) and I was criticized more than ever… I was tirelessly building his kingdom for nothing. After being approached by leadership months later for “not knowing why I can’t get along with him,” I realized he had never admitted fault to my bosses. They thought I was distant because I was petty, or some other unverified hypothesis. I saw this as a lack of accountability and not protecting me in the workplace. I was forced to tell my story again, to a new set of people, to a new HR person. Again, nothing happened. I felt doubly exposed and realized things would never be ok for me there, despite my work ethic.

A year later, I quit and moved to CA. I had sabotaged my own life by this point, dyed my hair blonde and was running from my nightmare. I needed to work hard elsewhere and feel meaning in my job. I needed to regain my self worth and be seen for who I used to be and not who I felt I was at the time.

Enough time and distance can help to silence anything in your heart or head. Therapy, exercise, family and sunshine help too. When I came back to NYC a year later, I was myself… the same girl who walked into that interview years before with all the confidence in the world, but with a lot more lessons to support me.

When I was initially asked to talk, I did so in the spirit of honesty.

Then, the door that cannot be closed opened in our society. All of my experiences flooded back every time a new man’s name made headlines. I was haunted with my own burden for a reason to stop anything — “excusable” to horrendous — from happening to my sister, my friends and future children. And mostly, I needed to speak for the women afraid to speak up, for those that needed to see support and justice do exist for them.

This is not a rich man’s game, not an old man’s game and not even a ‘dumb’ or ‘pretty’ girl’s mistake. All of the exposed sexual assault and harassment is a societal problem; it’s accepted. We elected it. We work for it. We teach it to our sons and peers through acceptance, and through participation.

Carrot Creative was acquired by VICE Media in 2013. After ten plus acquisition offers from agency holding companies, Carrot accepted Vice over a ‘shared culture and vision.’ When I was told problems such as my own existed within VICE too, it made perfect sense. Both companies seek to define culture with their own rules; they don’t break them, they make them. There is no accountability when you’re never wrong, and always right.

I live with the shame of wondering what part I played in it all, knowing full well it should have never come up in the first place. I live wondering what versions have been told to others. And, I live with the rational dead end that says I couldn’t have pursued anything legally because it would have either buried me or shut me up in the end. I live with his voice in my head saying “girls who talk lose their jobs and men keep their companies” (made in reference to ZocDoc).

I am, however, confident in this story. This process has created a conversation amongst women — and men — who have fallen victim to Carrot and Vice’s culture of manipulation, harassment and sexual harassment. There are so many stories that will go unwritten, and names left unnamed, that I hope I can play a small part to represent. I hope women have the courage to speak up and that men volunteer their behavior and facilitate healing and change.

I am fearful of how people will react, what they will say to me, what they will think of my motives. I’m worried about how he will react and fight back. I pray it’s with acceptance of his own actions and grace towards me and the past. I hope he stands on the side of truth, not for any healing of my own, but for all the women who have trusted him enough to look up to him. I hope he remembers who I was before that day and knows that I’m not after anything personally — that this isn’t for revenge or fame, but that I really just want to see it all end.

For me, it’s less about the one instance that made me see all the surrounding behavior so clearly, and more about the build up and how it was handled, what I’ve heard said about me since and the actions I’ve seen the company take since they got wind of this story. Nothing good has come of my experience, and I’m talking today to see that it does.

#metoo

#vicetoo

I don’t think many people will argue with the headline… good managers are few and far between.

My theory: there’s a generational divide in management happening. We have the baby boomers who put in their time to get to the top, and then there are millennials who quickly stack their accomplishments to move upwards. These distinct groups create varying expectations of one another. However, both share the same problem: our job titles are inherently linked to management authority.

As someone who has had a good mix of executive level and peer level managers, I’ve learned a lot about what not to do (and some to-dos) as a manager. The first lesson is the most important: your promotion is (likely) based on your work, not your ability to manage. By assuming a management title, it’s on you to invest in the responsibility of being an excellent manager.

Here’s what my team can expect me, as I fight the good fight for managers to truly be managers:

• Actively get to know your employees: Treating humans like humans will get you incredibly far in life, in and out of the office. Don’t let your one-on-one in the office be the time for this. Your employee shouldn’t have to ride the emotional roller coaster of managing up, briefing on crisis, outlining schedules and more for 30 minutes once a week PLUS tell you about their dying relative, doctor’s appointment, new pet and funny water cooler joke. Don’t be too busy to join in on a conversation, walk to coffee, take the team to drinks, etc. Make people personal by actively volunteering your time.

• Listen and react: Don’t listen to make people heard, or listen and do as is asked; truly take in information and do what is best for the person coming forward. Then, let the person who came to you know your game plan; don’t make assumptions when it comes to managing down to your employees. They will appreciate the action you’ve taken and learn from your thinking behind it.

• Create opportunities, with and without a roadmap: Spontaneous challenges and planned challenges ensure growth and show commitment to growth. Part of this is recognizing moments given to you as opportunities to parlay the role to the person who enabled the request in the first place. While you have the answer, it’s important to show your employees that you know they also have that answer as well –and that you trust them to deliver it.

• Set an expectation for up-management: Employees want to feel appreciated, yet what they often don’t realize is that those they want acknowledgement from aren’t always aware of their small wins (and can’t always praise the large wins due to political inputs). Teach employees to communicate the good in regular check-ins. In addition, make sure your expectations are clear when it comes to the information you want delivered by your team; every manager is different and assumptions will only hurt you.
• Reward good work: Appreciation is the most valuable currency in a workplace; while bottles of champagne and coordinated dinners are nice (and should make it into the rotation), simple thank yous and public acknowledgement encourage employees to continue moving in a positive direction.
• Teach foreshadowing: Train your team to predict issues and report them with solutions. There’s a fine line that many managers cross when placed in front of it: the chance to be a hero or a teacher. When problems arise, employees should know to come to you with the issue, how it’s being handled and how it will ultimately be handled — with room for you to insert a pivot. Employees trained to need you whenever crisis strikes creates an unsustainable environment and removes opportunity for growth. The solution shouldn’t need more than your anecdotal expertise and commentary… and eventually those issues will be presented as small wins and move away from crisis.
• Time your criticism: Being a manager isn’t about teaching moments; it’s about guiding a team towards a goal, while leveling up each individual on an agreed upon path. Be cautious of the moments you chose to critique; while your team should be able to take the heat, that heat should rarely come from you. If it must, make sure it’s done at a time that won’t derail larger goals.

• Teach; don’t do: Edit and walk your employees through critiques, or create an outline and give direction. While simply “fixing” something may seem like the best time saver, teaching employees your style/expertise/way of thinking will save everyone time and patience in the end. (You may even realize your way wasn’t the best way and get to know your employee better in the process.)
• Don’t bottleneck: Make it clear what items you MUST weigh in on (and make it known what items you are empowering your employee to make decisions on alone). Make employees accountable for timelines that accommodate your feedback, and make yourself accountable for that time.

• Be the last one out: You’re the coach… just because you’ve trained the players to play the game without you doesn’t mean you can walk off the field before them. Always know what’s on your team’s plate and keep an eye on their work life balance. If the team is being managed correctly, being the last one out will never impede on your life outside of work. (After all, you’re paid more for your knowledge and experience, not so you can work less.)

• Never discuss money; make discussing money easy: You make more than the people you manage… end of story. Avoid tales of new toys, increased vacations or extra homes. (You have friends for that.) On the flip side, those enabling you to stay at your liquid level shouldn’t be afraid to discuss dollars; this is business after all. If the services that people are paid for get better or increase, bring money up so the person who deserves it doesn’t wade in fear (and then resentment) over the subject. When that person is ready for a promotion (and the money that rightly comes with it), be the one to champion it, not resist it. Don’t let growth ever be a burden.

• Earn respect: Many managers approach respect as something demanded outright or as an assumed expectation. Make your worth understood, not just known. Your employee’s world within the organization is probably smaller than yours. Begin to earn mutual respect by sharing context; let them in on what’s going on around them and show them the impact of their own work through the work you contribute to the larger organization. (Also, be a good human… again, that gets you far and sets a positive example.)

• Be a manager: If your job description calls you a manager, then it’s your job. It’s not something you acquired along the way; it’s an active role. Be sure to lead by example (up, down and across) and don’t think of this role as only being important in check-ins and annual reviews. Being a manager isn’t about making mini me’s, or moving the work along; it’s about inspiring smart people to grow into stronger versions of themselves.

I sense a new wave of management bubbling up. Jobs aren’t just jobs anymore. The more time we spend creating/selling/innovating together, the more lines blur between life in and outside of work. This reality will begin to demand a human approach to management, and an acknowledgement of the word within the title. Those who invest in the skills to truly manage will be tomorrow’s leaders.