Why I’m Qualified

Before we jump in, I’d like to first share why I’m qualified to be talking about this! If you’re looking for answers on Google [been there!], it can be hard to know whether or not to trust the advice ​​you find.

My Background: In my work as a partner [acting SVP] for various orgs, as well as a consultant and leadership trainer — I have seen the same issues pop up for women looking to advance to SVP roles. [Connect with me here on LinkedIn.]

3 Hard Truths

I’m going to dive into these hard truths, listed below:

1. Don’t get in the ring before you know how to put on your gloves
2. Lack of a “Good Manager Template”
3. When to Fight

Bonus: When you’re the only woman in a room of leaders.

1. Before you get in the ring

First up, when you’ve made the decision to advance your career to become an SVP — you need to have a roadmap.

Going with this fun boxing metaphor I’ve got going here, “Hit the bag and catch the chicken before you get in the ring!”

The problem is, the roadmap doesn’t necessarily exist. It can be hard to figure out how to get from where you are NOW to winning that SVP title.

Old white guys have these conversations on golf courses, but if golf isn’t your thing… it can be hard to get this information. And, there may not be women at your current org you can talk to.

Here’s what to do:

• Get on Twitter: Many professionals share insights and tips with others, and they do it on Twitter. Your job is to find those people and learn from them — eventually reaching out for coaching [paid] or mentorship [no-cost].
• Go to Conferences: We aren’t networking on the golf course, friend! You need to be in the room [IRL or Zoom] where the magic is happening. IF you can, go to the conferences where your Twitter heroes are speaking.

By doing this, you’ll grow your network. You’ll learn from other women leaders, and you can construct your own timeline and roadmap for advancement.

2. Lack of a “Good Manager” Template

Next up, let’s talk about MANAGEMENT SKILLS.

If you’ve never SEEN a good manager, you can be a good manager.

But… How many of us have really seen it?

If you haven’t been lucky enough to strike gold with a manager, here’s what to do:

• Take an hour or so, and brain dump a list of all of the qualities from your previous managers you’ve hated
• Take a look at that list, and ask yourself, “How will I approach this differently?”

Build your goals from the gaps you see. You may not know how to resolve some of these issues!

From there, you’re then going to research where to find these skillsets. There are management trainings [some of what you may be able to get your current employer to pay for], get to the “Business” section of the bookstore [I love “The MEMO” by Minda Harts], or listen to a podcast to learn.

To advance your career, to reach SVP status, you are going to tackle professional development — outside of your 9–5.

3. When to Fight

A beloved mentor once said to me, “Kristine, be sure you’re not fighting for a turd.”

Sometimes, it’s not worth it to fight for an SVP role at your current company. In fact, if you’re reading this blog post — I’m betting your current employer is *not* the place you want to be a woman and an SVP.

• Gut Check The Work Culture: Before you climb the corporate ladder, take a look *up* the ladder. Do the people in SVP roles have the kind of life you want? [Example: Are they subscribed to the “Cult of Busy”? Is it business or busy-ness?]
• Watch the Curves: At the company, is there a learning curve or a teaching curve? Does the company give new leaders the opportunity and space to onboard or acclimate? Or, when a new person starts — are they immediately fighting fires?

BONUS: Being the only woman in the room of leaders

Ok, so now that you’re booting up Twitter [join me here], here’s a gut punch:

What do you do when you’re the *only* woman in a room of leaders? Sometimes, women can be promoted into what I call “The Corporate Cul-De-Sac,” where everyone is a straight, cisgender, white man. You know the one, where everyone in the room is wearing the same Ralph Lauren polo shirt?

While we would like to avoid those rooms, you may be in an industry where *you’re* the trailblazer. Here’s what to do:

• Come curious- ask questions: While it’s easy to show up full of judgment or trying to one-up others, ask a clarifying question about a topic up for discussion. I do this in every new room I enter that has stakeholders — because I want to see how they answer my question. Do they pay attention? Talk over me? Who takes time to engage respectfully? Doing this helps me identify who the allies are in the room — and the adversaries.
• Find points of similarity — or create them: I know I joked above about not liking golf, but, friend, you may have to pick up a couple of new hobbies to be able to build rapport with the other folks in the room. Be an anthropologist — learn about how the people in this culture connect.

Let’s Connect

I hope this blog post has helped give concrete and actionable ideas for moving into an SVP role. I’d love to connect with you on LinkedIn & Twitter! [If you’re recruiting for an SVP role in a Mar-Tech, Futurism, or another rad role, I’d love to chat! Please connect with me on LinkedIn, here!]

The story from the Mom POV is that she (the daughter) needed to feel empowered. My go-to is traveling. What better way to feel grounded than to travel across an ocean on your own? And so tonight my teenaged child is sailing across the ocean unaccompanied.

Tomorrow she will land in London to be swept up in the embrace of one of her other mothers (she has a few- this is by design) and her sister for 14 days of carefree adventure. My gift to her is a coming of age scenario that I prayed for as I turned the pages of The Adventures of Ginnie and Geneva by Catherine Woolley. Their innocent friendship and summers spent romping on Nantucket. I’m beyond myself thinking of how high the girls’ hearts will soar with fourteen days on the beach, riding horses and whatever else teenagers do in Wales. Plus she is paying for half of the ticket and working the other half off. Does it get better than that?

But wait there’s more! Her time away marks the first 14 days since I brought her home from the hospital that I will be home alone. We’ve had a week or three away from each before — always me traveling abroad for work. Having an extended stretch of private time is dazzling and strange. The truth is, I will miss her horribly but I’m really excited to have the time for myself. Two weeks at home to get as much work done as possible. I’m taking my own trip. The day my girl lands back home I am hitting the road, rather riding the rails with my sister, from Emeryville to Chicago and back courtesy of Amtrak.

I didn’t mean to book my departure the same as her return- through a series of internet rabbit holes researching flights it worked out that her return coincides with my departure. It’s not such a big deal. The plan is to use the time at home to establish a rhythm in preparation for 8 days of writing while riding. What will I write about you ask? Could be any number of things…going to Chicago is could inspire tales of my family migration to the midwest — — Great Grandfather Harry who was crimped and found himself in Canada? Why did Great Grandfather Johan leave Sweden for Chicago? My illustrious adventures are only a continuation of a long line of fabulous characters- my quest is not sorting out what to write, but how to resist the abundant distractions keeping me from my calling. Here’s to the writing, the research and the rhythm.

My family went on a lot of road trips into rural areas. Always sitting behind my Dad in the driver’s seat, I would look out at the mountains and hillsides reaching up toward the sky and imagine myself free and easy climbing up into clouds. I heard open freedom calling and the path toward my purpose was over hills and through the woods.

What the lure of a rolling hillside doesn’t tell you is the grass isn’t a soft lawn and the path is your purpose. And until I follow my heart for a constant, consistent and corrosive period of time, corroding my bad habits into memories of the lore that is cautionary tales. I will not see a path at all. I also won’t see the bumps and holes until it’s too late. I’ll be in it and though I want nothing more than to arrive dreams overflowing my hands, the only thing I am here to do is to show up. Some days the showing up will be to get some shit first pass of something out of the way. Other days the showing up will be unrelated to the larger picture but crucial to the process — words for me to get out of the way. It’s those words and the words after them and so on, the feet trampling the grass and traversing the unwitting stones, they will forge a path and emerge in the shape of the work.

It’s hard. I’m not one for reporting to the mine day in and day out unless I know someone is expecting me. It’s taken near half of my life to understand I’m here waiting for me. The people whose pain and dreams are the same shape as my words are waiting for me to show up.

I’m showing up here thanks to friends who still seem to love me despite my failure to show up here on the regular, signs from ancestors and nagging from my fed up heart, all reminding me to show up.

I’m here to trample the grass, cutting new fire roads with keystrokes. I have dreams, and driveling these bits is me putting one foot in front of the other heading up the hill until the path is clear. Until the muses know I mean it this time. Sooner than later I’ll be patching wounds with golden bandages woven from the straw of my folly fueled youth. Feeling, healing and reeling my way past the clouds.

Movies are great art dates for me. Nothing stimulates my creativity and yearning to express and tell and share and show like seeing a movie. It’s especially intense when I’ve seen a movie alone, and almost always an indie film. The double layers of independence push me toward my voice like Charlie Bucket devouring the chocolate 🍫 bar on his birthday.

Tonight I saw Wild Rose, written by Nicole Taylor. It was as much familiar formula as it was fabulous storytelling. The single-mom burden that was hoisted on the main character and her mother was as accurate as it was evil. I’m firm in my belief that my own seeping mother wound is what hooked me like a farmed trout as the story wound its way to redemption.

Did the story work because so many of us have a far off dream? Or is the lure seeing and being seen or the intergenerational trauma and mother wounds we all share on some level? As a now middle-aged mother of a daughter, I’m confronting my work and wellness while helping my daughter navigate her own burgeoning emotions. For me, it’s a why thing- finding my voice, telling my story to make some sort of sense of my layers. Growing up in a home where love was an assumption, not an action, and stories were badges of honor and explanations — all accepted as the way it was — judgments, resentments or whining were poor choices made out of weakness.

Seeing a glimmer of my own path on the screen is like finding an elusive puzzle piece — it had to be seen because I am still developing the language for the emotions I never felt I could survive actually feeling. But the sensory deprivation of a dark theatre and a movie about someone else requires no translation and allows me to absorb and then abandon a limited amount at a low frequency. At least that’s what I think happens. My Dad used to say he liked the movies for leaving his brain at the door. I’m finding that works for me because my process requires more heart. But not too much, I’ve got things to do.

I’ve been wondering for years…what art will I make? What am I good enough at to actually do and share and be loved for. Is that art? Is that from my heart? Getting it from my fingertips to the keyboard made my heart wince. When I go another step I see myself running around in circles chasing assignments and opportunities to show somebody how good I am at something that I told them I would do and they agreed to pay me money. And not so deep down, tonight when I gifted myself the flash away from the shiny money things, a quick peek at my stuff, stealing a sliver from my peripheral vision — I see all of the abandoned kids who feel like they aren’t enough — not cool enough or not exciting enough or not loveable enough.

The reason I can see that is today is that this weekend I mandated time away for myself. I drove 8 hours to Twin Peaks (not the cool TV show town) and spent a weekend with 4 other women who in some way shape or form are like me and are doing or have done what I want to do. I drove myself down, fortified my spirit by listening to Amanda Palmer narrate her book THE ART OF ASKING, with the goal of producing something that I could submit. A piece of writing. And I did it.

I worked in something I’d written a while ago. Vanessa the amazing host, told me that I should write the stories that people loved to hear, the stories that people asked me to tell. It’s not lost on me. I have stories that friends retell and even claim it as a story they tell too.

I read this story to the group. They had solid feedback, including some of what I’ve been told before, “ not only is it good, but you have to read it. It’s part of the story, you telling it.”

And today I was back and polishing the shiny things that make people happy with me and increase the numbers in my bank account. And I managed to do yoga this morning. And I got some good work done, even a few wins to add to the lagniappe pile. What I didn’t do was sit and dedicate time to my work. I shared some stories on social media that will give some folks fresh or renewed perspectives on the state of things. I counseled a friend about teen angst and parenting. I took my daughter to see Rocketman, again, and this time we got to sit next to each other and sing and wipe tears and eat chocolate together.

I didn’t meditate today. I didn’t take a long walk today. I didn’t resist the brownies today. I didn’t meditate today. And I can feel the urge to blast myself from inside with the stress of a cortisol infused not enough campaign. Well, I’m going to resist. It feels shaky and odd. I’m determined to choose the creativity and meditation and exercise tomorrow while tending to the shiny things. I’m counting on my friends knowing that I am entering a long overdue stretch of me territory and that the friending I’ve supplied (there really is none better) over the years will have to suffice — these hours are mine. Stay tuned, the fruit is going to be juicy.

I’m 47 years old and realizing, again, that too few are here offering to hold the machete and guard against the hey look at me monsters with tentacles slipping in and slithering away with the time and attention my darlings require to grow from psychic seedlings to inspired ideas and finally the fleshed out phenoms I’ve been carting around jumbled and piled up somewhere in the vicinity of my ears, nose, throat and heart chakra.

The siren song of something else isn’t rare, or new or special to me. On the worst days it’s a cheap trope that bookmarks where productivity and devotion might have been but were shelved for a particular procrastination. When the spirit is kind and the days are spread, I can be more gentle and meander among the moments engaged in pushing the boulder of chores along and taking the butt glue up on its offer to cushion me through the terror of sitting long enough to breathe deep and surrender to the effervescence of the blank page and worn edges of the keyboard with all the glory and prickly promises of potential.

In case you haven’t already guessed, I’m here to warm up. Using Medium to get over the shock of how damn cold the water is on my naked belly as I wade in past the break. Just like my love of surfing, scary and fantastic, I see myself plunging in every day. What dream sticks around if you don’t see it as part of the fabric of your being, a kevlar thread stretching from as long as you can remember and past here into your great beyond? Here’s to showing up.

Always a lot of judgement and harsh self-criticism when it comes to the lack of planning and producing. Recent conversations and an Atlantic article shined a light on the fact that nobody in my family ever planned for anything except feeling they were lucky if they were healthy enough to get to work. When you can’t count on something as simple as breathing, eating or waking up — setting educational, financial or creative goals seem lofty and on the worst days — arrogant.

It’s taken me a long ass time to finally get to the place where I value my experiences and my vision of creativity enough to see its value. How I’ve done it, I ponder daily. Coming from where I do (a story for another day), excerpts like these make me giggle —

I did not mean “How will I nurture and keep them alive?” My husband would help with that. — Abraham

I never thought I would have children, as I assumed I would resent them for the creative time they would inevitably rob. But my experience has been the opposite — and I’ve never had a husband or consistent other, partner or even stable life situation, that allowed for the creative production I’ve always craved. The impact of growing up in a household that was focused on daily sustenance and survival, plus trauma, can’t be discounted as it has also defined habits and perspectives on resources and what is available and possible. But I persist, and as a parent, I feel even more driven.

“Creative outlets provide us some way to be heard, seen, known in some way,”

Jung said that each person needs to find their own way to give their mind the rest time that is essential for creativity to flourish…Privilege plays a role in generating creative work…The competition between raising children and creative output is real.

The struggle is real. The struggle to believe that the stories I have in me are worthy of an audience. The struggle to overcome the fear that I’m worthy to tell these stories — am I good enough? If I am, why haven’t I done it yet? If we’re looking at the end of civilization, is this the best use of my time? Will anyone care? Then I think of my daughter. I think of all of the women who will remain invisible if somebody doesn’t do something. The something I am dreaming up would give them a voice…and then I can’t think of anything that could be more worth my time, and yours — as soon as I can get over myself and make it.

Linda Ronstadt - Blue Bayou

For sure I’m wishing I was pushing around this space like Jim Morrison pounding percussion from his very soul, purring a hypnotic rhythm as Mr. Mojo Rising. But I’m no L.A. Woman (distraction offers… maybe I will be when the TV show hits, maybe it’s a sign, like the Hollywood sign — even when i’m off track, I’m on the track…NOOOOO!!!) and Google search hoping genius.com will produce lyrics and a good image and an mp3 — that’s not getting anything written.

The Doors - L.A. Woman

What will get written is this journey / journal into the final frontiers of dreams deferred. My process is such a serpentine — going right, going left, going another way, going, going, Gonzo. I sat down and opened up Scrivener and dang if the writing I last remember doing isn’t right there where I thought I left it. My familiar nearly tugged me off into welp, looks like you’re starting all over again. Which, by the way, is complete crap. I ‘m making great progress with course work — so the groundhog day is a rouse. I’ve got work to do, without delay. I‘m indeed committed to it, and old tricks like looking the other direction have been diffused.

Though I can’t resist closing up with a Gonzo story. In the late 80’s, when I wasn’t old enough to drink, legally, I was obsessed with Hunter S. Thompson and confident that it was my time to explore the inner depths of my mind, because one day my writing career would require the references. My senior quote from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas —

So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark — that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.

I sat front and center at Zellerbach Hall, effervescent with anticipation. I’ll spare you the details, he sat there for hours, drinking himself into a vortex of incoherence, while captivating little ol’ fangirl me. Only about every 10th word was understandable, but instead of dismissing him as a sham, I just knew that this was the path. His messages were transmitting through mush — I wondered had it always been like this? Was his process to stumble through the black outs, only to find his way to the keyboard perch where the channeling would occur?

Fast forward to the place where all of the explanations and even the good excuses have been exhausted. All of the Beautiful Ones are leaving us… making room maybe? I’ll take my Dad’s advice on this one —

The hardest part is showing up… — Gary Bell

Prince and the Revolution - The Beautiful Ones

Knowing you are here to tell a story isn’t what gets the story told. It’s not what gets the story written, captured, developed or produced. Decisions are what give stories life. The decision to sit, to focus and to create. The boxes and databases brimming with notebooks (way too many notebooks), Pinterest boards, Scrivener files, and hashtags (#HensInTheHood — #IfYouKnowYouKnow) and handles on IG on top of all of the damn TTAAALLLLKKKKKING about it for YYYEEEAAARRRSSS.

My hard truth (added in an edit) is that it’s deeply deadly scary. I’m paralyzed by the possibility that my portrayal of the women I’m creating would be wrong. That I will misrepresent them, that folks will think they are based on them. Heres the thing, all of that is only going to happen if I don’t do the damn thing. That’s alright though, because the stories that got folks to the Emmy’s and HBO this year are all telling me “Hens in the Hood” will fly y’all.

I’m aware that developing a TV show also takes a sustained effort, an engaged village and multiple tools — for me it’s at least one part following the signs. By deciding to follow through, being consistent, trying new things when the usual is growing me anywhere. It’s working. Last night when I surrendered to research after a few hours strapped to the keyboard — the pilot episode of GIRLS GUIDE TO DIVORCE rolled up with Can you get to that?

Most days it feels like writing isn’t unlike Sysaphus pushing an invisible stone up a hill one letter and key stroke at a time. The reality of talking about it for all these years is the equivalent of blowing on it. Rather than waste any more of the precious stuff, I’ll leave you to explore the links until tomorrow.

Faith in it getting better (despite apocalyptic elections and icons moving into the beyond in droves) sustained by infusions of friendship, kindness and gratitude bolstered me through a dark stretch, along with deferring my dreamwork to a better time. I know as well as anyone that waiting for inspiration or the perfect time and place is not how creative production works. Fully aware, I agreed to disagree and put progress off anyway.

I did however make some serious progress in the dream department. I landed a flexible gig and spent 72 days of fabulous traveling with daughter. Our only real commitment was a wedding and the possibility of time with friends spread out over multiple countries. I trusted my gut and listened to my heart and that would get me my groove back, because I had been draggin’ my wagon for far too long.

Summer was magic and illuminating. We found our way through 7 countries and deep into connecting with ourselves and our psyches in ways we could never have anticipated. But it was on day 69 of 72 that I knew I had come out on another side of my shadow.

Driving down a technicolor strip of Western Icelandic highway, we were quiet and full from a day of Westfjord ferries with filmmaker friends and fabulous food on an island called Flatey. My eyes soaked up the innumerable shades of green, blue and grey, the sheep peppered volcanic mountains and water creeping in and out, demanding an audience, enticing despite guaranteed frigid temperatures. Moments so clear, so relaxed as to be defy connection to the hear and now, tend to be anchored in some profundity. When I caught myself floating on a deep series of exhales, he, for decades an engaged witness to many layered memories and their milestones, played messenger for the muses with a simple infusion of soundtrack.

Funkadelic - Can You Get to That

For me, it’s a track that colors my soul like a musical tattoo. The opening guitar chords float around my ears like the tickle of craving, signaling the arrival of some something from the universe. That cool, calm golden hour cruise out of Stykkishólmur felt me up with an awareness of having made a safe passage from hard times into hard work. It’s not that deep. Consider the lyric —

The debts you make, you have to pay

As if I had jumped into the frigid water of the surrounding fjords, the naked truth of the promises I had been racking up with procrastination and shame for collateral. The break I had granted myself was over, and checks I had signed with love and kisses were at risk of being returned insufficient funds.

Rather than surrender to obscurity through a life I would judge mediocre — I’m home and I’m here (writing) in order to make good on my promises. I vowed that when I found myself prospering, that I would indeed, get to that.

Now I’m home — I’ve applied stuff and money to the thin spots and now it’s time. For me it’s not wasting anymore time or experience than I ever have. The process isn’t magic nor is it impossible, but it’s not easy and it bubbles up anxiety for the ages. So, to ensure I make it to the page every damn day, I’m pushing myself to report here, every day. I’ve got goals people! I’ve been talking about novels and screenplays and TV shows and short stories and memoir and essays FOR TIME. Less talking, more typing.

If you’re up for a writing process journal chronicling how an intrepid pre-fab single mom overcomes a lifetime of procrastination and creative anxiety — I’m glad to have you along. See you tomorrow.