Ed Batista

Suspension of Belief

William Coleridge coined the phrase "suspension of disbelief" in 1817 to describe a state of mind in which readers would willingly ignore obvious untruths and fantastic elements in literature to allow themselves to enjoy the story. He called it a form of "poetic faith."

There's an alternative form of this mindset that applies not to works of fiction but to our own very real lives that I'd call the "suspension of belief." We believe to be true an enormous number of assumptions and mental models that exert a powerful influence on our self-image, on our sense of our own capabilities, on our perceived range of options, and ultimately on the lives we lead.

In some cases these beliefs are well-founded, but in others they're not. Or they were once accurate but are now long outdated and in need of revision. And what neuroscientists and social psychologists are discovering about the power of mindset even calls into question what we mean by "well-founded" and "accurate." What we believe to be true shapes our reality.

Much of my work as a coach involves helping clients and students let go of negative, self-limiting assumptions and mental models, and I've come to characterize this process as "suspension of belief." Efforts to actively disprove our beliefs often trigger defensiveness, causing us to dig in and cling to them all the harder. But if we sidestep the struggle over whether they're "True" or "False" and simply suspend our belief in them, a whole range of possibilities open up.

Without reaching any final conclusions regarding the validity of a given belief, we can temporarily suspend it, and "act as if" it we didn't hold it, or as if it had no hold on us. This can make it easier (and safer) for us to experiment with new behaviors that will test our assumptions and mental models and generate the data that's necessary to support any meaningful change. The key is suspending our belief in order to move from a conceptual debate over truth or falsehood into the realm of active, experiential learning.

Photo by sethoscope. Yay Flickr and Creative Commons.

Measuring the Infinite

In the spirit of those kindred souls Voltaire and George S. Patton, here's one way to measure the infinite:

An infinite distance lies between nothing--the unsaid comment, the unwritten letter, the undone act--and something, no matter how much room for improvement remains.  In comparison, the distance between that something and perfection is barely noticeable at all.

Photo by Ben Husmann. Yay Flickr and Creative Commons.

One Stone At A Time (Building Boundaries)

The concept of boundaries comes up regularly in my work with clients and students, and in my own life as well. A client resents feeling obligated to respond to emails after a certain hour in the evening. A student wants to insure that family activities don't overwhelm her plans for graduation. And I often need to decompress quietly for 20 minutes after getting home before engaging in conversation. At the heart of all of these issues is a boundary, in one form or another.

As I've written before, my former colleague Michael Gilbert has had a big influence on how I view the concept of boundaries, and here's a passage from his 2008 post Good Fences that I refer to often:

In regard to this exploration of "work-life balance," what's clear in our discussion is that we have been using the word "balance" when what we really seem to mean is "boundaries." Boundaries keep things in their place. Balance suggests the same amount of two things on either side of a scale. Boundaries keep one of those things from oozing past the edge of its platter and taking over the other side...

Boundaries and integration go together. Maybe it's just the biologist in me, but it seems that good boundaries are what make integration work. Just as functional membranes (letting the right things through and keeping the wrong things out) facilitate the healthy interaction of the cells of our bodies, so do functional personal boundaries facilitate the healthy interaction of the various parts of our lives. Bad boundaries lead to either being overwhelmed or withdrawal. Good boundaries lead to wholeness and synergy.

But it's essential to realize that boundaries don't simply spring into existence fully formed. They emerge, they evolve, they erode--they're dynamic features of our lives that we build up and maintain piece by piece, through countless small steps and interactions. In my work with clients and students over the years and in my own efforts to create boundaries that support fulfillment and effectiveness, I've come to see 4 key steps in this process:

1) Identify

The very first step is identifying the need for a boundary (or a better boundary) in the first place, and this can be a lot harder than it sounds. The very act of identifying the need for a boundary can raise all sorts of anxieties, self-judgments and other complex feelings: What does it say about me that I want a boundary here? What will it cost me? How will it affect the other people involved? But as difficult as this step might be, nothing else can happen until we take it.

2) Accept

Once we've identified the need for a boundary at a conceptual level, we have to truly accept it at a deeper emotional level. We have to acknowledge and deal with all those feelings that are generated by the idea of the boundary; we have to answer the questions above (and any others that arise along similar lines) and come to terms with our responses. More often than not, this involves challenging the mental models and assumptions that cause us to question or resist our desire for a boundary.

3) Establish

Having fully accepted the boundary, we need to take action and establish it effectively by communicating it to others in a manner that will A) maximize the likelihood of winning their support and B) overcome resistance when that support isn't forthcoming. This step probably feels the riskiest--it's certainly the point at which we can derail the process both by holding back and by coming on too strong. Here's where good communication skills are critical (and I've also found Susan Scott's "Mineral Rights" framework extremely helpful.)

4) Maintain

Finally, note that all boundaries are subject to erosion over time and must be actively maintained. We don't establish them once; we re-establish them over and over, in ways that adjust to our changing needs and circumstances. This may involve having similar conversations with multiple people--or it may involve having the same conversation several times with one person to insure that it truly sinks in and sticks. The key is recognizing that boundaries aren't static features of a landscape, but dynamic aspects of our relationships, our personal lives and our organizations.

Photo by Ryan McDonald. Yay Flickr and Creative Commons.

Make The Right Decision...Or Make The Decision Right?

Much of my work as a coach involves helping people wrestle with an important decision. Some of these decisions feel particularly big because they involve selecting one option to the exclusion of all others when the cost of being "wrong" can be substantial: If I'm at a crossroads in my career, which path should I follow? If I'm considering job offers, which one should I accept? If I'm being asked to relocate, should I move to a new city or stay put?

And while I've written before on the conditions that support good decision-making and firmly believe that we can improve the quality of our decisions by following those guidelines, I'm also reminded of a comment made by Scott McNealy--a co-founder of Sun Microsystems and its CEO for 22 years--during a lecture I attended while I was in business school at Stanford: He was asked how he made decisions and responded by saying (I'm paraphrasing, but his point was crystal clear):

It's important to make good decisions. But I spend much less time and energy worrying about "making the right decision" and much more time and energy insuring that any decision I make turns out right.

That comment has stuck with me for over a decade and continues to influence me today. Before we make any decision--particularly one that will be difficult to undo--we're understandably anxious and focused on identifying the "best" option because of the risk of being "wrong." But a by-product of that mindset is that we overemphasize the importance of the moment of choice itself and lose sight of the importance of everything that follows. Merely selecting the "best" option doesn't guarantee that things will turn out well in the long run, just as making a sub-optimal choice doesn't doom us to failure or unhappiness. It's what happens next (and in the days, months and years that follow) that ultimately determines whether a given decision was "right."

Another aspect of this dynamic is that our focus on making the "right" decision can easily lead to paralysis, because the options we're choosing among are so difficult to rank in the first place. How can we possibly determine in advance what career path will be "best," or what job offer we should accept, or whether we should move across the country or stay put? Obviously, we can't--there are far too many variables and little or no data to work with. But the more we yearn for an objective algorithm to rank our options and make the decision for us, the more we distance ourselves from the subjective factors--our intuition, our emotions, our gut--that will ultimately pull us in one direction or another. And so we get stuck, waiting for a sign--something--to point the way.

I believe the path to getting unstuck when faced with a daunting, possibly paralyzing decision is embedded in McNealy's comment, and it involves a fundamental re-orientation of our mindset: Focusing on the choice minimizes the effort that will inevitably be required to make any option succeed and diminishes our sense of agency and ownership. In contrast, focusing on the effort that will be required not only helps us see the means by which any choice might succeed, it also restores our sense of agency and reminds us that while randomness plays a role in every outcome, our locus of control resides in our day-to-day activities more than in our one-time decisions.

So while I certainly support using any available data to rank our options in some rough sense, ultimately we're best served by avoiding paralysis-by-analysis and moving foward by 1) paying close attention to the feelings and emotions that accompany the decision we're facing, 2) assessing how motivated we are to work toward the success of any given option, and 3) recognizing that no matter what option we choose, our efforts to support its success will be more important than the initial guesswork that led to our choice.

Addendum: My thinking on this topic has been heavily influence by GSB professor Baba Shiv, an expert in the neuroscience of decision-making:

A good decision is one in which the decision maker is happy with the decision and will stay committed to the decision, Shiv says. [My emphasis] And that’s where emotions come in: They’re mental shortcuts that help us resolve trade-off conflicts and...happily commit to a decision. "When you feel a trade-off conflict, it just behooves you to focus on your gut."

And furthermore: Rick Lane's comment prompted some further thinking on the process of getting "unstuck," which I'll quote from my response to him: I'm all too aware that when we're deeply stuck and paralyzed by a decision, we need something more than a conceptual understanding of decision-making to get us moving again. I return to the power of emotion, and I think that the combined hope for a better future and the pain of our present "stuckness" must overcome the combined fear that we'll make the wrong choice and the pain that often accompanies tough choices, particularly when a choice will hurt or disappoint someone.

Photo by Conor Ogle. Yay Flickr and Creative Commons.

Make It Better

Yesterday Tom Peters tweeted this mantra from former NFL coach Bill Parcells:

Blame no one. Expect nothing. Do something.

It struck me as an concise, powerful expression of an attitude I try to bring to my work as a coach and maintain in my own life (although I fail all the time.) It's a mindset that I find very motivating.

But it occurred to me that this message can also be interpreted and delivered in a powerfully DEmotivating way. At times when we're encouraged to hold ourselves accountable and take action, the underlying message is "Stop whining. Don't be such a wuss. Suck it up."

And while on occasion there's value in such a confrontational approach, in my experience it always extracts a huge cost in the form of loss of trust and disconnection, and the damage to the relationship in the long run isn't worth it.

So why does Parcell's mantra work for me? Because when I hear it, the underlying message isn't "Suck it up" but "Make it better." And I know that if I want others to find it as motivating as I do, I need to insure that I'm communicating that same underlying message to them.

Thanks again to Tom Peters for the inspiration and the encouragement.

Photo by Eric Schmuttenmaer. Yay Flickr and Creative Commons.

Blocking And Tackling (Fundamentals of Change)

I don't use that many sports metaphors, but there's something about "blocking and tackling" that perfectly describes my approach to change, whether it's with a coaching client or student, or in my own life.

The phrase reflects the fact that flashy, dramatic plays in American football--like Steve Young's game-winning 49-yard scramble for the 49ers against the Vikings in 1988--are the result of a series of profoundly un-flashy, un-dramatic efforts that make big gains possible. And this is exactly how I think about any desired change--no matter how lofty or ambitious the goal, the path to its achievement will be paved with countless small, humble steps.

So what does blocking and tackling look like in this context?  I see the 5 strategies below as the fundamental tools at our disposal when when we're seeking to make a change--there are plenty of others, to be sure, but in my experience these 5 tend to provide significant leverage:

1) Break down large goals into smaller components.

By definition, people seeking help accomplishing a goal, whether in a 1:1 coaching engagement or as part of a larger organizational transition, are grappling with a challenge that's too big or complex to address all at once. If that were possible, they'd simply do it and move on.

This is understandable: We slap labels on a huge array of related activities in order to give us a conceptual handle on the overarching goal. But once we move beyond the conceptual realm into action, the labels start getting in our way. They obscure the distinctions between separate-but-related activities, they fail to acknowledge inter-relationships and dependencies, and they're useless at helping us prioritize.

For example, in early 2008 I decided that I wanted to "be healthier," which was certainly a laudable goal, and even a motivational one in theory. But what the hell did that actually mean in practice? "Being healthy" was way too abstract for me to translate into action, and (after a number of experiments), I ultimately broke it down into five smaller, daily goals: 1) exercise, 2) meditate, 3) get enough sleep, 4) eat and drink moderately, 5) work on my intellectual/professional development.

This framework allows me not only to get a clearer picture of my "health" by assessing each of these smaller goals individually, but also to see the inter-dependencies among them and to prioritize accordingly. I've noticed that sleep and my intellectual/professional development can be inversely correlated--which usually means I'm doing a lot of late-night study. Sometimes this is OK--but at other times it's not, and then I need to re-balance, prioritize sleep and trust that the work will get done. 

2) Build enthusiasm and momentum by celebrating small victories.

Success feeds on itself, and a benefit of breaking large goals down into smaller components is that it gives us many more opportunities to feel successful and reap the rewards. The smaller goals I outline above are all daily activities--so every single day I have an opportunity to succeed on each dimension. In this case, I track each of the goals mentioned above using Don't Break the Chain, a lightweight productivity tool that's so powerful because it's so simple: Set up a daily calendar, and every day you accomplish your goal just click on the date to add a "link" to the "chain." (My exercise calendar for this month--as of January 18th--is above.)

A significant consequence of this approach is that I experience a small (but noticeable) thrill each time I get to click on a date and "add a link"--classic reward-driven behavior that's undoubtedly related to a tiny surge of dopamine in my brain each time I click: Press the lever, get the cookie! Equally significant is the small (but noticeable) feeling of absence that occurs when I fail to fulfill a daily goal and as a result am denied the reward.

I can also celebrate milestones by looking at stretches of time on my calendars, from 4 weeks to 4 months to an entire year, and feel a sense of accomplishment and agency. Each of my daily successes over the course of a month, a quarter, a year add up to something bigger than I realized in the moment. (Conversely, when I consistently fail to accomplish a goal, the growing stretch of white space on the calendar can motivate me to get back on track, and in retrospect I can correlate that data with whatever was going on in my life at that time to better understand what happened and why.)

3) Identify assumptions and mental models; then create experiments to generate new data.

We often embark upon an effort to change with a commitment to re-assess our goals, values and strategies and judge them by their results. But a limitation of this approach is that so many of those very same goals, values and strategies are rooted in underlying assumptions and mental models that go untested because we view them as universal truths or because we're not even fully aware of their existence.

We need to step back and expand our analytical frame to identify the assumptions and mental models that underlie the goals, values and strategies we're testing in the first place. This process is best described as double-loop learning, a term first coined by Harvard Business School professor Chris Argyris:

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The key tasks here are A) identifying our closely-held beliefs as assumptions and mental models rather than "truths," B) developing experiments that will generate data allowing us to test the veracity and utility of those assumptions and models, and C) being willing to revise and update our assumptions and models on the basis of that new data.

In my case, a mental model deriving from my athletic training as a kid was the idea that exercising meant grueling, full-on workouts.  Anything less was insufficient and "didn't count."  But as a result of this belief, if I didn't have time to "do it right," then I wouldn't do it at all--I let the perfect be the enemy of the good.  Even worse, I failed to take into account the fact that as I entered middle age, it was no longer possible for me to do everything that I did when I was in high school and college--I'm no slouch, but I'm also not 18 anymore (thankfully.)  I had to let go of the model of a "training regimen" designed for a young, competitive athlete and embrace the alternative concept of an "active life" designed for an old(er) guy who just wanted to feel better.

At first, this new approach didn't feel right at all--my mental model told me I was slacking.  But eventually I realized that being easier on myself (both physically and mentally) made it possible to be more active more consistently--which was actually my ultimate goal.  New mental model, different strategy, better results.

4) Avoid obstacles by taking alternative or parallel paths.

This approach to change relies upon a sense of dynamism and fluidity.  Breaking down large goals into smaller steps means more opportunities to celebrate little victories as well as more opportunities to test assumptions and mental models.

But when we hit an obstacle--often in the form of our own resistance--everything grinds to a halt.  So it's important to keep moving forward, in one way or another.  And rather than overcome the obstacle or fight the resistance, it's often more effective to simply find another path toward the goal.

This can take many forms--in my case breaking down the large goal of "being healthy" into five components gave me five paths to follow simultaneously.  And while my intention is to pursue them all every day, that's not necessarily feasible--as shown in the occasional inverse correlation between sleep and work.  But having multiple paths at my disposal allows me to continue to make progress on at least one of them every day.  (It's pretty rare that I go "5 for 5" on a given day, but I don't think I've ever gone "0 for 5" either.)

Another version of this strategy involves looking for experiences that parallel the goal we're pursuing in other aspects of life.  My practice as a coach focuses on helping people be more effective and fulfilled in their professional lives, but in many cases my clients and students find the work-related issues they're addressing a little too daunting to tackle head-on.  In that case, an option is to look for parallels in their personal lives, where there's often more support for change and where the risks of change can seem lower.

5) Start small and scale up as needed. 

Implicit in all of the strategies above is the idea that it becomes easier to make big changes when we're already experiencing success at a smaller scale.  (Just note how many times I use the word "small" above.)

Tackling smaller changes not only allows us to feel the reward and sense of efficacy that comes with accomplishment, but also helps us learn some important things about ourselves, such as our assumptions and mental models, other sources of resistance, how we respond to setbacks and what support we find most helpful.  We learn best when we're slightly stressed but not overwhelmed, and changing at a smaller scale first allows us to have as much information as possible as our disposal when the stakes are higher.

Successful small changes may also reduce the need for large-scale change.  Change is often driven by a desire to be happier, but research shows that we exercise control over our sense of happiness and fulfillment most effectively through small-scale, consistent intentional activities, not through large-scale changes in our life circumstances.

Finally, changing successfully at a smaller scale allows us to shift our mindset.  We may think of ourselves as people who don't--or can't--change, and we may think of change as something alien or frightening.  A running joke of mine with my wife is "I hate change"--and at one level that simply means that I enjoy ritual and routine; for example, I love returning to familiar restaurants, because I like re-connecting with the people we come to know through repeated visits.  But at another level, I'm also saying that "Change is scary," and it's the successful efforts to change at a smaller scale that allow me to feel calmer and more courageous when the scale increases.  I'm not sure what changes are in store for me at the moment, but the shift in mindset I've experienced by changing in small ways over the last 4 years will undoubtedly serve me well when I decide to take on something bigger.

Photo courtesy of the United States Sports Academy.

Why I (Keep Trying To) Meditate

Photo by Holly Ford Brown.

I'm not a very good meditator--in fact, I'm terrible at it.  I say that tongue-in-cheek, knowing full well that striving to be a "good" meditator is an exercise in absurdity--but what I mean is that I find meditation difficult, I regularly avoid doing it, and yet I persist in the practice.  Why?

Two of my standing goals are to exercise and mediate daily.  I track goals like this using a simple tool called Don't Break the Chain, and looking back at the last six months of 2011, I can see that I exercised exactly 75% of the time--138 days of out of 184.  But during that same span I meditated just 45% of the time--83 days.  See what I mean?  Not very good :-)

But in truth I know that my resistance to meditation is an indicator that it's a healthy practice for me, and the fact that it's difficult for me to do it daily is one of the primary reasons I keep at it.  I'm not saying I should force myself to do all the things I resist doing.  Helping people deconstruct a rule like that--a powerful mental model, by the way--is something I do in my coaching practice, and I strive to do the same in my own life.

Rather, I'm saying that there are some specific steps that occur in the meditation process that are valuable for me to experience precisely because of my resistance to the practice.  So what are those steps?  What happens for me in the meditation process?

I see it as a four-stage cycle:

1. Stillness
2. Awareness
3. Choice
4. Discipline

(Here's a 2-slide PowerPoint [60 KB] of the graphics below.) 

It starts with Stillness, which sounds easy and yet can be quite hard for me.  My mind is always in motion, and I'm constantly thinking and planning ahead.  I'm tracking an endless list of ideas and to-dos, and while I find this stimulating, it also creates a lot of noise.  (The last time I re-committed myself to regular meditation, in early 2011, I described the experience as feeling "mentally itchy.")  Meditation allows (and compels) me to just be still.

The next step is Awareness.  In the stillness I can see where my attention goes and sense what I'm feeling (both emotionally and physically) much more clearly.)  Note that I'm not saying that I "clear my mind" or "think of nothing" or anything like that.  My mind's still working away, and thoughts and emotions continue to rush through me, but I'm much more aware of them. 

The next step is Choice.  The awareness of my thoughts and emotions that comes with the stillness allows me to be more intentional, and to focus my attention and make use of my emotions in ways that better support my goals.  This isn't to say that I'm always seeking to consciously influence my cognitive and emotional processing; that's neither possible nor desirable.  But even the ability to simply notice what I'm thinking about and feeling allows me to choose to filter out the noise and focus on more meaningful cognitive and emotional signals.

The final stage of the process is Discipline.  And while I use that word deliberately, I want to be careful to avoid the negative connotation that can often accompany it.  Jon Kabat Zinn notes that our minds will constantly wander during meditation, just like a puppy wandering away while being paper-trained, and we need to treat ourselves just as would treat the puppy--not harshly, but compassionately, with firmness and with care.  Because the cycle described here repeats not just from day to day but many, many times in the course of a single meditation session, and the act of noticing that my mind has wandered and is speeding up again, slowing it down and returning to a sense of stillness is itself a useful form of disciplined practice.

I'm not off to a great start in 2012--I've meditated just 6 times in 15 days.  But writing this post has helped clarify the value I derive from the practice and inspires me to do it even more.  Many thanks to Bill George, whose discussion of his own meditation practice has been highly motivating.

Two concluding thoughts: First, there's an extensive and growing body of research demonstrating the psychological, physiological and performance benefits of meditation.  That's a post for another day, but for now I'll express my continued thanks to David Rock for pointing me in that direction.

And finally, I'm reminded of the master's dictum: If you don't have time to meditate once a day, then meditate twice.  I'm all too aware that as I get busier and have less time to meditate, I tend to cycle faster and need to put on the brakes all the more.  I'm not saying I live by that credo, but it's an aspiration.

The Meaning of Mindset

Yesterday's post on setbacks and mindset (as well as last month's post on mental models) resulted in some further thoughts on just what we mean by "mindset," and I've provisionally arrived at the four definitions below.  By no means are they mutually exclusive, and the overlap is intentional; each definition simply provides another way of looking at and making effective use of the central concept.

1) As I mentioned yesterday, mindset refers to the overarching idea that what we think--and particularly what we think about ourselves--influences how we perceive the world around us and how we experience that world.  Our thoughts, perceptions, and emotions shape our reality.  A perfect example of this is the placebo effect; quoting again from yesterday's post, recent research has shown that "A particular mind-set or belief about one's body or health may lead to improvements in disease symptoms as well as changes in appetite, brain chemicals and even vision..." 

2) A second definition of mindset is the process of understanding cognitive biases and principles of neuroscience in order to leverage them and turn them to our advantage, rather than be buffeted about by them.  Yesterday I wrote about a cognitive bias called the "fundamental attribution error"--ascribing causality to personal characteristics when causality actually lies with the situation--and how awareness of this bias and its impact on our mindset can allow us to cope more effectively with setbacks.  I've also written about other heuristics that can lead us astray, such as availability bias--"the tendency to judge the likelihood of an event by the ease with which relevant examples come to mind"--and affective errors--"the tendency to make decisions based on what we wish were true."  Recent research on neuroscience and brain function provides additional insights into why we act the way we do, and one of the best examples is David Rock's SCARF model, which "captures the common factors that can activate a reward or threat response in social situations."

3) On a more personal level, a third definition of mindset is an awareness of our existing mental models, beliefs and assumptions, many of which are the result of past learning experiences and which may not have been re-examined or updated in the interim.  Such awareness allows us to see how these concepts influence our actions and, if we choose, to update them to reflect our current circumstances and subsequent learning.  In turn, this process allows us to make different choices based on more recent information and better suited to current circumstances.  Last month I discussed the impact of my self-image as a public speaker: "I had trapped myself in my own mental model: believing I was a poor speaker led me to avoid speaking opportunities, which prevented me from ever improving.  Today I still get nervous before a speech or presentation, but I view that response simply as a manifestation of my desire to do well, not as damning evidence of my ineffectiveness."

4) Finally, a very specific and highly useful definition of mindset is the idea at the heart of the work of Stanford psychologist Carol Dweck, who sees a pivotal distinction between a "growth" mindset and a "fixed" mindset.  As I noted yesterday in a citation from Dweck's website:

In a fixed mindset, people believe their basic qualities, like their intelligence or talent, are simply fixed traits. They spend their time documenting their intelligence or talent instead of developing them. They also believe that talent alone creates success—without effort. They're wrong.

In a growth mindset, people believe that their most basic abilities can be developed through dedication and hard work—brains and talent are just the starting point. This view creates a love of learning and a resilience that is essential for great accomplishment.

As I noted above, these definitions are intentionally overlapping; I'm not seeking to distinguish them as entirely separate concepts but rather trying to get sufficient clarity on the threads and themes woven into the concept of "mindset" in order to make use of all of them more effectively.

Photo by Alex Valli.  Yay Flickr and Creative Commons.

Setbacks, Mindset and the Fundamental Attribution Error

Thinking about some recent personal and professional setbacks--both mine and others'--has led me to reflect on the intersection of two topics that often come up in my coaching practice: mindset and the fundamental attribution error.

By "mindset" I'm referring to the tremendous power exerted by our beliefs, assumptions and mental models.  What we think--and particularly what we think about ourselves--exerts tremendous influence over how we perceive the world around us and how we experience that world.  To take just one example, recent research on the placebo effect has shown that "A particular mind-set or belief about one's body or health may lead to improvements in disease symptoms as well as changes in appetite, brain chemicals and even vision..."  (Of particular importance is the ability of positive expectations and conditioning to create an openness to change.)

The concept of a "fixed mindset" vs. a "growth mindset" is at the heart of the work of Stanford psychologist Carol Dweck:

In a fixed mindset, people believe their basic qualities, like their intelligence or talent, are simply fixed traits. They spend their time documenting their intelligence or talent instead of developing them. They also believe that talent alone creates success—without effort. They're wrong.

In a growth mindset, people believe that their most basic abilities can be developed through dedication and hard work—brains and talent are just the starting point. This view creates a love of learning and a resilience that is essential for great accomplishment.

Having a fixed mindset rather than a growth mindset can have a profound impact on how we cope with setbacks and mistakes.  In a recent post on Learning from Mistakes I cited a reference by science writer Jonah Lehrer to Dweck's research:

[P]eople with a fixed mindset see mistakes as a dismal failure--a sign that we aren't talented enough for the task in question--[while] those with a growth mindset see mistakes as an essential precursor of knowledge, the engine of education...

But while I believe firmly in this research and can attest to the power of mindset both in my own life and in the lives of my clients and students, I'm not suggesting that the biggest challenges we face can be resolved merely by adopting a "positive attitude," or that our mindsets are at fault when we struggle.

And this is where the second concept I've been reflecting on comes in--the "fundamental attribution error" is a common cognitive bias originally named by Stanford psychologist Lee Ross.  It was taught to me in business school (by the outstanding Roberto Fernandez) as:

Ascribing causality to personal characteristics when causality actually lies with the situation.

As I've written before, "We see it at work most clearly with high-profile, archetypal leaders--presidents, CEOs, coaches, quarterbacks--who are hailed as geniuses when their organizations accomplish their goals and derided as bums when their organizations stumble."  But it's at play in our own daily lives as well.  While we surely bear some responsibility for our failure in almost all cases, it's inaccurate to put the blame solely on our shoulders while ignoring the context (interpersonal, organizational, cultural) in which it occurred.

I think the intersection of mindset and the fundamental attribution error is critical when it comes to how we deal with setbacks.  The same cognitive bias that leads us to ignore our good fortune and take more credit than we should when we succeed also leads us to ignore those situational factors that contribute to our failures.  Our ignorance of the fundamental attribution error (or our reluctance to apply it to our own lives) can cause us to see setbacks as solely our responsibility, feeding into a negative mindset and making it more difficult to recover.

I realize there's a slippery slope here that could easily be abused by the unscrupulous and irresponsible.  By no means am I suggesting that we avoid holding ourselves accountable.  But it's significant to me that the research by Michigan State's Jason Moser on learning from mistakes cited by Lehrer suggests that those who learn best from mistakes spend a substantially higher amount of time and energy focusing on and reviewing what they did wrong in order to learn from it.  They don't shirk responsibility or fail to hold themselves accountable--just the opposite.

I believe that the judicious application of the fundamental attribution error can give us a fuller, more accurate perspective on our setbacks, which can have a meaningful impact on our mindset.  If we're able to clearly distinguish between those factors that are truly our responsibility and within our control to change, and any situational factors--or even just bad luck--that we have no control over, we'll be able to focus our energies where they'll be most useful and to maintain a mindset that will support recovery, learning and growth.

Photo by dfinnecy.  Yay Flickr and Creative Commons.

Corn Mazes and Mental Models

A few weeks ago a family became lost in a corn maze in Massachusetts and called 911 in a panic.  Police rushed to the scene and found them, unharmed, just 25 feet from the entrance to the maze.  A brief flurry of media coverage resulted, in which the family were generally portrayed as dimwits lacking common sense.  But mocking these people obscures the fact that we've all had similar experiences; their predicament was just an unusually literal example of being trapped by a mental model.

Many commenters wondered why the family didn't simply walk through the corn to escape the maze.  They could have easily pushed aside the cornstalks, headed for the exterior and rescued themselves.  But they didn't think they were in a cornfield; they thought they were in a maze, and while their failure to recognize the difference says something about their crisis management skills, it also says something about the power of mental models.  They couldn't simply walk through the corn, because that would involve walking through walls, and that's impossible.

We habitually view the world through a series of mental models that shape our understanding of our circumstances, our relationships and ourselves.  And while these mental models are essential tools in allowing us to navigate through life, they can easily lead us astray.  Philosopher Alford Korzybski said "A map is not the territory it represents," and a mental model is not the reality it seeks to depict.  But we can easily mistake our mental models for reality and apply them inappropriately.

We construct our mental models out of the meaning we extract from experience, and there's inevitably a loss of fidelity as we focus on certain aspects of an experience (while ignoring others), interpret that data, and then conceptualize it as a general principle.  And the gap that exists between our mental models and reality will continually increase over time unless we compel ourselves to test our assumptions, gather new data and update our models--which requires consistent effort.

A mental model I held about myself for years was that I was a poor public speaker.  I'd get nervous before a presentation or speech, I interpreted my sweaty palms and the pit in my stomach as evidence of my ineffectiveness, and my expectation that I would perform poorly became a self-fulfilling prophecy which, of course, reinforced my mental model.

But while I was getting my MBA I took a public speaking course at Stanford's School of Engineering.  The rationale for the course was that engineers are often brilliant technical thinkers whose poor communication skills prevents them from promoting their ideas more effectively, and the methodology was utterly simple: Prepare a short speech or presentation and deliver it to the class each week for ten weeks.

I quickly came to realize that it's easy to improve as a public speaker if you do it often enough, and that I had trapped myself in my own mental model: believing I was a poor speaker led me to avoid speaking opportunities, which prevented me from ever improving.  Today I still get nervous before a speech or presentation, but I view that response simply as a manifestation of my desire to do well, not as damning evidence of my ineffectiveness.  And I still make plenty of missteps as a speaker, but I view them as correctible mistakes, not as character flaws.

I don't mean to suggest that all our limitations derive from our mental models; we're surrounded by any number of real constraints that can't be altered merely by viewing them from a different perspective.  But even in those cases our mental models often amplify those constraints and make them seem more daunting and more powerful than they truly are.  And in many other aspects of life the limits we place on ourselves derive from outdated or inappropriately applied mental models.  We see solid walls instead of flimsy cornstalks, and we allow ourselves to feel trapped instead of simply walking through the corn.

Photo by Carmelo Speltino.  Yay Flickr and Creative Commons.