Ed Batista

You Can't Steer a Parked Car

I didn't coin the title of this post, and I wish I could remember where I heard it first, because it does come up frequently in my coaching practice.

When we suspect we're not headed in the right direction, we often slow down and lose momentum, and sometimes we stall out entirely.

But it's very difficult--and perhaps impossible--to change direction when we're not moving at all.

The key is to move forward judiciously and thoughtfully, and to use the resulting momentum to adjust our trajectory in the process.

What does this look like in practice?

• Talk about it.
• Write about it.
• Talk about it some more.
• Get comfortable with vulnerability--it's unavoidable.
• Recognize that change consists of countless small steps.
• And remember that you're a work-in-progress, learning how to learn.

---

Thanks to Ryan Caldbeck.

Photo by IwateBuddy. Yay Flickr and Creative Commons.

Coaching and Emotion Management

The difficult work of emotion management--which entails both awareness of and regulation of our feelings--lies at the heart of much of what I do as a coach and experiential educator. The issues my clients and students wrestle with obviously have many cognitive dimensions: There's a challenge that must be understood fully. There are potential solutions that must be assessed. There are actions to be taken (or to be avoided), and the likely result of these choices must be predicted. In a word, there's a great deal of thinking to do, and I spend plenty of time coaching people on this level.

But these issues are never purely (or even primarily) cognitive. If they were, my clients and students--all successful leaders or Stanford MBAs--are more than smart enough to determine next steps on their own. They would have reached a conclusion, made a decision and moved on. But one reason they find value in talking about these issues with a coach is the emotional dimension. The issues that come up in coaching sessions generally evoke a range of feelings that are rich signals full of data about how to proceed, but these signals are tremendously complex and hard to decipher. In a word, there's a great deal of feeling to do, and I spend just as much time coaching people on this level.

Coaching can highlight the power of our emotional drives and the inadequacy of our purely cognitive responses. We're often so ill-equipped to deal with our feelings that we try to push them away. We distract ourselves, we numb ourselves, we do anything but allow ourselves to truly feel. But the problem is that emotions are essential inputs in our reasoning and decision-making processes, and without their guidance we can get stuck--particularly when we're dealing with complex issues that can't be distilled into comprehensible decision trees.

To be clear, I'm not suggesting we should simply obey our feelings or that emotions are an unerring guide to right action--far from it. Our emotions are a "quick and dirty processing system," in neuroscientist Joseph LeDoux's phrase, and there's plenty of noise in those signals. So the task we face is emotion management. We need to both heighten our awareness of our feelings and allow ourselves to fully experience them in the moment, while also building our capacity to regulate them, so that we can choose more thoughtfully how (and how not) to express and respond to those feelings in a given moment.

This is where a coach can be uniquely helpful. In a coaching session I'll regularly bring the focus back to the emotional level, not just by asking, "How do you feel?"--which is both inadequate for my purpose and tiresome for the person being coached--but by taking other, more proactive steps: Sensing, reflecting back, and responding to the other person's emotions; evoking emotions that may play a helpful role in the conversation; and even expressing my own emotional response in the moment.

Such work can be an end in itself--the ability to fully experience our emotions adds tremendous value and richness to life--but it's also a means to an end. Improved emotion management results in stronger relationships, greater influence and better leadership. It's difficult work, requiring a substantial commitment of time and energy, but my clients and students don't make that investment because it sounds good; they make the investment because of the return it yields in fulfillment and effectiveness.

Photo by Heinrich Böll Stiftung. Yay Flickr and Creative Commons.

Talking About Feelings

My work as a coach often involves encouraging clients and students to talk about their feelings--a process known to psychologists as affect labeling--in order to manage difficult emotions more effectively. Experience tells us that this is a useful practice, but why? How does talking about feelings make them easier to manage?

Recent neuroscience research, including a substantial body of work by Matthew Lieberman of UCLA [1], has helped us to better understand the processes in the brain that contribute to this effect. [2] Some of the earliest research on this topic was conducted by Lieberman, Naomi Eisenberger, and several other colleagues [3]:

Putting feelings into words has long been thought to be one of the best ways to manage negative emotional experiences. Talk therapies have been formally practiced for more than a century and, although varying in structure and content, are commonly based on the assumption that talking about one's feelings and problems is an effective method for minimizing the impact of negative emotional events on current experience. More recently, psychologists have discovered that merely putting pen to paper to express one’s emotional ailments has benefits for mental and physical health. Although conventional wisdom and scientific evidence indicate that putting one’s feelings into words can attenuate negative emotional experiences, the mechanisms by which these benefits arise remain largely unknown.

Recent neuroimaging research has begun to offer insight into a possible neurocognitive mechanism by which putting feelings into words may alleviate negative emotional responses. A number of studies of affect labeling have demonstrated that linguistic processing of the emotional aspects of an emotional image produces less amygdala activity than perceptual processing of the emotional aspects of the same image. [The amygdala is a region of the brain associated with emotion processing that plays a role in helping us interpret and respond to perceived threats, among other tasks.] Additionally, these studies have demonstrated greater activity during linguistic processing than during non-linguistic processing of emotion in [the] right ventrolateral prefrontal cortex (RVLPFC), a region associated with the symbolic processing of emotional information and with top-down inhibitory processes. Finally, the magnitude of RVLPFC activity during affect labeling has been inversely correlated with the magnitude of amygdala activity during affect labeling in these studies. Together, these results suggest that putting feelings into words may activate RVLPFC, which in turn may dampen the response of the amygdala, thus helping to alleviate emotional distress... [page 421]

The results of this study provide the first clear demonstration that affect labeling disrupts the affective responses in the limbic system that would otherwise occur in the presence of negative emotional images...

These data thus suggest that one route by which putting feelings into words may regulate negative affect is by increasing activity in RVLPFC, which in turn dampens activity in the amygdala by way of intermediate connections through [the medial prefrontal cortex]... [page 426]

In summary, this study provides the first unambiguous evidence that affect labeling, compared with other ways of encoding, produces diminished responses to negative emotional images in the amygdala and other limbic regions...

These findings begin to shed light on how putting negative feelings into words can help regulate negative experience, a process that may ultimately contribute to better mental and physical health. [page 427]

While the specific neural mechanisms involved remain unclear, it's noteworthy that this research highlights the connection between the prefrontal cortex, the region of the brain most closely associated with logical reasoning, and regions of the brain involved in processing emotion. Although this may seem counterintuitive, given our popular conception of reason and emotion as opposing influences on our behavior, it's entirely consistent with decades of research by neuroscientists such as Antonio Damasio [4] and Richard Davidson [5], whose work emphasizes the complex and intertwined relationship between these modes of mental processing.

Lieberman also explored these neural mechanisms in work that he conducted independently [6]:

[T]here is a great deal of evidence to suggest that the process of sharing one's worry, of putting bad feelings into words, can diminish one's emotional distress at least under certain circumstances. This chapter examines the neurocognitive mechanisms of disruption effects, the process by which putting feelings into words can disrupt the feelings being verbalized... [page 188]

RVLPFC activity is associated with reduced activity in limbic regions, such as the amygdala and [dorsal anterior cingulate cortex], and [symbolic processing of affect] is associated both with increased RVLPFC activity and decreased limbic activity. [page 199]

Given that [symbolic processing of affect] appears to regulate limbic responses...this would provide a mechanism by which putting feelings into words would have benefits for regulating emotional distress and for mental health more generally. [page 200]

Numerous philosophers and psychologists have noted over the years that thinking about affect has the capacity to alter and even dampen the affect that is being thought about. This has been used to good effect in various forms of therapy, from formal psychotherapies to informal social support networks in which people talk about their feelings with friends. The reason that putting feelings into words helps has remained elusive and somewhat mystical. The work presented here describes a neurocognitive process focused on RVLPFC that provides the beginnings of an answer. Putting feelings into words activates a region of the brain that is capable of inhibiting various aspects of immediate experience, including affective distress. [page 203]

Lieberman later summarized this research in his insightful book Social: Why Our Brains Are Wired to Connect [7]:

It turns out that putting our feelings into words or simply being able to label them can regulate our emotions and promote our mental and physical well-being...

Preschoolers who can describe their feelings have fewer emotional outbursts, get better grades, and are more popular with their peers. High school students who write about their math anxiety right before taking a math test actually do better on the test. In my lab we ask adults to perform a simple task, called affect labeling, during which people choose a word to best describe the emotional aspect of a picture. For instance, a picture of an angry face might be shown, and the participant would have to choose whether the word angry or scared describes the target's emotion. We have found that labeling the affective aspect of a disturbing image reduces the distress a person feels while looking at the image...

When people label an emotional picture or their own emotional response to a picture, it activates the RVLPFC and reduces activity in the amygdala... It is still unclear what exactly the RVLPFC does to stimulate self-control. The debate typically focuses on whether this and similar regions are directly inhibiting responses in other brain regions, like the amygdala, or are helping to strengthen the nonimpulsive alternative so it can compete effectively with the impulsive response. [pages 219-221]

So while we can't explain the underlying mechanisms with absolute certainty, a highly plausible theory has emerged over the past decade that allows us to explain why talking about distressing feelings mitigates the counterproductive impact of those emotions. How can we make more effective use of these ideas?

Practice

Many of us lack experience talking about our feelings, particularly in a professional setting, and just thinking about it can trigger a sense of anxiety and unease. This response is understandable--being called "emotional" is typically a criticism in business, and yet it can be unclear what would cause that label to be applied to us. But in our efforts to avoid this outcome, we may over-correct and never disclose our feelings at work--which prevents us from leveraging the neural processes discussed above, making our negative emotions even more difficult to manage.

Psychologist Daniel Wegner quoted educator John Dewey on the importance of routinizing desired behaviors: "Habits must intervene between wish and execution in the case of bodily acts, [but] we still cherish the illusion that they can be dispensed with in the case of mental and moral acts." [8, emphasis added] The key here is recognizing that talking about emotions is a bodily act, not just a mental one. By definition emotions aren't purely cognitive processes--we often become aware of our emotions when we suddenly feel our heart pounding or a pit in our stomach. And just like any other embodied experience that involves multiple physiological systems, like driving a car or public speaking, we must make it a habit in order to grow accustomed to the challenge. But the good news is that practice inevitably increases our comfort with discomfort and reduces our self-consciousness as we grow more competent.

Expand Our Vocabularies

A consequence of our inexperience with discussing emotions--and a contributing factor that holds us back--is a limited emotional language. Even when we're ready to talk more fully about our feelings, if we lack the precise word to convey our emotion to another person in such a way that it has the intended impact, we're likely to struggle. A simple solution is to expand our emotional vocabulary.

This one-page document lists eight primary emotional states--angry, averse, caring, embarrassed, excited, fearful, happy, inadequate, and sad--and 52 synonyms. Psychologists differ on the nature and number of primary emotions--Paul Ekman defined the six basic emotions as anger, disgust, fear, happiness, sadness, and surprise, while the late Sylvan Tompkins believed there are eight: anguish, disgust, fear, joy, interest, rage, shame, and surprise. [9] I've adapted this list from one originally developed by David Bradford, Mary Ann Huckabay and Carole Robin at Stanford, and I find that it works well for my clients and students.

Create a Supportive Culture

As Lieberman's work indicates, and as ample empirical evidence makes clear, merely reflecting on our feelings also allows us to regulate them over time. But the process of internal reflection appears to work less efficiently than openly discussing our feelings, and in many circumstances it's simply not possible to pause the interaction in order for us to take time to reflect. If we want to manage difficult feelings as effectively as possible, we need to talk about them with others--including those people who may be the cause of our emotions.

And yet even if we're willing to have this conversation with a rich vocabulary at the ready, our ability to do so will be significantly influenced by the surrounding culture. Note that every relationship and group has its own culture--a set of norms, often tacit and unspoken, that determine what behaviors or statements are acceptable and what will result in embarrassment or threat.

If we want to make full use of the neural processes described above, we have to create a safe, trusting and intimate culture in which talking about feelings is accepted as normal. I fully recognize that this may involve taking some risks in order to move the culture in the desired direction, and I'm not suggesting that we do so heedlessly. But what gives me hope is that the bold act of talking about our feelings is what tends to create a safer, more trusting, and more emotionally intimate culture in the first place.

---

Footnotes

[1] Matthew Lieberman's faculty page at UCLA

[2] Twitter Study Confirms the Power of "Affect Labeling" (Christian Jarrett, BPS Research Digest, 2019)

[3] "Putting Feelings Into Words" (Matthew Lieberman, Naomi Eisenberger, Molly Crockett, Sabrina Tom, Jennifer Pfeifer, and Baldwin Way, Psychological Science, 2007)

[4] Antonio Damasio on Emotion and Reason

[5] The Emotional Life of Your Brain (Richard Davidson and Sharon Begley, 2012)

[6] "Why Symbolic Processing of Affect Can Disrupt Negative Affect: Social Cognitive and Affective Neuroscience Investigations," Chapter 13 in Social Neuroscience: Toward Understanding the Underpinnings of the Social Mind (Alexander Todorov, Susan Fiske, and Deborah Prentice, editors, 2010)

[7] Social: Why Our Brains Are Wired to Connect (Matthew Lieberman, 2013) I highly recommend Social as a lucid and thought-provoking guide to recent neuroscience research on a wide range of issues beyond the topic of this post. When I taught Interpersonal Dynamics (aka Touchy Feely) at Stanford, I included chapters from Social on my syllabus for the first and last classes in the course.

[8] White Bears and Other Unwanted Thoughts, page 14 (Daniel Wegner, 1989)

[9] For more on primary emotions, see The Emotional Brain, Chapter 5 (Joseph LeDoux, 1998)

---

For Further Reading

Comfort with Discomfort

Conscious Competence in Practice

Vocabulary of Emotions

Self-Coaching Is SOCIAL

Risk Management (The Importance of Speaking Up)

Safety, Trust, Intimacy

Taking the Leap (Dealing with Risk and Uncertainty

---

This is a revised and expanded version of a post first published in February 2008.

Thank you to Stephanie West Allen for helping me grasp the implications of current neuroscience research for my work as a coach, and, more specifically, for initially referring me to the work of Matthew Lieberman, Naomi Eisenberger, and their colleagues at UCLA.

Photo by Gideon. Yay Flickr and Creative Commons.

Self-Coaching Is SOCIAL

This is a point I stress when I teach The Art of Self-Coaching at Stanford, but I want to make it even more explicit here, both to better prepare my students for their experience in the course and to clarify my terminology for others who've expressed interest in the concept:

Self-coaching is not a solitary process but a highly social one.

Self-coaching is a self-directed process, in that we're taking active responsibility for guiding our own growth and development, but other people play extremely important roles in this process at every step.

There is certainly value to gained from solitary activities such as journaling, reflection, and an ongoing dialogue with ourselves on matters large (e.g. What should I do with my life?) and small (e.g. What am I feeling at this moment?). And it's essential to cultivate the ability to engage in these practices more effectively and to build routines that support them into our lives.

Students in my course do an extensive amount of solitary work outside of class. Each week they read the materials on the syllabus, reflect on the meanings and implications of these materials, and complete a written assignment. It's my hope that this experience will help them determine how best to continue these activities in their career after business school, when they'll be responsible for creating their own "syllabus" and for determining how to reflect upon and write about those materials without anyone's input or oversight. (This is why the content of these weekly assignments is determined by each student as an individual, beyond the constraint of looking ahead to the upcoming class.)

But these solitary activities are just one aspect of a self-coaching process that also involves meaningful relationships with others. A dilemma that many of us encounter when seeking support is that even well-meaning allies can respond in ways that we find unhelpful. Frequently this takes one of three forms: My problem's worse... or Look on the bright side... or Here's some advice... [1] This isn't to say that shared experiences, encouragement and advice are never useful, but they can convey counterproductive meta-messages, even when unintended: You don't have it so bad, so stop complaining... or If you were smarter, maybe you would have figured this out on your own... The solution is to employ coaching tools and techniques that enable us to have more effective helping conversations.

Thus the classroom experience in my course is highly social and interactive, not solitary, and each week my students work with classmates in pairs and small groups. In addition to preparing them for the solitary work noted above, it's my hope that this experience helps them better understand how to develop and sustain relationships in which they can build trust, discuss meaningful issues of importance to them, and offer and receive coaching support. Note that these conversations are intentionally brief, ranging from 10 to 20 minutes, and my goal here is to replicate real-world conditions, when my students will often face significant time constraints in their working relationships. While more extensive unconstrained conversations always have a role to play, being able to address a significant topic quickly and economically is a valuable skill.

Given all this, I don't make a sharp distinction between self-coaching and coaching conversations with others, because the former necessarily involves the latter. My course does not provide in-depth coaching training, but a basic understanding of coaching tools and skills allows students to get more out of the conversations they'll have with classmates. This is why I offer some brief instruction on how to coach others at the very beginning of the course and include some of the resources below on our syllabus.

Resources on Coaching and Being Coached

• How Great Coaches Ask, Listen, and Empathize (Ed Batista, Harvard Business Review, 2012)
• Helping: How to Give, Offer, and Receive Help (Edgar Schein, 2009)
  • Chapter 3, pages 30-47: “The Inequalities and Ambiguities of the Helping Relationship”
• Humble Inquiry: The Gentle Art of Asking Instead of Telling (Edgar Schein, 2013)
  • Chapter 3, pages 39-50: "Differentiating Humble Inquiry from Other Kinds of Inquiry"
• Scott Ginsberg on Asking (Better) Questions (Ed Batista, 2008)
• Hammering Screws (Bad Coaching) (Ed Batista, 2011)
• The HBR Guide to Coaching Employees (2nd edition, 2015)
• A Challenge to Leaders: Help Others Self-Coach (Ed Batista, 2013)
• Coaching, Advice, and Feedback (Ed Batista, 2011)
• Coaching Your Employees (HBR Webinar Video and Summary) (Ed Batista, 2014)
• Coaching and Feedback Tools for Leaders

Resources on Reflection and Journaling

• The Value of Journal Writing (Ed Batista, 2008)
• How to Think (More on Open Space and Deep Work) (Ed Batista, 2017)
• Conversations with Ourselves (Self-Coaching and Self-Engagement) (Ed Batista, 2012)
• Reflecting on Work Improves Job Performance (Carmen Nobel, Harvard Business School Working Knowledge, 2014)
• Why You Should Make Time for Self-Reflection (Even If You Hate Doing It) (Jennifer Porter, Harvard Business Review, 2017)
• Does Journaling Boost Your Well-Being? (Pelin Kesebir, Center for Healthy Minds, University of Wisconsin, 2017)

---

Footnotes

[1] How to Express Empathy--Avoid the Traps! (Michael Sahota, 2013)

Photo by Heinrich Böll-Stiftung. Yay Flickr and Creative Commons.

Deference Kills Coaching

The most effective coaching relationships are equal partnerships between the coach and the coachee. Both parties are invested in the process and its success, they're free to challenge each other or disagree, and they each feel a sense of mutual respect.

This doesn't mean that the coach and the coachee are peers; this is often not the case. My professional identity differs substantially from that of most of my clients, who are primarily technology company CEOs, and it differs even further from that of my students at Stanford, who are MBAs in the early stages of their career.

But our relationships with non-peers tend to be hierarchical, with one party perceived to be higher status than the other. Our contemporary egalitarian sensibilities may resist this impulse, but at some deep level we find comfort in pecking orders, and we create hierarchies all around us.

And hierarchies run on deference. When we perceive someone as higher status than ourselves, even in some vague, ill-defined sense, we tend to defer in all sorts of ways. And when we perceive someone as lower status than ourselves, we tend to expect deference from them (even if we don't want to admit it.) As a consequence, we often characterize professional relationships that adhere to expected deference norms as "good," and those that don't as "bad."

Note that I'm not talking about grossly excessive manifestations of hierarchy and deference that have (thankfully) been under attack since the Enlightenment. I'm talking instead about very subtle aspects of social interaction that derive from and confer differences in status. Most relevant in this context is the sense of a leader and a follower in a given conversation: The leader generally sets the agenda, changes the topic, speaks first when there's silence, interrupts more frequently, and provides answers to questions.

All of these subtle status-driven behaviors play a crucial role in allowing hierarchies to function smoothly. This doesn't mean that such norms should always be observed; when we prioritize smoothness in our social relationships, much can be lost in the process. We've all sat through efficient, well-run meetings in which nothing meaningful was accomplished because no one was willing to say what they were truly thinking. We've all had polite, vacuous conversations in which no real human connection was achieved because both parties tacitly agreed to faithfully observe a set of unspoken rules.

At the same time a certain degree of predictability is essential in our professional interactions, and the norms of deference help make this possible. A common theme in my coaching practice is the difficulty created by unpredictable behavior by people who fail to grasp the importance of understanding and abiding by expected social norms. (Most often this takes the form of a CEO dealing with a talented executive who's disrupting the team, and sometimes it takes the form of a leader who's received feedback that their own behavior is causing disruption.) So I'm well aware both of the counter-productive impact such norms can have when they're followed mindlessly and of the important role they play in organizational life.

These dynamics become even more complex in the context of coaching, where any number of factors can raise the status of one party relative to the other. The coach generally has more familiarity with the process and has worked in such a setting with a large number of people, which may lead the coachee to feel like an inexperienced junior party (exacerbated by the fact that they're usually younger than the coach.) Alternatively, the coachee is usually paying for the coach's time and is in some sense the arbiter of the coach's effectiveness, which may lead the coach to feel an impulse to please the coachee (or at least to avoid causing any offense.)

As a consequence there's no single pattern that characterizes the status distinctions between coach and coachee; in any given coaching relationship there are usually some factors that elevate the coach's status and others that elevate that of the coachee. This doesn't mean that the status distinctions simply cancel each other out, but, rather, that they're fluid and dynamic.

Why is this so important? Because status distinctions create hierarchical relationships, and hierarchical relationships trigger deference (and the expectation of deference), and deference kills coaching.

When a coach defers: They fail to challenge the coachee's assumptions and mental models, and they collude in the coachee's illusions and misperceptions. They tolerate lateness or cancellations which weaken the relationship. They don't ask the truly difficult questions, the ones that may cause confusion or embarrassment or even shame. They do not interrupt.

When a coachee defers: They accept advice and guidance that they know to be irrelevant. They take the coach's communication style as a given, rather than something that can be modified to better suit their needs. They fail to provide critical feedback to the coach. They limit the relationship to the issues that led them to seek coaching in the first place. They do not interrupt.

Deconstructing deference norms--and doing so in a way that allows two non-peers to build a safe, candid relationship characterized by trust and emotional intimacy--is one of the fundamental tasks of coaching. There's no simple, immediate solution, but some of the steps that I take are listed below. Note that I'm not suggesting this is the "best" way to coach--it's simply what works for me--and most of these factors also serve other purposes beyond influencing the status distinctions and deference norms in my coaching relationships:

• I meet clients and students in a predictable location that I've selected and which is optimized for a coaching conversation.
• I'm generally available at very specific times; I'm available outside those times only under very rare circumstances.
• In my initial conversation with a client, I discuss the importance of creating an equal partnership and our mutual obligation to speak up if we ever feel that we're not honoring this commitment.
• In this conversation I also emphasize that I'll err on the side of asking questions, but I will not withhold information that I believe could be useful to them; when I do offer advice and guidance, I'll be explicit about naming it, to make it easier to assess its relevance and accuracy.
• And in this conversation I also note that my conversation style is very flexible, and we'll work together to find the ways of interacting that work best for them.
• In my initial conversation with a student, I make clear that our coaching will have no impact on my assessment of their performance in the class.
• After this initial framing, I begin with an open-ended question: "Where do you want to start?"
• I pay close attention to the interaction patterns between us, both in any given meeting and over time; while the dynamics will differ from meeting to meeting (and from one relationship to another), there should be a healthy fluidity to the process with relatively few fixed patterns (which are often a sign of a deference norm).
• Every few conversations, I'll make sure that we step back at the conclusion to assess how things are going. I generally ask, "In what ways was this conversation useful, and what would you like to continue?" We jointly explore what went well and why, and then I generally ask, "Was there anything that was unhelpful about this conversation or that you'd like to do differently next time?" And we jointly explore what didn't go well and why, and how to improve.

(This is a short list off the top of my head, and I may add to it in the future. I think a lot about the dynamics of coaching relationships, if that's not already obvious.)

Finally, given the increasing popularity of coaching as a tool for leaders, it's essential to note the implications of the concepts discussed here for a coaching conversation between two people in a reporting relationship. I believe that skilled managers can coach their employees, but to do so effectively they must be careful to identify and discourage signs of deference. This can be extremely difficult, in part because the deference norms that characterize most manager/employee relationships can serve a useful purpose in the larger context of their work together. (Not always, of course, as I discuss above.) Failing to correct for the status distinctions that are intrinsic to the manager/employee relationship turns a potentially fruitful conversation into mere theater, with the manager asking leading questions and the employee trying to come up with the "right" answers, and that's just bad coaching.

Photo by Dmitris Kamaras. Yay Flickr and Creative Commons.

Thank You, Veterans

As we remember veterans and acknowledge their service today, I'm thinking of four specific individuals and what I learned from them.

Ten years ago my professional duties included commenting on students' written assignments in a class at Stanford's Graduate School of Business. Two of the students assigned to me were veterans, both of whom had seen combat. At the time I had little understanding of what it was like to be a veteran in contemporary society, and reading these students' reflections helped me realize that this was a topic that I needed to explore further. Much of my work involves reaching across dimensions of difference--gender, race, nationality, sexual orientation--in order to be a more effective coach and teacher. And yet I'd failed to appreciate that being a veteran can be an equally meaningful aspect of personal identity, particularly in an era of extensive armed conflict.

As a result of this newfound perspective, over the next few years I made a special effort to work with veterans and to learn more about their experiences. A theme that emerged from these conversations was the gulf that can exist between veterans as a community and the larger culture's awareness of that community and what it means to be a member. Today, while I try to avoid stereotypes, I pay close attention when I learn that someone's a veteran, knowing that their military service may have had a significant impact on their life. In addition, I have a heightened sensitivity to other often-invisible forms of difference, such as religious faith or social class.

A few years after the experiences described above I was working with another veteran in a different capacity. His communication style was relatively reserved, and I offered some critical feedback in response, suggesting that greater expressiveness would allow him to be a more effective communicator. He was receptive to this feedback, but after several exchanges along these lines he pushed back. He explained that his communication style was a function of his life experiences, including his military service, and in some circumstances it had been essential to minimize his emotional expressiveness in order to fulfill his duties effectively. He also noted that while he had been trying to respond to my feedback, I had not acknowledged these efforts--it was as though any expressiveness on his part was going unseen unless it was conveyed in a particular way.

This was a powerful lesson for me. While my feedback was offered with the best of intentions, it was also a type of intolerance that reflected a blind spot on my part--I wanted him to conform to my more overtly expressive communication style. While it was valuable for him to learn that his default style wasn't having the desired impact, it was just as valuable for me to realize that I needed to pay closer attention to subtle forms of emotional expression and to better understand the role of formative experiences--not only military service, but also family background, national culture, and professional training—in shaping people's communication styles. While I try to challenge any assumptions I might make on the basis of these factors, I continue to benefit from a greater awareness of the role they can play in communication.

Finally, in 2008, while I was beginning the process of reaching out to veterans, I had the privilege of working with Jake Miller, a West Point alumnus on active duty in the U.S. Army who had come to Stanford to earn an MBA in the midst of his military career. Jake joined the school's Leadership Fellows program that year and subsequently enrolled in the Leadership Coaching class (which has since been integrated into the Fellows curriculum). Jake and I worked together closely in the Fellows program, and I had the opportunity to observe him many times in the coaching class, and he exemplified a characteristic that I've come to believe is a hallmark of great leaders: a commitment to ongoing learning and development.

Jake arrived at Stanford with a wealth of real-world leadership experience and could easily have chosen not to participate in the Fellows program, which was only in its second year and still very much a work-in-progress. He also had a leadership style that was clearly well-suited to his professional environment and might not have felt the need to further expand his range. And yet he took full advantage of the school's leadership-related classes, routinely striving to make the most of every opportunity. I once asked him why he was immersing himself so fully in these classes, and he replied that after completing our MBA program he would be returning to West Point to teach leadership, so he felt an obligation to absorb everything that Stanford could possibly offer. Today Jake leads an aviation battalion, and I know that the hundreds of soldiers under his command benefit from his determination to continue to grow as a leader. I remain inspired by his example and seek to apply it in my own development as a coach and teacher.

I've worked with many veterans over the years, and hopefully the memories of my experiences with these four will allow me to say to all of them: Thank you.

---

Thank You, Veterans (2012)

Photo of the San Francisco National Cemetery by John Picken.

The Problem with Anonymous Feedback

The issue of anonymous feedback comes up consistently in my work as a coach to senior leaders. Many of my clients gather feedback from employees assessing their level of engagement or seeking input on problems, often through an anonymous survey. And I'm regularly asked to conduct 360 reviews for a CEO or a member of their executive team, typically via anonymous interviews with direct reports, peers, superiors, investors or board members

I no longer offer 360 reviews in my practice—over the past decade I’ve concluded that I add the most value as a coach by working directly with individual leaders and focusing our time on preparing to have the difficult conversations for which anonymous feedback is often a precursor (or, more problematically, a substitute.) In the course of this work I sometimes discuss with my clients anonymous feedback they’ve received via 360 reports and employee surveys, and while these tools can be useful, I’ve come to feel ambivalent about the role anonymous feedback plays in our efforts to improve leaders’ effectiveness.

Anonymity clearly has value under certain circumstances, but it also carries a cost, and it's important for leaders to understand both sides of the equation before committing to any anonymous feedback process. What is the value of anonymity? When people can voice perspectives anonymously, they presumably feel more comfortable sharing concerns or negative feedback that might otherwise expose them to risk in some way, and the data gathered is more candid and thus more useful. But note the underlying assumptions here: People are currently not being candid and can’t be trusted to speak up. Feedback generated through an anonymous process is more accurate than feedback expressed publicly. Hearing concerns or negative feedback will cause distress or anger. And anyone who shares such information is at risk because leaders will seek retribution.

In any given organization these assumptions may well be true. I’m not naïve about the power dynamics of organizational life, and I know that much goes unsaid, that speaking up can trigger a hostile response, and that people with power often abuse it. But when we assume that these conditions make anonymity necessary, we often fail to factor in the cost of doing so. What are the costs of anonymity? In my work as a coach I see three sets of counterproductive factors:

1. Critiques become criticism.

The work of psychologist John Gottman is based on observations of couples in long-term relationships, but many of his conclusions have important implications for organizational life. One of Gottman’s key concepts is to distinguish between critiques and criticism:

[Criticism] is different than offering a critique or voicing a complaint. The latter two are about specific issues, whereas the former is an ad hominem attack: it is an attack on [the other person] at the core. In effect, you are dismantling his or her whole being when you criticize.

For example, here’s a critique I commonly encounter in my practice: “Chris is getting into repeated conflicts with other members of the exec team over seemingly minor issues.” And here’s a similar sentiment in the form of criticism: “Chris is an abrasive person who lacks people skills and a domineering personality who has to win every argument.” The former focuses on specific behaviors; the latter is a broad generalization. The ability to voice critiques and complaints is essential to working through challenges in healthy relationships, but criticism is a sign of trouble, Gottman notes, because it often leaves the recipient feeling “assaulted, rejected and hurt,” and it can lead to more serious interpersonal difficulties.

Much anonymous feedback from employees toward a leader can be characterized as criticism rather than critiques. It doesn’t focus on specific behaviors, let alone specific instances of those behaviors, but applies a broad brush and tends to address the whole person. In part this is simply the result of the passage of time, our notoriously poor memories, and our confirmation bias. We misremember past events more often than we’re willing to admit, so any retelling inevitably blurs the details to fit our pre-existing narrative.

But the anonymous nature of the process also serves to wipe away essential information that might prevent a critique from becoming criticism. Feedback providers are discouraged (explicitly or implicitly) from identifying themselves or from sharing specific details about the situation. What emerges is often highly generalized criticism of the leader, rather than a more nuanced set of critiques of their behavior in specific circumstances. Unsurprisingly, this is more likely to provoke defensiveness on the part of feedback recipients rather than a desire to learn and change.

2. A tendency to blame and a failure to take responsibility.

The fundamental attribution error is a cognitive bias identified by Stanford psychologist Lee Ross which leads us to believe that causality rests primarily with individuals rather than the with the surrounding situation. A consequence of this dynamic is that leaders get more credit than they deserve when things go well—and they get more blame than they deserve when things go badly. I’m reminded of this passage from Brene Brown’s 2010 TED talk:

There's no discourse anymore. There's no conversation. There's just blame. You know how blame is described in the research? A way to discharge pain and discomfort.

This is an apt description of many anonymous 360 reports and employee surveys—very little discourse, and a great deal of blame directed at leaders, most of which imagines that the leader’s personal attributes are primarily responsible for the situation being described, particularly anything associated with employees’ pain or discomfort. The leader’s behavior is often assessed in isolation, without much (or any) consideration of a group dynamic or organizational culture that might have given rise to said behavior. And the providers of the feedback frequently fail to take responsibility for their own contributions to the situations being described—everything is ascribed to the leader’s influence.

The result is an unrealistic portrayal of the leader as an outsized, all-powerful authority figure, and the infantilization of the other members of the organization. While this outcome is obviously undesirable, it can be dangerously seductive to both leaders and employees. We all find it gratifying to be viewed as influential and high-status, and leaders in particular generally have a strong need for power. And as much as we want to be responsible adults, when we’re under stress or feeling disempowered it can be comforting to imagine that a commanding, parental figure will take care of our problems and make everything better. Thus leaders and employees alike collude in the process of shifting responsibility from the latter to the former, when in truth leaders typically have more influence than all other individuals, but less influence than the employees as a group.

This dynamic can occur in any feedback process, but it’s compounded by anonymity, in part because of the bystander effect. The presence of others discourages us from taking action to intervene in a difficult or dangerous situation, because we feel less responsible for the outcome. Many anonymous processes convey to feedback providers (again, both explicitly and implicitly) that they are merely one voice among many, and, further, that they’ve already made a meaningful contribution merely by participating in the interview or the survey. The structure of the process suggests that once the interview is concluded or the survey is submitted, their work is done, and now it’s up to the leader to take action in response. There’s little if any recognition that the problems which gave rise to the negative feedback in the first place are likely to be solved only through collective efforts which take into account the larger group dynamic and organizational culture, even when those problems stem from an individual leader’s behavior.

3. Necessary skills go undeveloped.

Finally, delivering feedback through anonymous processes can forestall other conversations and interactions, slowing or even preventing the development of necessary skills by employees and leaders alike. One of the most important skills in organizational life is navigating a difficult conversation with just the right amount of assertiveness and minimal defensiveness. Providing negative feedback to an authority figure is almost always challenging, and yet our ability to conduct these conversations improves when we overcome our resistance and actually step into them. Similarly, hearing negative feedback without defensiveness is profoundly difficult, and yet our ability to manage this response grows when we find themselves facing such feedback in an actual discussion, rather than in private reflection.

This is because holding tough conversations isn’t a cognitive task that we can grasp intellectually—it’s an immersive emotional and physiological experience, and we need to practice repeatedly in order to habituate ourselves with the feelings and physical states that it evokes. We must become comfortable with discomfort. This is one reason why the MBA curriculum at Stanford, where I teach, emphasizes in-person feedback in classes such as Leadership Labs, a required course for all first-year students, and Interpersonal Dynamics, our most popular elective.

It’s also important to note that the capacity to safely discuss risky topics isn’t simply a function of individual ability--it’s the result of individual skills being employed in the context of a unique group dynamic. Every human system, from one-on-one relationships to entire organizations, has a culture that makes it easier or more difficult to hold these conversations. Specifically, the norms regarding emotion awareness, regulation and expression have a significant impact on our ability to conduct these conversations effectively.

Under optimal conditions, anonymous feedback can serve as a starting point for these discussions, but all too often the 360 report or employee survey serves to short-circuit this process. This is readily understandable—difficult conversations are hard, and when given the choice we almost always take the easier route. But when we continually divert these conversations into anonymous feedback processes, we fail to understand what norms best support the safe discussion of risky topics in a particular relationship or group, and we learn nothing about how to create a more functional culture. As a consequence, not only do we fail to develop our individual skills, but we also fail to cultivate a culture in our relationships and organizations that would allow us to employ these skills more effectively.

Finally, recall that one of the initial assumptions supporting the need for anonymous feedback is the idea that people aren’t speaking candidly because they are afraid. In my experience fear and anxiety are facts of organizational life—we can try to diminish their impact through more enlightened management practices, but imagining that we can eliminate them entirely is magical thinking. (A repeated theme in my practice is how leaders inevitably trigger fear and anxiety in subordinates despite the best of intentions and a heartfelt desire to do the opposite.)

When we rely upon anonymous processes to provide feedback, we do make it safer for people to speak up—but we also deny them the opportunity to address and confront their fears and anxieties, and to test for themselves the accuracy of those concerns. As I note above, sometimes those concerns are well-founded, but when we prioritize safety above all else, one of the inevitable costs is a lack of learning and growth.

---

So what can we do?

I’m not suggesting that there’s no place for anonymous 360 reports or employee surveys. In the absence of sufficient safety and trust, these mechanisms can serve as effective means to gather the data that’s necessary to initiate candid conversations. But we can’t simply assume that anonymous processes are always more effective or cost-free. The data generated by an anonymous process must be carefully scrutinized and assessed for bias, rather than simply accepted at face value. While anonymous mechanisms may surface data that would otherwise go undisclosed, the data itself is affected by the means through which it’s gathered—it’s not necessarily any more “true” for having been shared anonymously.

A particular challenge with 360 reports is that in an effort to provide this service to a larger number of executives at a lower cost, organizations often allow feedback providers to simply type their comments into an application, and that unfiltered data is then shared directly with the recipient. It’s much more effective to have a skilled interviewer talk at length with feedback providers, compile and edit the comments resulting from these discussions, and then work with the subject over a period of time to interpret and act upon the feedback. Obviously, such a labor-intensive process is also much more expensive, and yet it’s important to ask whether the savings from an automated process are truly worth it, particularly with senior executives. At more junior levels, when organizations are uncertain whether the expense of an in-depth process is justified, decision-makers may well conclude that flawed feedback is better than no feedback at all. But it’s essential to acknowledge the potential shortcomings of that feedback, and at the very least organizations should insure that any anonymous 360 feedback is accompanied by sufficient coaching support.

Photo by Vincent Diamante. Yay Flickr and Creative Commons.

Three Paradoxes (Another Coaching Manifesto)

I began coaching in 2005 and within a year I had I left my last leadership position to commit myself to a full-time coaching practice. I feel privileged to do this work—for me it’s a calling, not a job--and one of its rewards is the fact that there will always be more to learn. Twelve years (and thousands of hours) since I first started down this path, I’ve identified three paradoxes that are central to the experience of coaching and which I’m constantly trying to understand at a deeper level:

1. Supportive Challenge

A client once told me, "It feels like you're always in my corner, but you never hesitate to challenge me." It was some of the most gratifying feedback I ever got because it precisely describes my intended approach to the process.

My clients need to feel supported by me in a number of ways. They need to feel a sense of trust in my good intentions, my judgment, and my confidentiality. They need to feel sufficiently safe to be vulnerable--a process that begins the very first time we talk, because it can be a vulnerable experience for a leader who’s enjoyed great success in life to even express an interest in coaching. And they need to feel that I truly care about them as an individual.

My clients also need to know that my support will not prevent me from challenging them. They need to know that I’ll offer an alternative perspective and not simply ratify their feelings and agree with their point of view.  They need to know that I’ll be candid when I’m concerned or disagree with them or simply feel that something isn’t right. They need to know that I’ll speak up when I sense that they’re not being candid in return--that I’ll call them on their bullshit, just as my coach does for me. (She’s had a lot of practice.)

2. Intimate Distance

Meaningful coaching is always an emotionally intimate experience, no matter what’s being discussed. In part this is a function of the context: two people talking directly to each other with no distractions. We're not multi-tasking or sub-dividing our attention in any way. The person I'm coaching is completely focused on the issue at hand, and I'm completely focused on them. Such concentrated attention--a rare experience for most of us--inevitably creates a close personal connection.

Intimacy in a coaching relationship also results from a willingness to “make the private public”—to share with another person the thoughts and feelings that we usually keep to ourselves. Most of my clients are CEOs or in other senior leadership roles, and a dilemma they face is that they can’t always speak openly with their employees or investors, and yet their family and friends aren’t necessarily helpful discussion partners. A strong coaching relationship is one that creates an environment in which emotional intimacy is possible because both the client and I feel comfortable and willing to “make the private public” and express ourselves more fully.

And yet an essential factor that makes such intimacy possible is a clear set of boundaries defining the relationship, which create an inevitable and necessary sense of distance. Coaching conversations aren’t spontaneous events—my clients and I meet and talk for a predetermined length of time in a specific location. The relationships I have with my clients are warm and friendly ones, and yet it would be inaccurate to say that we’re friends—they need me to be their coach, not their friend, and we do the relationship a disservice if we confuse the two. And while I’m deeply invested in my clients and not in the least indifferent, I’m not attached to any particular outcome for them, a stance that requires a degree of distance that’s not possible in most personal and professional relationships.

3. Confident Humility

This is how I view myself and my role in a coaching relationship. I have a strong sense of confidence in my ability as a coach, which is rooted not only in my professional experience, but also in my ongoing commitment to challenge myself and to continue to my development as a person. I’ve reached the point in this process where I feel some “comfort with discomfort”—it’s not that I have confidence in every situation, but I can sense its absence at the limits of my comfort zone, and I’m generally able to find a way to make progress even under those circumstances. I’ve learned that courage isn't confidence.

At the same time, I feel a sense of humility as a coach. My clients are in the driver’s seat, and I’m merely helping them navigate. I don’t withhold my opinion when I believe it’s relevant, but ultimate I add more value by asking questions and reflecting my clients’ own views back to them, not by virtue of my own expertise. And while I would never describe myself as a humble person, I’m humbled on a regular basis by an awareness of my limitations (which fuels the drive to challenge myself) and by embracing mortality, which I view as one of the primary tasks of adulthood.

---

There’s a delicate balance to maintain in each of these dimensions. It’s all too easy to err on one side or another: to over-emphasize support for a client and fail to challenge them, to embrace the emotional intimacy of a coaching relationship and neglect the necessary boundaries, to feel the flush of confidence and forget the humility that’s essential to the role (and, in each case, vice versa). And the difficulty of this work is one reason why I have my own coach (and why I believe every coach should).

This is a companion piece to In Defense of Normal (A Coaching Manifesto).

Photo by Brett Jordan. Yay Flickr and Creative Commons.

Open Space, Deep Work, and Self-Care

My coaching clients are typically senior leaders with rapidly growing or very large organizations who are responsible for hiring a management team, identifying a winning strategy, and building a culture that supports their goals. A theme that emerges consistently in my work with them is the importance of open space, deep work, and self-care. What do I mean by these terms, and what’s their significance for effective leadership?

Open space is just that--a meaningful amount of time on our calendar that’s blocked off in advance and protected from intrusion. The length of time varies widely—15 minutes is too short in most cases, but can still serve a useful function, while a full day can be very difficult to obtain, but is occasionally necessary. One to two hours will serve for most purposes.

Deep work is reflection and contemplation of the sort that’s necessary to address an organization’s most significant challenges and to consider the most important issues in our lives as individuals. It involves strategic thinking, creative problem-solving, and a readiness to ask big questions and face up to daunting decisions. We tend to engage in deep work most effectively when we’re at a distance from the press of immediate duties, but we don’t always have the luxury of removing ourselves from our day-to-day environment.

Self-care is engaging in the practices that enable us to do our best work on a sustainable basis and to live fulfilling lives in the process. It entails nourishing our physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual selves. We each have different needs as individuals, but my work as a coach and my study of relevant research suggests that four domains are universally important: mindfulness, exercise, sleep, and stress reduction. [1,2,3]

It all starts with open space.

Neither deep work nor self-care is possible without sufficient open space. The type of reflective thought that allows us to solve hard problems (and to even understand the nature of these problems in the first place) generally requires some time to allow our minds to wander and to make unexpected associative connections. Creative solutions rarely come when commanded--instead, we spot glimpses of them on the margins of conscious thought, and we invite them to join us. This process is short-circuited when we’re distracted with more immediate concerns or interrupted by others’ agendas. But a fundamental challenge we face is that although deep work is critically important, it’s rarely urgent, which means that it’s easy for us to defer it until it’s too late. [4]

This is doubly true for self-care, particularly when we’re in a leadership role. There will always be something more urgent for us to do than meditate, or exercise, or go to sleep, so we’re unlikely to push pressing matters off of our calendars in order to make time for self-care. We tend to commit to these practices only when we’ve created the open space they require in advance, which allows us to turn them from aspirations into habits. Open space supports this process by lowering the activation threshold and making it more likely that we’ll follow through on our good intentions.

Deep work and self-care are investments, not indulgences.

How we view these activities has a substantial impact on our level of engagement. We tend to view deep work and self-care as indulgences, particularly when we’re transitioning from individual contributor to leader. At the outset of our career, success is often a function of industriousness and conscientious effort. We accomplish our goals and make progress by working hard and staying busy, and open space on our calendars can seem like wasted time. As individual contributors we may face relatively few strategic challenges that require deep reflection, particularly if we’re operating under the guidance of thoughtful leadership. And at this earlier stage in our lives we may find it unnecessary to take a deliberate approach to such issues as exercise or sleep—we take fitness for granted, and we can always catch up on rest later. In this context making space for deep work and self-care seems unnecessary and even frivolous.

But this diligent mindset can become counter-productive if we maintain it after taking on a leadership role, where it may prevent us from seeing deep work and self-care as investments in our effectiveness rather than indulgences. I’m not suggesting that leaders shouldn’t “work hard,” but the definition of “hard work” changes over the course of a career. When we find ourselves facing a broader set of responsibilities, when we’re no longer being directed by others but when we’re tasked with setting the course, it’s critically important to step back from the work of making progress to insure that we’re actually heading in the right direction. This won’t happen without making time for deep work.

Further, as leaders we create the most value not through our excellence as solo performers, but by creating an environment that enables others to perform at their best. [5] This work occurs not when we’re alone, but when we’re interacting with others, both in person, when holding a one-on-one conversation, facilitating a meeting, or giving an all-hands speech, and virtually, when messaging, crafting an email, or writing a more substantive document. In all of these cases our leadership effectiveness depends on our interpersonal effectiveness—our ability to strike the right tone in the interaction, to find the appropriate balance between challenge and support, to empathize with others while also holding them accountable. This is extraordinarily difficult work, and it requires an ongoing investment in self-care. The skills we require to manage these interactions most effectively spring from a foundation of mindfulness, fitness, rest, and calm.

So what does this look like in practice?

Put open space on our calendars in advance, before we need it. This could be 15 minutes at the end of the day, an hour in the middle of the afternoon, a half-day every other week, or a full day every month. There’s no optimal duration or cadence, and we should experiment to see what works best. It’s also important to communicate our intentions to those around us—not only our professional colleagues, but also family and friends—and to recruit them as allies in the process of protecting this time.

Consider how that open space could be devoted to strategic thinking or creative problem-solving, and make a proactive commitment to doing deep work on a more consistent basis. This might involve reflecting back on the events of the day, looking forward to the week ahead, addressing a running list of complex issues, or even just contemplating life without any agenda at all and seeing what emerges. While we may on occasion want to get away from it all and do this work in a truly secluded setting, we shouldn’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good. [6] we can create the psychological distance that’s necessary for deep work simply by setting some boundaries (and a commitment to self-care, particularly mindfulness, will support our ability to stay focused.) [7]

And identify the self-care practices that will be most useful to us as individuals, and begin turning them from aspirations into regular habits. As an executive coach I don’t prescribe specific regimens for my clients, but in my experience almost all leaders stand to benefit from meditation (or other mindfulness practices), regular exercise, better sleep hygiene, and reducing unnecessary stress (for example, taking a slightly longer but more scenic route on our commute.) Note that behavior change is hard [8], and some helpful steps include breaking large goals down into components and celebrating small victories along the way. [9]

For further reading on this topic, see How to Think (More on Open Space and Deep Work).

---

Footnotes

[1] Don't Just Do Something, Sit There! (Mindfulness for Busy People)

[2] Get Moving! (Exercise for Busy People)

[3] A compilation of readings on sleep.

[4] Importance vs. Urgency

[5] Doing Less, Leading More

[6] Voltaire and Patton on Perfection

[7] Happy Workaholics Need Boundaries, Not Balance

[8] Why Change Is Hard

[9] Building Blocks (A Tactical Approach to Change)

Photo by Bs0u10e0. Yay Flickr and Creative Commons.

The Life Cycle of Learning Design

I've been designing learning experiences for nearly two decades, from planning conferences during my years in the nonprofit technology world, to conducting workshops for coaching clients and their exec teams, to teaching The Art of Self-Coaching and Interpersonal Dynamics at Stanford.

I've found that the process of developing these experiences and repeating them over time follows a predictable evolutionary path:

1. Discover what's broken.

We clarify our message and our goals, curate a curriculum, create our materials, fuss over the logistics, practice until we feel ready, and then finally go live--which is when we finally discover what's broken. The problem is that we can't see what's broken in advance because it's in our blind spot--there's always something we simply fail to grasp about our message or materials, our learners, or ourselves until we're live. Sometimes we realize what's broken afterwards, but often we see it in real time, as we're standing at the front of the room facing a sea of confused or unhappy faces. The key is to acknowledge the problem, avoid getting rattled or defensive, and move on with grace. This requires comfort with imperfection and failure, a response I've developed after lots of practice. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

2. Fix what's broken.

After the first iteration we go back to the workshop, determined to fix things. Maybe our message was wrong, or our goals weren't aligned with those of our learners. Maybe our materials were flawed, or the logistics were just too complex to pull off. Maybe we didn't practice enough and were unprepared--or we practiced too much and were stiff and robotic. The key is not to blame anyone else (especially the learners), because that will only prevent us from fixing the problem. We have to look in the mirror and tell ourselves, compassionately but firmly, "You screwed up. Take responsibility, learn from your mistake, and make it better."

3. Fix what's working.

We roll out our new and improved design for another group of learners, and nothing breaks--hallelujah! Our message is on point, our learners achieve their goals, the materials and logistics are just fine, and we're sufficiently well-prepared without being overly rehearsed. Everything works--but in the absence of glaring problems to fix, it dawns on us that all the things that work could stand further improvement. Simply working feels like a rather low bar. The problem now isn't our willingness to exert the extra effort--it's our willingness to let go of ideas and practices that we're attached to and fond of. They may work, but that's not good enough anymore, and we have to cast them aside. The key is finding the strength to murder our darlings, the strength to let them go. This will be painful, but as Pema Chödrön has noted:

The thought of letting go is usually very frightening. You may feel that you're going to die, or that something is going to die. And you will be right. If you let go, something will die. But it's something that needs to die and you will benefit greatly from its death.

4. Fix ourselves.

Having fixed what's broken and fixed what's working, we're doing better than ever. Everything's dialed in. Our message is carefully crafted, our learners are fully satisfied, our materials spark delight, and the logistics are smoothly oiled. And now that all the surrounding noise has died down, in the quiet that follows we can finally hear an inner voice that's been calling for our attention. Teaching is an act of service, but there are no entirely selfless acts--we teach out of some inner need, some personal yearning. We can only fulfill this need (or even be aware of it) after our learners' needs have been met, and once that occurs we must take care of ourselves. The key is recognizing that teaching is both noble work and a tough job, and we have skin in the game. To do this sustainably our own needs must be met, and often that requires making some changes in our approach to the process--and in ourselves. I believe that every coach should have a coach, and that goes for anyone who teaches in any capacity.

5. Enjoy it.

At last--teaching nirvana. Our design is perfected, we're at the top of our game, life is good, and everybody's happy. We can't stay here indefinitely, but there's no need to rush. The key is to be present in the moment and grateful for the experience--because like all moments, it must end. This realization inevitably triggers some sadness, but it can be helpful to acknowledge the importance of endings: "The end of a melody is not its goal; but nonetheless, if the melody had not reached its end it would not have reached its goal either."

6. Get bored and break stuff.

One reason why teaching nirvana is an impermanent state is because perfection is boring. It's actually worse than boring--it's stagnation. If we want to do good work, we'll find a winning formula and stick with it. But if we want to do great work, we'll pay close attention to our own level of engagement, because it's impossible to be truly great when we're bored. The key is to recognize the cyclical nature of our own learning and notice when we're in a flow state and when we're not. It's also helpful to acknowledge that when we think we're an Expert, we may still be a Hazard.

---

For further reading...

• How to Start a Workshop or Talk
• 20 Tools for Coaching and Teaching
• Neuroscience, Joyful Learning and the SCARF Model
• Planting a Flag (Thoughts on Teaching Leadership at Stanford)
• Teach Concepts, Not Features (Jakob Nielsen on Lifelong Skills
• Committing a Microaggression While Teaching a Class on Microaggressions
• Moments of Impact, by Lisa Kay Solomon and Chris Ertel
• Syllabus: Notes from an Accidental Professor, Lynda Barry

---

My teachers...

I've had the good fortune to be a student of some of the most dedicated, caring, and demanding teachers in the world. I learned this craft by watching them practice it, and I strive to live up to the standards that they set for me. Thank you...

• Lloyd Schaefer, English, Cumberland Valley High School
• Millicent Rinehart, English, Cumberland Valley High School
• Naomi Duprat, English, Cumberland Valley High School
• Selby Doughty, Art, Cumberland Valley High School
• Tim Dayton, English, Duke
• Richard Lerman, Performance Art, School of the Museum of Fine Arts/Boston
• Dagmar Herzog, History, Brown
• Tom Simons, History, Brown
• Mary Gluck, History, Brown
• Chris Mauriello, History, Brown
• Roberto Fernandez, Organizational Behavior, Stanford
• James Van Horne, Finance, Stanford
• Joel Peterson, Real Estate, Stanford
• Mary Ann Huckabay, Interpersonal Dynamics, Stanford

Over the past decade I've also had the privilege of collaborating with Carole Robin, Evelyn Williams, Gary Dexter, Lara Tiedens, Richard Francisco, and Scott Bristol at Stanford, and their influence has made me an immeasurably better teacher.

I'm particularly indebted to Mary Ann Huckabay, Carole Robin, and Roberto Fernandez (now at MIT)--I wouldn't be here without them.

Photo by Kevin Dooley. Yay Flickr and Creative Commons.