by Heather Plett | Mar 11, 2009 | fearless, Leadership
(This is part of my “fearless” journey. Earlier posts can be found here, here, here, here, and here.)
I’ve been thinking a lot about leadership lately. I had a great (though way too short) conversation with my friend Susan yesterday about what it takes to be an authentic leader. Susan was my boss several years ago and has been my friend ever since. (She told me that the day I walked in for the interview, she knew almost instantly that we would be kindred spirits and that she HAD to hire me.) Now we’re both bosses (in different organizations) and struggling with many of the same issues.
Susan and I have had similar experiences recently where we discovered that sometimes, to be good leaders, we have to take a big risk and allow ourselves to be vulnerable and exposed. Vulnerability is not normally associated with strong leadership. In fact, when we become leaders, we assume that our role is and will always be to be the strong one in the group. After all, a leader shouldn’t let weakness show, should they?
But sometimes, our greatest break-through comes the moment we admit to our team “I don’t have this all figured out” and then ask “can you help me?” After a long and often difficult road with my team in the last few years, that’s what eventually worked for me back in January. I had to be willing to say “look – this isn’t working and I feel like I have failed because I’ve tried everything and I no longer have any idea how to make it work” before they softened their stances and finally contributed meaningful ideas to an otherwise rather stagnant circle. It was a risk (because admitting my weakness opened the door for them to point out even more weaknesses), but it was worth it in the end.
It’s kind of counter-intuitive, but there’s wisdom to it, and I have to keep learning and re-learning it. Admitting weakness can be the most effective way to open the door to strength. (Rather biblical, isn’t it?)
by Heather Plett | Feb 21, 2009 | art, Creativity, fearless, painting
I used to visit art supply stores and stand and gaze longingly at the rows and rows of paint tubes and brushes. I’ve done that for years. I wanted to paint so badly, but it was completely overwhelming for me. I had no idea what brushes to start with (what if I used the wrong one?) or which kind of paint did what (what’s the difference between watercolour and acrylic?), and besides, I could barely draw a stick figure, so what made me think I could paint?
Friends would take up painting, and I’d be so jealous, but I never signed up for a course. “I’ll probably fail,” I told myself. “I’m not very artistic.”
That was before my year of living fearlessly. This year, I knew I couldn’t let those layers of fear and doubt stand in the way of something I’ve wanted to do since I was a child. This year, I would paint, even if I accomplished nothing more than a stick figure and a tree that looked like a 6 year old’s fingerpainting. This year, I wasn’t letting failure stand in my way.
I signed up for a class and started buying supplies. But every time I took my supply list into an art supply store, I got that overwhelming, choking feeling again. What was a #1 brush? Was I supposed to buy the paint in tubes or in little cakes like the kindergarten paints? I bought a few supplies, but put off most of it until the night before the class.
Then the worst happened – the night before the class turned out to be the night OF the class. I’d looked at the dates wrong. I had to rush to the only store within easy driving distance, grab whatever I could find, and show up at class 15 minutes late with only half of my supplies. My heart was in my throat. This was NOT the way to start something this scary!
The first 15 minutes of the class were horrible. Others had already started and I didn’t get the instructions right. Plus I had to borrow a few things from my seat mate. If Marcel hadn’t dropped me off and left me without a car, I might have packed up and gone home.
But then, when water mixed with paint and paint started hitting paper, a transformation began to unfold. The paper, the paint, the paint brushes – they all took hold of me, lifted me out of myself, and the stress began to seep out of my body drop by drop. How incredibly good the paint brush felt in my hand! How incredibly right! I almost started crying right there in that high school art room. This was what I had been waiting for all these years!
Even though we only painted in monochrome that night, and the result was hardly worth bragging about, I knew that I had fallen in love. For too many years this passion had been waiting for fear to loosen its grip so that it could be born – now it was time to let it see the light of day.
Five classes later (too quickly it passed), we were getting ready for the final class. “Bring in a picture to the second last class,” she’d said. “Something that is special to you. You’re going to paint your first masterpiece during the final class.” I selected a few that I thought I was capable of (some easy landscapes and silhouettes), and threw in the one I really wanted to paint but doubted that I could – one of my favourite photos from Ethiopia. “These are easy,” she said, flipping through the top of the pile, “you can paint these.” Then she looked at the last one – the special one. “You want to paint that?” she said, a little incredulously. I felt the doubt rise again. Maybe she didn’t like it. Maybe she thought I couldn’t do it. Oh what was I thinking – of COURSE I can’t do it! I nodded sheepishly. “Yeah, I think you could probably do that if you tried hard enough.” Really? “You probably won’t finish it in one day, and you’ll have to do the sketching before the class so you use the time in class well.”
Gulp. Was I really going to try? What if I failed? Would I want to come back for another class next session, or would I give up? Maybe I should just do the silhouette of the acacia tree from my Kenya pictures. It was so much easier.
But “easy” wasn’t what I’d signed up for. I decided to try regardless of how it scared me. I did the preparation work and showed up at class early this time. I was determined. This was not going to be the end of painting for me. I was not going to let fear hold me back. I was determined, but nervous, and almost positive I would fail.
And then, the minute I touched paintbrush to paper, I entered that zen-like state and got lost in the painting all over again. The hours drifted away while I let the paint carry me. Bit by bit, I watched the art unfold. First grey sky, then the landscape. That was the easy part. Would I be able to paint convincing people? The first one turned out not bad. The second was even better. By the third one, I began to believe that I could actually DO this!
I didn’t finish that night, but the next night, while Marcel was away and the girls got to watch a little extra TV, I finished the last piece – the baskets. When I was done, I stepped back and… well, it was GOOD! I had actually painted something I could be proud of!
I have been on cloud nine ever since. Who knew I could paint? Certainly not me!
(If you want to see my progress throughout the classes, you can see all of my attempts in a slideshow here.)
by Heather Plett | Jan 28, 2009 | fearless, Leadership
Just so you don’t think I’ve mastered this fearlessness thing, I’m also going to try to post about the times when I don’t feel fearless at all. Like today. There’s some fallout or follow-through from the staff retreat over the weekend. Some people saw it as an invitation to open up old wounds to try to find healing for them. I’m not all that good at dealing with old wounds. Mostly I want to stick a bandaid over them and forget about them. But other people feel differently, and so I have to try to honour them.
Today I have a meeting that I’m not looking forward to. I suspect that some of it may be about the places where I’ve fallen short as a leader and probably even places where I’ve been the one to do the hurting. I don’t want to hear about it. I just want to pretend everything is alright and move on into the future.
I’ve stolen a quote I found on Olivia’s blog and printed it, along with her lovely dragon picture to hang on the wall beside my computer. I want to believe that the person who wants to confront me, a person whom I’ve sometimes let myself be intimidated by, is just a vulnerable soul like me.
“Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage. Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love.”–Rainer Maria Rilke
And now I’m going to go for a walk and practice my apologies, my humility, and my boldness… “I’m sorry I hurt you.” “I would like to ask you to address this directly next time, instead of letting it fester.” “Please remember that we are all human and horribly fallible.”
Update: The meeting is over. I am completely drained from the hard work of old wounds, fresh perspectives, other versions of truth, moving past the hurt, and living at peace with people whose world view is significantly different from one’s own. Most of the hurts had not been inflicted by me, but as leader, I am at least somewhat implicated.
This “leading with integrity and boldness” thing? It’s hard, HARD work.
by Heather Plett | Jan 27, 2009 | fearless, Leadership
Note: My word for the year is “fearless”. Throughout the year, I’m going to write periodic posts about my attempts to live a little more fearlessly. The introductory post and video can be seen here.
I fingered the silk patchwork jacket. My heart did a little pitter-patter in my chest. I wanted it. Badly. I’d often pictured myself wearing just such a garment. Colourful, eclectic, bohemian, artistic, bold, sassy – it said so many things about the wearer that I wanted to be able to say about myself.
I took a deep breath and checked the price. It was on sale. Less than half price. Almost what I could justify spending. Almost. But not quite. Still a little too much for our cash-strapped budget. Besides, did I really deserve something that extravagant? I left it on the rack and wandered the rest of the store, looking for something a little more affordable.
My feet kept taking me back to the clothing rack, however. Finally, after trying on rings, fingering scarves, and draping inexpensive bags over my shoulder, I took the jacket off the hanger. I had to at least try it on.
When I gazed at myself in the mirror, I knew I couldn’t leave the store without owning this jacket. In a few hours, I would fly home, and this would be my only chance. I needed to take it home. It spoke to me. It made me feel at least a little like the fearless and artistic woman I dreamed of being. “Don’t bother putting it in the bag,” I said to the cashier, “I’ll wear it. I have an important meeting to go to and I need a little boost.” And then I nearly skipped out of the store.
A few days later, packing for another trip – this time a little closer to home – I put the colourful jacket into my suitcase. It was a little dressy for the staff retreat I’d be attending, but I didn’t care. I needed the boost of colour and boldness.
I didn’t wear it for the first two days. Neither of those days called for bold, bohemian, or sassy. Neither of those days challenged my perception of myself quite as much as the third day – the day when everyone else would go home and leave me alone to lead my team through some difficult and possibly painful discussions. It was the day that would surely put my desire for fearlessness to the test.
In the morning, I went for breakfast in my new jacket. “That’s quite the jacket. Looks a little like Joseph,” said one of my staff members. “Yup,” I said, “it’s my coat of many colours.” “You remember what happened to Joseph, don’t you?” he chuckled. “Yes, he grew to be a bold and powerful leader,” I said, straightening my shoulders a little. “Yeah, but long before that, he got thrown in a pit. Let’s just say he had some road bumps along the way.”
Road bumps. Yes, that seemed appropriate. This was the day for road bumps. Possibly even the day that I’d get thrown in the pit.
Later that morning, as we prepared for the hard work of the day ahead, I glanced around the room. The tension was tangible – you could read it in the way people sat. None of us really wanted to be there. None of us trusted the other people in the room enough to believe that this day could have positive results. Though nobody was openly hostile, after years of treating each other with some measure of distrust and mild disdain, mixed in with a little unhealthy passive aggressiveness, we weren’t bringing our best efforts to the table anymore. To call us a “team” was generous – we were more like a dysfunctional “group” working on the same things but not really pulling together. I couldn’t help but wonder how much of that I had responsibility for, as their leader. There were definitely other factors – like remote staff spread across the country, unique and sometimes challenging personalities, gender biases, age biases, etc. – but in the wee hours of the morning, when I carried the weight of self-doubt, I wondered what I could have done differently these five years to turn this around.
When the facilitator passed the figurative baton to me, I swallowed a gulp of air, and wrapped the jacket a little tighter around my chest. “I’m not sure where to start,” I said, “but I’ve been doing a little thinking, and I need to tell you about that. I’ve been thinking we have a bunch of great people on the team, but I’ve also been thinking we’re really suffering, and we’re not doing nearly enough to support each other. We’re sabotaging each other, we’re not trusting each other, and we’re not taking risks together. We have to do something about it.”
For the next half hour, I took a bold and vulnerable step and laid my cards on the table. I told them about my personal doubt about being an effective leader. I told them of the many times somebody had come to me to tell me of the hurt they were suffering because of another member of the team. I told them of the times we’d fallen far short of our potential because we weren’t working together. I told them if we didn’t change, we would cease to be relevant.
When I ended, the room was silent. I looked around at the faces to see what they would feed back to me. Would there be hostility? Hurt? Withdrawal? I had no idea what to anticipate.
After a few brief comments, the facilitator encouraged us to take a coffee break. I longed to run back to the shelter of my room. Instead I sipped tea and tried to make small talk while avoiding people’s eyes.
When we returned to the meeting room, there was almost an audible collective sigh as people settled into their chairs a little more comfortably than before. One by one, they began to open up. “I’m glad you said the things you did. It’s hard to hear, but we need to hear it to move on.” “I’d like to acknowledge that I have been hurt and I know that I have hurt others, but I want to try harder.” “I wish we could work on a greater level of trust and respect.” “I could do better work if I knew my team-mates were behind me.”
Throughout the day, there continued to be a gradual softening in people’s posture and their words. There were gentle but difficult truths offered up. There were risks taken. There was respect offered. There was accountability and positive challenge. All of these things had been lacking in our meetings up until that point. So many times we’d sat with the elephant in the room, all of us afraid to speak of it.
At the end of the day, I returned to my room weary but full. Full of the goodness I’d seen in people I’d stopped caring for and stopped trusting. Full of the respect I’d been given when I put myself out there in a raw and honest way. Full of the new light I’d begun to see in people’s eyes.
As I removed my colourful jacket, I wondered, “is this how Joseph felt when he was rescued from the pit and began a journey that would see him rise to more powerful leadership than he could have imagined?”
