Amy Swift Crosby

At the root of most anxiety is the unknown. I’m feeling a lot of this lately.

What if… ?

Then what?

And why?

Our ability to cope with what is not yet known ends up defining so much of who we are, how we behave, the decisions we make, and how we impact those around us.

Chronic worriers tend to operate with fear — and (think they) can control it through intense relationships to time, scheduling, details or even schadenfreude.

Other types think in terms of the worst-case scenario. A nagging pain becomes a terminal disease, a bad month turns into a prediction of a bad year, an unreturned call appears like an omen of disinterest/failure/rejection.

But low-grade anxiety is something that operates at a different frequency, is easier to mask, and is universal. It often feels like a shadow lurking nearby. We keep it at bay with plenty of distractions — staying busy being at the top of the list, followed by addictions across a wide spectrum, from alcohol to sex, shopping, exercise, parenting or health. Anything that creates an environment where the shadow can remain nameless qualifies. This is how much we avoid the realm of the unknown.

Technology lets us know a lot about the future – from impending weather to DNA – and allows us to mitigate what we can. But we still can’t predict the majority of things that would really matter, beyond right now. That’s a fragile feeling.

This blog was written three years ago. All of my writings are inspired by the observations I have at any given time. I don’t know what it was that inspired this post, at that time – but I don’t think it matters. Why? Because uncertainty is nothing new – it’s just that it has an illusory quality, so it can appear that way. We are always living with terms we don’t know, timelines we can’t see and weaknesses that have yet to be revealed. The illusion is that we have control. But, in moments like this, we get a clearer picture of what we can (and should) control, and most definitely what we can’t.

So maybe the real measure of success is our ability to expand our capacity for uncertainty, and through that exercise, be more comfortable in the unknowable.

Considering the state of the world, I’m not sure we have a choice.

This word and emotion has fascinated me for years. When I see it in play, whether between parent and child, entrepreneur and idea, between Frida and Diego or in the more solitary waters of personal callings — I can’t help but survey my own life for signs of its indelible footprint.

Devotion implies love and purpose — a deep and unwavering knowing. For me, it represents territory where fewer decisions need to be made; where thinking is almost bypassed, because nature and instinct initiate the direction.

To be without it is to miss the quiet, non-negotiable and unmistakable pull. To be blinded by it is to lose all perspective about anything else that might matter.

I think as we learn to “manage” in our adult lives — whether emotions, expectations, standards, sense of possibility — as our priorities are tested or we take bigger swings and risks, it’s no surprise that we crave the singularity of devotion more than ever. For myself, I love the “no matter what’s,” because at least I know the score, despite the implications or tradeoffs. It’s the straddling, the paralysis, the exhaustion of choice — standing at the fork of any road — that becomes heavy and layered with fog. 

Yet, without clarity about where to put our attention, how to spend our thoughts, with whom to invest our sacred minutes, there’s a certain kind of suffering that tears at our deepest fibers.

In fact, I’m beginning to appreciate the strength of all emotion, even in tidal proportions. The price of unequivocal clarity, in contrast to ambivalence, sounds like relief, even as I write it. This becomes even more true if you happen to live in a world of abundant choice; which most of us reading here do.

To be devoted is to be free.

And just as much, to be devoted is to be constrained.

This paradox is the surprising truth (and pain) of devotion. 

Sometimes it’s is a choice.

Sometimes it’s a truth.

The greatest gift and in equal measure the greatest anguish of this emotion is that we can’t be devoted to everything… or everyone. 

PS in case you missed it, check out our last post, TBH.

TBH.

Admittedly, language and the construction of messages fascinate me. I really really, love noticing how people use words. When I meet someone who strings just the right words together to communicate precisely what they intended, it gives me goosebumps. Or, when I hear something complicated expressed with only a few (usually exceptional) words, I want to give a tip of the proverbial hat.

Of course, language is my vocational currency, but it’s also in our shared interest to be conscientious (if not vigilant) about how words and their meanings get co-opted. When we become complacent, our shared meaning evaporates.

In this spirit, I want to acknowledge an increasingly common preamble I’m seeing all around me (a particular favorite of those born between 1980 — 2000.) 

TBH.

It goes like this. “TBH, that date and time doesn’t really work for me.”

(For those over 50, TBH is shorthand for “to be honest.”)

Why do these three words necessitate an anacronym, you might ask?

Because along with IMHO, “in my humble opinion” and AFAIC “As Far as I’m Concerned” and FWIW, “For What It’s Worth” they have become much too long and clunky (apparently) when written in full.

These are almost exclusively used in the digital realm. And all of them are curious attempts to truncate expressions that actually didn’t need a short cut to begin with.

At one time, “to be honest” was reserved for a particularly candid revelation that prepared the listener for what the speaker was about to (honestly) share. A linguistic pre-game with a specific purpose — to delay the delivery of a piece of information that might otherwise land abruptly, hurt feelings or cause a shock, even the good kind. “To be honest” (said in full) is a natural transition to something brave — opening the gate to a disarming truth. 

“To be honest, I never liked your husband.”

“To be honest, I never showed up to work that day.”

“To be honest, I’ve always loved you.”

But today, not only has it been shortened, which naturally dilutes its potency, but the information that follows TBH is— to be really honest — a sizable non-event.

“TBH, I prefer tuna to turkey.”

“TBH, I thought it was at 5pm, not 7pm.”

“TBH, I don’t follow her.”

Dear TBH users, you’re committing a crime of precedent; sending a clear signal to anyone reading to wonder what you weren’t TBH’ing before. It also runs the risk of sounding passive-aggressive, an assemblage that can’t help but be heard with a whine. It adds unnecessary seriousness to otherwise transactional language that consciously or unconsciously cues others to listen to your words with gravitas.

A hunch about these sentence-starters is that they provide an onramp to messages that sound banal, but actually hold feelings. I should say Feelings with a capital F, the kind which call for an extra “umph”— for emphasis. An exclamation point wouldn’t be right, nor would bolding (though both would be more straightforward.) TBH is actually a digital shortcut for “read into what I’m about to say because I’m not going to say what I really mean.” 

Going back to the TBH examples above, here are some riffs on how to lose TBH, and turn subtext into context.

“That time doesn’t work for me, and I’m feeling frustrated that you always forget I have dance class on Tuesdays.”

or

“I prefer tuna to turkey and why doesn’t anyone remember that I’m a pescatarian.”

Or whatever.

Who cares, you might ask? We all need to care.

Language is a primary tool for us. If we aren’t saying what we mean, we’re still saying something. We rely on each other, whether in close and intimate relationships, or in professional collegial settings, to be candid — as much as possible. When that isn’t the case, dialogue becomes a moving target — a guessing game. When we aren’t direct or clear, we force people to assume, or makeup stories, and we lose opportunities to deepen understanding and strengthen relationships. In the perfunctory sense, it wastes time. In the poetic, it skirts connection.

TBH erodes the credibility that candor naturally cultivates. In many office communications, TBH lands with defensiveness. Interpersonally, it has a boy-who-cried-wolf quality. TBH is a sidestep (and copout) in the communication path

Don’t get me wrong; efficiencies are nice.

BRB, “Be Right Back”

FYI, “For Your Information”

GTG, “Got To Go”

These and others like them are useful for a few reasons, but the most important one is that their intent doesn’t get diluted by becoming an anacronym. And this, to me, is the litmus test.

If you have a minute for one more…

A similar frustration exists for me with “in my opinion,” but in a different way. Of course, it’s your opinion. You’re the one sharing it. In addition to the obvious, IMO initiates a subtle move to disown the idea about to be presented and adds a touch of humble bragging. Because ownership is implied in whatever statement is about to be made by the speaker, IMO signals a lack of conviction, and unwillingness to fully own whatever is about to be said. IMO feels like “this is just from the humble, possibly uninformed position where I sit. I may know nothing. Or everything. It depends on the outcome.”

Example.

“If we hire this guy, we’ll be solving a problem, but we won’t be creating a solution.”

Add IMO to this sentence and suddenly it’s smaller, less impactful, and reduces the idea to a purely subjective expression tantamount to hand-raising for agreement or disagreement. It’s just another opinion… with a whisper of “take it or leave it. If I’m right I’ll get credit for saying it, but if I’m not, then it was just my opinion — nothing more.” 

My hope is that these hashtag-style crutches will lose their luster in 2020, and that those who hope to drop a mic by using TBH will realize that this word cocktail has the opposite effect. It’s like being invited to a party billed with suspense about an impossibly cool band, only to show up and find Pandora playing that band’s music (with commercials.)

When we use language consciously, we become closer, wiser and even more free. 

When we phone it in, even without mal intent, meaning is diluted, and we miss the chance to be heard, known and seen.

The consequence to this seemingly granular referendum is that we lose something much bigger than we think – which is the attention we earned to be in the conversation at all. 

PS if you liked this post, check out Replication.

It’s the rhythm of a thing.

In our speech, it’s the way our voice modulates, with starts and stops (intentionally or not), that allows us to deliver a thought in a way that emphasizes some aspects — but not others. In music, it’s the sequence of notes or chords that draw it out, break it up – or build crescendo within a song. In writing, it’s the way sentences are organized and punctuated so that the reader has the opportunity to imbibe the message with the pacing that the writer intended. 

Just as a movie score sets the mood for a scene, cadence informs meaning. It isn’t the story, song or sentence — it’s what shapes how we feel it. Cadence helps us perceive enthusiasm, certainty, desire, interest, intimacy, hope, intent. It establishes the ‘beat.’ 

As a writer, my thoughts don’t appear in my mind with cadence, but they land on the page with it. And because adjusting these beats in a script or copy can be the difference between good and great — it’s something I evaluate in every message. 

 “Yes…we can!” 

is different from 

“Yes, we can” 

Which is different than 

“Y e s s s s s s. We can.”

But I’ve been thinking – does cadence also exist between people? And if so, might slight tweaks in the cadence of relationships have analogous effects? Think of the real spaces (distance in miles) – and the emotional spaces — (distance in feelings, values, views) between every person you consider close.  Just as we can feel near to someone (even a virtual stranger) who is actually far away, it’s possible to feel distant from someone (a friend, spouse or relative) sitting right next to us. 

When beats are in sync, relationships feel naturally aligned.

When they aren’t, even the most basic of interactions are clumsy.

Sometimes, when I’m working on a messaging project, I’ll merely add a period and one word, and the entire sentiment of a sentence or tagline shifts. The client usually cocks her head and asks — what’s the big difference? My answer is that while it may look very small, there’s now space in between what is read…and… what is felt. In other words, that beat gives us space to feel. 

This is why cadence reveals so much.

From a marketing view, people don’t take action to buy, do or subscribe to anything without first having a feeling. Think of your own attention – once someone has it — and imagine it like a magnet near a piece of iron; there’s a tension point before the magnet snaps into the surface — the pull before contact is made. It’s there in that space, from when there was no pull, to finding the pull — where you now have a beat. 

Leaving the world of messaging (and physics), returning to the one of interpersonal connection, if I can adjust a beat in the way words flow, might I also be able to observe it in the way I flow — and check the pulse of connection… using this metaphor? 

Relationships hold a thousand coordinates — from past rights and wrongs, to present reassurances and disappointments. These are what inform the space — they nurture closeness or magnify distance.

This – however profound, flawed or enduring it may be – is the space between us.

If we think of these spaces as melodic, it can create an almost rhythmic interpretation of our feelings, history and state of the union. Once heard, awareness is always an invitation to make change.

So.

How’s the beat between you and…?

Can you hear it — feel it — follow it?

Is it too distant and hard to find?

Or… so synchronized and natural, you never stopped to consider it?

Everything has a beat, once you listen.

Can it be reset? Corrected?

I’m optimistic. 

Experience tells me that a small change can make a big difference, and a sequence that might have been deleted can now be kept – if modified.

Others may not be worth saving. 

Hearing the beats — and feeling the in between spaces — is the first step in my own process.

It’s only after facing the music (as it were) that edits can work their magic.

PS If you’re interested in seeing how cadence matters, here’s a piece I wrote in collaboration with the team at Sibling Rivalry that demonstrates it aptly

The story is (so often) in the telling.

I love how parallel messages appear in our lives in unforeseen ways. Often, a theme will reveal itself in one channel (work) but repeat itself in another (parenting, friendship), despite the fact that the situations have nothing to do with each other. In my own life, these recurring patterns often support and nurture the best version of myself, but what to do when others show up as acute reminders of what isn’t working?

Therapists, astrologers, doctors — virtually any professional dot-connector — look to patterns to help people make sense of their circumstances. Those of us in the self-reflective camp also gaze into our individual constellations to draw lines — to find continuity — in an effort to get a sense who we are in the eyes of others. Whether we’re aware of it or not, it’s this feedback loop that affects change and helps us live harmoniously in our relationships.

But what are we to do when the messages arrive vis-à-vis dynamics where dialogue is already charged or where old wounds fester even in new conversations? Could be between boss and employee, business partners, parents and children — in marriage. This is where it’s easy to get hung up and stuck in a cycle.

Sample dialogue from my own life:

Me (to myself): “he thinks my standards are too high — that I’m demanding.”
Me, to my key complaint collaborators, expanding on the meaning out loud: “he must not respect me, or maybe it’s all women.”

But, if I step back and look at the conversations that informed these assumptions through a more critical lens, it’s not hard to see that I have assigned meaning to whatever was said and become more attached to it with every re-telling. (Incidentally, my take was wrong.)

As a professional storyteller, I have the opportunity to look at a company’s DNA and make decisions about how the story is told, and there are always a variety of ways to go that could all be equally true. But as people, we are not brands (in our personal lives, at least). Yet our stories deepen and define our experience the more often we (re) tell them. So while a brand benefits from re-telling the same story (in different ways) on a consistent basis, people may not.

I wonder, is there a way to utilize the re-telling as an opportunity to re-pattern?
Could the words we choose to recount challenging experiences be used to create filters that somehow disrupt the same patterns from arising in the future? It would mean reframing the stories we tell ourselves in the present, in service to the promise of a future with fewer convictions – but more room to grow.

Here’s an example (if you’re still reading this bonus-length-blog) that allows me to test this hunch further, without revealing too much about the multiple (so many!)  areas of my own life where it rings true.

Over the past year, my 9-year old daughter has been reporting various situations at school (or in her life in general) that she has dubbed “soANNOYING.” After watching this word emerge a little too frequently over several months (and realizing that she’s clearly an early-adopting-pre-teen), I brought it to her attention. We talked about how it feels to be a person who is constantly “annoyed.” What does “annoyable” look like? Sound like? When framed in this way, she didn’t like the picture I painted, which allowed us to start a little game together.

The challenge? You can’t say “annoyed” or any derivative of “annoyed.”

What has replaced it? She found her way with…

“Unexpected.”
“Surprising.”
“Distracting.”
“Strong.”
“Curious.”
“Interesting.”
 “Unclear.”
“Powerful.”

Lots of vocabulary bonus points here, but more importantly, it allowed us to have a dialogue about options, specifically the choice to reframe events in the retelling of them. What could be catalogued as “bad” gets to be reorganized (with more empathy and less judgment) without sacrificing her experience.

“James used some strong words toward me in class. It bothered me.”
“She keeps tapping her foot on my chair — it’s becoming distracting.”
“Well…that comment was unexpected!”

This game has actually changed how she (and I) view discord, because in recounting the situation (the place most of us commit to our stories), we’ve forced a process that allows for better options; options that could be equally true, but don’t reinforce the worst filter of our worldview.

Of course, I love this for her young mind, but after a few weeks of hard conversations in my own life, I’ve taken to doing the same thing. By examining the first meaning I attribute (always emotional), and the vocabulary I use to retell it (to my own sympathetic audiences), it’s easy to see that almost nothing has to mean what it may first seem to mean. Just because an initial feeling conjures up highly charged feelings, it’s important to be conscious of how they can infiltrate and have power over our personal history.

This is really about how we assign meaning…and being open to reframing that assignment.

This falls partly into the ‘loving kindness for others” category (usually a good thing to give benefit of the doubt), but the most self-serving view of this is how it might shift our personal tectonic plates.

I would never minimize a feeling by replacing a traumatic experience with a veneer of happiness or “silver lining.” That’s not what I am suggesting. But what I do appreciate about this challenge is having the awareness to ask myself, in the aftermath, “could it be seen another way? Could I take some more productive lesson from the outcome? Is there a way to interpret this with less rush to categorize? Is it possible I can’t know everything from where I sit?”

We are always becoming…more …of something.

It’s easy to see this self-improvement process as an evolution that happens in front of us — an aspiration that reaches forward toward the kind of human we’d like to be more of. But I think the way we make sense of past infractions plays a big hand in who we slowly (but certainly) become. By being less right — or less certain about the story we think is at play – we get to write a different one that may re-shape pesky plot patterns we don’t much like.

Imagine being able to rewrite tomorrow before it happens?

The story in the telling – as much as the re-telling.