Amy Swift Crosby

A few weeks ago, on a Friday afternoon, just as I was powering down for the weekend, I found myself on the receiving end of a client termination email. And not just with me, this start-up had also ended its agreements with a dozen independent contractor team members, roughly ¾ of its day 1 working group, in order to re-org. Despite two years of working together, hours spent caring, crafting, cajoling (sometimes on Sundays), the mechanism (email) was perfunctory; the language cold and antiseptic. Each letter was identical.

It reminded me of the real estate developer who renovates, and then hikes rents, without providing any notice. Or the partner who critiques the deal, before supporting it, in order to demonstrate value.

While at first glance dissimilar, in all of these situations, the right thing to do isn’t what is in question: Companies need to reorganize or close, buildings need to be updated and rents (incrementally) raised, and ideas call for critical thinking before deployment. But there is almost always more than one way to do anything.

How we say no, give difficult news or cut ties often says more about who we are than the action itself.

Assuming most sane humans don’t fire people via Twitter or national news (!), the medium – phone, email, in-person, text — matters. As does the substance, tone and timing.

HR recommendations aside, having a human interaction with someone, even for a minute or two, goes a long way to preserving whatever goodwill exists. Yet some people fear opening a door into another person’s feelings or experience, because they won’t know how to shut it in a compassionate way.

But this reduces us to assets, talents and contractors, not teammates and people …who, among other sacrifices, missed putting their kids to bed or going out to dinner in order to help fulfill a last minute request.

My dad always said, as I was getting out of the car to go to school, “Goodbye sweetheart. Be nice to everyone.” Turns out, that’s not the collective rule of thumb out there.

But it’s really not such a reach when you try.

Almost everyone has waited on test results, a response to a big proposal, a return text from an important person. The mental wheels that begin to turn in these moments of vulnerability – the instant the wait seems too long ­— are often the lingering byproducts of insecurity, doubt and worth (Brené Brown has established an entire niche on this topic).

These days, I’m trying to see these moments as opportunities — as yardsticks — to gauge how I am doing. Maybe they could offer me a chance to check in.

I recently exchanged emails with a CEO about rates and scopes of work, not unlike other emails asking about “what would XYZ look like, and how much will it cost?” There was some surprise at the cost, and then a long pause. It was in this silence that I went inside for a minute, and checked myself: How comfortable could I be, standing in my value? How do resist reverting to doubt?

It’s an interesting test. I toggle between forgetting about it, remembering it, worrying for a minute, and then justifying myself. But in the moment, the mental gymnastics can be exhausting.

In this case, the value of the work the company does interests me more than the financial compensation. It wouldn’t be hard to work out a number of scenarios to work with them, because I believe in what they do.

Then why do voices still emerge in the quiet? Even after years of successful projects, happy clients, consistent work flow, things that should build confidence and establish a certain security, there’s occasionally fear that I’m not as good as I was, or think I am. That basically, my talents don’t merit what I think.

Maybe there’s humility in this interior dialogue. Perhaps it keeps my ego in check. In this way, maybe it’s valuable… to question our value… now and then.

Maybe it’s okay… not to feel okay… 100% of the time.

Or maybe that’s just being human.

Last week’s post acknowledging the frustration of seemingly being imitated in the marketplace spawned an unusual amount of mail in my inbox. People have a lot of feelings about this topic. I think it actually goes even deeper than my original conclusion.
 
Here’s the thing.
 
Often in life, people ask …
 
Who does your hair?
What’s that recipe?
Where was that vacation?
Who designed your house?
Where did you buy that?
 
And most of us are only too happy to share our good finds with friends. But all of that changes when you suddenly run into those friends during Spring break at your secret little spot, or when they make a habit of bringing your signature chocolate chip cookies to Book Club, or they suddenly have your wardrobe. It’s just awkward. And weird. Not because they acted on your recommendation, but because they missed a critical element in the currency exchange of shared resources: acknowledgment.
 
How about checking the vacation dates?
Or citing the source?
And running it by… if it’s gonna be exactly the same?
 
It’s funny how a simple nod or inclusion in the process changes the dynamic entirely. It’s also interesting that when it doesn’t happen, you get a lot of insight about someone’s level of (or lack of) awareness.
 
It’s easy to diminish this stuff as unimportant or trite, but at the heart of any sharing of information is a sense of pride in having discovered/perfected/cracked the code of said thing.
 
Is it worth deep introspection? Probably not. But, it is nice to get a little credit when a personal rec has clearly been applied and deployed. But what’s even more valuable is to notice who gives a high-five (publicly or otherwise), and who does not. It can inform future decisions, and open the door to what else this person overlooks/presumes/takes for granted.
 
I don’t think any of us aims not to be generous or to see the worst in friends, but there’s something to be said about the art of selective reveals.
 
A simple “Oh, I don’t use a recipe — it’s an ad hoc salad,” should do the trick.

I recently came across a newsletter style blog, similar to what I publish here, penned by someone I worked with in the not so distant past. There was a strange similarity to it — with some of the tics, cadence, and themes, that I recognize in my own musings.

At first, I was shocked.
Then, annoyed.
And after that, I am pretty sure there was some eye rolling and judging on my part.

Feeling copied does not bring out the best of me, or anyone, really.

At around this same time, a ceramicist friend whose work has a recognizable color, shape, and stripe, had a similar observation. He questioned whether his signature style had been channeled by a much more famous studio mate.

Another former colleague discovered the entrepreneurial network she founded being duplicated by a former member.

And for anyone who makes and distributes products, you’re used to getting knocked off. But it doesn’t change how deeply irritating it is when it happens.

When words, ideas, a product or style feel co-opted — used by someone else for profit — it burns in the belly. Those on the receiving end want justice and credit. Our desire to right the wrong can produce feelings of preparing for battle or at the very least a child-like tantrum, though neither deliver a very satisfying resolution.

So assuming legal issues are not at stake, and the knocker-offer didn’t violate a patent, what can we really do when we see a version of our work, authored by someone else, in the marketplace?

One option is to quietly seethe, become resentful, grow-chip-on -shoulder, blame your failures on other people, and otherwise shrink into a person you wouldn’t be friends with…much less want to become.

The other is to get curious. Why was I inspiring to them? Why does it feel like me or mine…and could it simply be that he or she is tapping into the zeitgeist? A coincidence? What is this triggering in me… my ego, image, fear of losing customers… or is something else at stake?

A different option comes courtesy of Marcus Buckingham who, in response to discord, says:

“Assign the most generous possible explanation, and then believe it.”

It’s possible that copying you was the closest this person could get to creating something worthwhile. It’s also possible you’re wrong about any number of theories.

It’s hard to trace the lineage of an idea, and even when we do, there’s often not much we can do about owning it. But what we can do is shine like the crazy diamond we each are, and decide that there’s enough to go around. And then believe it.

Karma will likely take care of the rest.

At a time when being acknowledged feels like the exception rather than the norm, opportunities to connect with your people are everywhere. Giving attention, in the right way, is like sending an emotional gift certificate.
 
Most of us reading (and writing) this blog grew up on autoresponders.

They were invented solely to help businesses stay in touch, without all the heavy lifting of customer service and marketing spend. But decades later, these messages have lost any sense of real connection. At this point, they feel pretty canned. So while as owners, we appreciate their efficiencies, as consumers on the receiving end, our reaction is to hit delete.
 
Which is why, in 2017, it is (almost) extraordinary to hear directly from a small business owner. When an owner reaches out, herself, not in response to a complaint or as part of a PR strategy, but just because, it delivers a contact high — for both customer and owner. Sure it could be argued that an owner’s time would be better spent at the 30,000ft level, but the reality is that direct contact actually moves the dial.
 
Automation makes a lot of sense in a lot of cases. But unlike their bigger competitors, small business owners have the opportunity to cultivate real human connection with a customer or client. Of course you can program your CMS or email marketing campaign to regurgitate what you’re saying to every new customer or every transaction, even go as far as customizing communications with their first names — duh. But when people get a sincere/curious/thoughtful note from the face of a business, it goes a long way to plant the seeds for a lifelong relationship, one that will grow and deepen year after year, and a customer who will sing your praises to their tribe who trust her recommendations.
 
The cost is relatively small — minutes.
The win is proportionately big — years.
 
I’m not saying automation isn’t great and useful, but it creates a false reassurance that we’re connected to the people who buy our stuff.
 
Richard Branson once wrote me a personal note after I gave him a detailed (ahem!) review of his Virgin Atlantic first class service. They became a client, and I became a loyal customer.
 
If Branson can do it — so can we.
 
Here’s to saying hello for no reason. We can almost always learn something new by talking to the people who buy/read/follow or otherwise make it possible for us to be in business.