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Amy Swift Crosby

the story is in the telling

Barefoot.

October 11, 2022 · By Amy Swift Crosby

Have you ever made the choice to let go of a thing – a project, person, or circumstance – and despite feeling conflicted, were reassured that the void would allow for something more on-purpose? Sometimes this change feels more like a non-transferable “knowing” – a need to say goodbye, despite “next” having no name or forwarding address.

Nameless, formless future seasons have advantages and freedom.

But they are not without depths of “WTF” either.

The longing could arise from…

Vocational restlessness.

Relational malaise.

Geographic angst.

I find myself contemplating this transitional discomfort since closing one of my businesses this summer. Like any right-brained creative who for three years white knuckled as a left-brained CEO, I welcomed the newly available mental real estate.

It was a purposeful ending, yet there was no “big idea” or seductive project waiting quietly in the wings. I felt the certainty of no longer being in one world, yet not a central character in the next either.

It seems we all have cycles in life when we know the shoes no longer fit, even with what once felt good. It may have been a great run (in whatever incarnation, for however long) but the “me + this” no longer holds.

It’s easy to feel…uneasy.

And if you’re in midlife, this moment is often characterized by an internal dismantling.

Maybe there’s a yearning to be cast in a role or relationship that better reflects who we know we are, but that our reality has not yet become. It could be an urgency to align with potential, paired with an intolerance for the status quo. It’s usually a need to serve the right mission, with all the benefits that come from hyper alignment – purpose, compensation, community, shared obsessions.

Change, even when we initiate it, can also feel powered by some “otherness” – something in the destiny or dharma family of concepts. Akin to an animal molting, the transition isn’t always beautiful – but it’s happening… like it or not…with or without consent.

(Sidebar here. There’s real luxury in being able to consider new chapters at all. As any reader of a certain age knows, there are life phases when survival is the only north star, with no time to look left or right and “consider” anything but the needs of that day. But, with stability comes an invitation to be discerning about what’s inbound. These are opportunities that call for an alertness. But only because there’s bandwidth for it.)

Some people, when the gotta-change-this-sh*t feeling arises, get to making lists of dream jobs / people / income streams / partners.

Vision boards abound.

Nothing wrong with any of it, but apart from it – or concurrent to whatever works to conjure one’s calling – I do something else. It’s more atelic (without a specific goal.)

Going back to the shoe metaphor, instead of putting on the easiest, nearest “new” shoes, I try to go “barefoot” for a month or two. It’s a little like being blindfolded and walking through different land formations; sand, forest, marsh…garden soil. Except, there’s no destination.

 I resist the impulse to identify “next” and instead, just feel what there is to feel, while being available to introductions, invitations, and conversations. With no attachment to an outcome, these times have a “yes, and…” quality to them.

Impatience and a need to “know” is the well-established enemy here because it would be so easy if something dopaminergic was at the end of the next text, email or phone call – a salve against the darkness of perceived rudder-lessness.

Not “doing” feels quiet. Quiet feels like wasted time. And wasted time can feel hopeless.

The danger in believing the “quiet” lie is that it’s reactive. It disrupts a process in progress. It’s perilous because the consequences could be a premature agreement – and worse – to the very same thing (in different clothing) that was to become the past. Talk about wasted time.

We feel better right away (of course we do), because the anxiety dissipates momentarily, but that short term satisfaction sacrifices an important, if somewhat invisible, alchemy.

As a writer, being able to put something into words means I’ve got my arms around it (in a sense.) This is great for client work because I can nail a campaign / script / project according to a clear challenge / solution equation. But in my personal writing (like this) when I can’t find the words, although it’s irritating, I also know there’s more gold to mine.

For me, the not knowing opens a portal, like following breadcrumbs, to something I could have never articulated the day (or month) before. I often know when I’ve hit on a “thing” because it feels unrecognizable to its previous form.

I heard the poet David Whyte describe the difficulty in writing poetry as, “it’s not uncovering the part of you that knows what to say, it’s finding the part of you that does not know what to say.”

Yes. And could this apply to next chapter questions, too?

Ask yourself – do you need to know what’s next? Right now?

Or, could you give time a chance and allow circumstance to organize itself into something that more gradually reveals…something outside of your wonderful (but currently limited) imagination?

I’m neither waiting nor inactive in the process.

You can, after all, have “bare feet” and still “walk.”

The point is to forget the arrival.

So many of the serendipitous circumstances that have given meaningful contour to my life were the result of seemingly disconnected parts. Alone they were just a nice conversation, a book at the moment I needed it, a letter drafted and sent. Yes, I participated in each of those things. But what came back was a constellation I could not have organized.

You know this because we all know this.

Consider taking off your metaphorical shoes and leaving them at the beach head. You could come back for them, or not.

As for me…

I’m recognizing what’s historical and uninteresting to repeat.

I’m sensing butterflies around a thing – even if I feel like a tourist.

I’m feeling for magnets… people, conversations, playlists.

I’ll be barefoot for a minute if you care to join.

Mileage.

May 10, 2022 · By Amy Swift Crosby

 

Literally and metaphorically, we define it as “the distance traveled.”

But not all mileage on life’s many road trips is equal, nor are all distances even perceptible. While some of our journeys beg for acknowledgement, others we prefer to travel under (emotional) cover.

Crossing a finish line, recovering from illness, giving birth, publishing a book — all observable, and anyone paying attention can easily see and appreciate the miles — both where we started and how far we’ve come. Recognition, even applause, is implied and often expected for certain labors. These miles have what I think of as two-way visibility. Easy to witness another’s joy (or pain) from the outside, easy to feel witnessed on the inside.

But there are other journey’s that are more of an “inside job” — times we each need to make our way through certain dark forests in what feels akin to the middle of the night. This is mileage where the emotional complexity calls for privacy and anonymity. We are the sole decider of what to reveal, and when (if ever.) This is analogous to one-way visibility — only we know our true circumstances, despite what iceberg tip can be seen from outside. We might be beset with rage, grief, chagrin or despondency, but no matter how high or low the volume internally, to the world we go dark and quiet for a spell. Nearby “witnesses” have to make nuanced decisions about how to express empathy, knowing that the “walker” has signaled social hibernation.

Of course, we are both “walker” and “witness” at any given time.

As the walker, the need for recognition — or, conversely, secrecy — is threaded to a complex web of what being “seen” in our mileage (then) means. Do I want people to know about my journey? What part? How much?

How we witness others in their respective miles traveled also bears some responsibility. How do we appreciate, identify, raise a glass? What is “enough”?

But, because visibility isn’t always two-way, it’s not simply the fork-in-the-road I’ve presented above. For one, there are the invisible miles — the kind we long to be seen in but (logistically or otherwise) can be hard for others to observe (and acknowledge).

Think…

Paperwork. Consider all the onerous admin you do for work-life or home-life, for the benefit of everyone involved. Bills paid, insurance claims filed, disputes waged — these get little (if any) credit. Necessary work, but largely invisible.

Future-planning. If you’re the magical fairy who books the vacation, invests the dollars, anticipates the waitlist — the forethought tasks, I call them — you know that while everyone appreciates them when they bear fruit, the months and weeks beforehand go largely unnoticed.

Housework is a famously underappreciated exertion that needs no explanation.

Maybe more significantly, but less discussed, is emotional labor. Are you always the one to make amends, investigate the feeling, anticipate the gift, manage the client/in-law/tricky friendship? Do you hold space where someone else sucks up air?

Invisible work can be classified as, “effort that’s hard to see or measure.” Some people need more appreciation for invisible work than others. But voiced or not, most of us wouldn’t mind more noticing here.

But there’s another, even more convoluted dimension to the mileage conversation: What happens when we agree on two-way visibility (we both think we’re seeing the same kind of mileage), but perception of miles traveled is still vastly different?

One of my favorite, (okay, irksome) examples of this gap is what I like to call, “the Great Start problem.”

As a copywriter, I work with creative agencies on strategy and messaging projects. Because of my role in the process, I am often the first person on the team to put ideas to paper — to press “send” on one of several rounds of words and concepts. This initial thinking — my first draft — can take days or weeks.

Whether the work is bullseye or not, being the first to submit work calls for a little egoic Teflon. I still have butterflies when I submit the words, even two-decades down the road. But what I’m (at least) sure of is that my mind has collected enough mileage over the years to assume my first draft is part one of a strong creative iteration.

So, when a creative director or other agency lead says the following words, I feel an emotional road flare go up. Those two words are, “great start.”

Seems innocent enough.

Surely, they mean to be encouraging.

But, what I actually hear is:

“You’ve barely touched the problem we’re trying to solve.”

There’s a mileage gap here (regardless of whether my perception of “great start” is valid or not.) The beginning for them isn’t at all the beginning for me, ten-plus hours (+20 years) into the work.

“Great start” underestimates what it takes to make meaning from a blank page.

“Great start” presumes minimal effort, despite maximum (if early) thinking.

But this is not a writing rant.

Imagine looking at early sketches for what will become a watercolor and telling the artist, “great start.” Unless this is a student who started two hours ago, it’s a bummer.

Think of a child at work on a sandcastle — whether it’s award-winning or dilapidated. Unless you know it’s only been 10 minutes of building, “great start” may offend the kid who started on it three hours ago.

The architect of effort/creative output, whatever her experience level, may not resonate with (the potentially condescending) “great start.”

There’s no mal intent in it, but there is a misunderstanding of miles traveled. The consequence? It’s defeating.

A defeated creative doesn’t want to stay on the project.

A defeated employee doesn’t want to show up for work.

A defeated child/spouse/friend doesn’t want to try… at all.

It’s interesting that it’s not just that we are seen, but that the depth and breadth of the work we put forth can be met with right-sized mileage.

So, how to be a more valuable witness to the miles invested — even when they are impossible to see?

Assume generously. The beginning for one is rarely the start for another.

Be specific in recognition. The best shout-outs include something that could only be said to that person — not the general public.

The luckiest among us have a handful of astute witnesses who are truly therapeutic in this sense. They reliably see us. Recognize them for that gift.

As for me, the “walker” in this case, I’m working on a better internal response to “great start.”

Miles traveled? I’m calling it a slow start.

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About Me

photo of Amy Swift Crosby

I’m a brand strategist and copy writer. I mostly work with partner agencies or directly with the leadership or founding team at a brand. My primary mission is to connect design and messaging solutions to business missions. I work with start-ups and Fortune 500 companies, across beauty, hospitality, wellness/fitness, CPG and retail. This blog reflects my personal writing and explores our humanity – often as it relates to work, space, time and language. You can review my portfolio here or connect with me here.

Photo - Andrew Stiles

The Brandsmiths Podcast



Brand Strategists Hilary Laffer and Amy Swift Crosby tackle business questions with candid, (mostly) serious and definitely unscripted workshopping sessions. Guests – from small business owners to CEOs, executive directors and founders – bring their head-scratchers, hunches and conundrums to Hilary, the owner of a boutique creative agency in Los Angeles, and Amy, a copy writer.

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