Amy Swift Crosby

If you don’t do it, you can bet on what will happen.
If you do, what will happen is anyone’s guess.

Big or small, grand or granular, regret is an effective litmus test for action. It’s natural to perseverate over certain decisions, but when put through the framework of regret, the question gets clearer.

So…

If you don’t do it, you won’t have to wonder if it was silly, boring, narcissistic or mediocre, because you won’t have done it, so you won’t have to mentally review it.

If you don’t do that thing you’re wondering if you should do, you can be sure that you didn’t use the wrong word, didn’t offend anyone, didn’t waste an opportunity, didn’t choose the lesser version, didn’t take a left when you should have gone right. You won’t have to second guess yourself.

And maybe the biggest vote for not doing it is that no one can judge, criticize, analyze, ignore or overlook what you did. No one can not like it, so you don’t have to wonder what was wrong with it; or if it was likable. You can also skip the part where you wince in the aftermath of doing it, wondering if that person whose approval matters so much saw it, liked it…or cared.

In fact, forget anyone liking it. They won’t. Because it won’t be there.

But know this.

If you don’t do it, you won’t have conversations with people about that thing you did, because they won’t have seen it, and you won’t have inspired them to think about it. They won’t get to consider or turn over an idea, and then talk with you about it. You’ll have (maybe) withheld the opportunity to bring them closer to their own purpose.

You won’t get to see, touch or feel that thing either, because it’s still somewhere inside you.

And you also won’t get to see what you can do when you do something. Because you didn’t.

Not doing it is a guarantee that none of these things will happen.

But if you do it, the possibilities are limitless.

You might get an email from a stranger telling you how much what you did changed her life.
You might uncover, reveal or surprise yourself with your own potential.
You might be recognized by someone you admire, whose work inspired you to do it.
You might finally wake up in the morning in peace, because you did it, and now you’ve done it.
You might stop wondering if you missed your chance, the boat, the trend, the time. Because you won’t have.
You might produce something you had no idea was inside you, and that thing will change everything that comes next.
With one road you know.
With the other, you don’t.

One is certain.
The other uncertain.

So. Should you do it?

“New Year, New You.” Cliched and virtually invisible in its ubiquity, this over-used — arguably useless — marketing message is still (to my amazement) in rotation.

Not to be a bummer, but…

A new year is not necessarily an opportunity for a new you.
A new year is the passing of time that, in this case, happens to be positioned as a hard reset from our unpredictable lives, that sells a manufactured opportunity to assess one’s circumstances.

And that’s why clichés exist — because we’re too lazy to think up an equally punchy way to say something more specific, meaningful and resonant.

What it hopes to say is, it’s a new year, so you can reinvent yourself, and leave behind all those habits, people and situations that have dragged you down — that make you lesser than you want to be in some way. It’s a new year, so the aspects of yourself that you can’t stand anymore, the projects that haven’t been completed, the relationship that hasn’t been found, the body that disappoints you, can now (almost instantaneously) become a thing of the past. And because it’s a new year, ridding yourself of everything that traps you in an eddy of discontent is, now, even more urgent than it was just days ago.

I don’t think this shortcut New Year’s message is going anywhere (unfortunately). And I’m not dissing New Year’s goals – which can yield extraordinary long-term results. But put it this way – it’s a false promise.

Even for those of us who set New Year’s goals and resolutions, the real reason “New Year, New you” falls flat is because we know we won’t be all that much different than we were last year — no matter what gym we join, diet we start or program we enroll in. A new “you” takes a while if it’s going to be genuinely different than today’s “you.”

It’s easy to understand why a message like this once struck a chord; a new version of ourselves is a viable idea to sell. After all, the intention of reinvention isn’t bad. When the message was first deployed, it was catchy — it makes a memorable pitch in an alliterative package.

But the reason it doesn’t work in version 100,000 is that apart from its overuse (deletable), we also intuitively know better. We know that our rate of change (or stagnation), is rarely instantaneous. Whether we want to admit it or not, we know that transformation happens in our minds first, and then everywhere else. We know that a steady drip, more than a cascade, is a more viable path to progress.

I’d argue that we (customers, followers, audience profiles) would like to be given a little more credit when it comes to messaging, and that “New Year, New You” is tone def even for those of us who actually are the “you’s” making incremental healthy changes all the time.

The reality is, New Year, Same You. Lots of potential in every second you’re on this planet is a better message. But it’s a terrible copy.

Better language would reflect this knowing — and probably earn our attention (and maybe even our dollars), if it had this consciousness behind it. If the marketing team started there, I have higher hopes that a meaningful idea could be generated. This would also deliver conversions and customers, because even at our most fatigued (which is these days), a message that speaks to our true potential, that sees us in our real human experience, will always have a better chance than a prepackaged one.

New Year.
Same you.
What are you going to do about it?

That could work.

What happens to our belief in the fantastical… once we know better?

This year, I found myself at a high-stakes pivot with my kids, smack dab in the crosshairs of a zero-gray area dilemma. Do I reveal or do I conceal? As a parent, you get used to the daily toggle between what you disclose (about life and death, headlines, anxieties,) and what you spin. These re-messaging strategies are a fundamental dimension of parenting, on most days.

But there is this one particular chapter of childhood that feels especially weighty. It’s that precarious transition from a world where fairies trade teeth for dollars and Santa Claus shimmies down 6-inch chimney pipes, to one where a steady stream of Amazon Prime deliveries trigger a Pavlovian response. Which is to say that for many, the first big secret of adulthood is: it was your mom and dad all along. 

This is that year for us.

After four failed mornings of Elf on the Shelf (which is to say the Elf failed to move from his previous location…#problematic), I had to come clean about who was actually moving him. Not totally unexpected, as the Santa and Easter Bunny conversations had also transpired this year, I thought it would be a slightly heartbreaking conversation. But it turned out to be a fairly practical one. They kind of already knew.

Still, it gave me pause, and not just because I tend to be our household’s chief magic maker, nor because of the mixed emotions stirred by a crossed threshold. What arose in me was a deep need to explain to my kids that while this theatrical version of magic was changing for them, the magic of another sort was just beginning.

Just yesterday it seems they were racing around the house searching high and low for Freddy the Elf, consumed by which crevice he’d chosen that day. Now, while only 8 and 10, our parental dramas around Freddy and “Santa” were met with eye rolls and finger quotation marks.

While I hope a pre-teen attitude isn’t settling in early, what I really hope is that they don’t lose touch with their belief in the good things they can’t see or touch — with magic as a spontaneous possibility. 

It got me thinking — what is it that makes magic possible? What are the conditions under which magic can make an unscheduled appearance? What is it that exists in kids naturally, that we lose, or give up, in exchange for adulthood?

The answer is naïveté; Unseen dimensions. Belief in things we can’t explain; Manifestations that have seemingly nothing to do with what we’ve achieved, but are simply the result of who we are.

But how often do we see smart, successful adults cultivating the qualities of gullibility and guilelessness?

A lot of us unknowingly (and preemptively) forfeit the ties to our dreams and hopes as a way to avoid disappointment. The desire to be all-knowing, un-flappable — the kind of person who won’t get fooled, manipulated or tricked — becomes paramount to our security. We adopt an unspoken attitude of defensiveness as a shield to life’s right hooks, a way to curtail lingering grief about our un-realized destinies, or what may just not be possible for us. But in striking this pose, I suspect we sacrifice something along the way, which is neither intellectual, nor analytical, nor even spiritual, actually – it’s belief.

Magic can’t find a seat at a table filled with doubt. By definition, one has to live as though she doesn’t know everything, can’t explain it all, and doesn’t want to be privy to what’s around every corner. For as much beef as we have with uncertainty and all its sharp elbows, when it comes to wishing for more magic, there’s no alternative. It has to come out of left field to even qualify as magic.

Not to be confused with the magical, which might be a sunset on the drive home, a song that moves emotion — a bite of something sublime – these sensory high notes are legitimately magical and should be labeled as such — as any conscious person with an ounce of gratitude for life can appreciate.

But magic as a concept seems like something you can’t plan or force…a gift that by definition has to be unbeknownst to you to be certified as magic. Which might call for us to adopt a mindset that encourages surrendering to the unknown in order to experience it. Maybe we could go against all our mature instincts and assume a position much like sleeping with our mouths open, vulnerable to anyone watching, so that by removing our layers, a surprising, maybe even forgotten dream – finds its way in.

This year’s Elf fail marked the end of certain childhood myths, which comes with some melancholy for me. On one hand, I feel relieved to stop setting alarms before bed to move the beanbag man, throwing up roadblocks to delay entrance into a room with dead giveaways. On the other, I’m inspired to discover new magical threads in the fabric of life and make magic a priority, to be noticed — and not exclusive to a season.

I explained to my girls that although they now knew the truth about some imaginary characters they thought were real, I also reassured them that there were plenty of wonderful surprises that would still mystify them throughout their lives. In fact, I said that the really mind blowing magic is all the good things that will seem to come out of nowhere — yet seem totally right, as familiar as their own fingerprint.

With surprise and awe, I said, you’ll marvel at these surprises, and wonder what you had to do with having them. You’ll discover answers to some, but find no explanation for others. Just being who you are set a butterfly effect into motion — which resulted in a much-needed presence… whatever “it” is.

The trick is not to doubt the goodness — not to become too smart to believe in what isn’t obvious or reasonable. Just because it’s no longer manufactured, does not mean it can be explained.

Trading pragmatism for fairy dust wasn’t the parenting moment I thought I’d have, but turns out – it’s what I want to teach them most.

Do the weight of certain words change according to the times? In 2018, might we need to reset our relationship to ideas that at one time, might have seemed empowering?

I recently came across a lecture series, created and hosted by a major fashion retailer in New York City, designed to get the attention of someone exactly like me.

The series was called “Fearless Women.”

F E A R L E S S.

Is this what times like these call for? Having no fear?

This past week, as Dr. Christine Blasey Ford began her congressional testimony, the word she used to describe her reluctant recounting of traumatic personal events was “terrified.” She’s not the first to use that word. But what marketers choose pluck from #metoo and movements giving voice to previously silenced audiences, though earnest, feels tone def. The impulse to package fearlessness doesn’t actually make fear go away.

Even before last week’s stunning news cycle, I found myself questioning the thinking behind a message like “Fearless Women.” The word is featured prominently next to entrepreneurs on the cover of People, in GOOP and throughout likeable memes on Instagram. I’m wondering if the teams who voted for “fearless” have ever started something from scratch, pressed send on a piece of art, spoke up when it was easier to be quiet, or stepped into the ring when the sitting on the bleachers was more comfortable? If they had, they might not have imposed the idea of fearlessness on anyone.

Unspoken traumas aside, the intended audience is presumed to be creative, entrepreneurial, autonomous, powerful, self-made women who, as risk-takers, already have a close and consistent relationship with fear. Is this (seemingly blatant) truth lost on those who’d like to get credit for supporting a movement? Here’s where what sounds good in copy is in danger of overshadowing the real meaning of the call to action.

It’s no secret that messaging and campaigns organized around a cultural zeitgeist are tactic #1 for raising visibility for brands. It’s a strategy that creates a halo effect around companies that want to be viewed as relevant and empathetic — more human. Women, and our ancillary interests and concerns, are predictable breadcrumbs for a fashion retailer. So at first glance, women and fearlessness may seem like a match made in marketing heaven. But is “no fear” really what the speakers at this event — visionary, pioneering, bold women — have in common? Do they identify with fearlessness, or are they being asked to organize their stories around a narrative of fearlessness because the retailer has decided that fearless is this season’s must-have accessory?

On many an occasion, when interviewing people who have achieved some degree of fame or public recognition, I have noted a consistent sentiment. It was rarely, if ever, fearlessness, but rather resilience, in spite of fear, that pushed them to put one foot in front of the other. To layer fearlessness over an already unrealistic blueprint of what it takes to be great feels like a misunderstanding at the highest levels of an organization.

When decision makers forget their humanity, they miss the most obvious truths. We actually don’t want to buy fearlessness, even when we’re terrified.

But here’s what we do want.

We want to know she almost didn’t do it.
We want to know she doubted and cringed and stopped and started — had awful, uncomfortable conversations, and got up again the next day to do it again.
More than stoicism or fearlessness, we want to know how she faltered and won, then lost and then tried again.
This is the version that speaks to us.
But it’s a less tidy marketing package.

Since this retailer is known for its exceptional shoe collection, might I suggest a series called, “A walk in my shoes: Blisters, Bunions and Finish Lines.” It would accomplish the same thing — but is a promise that can be kept. It gives everyone the space in which to tell her story — as she really sees it — which hopefully was the company’s original intent.

We don’t slay our dragons as much as learn to tame them. Let’s not hold up “fearless” as a necessary prerequisite to success, or an ingredient for achievement or worth. Few of us steps outside her comfort zone fearlessly. Propagating a narrative that says she should is yet another box we’ll ultimately have to crawl out of.

Summer, for many of us, impacts productivity, disrupts established processes and changes the pace we strive to hit the rest of the months of the year. More than any of the other seasons, it forces us to make tradeoffs, to negotiate for the summer pleasures that can only be done during these magical months. For me, there’s always something that ‘has to give’ to make room for everything else I want to savor.

Hot days are the reason to power down early, to cancel meetings; days off are legitimate needs more than they are guilty pleasures. Deadlines are accommodated, whereas new initiatives — and the requisite heavy lifting — those, we wave off to fall.

In July and August, we forgive erratic, work-disrupting kids’ schedules and colleagues’ inconvenient vacation notices because, for this fleeting period, work can wait. There’s an unspoken, collective agreement that because summer is a rare window of time, all is forgiven. It provides the ultimate “hard out,” a season that demands we milk every minute, without judgment.

But the transitional days between the end of August and early September feel less clear. Cues that point to more prescribed rhythms compete with our lingering desires to be spontaneous and open-ended. These weeks have us in a collective no-man’s land of bumpy starts, even for those of us ready and wanting of more structure. It’s easy to feel (temporarily) unmoored as expectations shift.

This was especially true for me as I sat down to write one recent morning, the first uninterrupted personal work day in (many) weeks. In spite of the numerous messaging projects I’ve completed for others this summer (it’s not as though I didn’t work), I found myself undone. I’d even go as far as to say panicked – by a palpable sense of incongruence. Was it my unusually quiet house, with kids now back in school? Was it an over-stuffed in-box, full of unanswered emails? Maybe.

But if I’m honest, the unexpected strangeness hit me as I began this blog entry. Sentences that usually come so easily felt rusty and punishing. After a six-week hiatus from personal writing — a self-imposed pause intended to uncover new perspectives and be present to other areas of my life — the exercise of unearthing clear dialogue, in this format, was sharply awkward.

I can’t tell you that a flash of regret didn’t seize me, because it did.

Please tell me you’re having a similarly clumsy transition.

Should I have been here, at my keyboard, so as not to lose all the momentum that suddenly appears to have evaporated? 

Is the consequence of enjoying more summer —time, people, experiences — the loss of something else — art, progress, life’s work?

(This is long, but if this sensation is at all familiar, stay with me.)

As I thought back to why I chose to break the status quo, I was reminded of how fatigued I’d felt last spring, bored by the inescapable expressions of my own stirrings. Have you ever tired of your own output? I remember craving a new way to relate to the observations that have defined my work, a desire to evolve in some way. Maybe this acute, uninspired slump was the toll to be paid on the road to creative rehab. 

But that narrative feels too punitive. Why is the nature of internal dialogue so sacrificial? Why is enjoying our lives — themselves works of art — often characterized as hedonistic? Could the real price of mental rest — especially because what was gained was both novel and meaningful — be thought of as walking down a path without footprints? Could we gently remind ourselves that we have not undone hard fought achievements but are simply in the realm of the unfamiliar?

Transitions don’t always appear productive, on the outside.
Nor are they very comfortable, on the inside.
But they are, quite often, the precursor to the new story we’ve asked for.

I’m not sure any of us have any clue to what we’ve released or acquired until we get back into relationship with it. It’s in the doing that we see what percolated and grew while we stepped away from it, particularly for those of us who create something…from nothing.

Sometimes the world invites us to a conversation we can’t refuse, and the roar of a wonderful, important, or worthwhile force takes over. But it doesn’t mean whatever has gone quiet, set aside for rest or recalibration, isn’t making its own magic while you’re not watching.

I get the sense that a new path is waiting, once my feet hit the ground. It may be overgrown, thorny and even a little formidable, looking at it right now. But trusting that there’s a way through it, that the part of me that churns and moves isn’t so much dormant but unexplored, is one reassurance that helped me take this first step.

How are you, friend?