Nice Work: Refusing despair

Hi there,

Late last Tuesday night, I boarded a flight from Philly to London. It felt more than a little strange: instead of spending the evening hitting refresh and watching the electoral map change colors, I spent it extremely offline: 40,000 feet in the air, noise-canceling headphones on, crashing out on a cocktail of Benadryl and melatonin while a bad romcom played in the background.

I still didn’t manage to block out the election. Around 2 am I woke up to a glimpse of red on the screen of the woman across the aisle from me, and I knew immediately what it meant. I wasn’t surprised—not like last time, at least. I just felt instantly deflated. Like every cell of my body was slowly disintegrating into the faux-leather seat under me. It wasn’t till I stood next to a woman sobbing on the shuttle bus between terminals that I felt the sadness course through my body.

I’m not naive enough to think that everything would have been fine if I’d seen a strip of blue on 10E’s screen that night. I want a better world than either of America’s two big parties seem willing to fight for. But I also know that this incoming administration will cause more harm to more people. I know it will cause harm to people I care about.

And yet. And yet. As I spent the week after the election in Munich—speaking at a conference, visiting my family, filling up on Weissbier and Knödel—I also knew something else: I’m more prepared than I’ve ever been.

Back in 2016, I felt devastated. I remember crying on the street the day after, embarrassingly hung over, totally unsure what to do or where to start. I didn’t know how to cope with the fear, the uncertainty, the knowledge that so many people around me could vote for so much hate and petty cruelty.

Eight years later, I’ve learned a lot about accepting reality—not numbing it out, not avoiding it, not insisting this is not who we are as a nation. I’ve learned how to be gentler with myself when I feel afraid and overwhelmed—to name and acknowledge those feelings, but not let them run the show. I’ve learned how to be a better listener, a better friend, and a better leader.

Most of all, I’ve learned how to look honestly at the enormity of the problems in front of us without succumbing to hopelessness. I’ve learned to ask myself in those moments not if I have power, but rather: Where do I have power?

It’s a subtle shift in syntax, but one that has meant everything to me. Because when I ask myself if I have power, the easiest answer is: no. I can’t make this administration disappear, I can’t make the world safe for my trans friends, I can’t even make my aunt stop joining right-wing conspiracy theory groups on Telegram. But when I ask myself where I have power, the list is long. I have an audience. I have a small team. I have enough money to live comfortably and save for retirement—something too few of us have. Last week, I had a literal stage to stand on.

So what will I do with that power? What choices will I make with it? Those are the questions I’m asking myself now. It doesn’t mean the answers are easy. The problems are still so much bigger than my power. But asking them gives me grounding. It keeps me out of panic. It’s my antidote to despair.

So today I want to ask you—wherever you are, whatever’s making you lose sleep right now: Where do you have power?

Maybe you’re a manager or senior leader, and you have the power to shape policy or set norms.

Maybe you’re a well-paid tech worker—someone whose industry might be feeling unstable, but whose earnings still outpace most others’—and you have the power to forgo some dinners out or online shopping in service of sending a bit more cash to people much more vulnerable right now.

Maybe you’re like my friends who are doubling down on their creative practices—recommitting to making art, to generative, joyful work, in a world that sometimes feels intent on draining us dry.

Maybe you don’t know right now. That’s OK, too. There will be lots of opportunities to figure that out. But wherever you find your power, and whatever you decide to do with it, know this: All of it matters. Even when it doesn’t feel like enough.

Treating each other humanely, showing up for each other, creating spaces where people feel safe and valued. Refusing to let capitalism define your self-worth, refusing to believe that you and your needs and your boundaries don’t matter, refusing to see life as a zero-sum game where someone else has to lose in order for you to succeed.

It all matters. It will always matter.

—Sara

Upcoming programs

If there were ever a time to double-down on being a more humane, compassionate manager, this is it.

Jen is running two sessions of the Manager’s Playbook this winter: one in December timed for US and European timezones, and one in January timed to be accessible to folks in APAC.

This program is manager training, yes—you’ll walk away feeling more equipped to handle everything from calibration conversations to team conflict. But it’s also bigger than that. It’s skills for being a more supportive human, in a more sustainable way. You’ll learn how to show up for people without taking on their problems as your own. You’ll learn ways to start having the hard conversations you know you should have—but somehow keep avoiding. You’ll learn more about who you are and what you need to do to stay grounded in tough moments.

And you just might become the best boss someone’s ever had in the process.

If you’re into it, join us. Get all the details here, or hit reply if you have questions.

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