Month: July 2020

I think the answer is yes. But I’m not confident. Perhaps you, dear reader, can help?

 

Here’s the background: last week, I took my kids and dog to a swimming hole about 50 miles east of Seattle.

 

When we parked and got out of the car, the air crackled with electricity. We were right under high-voltage power lines.

 

Really high voltage power lines, as it turned out: 115 kV (kilovolts), a thousand times more than what’s in our houses.

 

But I didn’t think much about it.

 

We hung out for a couple of hours, playing in the water and digging in the sand. (We didn’t actually swim; it was too cold for that!)

 

As I loaded my kiddos into the car, I noticed that the car had an electrical charge. When I touched the metal post that the door latches on to (which is, presumably, connected to the frame itself), I could feel the current running through me… it was eerie.

 

A little disconcerting, but also interesting. I thought enough about it to google it right then and there.

 

I found a few message boards with farmers writing about equipment dying under power lines. But others called it apocryphal.

 

I found a fancy pamphlet from a nearby power authority about safely living and working under power lines. Take a look:

Shocks are caused by a voltage induced from the power line into the nearby metallic objects….

The severity of nuisance shocks can vary in sensation from something similar to a shock you might receive when you cross a carpet and then touch a door knob to touching the spark-plug ignition wires on your lawnmower or car. The nuisance shock, however, would be continuous as long as you are touching the metallic object. Such objects include vehicles, fences, metal buildings or roofs and irrigation systems that are near the line or parallel the line for some distance.

 

That pretty much described my situation to a T.

 

As current flows through the power lines, it generates a magnetic field. That magnetic field changes as the current changes (as more or less power is carried in the lines). It’s that changing magnetic field that generated a corresponding electrical field in my car. It’s physics 15B (or at least it was when I was an undergrad).

 

Mystery solved to my satisfaction, we drove back to Seattle.

 

But wait, there’s more….

 

Two days later, the battery light in my car began to flicker as I drove home from the park. The next day, the car died right after I started it.

 

The weird confluence of circumstances made me feel like I was on Car Talk. My guess was that there was something wrong with the charging system.

 

I asked my co-parent to give me a jump; she did and stuck around for a half hour, so my battery could charge. Right afterward, I drove to the shop and arrived with a bit of energy to spare, as the car wouldn’t start for the mechanic when he tried to drive it into the bay.

 

Sure enough, they had to replace the alternator (which is responsible for charging the battery).

 

But when I proposed my theory to the mechanic, he looked at me like I was crazy, saying “I’ve never heard of something like that happening.”

 

Am I crazy?

 

The truth is, I don’t know.

 

In my mental model, my explanation is, of course, right!

 

But when I hold wild beliefs, I love to return to one of my favorite tools, the Ladder of Inference.

 

I’ve written about the ladder in earlier posts. It’s a tool to help us check our understanding with ourselves and others.

 

It moves the process of evaluating our beliefs from an implicit one to an explicit one.

 

In this case, let’s see what I did:

 

First, I already selected the data to the event that is salient to me: parking under the power lines. I didn’t share other things, like the fact that I jumped someone else’s car a few days before I parked under the power lines. There certainly could have been events that I didn’t know about (such as internal wear on the alternator) that played a role. And, during my internet “research,” I spent more time engaging with stories that supported my theory (a farmer describing a drained battery after parking beneath a powerline) than those that didn’t (posts declaring that “I’ve never seen anything like that.”).

 

There wasn’t a lot of paraphrasing, because I was dealing with fairly binary things (battery drains) rather than with the nuance of human communication. But there were some:

• The rawest “output” data I have is that the battery light came on while I was driving and then, the next day, the car didn’t start. I did a little paraphrasing from those observations to “There’s some kind of problem with the electrical system.”

• I also looked for other data to support (or debunk) my theory. I drove approximately 60 miles after parking under the power lines before my car died; Quora says that cars can drive 50 to 100 miles without an alternator.

• I also paraphrased data from other sources, like the manual from the power company.

 

Beyond that, I named what happened. I have a mental model of how the car’s electrical system works, so I further extrapolated to: “There’s a problem with the charging system.”

 

In all this, I applied some context: namely, my training in physics, engineering, and aviation. That’s where I got my mental model of the car’s electrical system. My mental model also makes it easy (perhaps too easy?) for me to see a connection between the power lines and the dead alternator.

 

With that context comes my explanation: when I parked the car under the power lines, it affected my electrical system.

 

So, I decided a couple of things. I decided not to ask just for a jump but instead to ask for 30 minutes of charging from another car. And I decided to take the car into the shop where, indeed, they found a bad alternator.

 

Now, of course, almost none of these decisions were explicit. I didn’t write down any steps; I quickly and implicitly formed beliefs — among them the totally unsubstantiated conclusion that parking below the high voltage power lines fried my alternator.

 

That’s the value of the Ladder of Inference, though. Suppose my mechanic and I really needed to come to some kind of agreement. By both of us making our thinking explicit at each rung of the ladder, we’d be more likely to have a productive conversation. “Here is the data that I am seeing. What are you seeing?”

 

By making our beliefs explicit as we move up the ladder, we can slowly build a shared mental model, one that drives alignment and common understanding. And when we find disagreements along the way, we can do more research and devise little tests to see if we can suss out which person’s perspective is more likely to match reality.

 

Here’s an exercise: take something that’s come up for you recently — at work or at home. A disagreement with a colleague or family member, say, or a tough decision at work.

 

See if you can use the ladder to make the climb to your beliefs (and your decision) explicit.

 

Let me know what you find.

 

P.S. Ultimately, of course, the mechanic wins either way by collecting my $723 for fixing the alternator.

 

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3 ways to get ahead of risk

 

One of the first big consulting projects my firm worked on looked at how Hurricane Sandy affected New York City and its surroundings.

 

The problems that Sandy caused were remarkably complex and intertwined — from gas shortages and closed hospitals to transit systems destroyed by flooding.

 

While the city and surrounding states could respond effectively to isolated challenges (getting food and water to people whose homes had been damaged, for example), most solutions required multiple things to go right at the same time.

 

Power restoration, for instance, required that linemen be dispatched to the right place, but clearing debris needed to be coordinated and done first. Often, that didn’t happen, so linemen drove to site after site without actually being able to turn the electricity back on.

 

The same kinds of catch-22s contributed to fuel shortages, too. Mass transit failures and infrastructure problems (a shutdown pipeline, offline refineries) affected the workers tasked with restoring operations.

 

Those are just two examples. Across the region, there were many system problems at play.

 

What struck me then (and has stayed with me) is the gap between a tactical response and the ability to meet an overall strategic objective.

 

We are, in broad strokes, pretty good at tactical responses. Linemen restore power. Workers operate refineries. Doctors intubate patients. The people who do these things practice them, sometimes every day.

 

But solving big strategic problems requires us to work across boundaries — team, division, organization, and even governmental boundaries.

 

And boundaries are a big source of misunderstanding, sloppy thinking, and, therefore, risk — something that shows up a lot in András and my research.

 

Here are three things I think about to try and get ahead of these kinds of risks on a project.

 

1. Ask how many things need to go right

 

When I’m working with leaders, one of the questions I routinely ask is “How many things need to go right for this project to succeed?”

 

It’s a simple question, but it can steer your attention to the challenges caused by complexity.

 

2. Slow it down

 

Readers of Meltdown will know that tight coupling exacerbates complexity. Tight coupling is a lack of slack in the system, a lack of ability to respond to problems.

 

Sometimes tight coupling is driven by reality — needing to get power restored as quickly as possible after a hurricane is an example.

 

If that’s the case, acknowledge it and rank your priorities. What will you work on first? What solutions will help you make the most progress?

 

But, many times, tight coupling is imposed by pressure coming from somewhere, often a senior leader in the organization. That pressure can translate to stress and tension in our work with other groups. As a result, we can start a drive toward solutions before we even let our partners know that there’s a challenge to think about.

 

Instead, remember that different groups will start at different places. People require space to understand the problem and think creatively. So, as much as you can, slow things down to allow for divergent thinking.

 

3. Practice

 

Some groups practice with simulations — running wargames that incorporate people from other organizations. And, while these can be useful, they have a lot of drawbacks. They interrupt normal work. They’re usually expensive. And they’re necessarily limited by the imaginations of the people who run them.

 

Instead, practice by working on bite-sized chunks of a bigger problem. Do you want to solve a complex problem? First, work with a group on a less ambitious challenge — or to solve a complex problem in one team or facility.

 

Even if the solution isn’t transformational, it will both make things better and build your problem-solving capacity. That experience can then be used to learn and guide the process moving forward.

 

— —

 

Teams often occupy the space between day-to-day tactics and overall strategy. How do you invest in yours?

 

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The value of outsiders and coaching at work and in life

 

Meltdown, as my regular readers will know, is about how we can understand and manage complexity in a different way.

 

When my coauthor András and I set out to write the book, we dug into failures like nuclear meltdowns and oil spills.

 

And, in studying these, we found ways for leaders to fundamentally change how they run their organizations.

 

In the book, we write about the power of outsiders to uncover and understand problems — from the truck driver who discovered that the Washington State Department of Corrections was releasing thousands of prisoners early to the regulators who unraveled the Volkswagen Dieselgate scandal.

 

When I’m consulting, being an outsider is part of my value. I see what my clients can’t necessarily see: the water in which they swim. I often think of how we can create outsiders within a client’s organization, too: roles that can continue the practice of gentle challenge and discovery.

 

Beyond studying big organizations, András and I also discovered ways that complexity affects all of us on a day-to-day basis — and strategies that can help shift our behavior.

 

Indeed, individuals also harness outsiders — by talking with a trusted friend or engaging a coach. In my experience, coaches can be transformational, enabling progress and growth in a way that is both more easeful and effective.

 

Coaches help us stay accountable.

 

This spring, I trained for a half-marathon. I had a coach — sort of. I used an audio program recorded by running coach Katie Barrett. Katie did a few things for me (and, because she’s coaching at scale, the thousands of others who subscribe to her prerecorded programs):

• She established a workout schedule and cadence that took thinking off the table and kept me showing up for runs.

• She challenged me. Even though Katie was just a voice in my ear, when she told me to push and run faster, I did! (We humans are strange, right?)

 

Coaches also provide a space for us to shift our perspective.

 

When I coach business owners and executives, I help them make sense of their current situations. We think about why things are the way they are and dig into the stories that they tell themselves.

 

Those stories are often useful approximations that help us situate ourselves in the world. But they’re also the water that we swim in. But they’re just mental models and, many times, they constrain us in ways that we don’t fully see. Helping clients get curious about their stories is one of the great joys of the work that I do. That curiosity helps us see that it’s the stories themselves that create our barriers.

 

Simply put, curiosity is one of the most powerful forces for transformational change that I have ever seen at work.

 

What about you? Has a coach helped you see your stories and move past one of your barriers?

 

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5 keys to giving effective feedback

 

When I worked as a derivatives trader, I remember getting some feedback about my decision-making. During a year-end review, one of my bosses told me that he thought I could improve my judgment.

 

While parts of me were sad, angry, and surprised, a big part of me was really excited to learn what I could do better. So, I asked!

 

Here’s how I remember our conversation.

 

Me: Wow… OK, thanks for letting me know. I’d love to improve. Do you have an example of a situation where I exercised poor judgment?

 

Boss: Well… not really. I can’t think of anything.

 

Me: …

 

Boss: Actually, there was a time a few months ago where <thing> happened in <this trade>.

 

Me: Hmm… What could I have done differently?

 

Boss: …

 

Me: …

 

Boss: I don’t remember the specifics.

 

Dear reader, do you see the problem? There were definitely aspects of whatever situation that I had missed. But, with a delay of several months and no specifics, it was impossible for me to learn and improve.

 

Unfortunately, that’s how many of us give (and receive) feedback in our professional lives. Feedback occurs long after the event that caused it. It’s vague and it doesn’t help people learn.

 

It’s true that many of us weren’t taught to give good feedback. But there’s often another reason we’re reluctant:

 

We’re afraid of feeling uncomfortable. 

 

Boy, does that make sense… feeling uncomfortable is, well, uncomfortable.

 

It’s so much easier, in the moment, to dodge a tough conversation. But, when we do that, we’re robbing others (and ourselves!) of learning.

 

Part of the discomfort comes, I think, from a deep yearning for control. We want to be in control of what others think about us. It can be as simple as wanting to be liked.

 

We also want to be in control of our environment. If we give someone feedback, we take a risk. The ball is now in their court, and they may not improve.

 

If we stay silent—well, at least we’ll know the weaknesses of those around us. That’s controllable.

 

But real growth comes from letting go of control.

 

It’s recognizing that even the way you give feedback is a growth opportunity. You may not do the best job, but, with feedback about your feedback, you can improve.

 

Great feedback is rooted in the ability to hold everyone accountable for their decisions and mistakes—getting them to explain what they saw, what they thought, and why they made the decisions they did. When you start with the assumption that everyone shows up to do a good job, the outcome is learning for everyone.

 

Without further ado, here are the five C’s of great feedback:

• Contemporaneous: You give feedback soon after a relevant event.

• Contextual: Your feedback describes the broader situation, like why you see something as important in the first place.

• Concrete: You talk about what you saw, heard, or noticed, and you talk about the specific things that resulted.

• Curious and conversational: Feedback is a dialogue where you genuinely try and understand the other person’s perspective.

• Constructive: You have a specific action, path, or exploration that you’d like the recipient to try.

 

Finally, don’t buy (let alone eat!) the sh*t sandwich: the idea that negative feedback should be sandwiched between loaves of great things.

 

Instead, give lots of positive feedback, too! When you see something that someone did well, approach it in the same way. That way, people know what you like about what they’ve done. Positive feedback should outnumber corrective feedback.

 

Regular readers will see that all of this is designed to shift performance by injecting data into everyday work—transforming wicked, low-feedback environments into kind ones.

 

When you give good feedback, you’re likely to receive it in return—from your bosses and the folks who report to you. You learn. They learn. Your team and company learns.

 

Everybody wins.

 

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Updating a standard business metaphor

 

Fans of Jim Collins’s book Good to Great will recognize the concept of “First Who, Then What.” Take the example of Wells Fargo (well, the Wells Fargo of the 1980s, long before the inglorious fake account scandals that have plagued the modern-day bank). Instead of generating a grand strategy and getting alignment, CEO Dick Cooley hired talented executives, sometimes without having a specific role for them in mind. The idea being that we need to have talented people “on the bus” before we even set off on our journey. The right people, Collins argued, will be flexible enough to change and adapt as the destination changes.

 

Today, the metaphor is a bit dated. Not that we don’t need good people, but that we don’t want them on a bus!

 

A bus has one driver and a bunch of passengers. It has one direction and not much agility.

 

What we really need are the right people on the sailboat, which doesn’t go anywhere without people working together.

 

You need a captain, who is ultimately responsible for the safety and direction of the entire voyage. But you also need people that can read maps, understand weather and tides — to both watch out for risks and notice opportunities for particularly speedy progress.

 

You need someone who will nourish the crew (in spirit and body). You need someone who understands the technical aspects of the boat and crew members who know how to work the lines and the sheets.

 

And even when the destination is known, sailboats change direction all the time in order to reach it. All of this rings much more true to me than having a bunch of folks just sitting on a bus.

 

As a coach, I often help my clients get the right folks on their sailboats. That might mean making sure they have a skilled team working in their business, which can include the hard task of counseling underperforming employees out.

 

But I also like the sailboat metaphor as a lens on us as individuals.

 

We all have a unique combination of talents. We’ve ideally got a well-balanced sense of self that moves us forward with purpose. We’ve got parts of ourselves that are alert to both risks and opportunities. We’ve got skills, too: technical and relational. And hopefully, we have a way of taking care of ourselves and others and expressing love.

 

I love to help clients see all these aspects of themselves at work. Though there may be facets of ourselves that we want to change (I, for example, often wish that I could be more patient), we have to make friends with those parts because they often contain our gifts — my impatience stems from thinking and moving fast. The key is to be choiceful about how we express these things.

 

One of my favorite views on this comes from the Buddhist writer and teacher Pema Chödrön.

The problem is that the desire to change is fundamentally a form of aggression toward yourself. The other problem is that our hangups, unfortunately or fortunately, contain our wealth. Our neurosis and our wisdom are made out of the same material. If you throw out your neurosis, you also throw out your wisdom.

 

What aspects of yourself can you see as both a neurosis and a superpower?

 

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