Last week, I learned that my entire department will be shuffled. A group of almost 1000 people who have worked together in the same organizational structure for years, will all be re-assigned. The aim is to grow us. The aim is to create better pathways for networking and collaboration to promote greater efficiency. For me, this news was initially met with a mix of skepticism about leadership’s true intentions and amusement that they’d rather focus on team organization than improving resources required to do our jobs and do them well.
I sat with the news and lamented its implications with colleagues. I listened as they vacillated between frustration and rage, sorrow and fear, excitement and anxiety. Some likened the impending change to the first day at a new school. I went to five elementary schools and two high schools. I worked in schools for years and still hate the first day of school. I couldn’t relate to anyone else’s feelings. I wasn’t opposed to the change, I just didn’t like it. But, I’ve not liked plenty of things in my life that turned out to be in my best interests, so when the petition to repeal the change began to circulate, I couldn’t support the cause. At the time, I didn’t know why, exactly. I felt for them. I listened as they catastrophized through potential implications and lofted questions that would likely never be answered to their liking. I hated the change for them because they seemed so hurt and confused by the announcement. I couldn’t hate the change for myself, though.
I sat on that feeling, trying to tease it out like a jumbled knot of hair. I thought of all the ways it could play out—good, bad, or otherwise. So far, I’d had one team lead who helped me set up systems and routines to do the job well, and I enjoyed working with the team that’d been built. I’d also had a team lead who tap danced on my good nerve at least once a week—intentionally or not, which forced me to reinforce how I do what I do and why it works. More than half of that team was indifferent to my very existence. Both situations presented unique challenges. Even though one was less likable, they both taught me about myself if only I was willing to learn. I valued that despite the discomfort it presented me.
In my last meeting about the change, my team lead asked me how I was feeling. By that time, that question had been asked ad nauseum, so I repeated the same answer because it hadn’t changed: I felt like a brown paper bag blowing in the breeze, praying not to become rain-soaked so I don’t get stuck on the bottom of someone’s shoe and tracked into unsavory places. I don’t know if they truly understood my intent. They said they did, but I know sometimes people say they get me because they don’t want me to feel alienated. Or, they don’t want to seem slow on the uptake.
They hadn’t asked me to explain, but I will here, for clarity’s sake: I know that I only have the structure I have because of the folds someone or something else made for me. I can only handle certain things, as a result. I can fold or I can stand. If I stand empty, or without carrying too much, I could go anywhere. But I don’t know which way the winds could blow me, if at all. If I fold, I can be taken anywhere, but I couldn’t hold or handle anything at all. It only makes sense to stand ready, packed lightly, and hope rain doesn’t come too fast or too much. Because that’s when I’ll forget the folds—even the ones that help me stand. That’s when it becomes easier to lose pieces of myself. That’s when I could end up stuck somewhere I don’t want or need to be. But, how’s that much different from where I am now? Doing what I’ve always done?
As I consider it, the systems and routines I have in place, while familiar and efficient, don’t always serve me. Most, I’ve learned, are seasonal, conditional, and circumstantial. But I’ve made them more exhaustible than they ever should have been. They don’t consistently push me toward being my best, most authentic self. They inspire a sense of consistency, which frames authenticity in a way that makes others believe I’m the same in most situations. My habits support my success; I appear good and reliable, which is better than most. While seemingly on brand, those systems and routines have kept me mostly stagnant, if I’m honest. They idle me in this neutral space that allows me to show up in all seasons even when I may not be fully present. They help me to be somewhat prescient. But only because the predictable is predicated upon sameness. And as long as I’m in the same place doing the same things with the same people, I’m checking the blocks. Even while I’m learning new things that may or may not be useful to life as I know it. That doesn’t mean I’m growing, but then I don’t really have to concern myself with growing pains. Consistently checking the blocks inspires comfort. And wins come without whim when comfort conspires with familiarity to mimic stability. And because imitation is the sincerest form of flattery mediocrity can pay to greatness, word to Oscar Wilde, stability aspires to keep me safe by keeping me small.
The systems and routines I’ve built to keep me afloat offer nothing more than the illusion of control. They amount to little more than an allusion to humble obedience despite the call for bold courage. By staying in line, I never learn what soaring to the front feels like—what failing forward looks like. I reduce my resilience by avoiding risk. My faith and work experience disconnect while somehow reflecting different sides of the same dwarf star. How foolish to have missed 100% of the shots I don’t take, and then applaud my low failure rate. How will I know greatness if all I do is settle for mediocrity or the semblance thereof? How do I find the space of celebration if all I seek is toleration? How can I grow without change? Can’t I stand more firm having known the folds all too well?
bloom + flow 