My Year of 6 Bosses: Surviving Organizational Change

I had 6 bosses in 2014, and I’m still at the same company, sitting in the same desk.

#1 had been my leader for 3 years when she told me that my team was being moved under #2, who left the company two months later. #3 created a role for me, then helped me move to a new team under the freshly hired #4, who then decided to hire #5, who decided I fit best under the leadership of #6.

Each leader brought his or her own personality, style, and goals for the team. As I tried to adapt and adjust, I sometimes felt like a raft being tossed about at sea.

Change is part of corporate life, and it’s not new to me. I've been the leader drafting the new org chart. I’ve written emails explaining organizational changes. I've been surprised by HR and shuttled into the conference room with the people who get to keep their jobs, and I've been taken to the other conference room and handed a severance package. This year's changes, in the grand scheme, are not that significant. I still sit in the same office. I work with many of the same colleagues. I didn't bother ordering new business cards.

But I’ll be honest: It was hard. As I look back, I'm trying what I consider the best approach for difficult things: Seek the wisdom in the experience, and pay it forward.

Find your North Star.

The North Star is how you navigate when you have nothing else. It’s what you’re working for, no matter whom you’re working for. Mine is: “I use language to make people’s professional experiences more meaningful.” It connects my skill (communication) with my target audience (professionals) and a sense of purpose (meaning). It’s broad enough to apply to a variety of roles, and has stayed constant even as the details of my job changed.

Write a professional summary.

I had never met Boss #2 when I found out he was going to be my leader. Before our first meeting, I made a one-page document summarizing my skills, experience, and interests, from the perspective of “What would a new leader want to know about me?” It was less formal than a résumé, and organized around how I might be able to contribute in the new team structure. I let him know that I’ve managed people, designed training, and led online communities. I shared my Myers-Briggs type and my StrengthsFinder traits. I told him that I value frequent feedback and that I love presenting to groups. His response: “This is so much more useful than a résumé.”

Try bold ideas.

When the very ground of your company is shifting, cracks open up. You can stare at the cracks, hoping they don’t swallow you, or you can throw seeds into them.

Two years ago, I started a project that ran out of steam when it didn’t get the necessary support from a few key groups. I still believed in my idea, so I brought it up again after the leadership changed. They loved it. The project is moving again, and I get to lead it as part of my new role.

Organizational changes can be a great time to suggest new ideas and better ways of doing things, because new leadership is not attached to the old ways.

See in systems.

Companies are living ecosystems just like ponds or cities; big changes in one area flow through the system and impact the whole population. The organizational changes that I went through were the downstream effects of our company’s growth and reaching the limits of our former structure.

Applying the lens of systems thinking is comforting, because it reminds me that what I’m experiencing is not unique, it’s a predictable pattern, and it’s much larger than me.

Take care of yourself.

During my year of 6 bosses, I gained 25 pounds. I didn’t sleep enough, and I compensated by keeping a Keurig under my desk. Wine was my only sure path to weekend relaxation.

When I found myself hiding behind strategically placed children on my Christmas cards, I joined a fitness class and started making changes to my nutrition and sleep. As my physical health improved, I felt increasingly optimistic and resilient. Everything is easier when you’re healthy, including work.

Show up and shine.

I wrote this note to myself and posted it above my computer. As I wrap up 2014, it feels good to be sitting at my desk and reading this note. I’m still here. I have a job in which I get paid to do work that I love. No matter what the future brings, these are two things that I will continue to do.

This wasn't in the course catalog: A lesson about feedback and failure

It was an embarrassment to the university, a sad omen for the future of corporate America. Those were perhaps the gentlest words that my professor used.

In the last year of my MBA program, I took a logistics seminar that felt easy. There were no quizzes or homework assignments. The lectures were loose and breezy, full of the professor's anecdotes about his consulting experiences. Our entire grade was based on two group projects, the first of which was to analyze a local company's supply chain.

My academic strategy involved waiting until the night before something was due, panicking, pulling an all-nighter, cranking out a few pages of stream-of-consciousness writing that I'd be too embarrassed to re-read later, and earning a B, or an A- if I was lucky.

My group included two guys like me: deadline driven (i.e., procrastinating), busy people with full-time jobs and a heavy courseload. One of them even had a kid. We split out the work: one guy would research shipping costs and times, I'd build a database to compare vendors and track the inventory, and our third teammate would work on our presentation. Divide and conquer. Easy. Done.

The day of our presentation, I arrived at class an hour early to meet my group, my data sheets still warm from the office printer, ready for that heroic feeling of delivering in the nick of time. My teammate said there was no PowerPoint, he had been busy, but he could wing it. He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. It was titled "Things to talk about" with a few messily scrawled bullet points below.

What followed was the longest class of my academic career. For 5 hours, we watched each group present their supply chain recommendations to the local business owners and the professor. Mostly, they were the type of lightweight, surface-skimming presentations I had seen at work, at conferences, and in other business classes. Only this time, instead of the polite acknowledgement I was used to, the professor ripped them to shreds. He asked detailed questions and watched the students falter. He told them their presentations were boring, shallow, obviously thrown together at the last minute.

We went last. I nervously rambled through my database, and it was obvious I didn't really understand the data. When my teammate produced "Things to talk about" and started rambling, the professor interrupted us.

"That was the stupidest thing I have ever heard," he said. "Sit down. Your paper had better be f*ing brilliant."

Paper? We were supposed to write a paper?

The professor apologized to the business owner for wasting her time, excused her, and delivered an impassioned, obscenity-laden admonishment to us. Several students, myself included, were in tears by the end. I jotted down every insult and swear word so I could prepare a letter to the dean the next morning.

My first reaction was outrage. How could he talk to his students like this? Where was his professionalism? If every group failed, then didn't he share some accountability? The assignment wasn't clearly written, there weren't enough checkpoints, and the lectures didn't tie to the project.

The other feeling, the one that took longer to surface, was my knowledge that he was right. We had blown off the assignment. As MBA students, we should have had the intelligence to dive deep into the subject matter, the discipline to produce high-quality work in a loosely structured course, and the leadership skills to collaborate and hold our teammates accountable.

He let us redo the assignment. I set aside the database and volunteered for the part of the project that aligned with my strengths: I wrote the paper. And I wrote the hell out of that thing. I compiled my teammates’ detailed research, I did multiple revisions, I sent it to my team a week before the due date, I even made my husband read it as an objective third party. He needed a glass of scotch to get through it - well-written or not, supply chain management just isn't that fun to read about.

On a Saturday morning, we took another shot at our presentation. We had collaborated on the slides and practiced beforehand. We stood in front of the class and confidently shared our knowledge. We answered the professor's tough questions. We got an A. We immediately got to work on our final project and got an A on that, too.

I don't remember much about logistics, but I remember exactly what it felt like to be called out for performing below my potential. It was humiliating and it was physically uncomfortable (I can pinpoint the spot in my abdomen where I felt the shame) and it motivated me to do and be better. If he had politely applauded our presentation and given us a B-, we might have turned up our effort a little bit for the final, but probably not by much.

My professor gave me a gift wrapped in a rough, ugly package. He showed me the power of honest, critical feedback.

The hardest part of receiving feedback is rising above our natural, defensive reaction to criticism. If the criticism is delivered poorly - as it was in my classroom - it's easy to demonize the person who delivered it and brush it off altogether. We frame it as an either/or proposition: He was rude, and therefore his criticism of me was unwarranted. More often, it's both/and: He was rude, and I did a poor job on the assignment.

I wish I could say that I never procrastinated another assignment, or that I became a maestro of group work and team projects. It's not true. My professor shined a harsh, glaring light on a piece of myself that I am still working on, 10 years later.

This, I learned: Applauding and accepting mediocre work perpetuates it. Giving honest feedback in a respectful way is a skill that every leader must hone. And, if a message is so hard to hear that it hits me in the stomach, I best sit up and pay attention – because there’s something valuable in there.

My LinkedIn Success Story

I achieved a career milestone yesterday, my first talk at a professional conference. It went well. I channeled my nervous energy into enthusiasm. I shared anecdotes and metaphors and slides with more pictures than words. I saw myself quoted on Twitter and even had a few people tell me mine was their favorite session of the day. You wouldn't have guessed I was a rookie, unless you saw me photographing my badge.

So, how did I achieve this milestone? Two words... Or maybe it's one. LinkedIn.

I started using LinkedIn in earnest five years ago, when I was looking for a job halfway across the country. I wrote a detailed profile, joined a few groups, and connected with some strangers whose interests aligned with mine. It was on LinkedIn that I first spotted the posting that I called "the big bank job."

Nowadays, pretty much everyone knows that LinkedIn is helpful for job hunters. What I didn't know is how valuable it can be when you're happily employed.

I work in Internal Communications. We're a small team at a big company, and it's easy to feel like outliers, writers among bankers. But every time I go to a conference, I remember that we're not unique. Every big company has people like us. We tend to be alike: English majors, ex-journalists, storytellers who found a creative outlet in a corporate landscape. On our best days, we help bank tellers and cube dwellers feel connected to the company's culture and values. We have strong opinions on Oxford commas, Sharepoint, and most-hated corporate buzzwords (yes, no, and utilize).

We're all trying to solve the same problems. Why shouldn't we learn from each other? It's a non-competitive space. Customers don't see our internal communications. Employees don't study our intranet, compare it to a competitor's, and then choose to take their talent to the company with the prettier corporate news page.

I started following LinkedIn groups because I wanted to know what other communicators were doing. I started posting in them because I saw a space to contribute.

That's how I met Jane, a French consultant researching digital workplaces. She asked interesting questions; I answered them. She asked to quote me in her report; I got the proper permissions from my employer and said Yes. She invited me to Washington, DC to speak at this conference with her.

Last night, sitting around a dinner table with Jane and a dozen like-minded professionals from around the world, I remembered that there's a unique energy to in-person networking, an honesty and connection that flows from a bottle of wine and a shared passion for the work you do. Those connections can take shape online. They start with openness, curiosity, and intellectual generosity.

I'm writing this blog so perhaps it will inspire someone else to put him or herself out there. If you ever feel isolated in your job, you're not. If you wonder whether you can grow your career without changing jobs, you can.

Here are my tips for finding authentic connections online: Show up. Join groups. Be more kind than necessary. Listen to people before you speak to them. Add value. If people around you are being self serving and dull, fill the space with what is needed and be the person you would like to meet. Always, always show gratitude for those who help you along the way.

How Social Media Has Made Me a Better Person

I'm more self-aware. I was an official social media junkie the moment my internal monologue switched into the third person: "Monica is contemplating her internal monologue." By trying to formulate tweets and status updates from my thoughts, I've gotten better at listening to myself, moment to moment.

I'm a better writer. I love writing for an audience, and social media makes it easy to practice and improve. Less time-consuming than a writers' workshop, online comments provide instant feedback. Trying to fit my thoughts into a 140-character headline reinforces clarity and conciseness.

I'm a better friend. In the past, I lost wonderful relationships because we simply lost touch. Maybe one of us moved, had children, or life got too busy. Thanks to Facebook, I can wish my friends a happy birthday, chat about TV shows, and even play Scrabble with them, without travel or rearranging of schedules. If I'm thinking of someone, I can tell them instantly. While there's still value in a handwritten card or a phone call, an online conversation is no less meaningful just because it's easy.

I archive my memories. Some people scrapbook; I write. The nurses laughed at me when I blogged in the delivery room the day my daughter was born, but not only did it keep my family and friends apprised in real-time, I'll always love re-reading that blog.

I'm more effective. This summer, I coordinated a cross-country move for two adults, a toddler, and an ill-tempered cat. It was a big project, with a cast of family and friends who lived in Minnesota and all along the way. Once I got the schedule planned out, I posted this Facebook note: Monica's Note and didn't have to worry about keeping track of who knew what, and who I needed to call. Everyone had the same information, and I knew it was accurate.

I'm a better parent. If you read my FB note, you'll see that I mention camping with Internet friends. Some of my closest friends are parents, mostly mothers, whom I met on a public website nearly 3 years ago, when we were all pregnant. Now that we have toddlers, we share parenting tips, philosophies, personal stories and jokes on a daily basis. We meet for camping trips, exchange Christmas gifts, and call each other on the phone. But most of our interactions are online, and we learn from each other constantly. It takes a village to raise a child, and my village is virtual.

I'm smarter. With over 300 Facebook friends, I hear a variety of perspectives and learn from each of them. My friends are diverse in age, background, and world view. I often "crowdsource" questions: Which movie should I see? What skills help a person be successful in social networking? I posted the second question as my status a couple months ago, and got a reply from a consultant on my friends list. We had attended the same webinar and "friended" each other after. We exchanged a few messages, learned we were working on similar things, and she shared a wealth of knowledge from her own projects. Although we barely knew each other, we connected and learned from one another.

I'm better at my job. I may be the only person in my department who's trying to roll out internal social media, but I'm not an island. All over the world, people are solving the same problems I am, facing the same challenges, using the same technology. We talk to each other on Linked In, on vendor websites, and anywhere we choose to create a community. I follow social media experts on Twitter, I subscribe to blogs, and I follow the trends in my favorite topics on del.icio.us. I don't have to wait or pay for conferences to find out what's happening in my industry; I just launch a browser window.

I'm happier. Social interaction is a basic human need, and it feels great to know that when I turn on my computer, there are dozens of people who would love to hear from me, and I have the time and ability to talk to all of them if I so choose. My life is richer thanks to the friends I have met online and those who I met in the "real" world but live only a click away.

Worth the Soup

I don't like sandwiches.

There is just something about them that turns me off. Maybe it's the amalgamation of ingredients and merging of flavors that I always felt should be distinct, like meat and vegetable matter. Maybe it's the presence of creamy and vinegary dressings, which just feel wrong. Maybe some forgotten childhood trauma stuck me with the culinary sophistication of a 7-year-old.

When I entered the corporate world, I was discreet about my anti-sandwich bias. As an ambitious young tax rep, I wanted to make the best possible impression. I didn't want to come across as ungrateful or a fault-finder, so when sandwiches were offered to me, I politely declined them.

For better or worse, our managers used food as motivational currency. We welcomed new team members with potlucks. If a team hit an important goal, the manager brought in lunch. If the accomplishment was really big, the team of honor went to a restaurant.

One spring day, the managers wanted to simultaneously thank and appreciate our entire department. The reward: Picnic lunches delivered to our desks by our supervisors, each customized with our favorite foods. A few days before, the managers passed out surveys inquiring into our food preferences.

I dutifully filled out my survey, mentioning my affection for Cheetos and anything chocolate. I stared at the line that said "Favorite sandwich." I didn't know what to write. Should I mention that I didn't like meat and bread to touch? My mother had always warned me that my "weird" food issues would embarrass me someday. I wrote, simply, on the form "No sandwich please. Thank you." I drew a little smiley face so the managers would know I wasn't sore about the subject.

Picnic day came, and happy chaos erupted as the supervisors tried to pass out 100 personalized lunches to 100 hungry tax reps. I was handed my thoughtfully decorated picnic basket, just a little bit lighter than everyone else's. An apple, a bag of Cheetos, and a Snickers bar - it seemed balanced enough for my tastes, and I went back to work.

I was sitting at my desk when I heard my manager sneak up behind me. She handed me a little paper bag and whispered "I wasn't supposed to do this, so please don't tell anybody." I opened the bag to find a cup of chicken noodle soup, a spoon, and some crackers.

There was something else in that paper bag. My boss had just acknowledged me as an individual, quirky and perhaps difficult, but valuable to her and the organization. She acknowledged that it was OK for me not to fit into the rubric of what worked for every other employee. She respected and honored my individuality, and she made an extra effort - going outside of the lunch purchasing policy - to make sure that I felt appreciated. That gesture made an indelible impresson on me. Eight years later, I can still taste the soup.

I crafted a long and effusive e-mail to her that afternoon, thanking her for the lunch, her generosity, and her consistent personal and professional support. I thanked her for always believing in me, having my back, and caring about me. I told her that she was the reason I wanted to grow my career and get into leadership. My message was long and rambling, but her response was concise and unforgettable:

"You are worth the soup."

I have never forgotten those words, and I have never forgotten her message. People are not numbers on a spreadsheet or answers on a form. The extra effort of getting to know a person and embracing his or her differences can change that person's life. I could buy 1000 sandwiches for 1000 people, and not have as much impact as a single cup of soup.