#36: The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

Harnessing the power of shared purpose to ignite your projects and passions.

Free & paid subscribers receive the exact same weekly content in their inboxes every Saturday morning. (The newsletter, vulnerable, personal, embarrassing stories, book recommendations, and whatever gifs have made me giggle.)

Considering upgrading to help myself and my editor Leona dedicate more time to The Luminist and support our current non-profit of choice: Experience Camps for grieving kids.

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“When two or more are gathered in my name…” 

is maybe a weird way to start a (mostly) secular newsletter, but hear me out.

It’s a paraphrase of a Bible verse, but I think it’s more than that. It’s a reflection of the power of community, of connection, of collaboration, of accountability, of communal action. The unique force that is created between people, around people, within people who gather for a common reason…

I spent 15 hours pounding my head against a post (the written kind) this past weekend that I’m not sure will ever see the light of your inbox. Sunday night I sent my beloved editor Leona a hail-mary email, “Can you do anything with this??”

She took it and ran, just not in the direction I was expecting. After promising me that we would definitely, no matter what, have a post for you Saturday (you’re reading it now!), she asked me what I really wanted to say this week to you, dear reader.

What was “bright & alive for me” that I wanted you to understand. 

Not what I thought would land well or rate well for SEO or get LinkedIn traction. Rather, what I felt called to speak next into our ongoing conversation. 

I bypassed my logical, results-driven, solution-oriented brain (luckily it was early morning so it was still waking up), pulled my trusted bedside notebook and purple pen into my lap, and had this down in two minutes flat:

Thank you. 

Thank you for making the stakes high. Thank you for pushing me to my limit out of my desire to make something meaningful for you — and for the world. Thank you for making me love this work even though it is butt-hard. Thank you for making all of it, every minute of this, worth it.

Thank you for sending me texts, emails, and commenting on the impact of specific posts, and how they resonate with you. Thank you for giving me more ideas to talk about with each one. Thank you for forcing me to take all my scribbles and ideas and make something out of them. Thank you for letting me share my work so it can become our work. 

Thank you for introducing me to my creativity, to helping me excavate it, develop it, communicate big things in impactful ways with it. Thank you for giving me a chance to play with words — which have always been my home, my favorite place to be, my security blanket and salve. 

Thank you for filling some of the Mike-shaped hole.

Thank you for motivating me to dig deeper to understand my experience so I can integrate it… then share it. 

Thank you for saying “I think you found your calling.” Thank you for helping me know I will still have meaning and purpose when my nest is empty. Thank you for helping me make meaning out of Mike’s death. Thank you for giving me something outside myself. 

In other words, thank you for not making this just about me. Because if I were writing into a void, if I were writing only for myself, if I were writing without feedback or accountability, I’m pretty sure I would have quit by now.

You bring the power. You have turned my idea into a mission into a movement. Simply by contributing your presence.

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“The whole is greater than the sum of its parts,” according to Aristotle.

I’ve understood this for a long time in terms of teamwork. Leona and I create something every week that we both readily admit is more than twice what we could create on our own.

But there are many of you (over 600 of you!) that don't participate in the writing of The Luminist every week. And yet by showing up — typing your email in the little subscribe box, clicking through from LinkedIn, or googling me and somehow finding The Luminist in the 5th search result under all my corporate wonk-ness — you turn this individual undertaking into a team… something.

A teammission, teamvision, teammovement, teamcommitment, teamexploration, teamdream?

Whatever we want to call it, it is two or more gathering in the name of having hard conversations, learning from loss, getting the most out of life. And for some reason, that makes this movement a thousand times more powerful.

For one, I try way harder. There’s an entirely different level of accountability but also love, devotion, dedication that pours out of me into TL knowing that you’re on the other end. And even though sometimes it makes me want to set my laptop on fire, I don’t get burnt out. If anything, I get fired up.

Because I’m getting so much out of it too:

• digging deep into my experience in order to properly explain it,

• challenging myself to explore topics that challenge me so I can report the way through to you,

• meeting and connecting and being vulnerable with you,

• learning what’s going on in your head, your life, your heart,

• realizing there is so much more to The Luminist than I originally thought,

• and being transformed in the process.

The Luminist is not just being watered and nourished by me. It’s not just providing shade and fruit for me. Maybe I planted the seed, but all of you showed up to make sure it grew.

Throwback.

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Before Mike died, I had a slogan. “We are all alone in this world.” 

I’d trot this out whenever I was feeling disappointed, hurt, diminished by other people in my life. Even Mike. Especially Mike. With these words, I could protect myself from leaning too far into human connection, too far into vulnerability. I wore that mantra like a suit of armor. It made my life more protected, more controlled, more self-contained… but smaller. 

After Mike’s death, that armor fell clanging to the floor. Raw, exposed, desperate, my friends, family, and even strangers came to my rescue. And for the first time in my life, I let them. This may not sound earth-shattering to those used to giving and receiving help on the regular. It was for me.

I became a heart-seeking missile. I let my interactions with anyone, everyone, sink below the superficial. I talked to team-members in the field about what kept them going on the longest, hardest days. I mentored younger colleagues, inspired by their ambition to change the department, the company, the country, the world. I started to realize that no matter who I was talking to — a high-ranking international official or my local Great Falls park ranger — nothing pulled us together faster than a shared experience, a shared belief, a shared ritual, or a shared purpose.

A shared purpose. (Aka what now pops me up from bed to scribble a thank-you note to you, dear reader, at 5am.)

Knowing that others care about the same thing you do. Knowing that in the unsharable, unknowable recesses of our hearts we share at least this thing. Knowing that, for all the ways we are utterly alone — inside our own heads, inside our own bodies, dealing with struggles, suffering, pain that no one else can experience — in this way, a way that really freaking matters, we can come together.

The proof is in the mountains we can move, mountains that would be simply towering, impossibly large outlines if we were by ourselves.

Without all of you rooting me on, I never would have had the guts to talk to the Wall Street Journal about TL. I would never have posted on LinkedIn about TL. I would have played small. TL would have stayed small. But because this mission is shared, I have been able to overcome those fears. Because it’s not just about me. It’s about changing the way we talk about and think about and live life. It’s about us.

And I know even if I were to stumble, lose confidence, get scared, this net — this “teamdream” — that we’ve woven together would become a parachute and catch me. Pick me back up. Land me lightly on my feet.

By helping me remember that I’m not struggling for no reason. I’m struggling for a great reason. (And I’m not the only one that thinks so!) With that in mind, I can give my pride a pat on the back, reminding myself that “failure” still counts as a successful experiment, shake it off, and keep going.

Knowing that makes it so much easier to lean in, to give you my all, to get vulnerable and goofy and raw.

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Your turn!

We hit pause on this section for a few weeks because we realized we’re asking some really hard questions! And not everyone is ready to open up to 650 of their closest strangers — or ever will be. Doesn’t matter. Whether we share is irrelevant. But I would like you to think. Find something to scribble notes on, a loved one to think out loud with, or even just a clear, dedicated space in your mind as you consider the following:

First, what are the “teamdreams” in your life that raise you up, that make you feel inspired and motivated, that are clearly more powerful than the sum of their parts? Think obvious but also subtle. Your book club, your sports team, your mastermind, your band, your yoga class? A work project whose outcome will create massive impact to your team, your organization, your client?

Second, are there any parts of your life that could benefit from some communal witness, support, energy? An idea for a blog or a podcast that you’ve been thinking about for years perhaps ;)? Your desire to learn to play the drums or surf or blacksmith? A bad habit you’ve been trying to kick in secret without much success?

As always, start small. Lean in, reach out, ask for support in the ways that are just a little scary. Experiment. Test it for yourself.

And remember that stumbling is part of the process. In fact, being willing to stumble may mean that you’re onto something.

In shared purpose,

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If you resonated with this post and want more, check out these:

• Post #15: The empowerment of not taking yourself to seriously. Sue Deagle, Despot (part 1).

• Post #18: Purpose isn’t the destination. Frustration and the feeling of being alive.

• Post #22: The resilience experiment. If you can learn from “failure” without self-judgment, you can be resilient.

• Post #27: Exceeding your own expectations. How my grieving teenagers became empowerment gurus.

• Post #32: I think I can. I think I can. I think I can. It’s time to rewrite, and rewire, the narrative of suffering and struggle.