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“You are going to let a 16 year old drive that?”
Connor was pointing to our pint-sized silver Subaru CrossTrek parked in the driveway. Permit acquired, it was time to get behind the wheel. All that was missing was some genuine interest in learning how to drive.
While I was excited, Connor was, as always, cautious — running through the actuarial tables firmly embedded in his mind since birth, assessing the risk.
“Dude, listen, this is the part where you learn how to drive! Uncle Richie and I will teach you. But you have to get behind the wheel,” I said. “It takes actual practice.”
I continued, “I need another driver around here. It would be a big help to get you to school and your sister to the barn.”
Although the dial on his risk-o-meter was deeply in the red zone, he reluctantly nodded his head. I then pulled out a thin Amazon shipping envelope and slid a bright yellow bumper sticker out, handing it to him.
“Here you go, this will go on the back of the Subi. That way other drivers will give you a break.”
He tilted his chin, scrunched his eyebrows, and from his six foot height, peered an inscrutable look down at me. Then he headed out the door to take his first drive with Richie.
Two years later, I could not find the bumper sticker when it was Kendall’s turn. So I ordered a brand-spanking new one and presented it to her. She burst out laughing.
“Mom, over my dead body are we putting that thing on the car,” she said.
“But Connor had one on his car! And the entire purpose is to help other drivers cut you some slack!”
“Save your breath mom. Not happening,” she retorted. “And by the way, Connor never put that sticker on his car either, he just didn’t tell you.”
I was recently reminded of the ‘Student Driver’ bumper sticker.
A signature New Orleans trolley car trundled past with a giant IN TRAINING sign affixed to the back.
Instead of ignoring the trolley like I would have if I hadn’t seen the sign, I paused and waved at the new driver — definitely like a mom to their kid in a play. But I couldn’t help it! I was excited for him. Any expectation I had had of perfection from this driver was immediately replaced by compassion and curiosity. I went back to my walk smiling, wondering how training was going for him… how hard is it to drive a trolley anyway…
We are all beginners at some point. But we’re ashamed to admit it, trying to move past the novice stage as fast as possible. Why? Why not revel in the fact that we have a great reason to:
have no idea what’s going on;
try and to fail without expectations;
learn something new that could improve our lives?
We don’t want to admit we’re beginners like we don’t want to admit that change, pain, or loss is inevitable.
While beginnings and endings are (seemingly) at opposite ends of the spectrum, both make us feel exposed and out of control. We get scared! We pretend we know exactly what’s going on — to others, but even to ourselves. We trade in both our vulnerability and our sense of adventure for the promise of a boring, stable, controlled life (which, spoiler alert, isn’t going to pan out.)
But if we’re going to get shoved into learning new things and transition and loss anyway, what are we really missing by fighting it?
Grace — the opportunity to both give it and receive it.
We are all in this together.
Embracing the times we have no idea what we are doing helps us remember that.
Take the IN TRAINING sign on the trolley. Those two little words reminded me that the driver was human and fallible and probably trying to not sweat through his shirt just like me. I was immediately connected to him, even though I know nothing about him nor trolleys. All I know, and need to know, is what it feels like to be out of my element and trying to do my best.
In fact, we could simplify the sign to one word: TRYING. The universal struggle.
By admitting we are trying, we turn strangers into comrades.
By admitting we are doing the best we can, we give others permission to admit they are trying (and maybe messing up) too.
By admitting that we don’t know how to leave a comment on a google doc, we get to laugh over our humanity rather than being embarrassed by it (true story).
After Leona and I had a good long cackle over my mistake, not only did I learn something new, but we got a memorable story and grew a little closer. I wasn’t scolded or embarrassed, I was loved. Only psychopaths go for the jugular when amateurs attempt. Most of us just do everything in our power to support the beginner, while cheering our heads off.
As much as life today can feel like an unending Celebrity Deathmatch — claymation pieces of our soul strewn about the ring — one of our deepest desires as humans is connection. But we are half of that connection equation. It’ll happen a whole lot faster if we stop pretending to be too cool for school and admit we have no idea what we’re doing.
At work, I am the first to say, “I don’t get it.”
Whatever the topic is, if I don’t understand it I am not shy about saying so — no matter how many people are listening.
Yes, I have built up credibility in other areas — I am a senior executive; I have some accumulated reputational capital that makes this easier for me. Which is exactly why I’m always the first. It is both a fact that I’m confused, and a leadership jujitsu move.
True leaders don’t try to be perfect — aka demoralizing and insufferable. Instead, they lead by example:
admitting they don’t understand and allowing others to help them;
trusting their teammates to help them rather than embarrassing them;
showing that it’s not only okay to be human, it’s normal!
Owning our humanity, our novice status, the fact that we are trying is liberating — for us and those around us.
Others feel more connected to us since we aren’t pretending to know how to do everything. And we just might find we actually enjoy beginnings: the moments when we feel pushed to our edge, challenged and supported at the same time, transforming into something better before our own eyes.
In training,
If you resonated with this post and want more, check out these:
Post #7: The art of receiving. It’s about you… but it’s also bigger than you.
Post #13: We are not islands. Releasing the myths of isolation and avoidance.
Post #15: The empowerment of not taking yourself to seriously. Sue Deagle, Despot (part 1).
Post #25: Embracing my humanity (in the WSJ). Reclaiming the “unspeakable” aspects of existence.
Post #26: Wired to share (despite what our culture tells us). Seeking sanity between evolutionary instinct and modern impulse.