Find out who you are and do it on purpose.
—DOLLY PARTON
Leanne
I have one main piece of advice when it comes to life. If you already get this concept, then you can put this book down. I have nothing to say that you don’t already know. It’s this simple rule: show up. You want to be an interior designer? Show up and design. You want to be a singer? Show up and sing. Are you a parent? Show up for your kids.
And honestly, you can stop reading now. That’s the point. That’s the climax. The denouement. The happy ending.
It’s amazing what can happen to you just by getting out of bed, getting off the couch, getting off the phone, and showing up.
Steve
When I was in college, I’d have to sit in front of the class. I’d have to know my professor’s name. I’d have to make sure that I stopped in after class to find out when there was a tutoring session—then actually go to the tutoring session. Showing up was a big part of my education. If I wasn’t passing, or if I was struggling, then meeting with a professor or a teacher in high school would go a long way. If I showed up after class and said, “Hey, I need some help,” it sent the message that I was trying. Somewhere, someone wise—or maybe someone not so wise?—said, “Eighty percent of success is showing up.”
Showing up isn’t just about being there. It’s also about bringing your mind to it. It’s about getting involved in what you want to do. You can just show up somewhere and be a stump on a log—but that’s not what I’m talking about.
Leanne
Really showing up means finding and then following your passion—figuring out what makes you happy to get out of your very cozy bed each morning. This can be career, family, art, hobbies—you name it. But we all need to find that “it” that makes us come alive. Once you do, you will find it’s contagious to those around you. Soon, others will notice that they need to get excited in life and “come alive.” It’s wildfire. And it’s fun.
Life is tough, really tough. There is sadness, heartbreak, stress, and anxiety. Isn’t that an even better reason to get your kicks where you can? There’s so much hate and sorrow and sadness in the world that we need to add more love. What if we can dilute all the hate by pouring in extra love and joy?
While Steve was kayaking, I was in Ohio, and I knew I needed to get to New York if I wanted to start my fashion career. So I decided to move to New York City for the summer and get an internship in fashion. I couldn’t believe my luck when I landed an internship at one of my favorite brands, Betsey Johnson. Now, the gig at Betsey Johnson was short-lived, and we’ll talk more about that later, but for now, suffice it to say I was willing to pick up and go to where the action was to get what I wanted in life. (Still am.)
I’ve always loved fashion and clothing design. When I was younger, I made my own clothes. Yes, I was crafty (remember: my sister did call me “pioneer lady”), and I liked making my own clothes. But the real reason I was making my own clothes and digging through piles at Goodwill was because I had no money. I had to get creative out of necessity! In my early twenties, I used to run around in what I swear to you were drapes. As in, the drapes were nailed up to the wall in my little room.
All that to say, on the quest to finding what I loved, I just knew that I had to get to New York. I had to show up.
Last night, Courtney from my design team reminded me of how we met. She messaged me online and asked to take me to coffee. I didn’t have time for coffee, but I told her that we were installing a house that week for the show and that she should come by to help. Guess what? She showed up, not knowing what she was getting into, and with no real knowledge or background of interiors. She showed up with a desire to learn and a readiness to work hard. She went from offering free labor, to being paid hourly, to having a full-time role at Leanne Ford Interiors! And I now consider Courtney my principal interior stylist, which means she oversees and styles the props, foliage, and details for all of my interior projects. She works with the interiors photographers to create incredible images. Her career has taken an unexpected turn, and she now has a portfolio of fifteen projects that can get her work anywhere in the world. All because she showed up.
Back in 2002, I was closing up my senior year of college. It was less than a year after my first quick stint in New York for the internship at Betsey Johnson. I was looking through old fashion magazines at a used bookstore. My friend Meg had a crush on the guy who worked there, so we went often to stalk—I mean, visit—him. While she flirted, I flipped through an old W magazine. I saw this tiny article with a tiny picture about a company called Heatherette. In the picture, there were two guys dancing down a checkered runway. One was dressed as a cowboy, and one was dressed as a sailor. Glitter everywhere. They looked so happy.
I wanted to be surrounded by people who loved their work. I had to figure out my next move. When I saw that photo, something clicked. I thought, That’s what I love about fashion. That’s who I want to work with. People who love their jobs. I know that sounds crazy, to decide that you’re going to focus on a company that you know nothing about. But that didn’t even cross my mind.
I had always made my own clothing. I cut shirts, spray-painted them, Sharpied them, sewed mix-and-match shirts together. Friendly reminder: this was 2003, so don’t judge me. It was (almost) totally acceptable. Our college was in a small town with a limited number of shops to buy from—one, to be exact. All the girls walked around in matching outfits. We didn’t have much choice. But if you ask me, it was nothing a Sharpie couldn’t fix! My favorite shirt had ROCK ON in huge iron-on letters on the front, and I wrote on the back: “If music be the food of love, play on. Give me excess of it.”1 (Yep, a Shakespeare quote; I’m such a romantic.) Only, I crossed out play on and wrote ROCK ON over it.
I am smiling just writing this. Sums me up perfectly.
I even made my boyfriends’ shirts. (Sorry for the plural boyfriends, but hey, I was young. And they were all just so darn cute!) My favorite was Pancho Lives in massive iron-on letters. It’s a reference to one of my favorite songs, “Pancho and Lefty,” by Townes Van Zandt. I’d like to think that guy is still wearing that T-shirt out there somewhere today.
Anyway, I found a contact number for Heatherette. Now, this was pre-Google, by the way. It wasn’t easy to find a contact number, but I was determined. I got on my roommate’s massive computer, started that dial-up internet, and found their website, which pretty much looked like an Atari screen. But there was a contact number. So I called them.
The phone rang a few times, and the call went to voice mail.
“Welcome to Heatherette trailer park,” the twangy voice mail said. “Leave a message.”
I kid you not. Did I leave a message? (Twangy voice) You bet I did.
“Hey there. This is Leanne Ford,” I said. “I just saw your picture dancing down a checkered runway and, well, I want to come help you! Call me back!”
Knowing what I know now, I should have said, “OH YEAH! FOR FREE!” if I really wanted to get a call back.
Heatherette was a kitschy, club-kid, punk-inspired collection that was just gaining momentum. Paris Hilton and Boy George were a staple at their runway shows, sometimes modeling, sometimes hanging out. It felt like a younger, fresher version of Betsey Johnson. (I know. A one-eighty from what I like now—all black and white.) It was started by former ice skater and club kid Richie Rich and former cowboy Traver Rains. They handmade their own stuff. Just like me! I was into it.
Not surprisingly, the guys from Heatherette didn’t call me back. That was fine. When they didn’t call back, I left another message. And when they didn’t call back again, I emailed them.
I was fearless verging on oblivious—and why not? Not a thing to lose. I had made a ton of clothes too! I had just created my own line of clothing for my major in college. I had a website with photos of my handmade “special” clothes, all those pieces that I had made and cut up and spray-painted.
“I’d love to come work for you,” I wrote in my email, and I sent them a link to my website.
I could have sat there thinking, I have no chance. I’m this little young chick sitting in Ohio. I have no business making these random calls. But you never know if you never try!
I finally got an email back. I was astounded. Thrilled. It read: “Hey, we have a fashion show in two weeks if you want to come help.”
I wrote back: “I’ll be there.”
I didn’t say, “How will I get there?” I didn’t say, “Can you reimburse my flight?” I simply said, “I’ll be there.” There are risks in life that you have to take; sometimes the stakes are so high that you can’t complicate it with details.
I’ll be there.
Reminder: I wasn’t living in New York at the time—I had come back to Ohio after being in the city for only a month. It was time to finish college! I didn’t want the guys from Heatherette dealing with the logistics, if even just mentally. Instead, I took on that responsibility. I wanted this experience. I would have done anything to see a fashion show up close and personal, so I was determined to figure it out on my own.
This is a major piece of advice that I often tell people looking to get hired: don’t tell people that you’re from anywhere except where they need you to be.
Your answer should always be “I’ll be there.”
I did this throughout my career, actually, no matter where I lived: Nashville, Los Angeles, Pittsburgh. If someone asked me to do a job, I simply showed up.
I called my parents and said, “I’m flying back to New York to help on a fashion show.” I’m sure my jumping all over the place stressed them out. But they knew I was a creative soul, and taking chances was part of my DNA. Plus, I was going to stay for the weekend with a friend who was a New York City police officer. I was safe and sound. They gave me the okay.
The Heatherette fashion show was wild. Okay, that’s an understatement. It was like a rave: glitter, electronic music, psychedelic lights, club kids everywhere.
I was wearing an outfit that I’d made myself. It was a skirt that I wore as a long tube top. I used the bottom of a T-shirt I had cut off as a type of belt over it. (As I write this, I’m wondering how I even came up with this outfit. I’m slightly confused and completely entertained by my younger self.)
By the end of the night, I was talking to one of the male models. One of the only straight men there seemed to have a little crush on me—little Ohio me! Noticing this flirtation, the Heatherette guys, Richie and Traver, asked me to come out with them after the fashion show. Yes, please! We went out—as a small group, maybe five of us—and stayed out until the papers came out at 6:00 a.m. They wanted to wait for the New York Times review of the show.
I was running around New York with Richie and Traver, these sweet designers who were so welcoming, so lovely, so inspiring and alive, and we were waiting for the morning paper to read the reviews of the fashion show I’d just helped with. I was in my glory.
That’s when I finally told them that I actually lived in Ohio.
“Ohio? If we had known you were in Ohio, we wouldn’t have asked you to come; that’s so far away for you!”
“That’s why I didn’t tell you!” I said with a wink.
Fast-forward to 6:00 a.m. The reviews came out: the show was a success. I can remember it perfectly. We were all celebrating and dancing in the streets with our papers at dawn.
“Can I come intern for you?” I asked Richie. “I gotta come back and work for you.”
“Come over whenever you want, honey bunny,” Richie said.
See you there.
After I graduated college early, my two friends drove me to NYC in a two-door Chevrolet Cavalier—the three of us and all of my worldly belongings. (Shout-out to space bags for somehow making everything fit.)
I worked for Heatherette an entire year for free.
How could you afford it? I hear you asking. First of all, I had financial help and support from my parents. Not everyone is lucky enough to have that, and I’m grateful that I did. This kind of help can’t be underestimated.
I spoke to my parents about the situation. I told them that I wanted to move to Manhattan and that I was interested in interning for Heatherette. I didn’t know what their reaction would be. They had been supportive up to this point, but it’s an entirely different situation when your daughter calls up to say, “Hi. I’m moving to New York City without any money to work for a couple of crazy designers.”
Instead, they gave me the greatest gift to help start my career: financial freedom.
“We’ve saved for all our kids just in case they wanted to go to graduate school,” Dad said. “This is your graduate school.” They agreed to pay the $800 a month that I needed for rent in Manhattan for the first year.
I was thrilled. Completely overwhelmed and so excited.
“This is big for your career,” my parents said.
They could have easily said, “You’re going to work for a couple of club kids? We’re not paying your rent in New York,” and that would have been that. But my parents were committed to it. They knew I was a good kid. They knew I was a self-starter. They knew I had to take this risk. And they knew I had guts.
Look: nothing in life is done without fear. Courage isn’t the absence of fear; it’s working through the fear. That’s what risk-taking is about. If you take a risk, it’s not that you won’t be nervous—you should be! In fact, prepare to be nervous. If you aren’t making anyone nervous, you aren’t doing anything special.
For the last year of college, I had worked as a bartender and squirreled away all of my money, which helped me survive in New York. I used all of my savings. I made my own clothes. I had fabric hanging on my wall (as a sort of alternative to wallpaper—a rental survival solution) that I would pull down and wear out as a dress at night. Yes, really. I was Julie Andrews from The Sound of Music. I was Scarlett from Gone with the Wind. I’d literally wear this fabric out at night, tie it all around me with safety pins and suede rope that I had from summer camp. And at the end of the night, when I came home and got ready for bed, I’d hang the fabric right back up on the wall.
While $800 was (and is) a lot of money, it goes nowhere in Manhattan. I lived right on Restaurant Row, a popular street where people go to eat before they go to the theater. It’s a busy street filled with Italian restaurants and steak houses, and I couldn’t afford to go to any of them. My room was the size of a bed. I slept under my clothes rack. I ate pita bread and two scrambled eggs three times a day. It was $1.29 a meal.
I continued to make my own clothing, since I certainly couldn’t afford to buy anything new! My favorite dress to wear around New York City was this little minidress (if you could call it that) that I made out of an old ’80s prom dress someone gave me. She had worn it for a costume party and was going to throw it away. I cut off the top half and wore the bottom half as a mini baby doll dress. (It was three long layers of peach chiffon—can you blame me?!) It didn’t quite fit, so I took a safety pin that had a massive denim flower, glued it and made it work. I wore that dress all summer long—a little “fashion girl” running around the Lower East Side in a chiffon ’80s dress.
I did everything for Richie and Traver. When I say everything—I’m not exaggerating. I’d stand in the post office line for two and a half hours. I’d glue glitter on sweatshirts and ship them to Japan. I’d push racks of clothes across Manhattan, sweating and smiling the entire way. I was just so happy to be there. It was incredibly inspiring to be around people who were doing it for themselves. They were getting tons of press, and if you didn’t know better, you would think there were a hundred people working for them. They were gurus at marketing. They taught me the power of press and what self-promotion could do. It seemed as though they were a massive company, but it was just us: Richie Rich; Traver Rains; Mackie Dugan, their pattern maker. (I can remember perfectly one night on Bowery when Mackie stole my high heels and taught me the proper way to walk like a lady.) And then there was me. The four of us did it all.
And that was good for a while, real good.
Steve
It was the same for me during those first years away from home. That’s how I started everything in my life: I showed up. I also worked really hard. Working at Immersion Research (a paddling-gear manufacturer) three days a week. Taking college classes two days a week. And then on Saturdays and Sundays for two years, I worked at Seven Springs Mountain Resort as a safety ranger. I got a job there so I could afford a lift ticket. (This was a big part of how I was able to afford all of my expensive outdoor hobbies, by the way. Because skiing, rock climbing, snowboarding, and kayaking gear is not cheap. It’s expensive. Want to snowboard? Get a job on the mountain. Want to kayak? Get a job as a white-water rafting instructor.)
Anyway, part of my job as a safety ranger was to make sure that the mountain was safe for skiing, but there was also a policing element to it, which I didn’t love. We had to make sure everyone was buying tickets. If you didn’t have a ticket, my job was to call the police on you. And I didn’t want to bust people. It seemed hypocritical. (Look: I only had a ski pass because I worked there. If I couldn’t afford a ski pass, I would have probably been trying to get on the mountain for free too!) Instead of calling the police, I’d wanted to take people to the ticket booth and make them buy a ticket. But that wasn’t the policy; we were supposed to call the cops.
I needed another way to work on the mountain. So I left the safety rangers and joined the ski patrol. It was a big commitment to get on ski patrol. You had to show up in the summer for training, then take all of the necessary exams: how to give first aid, how to ride a toboggan, and how to transport patrol equipment. The first year you had to be a volunteer, and I put a lot of effort into that position. (There were a select few who got paid during the week as well.) I started as a volunteer and eventually got paid for working shifts.
Since it was mostly a volunteer position, I wasn’t able to afford the best place to live. But that never bothered me. I didn’t need much. There was an abandoned cabin in the middle of the ski slope, and I talked the ski patrol into letting me stay in the cabin during the summer as an employee perk. (In the summer, I worked as a kayak brand representative. In the winter I worked as ski patrol.)
A cabin sounds real nice, right? Leanne lived in a sweet little cabin in Los Angeles that some of you may have heard about.
This cabin wasn’t like that.
When I moved in, it was infested with mice. There was water, but it wasn’t drinkable water. There was electricity, but maybe just one little light.
Mom hates this story because that cabin was rough. I lived in a lot of rough places. I lived in a tent. In my car. In my trailer. To me, this cabin was awesome.
Leanne
It was as if you were playing in the woods all over again!
Steve
It was! To my parents it wasn’t as awesome. (None of the places were.) I only ended up living there for a summer. It would have been doable in the winter—and it would have been really cool—but it would have been some hard living.
Ski patrolling was a great job for me for a little while. But there were some stressful moments. People fall on ski slopes, and they get hurt. It was my job to get them down off the mountain for help. Every year at our resort, we had more than twenty-five hundred incident reports that ranged from frostbite to broken bones to cardiac arrest. And a whole lot of head injuries.
The first accident that I remember involved a teenage girl. She had fallen, and I came up on her just sitting in the middle of the trail.
“I fell and hurt my knee,” she said. “I can’t move my knee or my leg.” She wasn’t that upset. She was pretty still, actually.
You have to feel for an injury, and her knee felt really weird. Her pants had no zipper up the leg, so I had to cut her ski pant open up to her knee to see what was going on there. I’m going to save you from the gory details, but her knee was completely dislocated. It was bad.
It freaked me out because it was my first accident, but I stayed calm and stabilized her. A ski patroller is not a doctor. You’re not going to fix anybody. Your goal is to make the person comfortable, get them to the bottom of the hill, and not add to their pain. The worst-case scenario would be having to give CPR.
“You’re going to be fine,” I told the girl, trying to be as calm as possible. I didn’t want to scare her. I called for a sled, secured her, and gently got her down the hill, where she was transferred to a hospital.
Another memorable “accident”—if you could even call it that—is really funny. I was working, and I got this call that someone was in the ski lodge with an injury.
“Hey, I have an injury,” this guy said. He was about nineteen or twenty years old. “I have this splinter in my finger.”
A splinter?
“Are you serious?” I said.
Now, this kid was fully an adult. He had a splinter and was calling for the ski patrol! Meanwhile, it was Saturday, and we were slammed. There were actual injuries all over the mountain, and instead of helping people who were legitimately hurt, I was standing there with this guy who had a splinter.
I looked at his face and realized that he looked familiar. I was trying to place the face as he complained about his splinter, and I realized that he was my girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend. We had never met, but I must have recognized him from a picture.
I was a dedicated ski patroller, but this seemed ridiculous.
“Dude,” I said, “you gotta take care of your own splinter.”
I couldn’t wait to get home and tell my girlfriend about her ex-boyfriend’s “injury.”
Leanne
In addition to showing up, it’s also really important to know when it’s time to call it and let something go.
My first husband and I entered into our marriage with great love and great intentions and tried our best to make it work. We had dated long-distance for two or three years and didn’t live in the same city until right before we were married. That was our fatal flaw: we never had the opportunity to get to know each other on a daily basis, in “real life,” if you will.
My first husband is an amazing man with a thousand attributes going for him, and I can see why I fell for him and why we thought we could make it. But there is a natural and unquantifiable connection that two people who are creating a life together should have—and we never had it. We were good on paper, yes, but we never took the time to see if we were good in 3-D before we took our vows.
I put him through a lot of intense conversations that maybe were never actually necessary. I was trying to change a human into something else, but he really didn’t need to change; it was our combination that was the problem, not him.
We ended our marriage about four years later with the same love and respect that we started it with. I remember, during the phone conversation that closed the door, beautiful light pouring into the room. He ended the call by saying, “I love you, Leanne. I’ll call tomorrow to check on you.”
I said, “I love you too.” And the next day, just like he said he would, he called to check in.
After my divorce I took a year to be alone. One solid year to myself. I also wanted to be sure that I was happy and healthy and strong on my own. I didn’t want to dive into another relationship while still half-broken.
I figured I could sit and wallow in my failure and my sadness of being a divorced woman at thirtysomething—or I could rebrand it. I could flip failure on its head.
I named my single year “the Freedom Tour,” and I got busy living. I decided I was going to do new things I couldn’t have done if I had stayed on the path I was on. I took trips and read books and went dancing. I drove through the desert and ran around Texas, honky-tonking. I went to Paris with friends, and we drank wine and wrote poetry and went dancing under the Seine River. We wore ball gowns to walk around the streets of Cannes for no other reason than that we were in Cannes! I had a midnight tea party in London with old friends. I stayed true to myself and didn’t jump into a serious relationship with anyone prematurely. And I ended up having an amazing year.
The end of a relationship hurts—no doubt about it. But I knew it was time to let go. And looking back, what has stayed and what stands out to me is not the pain of the heartbreak but the power and healing that I experienced when I found a way to redeem the failure.
This holds true not only when relationships end but when we have unexpected road bumps in our careers. In fact, I think everybody should get fired at least once in their lives.
Steve
I don’t think I’ve ever been fired.
Leanne
Good, Steve. I have. Twice. And you know what? Losing those jobs was the best thing that could have happened to my career.
The first time I got fired was at my Betsey Johnson internship between junior and senior year in college, before I worked for Heatherette. I actually had the chance to work with the legend herself that summer. She was a pistol, and a joy and a light to be around. One day she pulled me from whatever it was I was doing and asked me to come try on these incredible vintage pieces because her fit model didn’t show up. There I was, standing in the office in the strangest little outfit you ever did see, trying to play it cool and overhearing Betsey talking about how she first showed this look in some basement New York bar with Velvet Underground playing, while she sat next to her friend Andy Warhol. That was a memory for the books.
I got along really well with all my fellow interns. We had an amazing time in and out of the office. And I loved hanging out with the women in the public relations department; because of those interactions I became fascinated by marketing. I loved the energy and excitement and camaraderie those women shared, and watching them work gave me a whole new perspective on the business of design.
Of course there were parts of the job that weren’t glamorous, but that’s true of any internship. So I bopped around that office like a ray of sunshine. And I wasn’t ashamed of it. I’m me, and I can’t be anyone else but me.
One day, my boss pulled me in her office and told me to take a seat. I knew it wasn’t going to be good. She had a dour look on her face.
“Leanne, we’re going to fire you,” she said.
“Why are you firing me?” I asked. “I’ve been working very hard!”
I really had been. I had learned so much there and was having a great experience.
She replied, “You’re having too much fun.”
The words from an old country song came to mind: “I ain’t never had too much fun.”
“Fire me?” I said. “But I’m working for free!”
That did not change her mind.
“I just got fired from a free job,” I said to my parents when I called them. I was so confused. “This is so bad.”
Except it was perfectly fine. It was better than fine. I went back to Ohio University, where I contemplated my new fashion trajectory. If this is fashion, I need to rethink my career.
I never actually got into fashion design—I got into fashion marketing. Because of that one experience and that one brilliant failure, all of my jobs after that leaned toward marketing. All because I got fired. From a free job. (Sorry, just had to say that part again.)
I also got fired from my one and only corporate job, which was at a surf and skate company in Orange County, California. I had been there for about two or three months when the woman who hired me was replaced. The boss who initially hired me gave me wings and support; I was open to learning from her and wanted to learn from her. I wanted to help her succeed. I felt lucky to be in her presence. But my new boss and I never quite clicked, and it wasn’t long before I was miserable.
I don’t even remember the specific incident that was the straw that broke the camel’s back, but eventually I felt I had to speak up.
“I’d like to talk to you. Can we meet tomorrow?” I emailed her.
“Sure. How about 8:00 a.m.?” she wrote back.
I got there at 8:00 a.m. for this meeting that I thought I had called, and my boss was there with the lawyer to fire me.
Ouch.
That was my one and only year working in the corporate world. If that’s what corporate culture is like, I thought, then no thank you. And this company wasn’t your average corporate world; we used to skateboard in the office! I realized, If this is too corporate for me, there ain’t no use going anywhere else. Working in a traditional office environment was just another idea I needed to let go of.
I have to be honest: I welcomed being fired. Because sometimes you need a push out the door. I was just staying there for the money, and that’s not enough.
I don’t live to work; I work to live. That’s been very important to me my whole career. My first career goal is to have a happy, nice life, and my second career goal is to create. I’m not trying to win something or make it somewhere. Is it for the glory? No. Fame? No. Money? No. I just want to create.
There are so many successful people who got fired and who then succeeded. Marc Jacobs got fired from Perry Ellis before moving on to Louis Vuitton and, eventually, starting his own company.2 J. K. Rowling got fired because she was too busy brainstorming ideas.3 Anna Wintour, the editor of Vogue, got fired as a junior editor at Harper’s Bazaar. In 2010, at a Teen Vogue conference, she told the audience, “I recommend you all get fired. It’s a great learning experience.”4 There are countless examples of people who turned their lives around—if that’s even what you could call it.
Here’s my point: whether I was at the end of a relationship or the end of a job, I took something that could have been deflating and bad and said, What good could come from this? How can I make this a happy ending? Of course, in the moment, it’s hard to see the positive. You feel as if the world’s ended. But what if you flipped that script and said, Hmmm . . . Now what? The whole world is open to me. The whole world is ahead of me. I can live anywhere. I can do anything. I can go anywhere. There’s a beautiful freedom to losing the path you thought you were on, really.
Getting fired also taught me how to be a good boss. Because of that experience, I’m always mindful about giving people who work for me their wings—freedom to work on their own. I don’t want to micromanage everything.
I actually had this conversation with my team from the television show yesterday: “I want you guys to be able to make decisions and do things without a constant check-in from me.” They’re a smart group of people. They’re here to make the show great. And they’re working on it because they want to grow skills. They want to get experience. I’m sure every one of them will work on past me, and I want to encourage that. Moreover, I want to help them do that! If I’m your employer, I don’t want you to work for me forever. I want you to go to your own company. I want you to do your own thing, and while you’re here helping me, how much can we learn together? I’m a mindful boss because of my experiences.
I don’t want to be a Pollyanna here (though I do love her). I’m not dismissing the part of failure that hurts or the part of failure that makes you feel down. You have to mourn the loss first. Wallow in that sadness if you need to; sometimes life just deserves a good cry. But don’t stop there. Let go of what you’ve lost, and embrace the freedom that’s in front of you.
WORKING ON PROGRESS
What “failure” in your life can you give yourself a break on?
Think of a past failure that really affected you; then, with the benefit of hindsight, make a list of what good came out of that failure.
Think of someone who denied you what you thought you wanted at the time—a job, a relationship, anything—and send out love to that person for sending you on the path you were supposed to be on the whole time.
Next time something in your life doesn’t go as planned, yell, “Plot twist” and carry on! (And yes, I stole that from a meme.)
And this is my favorite “trick”: say to God, “All yours, God. Take it from here. Your call!” Now relax. It’s all taken care of.