If you like reading about leadership and personal development, and if you want to see a fine example of clear and credible communication, I recommend that you read this short blog post: What I Wish I Knew: From Cadet to Lieutenant in Afghanistan, by First Lieutenant Scott Ginther.
Probably everyone will relate differently to Ginther’s 20 points, but here are three that stood out for me:
First, he says something profound even before he gets to his points. I’ve been writing a chapter about clarity for my book on credibility, and ironically have found it difficult to encapsulate what clarity means. Ginther expresses it as well anyone:
“I swore I would do three things: 1) provide an honest answer, 2) express the truth in the most unvarnished way possible, and 3) keep things short.”
Any writer or speaker who can do these three things does not need any further advice on clarity.
Point #2: “Your job is to take responsibility. You control your own consequences.” This is advice that applies to anyone who wants to be a leader. There are two sides to this. First, although leadership does not come from a title, if you have the title you have the responsibility whether you want it or not. Use it. Second, even without the rank or the title, assuming responsibility for outcomes makes you a leader.
Point #17: Your soldiers will do amazing things. “I have the following Soldiers in my platoon: a former blacksmith and rodeo clown, a NASCAR pit crewman, two carpenters, a private who is a multi-millionaire and drives and Audi R8, a Sugar Bowl-winning, University of West Virginia offensive lineman and a SSG who graduated college at 17 years old and taught physics at Tulane before the age of 26.” Although Ginther doesn’t say it this way, my takeaway from that statement is that leaders will get the best results by pointing the way and then getting out of the way.
After reading this, I’m sure you’ll agree with me that this lieutenant in Afghanistan succeeds in providing honest lessons in an unvarnished way, and keeps it brief. I wish most business books were written this way.
For the record, in over 400 posts on this blog, I have never used the word awesome.
This past weekend, I attended a swim meet in Miami. Some very dear friends from out of town were here to watch their daughter swim and try to qualify for the US team. It was just like any of the dozens of swim meets I attended in my youth, with swimmers hanging around on the deck with their friends while they waited for their events, coaches dispensing last-minute advice, and parents in the stands with video cameras and heat sheets close at hand.
Just as I remembered from my swimming days, each athlete had the same look of eager determination as they lined up behind the blocks for their event, and as their names were announced for each event, individual burst of cheers would come from each family contingent. During the race, the parents would yell and watch each split closely, and I’m sure the parents’ highs and lows depending on results were more intense than their child’s.
The only difference between this meet and the ones I knew so well was that this meet was the U.S. Paralympics Spring Swimming Nationals. Every single competitor has a physical disability. Some have less obvious disabilities: you might not know the swimmer in lane 5 is blind until you see a helper tap them on the head with a long pole to signal it’s time to turn. You might not know they have cerebral palsy until you see that they can only drag their legs behind them as their powerful arms slice through the water. Some are more obvious: those born without one or more limbs, or those who gave eyes or limbs in service to their country.
Let others use the word awesome to describe the dessert they ate last night. I prefer to ration that word only to describe–to paraphrase F. Scott Fitzgerald–something commensurate with my capacity for wonder. I prefer to use that word to describe the heart of a thirteen-year-old girl with no legs and only one arm competing in the 100 freestyle. I prefer to use that word to describe the parents of those children, who do everything possible to ensure that their kids lead lives defined by their possibilities, not their limitations.
It was an awesome privilege to be in the company of these great athletes.
Wait until they move it again
So you finally made it to a 10. After years of study, hard work, and deliberate practice, you can reasonably say you’re among the top in your field. Great news, and good for you.
Here’s the bad news: it won’t be good enough tomorrow. Ten is a moving goalpost. It’s not a fixed standard; it’s a number set by the top performers in any field, and they aren’t stopping just because you got yourself to their level. While you’re congratulating yourself on reaching ten, they’re blazing trails to twelve and higher.
The world is getting more competitive every day in every way, as I’ve just been clearly reminded. I’m writing this on a plane returning from a two week swing through Asia, where I had the privilege of training some very impressive and driven individuals. They’re a half day ahead of us on the clock, and in some ways it seems like they’re half a day ahead of us in their striving and their learning and work ethic. So while you are sleeping, they are working hard to get what you have, to master what you know, and eventually to beat you in every way they can.
Sitting next to me on my return flight is an accounting professor who just spent a week teaching in Taiwan, and I suspect a decent percentage of returning passengers have been over there teaching or training in some capacity. It seems completely natural to us: we have the knowledge and skills and they pay us to teach them. But how long will it be before the planes are full of teachers going in the other direction?
But I’m just using Asia as an example. The man or woman down the street from you is also working hard to stretch that ten to a higher number. And it’s not going to stop. Today’s twelve becomes tomorrow’s ten, and ten becomes eight, the treadmill runs faster and steeper, and there’s no red stop button.
Don’t ever get complacent. Remember the words of baseball great Satchel Paige: “Don’t look back. Something might be gaining on you.”
There is a liar inside my head that has kept me back from achieving everything I am capable of. You probably know the one I’m talking about because it’s probably in yours too.
It’s the voice that tells you it’s time to quit. It makes up all kinds of reasons why you should stop right now, and every one of them is a lie.
It tells you that you won’t be able to reach your goal. The only way that can be true is if you listen to it.
It tells you that you will feel better when you quit. That may be true for about a second, then you immediately feel worse—because you quit. The momentary pleasure of easing the pain does not last, but the regret of falling short can’t be erased.
It tells you that you’ve reached a limit, physical, mental, or moral. But pushing past perceived limits is the only way to grow.
It even has a scientific veneer of credibility to it, because now researchers tell us that willpower is a finite resource, so it’s not our fault if we quit. But human progress is the result of people who treat willpower as an infinite resource.
It tells you that just this once won’t hurt. But when you do it just this once, it gets easier to do it again and again.
It tells you that you can start tomorrow. But tomorrow never comes.
It tells you that you need to do just a bit more analysis before you act. But sometimes acting is analysis, because it provides feedback that refines your knowledge and understanding.
What can you do about the liar? One approach, obviously, is to ignore it. That’s easy to say and hard to do, of course, but you can improve your chances of success by anticipating it. I’ve written before about the power of positive pessimism, a mindset that does not blindly assume everything is going to be easy and rosy, and so is better prepared for the inevitable difficulties and discouragement.
Or you can actually beat the liar at its own game and turn its voice into a cue for redoubled effort. Charles Duhigg (The Power of Habit
