You. Are. Enough.

In my most recent conversation with one of my favorite professional friends, she mentioned that her Word of the Year for '23 is "Serendipity."

Note to self: you need a W.O.T.Y.

As soon as she said it, I leapt into Nerd Protocol, started geeking out with her on the topic (as often happens during our conversational jazz). I’d been thinking about serendipity a lot recently. “The ineffable magic of the serendipitous something …” was a phrase that had been tapping me on the shoulder recently. Been traveling with it. 

Was proly somewhere in my subconscious when I found myself on a Zoom call a couple weeks ago with some members of BYU’s Experience Design Society (EXDS), a student org within their Experience Design major. The EXDS-ers were catching me up on their trending ideas for a new event series inviting professionals to share with students. Through a glorious daisy chain of serendipity (a good story for another day), they had invited me to be their first guest in their new “Society Chats” format. During the Zoom call, they unveiled the topic for their January event: “Breaking Business Norms to be Heard.” 

First impression: buh-rilliant topic.

I asked ‘em to share additional context regarding what the topic means to students. They unpacked it in big and small ways. As a new program in BYU's established and venerable business school, students in the EXD major sometimes struggle with feeling seen and heard amongst their peers. Seniors and juniors considering their first post-college jobs are pondering if/how they might meaningfully contribute their voice to organizations in specific, and society at large. 

I have this sometimes-good-sometimes-not habit in brainstorms where sparks of ideas go off in my brain. The result is akin to fireworks launching prematurely. The sparks are usually half-formed, haphazardly aimed, and therefore of dubious intelligibility to anyone not inside my head. Over the years I have learned that sometimes it’s best to keep such half-thoughts from launching into polite society until they have spent time in the oven, so to speak. Other times …. 

“First thing that makes me think of …,” I start to spew, while my typically reliable Override Protocols were apparently distracted by the morning’s second cup of coffee. 

I recalled for them the first time I took an improv workshop. Scheduled it for my team a few years ago when I hosted them in Pittsburgh. Entering the theater where the workshop was held, we came upon a big slate wall, on which was chalked three words, writ large: 

The fireworks then began launching themselves. 

I shared how our host for the improv workshop informed/reminded us that, walking in the door, we had everything we needed for the task at hand. This was convicting, and would take a couple classes slash years for me to truly grasp. Fearful I was insufficient for the task, I had to overcome my default instincts to pre-think, pre-prepare responses in my head. Which is the opposite of what improvisation requires. The goal of improv (and, um, a lesson of life) is to be fully present, to have your antenna up in the moment to receive the gift of the offer, and to simply honor it in your response.

It’s nothing you can prepare for. Nothing you can plan for. 

The result? The chance development of events in a beneficial way. 

In a word: serendipity. 

I began to think of my journey. And how, in the absence of a purpose-designed degree in Experience Design (lo-key jealous, TBH), I had made do with what I had, had rubbed two sticks together to make the sparks I needed along the way. How stories for me became my life preserver, helping me make sense of the world around me, my place in it, my navigation through it. How my stories, born of the simplest of moments, had been useful to me in circumstances that called for being heard, that called for breaking business norms to do it. After all, ‘being heard,’ implies that you have something meaningful to share or contribute. And what is the motivation of a storyteller? I want you to feel what I feel. It struck me in the moment as a harmonic convergence.

“So what if,” my Zoom riff began “… we purposed the event to convince or prove to your students that they already have everything they need for the journey ahead?” 

At this point my Override Protocols may or may not have done a coffee spit take.

If my stories had served me, could the premise of the workshop be to point out (or remind) students that their stories might serve them the same way? Stories unique to their experience. Stories every bit as valid and meaningful as mine are to me. 

The students on the zoom call started “Yes … and”-ing. Before I knew it we were playing conversational jazz. Their enthusiasm was infectious. By the end of the call, we had framed out the loosest of outlines for the 90-minute evening event, and pledged to finesse the necessary deets in the meantime. 

But by the time I hopped off the call, my Override Protocols came back to their senses. Wanted a word with me.

“OK, Half-Thought …”  

Was I sure that the ingredients we’d all just agreed upon would make for a meaningful evening menu that would serve the students? Students who were being purpose-trained on topics, concepts and lessons I had only been foraging for? Knowing the EXDS was experimenting with a brand new format in hopes of relevantly engaging their students, and that the first impression of this first event would set the tone for all the programming, topics and speakers to come, was I sure that my half-thought was even a half-thought? Was I even worthy of the invitation?  

As I have learned over years of light saber battles with my Override Protocols, fear is a powerful motivator. 

While tackling an avalanche of work week responsibilities, my subconscious began feverishly assembling, outlining and editing. The Friday before the Tuesday, I began externalizing thoughts and notes. Started putting the bones of the share together over the weekend. Of the event’s 90 minutes, I knew I wanted to preserve — put a force field around — 30 minutes for an exercise to let the students ruminate on a story that was meaningful to them, give them time to put it under their microscope, and sift it for elements, takeaways, lessons that might be worth sharing with their peers. Aside from that, I had so many things that I wanted to share, I knew it would come down to an exercise of Violent Editing to fit the agenda to make the most of our precious time together. It was like putting together a 500-piece puzzle from a box that had 2,000 pieces. 

As an aside …

… in the shadow of the pandemic, travel is much harder for me than it used to be. The prospect of it (dread), the packing for it (existential crisis), the frictions of it (looking at you, Middle Seat Armrest Encroacher). The whole thing is an anxious experience for me. Takes a lot more out of me than it ever used to. 

In full disclosure I initially wrestled with the prospect of even accepting the invitation. Traveling anywhere from Pittsburgh is an ordeal. When I looked up BYU, I learned it was located in Provo, which is almost an hour from the main airport in Salt Lake City, which requires connecting flights to get to, and then a rental car drive from there. I debated on whether it was worth investing three days (travel day in, event day, travel day home), for 90 minutes on a Tuesday evening.

But my conscience got the better of me. 

Reminded me that my professional livelihood is predicated on a belief in the inherent power and magic of in-person gatherings. Having spent my professional career litigating the case for investing in the intentional craft of experiences, choosing to decline an in-person invitation in favor of virtual participation would be disingenuous at best. Hypocritical at worst. 

So I found my footing. In the wisdom of my professional (“Serendipity”) friend, who once and forever reminded me, “Authenticity over polish.” In the words of Patti Smith, who wrote in her tender collection, “M Train” about an invitation she once received from a “Women for Women” gathering, which brought together “serious activists, whose travails I could barely comprehend. I felt humbled in their presence, and I wondered how I could possibly serve them. I read poems, sang them songs, made them laugh.” Similarly humbled and wondering how I could possibly serve them … my stories would be my poems and my songs. I would make them laugh. 

I was still engaging Violent Editing Protocols while enduring all the frictions on my connecting flights to Salt Lake City. Was still ruminating in my head after picking my rental car and making the hour-ish drive into Provo. 

The business school at BYU is affiliated with Marriott, so the EXDM had secured my reservation and a good rate at a Residence Inn about a mile from campus.

Checked in at the front desk. Took the elevator up to the second floor. 

Snaked my way through the halls to Room 283. 

Tapped my key on the door and entered ... 

… whereupon my heart was busted wide open. 

This.

For a sleep-deprived, travel-depleted, stressed out storyteller 1,818.4 miles from home … this was EVERYTHING.

Reminded me that this is worth traveling for. 

It was at this moment I became convinced that the students had more to teach me than I had to offer them on the subject of experience design. And also, that the story I came to share was also the one that I most needed to hear myself. 

I could geek out for hours on deconstructing every intentional gesture in their abundantly awesome welcome moment. Good stories for another day. 

In between being indescribably graciously hosted by faculty on Tuesday (more good stories for another day), I spent the two hours before the event in my room still sculpting my share, dismissing good content to the cutting room floor, trying to distill everything to its essence so I could leave room for their stories. 

It’s all only … ever … editing, right? 

Alas, it was time for the cake to go in the oven. 

I arrived at the room at 6 p.m. for the 6:30 event. The EXDS team was abuzz prepping things. Their energy was as infectious as our first Zoom call. Owing to the intentionality and craft of their pre-promotion …. “We’re expecting 100,” I was told, where past events might get 20-30. No pressure. 

Camren, a student EXDS leader, worked with me on getting audio and visual connection. Sara handed me my P.P.P.U.T. (Pre-Presentation Pump-Up Treat) from SWIG (Iykyk). (Note to self: we are totally stealing this idea.) Michaela worked out the introductions. Mark, a professor on their faculty, helped me decide between handheld or clip-on mic. We went with the handheld. 

As an aside …

… before the pandemic, I prided myself on my preparation and presentation delivery. It was always among my very (very) few superpowers. Owing to a deep and profound desire to best serve (the precious time and attention spans of) whatever audience I was with, I labored until my content was note perfect. 

Since the pandemic, I’ve struggled … with every aspect of it. Despite my preparation, I find being on a stage unnerving. My delivery is uneven. I sometimes leave things out, or forget the order of things. Fumble with the logistics, the clicker, the microphone. All things that used to come naturally are now difficult. It’s a scuffle. 

I used to be a symphony conductor. 

I am no longer. 

And staring out at those 100 or so expectant faces and about to deliver content reeking of ‘new presentation smell,’ I realized what the 2023 version of me is now. 

A jazz musician. 

Walking in with everything needed for the gig. 

Authenticity over polish.

I’d worked it out with the EXDS leaders that I’d start with a story to introduce myself and the topic, then we’d break for pizza, which we’d, in turn, use as a topic to get into the evening’s ‘main course.’ 

So I shared a favorite story about an unexpected, magical experience my daughter and I had while reading to each other one Saturday morning at our local coffee shop. The hero of the story is Emily, a college student working part-time. What accounted for our magical experience had nothing to do with Emily’s job description, but rather her genuine desire to deliver an extraordinary experience. The story would introduce and tie together everything else we’d be talking about. The takeaways? Never underestimate your capacity to be awesome. Bloom wherever you are planted. (Full disclosure: I am still learning lessons from Emily). And, as long as you bring with you a genuine desire to deliver an extraordinary experience, you have everything you need for the journey ahead.

You. Are. Enough. 

When I finished the story and we broke for pizza, a couple students came up to the stage to speak with me. 

I said hello to the first person in line. She had a question. 

“Is your daughter’s name Emma?” 

My eyes grew wide. I hadn’t mentioned her by name in the story. 

“Um, yes?” 

“Is she a dancer?”

My jaw dropped. I had no idea what was happening. 

“I used to dance with her….”

Years ago. At Moschetta’s Performing Arts. At the tiny little studio in tiny little Waynesburg, PA ... 1,920.7 miles from where we were now standing.

It was all I could do to keep from freaking out. 

Francesca is now a student in the Experience Design program at BYU. We had the most wonderful chat, after which I asked (begged) her if she would mind taking a picture with me to share with Emma. 

The ineffable magic of the serendipitous something. 

I spent the rest of the evening as I had my entire time in Utah. In a state of complete awe. 

I muscled through the material and then teed up our exercise. 

Invited the audience to think of a meaningful experience that moved them. Maybe an experience they shared with someone. Or a favorite place. Something they love doing. A sacred act. Maybe something that was beyond what they expected or that surprised them. Perhaps something or someone that taught them something meaningful. Something that blew their mind. Something that made them think of something or someone important to them. 

Then I invited them to put the experience under a microscope and deconstruct it. Break it down to its constituent elements. Analyze the conditions that were present that accounted for what made the experience meaningful or moving to them. 

Then I invited them to consider what might others take away from the experience. In short I made a recipe of how I came to the stories that have served me. We broke them into groups for about 25 minutes. Then I asked if anyone was interested in sharing their stories. 

Hannah raised her hand.

I am not going to do justice to her story, but will do my best to render its spirit. 

Hannah shared that, while on break, she was invited to join some friends on an adventure, during which the friends decided to go to a club. She had never been to a club before. The prospect was very much out of her comfort zone. But she allowed herself to say yes. At the club, she was invited to join her friends on the dance floor, which was very very much out of her comfort zone. But she allowed herself to not only say yes, but “Yes and ….”

At some point the DJ played a Nicki Minaj song. Here, acknowledging her context and the faculty present amongst the 100 faces, Hannah confessed that it was not the most appropriate song (knowing laughter from her peers). How, before she knew it she was not only singing along to it (she confessed surprising herself that she even knew the words), but spitting serious bars. She said the people around her were blown away. All of a sudden they began hyping her. She said in what was such an out-of-character, vulnerable act for her, they not only affirmed her, but saw her in a completely new light, which in turn, allowed for her to see herself in a new light. In her retelling, she radiated what an amazing experience it was for her. 

I want you to feel what I feel. 

In the moment, I confessed that the introvert in me was virtually hi-fiving her. Processing it all in real-time, I related her story to the notion of ‘breaking norms.’ 

Reflecting on it right now, I see Hannah's story as a total Nicki Minaj freestyle mic drop Master Class in breaking (business) norms to be heard. I mean, the ingredients? Stepping out of your comfort zone and stepping onto the floor / into the arena. Bringing your full self, being fully present in a new, unfamiliar context with peers who do not yet know the real you. Acting on a topic that is important/meaningful to you ... and not only showing up, but showing out (colossal Nikki Minaj vibes). Authenticity over polish. By the end, evolving and enriching others’ perceptions of what you have to offer. In the process enriching your own self-perception. 

Hannah took my half-thought, and “Yes-and”-ed it into a parable worthy of stone tablets. 

Proved my hypothesis — that the stage I was standing on was as much hers as mine. That I was just temporarily keeping it warm for all of them … and their stories that were every bit as valid as anyone else’s. 

Note to self: (a.) ask Hannah what the track was, and (b.) recommend it become the EXDS's official anthem, and played (better yet, performed by Hannah) at the beginning of every meeting.

Two other students proceeded to share stories every bit as relevant and worthy (good stories for another day).  

They were fully present, their antenna up in the moment to receive the gift of the offer, which they so very much honored in their response. It wasn’t anything they could’ve prepared or planned for. 

You. Are. Enough.

We closed with some Q&A, and when all was said and done, I was enjoying a slice of cold pizza they’d saved for me, when Sara, the student VP of the EXDS, handed me a pin that Michaela had made to commemorate the evening. 

Yes, they had more to teach me than I had to offer them. We're all just students on the journey, though.

Oh, and before leaving, Francesca gave me a hand-written note to pass along to my daughter.

Never underestimate your capacity to be awesome. 

I am only just beginning to process the experience. To put the constituent elements under my microscope. To tease out the takeaways. To ponder what might be worth sharing with others. Something tells me I will be harvesting stories for some time to come. 

In the meantime, I’ve made room at my writing desk for the reminder that I traveled 1,818.4 miles to both give and receive.