In my heart, I am an 8-year-old boy trapped in the body of a 34-year-old man. In reality, I am a middle-aged man blessed with
a wonderful, beautiful, princess-obsessed daughter whom I really don't understand. As a result, I spend my time looking for
things that both little girls and 8-year-old boys enjoy. When I find those things, I jump all over them. These adventures
are my fondest pastimes.
A few months ago, a mammoth snowstorm hit the East Coast, and I remembered that both little girls and inner children enjoy
sledding. I set about organizing the neighborhood kids in a bid to blaze a sled path down the hill in my yard. The process
turned out to be not at all what I expected, and I distinctly remember one point where I found myself separated from my sled
with my face in a snow berm. At the time, I thought, "This process is exactly like trying to make changes at a veterinary
hospital." Here's how I got there:
The benevolent idea
Most change initiatives I see start (and end) with what I like to call "The Benevolent Idea." This is the plan that one idealist
puts forward with the greatest of certainties that other team members will see the value in it, embrace it for its brilliance,
and then execute this miraculous vision.
In the case of my sled experiment, the benevolent idea took the form of me in the middle of a circle of adolescent girls.
(Males seem to be scarce in nearly every aspect of my life.) My arms flailed wildly as I demonstrated the velocity and excitement
that a sled course would bring after the kids had packed down the snow. The crowd dispersed, with the most polite kid remarking,
"Yeah ... that idea might be cool."
The personal investment
As I stood alone with my sled and my 3-year-old watching from the living-room window, I found my resolve. While I've allowed
many initiatives to die amidst a sea of eye rolling, that would not be the case here. I decided this was too important, and
that I was willing to roll up my big, puffy sleeves and make it happen. It would be hard work, but I was confident the children
would see I was invested. They would understand I was serious about this initiative and would help me create something outstanding
for us all. I trudged alone to the top of that hill. I took ownership of the plan and committed myself to making it a reality.
I put my sled in the spot I believed would yield maximum velocity once the snow below was packed. I sat down. The sled sank
about eight inches into the powder, and snow went up my pant legs. The urge to join my daughter in the living room surged.
Instead, I started the tedious, exhausting process of slowly plowing my overloaded Dora-the-Explorer sled down the hill through
the powder. My arms burned, and my shoulders ached. The process seemed never-ending.
The neighborhood kids continued a dance routine that I had interrupted with my original proposal. The sounds of Justin Bieber
made me wish I had never started this process. But I had come too far to stop now. My commitment to the project was strong
enough that I would pursue the goal even if everyone around me chose to ignore what I was doing.