Dump Your Purse
Mom could never find her keys. We knew all was lost when she pulled the Hail Mary of losing one's sh*t—dumping her purse on the car hood.
I coach connected leaders. This is to say: big feelers are drawn to me.
They come into our virtual sessions from the side of the road, purses full, no keys. I advise them to dump their purse on the car hood.
She does. We take a beat. There's Larry's mental health struggles. Jessica's ask for a raise. Tom's complaint about the smell in the break room. Don't, for a moment, think this purse doesn't include it all. Husband's depression. Son's nail biting. The cat that's now... theres? The anxiety since grad school that maybe she was meant to be a painter. No key.
We have one hour to talk, and the first five have just established she’s lost and tired.
Yet, here's this beautiful car she did everything to get. Awful first jobs, family sacrifices, blind faith, getting lost, and landing it. The car’s paid in full.
And she knows where she wants to take it. Or she did when she took the role. It was a Santa Monica freeway dreamscape of high-level contribution and becoming her new best self, ending every night at sunset on the beach in Big Sur with her golden retriever, healthy husband, and a glass of wine.
But no, she's stuck on the side of the road on what’s definitively a Jersey turnpike. A Jersey girl knows. It's getting cold, and she’d like to get home.
I ask, “When you took this job, what were you saying 'yes' to?”
She looks up at me, Julie’s bad email etiquette—dripping in Greg's need for validation—in hand, with eyes that say, “Help me find my G*d d*mn keys.”
“Um, I guess,” her grasp ungripping (it's hard to think and grasp), “To build a better community.” She drops their stuff.
She might need to cry now. I'll stop the pretense; she's crying. Just for like one minute, don't worry; this isn't therapy. I'm not a therapist.
Then, an exhale. Had we both not noticed, she’d only inhaled in the last seven minutes. Impressive, if not worrisome.
I ask her to look out and up.
“But the stuff all over the hood—”
Look out and up.
“But the key—”
Look out and up. What do you want for your drive?
“Dinner"
Okay, I pivot. Close your eyes. What do you want?
“To feel calm.”
We breathe here. Just for like one minute, don't worry; this isn't yoga. I'm not her yoga teacher.
She breathes into her bubble of calm. We've practiced this. She opens her eyes. I ask her to look at the hood. What’s your job? What’s not your job?
Over the next fifty minutes, we get the hood cleared. It turns out her job is contained in a few essential items—actions she commits to. Mari Kondo applauds from under her umbrella across the highway. Thanks, Mari. Now that her bag’s well organized with essential next steps, she goes to unlock the car.
What about the key?
"Oh, it's a Tesla," she says, waving her phone. "Cool, right?"
Off she zooms, until next week.
Who can you dump your purse out with? I'm now open to new clients. Find out if I'm your roadside coach with a free discovery session. Book here.
NLL Success Circles 2024 is now accepting applications. Learn more and apply by March 1st for early bird rate.
Learn more at our community gathering, Success Circles Mixer, Jan. 31st at 9am ET. Email TNL@the-next-level.com for details.
Snag our "New Year, Hire You" coaching special through Jan. 31st for 10% off any coaching packages. Email TNL@the-next-level.com for details.
Follow Listen to Lead on Spotify for conversation on the process of leadership evolution.