Leading Through Trust

The chilling shower sequence in the iconic American thriller, "Psycho," remains one of the most intense and unsettling scenes in the history of cinema. It left a lasting imprint on audiences, instilling a profound fear of showering and forever associating the simple act with the bone-chilling screech of violins that accompanied the scene.

What does the movie "Psycho" have to do with leaders leading through trust? Quite a bit. Let me elaborate.

Bernard Herrmann was an acclaimed composer and conductor, primarily recognized for his outstanding contributions to film composition. He is particularly celebrated for his collaboration with the director Alfred Hitchcock, most notably on the film "Psycho."

During the filming of “Psycho”, Hitchcock initially intended for the shower scene to be devoid of any music. However, Herrmann, ever the musical genius, strongly believed that the scene required music to enhance its terrorizing impact. During post-production, Hitchcock began to express concerns about the shower scene feeling incomplete and lacking a more amplified tone of terror. 

This presented Herrmann with an opportunity to provide Hitchcock with the solution to the scene's shortcomings. Herrmann approached Hitchcock and enthusiastically stated, "Well, I did compose something. Would you like to hear it?" Upon receiving Hitchcock's approval, he played that ever-so-haunting and famous barrage of screeching violins. When Hitchcock heard what Hermann had composed, he immediately changed his mind and recognized how the intensified sound of the sharply accented strings created the perfect chilling atmosphere that the scene was missing. Hitchcock was quoted as saying, "Well, absolutely, we'll use that." 

If Hitchcock had stubbornly resisted Herrmann's expertise and refused to defer to his judgment, the world would have been deprived of one of the most famous musical compositions in cinematic history. Moreover, this decision could have diluted the intensity of the iconic shower scene's impact. Fortunately, Hitchcock recognized the importance of setting aside ego and entrusted Herrmann's creative genius. This trust was indicative of a collaborative partnership between two renowned experts in their respective fields. 

Today's leaders can glean a valuable lesson from Hitchcock. In our roles as leaders, we ascend to our positions based on our expertise and our ability to offer effective solutions. It's undeniable that we've dedicated significant time and effort to earn our credentials. Nevertheless, there are moments when we find ourselves without the answers or a clear strategy to navigate a complex issue. Recognizing when to take a step back and tap into the talent and expertise within our team can often yield the desired outcome. This act requires humility.

Ironically, vulnerability is a conference room where many leaders hesitate to enter. However, it takes genuine courage to embrace vulnerability and abandon ego. By doing so, we empower others to step forward and contribute their insights and capabilities. This, in turn, leads to a more collaborative and successful approach to problem-solving. 

Recognizing the importance of stepping aside and affording an opportunity for your team to take the lead in providing solutions is a hallmark of effective leadership. Exceptional leaders understand that they aren't necessarily the best at everything. Instead, they seek out individuals who excel in various areas and aim to unite them under a common goal. For myself, I prioritize hiring people on my team who bring expertise in areas where we can offset our individual strengths and where I can grow as a leader from their knowledge and skills. This approach strengthens the team and fosters personal and professional growth for all involved, allowing us to be better together. Failure to adopt this approach just might leave you with a sense of helplessness and despair, much like Janet Leigh's fate as Marion Crane, lifeless and slumped over the bathtub, requiring you to cue the violins, fade out, and call cut!

©2023 LoriAnn Boyer - All Rights Reserved
This product is protected by copyright and distributed under licenses restricting copying and distribution.

Farewell My Friend

"LoriAnn, I have some very sad news to share." Deep down, you're already aware that what follows will not be easy to hear.

The news was indeed very sad. It was undeniably sorrowful. My dear friend Terri, who is also the wife of my beloved friend and former colleague, Byron, had the painful task of informing me that Byron had unexpectedly passed away. The news hit me with the force of a cruel blow, and a chilling numbness swept over my entire body. I found myself screaming in disbelief as if my denial could somehow rewrite the reality before me. Byron's passing has left me utterly devastated and heartbroken. He was only 47, departing painfully too soon and leaving an already irrefutable void. 

Byron was my former HR leader from my time at McGladrey. He was a mentor, guide, friend, and a truly exceptional human being. Working under his leadership was a privilege and so much fun. He possessed the remarkable ability to recognize talent and skills within me that I hadn't yet discovered. He boldly pushed me into the necessary scary and uncomfortable places, with the intention of shaping me into the HR and talent acquisition leader I am today. He was one of the first leaders to give me wingspan and the freedom to explore and excel, while also offering a safety net should I stumble. Through his own example, he taught me the noble act of falling on the sword for my team, and he also knew when to rein me in if I got out in front of myself. He affectionately nicknamed me "Fireball," - emblematic of my unyielding determination. Every so often I'd hear him utter, "Hold on there, Fireball. Let's take a step back and walk through this slowly." He’d then guide me with compassion and grace.

Byron's sense of fairness was unwavering, and his ethical standards set the benchmark for HR excellence. A significant portion of my leadership persona was molded under his tutelage.

What truly elevated our connection was that he and his family became a loving extension of my own. He assumed the roles of big brother and mentor to my son. Our interactions transcended the professional realm, as we shared life's experiences, fun-filled family get-togethers with abundant laughter, and ceaselessly uplifted one another. He and his family loved, I mean LOVED, my chocolate chip banana bread. And I was all too willing to bake countless batches of it for them.

In light of all this, Byron faced a myriad of struggles and inner demons, engaging in a frequent and intimate dance with them. Our conversations often delved into the battles he fought. I mention this as a testament to the intricate tapestry of human experiences and the multi-dimensional nature of him and our friendship. In a heartfelt conversation with a friend, I tearfully expressed my profound anger over how his demons ultimately prevailed, silencing him forever. This tribute serves as a voice for him, and to break the tragic silence that has befallen him and those who held him dear. 

Our last exchange occurred a few weeks prior to his passing after a call he had with my son, and his final message resonates deeply within me:

"Hey - not that you need my reassurance, but your son is amazing. You've done an incredible job, Mom. We had a meaningful talk about the writer's strike. He's an inspiration to me, and you built him from the ground up. Thank you for bringing him into our lives and sharing him with us. He is truly a gift. Love you." ♥️

My response echoed gratitude for the sentiment and concluded with "Love you. XOXO." ♥️

I've revisited the entire history of our text exchanges countless times, cycling through moments of laughter and tears. The solace lies in the fact that our last words to each other were ones of inspiration and affection, and concluded with a heart emoji. Just like so many times before, they were infused with love and the essence of a beautiful and tender friendship.

My heart is a mixture of love and heartache. The memories I've shared with Byron are treasures I will forever hold close. My thoughts are with Terri, and his children, as they grapple with the absence of their beloved father and husband.

I'm left with a profound sense of loss and devastation and completely shattered. Coming to terms with Byron's passing and the realization that our exchanges—conversations, emails, texts, and get-togethers—have reached an irrevocable conclusion is a process I will forever be navigating. I'm striving to comprehend the depths of this loss as well as extend comfort to my son.

The weight of it all is overwhelming, a poignant reminder of the imperative to be wholly present, to embrace life in its entirety, to release trivial matters, to quickly forgive, to hug longer and tighter, and to love deeply the individuals who grace our lives. It's a call to transcend our self-imposed barriers, quiet the ceaseless chatter of our minds, and relentlessly embrace the beauty of each day we are granted on this amazing journey we call life.

Here's to you, my dear friend. Thank you for the beautiful and invaluable lessons you've taught me. For the camaraderie, affection, and laughter you so generously offered. Thank you for the countless engaging, candid, and vulnerable heartfelt conversations as we sought answers to our shared burdens. You were my brother, my friend, my confidant. Your name is etched upon my heart, and you will forever occupy a special place in my life. Both Stephen and I are committed to standing by Terri and the children, supporting them as they grieve your absence and move forward in a world without you. In due course, we will share stories of our time with you, ensuring your memory lives on.

For now, my friend, the time has come for you to finally and fully embrace peace and gracefully dance among the angels.

Love and miss you!

Goal Setting at Strawberry Field

The summer following my tenth birthday, my parents granted me permission to take on a summer job, allowing me to earn some pocket money, and, in hindsight, a deep respect for day labor. I embarked on this journey by working at the mecca of produce in our tiny town of Swansea, MA – Chace Farm. I lived about half a mile from the farm and always admired the meticulous rows of plants and quaint fruit and veggie stand when we’d drive or walk by our local agricultural gem. Of all its yummy offerings, Chace Farm was known for its delicious, mouth-watering strawberries. It was not uncommon to find a pint or two of their succulent strawberries adorning the kitchens and tables of our fellow residents within our neighborhood.

On the morning of my inaugural day pursuing what I believed to be a venture into "serious money-making," I was vibrating with giddy enthusiasm. After all, I was now an up-and-coming professional woman earning my own money, and even though my journey began quite literally at dirt level, the sky was the limit. This day was also poised to mark a pivotal lesson in goal setting that would resonate throughout my lifetime.

With a fervent determination and a hearty combination of Cheerios and Tang fueling me (yes, Tang - after all, it was the 70s and if it was good enough for astronauts, it was good enough for me), I eagerly set forth to become the money-making prodigy that would undoubtedly become a source of parental pride, especially in conversations with their friends. I could envision the scenario: parents competing to outdo each other with their children's remarkable achievements. Meanwhile, my parents radiated joy as they happily shared that their daughter was occupied that day, giving an interview to Rolling Stone magazine in recognition of her achievement as the adolescent entrepreneur of the year. Brimming with the confidence of a person adamant about capitalizing on their earning potential, I hurriedly skipped to Chace Farm, each step becoming a leap towards my financial ambitions.

During my gleeful and determined sojourn to the farm, I resolved that the day's strawberry picking would yield a grand total of $100 for me. Now, in hindsight, I realize my tender age of ten shielded me from the intricate economic realities of agriculture. Nonetheless, I clung to an unwavering determination to become the epitome of financial success that summer. My soul was ablaze with aspirations, and I believed myself en route to achieving a financial status akin to Rockefeller's.

I entertained myself with fanciful thoughts of the exciting spoils my $100 would afford me. My list included: a tape recorder, a pink Huffy bike with accompanying tassels, the latest issue of Tiger Beat magazine, a new flavor of Bonnie Bell lip gloss – strawberry, of course, to punctuate the experience – and a coveted pair of Trax sneakers. All of these treasures would be procured from our town's grand emporium of retail delights, Kmart.

I excitedly arrived at the farm and reported in with the farmer. She carefully instructed me on my duties and informed me that she’d pay me 25 cents for every five-quart basket of strawberries I picked. The strawberries had to be plump, fully ripe, and free of bruising. Unfazed by her directives and blissfully unaware of the size of a five-quart basket, I readily accepted her terms with eagerness. Without hesitation, the farmer handed over several five-quart baskets, and a realization dawned upon me – this was going to be much more challenging than I had initially anticipated and perhaps an extra glass of Tang would have been a wise choice. The farmer then proceeded to inform me that the baskets also had to have a cap. Still unaffected by the task, I took the baskets and set off to a row of strawberries ready to accumulate my fortune.

After several hours hunched over strawberry plants under the scorching July sun, my Cheerios and Tang had waged an internal battle, leaving me feeling lightheaded and a bit queasy. Covered in dirt and drenched in perspiration mixed with the sticky residue of strawberry juice, I conceded to the overwhelming fatigue and sunburn that was now smarting. It was evident that it was time to present my hard-earned harvest to the farmer and claim my day's earnings.

Throughout the morning, the farmer carefully took note of how many baskets I surrendered. As I laid my final strawberry bounty before her, covered in berry-strewn clothing and hair, I stood readily awaiting my earnings. The farmer tallied a total of 17 baskets of strawberries. She then carefully placed in my weary, strawberry-stained hands a mere 4.25 cents for hours of arduous fruit-filled labor. As I stared at the paltry sum, I couldn't help but imagine myself as a modern-day Oliver Twist, standing before the stern headmaster, filled with a mixture of exhaustion and yearning, as I gathered the resolve to utter those iconic words, "Please sir, I want some more." And more was what I desired. But for the time being, a well-earned shower and a hearty lunch awaited, where Kool-Aid would play substitute to the mornings elixir of Tang.

As my berry money-making escapade came to an end that day, a vital lesson had come squarely into view: the art of crafting attainable goals. Too often we get so caught up in the excitement of the reward that we lose sight of the very road map leading us there. I was so excited about what I was going to do with the money I earned that I failed to realize how my over-zealous ambition positioned me for eventual disappointment coupled with an immense amount of sweat equity, yielding a less-than-moderate return on my investment.

We have grandiose ambitions that come with a checklist longer than the unabridged version of "War and Peace". We chase after these colossal feats with the fervor of a caffeinated squirrel, only to find ourselves as worn out as an overused typewriter ribbon. The idea is to ensure our aspirations are as achievable as they are admirable.

Whether establishing goals personally or professionally, engineer them to be measurable, achievable, and realistic. Do your research – like understanding the efforts required to fill a five-quart basket of strawberries. Be prepared for setbacks and have a contingency plan ready to address them when they arise. Most importantly, don’t get so fixated on the reward that you lose sight of the purpose of your goal. After all, shouldn’t the journey be just as delightful as a bowl of decadently delicious summer strawberries from the bygone days of Chace Farm?

©2023 LoriAnn Boyer - All Rights Reserved
This product is protected by copyright and distributed under licenses restricting copying and distribution.

 

The Unwelcome House Guest

Photo Credit - Brandon Scharr

I recently had an unexpected and unwelcome house guest. He signaled his arrival in his usual obnoxiously intrusive manner—relentlessly ringing my doorbell and demanding immediate entrance. When I opened the door and witnessed his all too familiar maniacal grin, I was filled with exasperation coupled with a severe reluctance to let him enter.

His name is Depression. He has visited several times. Always uninvited and leaving a trail of disorder and ruin.

The battle of wits between Depression and me, and his unwelcome visits, has always been an intense struggle. I stand on one side, a strong and determined individual who has spent years developing my mental and emotional fortitude. On the other side, Depression, a cunning and insidious enemy who has plagued me for years.

Now, there he stood, again, on my porch with his oversized bags of anxiety, hopelessness, pain, exhaustion, and despair. He forced his way into my foyer pushing past me, attempting to throw his filthy, tattered baggage at me, which I refused to intercept. Noticing my lack of hospitality, he looked at me curiously, squinting his eyes, and slowly advanced his ugly visage closer to my face. I stood steadfast, unaffected by his bullish nature and stared back with an unwavering intensity that unnerved him. He cocked his head and grunted, sizing me up. “What, no welcome back?” he sarcastically chided. Depression could sense there was something different about me this time. He seemed excited about the challenge I was presenting yet uneasy about the position of authority I was exuding.

I pointed my finger to the right and signaled him to the living room. He looked surprised by the intensity of my command. He slowly and cautiously lumbered to the couch, never taking his eyes off me. “Sit,” I instructed. He sat deliberately with measured curiosity in this transfer of power being skillfully played out. I promptly sat down beside him, ignoring his snarls and attempts to intimidate me with his size and presence. I boldly locked eyes with him. He grimaced slightly and readied himself for my next move, and we took a collective breath.

“Here’s how this is going to go,” I began. “It’s clear we’ll be coexisting in the same space for the next several weeks; however, this is MY house and there are rules of engagement you will abide by while here.” Depression folded his arms and smirked, as if to say, “Oh, this is going to be entertaining.” “We’ve done this dance before,” I continued, “but, I’ll be leading the steps this time.”

“You can take the downstairs guest room. The reason is twofold: First, my bedroom is off-limits. It is my sanctuary from the stresses of the day. It is where I begin and end my day. You will not be allowed to determine the outlook at the start of my morning or torment my thoughts at night with your relentless mental overplay and anxiety. Second, I want you as far away from me as possible while you’re here.”

Depression became angry at my cold hospitality and started to lean in toward me. I put my finger up to his face and said, “Stop, right there.” He halted, with a twinge of surprise, keeping his gaze fixed on me. “Again, this is my house and you are a guest here, albeit an unwelcome one at that.”

“My mediation space is also off-limits,” I continued. “It is sacred and hallowed ground. And, as you are witnessing, it’s where I’ve equipped myself with the tools to overcome your abuses and traumas.” Depression looked at me with deep contempt and a boiling uneasiness.

“You can roam the rest of the house as you like, but you are not allowed to get in my way. And, don’t even think about unpacking those garbage bags you call luggage.” Depression’s frustration with my rules of engagement heightened. He began to breathe heavily and tightened his lips. He resembled a child forced to endure the summer with his excessively demanding and eccentric aunt and uncle, fully aware that the coming weeks would be woefully challenging and distressing.

Depression doesn’t do a one-night stand. On the contrary, he’s the consummate squatter. Depression took up residence for nine weeks. We ate meals and watched TV together. He drove to and from work with me. We did housework, gardened, worked out, and ran errands. We socialized with friends, and he even accompanied me on a few dates. He tempted me with trauma from the past, vitriol from social media, and moments of self-doubt and feelings of inadequacy. He was relentless in resurfacing recent hurts and losses.

Depression is a formidable foe and an unruly house guest who requires my full attention and all of my mental and emotional resources to overcome. During his visit, his strategies became more intense and persistent. There were moments when I grew anxious that he might prevail in this battle of wits. He was ruthless in his attempts to drag me into his putrefied pit of despair. As the weeks wore on, I learned to anticipate his attacks and took action before he could gain a foothold in my mind. I would counter his assaults with positive thoughts and actions, employing various strategies, such as exercise, therapy, meditation, faith, self-care, and leaning deeper into my trusted circle of family and friends.

I have learned to be the master of my own mind. Over the years, I’ve built a mental and emotional defense. And it was clear on this particular visit that Depression was no longer able to breach them, and I had gained ground against my hostile house guest, solidifying my fortitude.

On the eve of Depression’s last night with me, it was as if he had reconciled that it was time to vacate. Seated at my dining room table, he remained silent, his demeanor speaking volumes. His spirit conveyed a resounding acknowledgment of defeat. No words escaped his lips, yet his expression whispered the message loud and clear: “You've won.” In that moment, a bittersweet triumph washed over me. For too long, Depression’s visits had cast a dark shadow over my life, clouding my thoughts and stealing my joy. But now, in this profound shift of power, the tides had turned, granting me the strength to confront and conquer his adversarial prowess. And though there were minor wounds incurred that have now fused with the scars of the past, I am stronger and more resilient for having, yet again, faced such a formidable opponent. I could sense the surrender in his eyes, a poignant recognition that his hold over me had finally been broken. Though his silence prevailed, its eloquence echoed through the room, marking the end of an arduous visit.

On the dawn of the following morning, I eagerly bid Depression adieu and watched as he slowly faded from view and reveled in the liberation that washed over me. Within my soul, a mix of emotions swirled—a blend of gratitude and strength with a flicker of apprehensive hope. The burden that consumed my every waking moment during his visit had finally lifted. Though uncertainty lies ahead, I hold a steadfast confidence in my resilience and determination to navigate the path. As the taillights of Depression disappeared from sight, I whispered to myself, “Goodbye, old foe. Until next time.”

©2023 LoriAnn Boyer - All Rights Reserved
This product is protected by copyright and distributed under licenses restricting copying and distribution.