A letter to my clients: Why do you do what you do?
Almost six years ago, I had an opportunity to host a workshop in San Francisco with two talented life coaches, Mary and Anna. As life coaches often do, they shared how crucial it is for all of us to be clear about our purpose. The exercise was simple — ask yourself, “why do you do what you do?” Then ask it again, and then again three more times. By your fifth answer, they said, you’ve cut through the crap and are being honest with yourself.
That advice stuck with me when I started Coeffect. When I first moved to Denver, I had a whiteboard with that exact same question, with all my different answers hanging in my office. My “why board” was literally the only thing on the wall, so when I gazed off into the distance without a clue what to do next, my eyes would land on it. Having that reminder of my purpose helped me immensely as I navigated through the uncertainty of being a new entrepreneur in a new city.
When my wife, Melissa, and I moved to our current home, the whiteboard was repurposed for tracking our remodeling projects. But I wrote down my “why board” on a piece of paper and hung it behind my desk.
I’m going to explain more about that in a second; but first, you should know about two of my formative experiences that explain my Why Board.
A bit about me
First, you should know that I was raised by my grandmother. I moved in with her in middle school, and my parents (pictured below) passed away at separate times just a couple of years later.
The picture of my parents that hangs in my office.
My mother struggled with a range of health conditions throughout her adult life, including bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. She also had a condition known as Cushing Syndrome, and its resulting bone loss rendered her unable to walk. Her death wasn’t a surprise to my grandmother and me, as her health had always been in a state of flux, and she would often spend several weeks of each month in the hospital.
On the other hand, my father’s death was a total surprise. One morning shortly after I started my freshman year of high school, he had a heart attack. Not knowing the severity of his situation, he didn’t call 911 but instead tried to clean up and drive himself to the hospital. He never made it out of the bathroom. That afternoon I was in my high school biology class when I was called to the principal’s office. My grandmother was waiting for me, and told me the news in the doorway of my new high school.
Needless to say, my early teenage years were pretty tough. If I didn’t have one grandparent still living, I would have been in foster care and who knows where. But I had an incredible community. My grandmother took care of me and taught me how to care for myself with the wisdom and tenacity that was common in her generation (she was raised during the Depression and served as a nurse in World War II). Family friends invited us to holiday meals. Teachers took an interest in me and encouraged me to get involved in literally everything in my small-town high school. My middle-school music teacher even threw a surprise birthday party for me and my band friends, where they gifted me a secondhand drum kit.
I didn’t realize at that time how lucky I was to have this community, and I wish that every kid growing up can have this kind of social safety net — but many don’t. In a small town, it’s hard to be anonymous. In cities, there are many more opportunities for young people to fall through the cracks, even though there are more organizations and programs working to serve families in crisis. Also, I’m white — otherwise, I certainly might not have received the same kind of support I did from my (mostly white) small-town community. Finally, I was good at school and was one those kids that enjoy learning in that environment.
Which brings me to my second formative experience: being involved in music. I was a good musician at one time, and studying music gave me something to latch on to. While I was never great, I was recognized as one of the best musicians in my region of Iowa and earned a scholarship to study music in college. My instrument was the trombone, and I ask you this: when was the last time you listened to a trombone soloist? Never! As a low-brass musician, I was always part of a team, rarely standing out but making an important contribution nonetheless.
I especially love jazz, and had the opportunity to be a part of many jazz groups in high school, college, and through gigging around the community. A few of these were peak experiences, memorable to the performers and good enough to make a music director cry. There’s an interesting kind of teamwork that happens in a good jazz ensemble. First, everyone is talented, and they put in time preparing (unlike so many of us in our professional lives). In the performance, however, it’s all about situational awareness. You listen to what is happening around you and make adjustments as a group based on only the slightest cues. These signals come not from a director but a peer — the lead saxophonist, the bass player, or the drummer. Everyone gets feedback through what they’re hearing and seeing around them, and are simultaneously focused on their own contribution and how they fit in the larger picture.
Why I do what I do
So what is on my “why board” today? At Coeffect, I do my work because I think that every family deserves a social and financial safety net that allows their children to succeed when hard times hit. The COVID pandemic has shown us that while our safety net exists, it’s both selective and insufficient; but my work with nonprofits working with families and children gives me hope. These nonprofits include Safe & Sound, Emergency Family Assistance Association, Metro Caring, Parent Possible, and Bright by Text, to name just a few.
I also do this work to honor the contribution of everyone who supported me — teachers, home health care workers, doctors, church members, family members and friends. I want to pass on their caring and sacrifice to the next generation. So many of my clients enable connections with caring peers and mentors that individuals can turn to when they need a boost, and I’m proud to have supported Objective Zero, Uncharted, and ProInspire, to name a few.
Finally, I do this work because I know what is possible among well-functioning teams. I want everyone to enjoy some of those peak experiences I often felt as a musician, by helping them establish many of the things that allowed my performances to be so successful:
Alignment: As in music, it’s important to understand how you fit into the larger picture. For nonprofits, a Theory of Change helps team members see how their individual actions contribute to achieving the mission.
Feedback: For a team to succeed, it needs timely feedback. People who try to make a positive impact want to know if what they’re doing is working. I help organizations determine their system for getting this feedback, whether it’s through one-on-one conversations, focus groups, surveys or other approaches.
Systems: If a team wants to remain high-performing over time, it needs a good system with good processes for communication. In my work, I help organizations establish data systems that they need so that everyone is on the same page in regard to the people they’re supporting.
What about you?
Sharing my story doesn’t come easy for me — it feels intimidating, selfish, and like I’m passing on my trauma for others to hold. I hope you don’t see it that way, but if you do, I understand. On the other hand, I once heard the following advice from Denver City Council Member (and fellow Iowa native) Albus Brooks: “if you don’t tell your story, others will assume it.”
Still, I put this bit of writing off for nearly two years after I heard Albus’s advice. Two months ago, my mother-in-law passed away, at the age of 66. This was a stark reminder — we may not have as much time as we think.
One of the things I’ve learned from loss is that we can’t leave the important things unsaid. Another is that authentic relationships are far more important than money, pride, or prestige. I have the privilege of working around some amazing people, and I hope I get to hear more of your story.
With love,
Paul
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