I was broken when I left my job in 2015. The leaving itself didn’t break me—I’ve never regretted my decision to quit, not for a moment—but my self-confidence did not follow me out.
 
In the months preceding my departure, some vital piece of my work persona had crumpled. It’s not important what caused the destruction, only that it happened, and more importantly I let it happen. I’d had no idea I was so fragile, which might have been the most disconcerting part.
 
It was a shocking realization; I’d ostensibly left to more thoroughly pursue my dreams, but I was utterly bewildered because the launch of this new chapter in my life was fueled equally by, “My time is NOW! I'm ready!” and, “When did my heart fall to pieces?” 

​This is the story of how WaterMullen and, oddly enough, knitting stitched me back together. 

I’d bring my fledgling knitting with me lots of places—waiting rooms, on the train, things like that-- and people would sometimes ask how long I’d been doing it, had my grandmother taught me, and I’d say no, I picked it up a few months ago, and they would ask how I'd learned, and I'd say YouTube, and they'd be surprised. The surprise was surprising. Then I’d have to unravel whatever I’d been working on because I’d messed up again, and they would look at me with pity, or a small degree of dread on my behalf, and they’d ask how many times had I started over? I’d think about it as I pulled apart fistfuls of yarn and say a number that was usually between three and twenty. They’d make a face that broadcast, better you than me, and I’d tell them that in addition to keeping me from aimlessly playing on my phone, knitting was really helping me get better at being a failure. 

2018 was the year I finally diagnosed 2015-Me with a terminal case of sucking at failing. As soon as I made a mistake, or perceived something I’d done was a mistake, or someone pointed out a mistake I'd made, I crumbled; when I didn’t know how to do something or when I didn’t know ~everything~, I died. Lack of knowledge and mistakes were proof that I was worthless, and worthless things go in the garbage, and the garbage is a lonely, loveless place where I absolutely deserved to be. I'd imprinted these facts on my soul since grade school, and each subsequent tier of education, then jobs, reinforced them. I shudder to remember the pain of each slip-up, like I was always two small steps away from falling on broken glass. 

​Knitting can be tricky. It’s easy to mess up, especially when you’re first learning. Knitting is forgiving, though, too; starting over is almost always an option. Yarn is very patient as well. It doesn’t leap up to strangle you when you drop a stitch. A knit creation can be riddled with mistakes and still be used, worn, loved. Someone is always on YouTube waiting to show you how to do something, and they’ll repeat the lesson as many times as you want, without censure or side-eye. If you're lucky, your mother-in-law will delight at your efforts, however rudimentary, and say things like, "Och, that sock doesn't need pinky toe. It's fine the way it is." (A sweeter, kinder woman you've never met.)

About eighteen months into my life as a consultant, I took a job that was a big reach for me. I’d known it would be a challenge when I chased the project, though I was (thankfully) too foolish to really understand the breadth of the leap I was taking. 
 
I’ll be honest: there were several distressingly long chunks of time where I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. I had to use tools I’d never used before to create something I didn’t have much experience crafting. Thankfully, I had the iron embrace of a contract pulling me towards action. I had to figure that s**t out. 

​And the s**t did, in fact, get figured. It took me hours upon hours upon hours that I wouldn’t bill for because no client should have to pay for such depth of ignorance. But I figured it out! Through a painstaking process of research, trial and error, video tutorials, answer boards and stupid questions, eventually I got it. There was no cry of “Eureka!” It was the opposite, like a drawn out, pained groan leaking from the mouth of a barely-sentient gob of slime mold. 

​But I did it! My deliverables were polished, professional, and on time. The massive struggle that birthed them hadn’t left any scars on the final product.
 
Careworn, sad, broken 2015 me looked up from the scarf she was knitting and said, “Oh...?”

I’m not sure which came first, the knitting or the reach. They happened close enough together that it’s hard for me to untangle effect from cause. Moreover, I didn’t realize the extent of the transformation until maybe a year after the project. I’d learned something ridiculously important, maybe the literal most important lesson ever: I can figure it out. What I *don't* know is an asset. It will take time and a (sometimes seemingly endless) series of mistakes, but I am capable, and now, no one can convince me that I am incapable, least of all myself. Curiosity—in fact, reveling in not knowing-- and the pursuit of its satisfaction will keep bread on my table. 

People were surprised at self-taught knitting and the unraveling because I've found that the older we get, the harder it is to not be good at things, by which I mean, we have less time to gain additional mastery and less inclination to be a novice all over again, because it might somehow cast doubt on all our past achievements. It’s very uncomfortable to start from zero. I see most of us spending our lives in pursuit of excellence, which is an entirely worthy endeavor, though I've also seen excellence and arrogance go hand in hand--a combination that is the deepest enemy of being good at failing. I am trying hard to be a confident, humble fool. Now that knitting is in my arsenal, it’s time for me to choose a new thing I can fail at repeatedly, to hone my hard-earned skill of celebrating the potential of ignorance.

I'm so relieved to know that I'll figure it out. 

This is a post I wrote for the Fellowship I participated in throughout 2019, and that additional demand on my time is a partial excuse for why I've been so quiet. The other part of the excuse is that I've been doing less consulting and more working for a single organization--NERACOOS. I'll be writing more about that later. In the meantime, here are some thoughts on a problem that's been plaguing me for the past 18+ months, and how I've been trying to fix it. 

​It had been the first bullet point in the job description: “Increase community engagement.”
 
The Community Manager for The Ocean Acidification Information Exchange would be in charge of getting its member scientists, policymakers, and educators talking to one another about preparing and adapting to ocean acidification. I’d been a scientist and communicator for some time, but I’d never been a Community Manager; when I accepted the post, I knew the learning curve would be steep, but I was excited. One of the things I love about consulting is that I work on a variety of projects, a lot of which require me to reach and learn new things.

​Fast-forward into Month Two of my employment, when I’d made a series of important discoveries:

1. The OA Information Exchange was quiet. I could almost hear the crickets when I logged on.
2. Using the phrase “increasing engagement” to describe the breadth, scope, and complicatedness of my work was like calling the Encyclopedia Britannica “some books.”
3. I couldn’t rely on researching myself out of the hole because there simply wasn’t much material that spoke to what I was trying to do
4. I’d failed to understand that an online community, even one comprised of scientists and policymakers working on something as technical as ocean acidification, needs the same kind of emotional tending as in-person communities.

 
In a blind panic, I reached out to some members I knew personally and asked what was going on. What was the holdup?
 
“I don’t want to waste anyone’s time with my stupid questions.”
“I don’t think I have anything to contribute.”
“I’m worried people will think I’m unintelligent.”
 
Sound familiar?
 
Though no one’s posts had ever been called dumb, no one had ever written an unkind word, and no flame wars had begun over the idiocy of a comment, people didn’t trust that those things couldn’t happen. In the process of setting up the site and bringing in members, we’d forgotten that to facilitate conversations and sharing we’d first need to build trust. So, all I had to do was get seven hundred people from all different parts of the world doing all sorts of different jobs to trust each other. Piece of cake.
 
We know that trust is the bedrock of all human relationships. What’s fascinating about trust is that unlike anger or joy or bemusement, it isn’t solely an emotion one experiences moment-by-moment; the presence or absence of trust informs current feelings and future interactions. Ulf Bernd Kassebaum, a psychologist at the University of Hamburg, developed a definition I like a lot[1]:
 
“Interpersonal trust is an expectation about a future behavior of another person and an accompanying feeling of calmness, confidence, and security depending on the degree of trust and the extend[sic] of the associated risk. That other person shall behave as agreed, […] according to subjective expectations.”[2]
 
In a community environment, building trust means proving to people that “we”—the Community Manager, team leaders, other members, and the space as a whole—offer a stable environment with valuable interactions. There’s less vulnerability, so getting involved isn’t as scary. After[EG1]  a lot of thinking, I put five must-have tools in my trust-building toolbox:
 
Have a clear purpose: Feeling lost is a state of intense vulnerability; that’s why my first step was making sure the mission and goals of our community were clearly defined and very visible, so everyone could quickly orient themselves. The benefits of joining would be obvious and member roles would be unambiguous.
 
Start small: By the time I became Community Manager, we already had several hundred members and speaking to everyone felt like I was reaching no one. I had to backtrack and spend a lot of time working with people one-on-one, demonstrating that I was available, and I cared about my members’ experiences.
 
Be authentic: Being honest, empathetic and respectful was perhaps the most obvious and important step. All my work began and ended with those three magic adjectives. I tried to always remember that members are essentially donating their time to these communities, so the least I could do was treat them with an extra dose of decency.
 
Stay transparent: I made sure my members had a way they could always submit anonymous feedback about their experiences in the community. More than anything, I used the tool as a signal of the community’s good intentions: yes, we might fail at something, but we would also work to fix it. Our members could trust that even if something wasn’t great right now, their future interactions would be better.
 
Catch people: If a member started a conversation, I always made sure to acknowledge their contribution, and if need be, I’d send a behind-the-scenes email prompting others to respond as well. I wanted to make sure that when a member put themselves out there, they didn’t fall flat on their face, and it showed everyone that no one would ever be left hanging.
 
Even in a trusting environment, it can still be scary to put oneself out there. If you’re still struggling to get meaningful conversations started among members, I’ve discovered some tactics that might jumpstart the process:
 
Call for backup: Recruiting a group of power users, or “plants”, is a huge help. Plants are the foot soldiers of the vulnerability mitigation force. You know you can rely on them to initiate and respond, and they ensure that if a member makes themselves vulnerable by volunteering a topic, they’re not jumping without a safety line.
 
Humanize exchanges: No one likes talking to a generic grey avatar. Humanizing exchanges can mean anything from providing a space for personal information and a photo, to making good eye contact. Conversation is about connection, and it’s much easier to have a conversation when we feel like there’s a real person on the other end listening.
 
Be inviting: Likewise, if you know there’s someone out there who could speak to the topic at hand but they either haven’t chimed in or aren’t aware of the conversation, call them over, tag them, make an introduction. It’s the most time-consuming way to start and continue conversations, but it’s also perhaps the most reliable.
 
Ask people what they know: Sometimes cliques form around specific conversations, but the subject either isn’t of broad interest, or others don’t feel empowered enough to jump in. Fight the phenomenon by lobbing a pop fly: ask a question that anyone, regardless of expertise, can answer.
 
Reward participation: Everyone likes to feel appreciated, and acknowledgement is an important part of trusting relationships. A reward can be as simple as writing someone a follow-up email to say thank you or pressing a “like” or “kudos” button on a post. When people feel their efforts are appreciated and valuable, they’re more likely to contribute in the future.
 
When no one and nothing else is available, respond: While a Community Manager’s job isn’t to insert themselves and their own expertise into conversations, relying on your own chops is a good fallback.  Like your mom saying you look nice today--“You have to say that…you’re my mother”— the impact might not be as great, but any acknowledgement is better than nothing. 
 
How do you build trust in your communities? What are some ways you’ve found to engage people in meaningful conversation?
 


[1] Bamberger, Walter. Interpersonal Trust- Attempt of a Definition. Technische Universität München, 2010. http://www.ldv.ei.tum.de/en/research/fidens/interpersonal-trust/

[2] U.B. Kassebaum. Interpersonelles Vertrauen: Entwicklung eines Inventars zur Erfassung spezifischer Aspekte des Konstrukts. Ph.D. thesis, Universität Hamburg, Hamburg, 2004. URL http://www.sub.uni-hamburg.de/opus/volltexte/2004/2125 . Translated from German by Walter Bamberger of the Technical University of Munich
 

 [EG1]Later on you talk about how it can still be scary even in a trusting environment, maybe take the “no one feels vulnerable” sentence?