InterHuman Solutions

It’s been a brutal season. This spring alone: the death of a family member, several deaths of friends and colleagues, two emergency hospitalizations of family members, and a trip to the ER for my own injury.

In the midst of the swirl, I’ve been trying to practice what I teach—both around self-care and improving well-being. One exercise has been particularly helpful: naming three “good things” each day.

Intentionally noticing the good can help us navigate what’s hard.

So this week, I’m sharing a few of mine:

Tastes I savor:
Coconut, raspberry, and mint chocolates from a local chocolate shop
Mint chocolate chip ice cream
Chocolate cake, chocolate whopper cookies, and chocolate cheesecake brownies (sense the trend?!)
Brie or goat cheese on artisan crisps
Fresh fruit, salad, and other greens

Moments that bring me joy:
Playing ukulele and singing, especially for a rapt audience (see picture)
Laughing, having meaningful conversations, and simply being with my people
Hiking through forests and up mountains
Working out every morning, no matter what
Game nights with friends and family (especially Mah Jong)
Heated car seats on especially cold days

Humans (and the dog!) who fill my cup:
My spouse, my steady and favorite debrief partner
My adult children, who are honestly amazing humans
My new grandbaby, a bundle of cuteness
Extended family and friends, who check in, even when I forget to reach out
Mozzie, who is still all puppy at almost 7 years old

Work that reminds me what matters:
Helping organizations create cultures in which people can do their best work and feel that they belong
Facilitating workshops, and witnessing participants’ light bulb moments
Helping leaders find new, better ways of showing up
Resolving conflict in teams, and watching the entire tenor shift

While naming the good doesn’t change the reality of hard moments, it helps us notice that the hard moments are not the whole story.

I’m curious what “good things” you would name today!

I remember the day each of my children left home for college. The day they accepted their first full-time jobs. The day they moved into their own places.

Those milestones brought up a mix of emotions: pride, excitement, and yes, also fear and uncertainty.

Will they be okay? Will they find their people? Will they thrive at work? Will they be able to navigate life’s inevitable hard stuff?

Letting go was (and is!) not easy. Our children will not always make the decisions we would. They will stumble sometimes. They will face hard seasons that we can’t shield them from. And yet, our job is not to clear every obstacle from their path; we should trust that we have helped them develop the roots, resilience, judgement, and confidence to find their own footing.

While our team members are not our children, the best leadership shares something with the best parenting; both are ultimately in service of someone else’s growth—not our own comfort, pride, or need for control.

Great leaders are genuinely excited when others shine.

They create space for people to make their own decisions, to take ownership, and yes, sometimes to make mistakes.

They coach rather than rescue.

They champion professional growth, even if it eventually leads a team member to a promotion or opportunity beyond their current team.

Letting go in leadership requires us to pause, look inward, and consider our motives before we act.

It means resisting the urge to step in before someone has a chance to wrestle with a challenge.

It means recognizing that our way is not the only way.

It means accepting that growth is often messy, inefficient, and uncomfortable.

And most of all, it means measuring our success not by how indispensable we’ve become but by how capable, confident, and independent we’ve helped others become.

The leaders who do that well don’t just build strong teams. They develop people who go on to successfully lead teams of their own.

And that’s a legacy worth leaving.

Last week, a loved one in another city was rushed to a hospital, one where we had no sense of the culture or care she would receive. And because she was transported by ambulance in the middle of the night, we didn’t have time to research or choose a specific hospital.

I was terrified.

Yet from the moment I arrived a few hours later, something immediately stood out. The staff seemed deeply engaged, genuinely happy, and clearly connected to a purpose beyond the work itself.

Even in the busy Emergency Department, her nurse was responsive, caring, and focused on our needs. Every practitioner took time to explain the diagnosis and options, answer questions, and encourage us to call if we needed any additional information.

When I got lost looking for the cafeteria, a friendly team member showed me the way. When I expressed confusion about transportation to and from the hospital, a nurse took time to explain a lesser-known bus route. One person even stopped to show me some options of places near the unit where I could have private conversations.

After surgery, Lawson, our nurse for the next few days, was extraordinary—warm, attentive, and consistently present. It’s hard to fully express how much his care meant during what was an otherwise difficult time.

As someone who works with organizations on culture and leadership, I found myself noticing how the team operated. It was clear that we didn’t just luck out with good people; we found a good culture, one that permeated every interaction.

I could see it in how team members spoke with each other, in the pride they took in their work, and in how they engaged with patients and families. The values posted on the wall weren’t just posters. The actions listed there were actually lived.

That’s what a strong work culture looks like. It’s what happens when people are connected to purpose, when leaders support their teams, and when values are more than words on a wall.

And here’s what I know from my work: that kind of culture doesn’t happen by accident. It’s built, intentionally and consistently, at every level of an organization.

I’m grateful beyond words to Lawson and the whole team. They reminded me, in the most personal way possible, why this work matters—and the profound impact it has on everyone it touches.

She had stepped in it. Again.

In a recent coaching session, a client shared that she had reacted to someone’s behavior with anger.

Over time, she had learned how to manage disagreements with coworkers. This time, the other person was her parent. And she wanted to understand why the tools she had developed disappeared the moment she walked through the door to her childhood home.

It’s a great question. And she’s far from alone.

Last week, I facilitated a webinar on “Navigating Difficult Conversations about Aging” for the NC chapter of the National Association of Social Workers. Over 300 people attended, and what struck me was that more than half weren’t just there for their clients. They were also there for themselves.

We explored both how to have these conversations and why they feel so much harder with family.

Two things stood out as especially different from workplace conversations.

1. The weight of history. Family conversations carry decades of dynamics, roles, patterns, and unresolved friction. The sibling who always wanted to make the decisions. The child who never felt heard. The spouse who didn’t speak up. That history shapes how we show up at the kitchen table, how every word lands, and how we interpret each moment.

2. The particular challenges of aging. These conversations unearth what many of us try hard to avoid: loss of autonomy, physical decline, mortality, identity, and anticipatory grief. That’s a lot to hold, and even the most skilled communicators can find themselves flooded in ways they don’t expect.

So what helps?

Many of the same tools that work professionally also apply here:

🔹Focus on connection before content. We often rush into these conversations because they feel urgent. Yet even with family, the relationship has to come first. We need to build trust and emotional safety before diving into the hard stuff.

🔹Attend to emotions. Name and make space for the feelings in the room. Conversations about aging often touch on core identity, and sharp reactions can hint at something more significant below the surface.

🔹Acknowledge the layers. Be aware of the family history, patterns, and complexity. Understanding and sometimes naming those reactions can help you respond to what’s actually happening instead of reacting to historical patterns.

🔹Stay curious. Even when you are certain you are right, others may feel just as sure of their own answers. Ask genuine questions. Seek to understand before trying to be heard. The goal isn’t to win; it’s to navigate the conversation together.

🔹Take a pause when you need one. Emotions may run high. Take time to slow down: step back, breathe, process, and re-center.

These family conversations are hard. Yet, we can bring the same intentionality and skill we strive to develop at work—and layer in a little extra grace for ourselves and the people we love. The tools don’t disappear. Sometimes we just need a reminder to bring them home with us.

“They are having trouble agreeing on next steps. I’d like you to mediate a quick conversation with them to resolve it.”

I hear similar requests regularly. And almost every time, the real issue runs much deeper than “agreeing on next steps.”

I understand the impulse to solve issues quickly. Conflict can feel uncomfortable. It disrupts the team and distracts from the work, and most people prefer to avoid the resulting tension. So, we often search for the quickest path through: a hallway chat, a single meeting, or a band-aid that ultimately doesn’t stick.

And yet, complex issues, especially those involving trust, rarely resolve in a single conversation. What looks like a disagreement about one specific issue is often deeply layered with unspoken assumptions, eroded trust, misread intentions, and accumulated frustrations.

This past week, before bringing two leaders together to resolve an issue, I started by meeting individually with each person to establish a rapport, lay the groundwork for the process, build enough safety for honest conversation, and spark curiosity about the other’s perspective. Both mistrusted the other’s intentions. Both made assumptions about the other’s behaviors. Both were frustrated by how the other communicated. And yet, they wanted the same things: to be heard and understood, to work better together, and to move the work forward.

When we then met together, we named what was really happening, explored the impact of each person’s behavior on the other, and identified what they each needed to move forward as a team.

They are in a much better space now. The shift didn’t happen overnight, and it didn’t happen in a single joint conversation. Instead, through a restorative approach, they engaged in a process grounded in deep listening, respect, honest dialogue, and accountability. And they left with tools and practices they can draw on long after the end of our work together.

Real resolution takes time. It asks us to resist the pull toward the quick and tidy answer. To stay curious about what’s underneath. To slow down enough to understand the whole picture, including the history, the assumptions, and the unmet needs. And then to engage in the deeper conversations to repair, restore, and rebuild.

He thought he was being so careful. When picking up the rental car, he scanned every inch and photographed each scratch, as he didn’t want to get stuck paying for damage that wasn’t his.

Then, after a sight-seeing stop, he returned to the car and found a massive dent on the back left side.

Seriously? Who hits a car and drives away without even leaving a note? He spent the next several days worrying about the cost of the damage, wondering if the parking lot had security cameras, and drafting conversations with the rental company—all while trying to focus on enjoying his vacation.

Then, while packing up, he noticed the original rental agreement. The damage section clearly documented an existing large dent on the back left side. He was shocked. How could he have missed it? He went through his photos from day one, and sure enough, the dent was plainly visible in one of the pictures, just above the scratches he’d been so focused on capturing.

When he told me his story, I thought about how often we do the same thing at work.

We enter a situation with an idea of what we expect to find. We ask questions designed to confirm what we think we already know. We find evidence that supports our hypothesis, and we don’t notice other, possibly conflicting data. We consistently scan for scratches and inadvertently ignore the much bigger dents.

That is how real problems remain unresolved. A leader assumes the problem is a particular employee when the real issue is trust and team dynamics. A manager rolls out a new communication protocol when the real issue is that people don’t feel safe speaking up. Team members blame each other when the real issue is role clarity. An organization implements a new performance review process when the real issue is that managers lack the skills or confidence to have honest conversations with their direct reports.

What if we approached challenges with curiosity first? What if we asked open-ended questions with the honest intent to learn? What if we were willing to be surprised, and even proven wrong, by what we find?

Dents don’t disappear just because we don’t notice them. And, when we slow down, zoom out, and approach each situation with openness and curiosity, we have a real opportunity to solve what’s actually broken.

I’m curious where you’ve found real dents once you stopped looking for scratches!