Three Days Out

~ David Willis ~ Leave a comment

7-40 Challenge | Planning Week, Day 8

Round 4 starts Monday.

I’ve spent the last ten days doing something I don’t do well: stopping. Not stopping completely — I’ve still been writing, walking, going to the gym, keeping the habits that needed keeping. But I pulled back from the pace that carried me through three rounds, and I let myself look at what I’ve actually built.

It’s more than I thought. A lot more. I wrote about that earlier this week — how twenty minutes of talking into my phone at a bus stop was enough to show me I’d been measuring myself against what I hadn’t done instead of what I had.

That realization changes what Round 4 is about.

Rounds 1 through 3 were about proving I could do this. Build the habits. Ship the work. Show up every day. I did. The output is real and it’s documented.

Round 4 is about something different. The question isn’t “can I keep going?” I can. The question is “how do I get what I’ve built in front of the people who need to see it?”

That’s a distribution problem, not a production problem. And it requires a different kind of discipline.

The daily structure is changing too. Not the seven habits — those stay. But where they live in the day is getting a redesign.

Bible study and BiblePictures365 go first thing in the morning. Walking happens before lunch. Reading rides with the walk. Gratitude goes early, because starting the day grateful changes the shape of everything after it.

Creative work moves to the afternoon and evening in shorter, cleaner windows. I’m still in the gym with my son three nights a week. And after that, I’m done. No heavy thinking after the gym. No grinding out a blog post at 11 PM when I’ve got nothing left.

The goal isn’t to do less. It’s to stop pretending I can do everything at any hour and have it all come out at the same level.

Three days. Then we go again.

What Twenty Minutes Will Tell You

~ David Willis ~ Leave a comment

7-40 Challenge | Planning Week

It’s 80 degrees. I’m in jeans and a black shirt, walking downtown in full sunlight with a balding head, talking into my phone passing a bus stop at 12:45 in the afternoon. I’ve got about 14 things on my to-do list and I’m trying to unload my brain before it gets any fuller.

I’m equal parts grateful and overwhelmed, and I can’t figure out how both of those things are true at the same time.

I’ve been feeling behind. Not in a dramatic, everything-is-falling-apart way. More like a low hum in the background — the sense that I should be further along, that I haven’t done enough, that time is slipping and I’m not keeping up.

So I started talking. Just listing things. What have I actually done this year?

I wrote a novel. Edited it from 105,000 words down to 60,000. Published it through Kindle Direct in March. Five months from manuscript to published book.

While I was editing that one, I wrote another one. 45,000 words. It’s in revision right now.

I’ve blogged every single day this year. Over 130 posts.

I’ve read 13 books and I’m working on my 14th.

I’ve written new songs and produced a companion album for my first novel.

I started a Bible illustration project on January 1 with zero followers. Instagram is at 6,300. One video hit 300,000 views.

I’ve maintained seven daily habits across three 40-day rounds. I’ve walked so much I’m on my third pair of shoes. I’ve lost over 23 pounds and gained 10 pounds of lean muscle. My metabolic age dropped 20 years.

I’ve worked with my wife to put together her garden, and she likes it. I’ve been in the gym with my son three nights a week. And I’ve done all of this while working a full-time job.

Somewhere around minute fifteen of this walk, I heard myself say it out loud: I think I’ve been seriously deluding myself that I haven’t been doing enough.

That stopped me.

Because the problem was never output. The problem was that I was so deep inside the work that I couldn’t see the shape of it. I was measuring myself against what I hadn’t done yet instead of what I’d already built.

Twenty minutes of talking into my phone at a bus stop fixed that.

So now the question changes. It’s not “am I doing enough?” I am. It’s “how do I get what I’ve built in front of the people who need to see it?”

That’s a different problem. A better one. But it’s still a problem. I don’t have the answer yet. I’m one person producing more than I can promote, and the gap between what I’ve made and who’s seen it is real. The overwhelm doesn’t go away just because I’ve named it — it just shifts from “I’m not doing enough” to “I don’t know what comes next.”

But I know where to start. And I know I’m not doing it alone.

Thank you, God. I am so grateful.

The Skill That Felt Like Thinking

~ David Willis ~ Leave a comment

7-40 Challenge | Planning Week

Chris Guillebeau wrote something today that stopped me mid-scroll. He said the skill that built his career was something he hadn’t labeled for a decade. It came so easily he didn’t count it as a skill. It felt like thinking.

I know that feeling.

Years ago, I’d come home from work frustrated. I had explained something to a room full of people — a workflow, a process, why certain data points mattered — and nobody got it. They didn’t see the connections. They didn’t understand why it was important.

Then I’d explain the same thing to my wife over dinner. She wasn’t in data. She was a stay-at-home mom. And she’d say, “Well, that makes sense, because this connects to this connects to this.”

She got it. Why didn’t they?

It took me years to realize the answer: the knowledge wasn’t the skill. The translation was.

I’ve worked in data for almost twenty years. A few years in, I started noticing I could see how workflows fit together — what connected to what, where things broke down, what was missing. I could look at a process and tell you not just what was wrong, but whether the problem was something that was there and shouldn’t be, or something that wasn’t there and should be.

And I could explain it two ways. I could talk about it in plain terms — this disconnects from this, this connects to this. Or I could go technical — this is why we do this part first, this is why we do this part second. The ability to move between those two languages is what made the difference. Not one or the other. Both.

I didn’t have a name for that for a long time. I just thought I was doing my job.

Here’s the part Guillebeau nailed: the things you’re best at often feel like nothing, because you’re not aware of doing them.

For a long time, I thought I was going to be a performer — singing, competitive speaking, the kind of work where people see you. What I actually became was the man in the chair. The one who helps everybody else do what they’re supposed to do. I don’t need the spotlight. I need the work to make sense to the people doing it.

My wife was the first person to name it. “You’re a communicator,” she told me. “This is what you do.”

I may not have felt that way at first. I do now.

I want complex things to be accessible. I want to break down how things work so that people can do for themselves what they couldn’t do before.

I spent five years doing it before I noticed, and another five before I took it seriously. Now, it is what I do.

Where I Wanna Be

~ David Willis ~ Leave a comment

7-40 Challenge | Planning Week

At the end of a stressful day, I wanna be right here at home with my family.

When I’m not doing anything else — when the laptop is closed and the phone is down and there’s nothing left on the list — I wanna be right here at home with my family.

When I’m tired. When the tank is empty and I’ve given everything I’ve got to the day. I wanna be right here at home with my family.

When I’m sad. When things didn’t go the way I wanted. When the world feels heavier than it should. I wanna be right here at home with my family.

Not somewhere else. Not chasing something better. Right here.

They are the whole point of everything I do. I am extremely grateful.

Not All About Me (Fourteen Years Later)

~ David Willis ~ Leave a comment

7-40 Challenge | Planning Week

In 2012, I wrote a blog post called “It Is Not All About Me.” I was writing about collaborative leadership — about casting a vision and then letting other people help shape it instead of dictating every step.

It was a good post. It was also about half of the lesson.

The 2012 version of me had figured out that you can’t lead by telling everyone what to do. That’s real, and it took some humility to get there. But what I didn’t understand yet — what took another decade of leading teams, starting new roles, and watching how people actually respond to vision — is this:

Most people don’t want co-ownership. They want a playbook.

They want to feel heard. They want to know that someone is paying attention to their input. But at the end of the day, most people want to be shown what to do. They want clarity. They want direction. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with that.

The leadership lesson isn’t “invite everyone to the table.” It’s knowing the difference between the people who want to build with you and the people who want the rule book. There’s a place for both. But the builders — the ones who want to collaborate, who push back, who make your idea better or replace it entirely — those are the ones who end up influencing everyone else.

Find them. Build them. Trust them.

I started a new job in the middle of last year. I am very accustomed to leading meetings. I’ve done it for years — setting agendas, driving conversations, pulling people toward decisions. Almost from day one, I had to start actively reminding myself to observe. Pick up the lay of the land. Learn the room before trying to lead it.

It was very hard to do.

The pull to assert yourself in a new environment is strong. You want to prove you belong. You want people to see what you bring. But I took the other path. I chose to serve first and earn credibility before spending it. It’s the right way to enter someone else’s house.

The other thing I understand now that I didn’t in 2012 is what it costs to let your idea go.

Not every solution I bring to the table is the right one. Sometimes I have exactly what we need. Sometimes I’m just the spark that gets the conversation rolling. Either way, we moved toward the goal of being better than we were. That’s the part that matters. Not who got credit. Not whose version survived.

I’ve been wrong enough times to know that being right isn’t the point. Getting somewhere better is.

Fourteen years ago, I learned not to dictate. Somewhere in the years since, I learned something harder: finding the right path matters more than it being the path you started on.

I’m sharper than I was. I hope I’m sharper in another fourteen.