Tag: self-care

The Reciprocity Gap

~ David Willis ~ Leave a comment

The researchers brought them in expecting a fight.

Two groups of people, opposite sides of a topic so polarizing I don’t need to name it for you to picture the room. Each side walked in believing the other side was the enemy. Each side believed they had nothing in common with the people across the table. Each side believed the conversation would go nowhere.

Then the researchers did something most of us never do. They trained the participants. Not in debate. In listening. In how to make the person across from you feel heard — not agreed with, not validated, heard. Then they paired them off.

What happened in those rooms wasn’t agreement. It was something rarer. One of the participants said it was the most understood he had felt in any conversation in his adult life. The person who made him feel that way held beliefs and values that were the opposite of his own.

That’s the experiment. That’s the result.

Then the researchers tried to scale it.

They built a Facebook group. They invited the participants who had been through the training. And they invited a hundred more people who hadn’t.

It took 45 minutes for the whole thing to fall apart.

Not because the trained participants forgot what they had learned. Because a hundred untrained voices walked in with their default attack methodology, and the medium itself rewarded them for it. You can’t make someone feel heard through a comment thread when the people next to you are sharpening knives. The training couldn’t survive contact with the platform.

I read this in Charles Duhigg’s Supercommunicators this week and I haven’t stopped thinking about it.

Here is what the experiment proved that the researchers didn’t set out to prove. The reciprocity you get from listening to another human being is not available through a keyboard. Not because keyboards are evil. Because writing is a high-skill medium, and most of us are not skilled at it.

Most people are not good at writing. I don’t mean that as an insult. I mean it as a fact about the moment we live in. Writing carries no face. No tone. No pause. No softening of the eyes when something hard needs to be said. The whole apparatus humans evolved to communicate meaning is stripped away, and what’s left has to do all the work alone. That’s a hard medium even for skilled writers. For most people, it’s an impossible one.

What’s left is venting. You sit behind a screen, you type how you feel, you hit post, and for a moment you feel better because you got it out. Then it lands in front of someone who can’t see your face, can’t hear your tone, can’t extend you the benefit of the doubt because the medium has trained them not to. They read venom you didn’t mean to send. They send venom back. The cycle compounds.

Both sides do this. I am not picking a team.

We are alike on most things. Family. Food. The basic dignity of being known. Where we differ is sometimes a question of method — how to organize, how to solve — and sometimes a question of values, of who gets protected and who pays the cost. The deeper disagreements are real and they don’t dissolve just because two people sat across from each other. But the experiment showed something the participants didn’t expect either: even when the values were opposite, the experience of being heard didn’t require agreement. It only required the room.

The Facebook group failed in 45 minutes because the people who hadn’t been through the training brought the old habits in with them, and writing — for most of us — can’t do the work that face-to-face does.

So we have to go back.

Not as a preference. As a necessity. The technology is going to keep accelerating. The amount of text in the world is going to keep multiplying past anyone’s ability to read it carefully. If we don’t relearn how to sit across from each other and listen, the fracture that social media started will widen until there’s nothing left to bridge.

This doesn’t get fixed by politicians. It doesn’t get fixed by platforms. It gets fixed by two people, in a room, doing the work the experiment proved was possible — and the Facebook group proved was fragile.

One conversation. Then another.

The Impostor

~ David Willis ~ Leave a comment

I look in the mirror and I see a different version of me staring back. Someone who doesn’t know me now, but thinks he has the right to speak into my life.

It doesn’t matter that I’ve spent twenty years building a career. It doesn’t care that I’ve published a novel, or that I’ve given more speeches than I can count, or that I’m 115 days into a challenge that has changed my body and my mind. The voice doesn’t listen to evidence. It just talks.

Here’s the thing about the impostor — he doesn’t show up as some stranger. He shows up as me. A younger version. A twelve-year-old kid with his insecurities and his fears. They never left. They just learned to whisper instead of shout.

I can flip through snapshots of my life like a photo album. The arrogance of seventeen, when I thought I had the world figured out. The joy of twenty, newly married to a woman who would become the strongest person I’ve ever known. The fear of twenty-six, sitting in a doctor’s office hearing the word cancer for the first time. The elation of twenty-nine, finding out we were going to be parents. The terror that same year, watching her get taken back for an emergency C-section, not knowing where she was or if she or my son were okay. The relief later that night, sitting in a hospital room, watching her hold him, seeing a kind of love I’d never witnessed before.

All of it lives inside me. Every version of who I’ve been is still in there somewhere. And the impostor uses all of them. He takes the fear of the twenty-six-year-old and mixes it with the insecurity of the twelve-year-old and tells me I’m not going to make it. That nobody’s going to listen. That the world is too crowded for what I have to say. That I’m going to miss this moment, just like I’ve missed others.

I don’t listen to him. But the voice is loud sometimes. And it is hard, from time to time, to tune him out.

I’m saying this because I’m almost four months into one of the hardest things I’ve ever done on purpose. I’m excited about everything I’ve accomplished so far. And I’m overwhelmed by everything I still have in front of me — even though I put it there myself. I want to be more and do more. Because accomplishing feels good. And I feel like I’m standing on the edge of one of the most opportunity-filled seasons of my life.

The impostor tells me I’m going to miss it.

He might be loud. But God has not given me a spirit of fear, but of love and power and a sound mind. So I keep looking in the mirror. And I keep choosing which voice to listen to.

Some days that’s easier than others.

Substack Confucius

~ David Willis ~ Leave a comment

I’ve been spending a lot of time on Substack lately. Reading Notes, engaging with other creators, trying to learn the platform and find my voice inside it. And I keep running into the same thing.

Substack Confucius.

You know the type. They post Notes that sound profound until you read them twice. “Conceal your strikes from your opponent and you will more easily strike his hide.” That’s not actually from Substack — that’s the Sphinx from Mystery Men, a character whose entire joke is that he speaks in pseudo-wisdom that sounds deep but means nothing. The joke works because we’ve all met that person. Apparently, a lot of them have Substack accounts.

But there’s a difference between a truth that’s been earned and a truth that costs nothing to say. A platitude and a hard-won insight can look identical on the surface. The difference is whether the person saying it has bled for it or just typed it.

Here’s my test: is this true on and off the message board? Can I take this sentence, walk into my office on Monday morning, and apply it to real work? Can I use it to grow my Substack, write a better blog post, have a harder conversation? If the answer is no — if it only works as a caption underneath a sunset — then it’s not wisdom. It’s decoration.

I’m writing this as a reminder to myself. Because the temptation is real. I’ve felt the pull — the urge to write a Note that gets restacked because it makes people feel something for three seconds instead of one that makes them think for three minutes.

I don’t want to be Substack Confucius. I want to say things that are honest, even when they’re not pretty. I want to write things that work on Monday morning, not just on a feed. And if that means fewer restacks and slower growth, I’ll take it. Because the audience I want isn’t looking for fortune cookies. They’re looking for someone who’s actually doing the work and willing to talk about what it’s really like.

The Hidden Cost of Starting Over

~ David Willis ~ Leave a comment

I’ve been trying to build better habits for years. Long before the current challenge I’m in — a 280-day experiment in showing up every single day — I tried other versions. Different names, different structures, same intention. And every single time, the thing that killed it wasn’t a lack of motivation. It was the restart.

I’d get a streak going. Two weeks, maybe three. Then life would interrupt — a trip, a bad week, a day where I just didn’t feel like it. One day off became two. Two became a week. And when I came back, nothing was where I left it. The rhythm was gone. The writing felt stiff. The habits that had started to feel automatic suddenly felt like lifting furniture again. So I’d white-knuckle through a few days, lose steam, and stop. Then start over. Again.

I’ve been thinking about why this time is different. Twenty-two consecutive days. No breaks. And what I’ve realized is that the streak itself isn’t the point. The point is what the streak protects me from: the tax.

Every time you stop and restart, you pay a cost. A one-day break costs almost nothing — maybe an hour of finding your rhythm again. A week off costs a full day. Two weeks off and you’re spending three to five days just rebuilding what decayed while you were gone. The project goes cold. The voice drifts. Arguments lose their edge. You’re not warming up anymore. You’re reconstructing.

That’s why the person who writes five hundred words every day beats the person who writes three thousand words twice a week, even though the weekly totals look the same on paper. The daily writer never pays the restart tax. The other one pays it a hundred and four times a year.

I know this because I’ve been both writers. The version of me who worked in bursts always felt like he was grinding harder and producing less. He was. Not because he wasn’t talented or disciplined, but because he was spending half his energy getting back to where he’d already been.

Twenty-two days in a row doesn’t sound like much. But twenty-two days with zero restarts means every ounce of energy has gone forward. Nothing spent rebuilding. Nothing lost to friction. Just momentum, compounding quietly, one day at a time.

Consistency isn’t discipline theater. It’s tax avoidance.

Passion Is Not a North Star

~ David Willis ~ Leave a comment

I just finished Cal Newport’s So Good They Can’t Ignore You. His thesis is that passion follows mastery — you don’t find your dream job by following your heart, you build it by getting so good at something valuable that opportunities find you. He profiles people who spent years developing rare skills before the work they were meant to do finally revealed itself.

I think he’s right. But I think there’s a layer underneath his argument that he doesn’t quite name.

Passion comes and goes.

Take marriage. My wife and I love each other deeply. I’ll be with her as long as my wedding vows stipulate, because that’s my wife, and I love her. Do we always feel swelling passion for each other? No. That doesn’t mean we feel the opposite. It just means passion is a feeling. And feelings move. We can’t spend every day just being passionate about each other. We have to get groceries. Cook meals. Take care of the house. Go to work. Raise our children. And the passion that runs in and through all of that is what makes it rich.

I think work is the same way. We find things we have an aptitude for. We get good at them. Some days we’re fired up about it. Other days we grind through it because it needs to be done. I’ve been in data management for twenty years. I didn’t get genuinely good at it until maybe 2021, when I was handed a project and told to get it finished and make it work. I had to crawl back into every design decision, review every technical document, and make sure what was written in the code was what we were actually delivering. When we went live, I felt proud. I didn’t realize until years later how impressive what we’d built actually was, given how scattered things were when we started.

That wasn’t passion that got me through that project. It was dedication. The passion came later, when I could see what the work had built.

Months into this challenge, the grind hasn’t made me more passionate. It’s made things clearer. I can see where the skills I’ve built are converging. I can feel the intersection getting closer. And I know — because marriage taught me this, and work confirmed it — that passion isn’t the thing that gets you there. Dedication is. Passion is just what you feel when you look up and realize you’ve arrived.