 ‘For every fixed idea there is an absent idea: by interpreting experience in a particular way we inadvertently exclude alternative renditions.’ (Peter Senge) It’s tricky being human. We are so easily trapped by our assumptions. Imagine this scenario (mirroring Chris Argyris and Peter Senge’s Ladder of Inference): You arrange a meeting with a colleague from whom you need input and you race back from another appointment to ensure you arrive on time. To your frustration and dismay, the other person doesn’t turn up. You call them but there’s no answer. What sort of thing goes through your mind? It could be:
That reminds me of Stephen Covey’s observation that, often, ‘We judge others by their actions but ourselves by our intentions.’ If this happens, you’re likely to feel devalued and disrespected – and that will have a negative impact on your relationship. Yet how to challenge yourself to create a shift in perspective and, thereby, to open up fresh possibilities for moving things forward? Jean Latting and V. Jean Ramsey offer a useful ‘3 Hypotheses Technique’: The first step is to notice and take note of what you assume the person’s action or behaviour means – that is, if you like, your starting hypothesis. The second step is to assume the person has a positive intention – which would be, in this case, the reverse of your initial hypothesis. The third step is to assume the person is, for instance, being driven by external circumstances that are beyond their control – that is, to imagine or create an alternative explanation. Playing with hypotheses like this can help us loosen the grip that hidden, subconscious assumptions can hold over our thinking, how we feel and how we respond. It helps us recognise when we may be jumping to conclusions without realising it – especially when we’re feeling anxious, pressured or stressed – and it can evoke a constructive and healthy state of curiosity, allowing us to navigate situations and relationships with greater freedom, flexibility and truth.
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 ‘I can’t dream while the platform’s burning.’ (Benjamin Downing) It’s hard to think straight, let alone creatively, if we feel threatened, anxious or stressed. It’s like trying to see clearly while thick clouds of emotion-filled dust are kicked up in the air. For coaching to be effective, sufficient psychological safety and trust are critical success factors. This means co-creating the conditions for a person to engage in critical reflection, decision-making and action. Without it, searching questions are likely to trigger defensive routines. These risk dynamics can be amplified if, for instance, a person is being coached by their own line-manager and worried about how it could affect subsequent performance evaluations; or if coaching has been commissioned by HR as a remedial intervention, rather than something the person has chosen for themselves; or if a person being coached has been betrayed before and doesn’t feel fully-confident in the boundaries of confidentiality they’ve agreed with a coach. In view of this, I find that careful contracting with potential and new clients is very important. It means discussing these and any other issues of hope or concern explicitly from the outset. I may ask, ‘If we were to work together, what would that mean for you (potential outcomes, consequences or implications)?’ And, ‘Given that, if our work together were to be successful (for you, your team or organisation), what would you need (from me, yourself or others)?’ Do you need help with creating psychological safety? Get in touch!  ‘All the things one has forgotten scream for help in dreams.’ (Elias Canetti) The first dream. I was back at the university where I studied. In reality, I left there almost 35 years ago but it felt vivid, as if now. I stood alone in a long, empty corridor. I became suddenly aware of a whole array of research assignments that I was supposed to have done yet hadn’t. I felt confused and perturbed. And then I woke up. After a few minutes, I fell back to sleep again. The second dream. I was back with a previous employer. In reality, I left there 7 years ago yet it too was vivid, as if now. I was on the top floor of the building and suddenly aware that I had never visited any of the other floors or met any of the people who worked there. As Head of OD, I felt confused and embarrassed. Then I woke up. After a few minutes, I fell back to sleep again. The third dream. It was Christmas Day at my parents’ house. We were preparing for extended family visitors to arrive when I became suddenly aware that, for some reason, I hadn’t bought any Christmas presents for my daughters. I felt confused and disconcerted that something so important had slipped my mind. Then I woke up. This time, I turned on the light and got up. Freudian analysts would have a field day trying to interpret the meaning of these dreams, as if each dimension holds symbolic representational value. I’m drawn to a more recent, alternative approach that pays attention to the underlying emotion in the dream state; in this case, an overwhelming daunted feeling, and what I was saying to myself: ‘How could I have missed this?’ It moves me on to consider: What are my dreams trying to wake me up to notice? Where am I carrying this same feeling in my day-to-day life and relationships now? What (or who) in my here-and-now life am I not-noticing, avoiding or suppressing, yet is calling for attention and expression? What actions do I need to take now, to avoid a ‘How could I have missed this?’ in the future?  ‘What others say and do is a projection of their own reality. When you are immune to opinions and actions of others, you won’t be the victim of needless suffering.’ (Don Miguel Ruiz) It is, perhaps, one of the most limiting influences on personal growth and damaging influences on interpersonal relationships. A friend once described it graphically as being like carrying a data projector on one’s shoulder, then projecting images of the things we most dislike about ourselves – without being aware that we’re doing it – onto another person. The resulting impact is that we may well see and criticise those things in another, as if they are attributes of that person, rather than face, acknowledge and address them in ourselves. On the receiving end of projection, it can feel bizarre, like someone is superimposing intentions, attitudes or behaviour onto us that just don’t fit, resonate or ring true. If we challenge or push back, the projecting person is likely to become defensive. Projection is, after all, a way of denying, avoiding or suppressing things that could cause pain or anxiety. I had this experience recently in a disagreement on social media when I asked, genuinely: ‘Are you aware of doing the same thing – here and now – that you say I’m doing?’ They blocked me. Was my question a defended response? It’s a tricky question. How can we know, in the moment, whether we are projecting onto another person or, perhaps, in denial when we reject another’s feedback as projection? It is possible, for instance, that a person is projecting onto us, and yet there is a grain of truth and justification in what they are seeing and saying. It’s also possible that a person could, conversely, idealise us, projecting admirable qualities that they find difficult personally or culturally to acknowledge in themselves. It’s complex. Here are some tips I find useful. Firstly, if I find myself critical of a person, group, issue or action, I try to imagine myself standing in front of a mirror. What could my criticisms reveal about me – e.g. my values, attitudes or instinctive behaviours? Could the other party equally and justifiably level the same criticisms at me? Secondly, if I find another expressing criticism of me, I try to ask myself honestly: how far does this reflect what I know about myself and feedback I’ve received from others? Could there be truth in this from which I can learn?  ‘Clear your mental cache.’ (Gleb Tsipursky) An anchor holds a floating vessel in place to stop it drifting away from where we want it to be. There are many things that could cause it to move, such as a sea tide or river current, so the anchor acts, in effect, as a grounding mechanism. It provides a sense of stability and security in the midst of potential turbulence or unsettling waves. There are parallels, psychologically, in early formative experiences that can influence what we perceive, value and choose as we move through life. These phenomena – often significant people, events, objects or relationships – can form something like anchors in our psyche. They become iconic, or ideal types, that shape our hopes and dreams. A risk is that we place undue value on these anchors in our decisions here and now. This is known in psychology as anchor bias or anchor effect. For example, the first motorbike I fell in love with was a Daytona-yellow Yamaha RD400DX. It has been, since, the bike I always remember most passionately and the standard against which I measure all other bikes. If I were to ride one now, however, the reality may lay far from the idealised fantasy I’ve created over time. I’ve changed a lot over the years and so have motorcycles. I’m older and its vibrating 2-stroke engine might irritate me now. I might feel dismay at its near-lethal early disc brakes or its propensity to rust every time it gets wet. This can happen in relationships too. The first person we fell in love with may become idealised. We may remember vividly the things we loved about them and ignore or forget the things that hurt or annoyed us. We may subconsciously erase or minimise the factors that led to a break-up. As a consequence, we may seek to rediscover or recreate these same idealised qualities in another person or relationship then face hurt, frustration or disappointment when we don’t find them. A solution lays in: recognise our anchors; be aware of our idealising human tendency; learn to see, value and embrace new people, relationships and experiences for who and what they are – in their own unique right.  ‘Votes are cast based on rational decisions, right?’ (Zaria Gorvett) As I watched the former leader of a very influential nation speak on TV last night with what came across (to me, at least) as a mishmash of delusions and mistruths, I felt, to put it mildly, both bemused and dismayed. This felt even more so because current polls in that country point to a distinct possibility, if not yet a probability, that that person could actually be re-elected to that position of power. I found myself asking myself, ‘What kind of craziness would compel people to vote for this person? How can’t they see through the nonsensical and narcissistic rhetoric?’ Shaking my head with a deep sigh, I got up to make a cup of tea. Suddenly (I don’t know if it was the caffeine), a revelation hit me. I flashed back to some years ago in Germany, watching a 1-hour interview with Angela Merkel on TV. She was at the height of her leadership that year and, to be honest, I could hardly understand a word she said. My German language skills simply weren't up to it. Yet, somehow…I found her absolutely mesmerising. Something about her style, presence and tone subtly seduced me. I would have voted for her. I would have married her! Maybe. This took me back, next, to the Brexit-EU psychodrama in the UK. At that time, arguments flew back and forth vociferously in favour of Leave or Remain. Little I heard on either side bore much resemblance to evidential reality. Noticeably, most people I spoke with voted on instinct, on gut-feel intuition, and were swayed little by spurious claims or counterclaims. Boris Johnson, who won that game (by a narrow margin), played subconsciously on cultural memories of Winston Churchill, the lone hero who stood alone against overwhelming internal and external odds. So, an ex-President, an ex-Bundeskanzlerin and an ex-Prime Minister. It's far more than the words they say. It’s what they symbolise and represent. It’s how they make people feel.  ‘When you wish upon a falling star, your dreams can come true. Unless it’s a meteorite hurtling to the earth which will destroy all life. Then you’re pretty much hosed no matter what you wish for. Unless it’s death by meteor.’ (Despair.com Demotivators) I was surprised to return to my desk and find 6 people waiting in a queue to complain. I’d worked hard on my all-staff presentation and thought I’d handled it well. My task had been to present the results of an annual staff survey: the good, the bad and the ugly. I’d attempted to present a view that, even in those areas where scores were low, such scores represented implicit positive hopes and aspirations. If, for instance, someone had given a low score for quality of management, it was because good management matters to them, even if their desires and expectations were unmet. My agitated colleagues saw it differently. They felt as if I had spun the results, put a positive spin on the ugly, with a result that those staff who had already been angry, frustrated and disappointed now felt even more strongly that their voices were ignored, dismissed and unheard. Still taken aback, I tried to defend myself, arguing that it wasn’t spin but a matter of perspective. They weren’t having it, and they pushed back even harder than before. I was left reeling and confused. In my mind, I had presented the survey results with integrity. I couldn’t understand their hurt and angry responses. This was some years ago and I remember vividly, some days later, driving into work when a penny dropped suddenly. It occurred to me that, when a person describes a glass as half-empty, it’s not simply a matter of perspective but one of sentiment and emotional experience too. By presenting a glass as half-full, I had inadvertently failed to acknowledge and represent an authentic expression of how they were feeling. I returned to my colleagues and shared this somewhat embarrassingly-belated self-revelation – with which they wholeheartedly agreed. They accepted my apology with grace.  You arrange to meet with a colleague and, on the afternoon of the appointment, she neither turns up nor cancels it. It can feel disappointing or frustrating, especially if you had spent ages preparing for it, or had rescheduled other things to make room for her in your diary. There may be, of course, all kinds of extenuating circumstances that had prevented her from arriving or letting you know. We could imagine, for instance, that her car had broken down on route, or that she had got stuck in traffic in an area with no mobile phone signal. She might have been held up in another meeting that overran and from which, for whatever reason, she had felt unable to excuse herself. Feelings of hurt or resentment can arise, however, if we allow ourselves to infer deeper meaning and significance from the no show. This can be especially so if it forms part of a wider and repeated pattern of experiences. Could it be, for instance, that her unexpected absence (again) is revealing a subtle and subliminal message such as, ‘Spending time on A is more important to me than spending time with you on B.’ Or, beneath that, ‘I believe my work on A is more important than your work on B’. Or deeper and worse still, perhaps, ‘I’m more important than you.’ The latter could well leave us feeling devalued and disrespected and, if unresolved, damage the relationship itself. I worked with one leader, Mike, who modelled remarkable countercultural behaviour in this respect. If Mike were in a meeting that looked like it may need to overrun, he would: (a) pause the meeting briefly (irrespective of how ‘senior’ or ‘important’ the person was whom he was with); (b) speak with whomever he was due to meet with next (irrespective of how ‘junior’ or ‘unimportant’ that person was); (c) check if it would be OK with them to start their meeting later or, if needed, to defer it; and (d) take personal responsibility to resolve any implications that may arise from that rescheduling. Needless to say, Mike’s integrity and respect earned him huge loyalty, admiration and trust. When have you seen great models of personal leadership? How do you deal with a no show?  ‘Without transition, a change is just a rearrangement of the furniture.’ (William Bridges) Lean forward and look into the room. Listen in carefully to the conversation. An organisation has decided to move to smaller and cheaper office premises in order to reduce its overheads. It will mean agile working: a shift to hybrid working, hot-desking and staff lockers. It appoints a change team to oversee the move, and the team notices a range of responses from staff, from passive apathy to active dissent. It faces a growing concern about what it perceives as resistance to change. It tries hard with corporate communications to let staff know what will happen when and yet is increasingly bemused and anxious about the apparent lack of buy-in. The team invites me in as an external organisation development (OD) consultant to have a conversation with staff, an open exploration of issues and how to move things forward. Here’s a glimpse and summary, following initial rapport-building and relational-contracting to ensure a felt-sense of safety and trust in the room:
The change team had focused on practical changes (physical-transactional: what happens around us) and inadvertently failed to pay attention to corresponding human transitions (psychological-emotional: what happens within us). Notice the flow of the consultant conversation: from feeling, to meaning, to need, to solution. The style is invitational, enhancing the felt-sense of choice, influence and agency. Baskets are provided. Staff re-engage. The move goes ahead smoothly. [See also: Change leadership principles; Organisations don't exist]  'The optimism of the action is better than the pessimism of the thought.' (Greenpeace) Resilience is a common buzz word today, partly in response to the complex mental health challenges that individuals and communities face in a brittle, anxious, non-linear and incomprehensible (BANI) world. Who would have imagined 3 years ago, for instance, that Covid19 would strike or that Russia would invade Ukraine, with all the ramifications this has precipitated in our personal and collective lives? It can feel like too much time spent on the back foot, reacting to pressures that may appear from anywhere, without warning, from left field – rather than creating the positive future we hope for. A psychological, social and political risk is that people and societies develop a ‘Whatever’ attitude, an apathetic ‘What’s the point?’ mentality. After all, what is the point of investing our time, effort and other resources into something that could all get blown away again in a brief moment? A good friend worked in Liberia with a community that was trying to recover from the effects of a bloody civil war. They started to build schools, hospitals and other infrastructure and, just as things were beginning to look hopeful, a violent, armed militia swept through the area and burned everything to the ground. This can feel like an apocalyptic game of snakes and ladders. Take one step forward and, all of a sudden, back to square one again. A close friend in the Philippines befriended people in a very poor makeshift community, surviving at the side of a busy road in boxes and under tarpaulins. She worked hard to improve the quality of their lives, to ensure that they felt and experienced authentic love, care and support, and it started to have a dramatic human impact. Faces brightened and hopes were lifted. Then, out of nowhere, government trucks appeared and bulldozed that whole place to the ground. It could be tempting to give up. One coping mechanism is to focus on living just one moment, one day, at a time because, after all, 'Who can know what tomorrow will bring?' This may engender an element of peaceful acceptance, akin to that through mindfulness. It can also morph into a form of passive, deterministic fatalism: ‘We can’t change anything, so why try?’ Martin Luther King's response stands in stark contrast who, in the face of setbacks, advocated, ‘We’ve got to give ourselves to this struggle until the end. Nothing would more tragic than to stop at this point. We’ve got to see it through.’ Psychologically, both approaches could be regarded as survival strategies, as personal and social defences against anxiety. In a way, they are adaptive responses: ways of thinking, being and behaving that seek to create a greater sense of agency and control in the face of painful powerlessness. In the former case, a level of control is gained, paradoxically, through choosing to relinquish control. It's a letting-go rather than a clinging-on. In the latter, a fight-response (albeit a faith-fuelled, non-violent fight in the case of MLK), control is sought by changing the conditions that deprive of control. Each constitutes it's own way of responding to an external reality – and it’s out there as well as in here that the real and tangible challenges of resilience and transformation persist. The social, political and economic needs of the poorest, most vulnerable and oppressed people in the world don’t exist or disappear, depending simply on how we or they may perceive or feel about them. MLK’s call to action was radical: ‘We need to develop a kind of dangerous unselfishness. It’s no longer a question of what will happen to us if we get involved. It’s what will happen to them (and us) if we don’t?’ [See also: Resilient; When disaster strikes; Clash of realities] |
Nick WrightI'm a psychological coach, trainer and OD consultant. Curious to discover how can I help you? Get in touch! 
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