Filed under: Advertising, Agency Culture, Attitude & Aptitude, Complicity, Corporate Evil, Corporate Gaslighting, Fear, Prejudice
A few years ago, I wrote about the worst experience of my career.
I wrote how it threatened to completely undermine me.
Do permanent damage to me.
Rob me of my self-belief and confidence.
So my abuser/s had more power and control.
All while making me feel it was my fault so that the shame kept me quiet and complicit.
And I wrote about how it was only when I discovered I was not the only one going through this behaviour that I was free to see what it actually was.
Abuse.
An act of deliberate, professional violence.
Which led me to start Corporate Gaslighting, where I was then flooded with stories of more people going through the same thing.
All of those stories were hard to read, but one stuck with me.
In essence, it’s the story of someone who felt they couldn’t leave their abusive job because it might look like they’ve failed to people on Linkedin.
People may not understand that attitude, but it’s real … which is why the summary of the post, ‘sometimes changing job is not about growth, but mental health’ is one that still rings loudly in my ears.
I say this because I spoke to a friend recently who is going through a version of this.
Believing that because they’re well paid, it would be stupid to leave – despite the continued, systemic abuse they take.
I too was in that situation at one point in my life, which is why I was able to tell them something that [hopefully] helps them acknowledge what they already know – which is:
“How can you say you’re being paid well, when you’re being paid to accept illness?”
Illness in terms of your mental health.
Illness in terms of the loss of self-respect.
Illness in terms of seeing your confidence and wellbeing be shattered.
There’s a moment in some organisations where you realise the salary you receive is not for your talent and expertise but to be complicit to managements bad behaviour and/or accepting of the abuse they subject you too.
Now I appreciate some people will have less sympathy for someone earning a good salary and facing abuse than someone without the safety net of cash.
I get it … but you’d be wrong.
Because while certain contexts are different, the destructive impact is the same.
The feeling of being trapped.
Lost and helpless.
Paralysed.
Reinforced by feelings of it being all your own fault … that you’re not good enough and you’ve let everyone down.
An endless cycle of being taken apart piece by piece.
And while you may think all they have to do is leave, it’s almost impossible.
Because you feel shame.
Embarrassment.
Believing you’ll never work again because you’re not worthy of being hired.
So you just sink deeper into your shell and take their shit.
Systematically being stripped of everything that makes you, you until the abusers have had enough playing with their power and decide to kick you to the curb … resulting in you feeling even more alone. More isolated. Which you keep to yourself because you have been made to feel it’s all your own doing.
And while you may think an alternative approach is to try and prove to your abusers you are good enough … you’d also be wrong. Because apart from the fact that being respected by people you don’t respect means you’ve still lost … the only way to ‘win them over’ is to be just like them.
The reality is no job should cost you your health.
None.
Salary is not about ownership or control.
Which is why being paid ‘well’ is more than what you get, but how you’re treated.
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I’m travelling for work for the rest of this week so there’s no blog posts till next Monday. Try not to be too upset. Actually, can you try to be a little upset … that would satisfy my delusion and make me all together happier. Ta.
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Attitude & Aptitude, Birkenstocks, Colleagues, Confidence, Culture, Daddyhood, Death, Doctor, Effectiveness, Emotion, Empathy, Family, Fear, Happiness, Health, Jill, Love, Mum & Dad, My Fatherhood, Otis, Perspective, Socks
Back in November of last year, I wrote about how I was eating healthy.
It was quite a big thing for me to talk about – which is weird, given I have absolutely no problem writing about death, unemployment or the size of my best friends appendage, to name but a few of the subjects I’ve waxed lyrical about that many smarter people would rather shut-up than share.
But since then, more things have happened and while I genuinely feel uncomfortable to write it, I am also quite proud of myself, so here we go.
You see what happened was back in August, my doctor asked me to spend 3 months focusing on my health. To try and retrain my habits. To make different choices about my diet. To see what might happen by doing it.
And while I’ve been a helpless – and willing – slave to the seductive powers of pasta and sugar for basically my whole life … I decided this was the time I was going to go all in.
So I did.
65g of carbs a day. 25g of sugar a day. 1700 calories a day.
Every day.
And while it was hard at first, once I knew what I could do – and eat – it was satisfying. Well … more satisfying than I imagined. And that only grew when the results of those first 3 months came in.
I’d lost 22kg.
I’d dropped 4 sizes in clothes.
I saw every one of my health measures hit ‘healthy’.
My doctor called to ask if I was OK as the results were so extreme, he thought either the original results were inaccurate or I was doing a different sort of damage to myself.
[For the record, he was wrong on both counts – I was just in a very intimate relationship with chicken and spinach]
And as good as all that was – and it was very good – the biggest change was that I have started to like myself for the first time in a long time.
Yes, I appreciate that sounds tone deaf and dramatic given there are people who face real challenges and problems, whereas I have an amazing family, a wonderful life and lifestyle and a rewarding and fulfilling job … but it’s true.
In my defence, I didn’t really realise it until I started coming out the other side. Mainly because I think the impact was over time … slowly but surely, bit by bit … until at some point, it found a way to settle permenantly just under my surface.
And while it only popped up to mess with me at certain times and moments – and I suspected what may be behind it all – it is only recently that I was able to confirm my concerns about my health, maybe more than my actual health, was the cause of it.
Or should I say, the concerns about my sub-optimal health.
Just to be clear, what I’m talking about is self-esteem.
God it’s a weird thing.
It’s in your power and yet you’re also powerless to it and I felt I was in its grip.Putting me in a corner that I didn’t think I could get out of so I adapted my ways and choices to try and counteract it, without realising I was just giving it more power over me in more ways.
Which is why as I have got more in control of my health, I have felt a bit of a rebirth.
A bit more confidence about what I can do.
A bit more happiness about who I am.
From the superficial to the deeply, deeply personal.
Part of this is because I’m now wearing smaller sized clothes than I have in literally decades and I’m almost ashamed at how much that has affected me. Of course, it’s also bankrupting me as I have to basically buy new t-shirts that no longer look like I’m wearing a man tent dress … but it has changed more than just the size, but what I choose. Because frankly, more things are now available to me and so I’m experimenting with clothes like I’m a 10 year old kid. Well, I say experimenting, but it really has come down to a few t-shirts in colours that aren’t black and some socks [which is, let’s be honest, already a shock given my Birkenstock obsession] in a range of ridiculous colours. Fuck, I even colour coded my t-shirt and socks once … something never ever done in my life. And – to be honest – never to be done again.
But it is in terms of my family that I am the most indebted.
Because I’ve likely increased the time I’ll be here for my wife and son.
OK, so there wasn’t a identified risk that was going to cut it short … but health is always going to make it last longer and that means everything to me.
Because I love my family.
Love every little thing about them.
Of course they can annoy the fuck out of me, but I am sure I am far worse to them – even though this shocks me as I’m obviously a saint.
But as my son is just 9, I want to be around for as long as I can. I want to see the life he builds, I want to be there for the choices he wants to make. I want to just be in his life and have him in mine for as long as possible. With my wonderful wife by my side. Building new adventures and sharing them. Together.
Now I appreciate that all sounds very Hallmark card … but I do, that’s maybe all I want in some ways … and I’d be denying the truth if I said I hadn’t wondered if this was going to be as possible as I hoped it would be.
And yet … I felt it was an impossible situation to change.
I wanted it.
I knew what could help it.
But I didn’t have the skills or the energy or the willpower. Always having an excuse why I couldn’t dedicate the time and energy to it. Which is mad given I have a fuck-ton of energy and willpower to do a bunch of other stuff … but I had convinced myself that I’d met my match and so that affected me deeply in my head. Loving my family but not knowing how to make sure that love could be around for longer.
I know, it sounds pathetic, but I bet I am not the only one who has faced this psychological prison. And just to be clear, it’s not that I hadn’t tried things to change it. I had. And failed … over and over again. Which not only made me feel a bit more shit about myself, but also convinced myself I was not going to win this battle.
Which is why the pride Otis has in what I’ve done that makes me almost cry with joy. And what breaks my heart is that he obviously had the same worries about how long I’d be around. Not overtly. Not daily. But he tells me how proud he is of me and how happy he is I’m ‘healthy’ … and so while no one knows when the ‘end day’ will come, removing some of the more blatant concerns that it could be sooner than you hope, is a psychological gift in itself.
Now I am not going to say if I can do it, anyone can.
I couldn’t do it for 53 years and you don’t have to be healthy to be happy.
I hate that attitude.
And I was happy … I’m just saying I’m happier now.
With myself.
Of course, that doesn’t mean I don’t have issues – I do, bloody loads of them – but it means I have less than I’ve been carrying, which is nice.
In fact, as of today, I have 30kg less problems I’m carrying – ha.
But let’s not ignore the reality that doing this is really fucking hard – especially at the start – and I needed a Doctor to basically scare me into it and needed to actively choose to not make excuses for not sticking with it. Which is why if anyone resonates with my story and wants to chat about their situation – or what I did to try and get out of it – then just get in touch and I’ll listen and share.
While there is a conscious mental decision to be made, at its heart it’s simply about food choices and portion choices. Oh, and investment … both in time and – sadly – money.
Because it’s a privilege to be able to do this, because – ironically – eating less costs more. Or it does if you want to make it easier.
But the good news is there’s choices that actually are good … and you’re talking to someone who thinks kebab and chips is fine dining. So if you want to know more, I’ll tell you what worked for me and how I did it and then you can decide what’s right for you.
Which leaves me to say a huge thanks to my family, doctor, clients, colleagues and whoever the fuck invented 99% sugar free buffalo sauce … because they made this happen. They made this possible,
And while I may fuck up occasionally, I now know I won’t fuck up every single mealtime and that’s a win in my book, because this journey has taught me things about myself and my habits that have been a revelation.
In fact the only thing I am disappointed about is I’ve still not used the overpriced bloody treadmill I bought. Though I’m glad I got the cool, foldable, wifi and bluetooth enabled one … which means there’s some things about me that will never change.
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Advertising, Attitude & Aptitude, Birkenstocks, Brand, Brilliant Marketing Ideas In History, Cannes, Communication Strategy, Context, Creativity, Culture, Dysgraphia, Empathy, EvilGenius, Fear, Holiday, Imagination, Marketing, Martin Weigel, Otis, Paula
So I’m back.
And after an October where I went to Fiji, Australia, China and America … November is wonderfully static.
Don’t get me wrong, I love travelling … but that was ridiculous.
For all the talk of how COVID would change the way companies would work and interact, I’m meeting more and more people who are travelling more than they did pre-pandemic.
And that’s scary for a whole lot of reasons.
Personal, environmental, commercial.
Scarier than the that day where ghosts and ghouls are supposed to come out and haunt us. Also known as the day kids keep coming to your door demanding sweets.
Yes … that’s a terrible link to the point of this post, but I wrote it to originally appear on Halloween, but then I went to the US and missed my chance, so here we go.
Halloween in NZ is definitely less full-on than the US.
Oh my god … they love holidays and Halloween is one they embrace full-on.
When we lived in Manhattan Beach … it was like a community event.
The whole street would basically come out, all dressed in god-knows what, embracing the mood and the moment.
Obviously I hate that level of sociability … but even I got caught up in it, buying a ridiculously sized baby head from a shop, which I tried on in the car before casually looking to my right and seeing [1] I was next to a bank and [2] I had a security guard looking at me as if I was going to rob the joint.
Good times. Ahem.
Anyway, to keep with the ‘scary’ mood, Otis recently became the proud owner of these …
Yep … Crocs.
Fucking Crocs.
I know we talked about them recently in our ‘Strategy is constipated, imagination is the laxative’ talk … I know I have some sort of grudging respect that they are cool with charging $8 for each ‘personalised attachment’ you can add to the shoes … I know, with Otis’ dysgraphia, they are much easier for him to put on than many others … I know I can’t talk with my love of Birkies … but, but, but THEY’RE FUCKING CROCS.
Seriously, compared to them, Birkenstocks are liked pieces of art.
And yet they continue to live.
To thrive.
Like cockroaches of the footwear category.
Which means I have to salute their brand management and imagination.
Which is better than 99% of brands out there.
Which is why we put them in our Cannes talk.
And why I felt scared enough to put them in a post that was supposed to appear on halloween.
Filed under: Attitude & Aptitude, Childhood, Dad, Death, Family, Fear, Home, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, Nottingham, Otis, Relationships, Respect
I’m not back.
Not properly.
But today is the 24th anniversary of my Dad passing away and I couldn’t – and wouldn’t – let this pass without mention.
24 years means I’m fast approaching him not being in my life for half my life.
And yet he is always there.
Maybe not always in the spotlight of my life, but always on the stage.
A warm presence.
A secure presence.
And sometimes, a surprising presence.
You see there are times where Dad appears seemingly out of nowhere.
From deep in the shadows to centrestage of the light.
Anything can trigger this.
A song.
A place.
A situation.
But the most common of all is a pair of eyes.
Specifically these pair of eyes …
As the title of this post reveals, those eyes belong to Anthony Hopkins.
And while the life of him and my father could not be further apart in so many ways, his eyes could easily belong to my Dad.
Not just for their shade or shape, but their character.
They are welcoming. They are warm. Caressed by lines around each eye that shows they have seen and they have lived. A journey that has led them through fields of pain, fear, laughter and love. And while you’re left in no doubt they have the power to make you feel fear or guilt with just a glance … that the lines around the eyes curve upwards, reassures you their resting condition is to let you in.
And that’s what my Dad gave me.
The power to always be let in. Even when I disappointed him.
Yes, there were times later in his life – when he was ill – that became a little harder, but even that was just temporary.
Because his main focus was for me to feel his love and support not his fear or wrath.
And his eyes were his way of reinforcing that.
I still remember a moment towards the end …
Dad had had many strokes by that time which had robbed him of his ability to talk and walk.
One day I got a call in Sydney – where I lived – telling me he’d been rushed to hospital and may only have 24 hours left to live.
I caught the first flight home and after a traumatic journey from the other side of the planet, I was with him … relieved he was alive, devastated he may die at any time.
At some point Mum and I were told we should get rest and go home.
Their house was literally 10 minutes from the hospital and they assured us they’d ring if anything happened.
Reluctantly we agreed and as I was saying goodnight, we looked at each other.
A firm, focused gaze into each others eyes.
I can still feel the intensity of that moment.
How the feeling of love was almost breathtaking in its power.
Because I knew exactly what those eyes looking back at me were saying.
What those eyes looking back at me were saying for him.
He loved me.
He was proud of me.
He was so glad I was there.
But it was even more than that …
It was him trying to take in my face.
Every line. Every mark. Every detail.
To ensure he remembered how I looked in case what we both knew was going to happen, happened while we were apart.
I remember how I felt my eyes were overflowing with water as I looked down on him in his hospital bed.
Our hands gripped so tight with me kissing his over and over again.
Holding back the tears in an attempt to express what I wanted to say.
That feeling you’re trying to lift a huge weight in an attempt to not break down.
Massive pauses between words to not let any cracks take hold.
And I managed it.
I told him, “I know … I know … and I love you so, so much my dear Dad”
Then there was a pause as I wondered if I should finish what I wanted to say.
And then I decided I would, just in case …
“And you have to be here tomorrow. You have to be Dad. Please be here”
And as we walked out of that ward, with me constantly turning around to meet his gaze with my eyes, I hoped that was not the last time I would ever see him.
It wasn’t.
Despite us going through a similar rollercoaster 3 months later … a time where he would sadly not be able to find the strength to yet again surprise his Doctors, Nurses, wife and son … he did then.
And I still remember how we knew he was feeling stronger from the moment we walked into that ward.
Because my dad – that wonderful orator – had mastered another skill. This time, the ability to talk … through his eyes.
A million words and emotions passed perfectly through a look from his beautiful, blue, kind, warm eyes.
And while you may think that when I see Anthony Hopkins I get upset, you’d be wrong.
Because when he appears on the screen – even when I’m least expecting it – I am grateful.
Because he doesn’t reinforce the loss, he lets me feel like I’m close to my Dad again.
My wonderful, warm, supportive Dad.
Which after 24 years apart, is a gift.
So thank you Mr Hopkins.
And thank you Dad.
I miss you.
Give Mum a kiss from me.
Filed under: America, Attitude & Aptitude, Authenticity, Brand Suicide, Comment, Confidence, Corporate Evil, Culture, Cunning, Daily Mail, Egovertising, England, Fear, Government, Honesty, Imposter Syndrome, Marketing, Marketing Fail, Politics, Professionalism, Relationships, Relevance, Research, Resonance, Social Divide, Trust, Truth
Recently I was reading an article on Brexit when I came across a comment that stopped me in my tracks.
The reason for it is that in a few words – literally a few – it not only highlighted the issue with many of the shortsighted fools who voted for leaving the European Union – and likely voted for the election of Boris Johnson and Liz Truss – but also could be used to explain the decline of so many companies, institutions and individuals.
This is it …
What a perfectly constructed sentence.
A devastating set of words that places you perfectly in a corner you can’t get out of.
It’s almost a Hollywood movie line it’s so crafted in its underlying viciousness.
But of course, the people it challenges won’t accept it.
They will continue to refuse to acknowledge their complicity in the situation millions now face.
Because as I’ve written before, people has difficulty understanding something when their credibility and reputation depends on them not understanding something.
It’s why they will continue to cast blame on everyone else.
Why they will continue to claim the opposition are more dangerous than the government they voted in … the government that has brought an entire nation to its knees.
But let’s be honest, the reason for their attitude is even uglier than not wanting to own up to what they contributed to. Because for all their claims of wanting a ‘better Britain’ … the real reason behind their choice was to create a barrier between them and people they think are beneath them.
A way to feel socially, morally, professionally superior to those around them, while conveniently choosing to ignore they were either given great advantage from birth over the vast majority of people or seek to mitigate their situation by blaming everyone else for what they have not achieved, despite starting from greater advantage.
I get it. It’s kind-of human nature. It’s also the unspoken truth of democracy – where the reality is we tend to vote for what works for you rather than what’s right for the nation.
Of course the unspoken truth is still better than the alternative … however given the way politics and business are increasingly allowing spin, vitriol and lies, it seems we’re seeing ‘post truth’ as an accepted and embraced business strategy.
And that’s why the independent voice has never been so important.
Not just in the public domain, but within organisations, governments and individual groups.
Not to attack, destroy or dethrone – as is the current trend – but to protect.
To ensure the people making decisions – or the people asking to decide on the options – are aware of the range of possibilities and outcomes that could occur rather than just blindly following a blinkered promise of what will happen.
Not delivered with hyperbole or exaggeration, but with quiet, informed context and facts … delivered by an individual or organisation without political affiliation and respected for their independence.
It doesn’t mean it will stop things like Brexit happening, but it will ensure people who knowingly bend the truths to suit their own agenda or were deliberately ignorant to the choices they made are held to account. Because without that, we carry on down this sorry path where governments, organisations or individuals can choose to ignore previous choices they made, ignore the passing of time that changes the context of everything and ignore the realities others may have caught up and left us behind.
I am under no illusion that the truth hurts, but delusion damages us forever.