After about 15 minutes, it was easy to tell the surfers apart by their style of surfing, their handling of the board, their skill, and their playfulness.

What really struck me though, was what they had in common. No matter how good, how experienced, how graceful they were on the wave, every surfer ended their ride in precisely the same way: By falling.

Some had fun with their fall, while others tried desperately to avoid it. And not all falls were failures — some fell into the water only when their wave fizzled and their ride ended.

But here’s what I found most interesting: The only difference between a failure and a fizzle was the element of surprise. In all cases, the surfer ends up in the water. There’s no other possible way to wrap up a ride.

That got me thinking: What if we all lived life like a surfer on a wave?

The answer that kept coming to me was that we would take more risks.

That difficult conversation with your boss (or employee, or colleague, or partner, or spouse) that you’ve been avoiding? You’d initiate it.

That proposal (or article, or book, or email) you’ve been putting off? You’d start it.

That new business (or product, or sales strategy, or investment) you’ve been overanalyzing? You’d follow through.

And when you fell — because if you take risks, you will fall — you’d get back on the board and paddle back into the surf. That’s what every single one of the surfers did.

So why don’t we live life that way? Why don’t we accept falling — even if it’s a failure — as part of the ride?

Because we’re afraid of feeling.

Think about it: In all those situations, our greatest fear is that we will feel something unpleasant.

What if you have that scary conversation you’ve been avoiding and it ends the relationship? It would hurt.

What if you follow through on the business idea and lose money? It would feel terrible.

What if you submitted the proposal and you were rejected? It would feel awful.

Here’s the thing: More often than not, our fear doesn’t help us avoid the feelings; it simply subjects us to them for an agonizingly long time. We feel the suffering of procrastination, or the frustration of a stuck relationship. I know partnerships that drag along painfully for years because no one is willing to speak about the elephant in the room. Taking risks, and falling, is not something to avoid. It’s something to cultivate. But how?

Practice.

Which you get by taking risks, feeling whatever you end up feeling, recognizing that it didn’t kill you, and then getting on the board and paddling back into the surf.

Have that difficult conversation. Listen without defensiveness when your colleague criticizes you. Name the elephant in the room. Get rejected.

And feel it all. Feel the anticipation of the risk. Feel the pre-risk cringe. Then, during the risk, and after, take a deep breath and feel that too.

You’ll become familiar with those feelings and, believe it or not, you’ll start to enjoy them. Even the ones you think of as unpleasant. Because feeling is what tells you you’re alive.

You know that sensation you get after you’ve done or said something weird or awkward? How you turn around and kind of wince in embarrassment? Next time that happens, take a moment to really feel it.

When you do, you’ll realize it’s not so bad. Maybe you’ll admit, “I don’t know why I just said that,” and apologize. Then maybe you’ll both laugh it off. Or maybe you’ll get into that conversation you’ve been avoiding for years but you know you need to have.

Soon, you won’t fear feeling. You’ll pursue it like those courageous early morning surfers. You’ll wake up before dawn and dive into those scary conversations and difficult proposals. You’ll take the risks that once scared you. And you’ll fall; sometimes you’ll even fail.

Then you’ll get up and do it again.

Originally published at the Harvard Business Review

Advice you can use both in the office, and at home, when you’ve angered or upset someone.

When I arrived at the restaurant, I apologized and told her I didn’t mean to be late.

She answered: “You never mean to be late.” Uh oh, she was mad.

“Sorry,” I retorted, “but it was unavoidable.” I told her about the client meeting. Not only did my explanations not soothe her, they seemed to make things worse. That started to make me angry.

That dinner didn’t turn out to be our best.

Several weeks later, when I was describing the situation to a friend of mine, Ken Hardy, a professor of family therapy, he smiled.

“You made a classic mistake,” he told me.

“Me? I made the mistake?” I was only half joking.

“Yes. And you just made it again,” he said. “You’re stuck in your perspective: You didn’t mean to be late. But that’s not the point. The point is that you were late. The point — and what’s important in your communication — is how your lateness impacted Eleanor.”

In other words, I was focused on my intention while Eleanor was focused on the consequences. We were having two different conversations. In the end, we both felt unacknowledged, misunderstood, and angry.

The more I thought about what Ken said, the more I recognized that this battle — intention vs. consequences — was the root cause of so much interpersonal discord.

As it turns out, it’s not the thought that counts or even the action that counts. That’s because the other person doesn’t experience your thought or your action. They experience the consequences of your action.

Here’s another example: You send an email to a colleague telling him you think he could have spoken up more in a meeting.

He replies to the email, “Maybe if you spoke less, I would have had an opportunity to say something!”

That obviously rankles you. Still, you send off another email trying to clarify the first email: “I didn’t mean to offend you, I was trying to help.” And then maybe you add some dismay at the aggressiveness of his response.

But that doesn’t make things better. He quotes the language of your first email back to you. “Don’t you see how it reads?” He asks. “BUT THAT’S NOT WHAT I MEANT!” You write back, IN CAPS.

So how do you get out of this downward spiral?

It’s stunningly simple, actually. When you’ve done something that upsets someone — no matter who’s right — always start the conversation by acknowledging how your actions impacted the other person. Save the discussion about your intentions for later. Much later. Maybe never. Because, in the end, your intentions don’t matter much.

What if you don’t think the other person is right — or justified — in feeling the way they do? It doesn’t matter. Because you’re not striving for agreement. You’re going for understanding.

What should I have said to Eleanor?

“I see you’re angry. You’ve been sitting here for 30 minutes and that’s got to be frustrating. And it’s not the first time. Also, I can see how it seems like I think being with a client gives me permission to be late. I’m sorry you had to sit here waiting for so long.”

All of that is true. Your job is to acknowledge their reality — which is critical to maintaining the relationship. As Ken described it to me: “If someone’s reality, as they see it, is negated, what motivation do they have to stay in the relationship?”

In the email back and forth I described earlier, instead of clarifying what you meant, consider writing something like: “I could see how my criticizing your performance — especially via email — feels obnoxious to you. How it sounds critical and maybe dismissive of your efforts in the meeting.”

I said this was simple but I didn’t say it was easy.

The hardest part is our emotional resistance. We’re so focused on our own challenges that it’s often hard to acknowledge the challenges of others. Especially if we are their challenge and they are ours. Especially when they lash out at us in anger. Especially when we feel misunderstood. In that moment, when we empathize with them and their criticism of our behavior, it almost feels like we’re betraying ourselves.

But we’re not. We’re just empathizing.

Here’s a trick to make it easier. While they’re getting angry at you, imagine, instead, that they’re angry at someone else. Then react as you would in that situation. Probably you’d listen and let them know you see how angry they are.

And if you never get to explain your intentions? What I have found in practice — and this surprised me — is that once I’ve expressed my understanding of the consequences, my need to justify my intentions dissipates.

That’s because the reason I’m explaining my intentions in the first place is to repair the relationship. But I’ve already accomplished that by empathizing with their experience. At that point, we’re both usually ready to move on.

And if you do still feel the need? You’ll still have the opportunity, once the other person feels seen, heard, and understood.

If we succeed in doing all this well, we’ll often find that, along with our relationships, something else gets better: our behavior.

After that last conversation with Eleanor — after really understanding the consequences of my lateness on her — somehow, someway, I’ve managed to be on time a lot more frequently.

Originally published at the Harvard Business Review.

It might be tempting to point the finger and assign blame in a situation, but today Peter Bregman talks about why the blame game is a waste of valuable time and energy.

We often think that willpower is something we’re either born with or not. But there’s more to it than that. Find out how managing your willpower can improve you and your business.

I was at the sink washing dishes when I heard the dog yelp behind me. I turned just in time to see a woman curse at the dog as it dashed out of the kitchen. She had obviously just stepped on his foot or tail.

“Watch out!” she shouted after the dog, then saw me looking at her and added, “He’s always in the way.”

Really? You step on a dog and then you blame the dog? Who does that?

Actually, a lot of us do.

We start blaming others at an early age, usually to escape parental anger and punishment, but also to preserve our own self-esteem and self-image. Then the behavior sticks, often well into our adulthood. I — and I am sure you — see people in organizations point fingers all the time.

Sometimes it’s at a departmental level: A struggling sales group blames a poor product, while the product people blame an ineffectual sales team or maybe lax manufacturing. Blaming a department or a product feels safer than blaming a person since it appears less personal, can pass as an attempt at organizational improvement, and might seem less defensive. But it’s counter-productive as the transparency of culpability betrays its disguises.

A few years ago I sat at a table with the leaders of a major stock exchange. They were struggling with setting goals for the year. The CEO, to whom they all reported, was not in the room.

I asked them what was getting in the way. “We need direction from senior leadership,” they answered in agreement.

“Seriously?” I was stunned. “Look around,” I said, raising my voice a little, “Everyone in the organization is looking for direction from you! You are senior leadership.”

“No,” the head of something answered with the others nodding, “The CEO isn’t here.”

I retorted: “You’re blaming the CEO? You’re waiting for him to tell you what to do? At your level? Really?”

An awkward silence followed. Then we got to work turning the company around.

Blaming others is a poor strategy. Not simply because everyone can see through it. Or because it’s dishonest. Or because it destroys relationships. Or even because, while trying to preserve our self-esteem, it actually weakens it. There’s a more essential reason why blame is a bad idea: Blame prevents learning.

If something isn’t your fault, then there’s no reason for you to do anything differently. Which means, in all probability, you’ll make the same mistake in the future. That will lead to more blame. It’s a cycle that almost always ends badly.

Recently, a CEO I work with fired Bill*, one of his portfolio managers. He didn’t fire him for poor results. He fired him for blaming his poor investment results on everything except himself. The CEO was only looking for one thing from Bill: Awareness of the mistakes he was making. But Bill continued to deny his role in his poorly performing portfolio.

The CEO was right to fire him. If Bill couldn’t admit to the mistakes he was making, why wouldn’t he make the same mistake tomorrow? Would you trust Bill with your money?

Thankfully there’s a simple solution: Take the blame for anything you’re even remotely responsible for.

This solution transforms all the negative consequences of blaming others into positive ones. It solidifies relationships, improves your credibility, makes you and others happy, reinforces transparency, improves self-esteem, increases learning, and solves problems. It’s as close as I’ve ever seen to a panacea.

Contrary to what you may feel in the moment, taking the blame is the power move, strengthening your position, not weakening it. First of all, because once you’ve taken responsibility for something, you can do something about it, which gives you strength.

But also because it takes courage to own your blame, and that shows strength. It immediately silences anyone who might try to blame you — what’s the point if you’ve already taken the blame? The “blame you” conversation is over. Now you can focus on solving problems.

Being defensive makes you slippery. Taking responsibility makes you trustworthy. You might think it puts you at risk because others may see an opening and jump on you. But that’s not what usually happens.

I was running a strategy offsite at a high technology company with a CEO and his direct reports. We were looking at some problematic numbers from the previous quarter. One by one each leader was trying to argue that he or she was not, ultimately, responsible for the issues, pointing to the other areas that contributed.

Then Dave, the head of sales spoke up. He proceeded to list the mistakes he felt he personally made and what he wanted to do differently in the future.

His colleagues didn’t pile on. In fact, they did the opposite. They began to say things to dilute his blame. One by one, they started taking responsibility for their role in the challenges the company was facing.

Taking the blame serves as an example. When you take the blame, others get embarrassed about not taking the blame themselves. When they see you don’t get shot, they feel emboldened to take the risk.

And even if they don’t, you will now be able to avoid making the mistakes you’ve made in the past, which, ultimately, is the key to your success.

By taking the blame, Dave changed the course of that meeting and, as it turns out, the course of the company. He also got promoted.

There is one tricky part of this. To take the blame, you need to have confidence in yourself and your capability. You need the personal strength to accept failure. You need enough self-esteem to believe you can learn from your mistakes and succeed another day. You need to accept failure as part of life and not a final sentence on who you are as a person.

In other words, it’s OK to step on a dog. It happens. Just don’t blame the dog.

*Names have been changed.

Originally published at the Harvard Business Review.

The offsite was a success. But physically, I felt so full, it hurt. So why did I keep eating?

The answer is simple: It’s hard to resist temptation.

Picture the gap between wanting something and having it. Now imagine a rubber band stretched between you and that thing you want, pulling on you, drawing you toward that thing. We have a hard time staying in that tension and resisting the pull. So we do things — eat, buy, speak, act — to release the tension.

The idea is that once we release the tension, we feel better.

But the reality is very different. Yes, for a moment —usually a very short moment — we feel better. But then, very quickly, we go back to feeling the same as before or, in my case, worse.

There’s a term in psychology for this disappointment: The Hedonic Treadmill.

We relentlessly pursue things and experiences that we think will make us happier. But once we acquire them, we quickly return to our previous level of happiness. So then we look for the next thing. That car you’ve been lusting after? The first day you sit in it you feel wonderful. You’ve dreamed of this moment. But within a couple of weeks, the car feels like every other car you’ve ever owned. That’s when you start lusting after another new car.

This got me thinking: Maybe getting the object of our desire isn’t what we really desire. Maybe it’s the desire itself which we desire. In other words, maybe it’s more pleasurable to want things than to have them.

Think about any good movie you’ve seen recently. I bet the first few minutes introduced a problem and the rest of the movie was devoted to the tension of a protagonist who wants something, usually with some urgency, that she does not get. Then, it was only in the last few minutes that the tension was resolved and she achieved whatever it was she was seeking.

The reason good movies follow that formula is that there is no way to keep an audience engaged once that tension is dissipated.

That’s because ninety-five percent of our pleasure is in that tension. It’s the tension of suspense, of anticipation, and it feels at least as good and lasts much longer than the resolution. In fact, we only care about the resolution because of the anticipation.

When I explored the pain I felt after overeating, some of it came from feeling overstuffed. But there was something else too, a disappointment that caused far more pain than my distended stomach.

I was too full to eat dinner.

Dinner at the Allison is truly my favorite meal — fish cooked to perfection, wild mushrooms, desserts to die for. I look forward to dinner well before I arrive at the hotel. And now I knew I would have to give it up. That disappointment robbed me of hours of anticipatory, tempting pleasure.

It’s easy to think that it’s mainly the dinner itself that gives me the pleasure. And it is, for the few short moments that I’m eating it. But consider how much time I spend anticipating the dinner, compared to eating it.

This, it turns out, is the key to strengthening our willpower. Willpower is mastering the tension of not getting what we want in the moment. How much easier would it be if, instead of withstanding, we could actually enjoy?

Want to make progress in the “opportunities to improve” section of your performance review? Changing your behavior is almost always about resisting temptation — either to act or not to act.

Feedback that you talk too much? Or not enough? Told that you need to work better with others? Or more independently? Need to micro-manage less? Or be more on top of your department? Yes, your ability to change is based, in part, on having a particular skill. But mostly it’s about willpower and managing your impulses long enough to avoid getting in your own way. This is critical for managers and leaders.

The CEO at my offsite demonstrated that behavior admirably. He knew what he wanted from his direct reports. Yet he sat quietly as they worked their own way through the issues to arrive at the best answer.

It’s tempting to jump in and give people the answer when they’re struggling, especially when you’re accountable for the result. And they want you to give them the answer. But that’s a set up for failure, as it creates an organization dependent on you for everything.

Next time you feel tempted by something, take a moment to feel the pleasure of that tension. Don’t think of it as temptation; feel it as anticipation.

Indulge yourself fully — think about what you want and feel the emotions of wanting it. Then realize that as soon as you give in to the temptation, as soon as you release the tension, all the pleasure will be gone.

I wish I had delayed my gratification long enough to enjoy the anticipation of dinner AND enjoy dinner itself. Unfortunately, because I ate so much at lunch, I lost both.

We know from research that people who delay their gratification succeed more on a number of different criteria — relationships, finances, achievements.

I’d like to add one more: Pleasure.

Originally published in the Harvard Business Review

Learn the number one mistake you might be making, and what you can do to make sure you always get the sale.

During the sales process I made a series of decisions, all of which felt — in fact, still feel — eminently reasonable. Here’s what happened:

1. With Dan’s permission, Robyn and I met several times before the meeting to discuss Dan and his situation. Dan was new to his role as CEO and needed to step up in tricky circumstances. By the time I met with him, I understood his challenges and it was clear that they fit squarely in my sweet spot as an advisor.

2. The day of the meeting, Robyn and Dan were running behind schedule. We had planned for 60 minutes but now only had 20. “No problem,” I told them, “I’ve been briefed about the situation, so we can cut to the chase.”

3. I sat down in an empty office chair which happened to be uncomfortably low to the ground and I instinctively raised the seat to the level at which I normally sit.

4. Dan started the conversation with a compliment about my latest book and told me how much he enjoyed my blog posts, which reinforced my decision to “cut to the chase.”

5. I explained briefly what I knew about his situation and when he acknowledged that I understood it, I launched into how I would approach it.

6. At one point, Dan asked me a question and I hesitated before answering. Robyn suggested that we discuss it later but I didn’t want to disappoint so I thanked her but said I’d be happy to share my thoughts and I did.

Nothing I did or said or thought or felt was dramatically off base. In fact, each step — each choice I made — was practical, sensible, and appropriate from my perspective.

Which is precisely why I crashed.

I was operating from my perspective. But Dan wasn’t. He was operating from his perspective. And from his perspective, the fact that I was operating from my perspective was a deal-breaker.

The problem? I wasn’t attuned.

Daniel Pink, in his excellent book To Sell Is Human: The Surprising Truth About Moving Others, calls attunement one of the three most valuable qualities you need to move others. (Pink talked about this in a recent HBR Ideacast.)

Essentially, attunement is being in synch with who’s and what’s around you. When you’re in attunement, you’re curious. You ask questions, you listen to the answers, and you empathize.

I might have been attuned to the challenges Dan was facing — but everything I did and said indicated that I wasn’t attuned to Dan. Or even to Robyn.

According to Pink, the first rule of attunement is to reduce your power. You do that by letting go of your perspective, which opens space for you to share the perspective of others. Pink quoted one highly successful salesperson who related this to humility. Great sales people, she said, take the attitude, “I’m sitting in the small chair so you can sit in the big chair.”

I did the opposite. I raised my seat, literally and figuratively. I took control of the conversation, sidelined Robyn when she suggested we talk later, and spent what little time I had trying to prove to Dan that I understood it all and I was the right guy to help.

I was too easily flattered by Dan’s comment about my book, too rushed by our time crunch, and too eager to impress both Robyn and Dan. I tried so hard to prove my competence that I came off as incompetent. Maybe not in terms of my solution, but certainly in terms of our relationship.

I acted with the sensibility of an extrovert, which is typically assumed to offer a strong sales advantage. But Pink’s research suggests that being extroverted can actually be a liability. Why? Because too often we talk when we should be listening.

To the extent that I listened at all, I was listening to gather enough information so I could make a case to Dan that I could solve his problem. In other words, I was listening simply to empower my speaking.

But why didn’t that work? Wasn’t Dan looking for information about me and what I might do for him?

Maybe. But he as much as told me told me he knew enough about me from my writing, just like I knew a lot about him from my conversations with Robyn. No, Dan didn’t really want to hear me speak. He wanted to hear me listen.

What Dan was really looking to figure out — what most people are looking to figure out — is what it would feel like to work together. And what I showed him in our brief conversation is that it would feel like some expert coming in and telling him what he should do.

If I were Dan, I wouldn’t hire me either.

What would I do differently next time? I would sit in the chair I was offered and listen to Dan tell his story. Then I would ask him a number of questions to make sure I could see the situation with his eyes, analyze it from his point of view, and feel his emotions. I would attune to him.

That would require that I let go of my agenda, stop trying to get hired, give up trying to quickly and smartly summarize what Dan needed, and cease trying to prove myself.

My goal, the entire purpose of my presence, would be to connect.

If I did that well, I wouldn’t have to worry about showing him what I was capable of. There would be plenty of time for that later — once we started working together.

*Names and some details changed

Originally published in the Harvard Business Review

Sometimes it’s good–and beneficial–to say no, even in an office environment.