Hey rockstars!

I’ve been wanting to blog for a while but I have been so #burntout at work that I couldn’t bring myself to, even though the sticky note of blog ideas is increasing rapidly. But today I felt compelled to write because I’ve been thinking a lot lately about sincerity. 

Not in a grand philosophical sense, but in the quiet, everyday moments that make up most of our lives. The walks that we take with our friends as we go get coffee (Grace, I’m talking about you and our blank street walks!). The handwritten notes tucked into a book (Katie, much love). The excitement of sharing an idea that you are not entirely sure will work (excited 2 am conversations about something you’re passionate about). The long drives in the car when you’re stuck in traffic and you say “Okay let me get deep” (Love you, Teju). The decision to care deeply about something, even when it would be easier not to.

This week, I found myself reflecting on two seemingly unrelated conversations.

The first was something my strategic management professor, Professor Tan of JHU, told me last semester: “When you teach somebody else how to do something, it forces you to learn at a different level than just learning how to do something yourself.” And I found that to be true — knowing something well enough to teach it to someone else forces you to understand it on an entirely different level because you have to organize your thoughts, identify the gaps in your own understanding, and figure out how to make something complicated make sense. That is something that I always loved about econ — making something arcane easier to understand. Teaching is an act of engagement, and not just sharing knowledge (though I’m a sucker for lifelong learning).

The second conversation happened yesterday at work. Axinn recently hired a new Chief Innovation Officer, who is absolutely wonderful (and expanding her team if anyone is interested!), and we’ve had the opportunity to meet with her to discuss innovating at the firm. It was one of those conversations that left you energized long after it ended. We exchanged ideas, challenged assumptions, and imagined what the future could look like. Though it was a 90 minute meeting, I left feeling grateful to work somewhere that embraces innovation and excited about the possibility of contributing to meaningful change.

As different as those conversations were, I realized they were connected by the same thread: participation.

The people who make the biggest impact are rarely the people standing on the sidelines. The ones who make an impact are the ones who raise their hands, ask questions, teach what they know, remain curious about what they do not know, share ideas before they are fully formed, contribute, and engage. One of my favorite quotes from Ted Lasso is: Be Curious, Not Judgmental. 

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that sincerity is a form of participation too. Do you remember when we were kids, and we were so unapologetically ourselves? I remember skipping in recess because we felt like it, I remember walking around Kohls with my mom and collecting these plastic white clips because for some reason I was obsessed with them. I have no idea why I loved them so much (nor did Mom, when I would come with my hands cupped and overflowing with them), but I did and that was reason enough. I remember being unapologetically into my interests — Disney, Bollywood, Harry Potter — even when it wasn’t “cool.” (who cares about being cool? Looking back, the best teachers I had were the ones who protected that kind of enthusiasm instead of teaching us to outgrow it). 

I remember sometimes when growing up, people would ask: “Wait, what is this for?” or “Why did you do that?” my answer was often, “I don’t know, just like that”  which is the Hinglish equivalent of saying, “Because I felt like it.” And maybe that is reason enough.

Somewhere along the way, some people engrained it in their heads that detachment looks sophisticated and is “cooler” than admitting you like the things you like. We learn that it is safer to be ironic than enthusiastic, safer to be sarcastic instead of authentic, safer to critique than create, safer to observe than contribute. Caring deeply about something can feel risky because the moment you care, you become vulnerable. You give people something to misunderstand, judge, and mock.

But I am not convinced that becoming less sincere is actually growing up.

If anything, I think the opposite may be true. The harder thing is to participate. The harder thing is to teach, to mentor, to write, to create, to share an idea in a meeting, to tell someone they matter to you, to care about your work, your friendships, your family, your community, and the future you are helping build.

Today, I have also been thinking about how many of the best parts of my life have come from being willing to enter someone else’s world.

A few months ago, I wrote about a poem by Julia Nicole Camp. In it, she describes buying a stack of biographies about John Quincy Adams because the person she loved was fascinated by him. This is one of my favorite poems 

He loves history. He wanted to write a biography of John Quincy Adams. I, shamefully, knew almost nothing about John Quincy Adams, so I went online and bought every biography of him I could find. One day, he called me, claiming that we wouldn’t work out long term. He said he loved me but that we had different interests. “What does love mean to you?” I said. “That’s an impossible question,” he replied. I, however, find love to be quite simple. Love is the stack of biographies on my nightstand with a bookmark near the end. — Julia Nicole Camp

This poem has stayed with me because it captures something I have always believed: one of the great joys of life is discovering new worlds through the people we love — through the books they recommend, the hobbies they spend hours talking about, the movies they quote by heart, and the interests that light them up.

I have never understood why some people view that as losing yourself. To me, it feels like expanding yourself.

I have never been someone who moves through life with a narrow set of interests. I collect stories, ideas, and experiences. I love to collect little pieces of the people I love — little phrases you adopt from someone because you spend your whole day talking to them — a new favorite author, a new favorite coffee shop. When I see anything doctor who, I think of Katie. When I think about my favorite coffee shop, I remember how Divya introduced it to me. (Rip Sip, you are missed)

I do not see any of this becoming less myself, but rather more. The people we love open doors to rooms we may never have entered on our own. What a gift that is. I am not smaller because I have walked through those doors. I am bigger. Love has never made my world smaller. It has only ever made it larger.

Maybe that is why I still get excited about small things: I save cards and notes; I believe conversations can change people; I still think a thoughtful gesture can brighten someone’s entire week; I still think we should tell people what they mean to us while we have the chance. To quote one of my favorite shows: People change people. 

Maybe that is sentimental. But if you think you haven’t been changed by the ones you care about, you’re blind or in denial. If the alternative is becoming someone who is afraid to care, I will happily choose being sentimental every time.

There was a time when I thought confidence meant convincing everyone else who you are. These days, I think confidence looks a little different. It is less about being perfectly understood and more about being comfortable with who you are, even when not everyone sees you clearly.

The older I get, the less interested I am in being perfectly understood by everyone I meet. Understanding is wonderful when it happens, but I have also realized that not everyone will see you clearly, and that is okay. I have always believed that one of the keys to any successful relationship, whether it is a friendship, a mentorship, a family relationship, or a romantic one, is understanding. Or perhaps more accurately, the desire to understand.

One of my favorite scenes in Harry Potter is when Harry is annoyed with Hermione and Ron and he says “You don’t understand,” and she immediately replies: “Then help us to.” I have always loved that exchange because Hermione does not claim to understand. She does not become defensive. She does not insist that Harry is wrong for feeling the way he does. Instead, she offers something far more valuable: curiosity. One of the partners at my firm said this on a call the other day, he said: “sometimes I feel like an island.” But even though I wasn’t brave enough to tell him then, my first reaction was, “I’ll get a boat and join you.”

This was my version of: help me understand.

The older I get, the more I realize that two people can look at the exact same thing and see something completely different. One person sees curiosity while another sees distraction. One person sees enthusiasm while another sees excess. One person sees sincerity while another sees naivete. The facts may be identical. The interpretation is not.

Perhaps that is why I have become less interested in controlling how other people see me. We all bring our own experiences, assumptions, and stories to the people around us. I cannot control the story someone else tells about me. What I can control is whether I am living in a way that feels true to who I am.

These days, I find myself valuing that quality more and more. Not the people who always understand me perfectly, because none of us are mind readers, but rather the ones who stay, ask questions, defend my interests, support me without hesitation. The people who are willing to sit beside something they do not yet understand and ask a few more questions before rushing to judgment.

Those are the relationships worth keeping. I care deeply about being understood by people who care enough to understand.

What I can control is how I show up. I can choose to remain curious. I can choose to be kind. I can choose to participate. I can choose to care. And maybe that is enough.

I do not want to be the smartest person in the room who never raises her hand. I do not want to be the writer who never publishes. I do not want to be the friend who never says what she means. I do not want to be the lawyer who sees an opportunity to improve something and stays silent. I would rather participate.

After all, the moments that have brought the most joy, growth, friendship, and meaning into my life have almost always started the same way: by caring enough to show up. At the end of the day, I know me.

Until next time!

xo

Sandhya

Celebrate my 31st year around the sun with me! Click the follow or subscribe button to stay updated! You can also connect with me on twitter, my coffee and checkins Instagram, my podcast on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, Google Podcasts, Stitcher, or Amazon Music. Have a topic suggestion? Email me at coffeeandcheckins@gmail.com! I’d love to hear from you!🙂❤