Property Project Part 6: The Adventure of Staying Put

Our last update was Winter.  We got the heat fixed (out for a total of three days) and promptly left for a cruise out of Miami.  Never in my adult life has a vacation been so perfectly timed.

We are now in a season of near-constant work on our properties, amidst work at our jobs and the flailing chaos of summer.  We've had a couple of weary, anxiety-revealing conversations lately.  We're about to take another big financial leap.  Summer storms have not been without incident.  I always feel fat this time of year.  And we miss our families.  

Since I don't live a life of regret nor complaint, this post will focus on celebrating wins, gratitude, the privilege of doing hard work, and the Adventure of Staying Put.  

(Recap:  In spring of 2025 we rented out our home [Wampanoag], bought an 1865 multi-family up the road [Freeborn], and moved ourselves in to it.  In one purchase we gained four doors and four sets of tenants.)

Celebrating Wins

- In March we had the rear cabin demolished.  I now have a pit in my backyard which I think means I'm a blond wig away from becoming my spirit animal, Leslie Knope.

- We had RISE (Rhode Islanders Saving Energy) come assess our old house and confirmed that we have no insulation.  The great news is that, since we have tenants in the same building, the house qualifies for a 100% rebate on insulation work!  We are having to jump through some hoops to answer questions for the project manager, but we are on our way to (hopefully) a different-looking winter 26-27.

- We hired a contractor for the cabin construction.  Shaun, whose team did the demolition, wisely approached the tear-down as an audition for the build.  He lives four minutes away and needs some larger projects like this in his portfolio.  His team and subs are respectful of both our property and my personal involvement, which is a non-negotiable.
This wasn't an easy research project.  We had one builder flat-out tell us they didn't have time for something this small.  We had another lob us an outrageous round number to get us to go away.  Both of them were personal referrals with solid reputations (someone "knew a guy").  

Gratitude

- We decided to trust our sweet front cabin tenant with house-sitting during our vacation in February.  This trust and relationship has only grown and he's a true joy to have around.  He has signed on for a second year, and now volunteers with us and jumps in occasionally on yard chores.

- We are almost done with Wampanoag turnover.  We just bid our one-year War College tenants farewell to Singapore with their four small children and the house is in incredible shape.  We are thrilled by the new family moving in (also War College), even though they represent the U.S. Army.  ;)
Watching one family PCS (permanent change of station) overseas and welcoming another from Germany, I enjoy being in a position to provide empathy and assistance.  We've been able to loan air mattresses and offer U-Haul storage and make things as easy as we can on these military families in transition.  It feels like a no-brainer to me.  I hope it's made things a little easier for them. 

- Breaking ground on cabin construction has been a challenge since Shaun had to fire the excavator before he got started.  This is a silver lining around some red flags. 
In a phone call, our guy at Wolfe Construction agreed to put off some billionaire work in early August to take us on (these are the same guys who filled in our pool at Wampanoag and have done two other jobs for us).  It doubled the cost of the foundation (honestly, now it's closer to what we expected) but the work will be perfect.
Around July 4th we celebrated one year since gutting the cabin.  If you told me a year ago that it would be a full year before we started building, I would have had some choice words for you.  But we've been put in a place of patience that I think we're going to need when construction is ongoing.

- Andrew and I are now both working again in the helicopter profession.  When we chose Rhode Island as a place to finish raising our boys, we shelved this part of our professional lives due to lack of local industry.  We had no idea these opportunities were right across the bay.  Despite a 40-60 minute commute (that's long for us), it really does feel like we have it all.

- In March I was able to travel with my sister to Belgium to visit our other sister living there.  It turns out that what my soul specifically needed at that time was to
A) take a European road trip with two of my sisters and none of our husbands or kids;
B) follow one expert explorer and one expert travel planner around mindlessly with a waffle in my hand and some Euro in my pocket. 
I literally started a note in my phone that week called, "Thoughts from a clear head."  I recently updated it on a relaxing trip to see my mom in early July.

Hard Work

- We've taken on 1.4 acres in total of New England property.  That's a lot of grass, shrubbery, weeds and old trees.  And they all need attention.
We've outsourced the Wampanoag lawn, and the boys pitch in to mow at our house.  The landscaping has been constant since April.  I'm fortunate to work part-time right now and, on a good week, I'll do "outdoor stuff" an hour a day.  It's good for my brain and the property requires it.  But if I begin any type of full time work (which I plan to actively pursue by 1-Jan-27), we are going to have to hire more help.

I appreciate the earth projects.  I have a couple of local friends with whom I'm thrilled to share pictures of my flowers, swap baby tomato plants and spare hydrangeas (saved a whole row of them from excavation!), attend the plant sale at the library and learn about things I didn't know I had growing.  This newfound interest makes me feel 80 years old, but I don't hate it.

We had an enormous tree branch come down at Wampanoag that thankfully did not hit anything, but needed to get off the grass ASAP.  Trying to get a quote for tree removal from our regular lawn guy turned out to be a bridge too far for his business model, so we took the boys over there with a couple of chainsaws on a Saturday afternoon.  I have never seen the four of us come together like that as a team.  Levi took chainsaw duties seriously and Drew didn't complain once about hauling branches with me.  We got it off the grass in about 90 minutes, left some good fire wood for the tenants, and piled the rest up where the lawn guy could deal with it.

We had nine trees removed at Freeborn (two of which needed to come down for the cabin build): a project fraught with drama, gaps in communication and some minor historical property damage.  Despite all that, I want to make sure to include these guys in our story and appreciate the precision work they did.  There's a reason we called professionals for this work and they delivered.  (The damage wasn't even theirs; it was done by the state-contracted tree guys who came in to trim around power lines.)

The Adventure of Staying Put

 "You've made your bed, now lie in it."
Said to someone who must accept the unpleasant results of something they have done.
(Cambridge Dictionary)

Last week we took a night off and sat on the beach with some new friends.  They were excited to learn about our property endeavors but our responses probably sounded weary and a little negative.  At the moment we were stressed, exhausted, and wondering why we did this. 
I additionally find myself working through a pit of sadness brought on by visiting Wampanoag.  It's a great house.  We made it our home.  I'd live there again.  And in hindsight, 1979 problems are way easier to solve than 1865 problems.

I think it's important to remember why we did this:

1) With all rents in place, it will be cheaper for us to live in Rhode Island than it was before we purchased the multi-family.  And the numbers will only get better.

2) Andrew and I have a nasty habit of getting stir-crazy around the year-and-a-half point.  We have to break the cycle of complete upheaval and major life change and just let a thing play out.  
...In his words, "If it wasn't this, we would have got into some other crazy s%$t."

He's right.  This is our adventure that keeps us here - building community, learning how to work together and ask for help, and allowing our kids to be from somewhere (a pretty great somewhere in my opinion).  

... And we need to let it play out.

Stories worth telling, except I’m not an orator: Chapter 5

 America the Beautiful

Long, long ago, in the days of steam gauges and paper sectionals (for you Gen Z pilots that means no glass cockpit, no iPad, no Foreflight), a few confident Navy commanders on the West coast laid down a challenge.

The year was 2008.  Each was responsible for 7-9 SH-60B aircraft.  Built in the early 1980s to dominate both the surface and depth of the oceans, the Sea Hawk carried radar, forward-looking infrared, electronic countermeasures, hellfire missiles, sonobuoys, 800 lbs of Atari-era processing equipment, torpedoes, a magnetic anomaly detector and a handful of flares – on a good day.

On an average day we carried maybe three of these things, no air conditioning, and whatever sound proofing panels remained from the aircraft’s youth.

Someone decided that the cutting-edge Osh Kosh Air Venture airshow might want to display these beauties and the gauntlet was thrown:  Which squadron could get two airworthy SH-60Bs from San Diego to Wisconsin?

I found myself leading the planning of this cross-country for our squadron.  We had recently received some kind of electric mapping software – most likely an early version of Foreflight – but no one really knows what it could do because the printer it came with never worked, therefore we could never get the information from the training room to the aircraft for practical use.

The training room did have, however, the gift of square footage.  And I happened to also be babysitting four midshipmen who were hoping to have their Top Gun dreams come true this very summer.

“You:  I need all of these chairs pushed to the edge of the room and stacked up.”
“You:  Find a yard stick.”
“You:  Find some working white board markers.”
“You:  Go find some tape.”

(Yes, I’ve been bossy since long before 2008, but I do get stuff done.)

I found all the sectionals needed for our route of flight and taped them together on the floor: One big map from California to Wisconsin.

Then we marked off 100 nautical miles on our yard stick and measured the distances required to steer South of the Rockies and stop for military contracted fuel every 3.5 hours along the way.  We called these out to the midshipman wielding the white board marker and each of them learned how to manually calculate time and fuel. 

Our squadron commander came in to see how the planning was going.  I sensed his surprise at my method and smelled skepticism over the JP-5 remnants baked into his flight suit.

I looked that man square in the eye and said, “Skipper, would you like to jump into the sectional with me – you know, like in Mary Poppins?”  And we walked together from San Diego to Osh Kosh, briefing every meticulous detail along the way. 

This planning was well worth the reward.  We swapped out crews in Wisconsin – and yes, both of our helicopters made it there in 2.5 days -  so I got to fly out commercial and pilot one of the aircraft 2.5 days home.  But not before spending a few awkward days at the air show with squeaky brakes, and two aircrewmen who were in the middle of some kind of ongoing Culver’s cheese curd eating contest between each other.  (Barf)

Our flight home began over the green farms of Wisconsin, then the helicopter route through Chicago – looking up at the Sears Tower – and state by state we watched America change landscape from less than 1,000 feet above ground level all the way home.  I remember when we left green behind us and flew over thousands of Texas oil rigs.  I remember what a bummer it is to get stuck in El Paso for weather.  I remember that I was a few months pregnant, and wasn't sure if I was going to keep flying as long as the flight doc said I could.  And I remember cutting through the desert mountains West of El Centro on the home stretch.

Less than three years later, pregnant a 2^nd time, I was tracking flights and checking pilots in and out on the radio from my 9-month perch at the flight school duty desk.  The other pregnant female instructors (there’s a story for another chapter) and I had pretty much taken over the duty by that point to free up the guys for more flying.  It seemed to work out for everyone, given biology and the needs of the job.

A flight student walked through and gave me a double-take:  “Ma’am?  Were you stationed in San Diego?
…. Did you ever make midshipmen tape sectionals together on the floor and manually calculate time and fuel for 2,000 miles?
I was one of those mids.”

 

Property Project Part 5: Winter

Our story left off after the gutting of the rear cabin in July 2025.  On August 2nd, I received a photo from Andrew while I was visiting my mom out of state.  He had begun addressing the wood rot areas and, as he removed a little siding here and there, more and more wood rot was exposed.  Eventually an entire wall was torn down.

He tarped it up and it sits untouched at time of writing (the Feb '26).

The rear cabin is on a journey.  We subsequently learned that the foundation needed to be redone, decided to double the size of the structure, applied to the Portsmouth zoning board for something called a dimensional variance, petitioned the abutting neighbors within 200 ft as instructed, presented our case at the board who said, "You don't need to be here.  Why don't you just move it out of your neighbor's setback since you are rebuilding?", got permission to expand, fired our builder for providing zero guidance throughout, and started researching demolition.  Today Mr. Asbestos came by for the required demolition inspection and we realized he'd been over before.  He's the same guy who tested for mold spores on the 3rd floor last summer.  ... It's a tiny state.

The cabin, which was the center of my property woes for so long, is now an accessory thought befitting its size.  

The main house vs. winter is a battle.

We're having a real winter here in New England.  We've had two dips in to arctic temperatures in the past three weeks.  We had a foot of snow in January and it'll be with us for a while more.  Thankfully these have happened on weekends but regrettably that means Andrew hasn't had a day off from fixing stuff in almost a month. 

A timeline:

- Jan 25th, Winter Storm Fern:  Temps drop in to single digits (F); kitchen cold water line freezes.
-- Pull out dishwasher, aim heaters at water lines, melt ice.

- 2nd night of single digits:  Fail to drip our faucets.  Both lines (hot/cold) now frozen.
-- Repeat maintenance the next day.  (New rule: we drip faucets when temps get below 15 deg F.)
-- The dishwasher doesn't like being unplugged and refuses to come back online.  Troubleshooting reveals that a relay needs to be readjusted every time the dishwasher is reinstalled.

--- What this looks like:  Dishes in the bathroom sink, insulation piled up on the kitchen floor, the dishwasher in the middle of the kitchen, space heaters aimed and plugged in strategically so we don't trip any breakers.

- Following weekend:  In the cellar, discover a pinhole leak in the hot water line leading to the kitchen (unmistakable result of the frozen water line).
-- Andrew does some plumbing work and replaces the line using a good portion of his Saturday.

- Feb 7:  Wake up to the smell of melting crayons.  Run all over the house to make sure our handful of electric heaters aren't on fire.  Discover that the smell is coming from the vents.
-- We have an oil-fed, forced-air heater in the basement.  It's about 20 years old.  The furnace has two main parts:  an oil burner and a fan [for circulating air out to the vents].

-- We pay for a service plan that's supposed to come to the rescue during emergencies.  After chatting with the weekend on-call mechanic, we agree to turn off the system for a while and let it cool off.  Andrew decides to pull apart the fan and finds FOD stuck in the motor.  He removes it and, after a few hours, the melting smell disappears.

We're due to drop down to 1 degree F this night so the risk of losing heat is a real threat.

- Feb 8:  Wake up to kitchen water line frozen again, and now this time the drain is frozen and clogged as well (from dripping the faucet?).

-- Maintenance routine of removing the dishwasher and pointing heat the lines thaws the water source.
-- The drain is a different story.  It's PVC running outside the house and down in to the ground to connect to the septic.  We end up using some moving blankets and wooden boards to build an igloo around the drain pipes, and point a heater at them for hours.  We're able to partially thaw the candy-cane vent, but now the sink is draining through that.  Andrew decides to replace the frozen line and, after sawing it open, we realize just how solidly frozen the situation was.  

Kitchen is now back in business except for the dishwasher, which doesn't like being unplugged.

(Did I mention I'm working nights this weekend and supposed to be chilling out during the day?)

- Feb 9:  Andrew puts in his two weeks notice to his employer and is sent home same-day (big career move in the works for him!!).  We spend a lot of time recovering, connecting, walking the dog and lying around that afternoon-- and I'm grateful we did.

- Feb 10:  Around 2:30 a.m. I wake up to the sounds of metal contacting metal, coming from the heater blower.  I bump down the thermostat to make it kick off.  A few hours later, the house has reached the new temp (55 F) and the heater kicks on again.  I bear witness to the sounds of the blower motor churning to a slow death.  I bump the thermostat down to 50.  When Andrew wakes up I let him blink the morning in, break the news, and ask him to turn off the breaker.  We're turning this one over to the professionals.

Our blower motor should be here in 2-3 days and that's about all there is to it.  The heater is out of service.

Current situation: We're forecast snow tonight but thankfully the temps are only dipping to 31.  My living room is a balmy 48 F.  We have condensed life down to two rooms, the office and the kitchen, with an electric heater in each.  We're ok but the house feels like an eerie ice berg that's betrayed us.

Takeaways:  

- The age of our home (built 1865) isn't the problem:  It's the shortcuts taken during the renovation.  Failure to insulate behind the new kitchen cabinets, running a drain line on the outside of the house instead of underneath.  Removing heat ducting to the master bedroom in order to knock out a wall on the first floor.  We do feel betrayed by the previous owners, who beautifully renovated and clearly never lived here through a winter.  This is a textbook flip.

We will hopefully have enough subject matter experts parade through the rear cabin this year whom we can ask about this stuff; maybe one of them will have a sustainable winter solution for the main house.

- We need to get off of oil heat and figure out an electric solution -- and not during the middle of winter.  The blower is one thing, and not a catastrophic expense.  The oil burner is another, and would be a terrible investment in future energy.

I am grateful for:
-- Andrew being home this week during the day.  I am praying that this all settles in time for him to fully focus on his new job starting Feb 23rd.
-- Potential good news (fingers crossed) about the rear cabin asbestos inspection today.
-- None of this has cost us a significant amount of money thus far.
-- Andrew's ability to fix our house.
-- A community I know we can lean on if it's just too cold to live here this week.
-- Being led to this property.  I know we are here for a reason.  It's easy to think of how simple it would be to be nestled in our previous home down the road.  ... But that's not a productive nor heat-producing train of thought.

The Bendy Ones

Years ago we were snuggled in an Indiana living room with a collection of Andrew's childhood friends and their spouses, nursing what red wine we had left and weaving together parenthood, careers, their shared memories and the integration of us who had joined the story in adulthood.
Andrew was explaining his latest two weeks' notice when Shelly profoundly summarized, "Someone has to be the bendy one."

This stuck with me and gave me a renewed appreciation of my spouse over the years.  (Andrew has ended more jobs - to follow my Navy career, and/or be home with our infants - than many people start in a lifetime.)

I'm surprised I haven't written about The Bendy Ones sooner, but perhaps I wasn't yet ready to see the concept this way:  We are designed to complement each other.  Not only in marriages, but in communities.  Everyone is uniquely wired and gifted so that not one person or group has to carry it all.  And sometimes we carry what we can so others can make the world better in whatever unique ways they were blessed.

The concept of The Bendy One has no regard for traditional household gender roles, and brings clarity to the word 'partnership'.  One of my dearest lifelong friends contributes brilliance to the ob/gyn field that I can't begin to wrap my head around.  I also don't pretend to know the intricacies of her marriage, but I'll never forget her husband's choice to be a force of stability for the kids rather than pursuing his own engineering career.

The most tangible and consistent examples to me are military spouses: who follow, set up shop, make friends, provide stability and support, pack it up, put their own careers on the backburner, and do it again.  Over and over until they're handed a flag and a bouquet after twenty years... often to find themselves at that point in their most critical supporting role yet: helping an ambitious high performer figure out 'what's next?'  

And the artists!  I think of my sweet violin teacher who has been teaching out of her home for 50 years and playing for the Knoxville Symphony Orchestra, making the world that much more beautiful and leaving a legacy in so many students.
There isn't much money in that.  Her husband spent a career practicing law, giving her the freedom to contribute her gifts to the world without having to worry about the bills. 

Not to be overlooked are the Steady Ones.

Call me old school (or something worse), but I think the quality of young adults we produce might hinge on having a Bendy One or a Steady One on the team.  For households who manage two intense careers, I've seen grandparents in this role.  In community.  I think that telework has enabled this bendiness or steadiness for many.

For years I've beat myself up for not being content.  My drive, unchecked, can almost be a handicap.
Not long ago I was chatting with one of my sisters about our hopes and dreams.  Mine included travel and a yearning for impact that I can never quite satiate.  Her dream was to own a compound where grandparents and kids and dogs roamed and coexisted in the sunshine. 
It hit me:  The world needs people who have dreams like each of ours.  Hers bring a level of stability and nurturing that is vital to family and community health.  People much smarter than me - but with the need to learn, go, solve and do -- these are the folks that cure cancer.  

The world needs all of it.

The thing about the Bendy Ones and the Steady Ones is, they're not going to shout their worth and often won't even put themselves first.  But make no mistake:  they are leaders and they have a muted strength that goes unnoticed if everything is running smoothly.

Check in on your Bendy One.  Thank your Steady One.  Everyone is pulling their weight.

Life Lessons from the [Kia] Soul

We just came home with a 2019 Subaru Legacy, which is exciting, but also frustrating since I think we've averaged a car purchase every 2 years since we've been together. 
(We're so over this that, for the first time, we have everything warrantied past 100,000 miles in hopes that we can pause on vehicle trading for some time!)

As I drove it home I reflected that there were a lot of lessons packed in to this whole experience.  

1) You get what you pay for.

We sold our beloved Audi (our 'Treat yo'self' in 2021 upon returning home to the U.S., and sort of a career milestone celebration for me) because it wasn't only inappropriate for our 16-year-old to be driving, but it wasn't purring like it used to and was getting up there in miles.  Audis are expensive to repair - an oil change typically cost around $300.
We "replaced" it with a 2010 Kia Soul that I bought with cash off an outbound foreign exchange Naval War College student headed back to his home country, Latvia.  Scratched, dented, tiny and working, it seemed like the perfect vehicle in which our new driver could putt around Aquidneck Island and to/from school.

Until one piece after another started failing due to the undercarriage being completely rusted out, the tire pressure light never extinguishing despite trouble shooting and repair, and the recent realization that the suspension was shot.

Which leads me to lesson #2-

2) Sunk Cost Fallacy.
This is actually something I've taught in a 'Bias in Decision Making' class.  And what a classic example in which we were wallowing!  We'd sold our Audi, spent money on the Kia, sunk about another $1,000 so far to repair it, and knew it needed more attention.  The Rhode Island roads are icy this time of year and we want our kid to be safe.  
It's time to put serious work into it or replace it.
How easy it would be to just keeping pouring money in to this hunk of junk because we'd already started!

We decided to replace it - after hardly six months of ownership - since we had taken on the additional need of me needing a better commuter than our family 3-row vehicle, and a small car would give me and Levi the chance to swap back and forth based on the needs of the day.

The fun thing about December decisions is that they all get put off to January action, which makes that first full work week after the New Year pretty intense.

3) Getting around to it.
We knew we needed to go car shopping and all that entails.  It was glaring at us on the family white board.  It was a classic "Important but not urgent (Quadrant 2)" item in Covey's time-management matrix (I taught this too).  We didn't really want to do it at all.
The fun twist on 'Important but not urgent' is that, if you put these items off long enough, they become 'Important AND Urgent' at the most inconvenient times.

So I pulled out the family Google calendar and found a few 3-hour blocks, between the standard weekly work/school days and my nonstandard January weekend work schedule, and all of the evening activities, and invited Andrew and Levi to go car-shopping 3 separate times over the next 3 weeks - and off we went after school on a Monday.

4) Give a man shoes a size too big.
This one isn't original, and was neatly repackaged by a friend of mine we visited over the holidays.  Give a kid a crappy, scratched up vehicle, and you're telling him that you expect him to ding up the car.  Give a kid something nice to keep nice, and you're telling him the expectation is to take care of his things.  You're also extending trust. 

I mean, duh.  The latter is how we're trying to raise our kids.  Why would we do something different when the stakes are higher?

5) Financing
It doesn't feel appropriate to go in depth on this here, but we decided not to take out a loan for this vehicle because we'd taken some big leaps with our credit in 2025 and we just wanted to chill on forking over interest to the bank.  I've never before swiped a debit card for a vehicle before; I think the dealership and I were equally - pleasantly - relieved when the transaction said, 'Approved.'

6) Rash decisions.
My first car-buying experience was with my dad, when I came home with a career starter loan from USAA and asked him to help me shop for a Jeep.  The only ground rules we established were, "We're not buying a car today."
We found the right car and bought the car that day.

I have always set out on a vehicle purchase with this mentality but seldom do Andrew and I make it 24 hours before the deed is done.  We're just... sure.  (And we value efficiency of time.)

By scheduling three different times to shop, and taking our teen son along, I thought surely we were going to break ourselves of this habit of making big decisions quickly and with a lot of confidence.  Maybe the two of us talk ourselves in to our own kind of group think bias. 
In our defense, we had talked about it quite a bit before we started shopping, we'd written down what we were looking for in detail, and we spent at least 30 minutes in the CarMax lot cruising Civics, Corollas, Sentras, and the like until we couldn't feel our fingers.  

I just have to laugh, because this is us.  Maybe we'll be shopping again in another two years.

Tail of the Whip

My 14-year-old struck again with his profound insight. 
Listening to me talk about the company I just began working for he asked, "Do you have a hard time being a follower?"

He was in luck because, unlike most of these stump-the-chump inquiries, I was prepared to answer this one since I'd been thinking on it for a while.  (Years, actually.) 
I replied, "I have no problem supporting a good leader.  Following an idiot is torture for me."

I'd like to refine my response after an epiphany at Walmart yesterday.

Self-admittedly I have a hard time being a follower in a grocery store, or Home Depot, or basically any place with aisles, strangers and a cart.  It's a poignant metaphor for one of my weaknesses, which is my difficulty going someone else's pace.  This is probably why I'm not great with small children or the elderly.

I almost always have a moment behind the person pushing the cart during which I collect myself, take a breath, and practice literally going someone else's pace.

But have I let the leader off the hook?

In Walmart I was following the love of my life, who is an intelligent, capable, mobile person.  He was politely dodging and weaving through the pinball customers at 'meth head Walmart*', slowing and stopping when necessary, and I marched single-file behind him in order to minimize the width of our combined path.  After almost tripping on his heels once or twice I paused and took a breath and re-caged per my usual. 

I recalled being in the back of every marching or running formation at USNA because that's where the short people go -- particularly challenging when the group speeds and slows like an accordion, forcing the sand blowers in the rear to make the largest adjustments to keep up (with our corresponding short legs).
In organizations, especially like the Navy Reserve Center I led in Knoxville, I call this "the tail of the whip."  When decisions are made at the top, and changed, and changed again, the trickle-down effect can be dizzying and frustrating at the bottom.

So what is the role of the leader pushing the cart, or the leader driving the decisions at the top?

What is the role of middle management?

How do we minimize the potentially demoralizing effect of quick decision-making on those at the end of the chain?

I'm still learning the ins and outs of my new job and reading the room of personalities and leaders.  We've got one in a particular role of influence who likes to 'plan' at the last minute, and then change the plan 15 times as he uncovers various angles, before making a decision.  I figured out after my first rodeo with this person just to leave the room when this starts happening.  My opinion isn't a factor so, if it concerns me, he knows where to find me - if needed - once the dust has settled.  
Sadly, I'm learning that everyone feels dizzy when this person starts exploring courses of action.

Our forward, outside-the-box thinkers are invaluable (and I consider myself in this category). 
But nimble, strategic thinking comes with responsibility.
I believe that the sharing - or not sharing - of a leader's thought process needs to be as deliberate as the decision-making itself.  (I wrote some thoughts on this loaded statement but it's enough to fill another blog.  Maybe it will.)

Disclaimer:  Sometimes decisions need to be made quickly, and followers just need to follow.  But it's the responsibility of the leader to build trust and buy-in before this moment arrives. 
Some ways we can build trust are with a steady hand, clear and appropriate communication, and a self-awareness of the effects of our decisions on both outcomes and people.

A real challenge faced by CEOs and cart-pushers is balancing the outward-facing needs of the organization with the needs of the people who do the work on the inside.  This is actually where VPs and middle management are supposed to step up. 

Unfortunately, middle management gets a bad rap because, in this role, it's easy to settle in to mediocrity and inaction.  

Middle managers are in a uniquely susceptible position: 
A) They do not hold ultimate responsibility.  If the thing fails, someone higher is going to take the blame.
B) It's easy for them to take the credit of their direct reports.  If the product is shiny, they have the ability to take credit that isn't theirs.

I argue that middle management is perhaps the toughest place to lead and self-manage.
For the purpose of this entry, I propose that middle managers are responsible for damping the effects of change.

Damper:  a device that reduces vibration ... like a car's shock absorber.
Not every member of your team needs to feel every unexpected turn and speed bump.  

I also understand that not every member of a team is wired the same way.  Some people value stability, others enjoy the thrill of unexpected change.  The needs of people vary and - guess what - it's up to the leader to figure that out too. 
This is the perfect thing to delegate to inward-facing middle management!
...I never suggested leadership was easy.

We all find ourselves in leadership positions, whether it's parenting, driving the single-file march through Walmart, or leading teams of any size.  Leadership in any context shares a common thread:  It comes with responsibility to its followers.

My revised response  to the question, "Is it hard for you to be a follower?":  

"Followership and obedience are two different things.
I will follow a leader who knows where they are going, has already earned my trust for those times they are unsure, and has the self-awareness and compassion to care about how their decisions affect those of us down the line. 
I will tolerate and obey - to the extent of my obligation - anyone less."

... For the record, Andrew Kissell, I trust your intent when you are dodging and weaving through Walmart, and I'm happy follow behind.

------------
*'Meth head Walmart', affectionately nicknamed by me and my kids based on the clientele.  We know you have a choice when you choose a Walmart.  This one is really big and has groceries, so a visit is worth keeping a tight grip on my purse.

Trust

 "Mom:  Trust."
The kid-size paw was placed on top of my resting, palm-down hand with a firm but gentle pat, loaded with an unexpected surge of wisdom, placed there by my 14-year-old who was teaching me the latest Gen-A slang.  
I've been particularly in tune to his little fingers lately as the rest of him sprouts into a man with uncanny emotional intelligence, whom we suspect will be taller than his father in the next 18 months.

Picturing that gesture and the accompanying word has become a theme for me lately.  I don't think Drew knew in that casual moment how many times I would recall it.

"Trust."

I'm reading The Speed of Trust by Covey Jr.  
Covey presents that Trust in teams directly affects cost and time.  High-trust organizations are effective faster and at a lower cost; low-trust organizations make progress more slowly and at a higher cost.  

It occurred to me while reading this that in my experience with Naval aviation squadrons I was blessed to be immersed in a high-trust environment.  As a group, military aviators tend to work together quickly, efficiently and at a low cost -- in this case, 'cost' being time wasted and even emotional tax on employees.  We trust each other.  We get along.  We agree on what the big, important things are.  Lack of competence kills people so the bar is high and consistent.  Assumptions are made favorably regarding competence and character, until proven wrong.

No wonder I've felt adrift since then as I navigated other parts of the Navy for the last 7 years: an overseas admirals' staff, the big world of the Navy Reserves, and my final duty station on staff at the Leadership & Ethics Center. 
Among peers of mixed designators (Navy job types) I found – among a few gems - a buffet of officers concerned about promotion, pleasing superiors, pointing fingers, trivial minutiae, and doing as little work as possible.  I found shocking few who can deliver and accept feedback with courage.  I found only a smattering who remember how to accomplish old-fashioned, cause-and-effect work. 
These were low-trust environments, and their results are marginally effective and at a high cost -- cost being our warfighting readiness and, more importantly, the buy-in of our people.

The Kissells have taken some leaps in 2025.  We bought the Estate and I've committed to retiring from the Navy.  I jumped back into the helicopter cockpit with both feet, flying a part-time dream job.  All of this has required a lot of faith, but only recently did it occur to me that it requires a renewed trust in other people.

“Trust.”

I'm taken aback by the brazen trust my new employers put in me.  I was pulled in by a friend, flashed them my resume, and interviewed... and they've sunk a substantial investment into my training for a return of only 6-8 days per month and no written contract. 
I'm embarrassed to say that it took me a little while to get on board with the same level of trust for them.   During hiring I wondered if they would come through on our conversations.  Working up to my check ride I wrung my hands in private, worrying that the gap in my flight experience would make a fool out of me. 
One windy afternoon, on short final to a 150-foot helipad atop a gnarly-looking ship nestled up next to a 500-foot tall wind turbine over the water, the right seat pilot said, "this looks like a left-seat landing" and matter-of-factly handed over the controls.  
They believe in me.  The very least I can do is hand over my trust in return.  It's the only way this is going to work. 

“Trust.”

At home, we've handed over the cabin renovation project to New England Tiny Homes.  When we realized what we were really looking at (at the root, foundation issues and substantial framing work), we added up our a la carte expenses and compared the total to the quote Tiny Homes had given us. We realized we weren't saving much by trying to string this project together ourselves, so we put down a deposit and are now passengers on someone else's project timeline.
This is hard.  The advertised "1-2 month design phase" feels like an eternity when I'm accustomed to picking away at research and progress weekly.  There's been a tarp in place of the cabin’s rear wall for three months.  It feels like nothing is happening.
But I must remember: This was a calculated move.  We gave them our money.  I have to trust this hired team or I'm going to drive all of us crazy.

“Trust.”

I don’t remember the topic of the sermon, but our paster recently posed the question, “What is it that you think God wants you to start doing right now?”
“Trust people again.”  That’s what jumped to the front of my mind.

When did I lose that?  When did my trust become so hard-won?

…Was it when my competence was questioned at my last squadron, where I was the only female?  (This wasn’t a consistent occurrence, but once or twice is enough to leave a mark.)

…Was it when my boss on admirals’ staff sold me down the river on accusations and assumptions, fundamentally spitting on my character?

…Was it when I watched my role model get relieved of command based on unfounded questions that our top leaders didn’t want to dirty their hands with?

…Is it when subcontractors try to rip me off or fail to show up?

… Is it simply being a little older and a little wiser?

The truth is, it doesn’t matter.  I can write a story where I’m a victim who’s been burned, but withholding trust is no way to live a life and love on other people.

As I write this I’m on the way home from the funeral celebration of a childhood friend.  I was blessed to connect with Anne again when we lived in Knoxville, and what a gift.  She loved bigger than anyone I know, and like most of my core friendships, I feel undeserving of the relationship. 
Anne has been burned-- yet she loved fiercely, again and again.  She gave her trust willingly.  It’s not foolish, it’s not weak – it’s a true sign of strength.

I have to believe that there’s a line to be walked that allows me to be older and wiser yet leave the door open to trusting humanity.  (The alternative spells out a lonely, paranoid existence.) 

Trust people again.  I’m taking the leap.