Werd I/O

They say grief ebbs and flows and sneaks up on you unexpectedly, and lately I’ve been missing my mother a lot.

Today my phone showed me memories from this time last year. I was glad to see them, but they also made me cry.

It’s been, what, eight months? Close to a year. And I feel nothing close to okay. So much has happened. But even if I hadn’t, there’s a giant hole in my life. Everything feels wrong, like I’ve stumbled into an alternate universe. I don’t know when I’ll feel anchored or right again, but I’m certainly not there now.

Every day I want to tell her something, or ask her advice, or hear what she has to say. I often think that I will, until I remember. It’s awful. Selfishly, I still need her. And I just miss her presence.

She’s here, of course. Just not in the way I would like.

The only way is forwards. Unfortunately.

One of my firmest beliefs about the web as it emerged was that it could be a force for peace: learning happens, I argued, when contexts collide. People who didn’t know or understand each other would meet, talk, and connect. We would all have a deeper understanding, rooted in justice and empathy.

A lot of ink has been spilled over the incorrectness of that original utopian vision for the web, but I’m still not sure that belief was entirely wrong: the internet helped give birth to restorative justice movements like Black Lives Matter, and movements for justice around the world, which I truly believe are a prerequisite for a just peace.

It did, however, undeniably also bring together some of the darkest aspects of society: bigotry, nationalism, violence. It helped hate find hate; white supremacist organizations and thinkers were able to grow their communities too. Propagandists were able to share mis and dis-information swiftly for their own ends. Viral content became an integral part of statecraft, movement-building, and the manufacturing of consent.

Nationalism is a fundamentally toxic idea that can only lead to division. The simple idea that humans who were born inside one arbitrary diplomatic division are somehow superior to those who were born inside another is ridiculous on its face, and archaic to the core. We’re all part of one single, connected open graph; the internet should have shown us that. Everyone is connected to everyone else. We’re all just people, doing our best, trying to live our lives.

That we should fight each other based on where we were born or where we live or which deity we choose to believe in is absurd 17th century stuff. And the thing is, the people who sew these divisions know that. They’re created in the name of profit: to help secure energy rights, or a section of coastline that empowers a trading route, or to boost the shares of some corporation or other. It all comes down to cynical manipulation in order to establish dominance.

Faced with this landscape of internet-enhanced manipulation, those of us who build platforms for information and sharing have a choice to make. It’s not dissimilar to the choices made with respect to disrupting any incumbent industry. We can either choose to put a nice new face on existing power dynamics, or we can disrupt them entirely. A fintech company must decide whether it should works with incumbent banks and simply provide a shiny app that sits on top of the existing financial system, or build an entirely new system that serves people better. An information company must decide whether it should work with the existing dynamics of power, or build an entirely new system in service of truth and justice. Not nationalistic truth or justice, in service of a single nation’s interests above others, but truth or justice in the name of all people.

The web is for everyone.

That’s the only way it works.

It will have reached its potential when we can look at each other, or think of another country, and see the humans in their individual beauty and nuance over any tribal allegiance; when we can consider them all to be neighbors, and when their well-being is important to us.

Conversely, if that never happens, if we think in terms of diplomatic friends and foes and choose to accept the dehumanization of those our leaders deem to be the latter, then it will have failed, and maybe even made the world worse.

The internet is people. It’s all about interrelatedness and interdependence. We’re all connected. And if we can’t see that, I don’t know what hope there is for us.

An interesting juxtaposition in my feedreader today:

On one hand:

For its final value, Zuckerberg added “Meta, Metamates, Me” to the list, pushing the company's metaverse rebrand one step further. He said this one relates to “the sense of responsibility we have for our collective success and to each other as teammates.”

And on the other:

“The work that we do is a kind of mental torture,” one current Sama employee that works as an outsourced Facebook content moderator told TIME, who like others who spoke to the magazine did so on condition of anonymity for fear of retribution or job loss. “Whatever I am living on is hand-to-mouth. I can’t save a cent. Sometimes I feel I want to resign. But then I ask myself: what will my baby eat?”

So Meta employees should ask themselves: who gets to be a Metamate? And what does that answer say about the company they work for?

I’ve been really enjoying Rick Klau’s series on OKRs. Rick worked at Google on Product and then at GV as Partner, and is now California’s Chief Technology Innovation Officer.

This week on OKRs as institutional memory:

In the absence of OKRs, an organization’s mistakes made and lessons learned are locked in people’s heads. New team members struggle to get up to speed with what the veterans already know; “this is the way we do things” can feel mercurial and opaque.

Last week on squirrels:

Is the idea related to one of the few things we’re focused on as a company? If we pursued the squirrel, would we make a meaningful impact on one or more of the metrics we agreed to influence? Does this squirrel matter, right now, to the work we’re doing?

On the danger of setting “true / false” OKRs:

What if you launched v1 of the product and it sucked? What if you develop a roadmap for some big idea and… nothing happened? The fatal flaw in committing to OKRs like these is that you can get a great score on the OKR when it’s time to grade yourselves, and fail to achieve much (or, worse: actively do damage to your organization).

The whole series is worth following and subscribing to. His blog is one of my favorite subscriptions, and if you’re a technology operator in any capacity, it’s a must-read.

Every job I’ve had has been a kind of dojo. At every position, I’ve had the privilege of meeting and working with a bunch of smart, interesting people; I’ve got to work on disparate products with real-world applications; and I’ve learned a lot about new markets and industries.

But they’ve also stretched me personally in important ways. Here’s one way of breaking it down, from the very beginning.

As a SysOp at Daily Information, I ran a BBS and later one of the first classified websites - but ended up doing lots of very different things that crossed development, computer repair, visual design, sales, and more. It was an idiosyncratic small business that was run out of a Victorian house in North Oxford and I loved every second. I learned to flexibly wear different hats and move from role to role to role as needed, as needed. For an introverted kid who was scared to talk on the phone, let alone make a cold call, that was a pretty big deal. (I learned how to make a pretty decent G&T, too.)

As a learning technologies developer at the University of Edinburgh, I learned how to explain complicated technical ideas to a non-technical audience. I was immersed in the web, and I quickly realized that my colleagues were not. Helping them through the new internet world became pretty important for them, and for me. I gave my first ever presentation here, and saw connections between the emerging web and the potential for facilitating learning that no-one else had seen yet. (I also hacked the cafeteria menu to get the lowest-cost possible meal and was banned.)

As a web administrator at the University of Oxford’s Saïd Business School, I learned about navigating corporate structures and helping advocate for agile ways of working. I became a go-to resource across the School for internet startup knowledge - by the end of my time there, MBA students were stopping by the IT department to chat with me.

As co-founder of Elgg, I learned how to bootstrap a business, build an open platform from scratch, seen an open source community, run events, do marketing, and more than anything else, how to identify assumptions and work from first principles. I had no idea about how investment worked or how to think about valuations; I had no idea about team dynamics or how to build a company culture; I didn’t know what user-centered design was; I wasn’t sure how to run a team remotely. I learned all of these things. I hired and fired my first person, and hated it.

As CTO at Latakoo I learned a lot more about leading a team and interfacing with non-technical management. I also learned about how to build for legacy industries - I’d done that in education, but broadcast television was a new universe for me. I helped build a pitch deck and give an investment pitch to investors for the first time. I also had my first VC experience on Sand Hill Road.

As co-founder of Known, I learned formal design thinking and user research. I built more pitch decks and investment documents than I ever had in my life. I gave design thinking workshops and learned how to be a formal consultant. And I engaged in acquisition talks for the first time - a very different kind of sales.

As a senior engineer at Medium, I learned about software development in a much larger team for a much higher-scale product. My software development skills were pushed much further than they’d been in the past. I worked with formal product management and had a very different class of problems to solve. And honestly, got over my nervousness and some of my imposter syndrome: chatting with Ev, who I held in very high regard, was initially terrifying. The people I worked with had been on very different, much more high profile journeys. I spent the first three months sleeping very little, but eventually decided that I belonged.

As Director of Investments at Matter, I had to become an extrovert. I took over a thousand startup pitches, sometimes over continuous twelve hour days. I taught design thinking bootcamps and held strategy opening hours for dozens of disparate startups. I attended industry dinners and tried to represent the organization well. But most of all, I evaluated the teams and business strategies for many, many startups run by all kinds of different founders; I read their legal docs and understood their structures; I evaluated founder mindsets; I got to know many incredible people. I invested in them, and was there for them as best I could. It was my first (and last) job ever that didn’t involve coding: instead, I was a human standing with other humans, using my experience to be the wind at their backs.

As VP Product Development at Unlock, I re-learned being a software developer, and learned blockchain decentralization for the first time. I coded apps that ran on Ethereum and attended industry events. I learned about DAOs and gas and all the rest of it. It transformed how I think about the internet - and I did it during some of the heaviest personal struggles of my life, so I learned (imperfectly) how to juggle these things, too.

As Head of Engineering at ForUsAll, I’ve learned a lot about the importance of culture and structure. I’ve managed a larger team than I’ve worked with in the past, and have navigated a variety of human issues that have been very challenging. I’ve also played the part of a formal product owner in a very different way, writing formal product specs, Jira stories, and sprint plans, as well as working with engineers to build new architectures and refactor technical debt. I’ve also learned a lot about how to think about cultural change within a larger organization: ForUsAll is on the journey from being a financial services organization to an empathetic, scalable tech startup. And on top of that, I’ve learned a ton about how finance works, and the underlying mindsets required to navigate a whole new set of legacy infrastructure and ideas.

Looking back to the beginning of my career, I wouldn’t have imagined getting to where I am now: the things I’ve learned have pushed and pulled me into a whole new person. I’m grateful for all of it, and I’m excited to keep learning. It would be a sad thing to join a team and not learn or be pulled in these ways.

I wonder if finding meaning is like finding your keys: it’s not going to come to you when you’re looking for it, but maybe it’ll sneak up on you.

I’m a little envious of people who have made religion a part of their lives: the cultural structures of organized belief seem to be aligned to help you create and find meaning. There’s a sense of spiritual laws of the universe that you can follow to understand what you’re meant to do while you’re here, and (depending on the religion) there’s a sense that there’s a whole other world when you leave this one, that potentially goes on forever. Earth is just a testing ground before your real life begins.

I don’t have religion, and I’ve struggled to find real meaning. The best I’ve arrived at is that I want to feel like I’m useful. I care a lot about equality and fairness, so I want to work on projects that make the world more equal and fair. I feel like centralized wealth is antithetical to those ideals, so I want to work in ways that share equity rather than allow people to hoard it. I believe that collectives and communities and more than the sum of their individual parts. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.

A chronic self-questioner, I’ve re-examined this ethical philosophy over and over again, and found that it’s right for me. I do think it’s morally correct. But I also think there’s a certain amount of self-justification involved, too: as in, my feeling the need to justify my presence in the world. Why do I deserve to be here? Why should I exist? This ethical structure is one way I can answer that question and sleep at night.

But why should we need meaning at all?

Lately I’ve come to realize that I display classic signs of co-dependency. Most people don’t feel guilty for putting value on their own needs or asserting themselves; I do, and so do people who have been diagnosed as being co-dependent. Although the idea of co-dependency was originally developed through the study of alcoholism and substance abuse, I don’t have a history of those things in my family; instead, I think I came by it through over a decade of caring for my terminally ill mother, and from the intergenerational effects of the concentration camp.

My whole life, people have told me I was “nice”. It feels good. But it’s also the direct effect of not putting enough value on my own needs; of not being assertive enough. The feedback loop of being rewarded for being nice compounds the problem over time: although everybody who has ever told me this has done it with love and good intentions, it’s ultimately a reward for not being assertive.

I read Codependent No More, one of the classic texts on the subject, and although it’s frequently uncomfortably close to the bone, I also found it a bit wanting for my needs. It’s overtly about alcoholism, and is also far more religious than I am. It talks about getting to a healthier place through dependence on a higher power, and I simply can’t bring myself to believe in one. I wish there was something like a recovery program designed for people who don’t have that framework for meaning or belief in something beyond the physical universe.

Nonetheless, it was helpful. There was a passage that hit unexpectedly close to home, which talked about not wanting to end your life not because you enjoyed life and saw potential in the future, but solely out of guilt for its effect on other people. That is how I feel. It is not how I want to feel. I want to feel like life in itself is joyful and meaningful and worth continuing, and I just don’t. I want to run away from it, and find myself in some alternative mirror universe where there aren’t the same pressures and guilts and currents. I don’t want things to stay the same, and I feel guilty about change. I’m set in sadness like aspic.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m in no danger of hurting myself. I’ve had friends die by suicide, and I’m not interested in inflicting that pain on others. There is definitely an allure to ctrl-alt-deleting myself, but only in a vacuum, as a thought experiment. We’ve just got to keep swimming: there’s no alternative.

If we’ve got to keep swimming, and if the status is not quo, and there’s a dynamic I’ve identified that is inhibiting real change, then changing that dynamic becomes the paramount thing to do.

I need to work on myself, in order to undo my codependent traits and build a new bedrock of self-worth. (A major blocker: I find it hard to believe that you can both be a good person and put yourself first. I know, I know.) In parallel, I need to make sure I’m in a situation where I feel like the people in my life - all of them, in every facet - are looking out for my interests and well-being as much as I’m looking out for theirs. Transactional relationships, which are about what one party can provide to the other, are the enemy of healthy self-worth and well-being. They’ve got to go.

Then there’s this other question: who actually am I? If codependence has become a deeply ingrained part of my personality, which it seems like it has, what does my personality look like when I strip it away? That’s terrifying to me. What if it’s bad?

But what if it’s not? The single biggest piece of feedback I get at work is that I need to be more assertive and do better at holding people to account. There are real-world effects to holding back that go far beyond my own boundaries. Being an effective leader, or an effective anything at work, means setting boundaries based on your expertise and being clear about what’s needed. Being an effective and happy human being means setting boundaries based on your emotional and practical needs. Being more assertive - not being an asshole, but just having those boundaries and standing by them - doesn’t make you a worse person, it makes you more effective. In the right people, with the right relationships, those qualities build respect, not animosity. And the wrong people, the wrong relationships are just that: wrong.

Intellectually, I know this. The thing I need to work on is helping my heart, my nervous system, my cowardly lizard brain, to follow through. I know in my head that my needs are important; I also feel the adrenaline, the cortisol, the feeling in my stomach that tells me something bad is going to happen when I do.

It’s pathetic. I feel pathetic. Other people find this so easy. But that feeling too, the self-flagellation, has go to go. There’s a reason there’s a name for this; it’s a thing, a mental condition, a way of thinking, that people actively suffer from and have to work to get better from.

I’m trying.

I want to build things, and write things, and create and love and find joy in the small beauties of everyday life. I don’t want to feel like my life is sort of built like a trap and that I’m a bad person for wanting to escape it.

I know there’s meaning to be found; more than meaning, I’m looking for satisfaction and belonging. I want to know that it’s right that I’m here, that it’s okay for me to take up space, that I have value in myself.

I’m trying.

This is one of those pieces that probably very few people want to read: you’re here for open source and tech utopianism and how we can all do better on the internet. But this is how I figure out what to do, where I am, how to be; it helps me to put it down in writing. And if this resonates for someone, somewhere, and encourages them to look up the symptoms for codependence and find a way to health, or even just helps them feel a little less alone, then it’ll have been a good thing.

People in tech, in the workforce, in the professional world are still people. We’re all human. I don’t think it does any of us anything but a disservice to try and paper that over. If we put ourselves out there, we can build community, find help, share ideas, and do better together.

Not that I need to justify this piece or anything. Just so you know.