I Never Ran Out of Things to Say.

Somewhere Along the Way, My Writing Changed

I've been writing blogs for the better part of nine years now.

If you've followed along for any meaningful portion of that time, you may have noticed something.

My writing has changed.

Not necessarily the subjects I write about. I still find myself endlessly fascinated by leadership, human behavior, relationships, systems, organizational dynamics, and the peculiar ways people make sense of the world around them.

Those interests haven't gone anywhere.

If anything, they've become even more deeply ingrained in the way I think.

But the way I approach writing about those things has changed considerably.

For years, most of what I wrote could be consumed in three or four minutes.

A relatively simple observation.

A connection to something I'd experienced.

A few thoughts about what it might mean.

And, hopefully, some sort of conclusion that gave the reader something to consider.

It was an approach that worked.

I enjoyed it.

People seemed to connect with it.

And perhaps most importantly, it gave me an outlet for the seemingly endless collection of thoughts occupying space in my head.

But lately, I've found myself writing pieces that take ten, twelve, or even fourteen minutes to read.

And I've started asking myself why.

Am I becoming more long-winded?

Probably.

Anyone who's spent enough time talking with me might suggest that's not exactly a recent development.

But I think there's something more meaningful happening.

I'm beginning to realize that, for years, I was often finishing my writing before I had actually finished thinking.

And there's a difference.

The Problem With Trying to Fit a Thought Into Four Minutes

There's something appealing about brevity.

We live in a world where attention is constantly being pulled in a hundred different directions.

People are busy.

Information is everywhere.

And we increasingly measure the value of communication by how efficiently someone can consume it.

Can you explain it in thirty seconds?

Can you turn it into a five-slide presentation?

Can you summarize it in three bullet points?

Can you make it short enough for someone to read between meetings?

I understand the appeal.

Clarity matters.

And there's absolutely a skill involved in communicating something complicated with relatively few words.

In fact, I think it's an incredibly valuable skill.

But I've started wondering whether, in our pursuit of brevity, we sometimes sacrifice the very things that make an idea worth exploring.

The context.

The contradictions.

The questions that emerge after the initial observation.

The connections to other experiences.

The uncomfortable realization that the thing we believed when we started writing might not be the thing we believe by the time we're finished.

Those are the parts I find fascinating.

And those are often the first things we remove when we're trying to make something shorter.

I can write a three-minute article about why trust matters in leadership.

I can explain that people need to feel safe asking questions, that leaders should demonstrate consistency, and that trust is earned through behavior.

All true.

All important.

But what happens when I begin questioning what trust actually means?

Is trust simply believing someone has good intentions?

What happens when someone has good intentions but consistently makes poor decisions?

Can you trust someone's character without trusting their judgment?

What happens when a leader believes they're empowering someone, but that person experiences the same behavior as abandonment?

And what responsibility do we have when someone places trust in us that we haven't yet earned?

Suddenly, what began as a relatively simple observation becomes something far more interesting.

And those questions lead to other questions.

Which lead to connections.

Which lead to memories.

Which occasionally lead me to realize that my original understanding of the subject was incomplete.

That's the part of thinking I enjoy most.

The first thought is rarely the most interesting one. It's what happens when you refuse to stop at the first thought that things begin to get interesting.

And I think my writing has finally started reflecting that.

I've Always Been a Stream-of-Consciousness Thinker

I've mentioned before that I'm an avid journaler.

I'm still not entirely convinced that's a real word, but after using it for this long, I feel like I've earned the right to continue.

Journaling has always been an important part of my life.

Not because I believe every thought I have deserves to be preserved for future generations.

Trust me, some of them absolutely do not.

But because writing helps me understand what's happening inside my own head.

And my mind has never been particularly interested in traveling in a straight line.

I'll begin thinking about something that happened during a conversation at work.

That leads me to something I remember reading.

Which reminds me of a completely unrelated experience from years earlier.

Then I start questioning why those two experiences feel connected.

Before long, I'm contemplating some broader principle about human behavior, leadership, or the ways we interact with the systems surrounding us.

And somehow, what started as a relatively ordinary observation has turned into an exploration of something I didn't even realize I was thinking about.

That's generally how my mind works.

It's not always organized.

It's not always efficient.

And it certainly doesn't always arrive at a conclusion I anticipated.

But there's something I genuinely appreciate about allowing those thoughts to develop naturally.

Because sometimes the value of thinking isn't found in the conclusion. It's found in the connections we discover along the way.

When I journal, I don't particularly care how long it takes to express a thought.

I'm not writing for an audience.

I'm not trying to capture someone's attention.

I'm not worried about whether I'm approaching an imaginary word count.

I'm simply allowing myself to think.

And the writing stops when I feel like I've finished exploring whatever was on my mind.

My blogging, however, hasn't always worked that way.

For years, I would take those much larger thoughts and attempt to condense them into something digestible.

Something relatively concise.

Something that could be read quickly, understood easily, and shared without asking too much of someone's time.

And while I still appreciate that approach, I've come to recognize its limitations.

Because sometimes I wasn't simplifying the thought.

I was removing parts of it.

Parts that explained why I believed something.

Parts that acknowledged where I might be wrong.

Parts that connected the idea to something else.

And sometimes, those missing parts were the very things that made the thought meaningful to me in the first place.

The Difference Between Explaining an Idea and Exploring One

I think this is probably the most significant change in the way I write.

I used to approach blogging primarily as an opportunity to communicate an idea.

Now, I increasingly approach it as an opportunity to explore one.

Those might sound like the same thing.

I don't think they are.

When you're explaining an idea, you've generally already arrived at a conclusion.

You know what you want to say.

The challenge is finding the clearest way to communicate it.

But when you're exploring an idea, the conclusion isn't necessarily established.

You begin with a question.

An observation.

A feeling.

Something that happened and left you wondering why.

And then you follow it.

You challenge it.

You examine it from different perspectives.

You consider the experiences that shaped your understanding.

And sometimes you discover that the thought you started with isn't nearly as interesting as the one you eventually arrive at.

That's what I want my writing to capture.

Not just the polished conclusion.

The journey that led me there.

Because I don't believe people necessarily connect with an idea simply because it's well articulated.

Sometimes they connect with the uncertainty.

The internal debate.

The recognition that someone else has struggled to make sense of something they've experienced themselves.

And I think there's something deeply human about that.

We're not machines that receive information, process it perfectly, and produce neatly organized conclusions.

We're complicated.

Our experiences influence our perceptions.

Our emotions shape our interpretations.

Our beliefs evolve.

And sometimes we hold two seemingly contradictory ideas at the same time while trying to understand how both might be true.

I don't want to remove those contradictions simply because they make an article more difficult to summarize.

I want to explore them.

I've become less interested in telling people what I think and more interested in helping them understand how I arrived there.

Not because I expect them to agree.

But because the process of thinking can be just as valuable as the thought itself.

Ten Minutes Gives Me Room to Be Wrong

There's another benefit to longer writing that I hadn't fully appreciated until recently.

It gives me space to challenge myself.

In a shorter piece, it's relatively easy to make a confident statement, explain why I believe it, and move on.

But when I spend more time with an idea, I often begin recognizing its limitations.

Let's say I start writing about the importance of autonomy in high-performing teams.

I believe strongly that people should be trusted to make decisions.

That leaders shouldn't become bottlenecks.

That individuals need opportunities to develop confidence in their own judgment.

I could probably write a perfectly reasonable article about that in a few minutes.

But if I keep going, I eventually have to ask myself something uncomfortable.

What happens when someone isn't ready for that level of autonomy?

What happens when the consequences of a poor decision are significant?

What happens when someone interprets autonomy as a lack of support?

What happens when a leader becomes so committed to empowering others that they stop providing the guidance people actually need?

Those questions don't invalidate my original belief.

They make it more complete.

And I think that's important.

Because very few meaningful ideas are universally applicable without context.

Leadership isn't a collection of rules that produce predictable outcomes regardless of the circumstances.

People aren't equations.

Organizations aren't static.

And the principles that work exceptionally well in one environment may produce entirely different results in another.

I want my writing to acknowledge that complexity.

I want to be able to say, "I believe this, but I also recognize where it might not apply."

I want to consider perspectives that challenge my own.

And when necessary, I want to change my mind.

There's nothing particularly admirable about holding on to an idea simply because we've already committed it to writing.

In fact, I think some of the most meaningful learning happens when we become willing to reconsider the things we once believed.

If spending another seven minutes with a thought causes me to recognize something I missed in the first three, I'd argue those seven minutes were probably worth it.

Even if they make the article longer.

The Problem With Leaving Thoughts Unfinished

Here's something else I've noticed about my older writing.

Sometimes I'd publish something, feel reasonably satisfied with it, and move on.

Then, weeks or months later, I'd find myself thinking about the same idea again.

Maybe I'd had a new experience.

Maybe something I'd read challenged my original perspective.

Maybe a conversation caused me to recognize a connection I hadn't previously considered.

And suddenly, I wanted to revisit what I'd written.

Which sounds simple enough.

Just write another article, right?

Well, yes.

But there's a problem.

By that point, the original thought might have been written months or even years earlier.

And while the connection between those ideas might be perfectly clear inside my head, it probably isn't nearly as obvious to someone reading them independently.

I might write about psychological safety in January.

Then explore vulnerability in leadership several months later.

A year after that, I might write about trust, accountability, or the relationship between autonomy and confidence.

To me, those ideas are deeply connected.

They're different parts of a much larger conversation I've been having with myself for years.

But to someone encountering those pieces individually, the relationships might not be immediately apparent.

And I don't always do a particularly good job of explaining them.

Partly because I assume the connection is obvious.

And partly because, by the time I'm writing the newer piece, I've already traveled so far beyond the original thought that revisiting all the context feels like starting over.

The result is a collection of articles that sometimes feel more disconnected than the ideas actually are.

Almost like I've been writing individual chapters of a book without telling anyone that they're part of the same story.

And perhaps, in some ways, I have.

Because I don't think of leadership, systems thinking, communication, human behavior, or personal development as separate subjects.

They're interconnected.

How we communicate affects trust.

Trust affects vulnerability.

Vulnerability affects learning.

Learning influences confidence.

Confidence changes how people approach problems.

And the systems surrounding those people influence whether those behaviors are encouraged or discouraged.

Pull on one thread, and eventually you discover it's connected to something much larger.

That's how I tend to think.

And I want my writing to reflect those connections more clearly.

I Want to Leave Nothing on the Table

I think this is ultimately why my articles have become longer.

I've stopped trying to determine how much space a thought should occupy before I've actually finished exploring it.

Instead, I'm trying to give the idea whatever space it reasonably needs.

Sometimes that'll be three minutes.

Sometimes it'll be ten.

And occasionally, I imagine it'll take even longer.

But the objective is the same.

When I reach the end, I want to feel like I've said what I came to say.

Not necessarily everything that could ever be said about the subject.

That would be impossible.

But everything I feel is important to the thought I'm trying to communicate at that particular moment.

I want to explore the obvious connections and the less obvious ones.

I want to acknowledge the questions that complicate my perspective.

I want to consider the experiences that have shaped my understanding.

And I want to arrive at a conclusion that feels earned rather than one that exists simply because I've decided the article has become long enough.

I don't want to stop writing because I've reached the bottom of the page. I want to stop because I've reached the end of the thought.

There's something satisfying about that distinction.

Almost like finishing a conversation you didn't realize you needed to have.

You begin with something occupying space in your mind.

You work through it.

You discover connections.

You confront uncertainty.

And eventually, there's a moment when the idea feels complete.

Not perfect.

Not beyond further consideration.

Just complete enough that you can finally put it down.

And perhaps that's what I've been missing from some of my shorter writing.

That feeling of having explored something fully.

Of knowing there isn't another paragraph I've been avoiding or another question I haven't allowed myself to ask.

Of being able to close the document without the nagging feeling that I've left something important unsaid.

Complete Doesn't Mean Final

Now, there's a contradiction in all of this that I think is worth acknowledging.

If I want to leave nothing on the table, does that mean I believe every thought should be explored so thoroughly that there's nothing left to say about it?

Absolutely not.

I hope I never reach that point.

Because that would imply I've stopped growing.

And if there's one thing I've learned over the years, it's that our understanding of the world should change as our experiences change.

Something I believe today might look different five years from now.

A leadership practice I find effective in one environment might prove less useful in another.

A perspective shaped by one experience might become more nuanced after I've had the opportunity to see the situation through someone else's eyes.

That's a good thing.

I want those things to happen.

So when I say I want to finish a thought, I don't mean I want to close the subject permanently.

I mean I want to give that particular version of my understanding the room it deserves.

To explore what I know.

What I believe.

What I question.

And where I've landed based on the experiences I've had so far.

Then, if life eventually teaches me something different, I can return to the subject with a genuinely new perspective.

Rather than feeling like I'm constantly trying to finish a conversation I abandoned halfway through.

A completed thought isn't necessarily a final thought. It's simply an honest reflection of where my understanding has arrived today.

And I think there's something meaningful about preserving those moments.

Because that's really what much of my writing is.

A record of how my thinking has evolved.

Maybe My Writing Is Growing Because I Am

I've spent a lot of time reflecting on why my writing has changed.

And I keep coming back to something relatively simple.

I'm not the same person I was nine years ago.

I have different experiences.

Different responsibilities.

Different perspectives.

I've worked with more people.

Had more difficult conversations.

Made more mistakes.

Learned things I didn't know I needed to learn.

And perhaps most importantly, I've become increasingly comfortable acknowledging how much I still don't understand.

I think those experiences have changed how I approach ideas.

I'm less interested in accepting something as true simply because it sounds compelling.

I want to understand why.

I want to explore what might challenge it.

I want to know whether it applies outside the circumstances in which I first encountered it.

And I want to consider how my own experiences might be influencing the way I interpret it.

That doesn't necessarily make my thinking more sophisticated.

But I do think it makes it more intentional.

And perhaps my writing is simply becoming a more accurate reflection of that process.

When I was younger, I often felt that having a clear answer was evidence of understanding.

Today, I'm increasingly convinced that recognizing the complexity of a question can be just as valuable.

Sometimes more valuable.

Because when we become too attached to simple answers, we can stop noticing the things those answers fail to explain.

I've spent years working with people, building teams, and examining how organizations function.

And the longer I've done that, the more I've realized how rarely meaningful problems have a single, universally correct solution.

There's almost always another perspective.

Another variable.

Another experience that changes how the situation should be understood.

I think my writing has become longer because I've become more interested in those things.

Not because I suddenly have more answers.

But because I've become more comfortable spending time with the questions.

I Know I'm Asking More of the Reader

There's one more thing I want to acknowledge.

A ten- or fourteen-minute article is a bigger ask than a three-minute one.

I understand that.

Time is valuable.

Attention is limited.

And I don't believe anyone owes me either simply because I've decided to put my thoughts into writing.

If someone chooses to spend twelve minutes reading something I've written, I want to respect that investment.

Which means longer shouldn't automatically mean better.

More words don't necessarily create more value.

Repetition isn't depth.

And making something unnecessarily complicated doesn't make it profound.

I still want my writing to be thoughtful.

Clear.

Engaging.

And, hopefully, occasionally entertaining.

I'm not interested in stretching an idea across fourteen minutes simply because I can.

I'm interested in allowing an idea to occupy fourteen minutes when that's genuinely what it takes to explore it.

There's a meaningful difference between the two.

And I imagine finding that balance will continue to be part of my evolution as a writer.

There will probably be times when I get it wrong.

Times when I spend too long exploring something that could have been communicated more simply.

And times when I look back at something I've written and realize I still left important questions unanswered.

That's okay.

Writing, much like leadership, is something I expect to continue learning how to do better.

But if someone does choose to spend that time with me, I hope they feel like they've been invited into a meaningful conversation.

Not a lecture.

Not an attempt to convince them I'm right.

Just an opportunity to follow an idea from its beginning through the various twists and turns that helped shape it.

And perhaps discover a few connections to their own experiences along the way.

The Thoughts Were Always This Long

Maybe that's the realization I've been working toward throughout this entire article.

My thoughts haven't necessarily become longer.

They've probably always been this long.

I've simply become more willing to share the parts I used to leave out.

The wandering.

The questioning.

The connections to seemingly unrelated experiences.

The uncertainty.

The moments when an idea begins changing as I examine it.

And the occasional realization that I've spent an extraordinary amount of time thinking about something that someone else might have resolved with a shrug and a simple, "It depends."

Which, now that I think about it, is probably a perfectly reasonable response to a lot of things.

But it's never been a particularly satisfying one for me.

I've always wanted to understand what things depend on.

Why they work.

Why they don't.

What changes when the circumstances change.

And how the things we experience in one part of our lives might help us better understand something happening in another.

That's what keeps me thinking.

And that's what keeps me writing.

So perhaps this isn't really a change in writing style at all.

Perhaps it's an evolution in how comfortable I am allowing other people to see the way my mind works.

Less condensed.

Less concerned with arriving at a conclusion as quickly as possible.

More willing to explore the spaces between ideas.

And more accepting of the fact that not every worthwhile thought can be reduced to something easily consumed in a few minutes.

I'll Stop When the Thought Is Finished

After nearly nine years of blogging, I still write for many of the same reasons I did when I started.

It helps me organize my thoughts.

It gives me something to reflect on.

It creates a record of the person I was and the things I believed at different moments in my life.

And perhaps, somewhere along the way, something I write will help someone else make sense of something they're experiencing.

I hope that's the case.

But I've come to appreciate another reason for writing.

It gives me permission to follow my curiosity without needing to know exactly where it will lead.

To begin with a question.

Explore it.

Challenge it.

Connect it to other experiences.

And keep going until I've arrived somewhere that feels meaningful.

Sometimes that process will produce something relatively short.

Other times, it'll produce something considerably longer.

And I'm becoming increasingly comfortable with both.

Because I don't believe every thought deserves ten minutes.

But I also don't believe every thought can be adequately explored in three.

There's a difference between having something to say and having finished saying it.

And I think I'm finally learning to recognize that difference in my own writing.

So, if you've noticed that my articles have become longer, that's why.

I'm not necessarily trying to say more.

I'm trying to leave less unsaid.

I want to connect the dots while the connections are still fresh in my mind.

I want to explore an idea deeply enough that I don't feel compelled to revisit it months later simply because I ran out of room the first time.

I want to preserve the context behind what I believe, not just the conclusion.

And when I eventually return to those subjects, as I'm sure I will, I want it to be because I've experienced something that has genuinely expanded my understanding.

Not because I never finished the original thought.

Maybe the resulting articles won't be for everyone.

That's perfectly fine.

I've never expected everyone to find value in the things occupying space inside my head.

But if you're someone who enjoys exploring ideas, challenging assumptions, and discovering connections between experiences that initially seem unrelated, then I hope you'll continue reading.

Because that's the kind of writing I want to do.

Not necessarily shorter.

Not necessarily longer.

Just more complete.

I used to write until I felt I'd said enough.

Now I want to write until I feel I've said everything the thought deserves.

And if that takes fourteen minutes instead of four?

Well, apparently that's how long the conversation needed to be.

At least until life gives me another reason to think about it differently.

And knowing me, it probably will.