Sasha Dichter
I’m the Co-Founder of 60 Decibels, a social impact and customer intelligence company that helps organizations around the world better understand their customers, suppliers, and beneficiaries. Our proprietary Lean Data approach makes it easy to listen to the people who matter most, allowing us to bring customer-centricity, speed and responsiveness to impact measurement. We use our team of more than 800 researchers in 50 countries to deploy phone-based surveys, along with SMS and online, in more than 100 languages. Prior to co-founding 60 Decibels, I worked at Acumen for 12 years, most recently as Chief Innovation Officer, where I helped create and grow both Lean Data and +Acumen, the world’s school for social change, and oversaw the Acumen Fellows Program. I’ve also been blogging since 2008 and have written more than 1,000 blog posts on generosity, philanthropy and social change. I was the instigator behind Generosity Day and, frustrated with how nonprofits approach fundraising, I wrote the Manifesto for Nonprofit CEOs, a free resource that has been shared with thousands of nonprofit CEOs and Boards who care about making a difference. I find I get the most joy from my work when I see someone around me change and grow.
My brain went into a red alert after reading the first sentence of this piece. It seemed to contradict an idea I hold dear from The Alchemist, "don't take anything personally". And how can I not take anything personally AND care about something at the same time? But my perceived paradox is neatly resolved when I change my scope — don't sweat the small stuff, and care deeply about the big stuff.
Thanks for this piece, Sasha! I dug reading more about the values your company champions.
- Corey
Zoom is here to stay, an integral part of our work lives and work culture.
I’m a big fan for lots of reasons: gone are the days of faceless phone calls, and our work norms have finally shifted, making it professionally acceptable to ditch the logistics of unnecessary travel for in-person meetings.
I’ve written more than 1,200 posts on this blog over the last 14 years. It’s become part of my life, and I can’t help but inquire what the practice brings to me.
I wrote about this in 2009, with a list of 44 Reasons I Blog (my current favorite from that list is number 27, “I’m a little compulsive.” You don’t say….)
My addition to this list, a 45th reason, has to do with “fiddling.”
As in: here’s something that’s just a thought, let’s see how it comes out with a bit of attention and effort.
How often does this happen to me?
I'm in the middle of a sentence, or I'm part of the way through sharing an idea and a colleague interjects, barely letting me finish,
“That was absolutely amazing! Yes! Exactly that!”
My 2-year-old dog, Birdie, needs to walk at least five miles a day to be calm, relaxed and happy.
My wife and I have concluded that the best way to make this work is with lots of walking first thing in the morning. I’ve been taking her 3 miles right when I wake up, and my wife takes her another mile or so when she walks our youngest daughter to school.
I’ve chosen to walk the same route nearly every day. This makes the timing predictable, and it also helps for training purposes (especially if I let her off leash).
More often than not, I realize I'm comfortable with “a lot,” and I'm comfortable with “nothing.”
It’s easy to make a big push for something when I'm feeling inspired: a New Year’s resolution; after reading a great article on the benefits (or drawbacks) of coffee; while on vacation.
Often, that big push either overshoots (I overdo it and get tired), or inspiration wanes.
Which is why “a little bit every day” is tougher, and more valuable, than it appears.
“What do you do to preserve your sense of wellness?”
I was recently asked this question as the prompt to a breakout I was a part of, and I gave an answer that I found surprising:
“Ignore my short-term brain.”
We have an invisible fence set up around our yard for our dog. To mark it, we’ve put up little white flags and taught her not to cross them. Since we live on a busy street, it’s doubly important that my dog understands and respects these boundaries.
Of course, she needs to get out of the yard a few times a day for her walks. Any time I walk her, the first thing I do is take off her Invisible Fence collar. This means she could easily cross the line without our help.
I play a lot of racquet sports, more so in the last year thanks to COVID-19. Not just squash, which was off limits for about 6 months, but tennis, platform tennis and, most recently, pickleball (which is becoming hugely popular because it’s so easy to learn).
In my forever quest for improvement, I pay a lot of attention to my technique. I even got an inexpensive tripod recently and took some videos of my squash matches…and quickly had an existential crisis when I saw that my strokes don’t look like the pros’. So I fussed a bunch over my backswing, my follow-through, the position of my racquet.
Three years ago, we did some work in the garden behind our house to address some drainage issues. This included moving a large, healthy green spire euonymus to an open corner to provide a bit of screening.
The gardener told us that the euonymus is a resilient plant and it would transplant well.
In the first year, it lost half of its leaves, and looked sickly all spring, summer and fall.
In the second year, it was shedding fewer leaves, but it still looked like it wasn’t going to make it.
And this spring, it’s turned the corner. It’s not as big as it used to be, but it’s clearly strong and healthy again, the leaves are a deep green and shiny, and the plant looks healthy. Here it is.
We often take “resilience” to mean that we will be unaffected by hard things, but that’s not how it works.
When this pandemic is over, I will start commuting back in to work.
My commute is a 10-minute walk to the train, a 40 minute train ride, and another 10 minute walk to the office. That adds up to one hour each way, twice a day, five days a week.
The question is: where will I find that time?
Who still is finding something to say.
A kind word for a colleague, a friend, or for themselves.
For everyone who still manages to find little, fun ways to support someone else.
Maybe just a little something: a virtual smile or a hug.
Last Thursday and Friday, I learned, over the course of 24 hours, that schools in NY State are officially closed for the rest of the year, and that my three kids’ 7-week sleepaway summer camp (the highlight of their year) is cancelled.
Within the parameters of us being collectively lucky, safe, and relatively unaffected by this pandemic, this was a huge blow. We now have four more months of trying to keep the kids happy, healthy and cared for, while my wife and I manage our two jobs.
I have to admit, this unmoored me.
“Have you heard? That new virus is spreading like crazy in Wuhan, China. That seems just awful.”
“Oh gosh, now there are tons of cases in Italy and Iran. I heard it came from a bat. How terrifying. Thank goodness there are only a few cases here.”
“It’s exploded in New Rochelle, just outside New York city, and cases are increasing across Europe. Close the borders.”
“New York is the epicenter of coronavirus in the U.S. Those damn, godless New Yorkers, all pressed up against each other. Good thing we’re safe out here in Texas. Or Wyoming. Or Nevada. Or in Lagos or Delhi or Mexico City for that matter.”
A week ago, I felt ahead of the coronavirus curve. Our town had closed schools as of the prior Sunday night, so our kids were already at home. Our community had started social distancing and I was already staying home from work. Meanwhile, the rest of the country, and most of the rest of the world, was going about business as usual.
What a difference a week makes.
If last week my community was living through a first, early wave, this week everyone everywhere got hit head-on with a mammoth second wave, and it’s knocked us off our feet.
Like many, I’ve found my week and life disrupted by the Coronavirus.
First, over the weekend we decided to keep our 60 Decibels New York team working from home for the start of this week, since two of our team members live in Westchester County (which has been leading the nation in total number of Coronavirus cases). Then I learned late on Sunday night that our school district was closing until March 18th.
As everyone in my family knows, I have a persistent, daily, absurd issue with running for the train.
Each morning, to get to work, I walk a half mile from my house to the train station. At a relaxed pace, that walk takes 12 to 14. Walking briskly, you can do it in 10-12 minutes. Most mornings I do it in 8-9 minutes, and when things get bad, I sprint to the train in 6 minutes.
Mind you, this is all while fully dressed for work. And it’s not because I’ve overslept: I wake up at least 75 minutes before the train, and often I’ve been up for as much as two and a half hours (to exercise).
The problem with most advice is that it’s delivered as “here’s what I think you should do.”
Yet it typically reflects, “here’s what I did in a similar situation.”
That old situation and this new one are never the same: different time, different place, different people.
Plus, upon receiving that kind of advice, we end up stuck again: we’ve turned to someone we trust who has more experience with this type of thing than we have. Hearing their advice, we face a new dilemma: is their wisdom, experience and fresh perspective more valid than what we (closer to the texture and nuance of the situation) see and know?
Be mindful of filling gaps
Of seemingly nothingness
With mindless distractions -
A phone or an app,
The TV or even endless cleaning,
Or some thing you do just to do it.
The problem with most advice is that it’s delivered as “here’s what I think you should do.”
Yet it typically reflects, “here’s what I did in a similar situation.”
That old situation and this new one are never the same: different time, different place, different people.
My yoga practice today
Happened next to a half-made bed
A few clothes strewn nearby
My daughter entered the room a few minutes in
Plopped herself onto the bed
To read her book
Behaviors around time and deadlines are some of the most important unspoken elements of your team culture
Do we ship?
Or do we delay?
Do we let plans and projects float around without deadlines?
On the days I’m really sleep deprived everything seems impossible. White space is useless. My patience is low. I overreact.
And if I’m having a week or weeks with something that is physically wrong–an illness or an injury–my “impossible” stories get amplified. Especially in the case of illness, “What if I feel this way forever?” is a crushing thought that can spiral.
And then, if I’m lucky, I get better. Enough sleep or adjustment or medication or healing makes an ailment go away. My new “now” is replenished with possibility.
Rowers talk about how, when the whole crew is in sync, the boat somehow lifts a few inches out of the water and magically seems to glide.
That moment is the payoff from the accumulated effort of years of training, focus and discipline, the prerequisites to that moment of synchronicity.
This can happen in our day-to-day as well. We put in analytical, emotional and financial effort to make something work just right, but still it’s not quite there yet.
My daughter is working her way through a summer book of math and reading. She got to the end and found this Summer Brainiac Certificate on the last page. She was ecstatic.
While on the road last week, I did a pretty good job of meditating each night. I’ve found this is the best way to overcome both jetlag and the buzzing distraction of being on the road.
Most nights, I did one of the guided mediations on my Insight Timer app. Near the end of my trip I found a guided meditation by Zen master Thich Nhat Hahn.
“OK,” I thought, “this is going to be some serious meditation!”
Right here.
Right now.
At this moment.
I stand.
My feet are on the ground.
Breath enters my nose.
I hear.
We each have a natural set point, a place we feel most comfortable.
We might be seers who can imagine, out of whole cloth, a future.
We might be doers who need to be neck-deep in the work to come to conclusions that mean anything to us.
We might be analyzers who see the whole field of play and can visualize which pieces need to be moved in what ways to tilt the field.
“Is this what it was like to live in Colonial times?” my 11-year old daughter asks, golden firelight flickering off her face in our living room on Wednesday night.
The power was out in our house and in our neighborhood, thanks to the late winter storm weighing down trees under layers of ice and wet, heavy snow.