One of the best parts about writing a monthly newsletter is that it allows me to sit down and collect my thoughts, to reflect on the past 30 days and weave a storyline that I think you might enjoy. When I started, I wanted to use this platform to explore the amazing resources that I often lost myself in - papers by my favourite authors that live rent free in my mind, podcasts that make me stop mid-stride, blogs that make me rethink how I see the world. I thought by sharing my commentary on these resources, it could illustrate how these day-to-day learning opportunities unfold in real life. I don't know when I decided to stop writing like that, but I realised that I didn't need to explicitly feature concepts or authors or links, I just needed to share what has been capturing my attention lately, and the rest would fall into place.
Starting this newsletter was full of uncertainty. I was recently reflecting with a friend about how insignificant we are in this big, wide world, and sometimes that's a good thing, and other times it's a crushing realisation. While I have adored my pursuit of education, there are some things that still haunt me, some moments of unsafe un/certainty that have endured despite the passing of time. When I started my undergraduate psychology degree, I remember our class on referencing. The sentiment was that you do not have an original thought, nothing that you can write is new or worthwhile so you need to support your arguments with research - journal articles that people before you (and with worthwhile, systematically tested opinions) have written. What a dangerous statement to instil in a learner so early in their journey. I was going to say it's taken me years to overcome this sentiment that I internalised, but it's more like something I regularly remind myself to reject. Some days, that's harder than others.
I have had the immense pleasure of writing another paper with the amazing authors behind "Beyond the field of play” (ResearchGate, Journal Article), which is one of my proudest academic achievements to date. My role was to summarise the extensive story written by the rest of the group, in a way that helps people connect more deeply with the key message: "every action and decision has its social meaning, and has been influenced by a broader context." So I read each section, one by one, and just started writing. Words turned into sentences, then to paragraphs, then to subsections of a discussion that seemed to be falling into place and I'm not sure at what point I decided that I would keep bringing it back to my personal experiences of coaching and working in sport but it helped me remind myself of who I wanted to connect with.
So much of what we write about in research papers and academia genuinely has everyday people in mind. But writing for everyday people is a delicate balance of gifting the language that truly captures what we're speaking about - like sociomaterial environment - and making sure that language isn't the reason why someone stops themselves from reading on. I still believe that rather than taking that opportunity for learning away, from avoiding the words all together, it is actually our responsibility to help people understand in what context we use them, why they're important, and how this shared language helps us know the world better than we did before. To me, writing is a place of safe uncertainty because you never really know if you've done that until you share it with others, and then it becomes an entirely different piece of work, which lives on in unexpected ways.
Even the papers I read back over and cringe at, are resonating with people. When I explore the concept of impact with some of my favourite thinkers, we often come back to the idea that our impact as writers is that we are changed. The process of writing, of thinking through making and doing, is part of our impact, whether or not somebody else ever reads it. And then, I get a notification like this and think, wow, maybe people do want to read it.
I try to maintain my existence in this uncertain space, just uncomfortable enough to remain destabilised and open to the world unfolding around me but also just certain enough that I do not feel completely adrift and out of touch. I think I may have taken it to the extreme this month, as I drove 3730 kilometres (or ~2300 miles) from one side of Australia to the other for a new job. My first day in the office was very awkward, because I'd already started the job online so I recognised faces but didn't really know people. It was an absolute whirlwind of a first week, and then a second. At this point I remembered hearing that if you think time is flying past, like the calendar year is disappearing, you aren't paying enough attention. So my third week, this week, has been slower.
If I had to describe my new job in one sentence, it's to ensure that nobody ever has a shit coach in their lifetime. Yes, this technically aligns to the strategic plan and key outcomes that the organisation aims for, but really I think it comes down to the fact that every single person deserves to enjoy sport. And for the most part, it is our experiences with others - coaches, volunteers, umpires etc - that shape our relationship with sport and exercise. It is now my job to ensure that their learning and development, their capabilities and philosophies, align with what we have known all along but have systematically outcast from sporting experiences: people want to have fun, feel included, and compete in the right ways (not just winning games).
With every course I design and/or deliver, I am reminded that we are asking so much of these coaches in our communities. They are the bedrock of a talent development system that does absolutely nothing for them. It is much easier to do harm by interfering than to do good, but if you don't do or say anything, then someone else will accuse you of not really coaching. You might have 5 minutes before everyone arrives to design an activity for a bunch of children who have spent the entire day being told to sit down, not speak, and quit fidgeting but you've only got one set of plastic cricket stumps to work with. This level of uncertainty is (understandably) more than most people can bear. So if I am going to ask these people to explore this uncertain world intentionally, I want to be familiar with the landscape too. Not so I can tell them where to go, what to do and how to do it, but to let them know that I am on the journey with them, and together, we can carve a path that genuinely suits their needs, while also learning how to do just that for others.
I think a great way to gauge whether you have entered a phase of safe uncertainty is to see how people react to the phrase "I don't know". It's a hard thing to admit, but it is liberating. In an education context it is confronting, because for the most part, people have come to see me about something specific because they think I do know. The danger here is if I sell myself too short, if I undermine what I'm about to say, then the message will be lost. This tightrope act is worth it though, because hopefully it inspires others to not let the pursuit of perfection get in the way of progress.
I'm pretty certain that at least some of this newsletter makes sense, and after a few issues now, I feel somewhat safe sharing it with you. As a new chapter in my life continues to unfold, I want to use this moment to encourage you to find your safe uncertain space.
"life is not a process of ‘filling up’ the innate with the acquired, but one of ‘opening up’, corresponding with the coming-into-being of affordances encountered along the way."