When I was sixteen, I attended Boys State in Sacramento, an annual event sponsored by the American Legion (in California it is now co-ed and called Boys and Girls State). The program is a week-long immersive experience for a select number of High School Juniors in which they learn about democracy and civic participation by forming mock city and state governments for which they campaign, run for office, hold elections, draft legislation, hold trials, and navigate political challenges.

My high school friend Pete, who ended up at Cal Tech, ran for state treasurer.

In front of several thousand teenage boys, Pete delivered an erudite, articulate, and polished campaign speech. I thought it was nearly perfect and was certain Pete would win.

Then his sole opponent approached the lectern. He was a scrawny boy who appeared wobbly on his feet. His hands visibly trembled as he paused and cleared his throat. I was gleeful with certainty that my friend would easily prevail. That is, until his opponent, this seemingly shy, awkward, unpolished young man spoke.

After a long pause, he said:

“I’m…..s..s….scared.”

Two words.

Two softly spoken words that surged through the crowd with immediate impact.  You could feel the atmosphere in the room change and then — thousands of boys erupted with cheers that became a long, standing ovation

In a single second, or less, I realized that Pete was done for.

Why? There’s a lesson here.

Pete’s polished intellect had been overwhelmed by something more powerful, and rare: authenticity.

Years ago one of my sons commented, “Authenticity is the most important thing in life. Once you can fake that, you’ve got it made.”

I hope my son was joking. To me, true, deep human connection depends upon…no, requires mutual authenticity. (Now I hear my brother, though long dead to others he still resides in my own head, saying, “Yes!”)

My brother David was one of a kind. You always knew exactly what he thought. Because he told you. I loved him. For me, he was a model of authenticity. He made it easy for me to be authentic in return because our love and respect for one another was mutual.

Authenticity.

Powerful.

Scary.

Essential.

You might consider giving it a try yourself. (With another person, of course.)

Alan

Every so often, life reminds us that at any moment we can be reduced to a bathrobe, a box of tissues, and a heroic dislike of soup.

When that happens, some of us might try to run our business from bed. This may feel noble. It might even feel necessary.  But a healthy company should continue to function well when one person is temporarily horizontal.

So, the job, when you’re sick, is simple: take care of yourself, and trust people to do their work. A fever has never improved anyone’s judgment. Most emails are not emergencies. And not every problem needs to be solved by you.

In fact, being sidelined can be useful. It reveals whether you’ve built a team—or merely collected people who wait for you to tell them what to do. The best employees rise when given a chance. Clear systems keep moving. Good culture shows itself.

Sometimes the best executive decision is to take a nap. The conference call can wait.

This lesson transcends one bad day in bed. We should strive from the beginning to build an organization that is steady, resilient, and that can function effectively without drama. Each member of a team should have clearly delineated responsibilities. If you have delegated wisely, and guided people well, you can create systems that do not stop functioning efficiently when one person catches a cold.

Build that kind of company now.

One day, when you’re under three blankets sounding like a broken accordion, you’ll be very glad you did.

I know that I am.

Alan

I have six adult children, ages 38 to 62—old enough to know everything, and wise enough to often prove it.

Over the years, I’ve adopted a simple parenting philosophy: never give advice to adult children unless they ask.

Not because I lack opinions. Quite the opposite. I have advice on everything—business, relationships, health, socks, breakfast cereal. I am, in fact, a walking advice factory, at least in my own mind.

But I’ve learned something important: advice given to adults has a strange side effect. It makes them feel like children, and no 60-year-old attorney wants to feel like a 12-year-old who forgot his homework.

Let me introduce the cast.

One child is a doctor married to another doctor. When I say anything medical, they smile kindly—the way grown children do when they know their father means well.

Another is a highly respected professor at UCLA. Happily, he not only accepts my ideas, but he also often asks for them, which is one of the pleasures of having children who have grown into people you genuinely enjoy talking with.

One is a successful attorney. Offering legal advice to a lawyer is like bringing your own spices to a Michelin-starred restaurant—and then critiquing the chef.

One is a yoga teacher, deeply experienced in KIUT yoga. I once tried to impress her with breathing advice. At 86, it turns out I breathe like an amateur.

The youngest two are just as accomplished and just as capable of making their own decisions. One is a talented writer who does not need my editorial advice. The other is an insightful therapist who certainly does not need my help exploring anyone’s psyche.

Yet sometimes I slip. Because a parent never fully retires.

Occasionally, I will hear myself say, “You might want to…” and immediately stop before I say more.

Advice is rarely about the listener. 

It’s about the speaker. It says, “I know better. Let me save you from making a mistake.” But what I’ve learned slowly, sometimes reluctantly, is this:

We learn most deeply from our own experience.  Painful, expensive and sometimes hilarious experience.

So now when a child calls with a problem, I listen.

And then I do something very difficult for me:  I refrain from solving their problem. Just…understanding, and respect.

Here’s the irony: The less advice I give, the more they ask for it. And when they do, I try to offer it not as instruction, but as a story…a possibility…a “this worked for me.”

There’s a quiet shift that happens somewhere along the way.  You stop parenting children, and you start loving adults.  They are no longer branches growing from you.  They are fully formed trees, with their own roots, their own seasons, their own storms. 

And if you stand back—just far enough—you can see something remarkable.

Not what they need from you. But the independent men and women they have become.

The greatest gift I can give them is not my answers. 

It’s my trust.

And in that small act of restraint—occasionally awkward—there is something that feels a lot like love.

Alan