Hey there writers! How are you feeling right now? If you’re anything like me, it’s a vulnerable time.
I was all set to do an episode on an entirely different topic this week.
But then the new U.S. presidential administration began its crackdown on democracy, science, higher education, and human rights and I felt called to change course.
However, the real tipping point was a conversation I had with my mom about an email I sent to my listserve, which she is on.
This message described my trepidation and anger over what Trump and his cronies are doing.
It also provided a brief meditation exercise to help people manage the feelings of overwhelm that many of us are grappling with.
I really liked what I wrote! I thought it summed up my perspective well and offered something useful to folks who are struggling with the political landscape.
A couple of hours later, however, I got a phone call from my 77-year-old mother.
Before I explain what happened, let me preface it by saying that she is a wonderful, open-minded person who has always been very supportive of what I do.
This was true whether I was moving around the world for two decades for my academic career or throwing away the security of tenure to become a full-time coach.
And she never offers business advice.
But this email had clearly struck a nerve with her.
After making some small talk, she nervously brought up my message.
She said, “You know, Leslie, I’ve been talking to people at my bridge club who are in business, and they say you should never talk about politics.”
At first I was confused. But then I realized that she was urging me not to share my political opinions publicly out of concern that it would hurt my business.
Immediately I became quite defensive.
I told her that I am speaking to academics, who, like me, tend to be politically progressive and extremely frustrated with what’s happening in the world.
My email list is something that people opt into, and if they don’t like what I have to say or don’t find it useful, they can easily opt out. It’s completely voluntary.
But, as I explained to her, the folks who have stayed on it for years are “my people,” as it were. And they are there because the things I say resonate with them on a personal level.
The same is true for this podcast. As you know, one of my core values is transparency.
I don’t hold back my opinions, and I believe that’s the precise reason why I’ve gained a strong and loyal listenership.
My openness is also one of the main reasons why my business has been successful.
Once I calmed down, I told my mom that her friends at bridge club—who are retirees who had corporate careers—are not my audience, nor should they be.
It’s not personal. They are just not the people whose interests and concerns I am addressing.
I’m talking to academics who believe that the personal is political and seek to align all parts of their work and their lives with their values.
So after my mom realized that she wasn’t going to convince me otherwise, she changed the topic and things went back to normal. No harm done.
But this conversation highlighted something really important that I’m going to talk about today—which is that when you take a stance and honestly share your own perspective, not everyone is going to like it.
And that is a good thing!
In other words, if you have professional haters of your ideas and perspective—assuming that they’re well-founded on evidence—then congratulations, you are doing something right!
It means you have a point of view.
What I want to convince you of today is that informing and inspiring other people to create meaningful change requires taking risks.
Good writing requires competence. Great writing requires courage.
Let’s talk about why you need to stop playing it safe.
All Research is Inherently Political
The first point I want to make is that all research is inherently political.
I recently saw the term “politics” defined as “the values and beliefs that guide our work.” I really love that and am going to use that as my own definition moving forward.
As scholars, our politics guide the questions we ask and the problems we choose to explore and spend many years trying to solve.
Recognizing the influence of our politics on research doesn’t mean we are abandoning rigor.
Instead, it means acknowledging that no scholarship exists in a vacuum.
Every decision we make—from the topics we study to the methods we use—is influenced by our personal worldview and our social backgrounds, which inform our priorities.
When I was a grad student, I took a feminist social theory course where I first read the seminal 1988 article by Donna Haraway, entitled “Situated Knowledges: The Science Question in Feminism and the Privilege of Partial Perspective.”
You might know this piece.
In it, she argues that all knowledge is “situated,” meaning that it is produced from a specific social position and perspective.
Her article challenges the idea that there is any kind of truly objective, universal knowledge.
To Haraway, gain deeper insight into the subjects we study requires what she calls “partial perspectives” that acknowledge researchers’ own social and cultural contexts.
If you haven’t read this article, I strongly encourage you to do so. This thing has been cited more than 30,000 times since it was first published for a reason!
But getting back to the topic of this episode, by openly acknowledging your own position and perspective, you help readers understand the personal and political stakes of your research.
This transparency makes your writing more relatable and impactful.
Scholarship isn’t neutral, and like Donna Haraway says, that’s necessary for good science.
So think about the kind of impact you want your research to have.
What kind of world are you trying to create? What does that say about your values and politics?
Readers are smart and they are picky. They can tell when writing feels detached or like it’s trying too hard to stay “neutral.”
That kind of writing often falls flat, especially when it comes to books.
When you try to be too objective, think of it as a form of people pleasing.
This kind of writing does not leave a lasting impression, and you’d be lucky if someone made it through all 200+ pages.
But when you let your values be the guide, your writing is more powerful and transformative. It becomes a tool for change.
#2: Authenticity Creates Connection with Your Readers
The second reason I believe you need to stop playing it safe with your writing is that you are missing out on the chance to create connection.
And by this I mean connection with your ideal audience members, not Reviewer #2.
If we hide our politics or informed opinions that are based on the years of research we’ve done on the topic, we risk losing something incredibly important: authenticity.
Being upfront about your own perspective invites trust and connection. Why is this?
It’s because people crave honesty.
Readers want to know that the person behind the words cares deeply about the subject at hand, has a stake in it for themselves.
It’s not about preaching or forcing your views on others; it’s about being transparent.
Your readers will know where you stand, and that clarity can help them engage with your work on a deeper level.
It will hopefully also give them insight into their own perspectives.
For example, in my first book about adoption of children from China, the conclusion discussed that adoptions of healthy girls were pretty much over.
I took the risk of sharing that this trend was bittersweet because I had always wanted to adopt a daughter of my own and probably wouldn’t be able to.
Let me give you another example of a time when I wrote something brutally honest and just took the risk of putting it out there.
It was August 2022. I had resigned my faculty position and just finished cleaning out my office at UMass Boston.
I felt compelled to write something that captured my complicated feelings. I decided to put it onto LinkedIn, which I hadn’t used very much.
Until that point, I had considered it a stuffy place where people brag a lot about their jobs and latest certifications and give productivity hacks.
But since I didn’t know many people on there, it seemed like a safe place.
Along with a photo of my hand on the door knob of my office, I wrote,
“I closed my office door at my university for the very last time today. I’m no longer a professor.
Not a single other person was around, and I’m filled with mixed emotions.
The first thing I’m feeling is gratitude.
This place challenged me to learn, grow, and change at a record pace. I’ve made life-long friends.
I honed my writing and research skills.
I’ve taught hundreds of the most diverse and deserving—and least entitled—students you could ever ask for.
The dedicated union has continually fought for incredible healthcare benefits that allowed me to have my son and take a paid semester of leave afterward.
The lessons I learned here put me down the path to becoming a certified coach.
But I’m also angry.
After giving nearly a decade of my life to this school, which I worked so hard to make better, there has been no acknowledgement of my departure.
I sent a notice of resignation to my Dean’s Office in April and HAVE YET TO RECEIVE A RESPONSE.
I knew they got it because the university started hounding my chair for me to return my computers and keys.
And it’s not a fluke because another colleague who’s leaving was similarly ignored.
Meanwhile, they eliminated exit interviews so there’s nowhere to express my sentiments.
Since I started in 2013, my department has been reduced by more than half in large part because so many junior and recently tenured faculty have left.
Four of us are leaving at the same time.
The university made either no or very little effort to retain anyone. I’m not saying this to shame this school.
Instead, I see it as part of a larger, ongoing problem pervasive across higher education.
Many institutions do not adequately value their workers.
Consequently, they are leaving in droves—for better pay, for better treatment, to save their mental and physical health, etc.
And most do it with deep sadness because there are so many things they love about the students and the work.
Something’s got to change…
So I’m feeling it all: good, bad, relieved, reflective, hopeful.
But with this door closing, I’m now able to step fully into the next chapter of my life and career. Can’t wait to see what’s next!”
I posted it and was immediately floored by the overwhelming amount of support and connection I made with other people on the platform.
It went viral and was shared tons of times by folks I didn’t know. But what they connected to was my feelings and my raw honesty.
One of my former grad students commented on the post, stating that she had learned a lot from my class and wanted me to know she appreciated my work at the school.
I also received heartfelt responses from others that started relationships that continue today.
For example, Brandy Simula, an executive coach, wrote:
“I, too, left with a deep mix of emotions, Leslie. Your sharing your experience will help so many others who are in the process of leaving or deciding whether to leave, and I hope it helps you, too.
I grieve for all of the students who will never have the opportunity to learn from the brilliant scholars and educators whose work is consistently devalued and as a result are leaving.
I grieve for all of us who spent so much of our lives and energy learning to be brilliant, engaging, creative scholars and educators who have been pushed to the brink by under-resourcing, devaluating of our work and of higher education, and decades of escalating demands paired with decreasing resources and budgets.
And I celebrate you, Leslie, for pushing through to find a path where you can contribute your brilliance, expertise, and passion in a meaningful way and for sharing with others the reality of your journey.”
And what’s so cool about all of this is that I interviewed Brandy for my podcast, which will be the next episode I release!
Summing it all up
So let’s sum everything up.
Basically, I’ve tried to convince you to take more risks in your writing by showing people what you stand for.
First, I talked about how all research is political—meaning that it is necessarily imbued with our personal values and influenced by our social positions.
Second, I discussed how honest and authentic self-expression connects you with other people in gratifying ways.
Overall, for your work to make the biggest impact, you need to take a clear and unequivocal stance.
Writing in a way that avoids controversy might feel more comfortable, especially for junior scholars.
But your book is also more likely to fade into the background or even fall through the cracks.
And I want your work to be memorable and to stay in peoples’ heads long after they stop reading!
Furthermore, having critics or detractors is a sign that your work matters.
Dissent is a good thing. Knowledge does not get furthered by people agreeing with each other all the time.
It happens as a result of debate, from challenging ideas, and from pushing boundaries.
You can’t inspire change by playing it safe.
Start small if you need to. Maybe it’s as simple as writing an introduction that frames your research through the lens of your values.
Or maybe it’s sharing a little more about the personal stakes of your work. But whatever you do, remember that writing is about connection.
And connection comes from daring to show the world who you are and what you stand for.
I’d love to hear your thoughts on this topic.
What risks do you want to take more of when it comes to your writing?
And the last thing I want to say is—Mom, if you’re listening, you know I love and appreciate you. But your bridge friends are just not my audience!
Take good care of yourself and others. Until next time.
