Last night, after a 2-year break, I went back to improv comedy. The team I’m joining had a planning meeting, which seems odd given it’s an improvisational team, but I was all about it. Planning meetings, after all, are how we get stuff done. At the meeting, I was reconnected with people I’ve worked with in the past and introduced to some new folks.
It’s always fascinating to hear how we are perceived by other people, and I remember being described by a comedy friend like this: “If I had to summarize Andy in one word, it would be goal-oriented.” This description doesn’t bother me at all. Relative to the average improv comedian, I have olympic athlete level focus and discipline. It’s kind of like how I’m tall if you surround me with 7th graders. I’m not the tallest, but I am in a different place on the bellcurve than I usually fall.
I find it interesting that people see me this way because I tend to see myself in relation to others I spend a lot of time with, namely my wife. Compared to Alison Roark, I am, well, an improv comedian.
Alison’s desire to get things done is one of the things I admire most about her. In our 25 years together, I’ve come a long way in training myself to be productive with my days, but I still can’t hold a candle to my better half. That’s why the war we as a couple have been having with ourselves recently is so fierce.
As I might have mentioned, our oldest kid has gone off to college. The undeniably good news is that she’s extremely happy. Her mother and I are thrilled for her… but there’s this one thing.
You see, my daughter chose this college because of its theater program. The opportunities to get involved in artistic programs was the number one justification for her going 10 hours away from home. To this point, however, she hasn’t shown any interest in actually engaging in said opportunities.
She says she’s busy, and by all accounts that is true. She’s really into her neuroscience course, studying in the religion library, and she’s joined the baking club. She gushes about how at-home she feels, but does not mention the theater dream that took her there, or any other clear dream for that matter.
Alison has spent a career telling college students not to lock in a path before sophomore year. But knowing it’s healthy doesn’t stop the civil war in our own house. While we intellectually agree that exploration is vital for long-term happiness, we are constitutionally incapable of functioning without a goal, timeline, or performance metric.
Every day starts with coffee and a debate on the benefits of self-discovery versus following a plan. At lunch, we trade positions and debate further. Over dinner, we both agree that exploration is key. Then, right before bed, one of us whispers, “What if she never figures out what she wants to do?” and we both lie awake, staring at the ceiling until the process begins anew.
Now that I’ve seen this internal conflict between the need to explore and form or re-form ourselves and the burning desire to have a plan that makes us feel secure and in-control in my parenting life, I see it everywhere.
In my business, Uncharted, I have committed myself to simplifying what we do and to reimagining how we support veterinary medicine in this age of inflation, AI, and corporatization. I believe it’s time to audit all the programs and processes we’ve acquired over the last 10 years, decide what’s really important, set the rest down, and then pick up some new projects.
The problem with this is that we have a culture of getting things done, and that culture really doesn’t like not knowing what is next. I find myself essentially saying things like “It’s time to reimagine the way we do this… but until that’s done we should keep doing it the way everybody knows how.” I think this is how bureaucracy gets embedded in companies. Everyone adds plans on top of plans until the plans become so inter-dependent and connected that you can’t just stop doing things that aren’t working because that will mean not having a clear process for a while… and people who prioritize getting things done really hate that.
In veterinary medicine at large, the battle between exploring and reimagining rages against the desire for certainty and a clear roadmap forward. Our industry is being disrupted left, right, and center. The opportunity to reimagine how a practice operates, delivers care, communicates with pet owners, and pursues its mission is MASSIVE, but most clinics just can’t bear the discomfort to consider rethinking the well-oiled get-through-the-day machine that has brought them to this point.
I get it. It’s hard to watch my kid figure out where to go instead of marching confidently in a chosen direction. It’s hard to tear down systems inside Uncharted that people are comfortable with and not be able to give crystal clear guidance about what next year will look like, and it’s hard to imagine a veterinary practice you’ve worked in for 10 years functioning radically differently than it has in the past when you’re not utterly convinced that the clinic couldn’t just keep doing what it’s always been doing.
Part of me wants my daughter, my company, and veterinary practices in general to just pick a direction and “GO!” because I’m so indoctrinated with the idea that “progress” and “getting things done” is vital even if they take us in the wrong direction long term. At least, after all, we would all be going somewhere.
Am I alone having these flawed and bizarre thoughts? Surely others can clearly see the value of changing to a yet-unseen path while still feeling a deep compulsion to march forward.
My daughter is right, and the beautiful thing is that she has not yet been indoctrinated with the need to have a clear plan. Her faith that finding what is next is more important than checking any boxes is something I admire and am trying to internalize. The future is bright, the opportunities in this world are plentiful. We just need to open ourselves to the idea that life is a continuous cycle of finding clarity, losing it, and finding it again. Just because we’re comfortable when we’re walking doesn’t mean we should stop looking around and reconsidering where we truly want to end up.
