I remember my dad talking about the many hats my Grandpa Munks had worn over the years: postman, landlord, cattleman, and many more. It wasn’t mockery. It was admiration. That stuck with me. It made me think that a well-lived life wasn’t defined by specialization, but by richness.
That richness became part of my own upbringing. I became the person I am today, someone interested in a lot of things, good at making plans. Often the one connecting dots others don’t even realize are part of the same puzzle. But there’s a catch: when you’re good at something, people tend to assume it’s yours. Your role. Your lane. Your identity. And suddenly, you find yourself pigeonholed. That’s the heart of the pigeonhole paradox: the better you are, the narrower others see you.
The Labels We Don’t Choose
I’ve held a lot of different roles, both personally and professionally. Some came with official titles: regulatory affairs, lab tech, software technical seller. Others were the unofficial ones you don’t apply for: default family trip planner, garden designer, genealogy researcher, or, let’s be honest, the bossy sister. The pattern is the same. If I’m good at it, most people assume I want to be it. But the truth is, I don’t belong in any one of those lanes. I’m not the role. I’m the thread between them.
There’s a paradox here: the better you are at something, the more invisible your range becomes. The more consistently you perform, the more tightly you’re cast. We actually see this a lot with actors. They break through in a certain kind of role, and suddenly that’s all they get offered. It’s not that they can’t do more. It’s that no one asks them to. (Why Hollywood Typecasts Actors.)
The same thing happens in real life. The more dependable you are, the more others depend on you. The more capable you are, the more others defer to your capability. And when you try to step back to create space for others to contribute or lead, not out of resentment, but out of intention, things often start to wobble.
The Cruise Spreadsheet I Didn’t Want to Make
Take the cruise we’re about to go on. My first cruise ever. I explicitly stated I would not be the point person. It was someone else’s turn to coordinate anything that needed to be coordinated. Of course, a spreadsheet appeared (okay, I made the spreadsheet). But only to create a clear way to communicate what my husband and I were planning. A mechanism to communicate with the six others traveling with us, in case there was overlap. It felt important to me to share what we were doing so it didn’t turn into a trip where we were all on a cruise at the same time, but where we were all on a cruise together.
I made a conscious choice to step back. But here’s the reality: I don’t do well with silence. I’m not good at spontaneity. I don’t enjoy indecision, and I hate losing time to the group dynamic of “I don’t know, what do you want to do?” circling for hours. I like a loose plan, something to anchor the day, along with five bajillion backup ideas I can plug in if we change course. That’s not about control. That’s about being able to relax and enjoy my time off in a way that works for me too. That’s what calms my mind.
Still, the minute I put that spreadsheet together, I subtly re-established the role I was trying to avoid. I didn’t assign tasks. I didn’t ask for input that I didn’t genuinely want. But just the act of communicating via spreadsheet triggered an expectation: I would now be in charge. It happens fast. And it’s hard to unwind. (More on that moment in Anticipating Alaska — my thoughts before our first cruise.)
The Cost of Stepping Back
At work, I’ve offered to step back. I’ve even been told that I make it hard for others to shine. That’s never been my intent. I’m the person who picks up the unsung task. I do the thing that needs doing, not for credit or control, but because I see it isn’t being done. And when I step in to fix something or make it more efficient, it’s not because I want to own it. It’s because it matters to the outcome.
Still, when I share it, when I say, “Here’s what I built if it helps,” it can feel like I’m stepping into someone else’s lane. Even if I checked with them first. Even if they didn’t have time or capacity or interest. And that part is hard.
I also know what happens when I step back. Okay, things stall. Quality dips. Deadlines slip. It’s not that I’m left with a choice to fix it or let it go not-quite-right out into the world. I’m okay with those things. The people around me are not okay with those things.
Let me be clear: I don’t think my way is the only way. And I certainly don’t think I’m irreplaceable. But because I can see the broader picture, the downstream impact, the missed handoff, the unspoken dependency, I often end up being the one to think it through. Not because I want to hold it all together, but because I want things to run well. Efficiently. I like structure that creates breathing room. I like when the plan flexes without falling apart.
People lean on me because I’m good at this. Really good.
If that makes me “the planner,” so be it. But that’s not the point. The point is: I think it through. That’s my lane. That’s the thread.
What This Has to Do With My Blog
So what does any of this have to do with a blog? A lot, actually.
Because I’ve spent most of my life trying to find the right balance, between structure and spontaneity, between stepping in and stepping back. My blog is the place where I get to think it through on my own terms.
It’s not about one topic, because I’m not about one topic. The point is: I think it through. That’s my lane. That’s the thread that connects a post about planting schedules to one about requirements gathering, or a cruise spreadsheet to a Notion template. It might look scattered from the outside, but to me, it’s all the same muscle.
This blog is where I can explore all the threads, not just the ones I’m known for. It’s where my pigeonhole isn’t the gardening, or the genealogy, or the tech, but the way I approach every one of those things—with curiosity, connection, and a deep respect for what happens when you notice the patterns other people miss.
The pigeonhole paradox isn’t something I’ve solved. But I’m learning to spot it when it shows up, and to decide, consciously, whether to lean in, step back, or reshape the walls around me. If you’re curious how this mindset shaped the blog itself, I talk more about it in The Whiteboard Squirrel Manifesto: A Blog Without a Niche.
Maybe the point isn’t to escape the pigeonhole. Maybe it’s to define it in a way that actually fits.