Part of the “Why and How I Started a Blog” series.
Grandpa Munks wasn’t my grandfather by blood, but he was family. He rented a house to my parents when they were starting out, and somewhere along the way, Grandma and Grandpa is just what we called them. What I was very familiar with was my dad’s voice when he talked about him. The admiration in it. Postman, landlord, cattleman, and more. My dad wasn’t listing accomplishments. He was pointing at something. A life lived wide open, across many things, without apology. I was young enough that I absorbed it before I understood it. That a well-lived life wasn’t defined by specialization. It was defined by richness.
I’ve been chasing that ever since.
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.
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, 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.
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. (I wrote more about that moment in Anticipating Alaska — my thoughts before we left.)
The Cost of Stepping Back
At work, I create space for others to take the lead. If someone wants to own something, it’s theirs. Nine times out of ten, they’re solving the problem in front of them. I’m solving the problem that shows up in six weeks when this thing breaks. That’s not better or worse. It’s just a different clock.
When you’re good at anticipating problems, the problems don’t happen. The friction disappears before anyone feels it. The ship glides. But when the water stays smooth, nobody sees what was designed around. The work becomes invisible. What’s left visible is just you, making it look easy.
I pick up the unsung task without ceremony. I do the thing that needs doing and move on. But somewhere in that quiet efficiency, ownership gets assigned. I did it once, so now it’s mine.
I don’t think my way is the only way. And I’m not irreplaceable. But I do see the broader picture: the downstream impact, the missed handoff, the unspoken dependency. I think it through because I want things to run well. Not because I want to own them.
What This Has to Do With My Blog
So what does any of this have to do with a blog that covers gardening and genealogy and travel and AI and whatever else catches my attention on a given Tuesday?
Everything.
My mind doesn’t sort by topic. It sorts by root. When I encounter something — an idea, a problem, a pattern — I want to know where it came from, why it works, what it was trying to solve, and where it breaks down when nobody’s paying attention anymore. And then I naturally apply it somewhere else. A lesson from the kitchen shows up in how I manage a tool at work. A pattern from genealogy research surfaces in how I plan a trip. That’s not scattered. That’s the same muscle, working across different rooms.
The blog is where that happens in public. It’s not a collection of subjects. It’s one way of thinking, wearing many hats.
Grandpa Munks would probably get it.
The pigeonhole paradox isn’t something I’ve solved. But I’ve stopped trying to escape it. What I’m working on instead is making sure the pigeonhole I’m in is one I actually chose — wide enough to hold all of it, and defined by how I think, not by what I’ve done.
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.
Next Post: Blog Rhythm Reset