“What one does is what counts." -Picasso

Sophomore year of high school, I joined Stories of Service, an organization whose mission is to immortalize the stories of World War II veterans. Initially, my job was to interview veterans and produce short videos about their stories, from script-writing through film-editing.

The first veteran video I created was simultaneously the best and worst experience of my life. An inquisitive historian, a natural interviewer, and a passionate writer, I enjoyed everything leading up to the video-creation process. The first time I launched Adobe Premiere, my heart crashed into my stomach. I didn't know where to start or where I was going. I hated myself for being stupid and hated the product for making me feel stupid. But I knew that my anxiety wouldn't be quelled by simply shutting my computer and washing my hands of the project. Like needing food when you're hungry, I needed to see it through. For the next month, I fought my own war, with small victories like splicing together two video clips but also with occasional defeat, like losing unsaved work when the program crashed unexpectedly. Eventually, what started as an ugly newborn blossomed into an adorable baby.

One of the first people to watch my video was a fellow volunteer (and coincidentally, someone who later worked at the company I’m at today). A poster child of the program, he joined years before I. His videos were necessarily chosen as examples and he generously donated his time towards helping others improve while continuing to create his own. After watching, commented “This is good but I want to show you a few things,” while launching Premiere. Though at first his swift snipping and clipping felt embarrassing to my month-long effort, my disappointment quickly transformed into inspiration. I respected his criticism because it didn't come in the form of words, but in the form of his skill-in-motion. I wanted to one day be in his shoes; I wanted to create videos that looked like his. 

As my involvement with Stories of Service deepened, my responsibilities grew, at least, in the traditional sense. I say the "traditional sense" because to me, my responsibilities had only changed. I became an "Executive Producer," which meant that I helped run the program as a whole, recruiting volunteers, leading training workshops, and representing the organization across the nation. Stories of Service was flourishing "under" me but I felt disconnected from it. I only later realized that the void stemmed from a lack of creation.

Around 6:30 one evening last week, my company's engineering leader walked by my desk. He sits a few desks down from me and we work closely in a figurative sense too. "Hi! I haven't seen you all day," I said as he passed by. "I know, how are you?" I responded and went back to my work. A few minutes later, he came back around. "I'm going to fix my bike tire. Do you want to talk to me while I do it?" "Sure."

We went to the back of the office where he pulled his bike off a rack and detached the wheel. He stripped a punctured tire from its frame and sat down on the ground. I sat at a chair next to him. I talked to him about a feature we just launched and needed improvements. He agreed. "There are things I and some others are building which will help this." As our conversation took its course, his hands became increasingly covered in grease. It was symbolic of the role he plays at our company. He builds and helps other build. He creates better products and people. The willingness to get your hands dirty is imperative at any level. You don't always see that, especially in larger corporate structures (and sometimes service organizations).

It is a mistake to think that creation will ever be beneath us. Delegation and doing is mutually exclusive and excellent leaders do both because they know doers inspire other doers. As a young high school student blinded by the glamour of public attention, I failed to recognize that the meaning of my work came from direct involvement in the craft – personal relationships with the veterans and the technology. Looking back, I regret not adopting the pervasive theme of any story of service: Even military officers go to war.