Dad Lessons, Work Lessons

My daughter, Luna, was born September 2nd, 2017.

The first eight and a half months of parenthood were the best of my life. Luna is, in my eyes, the smartest, wisest, prettiest baby in the world. [I know every dad probably says that. But after rigorous scientific analysis I’ve concluded all other dads are wrong.]

Two weeks ago, Luna fell and hit her head. When I arrived to pick her up, everything seemed fine. But when I took her to Children’s Hospital with my wife Nathalie, the doctor suspected she wasn’t fine. So they did a CT scan. We learned she’d fractured her skull.

Hours later, a neurosurgeon shared: “If Luna had to have a skull fracture, this was it. There was no concussion, no swelling, and no bleeding in the brain. So there shouldn’t be any neurological or long-term impact.”

We remained in the hospital for extra precaution. Just after 6am, a new doctor entered our hospital room. Her face was ashen. She sat me down and explained that blood tests had returned, and the results weren’t good. “It’s likely your daughter has leukemia…”

ThiswhatnodoesntmakesenseleukemiahowLunamydaughternotheremustbesomemistake….

It was a mistake.

It took Children’s Hospital ten hours and many more tests to clarify there’d been a lab error. During those ten hours, they’d hooked Luna to an IV, prepared us for a possible transfusion, called for an ambulance, and tried to transfer her to another hospital (we refused).

When Nathalie and I drove home with Luna, we had many emotions. Sadness. Anger. Joy even. But mostly, we felt relief. The last doctor we saw assured us that the only long-term impact of Luna’s skull fracture would be “a good story to tell later”. And there was no leukemia.

But I think that doctor was wrong too.

I think there was additional long-term impact.

On our first night home with Luna, Nathalie and I rearranged our bedroom. The bed frame disappeared, and we laid the mattress flat on the ground. Then we surrounded the mattress with pillows. There was no chance of falling in that room.

After that, we went from room to room, reorganizing. A house we’d considered safe - baby-proof even - before the fall, we now saw with different eyes. We covered outlets in rooms Luna never saw. We removed sharp objects on desks she couldn’t reach.

When I looked at Luna before she went to bed that night, I saw the same daughter I loved. But I saw her with different eyes. I saw her with the eyes of a parent thinking about what his daughter needed, rather than what she wanted.

I know this sounds absurd; perhaps even naive - but until that moment, I’d seen my parental job as being there for Luna: drying her tears, showing her the world, and - most importantly - making her smile every possible second!

[I’m certain we’ve set world records for number of smiles in a day.]

But the day Nathalie and I took Luna home from the hospital, I felt aware of a newer, deeper, more important dimension to my responsibilities. I wrote about it in my journal late that night, after Luna finally fell asleep:

As a parent, I must imagine all the possibilities. I must be strategic. I must make some decisions that appear overly cautious... and others that appear risky. And as much as it hurts: I must make decisions that, sometimes, mean a few less smiles today so there can be many more in the future.

The next day, I had to work. I had to lead an organization, Avanoo, that also counts on me to imagine all the possibilities; to be strategic; to make some decisions that appear overly cautious; to make other decisions that appear risky.

At an intellectual level, I’ve been clear about the responsibilities of my job. But at an emotional level, I don’t think I’ve ever fully embraced that there is a big difference between giving the people I lead what they want…. and giving them what they need.

Yet something about Luna’s fall, and her false leukemia diagnosis, had me understand that difference in a new way. Before my first meeting that day, I wrote a note to myself:

My job as a leader, in my home and in my work, is to lead. Leading requires that I don’t just give the people I lead (my daughter, my colleagues, my clients) what they want. I must have enough faith in myself - and in the people around me - to give the people I lead what they need.

After writing that note, I stepped into a meeting and shared with one of Avanoo’s leaders information he didn’t want to hear, but that he needed to hear. I had been worried about that conversation for weeks because I knew it wouldn’t make him happy.

At the end of the conversation, this wonderful colleague thanked me and let me know that while he’d preferred to have had a different conversation, it was exactly the conversation he needed. I nodded and let him know I felt the same way.

It’s been three weeks since that conversation. Luna is now nine months old. She seems not to remember the trauma of the fall or the hospital. And the bump on her head is finally gone. And everywhere she plays, she’s surrounded by pink and blue popsicle-patterned pillows.

This morning, as I watched Luna stand on her own, attempt her first unsupported steps, and crash over and over into my awaiting arms (surrounded by pillows), I realized I too am taking first steps… right alongside my daughter.

So I wanted to write about it. And I’m almost done. I think I have just one last thought to share:

I now see my job as a parent, as a CEO, as a person, as creating a environment where people can thrive. A big part of creating an environment for thriving is happiness. But it’s not the only part. Another part is covering outlets. And buying more pillows. And having hard conversations. And hearing what people want… while striving to give them what they need.

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* Daniel Jacobs is the CEO and cofounder of Avanoo. Daniel's work has been featured on Fortune, Inc. BusinessInsider, Apple News, HuffPo, and most major news publications in the United States. His company, Avanoo, uses storytelling, micro-learning, and cutting-edge technology to help many of the world's most prominent brands drive desired change, performance, and engagement at scale and in just three minutes a day.