Low diatribe

There's an archaeology to purpose. Layers beneath the mission statement. The uncomfortable truth that sits under the polished why.

Low diatribe has a clear purpose statement: "A resonance-first storytelling system that privileges quiet authority, iterative craft, and earned trust." Clean. Declarative. The kind of thing that looks good on an about page.

But that's the surface layer. The manifesto version. What I tell others and myself when asked why this exists.

The deeper layers are messier.

There's the operational why: I write because I can't not write. Because thoughts pile up until they demand attention, rolling around in my head like rocks in a tumbler — and if left too long there would be nothing but dust. Putting words to experience helps me understand what I actually think about things. The writing isn't just output — it's processing that preserves the thoughts before they wear away.

When I was leading domains at Big Book Company, I developed a practice of spending my days building out as complete a context as I was able to. Piecing together countless one-on-ones, team meetings, and organizational discussions with larger public events and trends. It was pattern recognition at scale — connecting dots across conversations, seeing how individual struggles reflected systemic challenges, understanding how external pressures shaped internal dynamics and affected individuals.

After ending up on the other side of the table in the RIF discussions, I found myself still performing the same thought connections and experiments with no outlet. The mind that had been trained to synthesize organizational complexity didn't suddenly stop working when the organization no longer needed it. The practice of connecting disparate pieces into coherent understanding had become essential to how I process the world. Writing became the vessel for that continued synthesis.

Beyond that internal need, there's also a practical why: adhering to a "publishing schedule" keeps me on task and focused. The commitment to regular reflection creates structure around the chaos of thoughts. It transforms wandering into walking. More importantly, it allows me to reflect against the larger tapestry of the whole — to see patterns emerge across reflections, to notice how thoughts connect and evolve over time. And it forces me to show the messy work, something I've found unpleasant my entire life. The discipline of publishing partially polished thoughts, of letting others see the scaffolding before the building is complete.

Then there's the vulnerable why, the one that makes me squirm a little: I started this because I was tired of loud leadership drowning out the people doing the actual work. Because I'd sat through too many meetings where the person with the strongest voice got heard, not the person with the best ideas. Because I wanted to create space for the kind of leadership I wished I'd seen more of.

Which brings me to the uncomfortable part: I'm still figuring out my own frequency while trying to help others find theirs.

There's something deeply hypocritical about writing about quiet authority while still learning what that means. About advocating for vulnerability-based leadership while wrestling with my own resistance to being seen. About championing iterative craft while second-guessing every sentence.

The tension is real. How do you teach what you're still learning? How do you guide others toward something you're still walking toward yourself?

I think the answer lies in embracing the discomfort of that tension rather than resolving it.

Teachers who admit they're still traveling earn more trust than those who claim to have arrived. Guides who say "I don't know the destination, but I know this path" offer something more valuable than those who pretend to have all the answers.

Maybe the real why isn't about having figured it out. Maybe it's about being willing to figure it out in public. To model the kind of leadership that says "I'm learning too" instead of "Follow me, I know the way."

There's another layer: the evolving why. When I started writing these reflections, I thought I was documenting insights. Now I realize I was creating a new practice. A discipline of paying attention to the quiet moments where growth happens. The spaces between certainty where real learning lives.

The purpose has shifted as the project has grown. What began as sharing thoughts became exploring thoughts. What started as teaching became learning out loud. What felt like offering answers became asking better questions.

The archaeology reveals something unexpected: the deepest layer isn't a why at all. It's a how. How to stay curious when you could claim expertise. How to remain vulnerable when you could build walls. How to keep growing when you could declare yourself grown.

The manifesto version of my why talks about resonance and quiet authority. The archaeological version is simpler and more complex: I write because growth is uncomfortable, and discomfort shared becomes connection.

I write because the alternative — pretending I have it figured out — would be a lie. And lies don't resonate. They echo, hollow and empty.

But there's something deeper still: the hope that maybe someone can learn something from my fumbling. That by sharing the messy process of figuring things out, others might find themselves a little more prepared when they face similar challenges. Not because I have the answers, but because I'm willing to show the questions I'm wrestling with. The missteps I've made. The patterns I've noticed in my own stumbling.

I've been fortunate to stand on the shoulders of leaders and innovators who came before me — people who shared their struggles and insights, who made their own fumbling visible so others could learn from it. Now I find myself in a position where I can offer my own shoulders to the next generation of innovators. Where my stumbles and recoveries might provide a steadier foundation for someone else's first steps.

Connection happens in this shared recognition of struggle. In the relief of discovering you're not the only one who doesn't have it all figured out. In the quiet comfort of knowing someone else has walked a similar path and lived to tell about it.

The real why might be this: in a world that rewards certainty, there's something revolutionary about admitting you're still becoming. About choosing growth over arrival. About finding strength in the admission that you don't know everything, but you're willing to learn anything.

That's messier than a mission statement. It doesn't fit neatly on an about page. But it's honest in a way that manifestos rarely are.

That's the point, isn't it? The deepest why isn't about what you're building — it's about who you're becoming while you build it.

The archaeology of purpose reveals this: beneath every polished mission statement lies a human being trying to figure it out, one reflection at a time.

And maybe that's all any of us can offer: the willingness to keep digging, and the courage to share what we uncover along the way. Not the artifacts we uncover, but the process of uncovering them. The hope that in showing our own patient work of excavating truth, others might find their own shovels and join the dig.