One of the aspects I love about the StratOp strategic and operational planning is witnessing the transformative impact of the Paterson Process on individuals. Sometimes it’s a leader realizing their team’s untapped potential, or a manager finding a more efficient way to manage their time. Occasionally, it’s the surprising discovery of an unknown talent. These moments of revelation and growth never fail to warm my heart.

Let me share one such story, centered around the concept of inertia—the tendency to remain unchanged. Companies engaging with StratOp or individuals embarking on a LifePlan recognize that inertia is no longer an option. They understand that inaction leads to a path of regret and missed opportunities. I hope this story inspires and challenges you to move toward where you’re meant to be.

Inertia

During one of our StratOp meetings, we encountered a staff member struggling to move forward with her AIP, feeling as if she was carrying an invisible burden. Her task had been pending for a full year, with no progress in sight, a situation that felt all too familiar to me. It reminded me of a burden I had carried for a long time, and I decided to share my story with the team.

Twenty years ago, we moved out of a house we had lived in for twelve years, relocating just around the corner. Inexplicably, perhaps due to the short distance, I left behind several yard items—bird baths, small statues, various planters, and most notably, a trellis. This trellis was special; my dad had crafted it at my request, following a Martha Stewart design, complete with large wooden beads separating the slats. It was a masterpiece, a testament to my dad’s craftsmanship.

For two decades, I drove past that house almost daily, each time seeing the trellis. Why hadn’t I taken it with me? Why hadn’t I asked the new homeowner if I could have it? The thought of awkwardness and embarrassment held me back, and eventually, guilt settled in, burdening me with the notion that I had hurt my dad by leaving it behind. He, too, drove past the house and might have seen it. Did it pain him? I’ll never know. Over the years, my dad grew older, battled cancer, and eventually passed away in 2022 after a series of strokes and a fall. The trellis stood there, a constant reminder of my inertia.

A few months ago, the current homeowner approached us with questions about the property’s septic system. As we waited for my husband to provide the information, I finally gathered the courage to ask her about the trellis, explaining its sentimental value and offering to pay for it, mentioning my dad’s passing the previous year.

She responded with unexpected kindness, “Oh, just come and get it!” No payment needed.

That’s all it took. I just had to ask, to take that step forward. For twenty years, I had let my introverted awkwardness paralyze me, living with an unnecessary burden.

Even now, when I drive past that house, I feel a brief twinge of guilt, but I remind myself that the trellis is gone from that home, and with it, the weight of that burden.