Lean In

by Sheryl Sandberg

  “How can I do better?” “What am I doing that I don’t know?” “What am I not doing that I don’t see?” These questions can lead to many benefits. And believe me, the truth hurts. Even when I have solicited feedback, any judgment can feel harsh. But the upside of painful knowledge is so much greater than the downside of blissful ignorance.

  Requesting advice can also help build relationships. At Facebook, I knew that the most important determinant of my success would be my relationship with Mark. When I joined, I asked Mark for a commitment that he would give me feedback every week so that anything that bothered him would be aired and discussed quickly. Mark not only said yes but immediately added that he wanted it to be reciprocal. For the first few years, we stuck to this routine and voiced concerns big and small every Friday afternoon. As the years went by, sharing honest reactions became part of our ongoing relationship. Now we do so in real time rather than waiting for the end of the week. I wouldn’t suggest that all relationships need this much feedback—there is such a thing as asking for too much—but for us, it has been critically important.

  I have also learned the hard way that being open to hearing the truth means taking responsibility for mistakes. In my first week as chief of staff at Treasury, I had the chance to work directly with the heads of the department bureaus. There is a right and a wrong way to start a working relationship. I chose the wrong way. My first call was to Ray Kelly, who was then commissioner of the U.S. Customs Service and now serves as New York City’s police commissioner. Instead of reaching out to offer assistance, I called Commissioner Kelly with a request from the secretary. The impression I made was that my job was to demand and his job was to listen. It was a mistake. Ray’s response was quick and clear. “[Expletive], Sheryl,” he explained. “Just because I’m not in Larry Summers’s [expletive] thirty-year-old brain trust doesn’t mean that I don’t know what I’m doing! If Secretary Summers wants something from me, tell him to [expletive] call me himself!” Then he hung up the phone. I thought, This is not going well. My first week on the job and I’d angered a man who knows a thing or two about firearms.

  After I stopped shaking, I realized that Commissioner Kelly had done me a huge favor. His “feedback” was extremely helpful and delivered in a way that I would never forget. I reassessed my outreach strategy. With the other bureau chiefs, I initiated conversation by asking what I could do to help them achieve their goals. It’s no surprise that they reacted more positively and with far fewer expletives. And after I employed my “What have I done for you lately?” approach, they were far more eager to return the favor.

  As often as I try to persuade people to share their honest views, it is still a challenge to elicit them. When I started building my team at Google, I interviewed every candidate before we made an offer. Even when the team had grown to about one hundred people, I still spoke with each finalist. One day at a meeting of my direct reports, I offered to stop interviewing, fully expecting everyone to insist that my input was an essential part of the process. Instead, they applauded. They all jumped in to explain—in unison—that my insistence on speaking personally to every candidate had become a huge bottleneck. I had no idea that I had been holding the team back and was upset that no one had told me. I spent a few hours quietly fuming, which, given that I have no poker face, was probably obvious to everyone. Then I realized that if my colleagues had kept this to themselves, I was clearly not communicating that I was open to their input. Miscommunication is always a two-way street. If I wanted more suggestions, I would have to take responsibility for making that clear. So I went back to my team and agreed that I would not interview anymore. And more important, I told them that I wanted their input early and often.

  Another way I try to foster authentic communication is to speak openly about my own weaknesses. To highlight just one, I have a tendency to get impatient about unresolved situations. My reaction is to push for people to resolve them quickly, in some cases before they realistically can. David Fischer and I have worked closely together for fifteen years at Treasury, Google, and Facebook. He jokes that he can tell from my tone of voice whether he should bother to complete a task or if I’m about to just do it myself. I acknowledge my impatience openly and ask my colleagues to let me know when I need to chill out. By mentioning this myself, I give others permission to bring up my impatience—and joke about it too. My colleagues will say to me, “Sheryl, you asked us to tell you when you get nervous and push the teams too hard. I think you’re doing that now.” But if I never said anything, would anyone at Facebook walk up to me and announce, “Hey, Sheryl, calm down! You’re driving everyone nuts!” Somehow I doubt it. They would think it. They might even say it to one another. But they wouldn’t say it to me.

  When people are open and honest, thanking them publicly encourages them to continue while sending a powerful signal to others. At a meeting with about sixty Facebook engineers, I mentioned that I was interested in opening more Facebook offices around the world, especially in one particular region. Since the group included members of the security team, I asked what they were most worried about. Without being called on, Chad Greene blurted out, “Opening a Facebook office in that region.” He explained why it wouldn’t work and why I was dead wrong in front of the entire group. I loved it. We had never met before, and I will never forget that strong introduction. I ended the meeting by thanking Chad for his candor and then posted the story on Facebook to encourage the rest of the company to follow his example. Mark feels the same way. At a summer barbecue four years ago, an intern told Mark that he should work on his public speaking skills. Mark thanked him in front of everyone and then encouraged us to extend him a full-time job offer.

  Humor can be an amazing tool for delivering an honest message in a good-natured way. A recent study even found that “sense of humor” was the phrase most frequently used to describe the most effective leaders.2 I have seen humor get results so many times. After working in the Obama White House, Marne Levine joined Facebook to run global public policy. Marne is polished, professional, and highly competent. During her first week at her job, she needed a colleague from another team to finish drafting a few paragraphs for an upcoming congressional testimony. The colleague was dragging his heels. He kept coming to Marne to ask questions, which she would duly answer, then she would wait, but still no paragraphs. When he came to her again with yet another question, she turned to him with a huge smile and said, “I am going to answer all of your questions. I really am. But right now, the only thing that is going to keep me from falling down on the floor and having a heart attack right in front of you is for you to get out of your chair, go back to your desk, and write the paragraphs we need for Congress.” It worked beautifully.

  A colleague at Google, Adam Freed, and I were frustrated by someone at work who was making our jobs very difficult. I met with her several times and earnestly explained that I felt that she was second-guessing our every move and preventing progress. During each heartfelt discussion, she would listen and nod and thank me for raising the matter. I would leave feeling better. Then the situation would get worse. Adam took a totally different approach. He invited her to lunch. They met at the Google café, chatted a bit, and then he looked at her and jokingly asked, “Why do you hate me?” Where I had failed repeatedly, Adam broke through. She asked why he would make that joke, which gave him a chance to explain in a way she was able to hear.

  Unfortunately, our sense of humor sometimes fails us when we need it most. When I get emotional, it’s very hard for me to treat a problem lightly. I had been at Google about three months when an uncomfortable situation erupted. I had started at the company reporting to Eric Schmidt but was transitioning to work for Omid Kordestani. During that process, Omid and I had a major misunderstanding. I went to discuss it with him, intending to explain calmly why I was upset, but as soon as I started talking, I burst into tears. I was horrified to be crying in front of my new boss whom I barely knew—which just made more tears flow. But I got luc
ky. Omid was patient and reassuring, insisting, “Everyone gets upset at work. It’s okay.”

  Most women believe—and research suggests—that it is not a good idea to cry at work.3 It is never something that I plan to do and is hardly recommended in The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, but on those rare occasions when I have felt really frustrated, or worse, betrayed, tears have filled my eyes. Even as I have gotten older and more experienced, it still happens every so often.

  I had been working at Facebook for almost a year when I learned that someone had said something about me that was not just false, but cruel. I started telling Mark about it and, despite my best efforts, started to cry. He assured me that the accusation was so untrue that no one could possibly believe it. And then he asked, “Do you want a hug?” I did. It was a breakthrough moment for us. I felt closer to him than ever before. I then recounted this story publicly, figuring that it might make it easier for others who have faced unwanted tears. The press reported the incident as “Sheryl Sandberg cried on Mark Zuckerberg’s shoulder,” which is not exactly what happened. What happened was that I expressed my feelings and Mark responded with compassion.

  Sharing emotions builds deeper relationships. Motivation comes from working on things we care about. It also comes from working with people we care about. To really care about others, we have to understand them—what they like and dislike, what they feel as well as think. Emotion drives both men and women and influences every decision we make. Recognizing the role emotions play and being willing to discuss them makes us better managers, partners, and peers.

  I did not always understand this. I used to think that being professional meant being organized and focused and keeping my personal life separate. Early on at Google, Omid and I would have a one-on-one meeting each week. I would enter his office with a typed agenda and get right to it. I thought I was being so efficient, but my colleague Tim Armstrong (who later became CEO of AOL) kindly pulled me aside one day to give me some advice. He told me that I should take a moment to connect with Omid before diving in. Since Omid and I were the only people in those meetings, it was clear who had mentioned this to Tim. I made the adjustment and started asking Omid how he was before leaping into my to-do list. It was a good lesson. An all-business approach is not always good business.

  It has been an evolution, but I am now a true believer in bringing our whole selves to work. I no longer think people have a professional self for Mondays through Fridays and a real self for the rest of the time. That type of separation probably never existed, and in today’s era of individual expression, where people constantly update their Facebook status and tweet their every move, it makes even less sense. Instead of putting on some kind of fake “all-work persona,” I think we benefit from expressing our truth, talking about personal situations, and acknowledging that professional decisions are often emotionally driven. I should have learned this lesson years earlier. When I was graduating from business school in 1995, Larry Summers offered me a job at Treasury. I wanted the job desperately, but there was an issue: I did not want to move back to D.C., where my soon-to-be ex-husband lived. One of the hardest calls I’ve ever had to make was to tell Larry that I could not accept the job. Larry pressed me on why, and I thought about telling him that I really wanted to try consulting in Los Angeles. Instead, I opened up. I explained that I was getting divorced and wanted to move far away from D.C., which held too many painful memories. Larry argued that it was a big city, but it didn’t seem big enough for me. A year later, when enough time had passed and I felt ready to return to D.C., I called Larry and asked if the opportunity was still available. It was one of the easiest calls I have ever made, in part because I had been honest the year before. If I had told Larry that I was passing on the job for professional reasons, I would have appeared impulsive when I reversed that decision. Since the real reason was personal, sharing it honestly was the best thing to do.

  People often pretend that professional decisions are not affected by their personal lives. They are afraid to talk about their home situations at work as if one should never interfere with the other, when of course they can and do. I know many women who won’t discuss their children at work out of fear that their priorities will be questioned. I hope this won’t always be the case.

  My sister-in-law, Amy Schefler, had a college roommate, Abby Hemani, who is a partner in one of Boston’s most prestigious law firms. The line between personal and professional was erased for Abby when her seven-month-old daughter was diagnosed with Dravet syndrome, a rare and severe form of epilepsy. Abby explained that her mostly male partners got used to seeing her cry at the office and their response was heartwarming. “It was as if they envisioned me as one of their own daughters and wanted to comfort me,” she said. Abby insists that her public emotion improved her work situation both by turning her colleagues into a source of support and by leading to more flexible hours. “I know several men at my firm who have had similar experiences with sick children, but they didn’t feel they could be as forthcoming as I was,” she said. “So, in the end, I think my female manner of relating served me well.”

  Not every workplace and every colleague will be as generous and caring. But I do think we are moving toward at least blurring the line between personal and professional. Increasingly, prominent thinkers in the field of leadership studies like Marcus Buckingham are challenging traditional notions of leadership. Their research suggests that presenting leadership as a list of carefully defined qualities (like strategic, analytical, and performance-oriented) no longer holds. Instead, true leadership stems from individuality that is honestly and sometimes imperfectly expressed.4 They believe leaders should strive for authenticity over perfection. This shift is good news for women, who often feel obliged to suppress their emotions in the workplace in an attempt to come across as more stereotypically male. And it’s also good news for men, who may be doing the exact same thing.

  I had the opportunity to see the power of authentic communication in a leader firsthand when I served on the board of Starbucks. Howard Schultz was CEO of Starbucks from 1987 through 2000, and during his tenure, the company grew from just a few stores into a global retail powerhouse. Howard stepped down as CEO in 2000, and over the next eight years Starbucks’ performance faltered. When Howard returned as CEO in 2008, he held a meeting with all of the company’s global managers in New Orleans. He openly admitted that the company was in serious trouble. Then he allowed his emotions to show, tearing up as he confessed that he felt that he had let down his employees and their families. The entire company rose to the challenge. Starbucks turned around and delivered its highest revenue and earnings a few years later.

  Maybe someday shedding tears in the workplace will no longer be viewed as embarrassing or weak, but as a simple display of authentic emotion. And maybe the compassion and sensitivity that have historically held some women back will make them more natural leaders in the future. In the meantime, we can all hasten this change by committing ourselves to both seek—and speak—our truth.

  7

  Don’t Leave Before You Leave

  A FEW YEARS AGO, a young woman at Facebook came to my desk and asked if she could speak to me privately. We headed into a conference room, where she began firing off questions about how I balance work and family. As the questions came faster and faster, I started to wonder about her urgency. I interrupted to ask if she had a child. She said no, but she liked to plan ahead. I inquired if she and her partner were considering having a child. She replied that she did not have a husband, then added with a little laugh, “Actually, I don’t even have a boyfriend.”

  It seemed to me that she was jumping the gun—big time—but I understood why. From an early age, girls get the message that they will have to choose between succeeding at work and being a good mother. By the time they are in college, women are already thinking about the trade-offs they will make between professional and personal goals.1 When asked to choose between marriage and career, female college stu
dents are twice as likely to choose marriage as their male classmates.2 And this concern can start even younger. Peggy Orenstein, the author of Cinderella Ate My Daughter, related the story of a five-year-old girl who came home distraught from her after-school program and told her mother that both she and the boy she had a crush on wanted to be astronauts. When her mother asked why that was a problem, the little girl replied, “When we go into space together, who will watch our kids?” At five, she thought the most challenging aspect of space travel would be dependable child care.

  As I’ve mentioned, I’m a big believer in thoughtful preparation. Everywhere I go, I carry a little notebook with my to-do list—an actual notebook that I write in with an actual pen. (In the tech world, this is like carrying a stone tablet and chisel.) But when it comes to integrating career and family, planning too far in advance can close doors rather than open them. I have seen this happen over and over. Women rarely make one big decision to leave the workforce. Instead, they make a lot of small decisions along the way, making accommodations and sacrifices that they believe will be required to have a family. Of all the ways women hold themselves back, perhaps the most pervasive is that they leave before they leave.