Featured – Donna Moriarty

Workplace voodoo: when wrong, try apologizing

Featured

You’ve screwed up at work. What do you do?

1. Hide it.

2. Lose sleep.

3. Worry constantly about being found out.

4. Think up a plausible excuse in case someone rats you out.

5. Avoid blame at all costs.

6. Tell your supervisor what you did and offer to make it right.

Anyone circle number six?

A woman looking up at a man who is pointing at her computer screen and looking at her like he's correcting her, and she has a look of "really?" with an annoyed face.

If you’re like most people, you apologize only under duress. But apologizing to a boss, co-worker or client? There’s just no way. Saying you’re sorry is a sign of weakness or an admission of guilt, right?

Wrong. The courage to recognize and apologize for causing distress is an exercise in strength and a sign of good character—qualities you really need in the workplace. In fact, some research suggests that admitting a mistake and expressing remorse can help you improve your performance.

First Kiss

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It’s just a drink — it doesn’t mean anything

Two mouths coming together in a kiss, one with a stubbly chin and the other with slightly glossy lips.

I get off the A-train at 86th and Central Park West and climb the steps to the street. It’s three blocks to the address on a piece of paper I’m holding in my hand. My breath is coming fast. I try to quiet the butterflies with reassuring, grown-up wisdom: It’s just a drink, just two friends getting together.

Half an hour, one drink. Then I’ll tell him it’s time to leave for the concert. I don’t want to be late, I’ll say. I don’t want to miss Seals and Crofts performing one of my favorites, The Boy Down the Road.

The late spring sun spreads a peachy glow over the flowering trees in the park. I turn down 89th Street, pausing to allow enough room for two riders on horseback to nudge their mounts around a taxi waiting at the curb.

In Defense of Dawdling

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On my way into the gym for my weekly swim, I watched as a local school bus pulled up to the drop-off and pick-up spot, where parents can leave their kids to play until their school bus comes to ferry them to nearby schools.

The back of a little girl in a pink dress running away from the camera in the grass

The gym doors opened and a crowd of children burst through the entrance, heading for the bus. A small girl of about four or five, lugging a backpack half her size, carefully picked her way down the steps through pockets of slush and granola bar wrappers toward the bus, which sat by curb, its motor growling.

The child’s small face was furrowed with determination as she grasped the railing, almost higher than her head, while her free hand gripped the backpack strap that had slipped off her shoulder. Her gaze shifted repeatedly from the waiting bus to the concrete steps and back again as she navigated to her destination.

After the Shattering

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What feels like the end of everything is always followed by an ordinary day.

Woman with long brown hair sits solemnly on concrete stairs with her knees up and palms together in a fist in front of her mouth, staring at the ground

Not long ago, I reached a turning point in a major writing project to which I’d given my heart and soul — a memoir about the stillbirth of my first child. I stumbled across a photo of the obstetrician who had delivered our baby. Stunned and triggered by the long-buried memory, I couldn’t write. After months of agonizing writer’s block, I set the manuscript aside and tried to accept that it was over.

Easter was approaching, and I caught myself thinking about the stories I’d grown up with: Good Friday, the day Jesus was crucified. Sunday, with its empty tomb, and three startled women who had come to ritually anoint the body.

But what about Saturday? I imagined what that day was like for the women, who were required by Jewish law to wait until the Sabbath passed before proceeding with their sorrowful task. I imagined what it must have been like to see their dream of a better world die along with their beloved teacher.

When life deals a hard blow — a death or diagnosis, a loss of job or home — it rocks our world and changes everything. After the shattering, all that remains is another ordinary day. We rise, wash, and put the kettle on. We sit down to a manuscript that’s a holy mess.