“In my view, the best of humanity is in our exercise of empathy and compassion. It's when we challenge ourselves to walk in the shoes of someone whose pain or plight might seem so different than yours that it's almost incomprehensible.” – Sarah McBride, Delaware State Senator
 
My last blog pushed the idea that communicators should be champions of empathy to their leaders. Then along came an example of what happens when leaders don’t pay attention.
 
Vishal Garg, the CEO of digital mortgage company Better.com, invited 900 employees, about 15% of the company, to a Zoom session on December 1. Once everyone was logged in, he fired them.
 
“If you’re on this call, you are part of the unlucky group that is being laid off,” Garg told his workers. “Your employment here is terminated effective immediately.”
 
Garg did offer those affected some severance. However, his attempt at empathy soon turned to the last person on the call it should go to: himself.
 
“This is the second time in my career I’m doing this, and I do not want to do this. The last time I did it I cried. Um, this time, I hope to be stronger,” Garg said.
 
A few things worth noting:
 
One, it’s not unusual for companies to lay off employees at year’s end before new corporate budgets kick in. I’m no fan of this, of course; if layoffs have to happen, businesses should let people know far in advance. There are ways to mitigate the risks of operational disruptions and early exits. Better.com deciding to do it in December, and to immediate effect, is not out of the norm—though it should be.
 
Two, for good or ill, taking to Zoom is the pandemic era’s version of a mass meeting of employees. I’ve participated in the latter, and it can be heartbreaking to watch as people learn their jobs are going away. What makes such an in-person meeting valuable, though, is the chance for employees to ask questions (and for leaders to answer), support one another, and collectively come to grips with what’s happening. Options like Zoom, Teams or Skype take away that opportunity while making bad-news delivery a little too convenient. If a virtual gathering is the only option, it needs to be structured so the same opportunities exist—Q&A, directly engaging leaders, providing tools for connecting with resources, even optional breakout rooms for people to gather. As far as I know, none of that was part of Better.com’s approach.
 
Three, and this is the big one that Garg either dismissed or was too tone deaf to realize: It’s not about the CEO. Not even a little bit. While I can sympathize to a degree with his discomfort, whether he weeps when telling 900 people they don’t have jobs is irrelevant. Those people (and their families) are what matter.
 
Not that Garg is an empathetic character, if other reports are true.
 
On the other hand, Better.com’s communication leadership chose a tough, personal path. When Garg refused their counsel for a more sensitive approach and pulled his Zoom stunt, they quit en masse.
 
Perhaps Garg is starting to recognize his monumental insensitivity. Today he issued an apology, stating that he “failed to show the appropriate amount of respect and appreciation for the individuals who were affected.” No doubt the deluge of negative publicity has something to do with it.
 
This devastating event underscores the consequences when we don’t continually exercise empathy: The heart turns flabby and cold, people suffer, and business reputations are trashed.
 
I admire the communicators who left Better.com when their CEO rejected their guidance and embraced his own indifference. The fallout should show the business world what happens when it fails to listen to the champions of empathy. Let's hope it's a lesson learned.

That time when selfless compassion saved an entire civilization:
 
In December 1968, NBC aired an episode of the original Star Trek series, titled “The Empath.” In the story, powerful aliens called Vians kidnap Kirk, Spock and McCoy, along with Gem, a mute woman from another planet. The Vians torture Kirk and McCoy, the latter to the point of death. (The brutality of the scenes, mild by modern standards but jarring back then, prompted the UK to ban the episode for 26 years.) Turns out the aliens are using the Starfleet officers to test Gem and see if her people are worthy to rescue from an exploding star. Gem has the power to transfer another person’s injuries (both physical and emotional) onto herself. Thus, to save McCoy and her world, she must endure the same agony and risk her own death.
 
Were the Vians to pose a test like that for the human race, I worry we’d never pass.
 
The briefest glance at one’s newsfeed will reveal dozens of media stories and hundreds of comments of people behaving badly. While recent frustrations—from politics to pandemics—may fuel this outrage, it’s hardly a new phenomenon. Our collective struggle to show empathy for other people is as old as … well … people. But these days it seems elevated to a character trait that a lot of folks brag about.
 
Personal rights (which are usually just selfish wants) before the common good. Accusation over acceptance. Ridicule rather than encouragement.
 
These days we seem to revel in our cold-heartedness.
 
During an especially tough period in my career, I served as a spokesperson on site closures and layoffs by my employer. There were business reasons for those decisions, and I always brought them to the conversation. But I also tried to bring something else: empathy.
 
Empathy can come naturally, but it must be nurtured. Whenever possible, I was onsite when the announcements happened. I sat in on employee group meetings, listening to people’s questions and concerns, doing my best to feel what they were feeling. I made sure I knew and could explain how the company planned to support employees and ease the impact on communities. And in media interviews, I always acknowledged the pain felt by everyone impacted.
 
Even now, more than a decade after that period ended, I keep a list of all those locations in my files. Why? So I will always remember how those decisions affected real people.
 
My attempts to empathize, to bring a modicum of compassion to those moments, didn’t change the outcome. Indeed, I paid a price of my own for doing so. But I like to think it mattered to the people, even a little. And if I had to relive those years, I’d choose empathy again.
 
Communicators should be the champions of empathy. I’m not talking about empty platitudes that we think play well as soundbites. I mean genuine care and compassion for others. I mean being brave enough to challenge our clients to a higher level of kindheartedness.
 
If we don’t help them see the value of empathy, who will?
 
In “The Empath,” Gem overcomes her fear of pain and death to partially restore McCoy, nearly dying in the process. When the Vians refuse to intercede, Kirk points out that they’re measuring Gem’s worth by a standard they fail to meet.
 
“You've lost the capacity to feel the emotions you brought Gem here to experience,” he cries. “You don't understand what it is to live. Love and compassion are dead in you.”
 
The Vians eventually admit their flaw, finish healing McCoy and agree to save Gem’s people.
 
Later, when the rest of Kirk’s crew learns of Gem’s empathy, her willingness to risk her life to save another, one of them remarks, “I would say she was a pearl of great price.”
 
More than ever, it’s vital that we bring that pearl to our world, too.

When screenwriters Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely started writing the movie scripts for Avengers: Infinity War and Avengers: Endgame, COVID-19 was more than four years in the future. They weren’t in a position to know how the world was about to change.
 
But the path they envisioned is proving to be disturbingly accurate—with long-term ramifications for communicators.
 
(Warning: Here be spoilers….)
 
The two Avengers films tell the tale of a cosmic tyrant, Thanos, who blames the universe’s woes on overpopulation. Through age-old gems called Infinity Stones, he gains the power to wipe out half of all life everywhere. Shockingly, he succeeds, until the surviving superhero Avengers reverse his heinous act.
 
Between those two events, five years pass on Earth—a period known as “the Blip.” The abrupt loss of 3.8 billion people is devastating globally and individually. There’s a great scene in Endgame where Steve “Captain America” Rogers leads group therapy: “The world is in our hands,” he tells the group. “We gotta do something with it.”
 
Then, suddenly, everyone comes back—and humanity faces yet another reality, one surprisingly as shattering as what Thanos wrought.
 
Two recent Marvel television series on Disney+, WandaVision and The Falcon and The Winter Soldier, dive deep into the effects of a post-Blip world. WandaVision explores personal grief. The Falcon and The Winter Soldier deals with the global ramifications—political, financial, humanitarian, interpersonal—of removing billions of people for five years and suddenly bringing them back.
 
“Nobody’s stable. Allies are now enemies. Alliances are all torn apart. The world’s broken,” Colonel James “War Machine” Rhodes tells Sam “Falcon” Wilson. “Everybody’s just looking for someone to fix it.”
 
Rhodey could have been talking about the world we live in today.
 
COVID-19 is our real-life Blip. For more than a year, our reality has been profoundly altered. Jobs disappeared or changed dramatically. Families have fallen into financial instability. Countless businesses are struggling to survive or have been forced to close. Millions of students are falling behind. Mental health problems are skyrocketing.
 
And most tragic of all, nearly 3 million people have died—565,000 in the United States. Unlike a Marvel film, those people won’t be coming back.
 
Through heroic efforts of scientists and the health care industry, new vaccines and treatments are emerging. They offer hope that the end of our Blip is within sight.
 
But herd immunity won’t fix everything that’s broken.

Conflict, distrust and outright paranoia are hardly new. But life under the coronavirus Blip has stoked their flames.
 
We can no longer agree to disagree; differences of opinion are reason enough to end friendships, disown family, even take a life.
 
We trust little, if anyone or anything—science or faith, journalists or government, physicians or mentors or elections or anyone who is different from ourselves.
 
We dismiss facts. We place blame. We weave inane rationales and conspiracies. We take up arms at our keyboards and aim vitriol at anyone on social media who questions the reality we insist upon.
 
To be sure, I have a perspective on our Blip. But that’s not the point of this blog post. The point is the crucial task before communicators in a post-Blip world.
 
I’m confident we can, as a society, bridge the chasms that have formed in recent years, especially since COVID-19. But it will require communicators to champion the fundamental trait of good communication: interaction. Listening to stakeholders. Understanding and empathizing with their perspective. For too long the job of communicating has been one way—developing your message and pointing it at the masses. (I still cringe whenever I hear someone say, “We need to issue a communication…”.)
 
Communication isn’t something I do to you; it’s something I do with you.
 
The challenge is huge, of course. Different viewpoints will remain. Opposing sides will seek to demonize each other. Some chasms will never be crossed. I’m an optimist, but I’m not naïve.
 
Yet I believe communicators are uniquely equipped to span the gaps where possible—if we embrace, even insist upon, the strategic leadership role we must hold if our mission is to succeed.
 
As Captain America said, the world is in our hands.
 
What will we do to make it better?

There’s an old philosophical question: “If a tree falls in the forest, and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?” The reality is, it’s a moot question—because someone is always listening.
 
That was the hard lesson learned by economic development organization Southwest Michigan First. Earlier this month it hired a new CEO with a political past not aligned with its own stated values and those held by most of its community.
 
Lee Chatfield, former Speaker of the Michigan House of Representatives, lost his elected office in November due to term limits. You may remember Chatfield as one of the two Michigan GOP leaders (along with Senate Majority Leader Mike Shirkey, currently dealing with controversies of his own) summoned by former President Donald Trump in a futile effort to get the Michigan Legislature to undo the electoral wins by President Joe Biden. (Chatfield later said the issue never came up in their highly criticized confab, though Trump tweeted otherwise.)
 
Much of the condemnation aimed at SMF’s choice of Chatfield was the former legislator’s lack of relevant experience—he’s a former teacher with no business or economic development background. It’s natural, then, that the community would conclude he was chosen for his political assets and connections rather than his ability to grow the local economy.
 
More problematic for SMF is Chatfield’s history on equity issues. A strong conservative, Chatfield opposed efforts to expand Michigan civil rights law to include LGBTQ+ people, claiming it would infringe on religious freedoms. He also questioned whether this population was facing discrimination at all.
 
The Feb. 11 announcement that Chatfield would succeed long-time SMF CEO Ron Kitchens quickly prompted protests. Within days, the City of Kalamazoo pulled funding, the Kalamazoo Community Foundation dropped its membership, and local college presidents serving on the SMF Board protested and one resigned. Rumors swirled that other businesses and organizations were debating whether to stick with Southwest Michigan First. And of course, social media kept the topic top of mind, with calls for boycotts of partners and board members’ businesses percolating. (In the midst of this, SMF deleted the Board of Directors page from its website.)
 
Today, Chatfield tendered his resignation, stating he didn’t want to be a distraction or to “separate a welcoming community.” On the heels of his resignation came a statement from the SMF Board Chair acknowledging the controversy and pledging to make the next search process “open, transparent and inclusive.”
 
From a PR perspective, there is plenty to unpack here.
 
The seemingly rushed, largely opaque selection of Chatfield points to SMF knowing the choice would be controversial. Rather than deal with that proactively, the announcement of his hiring came with relatively little fanfare, surprising for such a high-profile role. One might conclude that the decision-makers hoped a “business as usual” approach might not stir the pot too terribly much.

Maybe SMF believed that most people, like passengers on a cruise ship, don’t think about who steers the boat as long as they know someone’s at the helm. Or it could be SMF believed the end would ultimately justify the controversial political means; as a legislator, Chatfield helped secure state support for a $110 million downtown arena that the organization supports while many in the community oppose.
 
In any case, there’s a sense that some in positions of power at SMF believed they could quickly appoint Chatfield and weather any negative reactions. If that’s the case, they were badly mistaken. Ethically and practically, that’s simply not a viable strategy. Nor is the lack of transparency—a concern for SMF staff, community partners, investors, donors and even board members, not all of whom were invited to be part of the search process. It smacks of the old “smoke-filled back room,” power-play decisions of a bygone era.
 
SMF Board Chair Aaron Ziegler is promising a more robust and visible process for the next search. That’s a good start, assuming SMF makes good on the pledge. But that standard will need to be upheld in much more than this, and whoever gets the nod as the next CEO—a tough job made even tougher by what’s happened—will have to continue carrying that banner with aplomb.
 
For the rest of us, it’s a lesson learned. Even the appearance of back-room decision-making that doesn’t reflect the values of an organization or a community is a doomed venture. We must make choices in the right way, for the right reasons. And for any who think it doesn’t matter, remember: All eyes are on the trees, all ears attuned to the fall. Behave accordingly.

In a fit of pique over chronically lax delivery, I cancelled my local newspaper subscription last summer. I still feel guilty about it.
 
A new analysis on the state of local news hasn’t assuaged my guilt. Northwestern University’s Medill School of Journalism, Media, Integrated Marketing Communications—yeesh, must be tough to fit all that on a diploma—recently conducted its first-ever industry survey, and the results aren’t good. Nearly 99% of people working in U.S. news media said they were “very” or “somewhat” concerned about the future of local news. Those most worried work for print newspapers and digital-only outlets.
 
The decline in the U.S. news industry is hardly new. Paid newspaper subscriptions have been falling since the 1950s; 65 million Americans live in counties with one or no local newspaper, creating so-called “news deserts.” Advertising revenues have plummeted since 2000, making it tougher to hold onto staff. As a result, newsrooms have shrunk by a quarter since 2008. Broadcast news staff has been more stable, even growing slightly in some years. But the overall trend remains down.
 
The decline means fewer news sources and less coverage (and less oversight) of American institutions, especially government. Reporters are held to a standard of quantity—both in number of stories and in number of clicks—rather than the often slow, methodical work of quality journalism. Some influencers take advantage of this, boldly declaring news media “fake” and even, disturbingly, “enemies of the people.” It shouldn’t surprise us, then, that public trust in journalism suffers; a recent Gallup poll showed 60% of Americans trust news media little or not at all.
 
The Medill survey analysis outlines the risks of this spiral in journalism. “When there are fewer watchdogs holding local government accountable, you can see what grows in that vacuum,” said Stephanie Edgerly, an associate professor who led the study.
 
She went on to point out that advertising dollars will not turn the tide. A different model is needed. Becoming a nonprofit is one approach some media outlets have tried, but the jury is still out on whether that’s the answer. Edgerly and others suggest it will require several strategies—including helping the public understand that investing in local news means better news coverage.
 
And here we come back to my guilty conscience.
 
While I’ve worked for well over three decades in public relations, I still consider myself a journalist at heart. I work alongside local reporters daily, and I appreciate that most of them strive to do the news right—understanding what’s important and relevant, reporting events, analyzing impact, holding institutions and influencers accountable regardless of who they are or what they proclaim.
 
Local journalism isn’t perfect, but it’s essential. Without it, we’re left with propaganda or lean-to-the-extreme sources of information. Worse, we face communities without adequate oversight and citizens without the knowledge they need to fully participate in their communities.
 
So I’m rethinking my subscription. It may be a small investment, but it’s one more barrier to the asphalt that threatens paradise.

I started thinking about this blog even as rioters stormed the nation’s Capitol on January 6, but I didn’t know where to begin. As an American and as a communications professional, my emotions remain messy, my thoughts diverse. But seven words that have seen a lot of daylight lately are worth considering:
 
I never thought I’d see the day.
 
Actually, that’s not quite accurate. In the early morning of November 9, 2016, I grabbed my coffee, kicked on my tablet and winced as I saw the presidential election outcome I’d feared. As a communicator, I recognized how effectively Donald Trump and his team had manipulated his base. I worried how that would play out over the next four years. Even that morning I wondered, just for a moment, if his hoped-for defeat in 2020 would spiral into violence. But being an optimist at heart, I forced myself to dismiss the notion. Feels a bit naïve now.
 
Still, there is good news: The vast majority of Americans of every political persuasion—yes, including ardent Trump supporters—seem to be appalled by what happened. That gives me hope that our nation’s fundamental principles and ideals endure.
 
But the dangers of false prophets and manipulative messaging remain. As a country, and as individuals, we must be diligent. Here are some things to consider, both in reflection and in resolve, from my perspective as a communicator:
 
Media in all forms remains a strong influence. Outside of cat videos and vacation pics, social media provides the disturbing means of creating echo chambers that nurture our biases or play on our fears. This has the unfortunate side effect of prompting some news media to mimic it, abandoning any pretense of “objective” reporting—whether such a thing ever existed is fodder for a different blog—in favor of building and feeding a chosen base. Fox News and OAN usually get fingered here, but the shift isn’t limited to television. (As usual, Matt Friedman makes an excellent case for radio’s role.) And it’s worsened by the continued shrinking of the Fourth Estate. I remain a strong advocate for legitimate news media and their vital role in our society. At the same time, there is much chaff to be shifted from the wheat, and each of us must take responsibility for doing so. Obi-Wan Kenobi’s warning is as relevant in our galaxy as in his.
 
We must ask thoughtful, powerful questions. It’s easy to blame news reporting when people embrace misguided ways. Yes, media bear some responsibility, but so do those who form the message and those who hear and respond to it. For months we’ve been inundated with unproven claims of a “rigged” election—claims lacking any compelling evidence and thus dismissed in more than 60 court cases to date. But a core number of people, certainly those who stormed the Capitol, continue to believe the allegations without question. Self-serving politicians played on this, repeating the falsehoods without thought of the consequences. When people were summoned to a “wild” gathering and urged to hold “trial by combat” with a march on the Capitol, violence was inevitable. As communicators, we need to confirm the veracity of our message and think through the implications of our words. As society, we need to ask hard questions about what we hear and what we’re asked to do—and even harder questions before we do it.
 
Calm, authentic leadership remains vital. While watching the riot on television, I was increasingly disturbed as the clock ticked by and no one in leadership spoke up. The President said nothing. Congressional leaders said nothing. (Yes, they were hunkered down, but at least one of them managed to get on the phone to a news agency to make sure viewers knew he’d begged the President for help. Not exactly inspiring leadership.) Finally, President-elect Joe Biden went on national television to simply, calmly and firmly demand an end to the violence: “Let me be very clear, the scenes of chaos at the Capitol do not represent who we are. What we are seeing is a small number of extremists dedicated to lawlessness. This is not dissent, it's disorder. It borders on sedition, and it must end. Now.” Biden—not yet President, not even a member of Congress—attempted to partly fill the leadership vacuum. While he could do little more than that, Biden knew the American people needed a voice of calm and reason in that moment. He stepped up when no one else would. After the chaos, when Congress gathered again, there were numerous after-the-fact efforts by Representatives and Senators to snatch back their leadership hats. They failed. Biden was the only person who displayed authentic leadership that day because he recognized how important that was to a stunned nation.
 
The path forward requires courage. In the wake of the riot, I noticed a lot of organizations issuing statements—usually in the vein of, “We’re shocked and saddened, let’s be better.” While I agree with that thought, the steady stream of safe sentiments began to feel disingenuous. “Bandwagon PR” is what I call it—making a statement just because others are doing it, not because you have something unique or compelling to say. In the face of one of the most heinous events in American history, organizations (and individuals) must show courage. One of my nonprofit clients decided to make a statement, but they started by asking themselves, “What needs to be said that we’re uniquely positioned to say? What will we call upon people to do that we’re uniquely equipped to help realize?” Out of that came a public statement that’s powerful, pointed and bold. On the flip side, there are organizations (not ones I work for) that could have spoken up but chose not to out of fear rather than relevance. These are difficult decisions, of course. But changing the course of our society and our nation will require greater courage.
 
All of us—every citizen, every community, every organization—will be vital to forging our way out of the years-long turmoil that led to January 6. Communicators hold a special role in helping us formulate the messages that will inspire healing, courage and resolve. When our nation is restored at last, I hope I can join with others in a new phrase:
 
I’m glad I lived to see the day.

My career in journalism was long ago and not lengthy—five years, including the first two at a college newspaper with some stringing on the side. Even so, to this day I consider myself a journalist at heart.
 
That perspective has strongly informed my much longer career in public relations. Each day I bring a journalist’s perspective to my work. This helps me sift the wheat from the chaff, aiding my clients as well as my acquaintances in the Fourth Estate. Also, I’m far more inclined to defend journalists—especially in today’s unfairly hyper-critical environment, where disparaging legitimate news media has become a disturbing practice—than I am to find fault.
 
Until something like this comes along….
 
“This” is a number of local news stories giving voice to the anti-vaccine crowd. A new report from NBC News describes how anti-vaxxers have become media savvy—trotting out “worried” moms with their cherub-faced kids to local news outlets, where they deliver just the right mix of emotional angst and misleading (or flat-out wrong) messages.
 
This practice is called information laundering—disinformation presented through trusted vehicles, lending an air of legitimacy to falsehoods. In this case, anti-vaxxers are leveraging the trust people have in their local news outlets. A 2018 Poynter Media Trust Survey found better than 70% of Americans trust their local news a “fair” or “great” deal; national outlets fall a full 20 percentage points or more behind.
 
Tragically, this informational trip to the cleaners is happening while drug companies such as Pfizer and Moderna are bringing forth life-saving vaccines for COVID-19. (Full disclosure: I am a former employee of Pfizer.) The coronavirus pandemic has slain more than 1,650,000 people worldwide, including 308,000 Americans. Millions more face lingering, possibly lifelong complications. These vaccines are critical to stopping this disease and saving lives—provided enough people get the shot.
 
Anti-vaxxers seem resolved to discourage the turnout; some local news media are unintentionally aiding their quest.
 
To be fair, I get the challenge local news faces. COVID-19 and the vaccines are huge news stories, dominating network coverage. It’s tough to find a new angle for local audiences. (Case in point: A few weeks ago, a small-town newspaper in the Midwest contacted me to ask if any vaccine work would have happened at a local plant if the company hadn’t closed it. That closure happened nearly a dozen years ago.) Many of my friends in the local news biz feel they can’t turn away from any local link—not when they have newscasts, web pages and column inches to fill.
 
But while providing a local platform for these fringe voices might seem fair, it risks leading some people to believe these notions might be true. They are not. Vaccines go through a robust development and review process—including the greatly accelerated review for the coronavirus vaccines. Scientists, physicians and regulators know what’s in them, what they do and how they work. As with any medication—or anything you put in your body, including that bag of Doritos you polished off last night—vaccines aren’t risk-free. Side effects are possible, and some patients who received the COVID-19 vaccines reported a few. But the risks are low compared to the benefit of avoiding or diminishing a serious disease.
 
Thankfully, the local news outlets I work with haven't gone down this disinformation path. I applaud them and encourage them to remain watchful. Truth and accuracy must not be diminished by the desire for balance. All are equal. It’s a tall order, but doable. Perhaps the guiding principle ought to be the same as that of the medical profession: primum non nocere, “first do no harm."

Confession: When COVID-19 banished many of us to our home offices last spring, I was a teeny bit relieved. I’d been spending much of my workday in meetings, which meant a lot of time in the car driving to those meetings. Lockdown meant less drive time and more get-work-done time. And those many meetings? They shifted to videoconferences, typically on a platform known as Zoom.
 
I was a fan at the time. Today, not as much.
 
The relatively seamless move to working virtually got lots of business leaders thinking it could become a long-term arrangement. They envisioned more productive employees and lower overhead costs—less need for office space, reduced utility expenses, and so on.
 
But many months later, these same leaders are having second thoughts. Productivity is down. Videoconferencing generates more fatigue. The imaginative energy that comes from people sitting around a table, or sharing coffee, or just connecting for a few seconds in a hallway, is dimming. JP Morgan Chase CEO Jamie Dimon says remote working is quashing “creative combustion.”
 
As leaders worry about damage to performance and workplace culture, tips and tricks to counter the decline are showing up online. While I’m confident the working world will find the balance, I’m not convinced the answer lies outside of face-to-face, in-person communication. I miss that kind of interaction, and I'm concerned our organizations are losing something without it.
 
I regularly do workshops on strategic communication. Recently I did a workshop for an entirely remote audience—I was in my home office, and they were scattered across the state. The setup was such that I couldn’t even see their faces. While I got some good feedback, I must admit it was an awful experience. In my workshop, I spend a good deal of time underscoring the vital need for communication to be interactive, two-way, a dialogue. There was none of that here. I couldn’t engage the audience, or at least see if I was engaging them. Some of this was how the sponsor set up the event, but much was due to the lack of real human interaction.
 
Zoom and other video platforms—Microsoft Teams, Skype, GoToMeeting, etc.—provide a way to interact, but talking with an image on a computer screen isn’t the same as talking with them in person. The connection is fundamentally different. The relationship isn’t the same.

That's not to say communicators can't adapt. We must, especially since working from home is likely to remain a fixture for businesses long after the pandemic.
 
Even so, clicking on a Zoom link is never going to replace real, interactive communication with another person who is physically present. When COVID-19 eventually fades and the need for remote communication declines, communicators will need to advocate for a reasonable return to face-to-face interaction. The payoff is stronger relationships, renewed creativity and productivity, and a reinvigorated culture where people interact and move forward together.
 
The virtual workplace is here to stay, but we need not—indeed, should not—assume communication approaches must blindly follow.

Among my favorite British television shows is Blackadder. Starring Rowan Atkinson, the series tells the tale of Edmund Blackadder in different eras of England’s history. Each generation’s Blackadder desperately seeks wealth, power, prestige or simple survival. With the exception of the show’s finale—often cited as one of the most powerful moments in television—Blackadder’s efforts, which typically start with the words “I have a cunning plan,” just as typically end in comedic failure.
 
Successful communicators know how to plan strategically. That’s what makes them invaluable to the organization. Our job is to lift the discussion beyond tactics—“Can we make this go viral on Twitter?”—and connect thoughtful, effective strategies to relationship-building and meaningful business goals.
 
And yet, when I lead communication training for my clients, I include this disclaimer: “Good communication doesn’t always result in consensus.” In short, you don’t always win; even the 1927 New York Yankees lost 29% of their games.
 
So what’s a communicator to do when things go south? Here are things to build into your plan:
 
Build in analysis from the start. It’s not good enough to do a survey for the end of a campaign. Make sure you have metrics to check the pulse as you go along. If you’re using digital tools, what do engagement numbers and analytics tools tell you? Are you making progress on your measurable objectives? On the qualitative side, focus groups and advisory circles are useful when developing a plan, but they can also give you valuable feedback during execution.
 
Build in interaction. Too many communication plans are based on delivery. That’s why so many communicators focus on tactics—“Send an email!” “Send a tweet!” “Send a video!” But good communication isn’t something you do to someone; it’s something you do with someone. It must be rooted in interaction—listening to your audience, understanding their perspective, finding common ground, offering your perspective as a path forward, and being willing to change where possible to achieve mutually beneficial results.
 
Build in rapid adaptability. A great, carefully crafted strategic plan can’t be monolithic. Over a decade ago, I helped with a follow-up communication campaign on a company’s retiree benefits. The first effort hadn’t gone well. Retirees were angry. Company leaders launched retiree meetings to explain the changes, but the first one was nearly a mob scene. Over dinner, the leaders admitted to me that their communication efforts fell short. I convinced them to make that admission a key part of the message and to shift the meetings toward more listening. The next retiree meetings began with a heartfelt apology, and the mood changed dramatically. So did the outcome—the company reworked some details of the benefits changes, and most retirees felt heard and understood.
 
Build in a plan for failure. Communicators should never settle for failure, but we must accept that some audiences won’t embrace the message or call to action—and may in fact actively resist. That doesn’t mean the original plan was bad (though a critical analysis is always wise, regardless of success). A good plan, however, will include a strategy for addressing resistance. It may be as robust as engaging naysayers directly or as simple as letting them go. You’ll need to understand and factor in the potential risks and rewards of that strategy.
 
Build in a time to learn. Part of your analysis at the end should be a reflection on what worked, what didn’t, and how you’ll do things differently next time. Be fair to yourself. There lies as much danger in minimizing the wins as there is in ignoring the failures.
 
In Blackadder Goes Forth, Captain Blackadder points out his commanding officers’ “brilliant plan” involves “climbing out of our trenches and walking very slowly towards the enemy.” One officer’s reply? “How could you possibly know that, Blackadder? It’s classified information!”
 
Our task as communicators is to think and act strategically—while recognizing failures will happen and doing our best to manage them effectively.

“It’s a personal choice,” said a customer at a Georgia shopping center, proudly describing why his face was mask-free.
 
“If you want to stay home, stay home. If you want to go out, you can go out,” he continued. “I’m not in the older population. If I was to get it now, I’ve got a 90 percent chance of getting cured. Also, I don’t know anybody who’s got it.”
 
He was right: wearing a mask in public is optional in Georgia. Yet his attitude, as displayed in a recent Washington Post article on the reopening of businesses during the pandemic, is deeply troubling. It reveals a profound lack of empathy.
 
One of the fundamental tenets of public relations is empathy—the ability to understand, share and genuinely reflect the feelings and concerns of others. People expect empathy from their government leaders, their employers and the companies they do business with. They want to know you care about them, especially during a crisis.
 
During my corporate career, I served as a news media spokesperson for 26 site closing and major workforce reductions. Yes, I kept track; I even carried the list on my cellphone. To this day it resides in a file.
 
Why?
 
Because I felt the heartache of the employees and their communities in every single one of those closings, and I never wanted to forget that. The list reminded me that every announcement, and every word I said, impacted real people and their families. Empathy drove me to keep that list and think about those people.
 
Yes, I spoke on behalf of the company, but I also spoke to and for the people who were affected—at times going to extraordinary, and risky, lengths to share that perspective, to offer caring and supportive words (and actions whenever possible) that might help them deal with the new reality.
 
Most businesses understand the need for empathy, and I’m pleased that the ones I work with today embrace it. Likewise, many of my clients are nonprofits, for whom empathy fuels their raison d’etre.
 
But empathy appears scarce elsewhere. Government leaders seem more interested in scoring political points, or stirring their base, than they are in empathy. Many corporations let their empathy be dimmed by the competing focus on benefitting shareholders. And the public’s growing disdain—even outright animosity—of anything that doesn’t serve their individual wants is especially disturbing.
 
Who would have thought that the simple act of wearing a mask to protect others from a deadly disease would be cast as a villainous effort to destroy democracy? Who would have thought a protest against stay-at-home orders could involve armed terrorists—there’s no other way to describe them—bent on intimidating anyone who disagreed? Who would have thought the preventable deaths of more than 90,000 Americans would be dismissed as “not my problem,” or labeled a hoax, or hand-waved away as less-deadly than other fatalities?
 
Yet here we are.
 
The New York Times made a bold move to remind Americans about empathy. On May 24, the entire front page was a list of 1,000 people who have died of COVID-19—not just their names, but their ages, their hometowns and what they did in their lives. On one powerful page, NYT challenged us to reconnect with empathy once again.
 
More than ever, public relations and communication professionals must be the champions of empathy. As we speak for our clients, we must also speak for their constituents. That’s the heart of effective communication—not an act done to someone else, but a dialogue between all parties. We need to understand and feel what others feel.
 
In PR, we serve as a vital bridge between the organizations we represent and the public with whom we communicate. The girders of that bridge are built on empathy. We must preserve them at all cost—because if they’re removed, and the bridge collapses, leaving a chasm that can never be breached.