30 Mar 2026 5 min read agile-is-anarchy

Tribute

While you were here, the fun was never ending

Laugh a minute was only the beginning

— Pennywise, "Bro Hymn"

Mark, and all my friends present, past, and beyond,

You've asked me two questions I've been sitting with. The first: what kind of cats and dicks does my team need to come together? The second: what will matter about the work I'm doing right now — what's going to last beyond me, the team, the project?

I think the answer to both is the same. And I think it starts with an axe.

The Axe Yard

Years ago I was volunteering with a Scout troop at a campout. There's a roped-off area at campsites called the axe yard — the one place you're allowed to swing sharp things at wood. The troop's Senior Patrol Leader was in there taking swings at a log. He'd just been elected. This was one of his first campouts in the role. Most of the troop was watching.

He was swinging the axe wrong. Not a little wrong — wrong in the way that ends with a blade in your shin and a trip to the emergency room.

He was also the Scoutmaster's younger son.

I had about three seconds to figure out what to do. If I corrected him like a kid, I'd undermine his authority in front of the troop he was supposed to lead. I'd potentially cause a problem with his father. And I'd almost certainly guarantee that neither he nor anyone watching would listen to my advice again. One wrong move and I'd burn my credibility with the entire troop — over something that had nothing to do with whether I was right about the axe.

I stopped him. Asked if I could give him some advice. Picked up the axe and showed him how I'd swing it — where to plant your feet, why the angle matters, what happens to your leg if you miss. Framed it like a peer, not an authority. Made it about the technique, not about him being wrong.

He adjusted. Nobody got hurt. Nobody got embarrassed. The troop watched someone learn something without being diminished. That was the real lesson, though I didn't realize it at the time.

You're Not the Scout

I told that story to someone a while back. They said something to me I wasn't expecting: "I'm that scout. I'd like you to teach me like that."

I told them, they're not the scout. They're me. They need to figure out how to help someone without diminishing them. How to teach without pulling rank. How to correct without embarrassing. How to lead people who are watching you to see if you're worth following.

That's the harder job. The scout just needs to learn where to plant his feet. The person teaching the scout needs to figure out how to deliver the lesson in a way that preserves dignity, maintains trust, and doesn't burn future credibility — all in about three seconds.

Leadership isn't swinging the axe. It's telling someone they're using the axe wrong without making them feel small.

What Trust Looks Like

Two people on my team, separately, in different weeks, came to me and told me they want to change their job title. Their role description. Not because they want out — specifically not out, they liked the team. But they want something different. Something more, or something that fits better, or something that matches who they're becoming instead of who they were when they were hired.

They came to me — their manager — and said "I want to grow into something I'm not yet." They trusted that I'd hear ambition, not disloyalty. That I'd help them figure it out instead of treating it as a problem.

I don't know if they realize what they gave me when they did that. That kind of honesty is rare. People don't tell their manager what they actually want. They perform satisfaction. They say the right things in one-on-ones. They save the real conversations for friends, partners, therapists — anyone but the person who writes their review.

These two didn't do that. They told me the truth about what they want. That's not something I built. That's something they chose to give me. All I did was not make it unsafe to offer.

What Lasts

Mark, you asked what will matter about the work I'm doing right now. What's going to last beyond me, the team, the project.

Lasting isn't the point.

The scout learned to swing the axe. He's probably forgotten who showed him. That's fine. He still has both his legs.

The person who wanted to learn to lead — they'll take whatever they learn from me to the next team, the next job, the next company. They won't credit me. They shouldn't have to. The skill is theirs now.

The two people who told me what they want — maybe I help them get there, maybe I don't. Maybe the reorg comes first. Maybe they move on. What matters is that for a few months on a team that almost didn't become a team, they felt safe enough to say what they actually wanted out loud.

None of this shows up on a dashboard. None of it goes on a resume. You can't measure "someone trusted me enough to be honest." You can't put "nobody got embarrassed in the axe yard" in a performance review.

You asked what kind of cats and dicks my team needs. The answer is: they need someone who shows up as a person. Who asks permission before giving advice. Who hears "I want something different" and doesn't flinch. Someone who has them draw pictures of cats and dicks and papers an office with them. The thing you won't find in any book is just being there — not as a manager, not as a process, as a person who gives a shit.

The Journey

Ever get the feeling you can't go on?

Just remember whose side it is that you're on

You've got friends with you 'til the end

The destination isn't the point. The team might not exist next quarter. The project might get cut. I covered this in Turn, Turn, Turn — everything is temporary, nothing endures, Ozymandias becomes sand.

But the journey doesn't become meaningless because the destination changes. The scout still learned to swing the axe. The team lead is learning to teach without diminishing. Two people still told me what they want. Those moments happened. They happened because someone showed up and someone else chose to trust.

That's what I've got, Mark. Not a transformation story. Not a metrics dashboard. Not proof that the invisible work pays off. Just a collection of moments where people were honest with each other and nobody got hurt.