Miscalibration

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This week, I’m on vacation, but that doesn’t mean my daily routine changes that much. I’m still up early, and enjoying a workout to clear my brain, move my body, feel good. At the hotel gym , I was thrilled to see a Peloton bike (I know, I know, enough about the Peloton!) but I hopped on, started a fun 20 minute ride, and lost myself in the moment. Partway through the ride, I noticed my output numbers were nearly double what they usually are, and I’d gone further than I ever had on a short ride. I laughed out loud, knowing that I hadn’t trained harder or pushed differently. The bike, as it turned out, was simply seriously miscalibrated.

For a few minutes, I let myself enjoy it. I felt strong, accomplished, a little bit like the athlete I’m not. Then the feeling shifted into something quieter and less comfortable. Had I earned that ride, or had a broken machine handed me credit that belonged to someone putting in genuinely double the effort? I still got a great workout. My heartrate knew that much was true, even if the screen didn’t. But the question stayed with me longer than the ride did, because it wasn’t really about the bike. It was about the space between effort and credit, and about a more uncomfortable version of that same gap that shows up often in my work.

Advisors advise, and we work to advise well. We research, and inquire, and go beyond the initial quest. We ask questions that need asking, help frame a decision, occasionally push when pushing is warranted. That work is real. But it isn’t the most important thing that actually moves impact forward.

Let’s give credit where credit is due. It’s essential that the philanthropist is the one who takes in what’s been surfaced and sits with it, sometimes for a long while, before deciding anything. They’re the one who writes the check, edits the estate plan, or has the difficult conversation with their children about what the family’s giving should reflect going forward. They live with what comes after, long after any conversation with me has ended. I can pace the ride. Their feet are the ones on the pedals.

Two wise women give me pause with this, though. My husband’s late grandma Min was known to say “self-praise is no recommendation,” and I take that mantra seriously. So please, take this in the spirit given – the work and value of good advising is real, and can be incredibly impactful. And yet. As my late mentor, Harlene Appelman would remind me, “it’s not your money.”  This is closer to accuracy: understanding clearly which seat I’m sitting in, and not letting a miscalibrated sense of my own role distort the picture. There’s a thread in Pirkei Avot about not separating yourself from the community, and a related caution against claiming honor that was never fully yours to claim. Both feel relevant here.

None of this means my seat is empty. Someone has to hold the mirror and the map, notice what’s missing, ask the question a family has been avoiding for years. That’s a real skill, and I don’t think it serves anyone — least of all my clients — to pretend otherwise. But there’s a meaningful difference between illuminating a path and walking it. The philanthropist weighs what they’ve learned against their own values and history, and then they act. The impact that follows belongs to them — not to me.

That Peloton bike is behind me now, quietly misleading whoever rides it next. But the question it left me with hasn’t faded. When recognition comes — for a gift, a decision, a legacy well shaped — I hope you remember who was really on the pedals.

Shabbat Shalom,

Kari