We Don't All Have to Be Pals: Rethinking What Connects Us at Work

Last week, I wrote about a groundhog making appearances near our crops at Ileria Farms and the importance of protecting what we've worked hard to cultivate.

This week, I spotted a praying mantis. And I was delighted!

I always hope to see praying mantises on the farm. As we cultivate crops on our urban and peri-urban farms, I'm paying attention not only to what's growing in our production beds but also to the other life making a home there. Seeing a praying mantis is an encouraging sign of the biodiversity we're working to support.

Praying mantises are predators. They feed on other insects, including some that damage crops. They aren't selective, though. They'll also consume insects we consider beneficial.

Still, I was happy to welcome this one.

Around the same time, I was listening to organizational psychologist Adam Grant's conversation with Trevor Noah about his new book, Vibe: The Secrets of Strong Connections in a Lonely World.

Grant's discussion of the different relationships we need in our lives got me thinking about the relationships that sustain our organizations—and what happens when we expect too much, or the wrong things, from one another.

Not Every Colleague Needs to Be a Friend

Grant identifies four kinds of relationships: associates, allies, pals, and companions.

Associates have compatible needs and often engage in more transactional relationships. Allies share goals. Pals share interests and enjoyment. Companions share values and provide deeper connection and support.

These relationships serve different purposes, and not every person in our lives needs to fulfill all four.

I've spent much of my professional life thinking about how people work together across differences. One recurring challenge is the assumption that strong teams must also be close-knit groups of friends.

We organize team-building activities, encourage social gatherings, and sometimes describe workplaces as families.

Connection matters. But friendship and collaboration are not interchangeable.

Think about a colleague whose judgment you respect, whose skills complement yours, and whose commitment to the work is unquestionable. You may accomplish extraordinary things together without ever becoming close personal friends.

That's an ally.

Another colleague might make even the most difficult workday more enjoyable. You share humor, interests, or enthusiasm for something entirely unrelated to work.

That's a pal.

And there may be someone whose values align deeply with yours, who understands what matters to you, and who provides support when circumstances become difficult.

That's a companion.

Sometimes one person fills several roles. Sometimes relationships evolve. But expecting every colleague to be all things can create unnecessary pressure.

More importantly, it can distract us from cultivating the relationships our work actually requires.

Aligned Outcomes, Different Motivations

There's another lesson the praying mantis offers.

The mantis isn't protecting my crops out of concern for the harvest. It's looking for food. Yet when it consumes an insect that might otherwise damage our crops, our interests temporarily align.

We can benefit from the same outcome without sharing the same intentions.

Consider a team working toward an important organizational goal. One person may be motivated by a deep commitment to the mission. Another may see an opportunity to develop new skills. A third may be primarily concerned with earning a living and supporting their family.

Their motivations differ, but each can make a meaningful contribution.

Leaders sometimes mistake shared enthusiasm for shared commitment. We expect people to care about the work for the same reasons we do, and we may question their dedication when they don't.

But alignment doesn't require identical motivations.

It requires clarity about what we're trying to accomplish, how our contributions fit together, and what we can reasonably expect from one another.

Of course, aligned outcomes alone don't guarantee a healthy relationship. Trust, fairness, accountability, and mutual respect still matter.

The challenge is to recognize that people can contribute to a common purpose without experiencing that purpose in exactly the same way.

What Does a Healthy Workplace Need?

On the farm, different organisms play different roles.

Some pollinate. Some decompose organic matter and help recycle nutrients. Others prey on insects. Plants themselves interact with soil organisms, insects, and neighboring plants in complicated ways.

These relationships aren't necessarily friendly, and not all of them benefit the crops we're growing. But understanding their functions helps us make better decisions about how to cultivate the land.

Organizations also depend on relationships that serve different purposes.

We need people who can work toward shared goals, even when their personalities, backgrounds, or perspectives differ.

We need opportunities for enjoyment and informal connection.

And we need relationships grounded in trust, care, and shared values.

The challenge for leaders is not to make everyone friends.

It's to create conditions in which different kinds of relationships can flourish.

That requires clarity about shared goals, equitable treatment, psychological safety, opportunities for meaningful collaboration, and respect for the boundaries people establish.

It also requires recognizing that individuals differ in how they prefer to connect.

An employee who declines an after-work gathering may be deeply committed to the team. A colleague who challenges an idea may be acting as an ally rather than an adversary. And someone who brings warmth and humor to the workplace may be making an important contribution even if that contribution doesn't appear on a performance dashboard.

Connection Cannot Be Mandated

There's another consideration.

When organizations insist that everyone must feel like family, they can inadvertently blur important boundaries.

Employees may feel pressured to disclose personal information, participate in social activities, or demonstrate loyalty in ways that extend beyond their professional responsibilities.

The language of belonging can even obscure inequitable expectations.

We should be careful not to confuse an organization's desire for connection with an employee's obligation to provide emotional intimacy.

A healthy workplace makes room for authentic relationships without prescribing what those relationships must look like.

And when people struggle to connect, leaders should consider more than individual personalities.

Are employees competing for scarce recognition or resources? Are workloads so demanding that collaboration becomes difficult? Do organizational practices reward trust and cooperation, or undermine them?

As I suggested in last week's reflection about protecting joy, we cannot place the entire burden of creating healthy experiences on individuals while ignoring the systems in which they work.

Connection, too, is shaped by conditions.

Cultivating an Ecosystem of Relationships

The praying mantis reminded me that I don't need every creature on the farm to play the same role.

And Adam Grant's framework reminded me that the same is true of the people in our lives.

Some relationships help us accomplish meaningful work. Others bring laughter and enjoyment. Still others sustain us through uncertainty and change.

We benefit from understanding these differences rather than measuring every relationship against a single ideal.

For leaders, this raises an important question:

Are we cultivating an environment where people can build the relationships they need, or are we expecting everyone to connect in the same way?

A thriving organization doesn't require everyone to be pals.

It requires shared purpose, mutual respect, and conditions that allow people to contribute and connect in meaningful ways.

Meanwhile, back on the farm, I'm still watching for that groundhog.

But I'm also paying closer attention to the other creatures sharing our growing space.

There's more happening on this farm than any one visitor can explain.

And perhaps that's true of our organizations, too.

Protecting What We've Cultivated: When Joy Needs More Than Resilience

This week, I saw a groundhog twice near my farm plot.

Twice in one week!

I've spent months preparing soil, planting seeds, tending seedlings, watering, weeding, and watching vegetables grow. The thought of a groundhog tunneling beneath all that work and helping itself to my root crops is enough to send me looking for defenses.

I'm trying some natural deterrents. Pepper water is one possibility. More substantial barriers may be necessary.

But as I considered how to protect my vegetables, I found myself thinking about another kind of cultivation: the work we invest in our careers, organizations, relationships, and communities.

And how easily that work—and the joy we derive from it—can be undermined.

When Something Is Eating Away at Our Work

Sometimes the threats are obvious.

A colleague claims credit for someone else's contributions. A supervisor repeatedly moves the goalposts. A promising initiative is undermined by internal competition. An employee's enthusiasm gradually gives way to exhaustion under unreasonable expectations.

Other threats are harder to recognize.

A workplace where people hesitate to share ideas because mistakes are punished. A culture where overwork is celebrated but rest is treated as a lack of commitment. An organization that talks about collaboration while rewarding individual competition.

These conditions can erode more than productivity.

They can diminish the satisfaction, connection, creativity, and sense of purpose that make our work meaningful.

And because the erosion often happens gradually, we may not recognize how much has been lost until something that once brought us joy feels like a burden.

Protecting Joy Without Building Walls

On the farm, protection requires some attention to what might threaten the harvest.

The same is true in our professional lives.

We can establish boundaries around our time and responsibilities. We can document our contributions and advocate for appropriate recognition. We can cultivate relationships with colleagues and mentors who offer perspective, encouragement, and honest feedback.

We can also become more intentional about recognizing our accomplishments rather than immediately moving to the next demand.

These practices matter.

But there's a difference between protecting ourselves and organizing our lives around the expectation of harm.

When we become perpetually guarded, we may hesitate to trust, collaborate, share ideas, or celebrate success. The vigilance intended to protect our joy can begin to consume it.

A garden needs protection, but it also needs openness—to sunlight, water, air, and the many beneficial creatures that help it flourish.

So do we.

Sometimes the Problem Is the Environment

There's an important limitation to advice about protecting our joy.

It can place too much responsibility on individuals to withstand conditions they did not create and may have little power to change.

We encourage people to practice gratitude, develop resilience, set boundaries, and maintain a positive outlook.

All of those practices can be valuable.

But what happens when the workplace itself is persistently harmful?

When excessive workloads are built into the operating model? When inequitable treatment is tolerated? When leaders dismiss concerns or punish people for raising them?

We cannot reasonably expect individuals to think their way out of systemic problems.

Nor should we celebrate their ability to endure those problems indefinitely.

Sometimes protecting joy requires more than personal strategies. It requires examining the structures, incentives, policies, and leadership practices that shape people's experiences.

Who carries the heaviest burdens?

Whose contributions are recognized?

What behaviors are rewarded or excused?

When someone raises a concern, what happens next?

And perhaps most importantly, what are we asking individuals to tolerate that the organization should be working to change?

These are not simply questions about morale. They are questions about how organizations function and whose well-being they prioritize.

Don't Give the Groundhog the Whole Garden

Of course, not every difficult colleague is a groundhog. Not every disagreement is evidence of a toxic workplace. And not every setback requires an organizational overhaul.

Part of protecting what we've cultivated is learning to distinguish between ordinary challenges, recurring patterns, and conditions that genuinely require intervention.

That takes attention, perspective, and sometimes courage.

It also takes remembering what we're protecting in the first place.

Our work can be a source of creativity, connection, contribution, accomplishment, and joy. Those experiences deserve more than whatever energy remains after we've spent the day defending ourselves.

On my farm, I'm going to keep watching for that groundhog. I'll take reasonable precautions and strengthen my defenses if necessary.

But I don't intend to spend every visit searching for evidence of its presence.

There are vegetables to harvest, flowers to admire, and people waiting to enjoy what we've grown.

The groundhog deserves my attention.

It does not deserve the whole garden.

And perhaps that's worth remembering in our workplaces, too.

Protect what you've cultivated. Question the conditions that threaten it. And make sure there's still room to enjoy what you've grown.

An Experiment in the Future

I'm running an experiment this week.

Actually, two of them.

Experiment #1: Pack the first CSA shares.

What I know:

We're calling it The First Harvest.

It will last three weeks.

A small group of subscribers will receive a selection of whatever is seasonally ready on the farm, along with one Ileria Farms baked good.

They've paid $99 in advance.

On Friday, I'll pack the first shares.

What I don't know:

Quite a lot.

Will the amount of food feel right?

Will the mix of produce and baked goods work?

What will people look forward to each week?

What will they leave in the refrigerator until they finally admit they're not going to eat it?

How much time will harvesting, washing, packing, baking, and organizing everything actually take?

And perhaps most importantly: Is this a model that works for the people receiving the shares and for us, the producers?

I could spend considerably more time trying to answer those questions before starting.

Instead, I'm jumping in.

Not with 40 subscribers, or an elaborate system.

I can promise you I haven't figured it all out and i have a bit of nerves. 

I'm grateful to the handful of people who have agreed to come along for the ride, three weeks' time, and permission to learn.

That's Experiment #1.

Experiment #2: Revisit a conversation about the future.

This week, we're also posting a Planting Progress conversation with futurist Julienne DeVita to our YouTube channel.

When we recorded the conversation, we talked about futures thinking—not predicting the future as though there's one inevitable destination waiting for us, but considering the different futures that might be possible.

Revisiting that conversation while preparing these first CSA shares has made me realize that my two experiments are similar.

I'm not trying to predict the future of the Ileria Farms CSA.

I'm putting one possible version of it into the world.

Then I'm going to pay attention.

Maybe people will love having a baked good tucked into their box.

Maybe they'll want more vegetables instead.

Maybe $33 a week will feel exactly right—or maybe it won't.

Maybe Friday market pickup will be wonderfully convenient for some people and impossible for others.

Maybe I'll discover that something I thought would be difficult is easy.

Maybe something I barely considered will turn out to be the hardest part.

All of that is information.

And information changes what becomes possible next.

We tend to talk about the future as something that happens to us.

We prepare for it.

We worry about it.

We try to predict it.

But we also participate in creating it.

Every decision we make now opens some possibilities and closes others. And sometimes the only way to learn whether a possible future is worth pursuing is to try a small version of it.

Try it in your personal life or at work.

Instead of waiting until every detail of a new idea is resolved, we can ask: What's the smallest meaningful version we could try?

Try it.

Pay attention.

Ask people what they experienced.

Notice what surprised us.

Keep what works.

Change what doesn't.

Then try again.

That isn't the absence of strategy.

It can be a way of developing strategy.

So this week, one part of my work has me listening to a conversation about imagining possible futures.

Another has me washing vegetables and figuring out what goes into a share.

Turns out, they're not so far apart.

Three weeks from now, I'll know more than I know today.

The CSA may change.

I hope it does.

Because the purpose of an experiment isn't to prove that your first idea was right.

It's to help you see what might be possible next.

Twenty Bags at a Time

Every week, I pull up at Zeke's Coffee and leave with a car full of empty burlap sacks.

Twenty usually, thirty if I'm lucky.

The sacks once held coffee beans from Kenya, Guatemala, Peru, Rwanda, Indonesia, Colombia, and others. By the time I get them, they've fulfilled their purpose. The beans are headed toward someone's morning brew, and the bags themselves no longer needed.

That's where I come in.

I take them to Beltsville and lay them along the walking paths between our planting beds.

This sounds like a reasonably manageable project until I tell you that we have twelve 100-foot beds.

That's 1,200 feet of beds with pathways between them, plus the perimeter of the quarter-acre plot.

I have a lot of ground to cover.

Literally.

So I've stopped thinking about finishing it.

I pick up the sacks. I lay down what I have. I come back another week and do a little more.

And I'm delighted by the whole arrangement.

Zeke's has something it doesn't need. I need something I don't have to buy. The farm gets a natural covering for its pathways without my putting down plastic or synthetic landscape fabric. Over time, the natural burlap will deteriorate and return organic material to the land.

It's wonderfully low-tech.

It also makes me wonder how many useful exchanges we miss simply because we don't know what the person down the street—or the organization across town—is finished with.

Maybe your cardboard is someone else's garden mulch. The desk a company no longer needs could furnish a new nonprofit's first office. The suit hanging untouched in someone's closet could become another person's interview outfit. Books we've finished can begin conversations in entirely different homes.

And not everything worth circulating is a thing.

Sometimes we have knowledge, time, connections, or experience that isn't particularly useful to us at the moment but could make an enormous difference to someone else.

Maybe the question isn't simply, What can I do with what I no longer need?

Maybe it's also, Who might need what I already have?

Those burlap sacks once carried coffee beans from somewhere far away to a neighborhood roaster in Washington, D.C.

Now they're slowly becoming walking paths on our farm in Beltsville.

There is something satisfying about that circle—especially during the week of National Coffee Day.

So here's a shoutout to our neighbors at Zeke's Coffee, and a thank-you for saying yes to a simple question:

“What are you doing with those bags?”

As for the pathways, I'm nowhere close to finished.

I'll be back for another 20.