Who in the World is “Modern” Technology for?

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

I’m on a tear about technology today. It started this morning at work when I was asked to make two calendars from one our workgroup has on SharePoint. Simple enough, right? Make a new calendar, move what’s needed, and delete it from the old.

But no. It’s not that simple.

Without going into all kinds of boring details, there’s no longer a clear button to create a new calendar (which, by the way, used to be hidden—and knowing how to find that one was a feat in itself).

Now there are new apps that don’t even have names a normal human would recognize. After spending far too long searching, I found a “calendar-looking” app. I clicked on it and was asked to request access. Then I was given a link to check the status of my request.

About ten minutes later, I got an email from IT about my request. The app wasn’t approved yet—but I received another link to a help page for finding apps. That’s where I learned there’s a link to the “Classics.”

The classics are documents, calendars, announcements, group chats…

The classics? You mean what real, living, breathing employees actually use? Am I that old?

I just can’t with this stuff.

I thought I had finally learned how to use my “smart” TV. I know what the remotes do, how to add and delete apps, subscribe to channels—things my older family members still struggle with. Maybe my kids have it figured out, but I’m not so sure.

Then I went to watch a few holiday movies I had purchased. Turns out Fandango, where I bought them, had been sold. I spent about an hour trying to find my account, reset passwords, and locate my “purchased content.”

I never found it.

We just ended up watching what was free.

What was so wrong with owning something you could hold in your hand and keep in your cabinet? I still don’t know what happened to the movies I paid for.

My car is a 2017 Prius. It has a touchscreen and built-in navigation that never seems to work. Or when it does, I can’t figure out how to turn it off. I’ve tried every button, every option—there is no “End Route” or anything like it.

Sometimes Siri works. Sometimes it doesn’t.

I probably don’t know 80% of what my car can do. And this car is already years old. I don’t even want to think about what newer models can do that I’d never figure out.

Every time I get into my husband’s Tesla, I can’t even find the button I need because updates have moved everything around.

I look around and I don’t see many people using all these features with ease.

And when I do figure something out—it stops working.

I programmed Alexa with a morning routine, but the news app kept cutting out halfway through. It worked for a few days, then stopped. I changed the news source—same thing.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tried to play a song or album I know I purchased, only to find it gone from iTunes.

Family Share barely works. Apps don’t transfer. Music doesn’t show up. I’ve spent an unreasonable amount of time trying to make it work.

What is it even for?

We had a smart oven for a short time. The buttons were so sensitive that brushing it with your sleeve could turn it off. One of our cats walked across it and turned it on.

There was a lock feature—but then the “smart” features didn’t work.

I still don’t know why we bought a smart oven.

Same with our smart lights. They constantly unlink from the system. When you just want to turn on a light and forget the programming, they blink uncontrollably.

At that point, your options are:

  • sit in the dark
  • or pull out your phone and spend 5–10 minutes fixing it

We also have a Wi-Fi-enabled dryer. I have no idea how to use that feature—or why I would.

At work, I’ve seen hundreds of really useful tools built over the years—things that genuinely made life easier. But most of them have broken over time due to updates, moved systems, or lost knowledge when someone left.

I spend more time trying to fix what used to work than creating anything new.

Even here—on WordPress, where I’m writing this—I feel the same way. Every time I log in, something has moved or changed names. I’ve been using this platform since 2015, and all I really know how to do is write a post.

I know it can do so much more—but every time I try to learn, I hit a wall and give up.

This just isn’t cool.

This is a colossal waste of time.

The world is getting too complicated, and regular people can’t—and don’t want to—keep up with the constant changes forced on us.

Can we just… slow down?

Competition drives faster and faster innovation—but for what?

Just because we can create something doesn’t mean we should.

It reminds me of the industrial revolution. We figured out how to produce more and more, faster and faster. Then we created marketing to convince people they needed it all.

Now we work more to afford things we never needed in the first place.

Life didn’t necessarily get better because our homes got bigger and our possessions multiplied.

Maybe we need to pause.

Technology for consumers isn’t working as well as we think. People haven’t caught up—and honestly, the products haven’t either.

I wish the tech world would stop creating new things for a while and focus on making what already exists actually work.

I know humans thrive on innovation. Henry Ford said, “If I had asked people what they wanted, they would have said faster horses.”

But right now, it feels like we skipped right past cars and are handing people spaceships they don’t know how to fly.

Honestly—if I’m someone with a master’s degree, living in a first-world country, and still struggling to keep up…

Who exactly are we building all this technology for?

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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On International Women’s Day

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

If you aren’t outraged, you aren’t paying attention.

I have to admit—I had never really heard of International Women’s Day either. My initial reaction wasn’t great, but I started looking into it. It’s been around since 1909. Really? It was first celebrated in New York City, and the date later moved to March 8th when it was recognized more broadly. It’s been around for over 100 years and somehow never fully caught on here. Maybe it’s about time.

When I thought about it beyond that first reaction, I started to feel something closer to outrage. To everyone who made fun of the day or felt the need to post something snarky—have you ever stopped to consider why it exists?

In the United States, we still lag behind many developed countries in policies that support families. Paid maternity leave is limited. Paid paternal leave is not standard. Many women still earn less than men in similar roles. Representation in leadership and government positions remains uneven. And culturally, women are still often portrayed in narrow ways that shape expectations from a very young age.

Globally, the gaps are even more striking. Women make up half the population, yet hold a much smaller percentage of leadership roles. Many still face violence, limited access to education, and restrictions on basic freedoms. These realities are not abstract—they affect real people, every day.

So when people dismiss something like International Women’s Day, it makes me pause.

Why is this acceptable?

Why are these things normalized?

Some might say women make different choices—that they step away from careers, take fewer risks, or prioritize family. But why is that the structure we’ve accepted? Why does raising children—future members of society—come at such a high personal and financial cost?

Most families I know didn’t choose daycare because they preferred it. They chose it because they had to. To pay bills. To survive. And for those who stay home, there are tradeoffs too—financial, professional, long-term.

This isn’t just a personal issue. It’s a societal one.

You would think the federal government might set a stronger example. On paper, it often does. In practice, that hasn’t been my experience.

I’ve worked for the federal government for over two decades—active duty, reserve, and civilian. When I got pregnant in 2006 while in the military, I applied for what was described as a generous unpaid leave program. My situation was straightforward—we had no childcare support, and both my husband and I had schedules that made coverage nearly impossible.

It was denied.

No real explanation beyond “I was needed.”

I returned to work after six weeks. There was no place to pump, so I didn’t breastfeed. A coworker’s wife helped watch my son. People were shocked the request had been denied. It worked out—but it easily could have not.

A few years later, when it came time to reenlist, I wanted to stay in. I had strong performance reviews and had advanced quickly. We asked for a reasonable accommodation—one of us needed to be stationed somewhere that didn’t require overnight duty so we could care for our child.

It wasn’t considered.

I was told it was my turn for ship duty. End of discussion.

I left active duty.

Another motivated woman out of the workforce.

Years later, in my civilian role, I saw similar patterns. Flexible schedules, job sharing, alternative work arrangements—all things that exist on paper. In practice, they were rare.

After 22 years of consistent, high-level performance, I asked for an alternative schedule to manage burnout and maintain balance.

The answer was no.

No clear explanation. No real discussion. Just… no.

When I pushed for clarity, the response wasn’t transparency—it was subtle resistance. Enough to feel it, not enough to prove it.

Eventually, I left that role.

Another motivated employee gone.

This isn’t just about me. It’s about a pattern.

At some point, you start to ask—where is the accountability? Why don’t these issues feel more visible, more urgent?

Why aren’t we talking about them more openly?

Why aren’t we asking for better?

And beyond our own borders—why aren’t we paying more attention to the realities women face in other parts of the world?

This isn’t about comparison or competition. It’s about awareness.

Because inequality isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s quiet. Built into systems. Accepted over time.

So maybe International Women’s Day isn’t something to dismiss.

Maybe it’s simply a reminder.

To pause.

To notice.

To ask better questions.

To consider what still needs to change.

Because if we don’t, it’s very easy to assume everything is fine.

And often, it isn’t.

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How to squash a motivated employee

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

I’ve lost my mojo at work.

I’ve known it for a while, but this morning it really hit me. I was standing in my closet, wrapped in this oversized gray robe I bought on a whim at Target. It was warm. Comfortable. Easy. And getting dressed for work felt like effort I didn’t have.

My clothes—once something I took pride in—just hung there. Waiting. They suddenly felt stiff. Confining. They represented something I was starting to resist.

Work.

I’ve always loved work. I’ve always taken pride in what I do—whether it was scooping ice cream, solving a customer issue, or building dashboards. I’ve always wanted to make things better. To go above and beyond. To leave people better than I found them.

I didn’t need recognition. I got enough satisfaction from doing things well.

Looking back, I was deeply self-motivated. I built my education piece by piece—CLEP exams, online courses, degrees—while raising kids and working. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but it took drive. A lot of it.

And for over two decades, I brought that same energy to my work.

Not because I wanted to climb the ladder. I didn’t. I never aspired to senior leadership. I wanted balance. I wanted to be present for my kids. I wanted to do meaningful work from whatever seat I was in—and then go home and live my life.

And for a long time, that worked.

Until it didn’t.

A couple of years ago, I took a new role. It was a chance to grow, to build something new. There was no clear structure, no defined path—but I saw potential. So I created direction. I built a small, motivated team. I floated ideas, got approval, and we moved forward.

But over time, something became clear.

The support wasn’t real.

The ideas were approved—but not understood. And when challenges came, the support disappeared. Decisions were reversed. Priorities shifted. Conversations that needed to happen never did.

I wasn’t growing anymore. I was managing noise.

And for the first time in my life, I started to dread going to work.

It felt… pointless.

Waking up tired. Getting dressed in clothes that didn’t feel like me. Driving in to sit at a desk and move things around without actually moving anything forward.

Meanwhile, my life outside of work was getting fuller and more demanding. A blended family. Four teenagers. Real life.

So I asked a simple question:

Could I work part-time?

The answer came quickly: “Absolutely. We’d do anything to keep you.”

But then… nothing.

Weeks turned into months. Promises were made, then quietly undone. I adjusted my schedule, continued delivering, met every request—and still, no real answer.

If I had been told upfront that it wasn’t possible, I would have made a different decision. Instead, I stayed in limbo.

And something in me shut down.

Motivation doesn’t disappear overnight. It erodes.

Not too long ago, I couldn’t understand how people became disengaged at work. I saw colleagues who seemed checked out, counting down to retirement, and I didn’t get it.

Now I do.

It’s not laziness.

It’s what happens when effort and impact become disconnected. When leadership lacks clarity, consistency, or follow-through. When people who care stop seeing a reason to.

All the things I studied—leadership, motivation, organizational development—they’re not abstract concepts. They matter. A lot.

The right people in the right roles. Clear communication. Follow-through. Support.

Without those, even the most motivated people start to disengage.

And once that happens, it’s hard to get back.

At some point, I realized something else:

It’s not just about the organization.

It’s about fit.

I’m no longer a good fit here.

And that’s okay—but it also means something needs to change.

Because sitting in a role where I feel like an observer instead of a contributor isn’t sustainable. Not for my mental health. Not for my sense of purpose.

I don’t need perfection. I don’t need constant praise.

But I do need to feel like what I’m doing matters.

Right now, it doesn’t.

And that’s the hardest part.

How do you squash a motivated employee?

  • Ask them to do as you say, not as you do.
  • Ignore their track record when they make a reasonable request.
  • Avoid real conversations about expectations.
  • Give them goals they’ve already surpassed.
  • Approve ideas, then withdraw support when it matters.
  • Don’t follow up. Don’t engage. Don’t lead.
  • Take everything they’re willing to give.
  • Give nothing in return.

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On a Disjointed Life

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

This blog is mostly in response to one my husband Daren wrote a few weeks back: https://darenamd.wordpress.com/2016/07/23/on-the-value-of-rituals/

We did chat about it that day in a coffee shop, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. One of the reasons rituals are so meaningful is because they trace something back to its roots and honor it in its entirety. But nothing really exists alone in its entirety. Anyone who is Facebook friends with me (and paying attention) has probably seen the quote I’ve had on my profile for years:

“When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe.” — John Muir

I love that quote. I’ve used it in conversations and presentations in many forms. We can trace almost everything—including ourselves—back to the stars. We and everything around us are made of star stuff (thank you, Carl Sagan, for that one). If we really sit with that idea, it can feel like either nothing at all or complete chaos. But when we narrow our focus too much—when we isolate one piece—we lose sight of the beauty of how it all ties together. And we feel alone.

Our brains need to draw lines to make sense of things. But those lines also need to stop somewhere manageable so we can understand what we’re looking at. What I think is happening now is that the lines we draw are becoming smaller and smaller.

Take a shoemaker 150 years ago. He had a small shop in the center of town. People came to him for their shoes. He knew his customers. Everyone in that town had a role, and they supported one another through trade, barter, or money. There was a sense of connection—of being part of something whole.

That shoemaker made each pair from start to finish. He knew where the materials came from and how they came together. Every stitch, every sole—his hands touched all of it. When he walked through town, he saw his work on people’s feet. There was pride, connection, and meaning. Making shoes was a ritual. The lines were drawn around the whole process, and that process was tied to community and to people.

Then machines came. Assembly lines broke the process apart—not just for shoes, but for nearly everything. The lines became smaller. Instead of making a shoe, someone made a sole. Or hammered the same piece over and over. The ritual was lost. The connection to the final product faded.

Supply chains expanded. We no longer see what we make or who it serves. Many people leave their towns, commute long distances, and spend their days doing work they feel little connection to. Ironically, as the world becomes more connected, we become more disconnected—from what we do, from where things come from, and from each other.

I love Daren’s example of the record player. Playing music used to be a ritual. There was anticipation in setting it up, in placing the needle, in waiting. That effort made the experience richer. Now, with every song available instantly, I don’t enjoy music the same way.

The same goes for coffee. There was something meaningful in grinding beans and making it by hand. The waiting was part of the enjoyment. Now we grab coffee from a drive-through or a machine, often without even thinking—sometimes multiple times a day. And somehow, it feels like less.

Our on-the-go lifestyle has started to strip the pleasure out of everyday life. We’re less connected to what we do, to what we consume, and to the people around us. We start to see ourselves as separate instead of part of a whole.

Unless you own your own business, many of us feel little connection to the mission of our work. We become parts in a machine, disconnected from the outcome—and sometimes from our own humanness.

I see it in myself. I walk through the VA facility where I work, passing patients in the hallway, and sometimes I experience them as obstacles—something in the way of where I need to go next. Already late. Moving quickly. It’s only when something interrupts my routine—like having to go to another floor—that I notice the waiting rooms, the check-ins, the people. It’s only then that I remember I work in a hospital.

That feels like a symptom of something that’s gone wrong.

I wasn’t around in the days of the shoemaker, but I’ve experienced enough of the “in-between” to feel the shift—record players, cassettes, CDs… even watching my mom grind coffee beans at the store and then make coffee at home. There was more presence in it. More enjoyment.

Now everything is faster, smaller, more efficient. But to what end?

We’re doing more and more, faster and faster. But are we actually enjoying it more? Are we happier?

I’m not.

And maybe I’m not alone.

I don’t think this means rejecting the world we live in—but maybe it means choosing, in small ways, to step out of the rush. To slow down where we can. To reconnect with process, with ritual, with the bigger picture.

I find myself wanting that more and more.

Less speed. More meaning. More connection.

A return—not backwards—but inward.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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