It’s easy to lose sight of your objective.

When I did focus group moderator training in the early 90s, the trainer made a point I’ve never forgotten. In qualitative research, everything you do must be driven by the research objectives. This is a lesson I pass on whenever I mentor new qualitative researchers – the research objectives are your North Star. They inform every aspect of the research: the research specifications, the screening questionnaire, the discussion guide, the stimuli, the analysis, everything.

This idea seems so basic that you’d think it doesn’t even need to be said. But it does. As the philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche once wrote, “to forget one’s purpose is the commonest form of stupidity.” It’s easy to lose track of why you’re doing what you’re doing and get distracted by considerations unrelated to your goal.

Remember Kodak? It used to be one of the world’s great brands. The company invented the digital camera in the mid 1970s. However, it failed to develop this technology, despite its potential to revolutionize photography. Rather than staying true to its objective of remaining dominant in photography, the company instead chose to protect its film business. We all know how this story ends: Kodak declared bankruptcy in 2012.

When I start a qualitative study, my first order of business is to ask about the research objectives. Have they been fully articulated and agreed to by all stakeholders? Are they actionable and specific? If detailed objectives don’t exist, that’s job one.

Even with solid objectives, it’s easy to get sidetracked by transient, sometimes urgent complications. As the saying goes, “when you’re up to your ass in alligators, it’s difficult to remember that your initial objective was to drain the swamp.”

It’s common, once qualitative research is underway, to see unrelated questions added to the research because ‘we’re here anyway.’ A few years ago, I was conducting shop-along interviews. Our objective was to evaluate the visibility and strategic appropriateness of on-shelf signage.

Midway through the project, the brand team decided to test new package designs. Before we knew it, this took over the study, leaving no room for the original objectives. Fortunately, the research director restored order before things went completely off the rails.

This principle has implications beyond the qualitative research or business worlds. It’s easy to get diverted by external factors. Social pressures can undermine your focus. People who don’t understand your goals or share your passions can push you off your path. Nietzsche believed succumbing to such pressures to be a betrayal of one’s individuality and true purpose, and that only by committing fully to our purpose can we truly flourish.

So, as best you can, ignore the alligators and pay attention to Herr Nietzsche. Don’t lose sight of your purpose – it’s how you achieve success.

Thanks for all the emails and comments on my last newsletter on fear. Those led to interesting conversations, some of which focused on hope.

This isn’t surprising; hope and fear are two sides of the same coin. As a qualitative researcher, I pay close attention to hopes and fears. They are the two key attributes of an anticipation mindset – looking to the future with either anxiety or optimism. Anytime a research participant says something that sounds like one of those, I immediately dig into it. I’ve learned that, at the core of hopes and fears, lie beliefs. Beliefs are key – they drive everything we think and do. As philosopher and neuroscientist Sam Harris has written:

“A belief is a lever that, once pulled, moves almost everything in a person’s life.”

Sam is right – beliefs drive perceptions, decisions, and behaviors. I once conducted research among individuals who – despite having high blood pressure – weren’t taking the drugs they’d been prescribed. A number of factors drove this noncompliance, but a big one was fear. Some had specific fears: “my aunt fell and got a concussion because her meds made her blood pressure too low.” Others had non-specific fears: “I just worry about side effects.”

Both of these fears were rooted in a belief. The first participant believed – with good reason – that too high a dose can lead to hypotension, which increases the risk of fainting and falling. The second had a vague belief that “they don’t test these medicines enough.” He couldn’t cite any facts to support this belief, but that didn’t matter – it was real to him.

Sometimes we forgo things that would clearly benefit us due to irrational fears: enriching travel, leaving a bad job or a dysfunctional relationship, or avoiding an important medical therapy. And sometimes we get into patterns of self-destructive behaviors because we’re hoping that … ‘this time it’ll be different.’

That common wisdom about the definition of insanity – doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result – rings true. At the core of this sort of behavior generally lies an irrational hope … ‘maybe this time around Lucy won’t pull the football away.’

Hopes and fears can serve as a way of coping with uncertainty or adversity, and are valuable if kept in their place. But we need to be aware of them, lest they lead to bad decisions. It’s a good practice to interrogate our hopes and fears, particularly when they seem to be influencing our behavior. Where do they come from? Are they rational? Upon what beliefs are they based? Should we allow them to drive our behavior in this situation? The answers to those hard questions can help guide us to better decisions.

Don’t look now, but the holidays are almost upon us. 

This is a wonderful time of the year, but it can also be difficult. So I make a point of remembering a couple of key principles – in fact, I have something that helps me remember them.  I call it my “reminder stone,” and it helps me focus on two important things:

The first is that nobody’s life is perfect – we all face challenges. As Broadway great Elaine Stritch used to say, “everybody’s got a sack of rocks.” You could say that my little blue stone represents one of those rocks. It reminds me to be empathetic and forgiving because, as the minister Ian Maclaren once wrote: “be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.” I actually wrote a piece a couple of years ago that touches on this issue. My friend and colleague Cheryl Stella Dalisay gave a wonderful talk on this topic recently at the QRCA Worldwide Conference in Lisbon.

Secondly, the stone reminds me that our time on this earth is finite. Not to get morbid, but death – being a part of life – is never far away. There’s a practice of putting a stone on a grave marker when you visit. There is also the tradition, going at least as far back as ancient Greece, of the memento mori – a tangible reminder of the inevitability of death. And bear in mind that contemplating demise doesn’t need to be depressing. In fact, it can be one of the most life-affirming things you can do – maybe even more than my mushroom soup. Remembering that our time here doesn’t last forever can serve as a cue to embrace the now, to focus on making the world a better place for everybody, to devote as much time as possible to the things you love, and to spend time with the people most important to you.

So that’s why I carry a small stone in my pocket. During this holiday season, remembering these two principles could serve to make what can be a challenging time of year a bit easier. Consider acquiring some sort of tangible reminder yourself. It doesn’t have to be a stone – it could be a coin, a shell, a pearl-handled derringer, anything. If you adopt this practice – or already do it – please let me know. I’d love to learn about your memento mori and what it represents to you.

Not long ago, I was conducting qualitative research showing advertising storyboards.  During the first few groups I listened passively while the participants explained their reactions. I didn’t know what to expect, so I wanted to be open to whatever was said. In contrast, for the last couple of groups, because by then I had a good idea of what responses were likely, I listened in a much more anticipatory manner. I had a number of probe and follow up questions at the ready, and kept them in mind as I was listening.

My martial arts teacher for the past 30 years, Grandmaster Alan Simms, says there are two kinds of waiting: active and passive waiting. In martial arts, active waiting is when you’re looking for a specific opening and poised to exploit it immediately. Passive waiting is more defensive. You pay close attention to your opponent, but with no specific plan of response in mind. Rather, you are relaxed, observant, open to all possibilities and prepared to react to whatever your opponent does.

Both are valid approaches in martial arts, and also in conversation—it just depends on the purpose of the conversation you’re having.

I find that, as a qualitative researcher, I usually lean more towards the passive end of the spectrum, meaning that I’m highly engaged in listening, and open to whatever participants say. However, there’s a role for being more active, such as in the advertising research described above.

This principle also applies to everyday life. When having conversations with friends and colleagues, I really try to be as fully engaged in listening as I can. Sometimes this is hard, particularly when I disagree with somebody. But I do my best, as fully engaged listening is essential to respectful and productive dialogue. However, when I’m on the phone with customer support, and I know exactly what problem I’m trying to solve, I generally wait more actively.

It’s important to remember that this isn’t a binary thing, it’s a continuum. People are rarely completely actively or passively waiting. Rather, they’re somewhere between the two. The art lies in knowing where on that spectrum to be.

Meaningful conversation is complicated and challenging. It demands a series of skills, including  knowing when to listen, knowing when and how to wait, and knowing when to talk. There’s an art to it. As with all art, you combine instinct, practice, and time-developed skills to master it.

I was sixteen, taking a driving lesson and trying to turn left onto a busy street.

After waiting for what seemed like an eternity for a break in the traffic, I expressed my frustration to my driving teacher, Mr. Silbernagel. He replied, “if you can’t make the left, then just turn right. We’ll find another way to get where we’re going.”

A wise, patient and fearless man, Mr. Silbernagel. I’ve remembered this wisdom ever since, and have applied it to many situations.

For instance, I’ve learned that when conducting qualitative research, it’s important not to get hung up on a specific question or exercise. Sometimes the most beautifully crafted query or creative technique falls flat. At which point, I focus on the information I’m seeking and figure out another way to get it.

I’ve also learned that it’s counterproductive to push too hard to get research participants to talk about sensitive topics. Recently, I was interviewing patients suffering from a particularly debilitating mental health condition. I’d planned to broach the topic of their disorder early in the interview. However, I learned that unless I allowed the participants to bring up their condition first, the interview was not going to go well. We ended up having more small talk at the beginning of the interviews than I would have preferred, but allowing the participants to bring up their condition on their own timing got us where we needed to go.

This wisdom has helped me as a parent as well. Not getting too focused on one specific means of achieving a goal – focusing instead on the goal itself and being flexible regarding the method – is often essential to success. My wife and I both eventually figured out that, if our kids wanted to do some of their homework after dinner rather than right after school, it didn’t matter, as long as it got done.

So, next time you’re having trouble metaphorically turning left, take a leap into the unknown and metaphorically turn right instead – focus on the goal, and be flexible about the means. You’ll find another way to get where you need to go, and it might even work out better than the way you’d planned.