The proposal

Zelda: Back in May, a professional group I follow put out a call for proposals. They had an upcoming conference in Berlin, and they needed speakers. Nine years ago I’d spoken at one of their conferences in Prague, and Zach had gone with me. The talk went well, and Zach and I had a ball exploring the Czech republic together. We even had an unexpected reunion with a nephew and his family, who coincidentally, happened to be staying in the heart of old town, in the same Air B&B as us. That was 8 months before Zach’s cancer diagnosis, and three years before the COVID pandemic. Given everything that's happened since, there's no way I’d be able to do something like that again, is there?

Of course not. There'd be too much to do. I’d have to come up with an idea, write a strong proposal, get it accepted, get Zach on board, get my managers on board, prepare the presentation, travel to Berlin, and present the talk—in person—to a live audience. And I’d have to do it all while keeping up with increasing responsibilities at work and home. 

With all those variables, the biggest wild card would be Zach. In the past, he would have traveled with me, and we would have toured Berlin together. But there was no way to know how he’d be feeling in 3 months, and he would always be my top priority. If he needed me home, I simply couldn’t go. It was too much to even consider, and I let the idea fade into the archive of missed opportunities.

A few weeks later, the group sent a final reminder: Proposals were due in 3 days. I work best under the pressure of deadlines, and slivers of light started to dance in my brain. 

If I was going to give a talk, what would it be about? What interests me most at this particular moment in time, in my career, in life? What would be compelling enough for the organizing committee to invite me to speak? And what topic could possibly keep the audience awake, or dare I say, on the edge of their seats? It would have to be something big; something worthy of all the time and energy it would take to pull it together. 

AI was top of mind, of course. But that was becoming well-worn territory, and the committee’s instructions specifically said they would be limiting the number of talks about AI and its impact on our profession. 

But what if I took a different approach? I’d been hearing that AI would handle routine tasks so that we humans could focus on the more important stuff. In a way, that’s reassuring: It lets us feel superior: like what we’re doing is more challenging, meaningful, and impactful than anything AI does. And it gives us the sense—or illusion—that we humans are vital and in control. 

But what, exactly, is the more important stuff? How do we go about finding it? And once we find it, how do we go about accomplishing it? 

The slivers of light became beams, and they picked up speed as they danced in my brain. To accomplish anything big, or achieve an ambitious goal, you need to develop a vision, which you can’t do if all your time and resources are consumed by routine tasks. And you can’t allow yourself to get overwhelmed by everything  you need to do to reach the goal. 

So, if you want to achieve extraordinary things, and thrive in this new world of AI, you need a different mindset. You need a moonshot mindset.

I had my concept. Moonshots compel us to think big, have confidence, and be bold. To look up from our day-to-day tasks to find that higher inspiration, and focus on the most important things. They help us develop “a healthy disregard for the impossible” and provide a framework to pursue our dreams: To defy gravity, shoot for the moon, and reach for the stars.

The proposal came together quickly after that, and I submitted it just before the deadline. A few days later, the committee responded. They accepted my proposal and invited me to speak at the conference in Berlin in September. 

I would have 3 months to develop the talk. It was an ambitious goal, and the first real-world test of my moonshot mindset theory. 

I let the committee know I was in. 

I did not tell Zach right away.