One of the most rewarding moments in my federal government career came when I helped my boss, Michael Huerta, wrap up his tenure as the head of the Federal Aviation Administration.

About six months before his term ended, we started thinking about what he wanted to say to the industry—and the FAA workforce—about a period in aviation history defined by complexity, pressure, and change.

The theme we kept coming back to was collaboration: how it was the foundation for good decision-making, the superpower of our agency, and the reason aviation became the safest form of transportation in the world.

The power of collaboration became the thread that tied together his final address at the Aero Club of Washington, as well as his final town hall with employees. And the next year, when Michael returned to FAA Headquarters for the dedication of the MacCracken/Huerta Collaboration Center, I knew the message had endured.

But not because we wrote the right remarks for the right moments.

Michael had been building his legacy long before I got there, and long before he even got to the FAA. He’d made a career on bringing people together around problems too complex for any one leader, agency, or point of view to solve alone. He listened carefully, worked across differences, and treated collaboration as a standard for effective leadership.

Here’s what I learned: Communication can help name a leader’s legacy. It can frame the story and make it easier for others to remember and carry forward. But it can’t manufacture a narrative that wasn’t being built all along.

Now, when I work with executives, I ask them to begin at the end:

When this chapter is over, what should be meaningfully different because you were here?

It often feels like an unnatural question, especially for leaders who are still new to the role. Asking them how they want to leave can feel premature when they’re still figuring out how to begin.

But that’s exactly why the question matters. When a leader enters a role, there are endless demands on their attention: listening tours, board expectations, employee concerns, cultural issues, urgent fires to put out, and long-term goals to pursue. And everyone around them has an agenda. Their own idea of what matters most. A punch list of what needs fixing.

At the same time, the pressure to show momentum is real. New leaders are expected to explain their vision, deliver early wins, reassure stakeholders, and prove the organization is moving in the right direction.

None of this is wrong or unexpected. Of course leaders have to juggle multiple priorities and earn the confidence of their organizations.

But activity shouldn’t be mistaken for progress.

This is where a legacy lens becomes useful. It asks a leader to ignore the noise, think beyond the next performance cycle, and instead identify the biggest contribution this chapter is meant to make. It asks:

What is the one thing your organization most needs from you? Not just from any capable leader, but from you specifically?

Are you there to rebuild trust? To restore discipline? To lead a transformation? To make the organization more courageous? More resilient? More innovative?

A professional tombstone only has room for so many words. A legacy lens cuts to the chase, separating the urgent from the essential. It doesn’t dismiss the need for early wins, but it does hold them to a higher standard.

Keeping an eye on legacy from day one has another benefit: it keeps you focused on people.

Legacy ultimately lives with the people who worked alongside you. They are the ones who will remember you, talk about you, repeat your language, carry forward your standards, and decide what your leadership meant to them and to the organization.

And they will remember the whole story. So if you were an asshole, there will always be an asterisk next to what you accomplished and a caveat attached to your name.

He always beat his numbers… but he never gave his team credit.

She could command a room… but people were afraid to walk into her office.

They led the transformation… but left everyone exhausted and distrustful.

Now, I’m not saying leaders should aim for universal adoration. There’s no pleasing everyone, and freeing yourself from that expectation is its own battle. But there’s no result so impressive that it can escape the human experience of building it.

Ultimately, legacy has to remain a live question throughout a leader’s tenure. And this is where communicators can provide real value.

When gaps open between a desired story and what’s actually being done, it can be difficult for leaders to see it themselves. And it can be even harder to find someone willing to hold up the mirror. The higher you rise, the more likely you are to be surrounded by people trying to curry favor, soften bad news, or manage their own agendas.

A good communicator’s only agenda is aligning the leader, the audience, and the truth of the moment. This can help leaders see when their message is outrunning the evidence and where stakeholders may be hearing something different than intended.

That kind of honesty helps close the distance between the impact leaders imagine on day one and the legacy they actually leave behind.

Pluck: The Courage and Craft Behind Great Communication is produced by Justine Adelizzi, a strategic communications advisor and award-winning speechwriter. She is the founder of Pluck Works, a consultancy that helps executives and senior communicators translate bold ideas into messages that resonate.

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I fear commencement addresses are wasted on the young.

Think about it: we gather people at the very beginning of adulthood and hand them this sweeping wisdom about how to build a life and career. But for most graduates, it arrives too early. In fact, commencement addresses often end up resonating more with the parents than the students.

Why? I think it comes down to experience. For wisdom to really land, you need to have lived. You need to be ten, fifteen, twenty years in—far enough along to have seen some things, but not so far that changing directions feels impossible.

What we need is some ceremony for mid-career. For the people who are accomplished, but tired. Still ambitious, but also a little disillusioned. Over the romantic possibilities of their early years, but not quite ready for the legacy language of retirement.

In that spirit, I offer a few words for my fellow communicators in the thick of the middle.

Outgrow the version of you that got rewarded early

At the beginning of your career, having a can-do attitude gets you noticed fast. You come in early, stay late. You work fast, pitch in, say yes. You’re no drama, a team player, a miracle worker.

By mid-career, all that may have landed you a few promotions. But it’s also gotten you the workload of three people, bland feedback about not being “strategic” enough, and an ulcer your doctor is keeping an eye on.

The traits that get rewarded early are not always the ones that carry you forward. When stakes are high and decisions are hard, the job starts asking for more—candor, backbone, judgment, and a willingness to create productive friction.

Some tables are too expensive

Early career is all about getting a seat at the table. Access and influence are prized above all else. You fantasize about being in the room where important decisions are made.

By mid-career, you’ve learned what some of those seats can cost. Sometimes the buy-in is mindless support. Sometimes it’s silence. Sometimes it’s pretending not to notice when your judgment is being sidelined or your values are being negotiated away.

Because the table still looks impressive from the outside, you may be tempted to stay longer than you should. But if keeping a seat requires you to become a smaller, quieter, less honest version of yourself, it’s too expensive.

Go out while they’re still applauding

When you’re just starting your career, it’s easy to think in extremes. A role is either your dream job or the start of a crushing identity crisis. The right time to leave is either when the next opportunity is undeniable or the current one has become intolerable.

By mid-career, the trap looks different. Nothing is obviously wrong. The work is solid. The people are fine. You know how to do the job, and the job rewards you just enough to keep you coming back. But comfort isn’t a good enough reason to stay once you’ve outgrown a situation.

A job doesn’t have to be toxic for it to be complete. Sometimes the best way to honor a chapter is to recognize when it’s given you what it can. Better to leave while your reputation is intact and before your ambition dims. As one of my old bosses, Secretary Ray LaHood, used to say: go out while they’re still applauding.

Don’t try to be the answer to every question

Early in your career, it makes sense to be flexible. You’re trying to gain experience and prove you can do the work. So you tweak your résumé, mirror the language of the job posting, and learn how to present yourself as the solution to whatever problem your potential employer has.

By mid-career, that strategy starts to work against you. If you can’t tell the difference between an available opportunity and a compatible opportunity, you risk underselling yourself or signing up for work that makes poor use of your real strengths.

Don’t try to be the answer to every question. Be clear about the problems you solve best, the value you bring, and the work that is actually worthy of your time.

Define enough for yourself

Early in your career, you want more. More money. More experience. More responsibility. It makes sense: you’re at the starting line. Forward is the only direction you know.

By mid-career, that instinct needs a counterweight. If all you know how to do is chase more, you will never arrive anywhere that feels like enough. There will always be another title, another paycheck, another stage that seems like it might finally quiet the hunger. It won’t.

Ambition isn’t bad, but unmanaged ambition is exhausting. Decide what you’re working for, what kind of success is worth the tradeoffs, and what enough looks like—otherwise, you risk getting caught up in narratives that don’t serve you.

The middle of a career gets little ceremony. But it’s often the point where the real decisions finally get made. So if you find yourself here—accomplished, capable, a little worn down, but not done yet—consider this your reminder: you’re allowed to evolve, to leave, and to define success on your own terms. There’s still plenty of road ahead.

Pluck: The Courage and Craft Behind Great Communication is produced by Justine Adelizzi, a strategic communications advisor and award-winning speechwriter. She is the founder of Pluck Works, a consultancy that helps executives and senior communicators translate bold ideas into messages that resonate.

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There’s a certain romance associated with being a writer.

Picture it: a bustling coffee shop. A cup of steaming tea. A well-worn notebook. A pen between your teeth. The exact phrase you’re searching for is right there, on the tip of your tongue.

Or maybe: a quiet office. A tumbler of whiskey. The glow of the computer screen. The gentle tap of the keys. You’re locked away, perfecting a piece that will go out into the world and matter.

They’re nice images. Powerful enough to launch countless careers. And if those jobs are underpaid, who cares? When you can write, you’re a craftsman. An artist. That’s worth something.

Until it isn’t.

AI has made writing cheap, fast, and abundant. With decent prompting, it’s often… good. Not great. Not genius. But good enough to trouble anyone whose professional value comes from producing clean, persuasive content on demand.

The pressure is real, and it’s making a lot of professionals uncomfortable. Because it’s not just threatening livelihoods—it’s attacking the ego wrapped up in the writer’s identity. The idea that what we do is special.

A few years ago, when an aspiring communicator would ask me for career guidance, I’d always tell them the same thing: if you can write well, you can write your own ticket. It’s a skill that will set you apart from about 80 percent of any organization. So get in there, show ‘em your stuff, and opportunities will follow.

It’s crap advice these days. Good writing just isn’t a differentiator anymore. Not when a person with interesting ideas and an LLM can get to a strong draft just as fast—usually faster—than someone who built their entire professional identity on being good with words.

This reality is cleaving the profession in two.

On one side: content providers. Communicators who create value through written output. Content providers spend their days in the controlled environment of the page, focusing on turns of phrase, structure, and polish. They deal in words and deliverables.

On the other side: service providers. Communicators who create value through judgment, emotional intelligence, and strategy. Service providers operate in a messier arena: people. People with egos, people with insecurities, people navigating complex organizational dynamics. They deal in ambiguity and tradeoffs.

Put another way: content providers deliver words. Service providers deliver outcomes.

AI is coming for the content providers. Some will survive by embracing AI and using their craft to produce material that’s better than prompting alone—in half the time of writing from scratch.

But for many, the bigger opportunity lies in becoming a service provider—and embracing the three mindset shifts that go along with it.

Shift #1: How you spend your time

If you consider a good day to be one where you don’t have to talk to anyone, I have bad news. The future is going to demand less time locked away writing, and more time in rooms where decisions are being debated.

Get ready for your calendar to start looking a lot more like the leaders you support: more 1-on-1s, strategy sessions, and stakeholder conversations. More navigating internal politics—who’s protecting turf, who’s afraid of what, and what has to happen internally before something can happen externally. More enabling clear thinking, instead of just smooth communication.

Writing will still be part of the work. Just not the center of gravity.

Shift #2: How you measure success

Communication has never been easy to quantify. So we defaulted to the obvious: output. How many speeches did you write? How many blog posts did you publish? How many emails did you send?

But output is a blunt instrument. Sometimes the most strategic move is restraint, and a win is what you convince a leader not to say.

That’s why service providers ask different questions. Did you create clarity where there was confusion? Did you give diverse stakeholders common ground to align around? Did you prevent an unforced error? Did you help a leader earn trust when it mattered? Their scorecard is outcomes, not outputs.

Shift #3: How you identify yourself (at least professionally)

This is the hardest shift. Because for many of us, “writer” isn’t just a job. It’s part of who we are.

We love the musicality of how certain words sound together. We find comfort in the possibility (and terror) of the blank page. We believe that if our message is perfect enough, the world can finally make sense—if only just for a moment.

It is romantic. And I’m not so cynical to argue that we need to fully give up what we love.

But we do need to stop being so precious about what we’re being paid for. Because the vast majority of organizations and leaders are not buying art. They’re buying outcomes. They want clear messages that convey information, drive alignment, and build reputation.

Most leaders don’t need a better sentence. They need help making better decisions—under pressure, with tradeoffs, and with real stakes. The communicator who can do that isn’t a writer. They’re an advisor.

Pluck: The Courage and Craft Behind Great Communication is produced by Justine Adelizzi, a strategic communications advisor and award-winning speechwriter. She is the founder of Pluck Works, a consultancy that helps executives and senior communicators translate bold ideas into messages that resonate.

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Communication is in its maximum efficiency era. AI creates content at the push of a button. Digital platforms make global reach effortless. Sophisticated data sets deliver the right message to the right audience at the right moment.

Yet these developments don’t feel triumphant. They feel suspicious.

We squint at social media posts, scanning for the tells of AI slop. We wade through deepfake videos. We pause mid-scroll and ask ourselves:

Did this actually happen?

Why am I seeing this?

What am I being sold?

These questions breed distrust—not only in each other and in our institutions, but in the basic act of perception itself.

For the past few years, plenty of eulogies have been written for in-person events. They’re the definition of inefficiency. They cost time. They waste money. They don’t scale neatly. Surely, this could have been an email.

And yet… this very inefficiency is starting to look valuable again. We miss the proximity. The friction. The room.

In the room, there’s no edit button. No fixing it in post. Words are witnessed in real time.

In the room, reactions are immediate and unfiltered. You see the nods of approval. You feel the stony silence.

In the room, there’s accountability. There’s consequence. The people who heard you will remember what you said.

In a digital environment that’s increasingly synthetic, the ability to say “I was there” is becoming its own form of currency.

An expensive form of currency.

The risk is obvious, and it’s already playing out. When physical presence becomes synonymous with legitimacy, the ability to convene tilts even further toward the individuals and businesses who can afford it. Invite-only summits. Private salons. The annual migration to whichever mountain town or coastal retreat is currently in vogue. These are the new gatekeepers, concentrating power even more firmly in elite hands.

What’s less obvious, however, is the counterweight that’s forming. Trust is being nurtured at the grassroots level: local meetups, employee resource groups, industry roundtables, civic forums, professional associations.

These gatherings aren’t glamorous. But they’re increasingly where real dialogue plays out—and where real change becomes possible. In online spaces, it’s easy to argue in the abstract or dismiss someone outright. In physical spaces, the “other side” is a colleague, a neighbor, a friend. That shift doesn’t eliminate conflict, but it does temper it. Instead of escalating for effect or moral high ground, people are more likely to search for tangible solutions.

Increasingly, influence is concentrating around these two poles—the elite and the grassroots. This has real implications for communicators and the organizations we serve.

Everyone understands that communicators help shape what gets said. But often overlooked is the role we play in choosing where things get said. An executive may receive dozens of speaking invitations each month—yet it’s often the communicator who makes the case for what is and isn’t worth their time.

Make no mistake, this is power. So how do we wield it responsibly?

First, don’t get blinded by prestige. Yes, I know, flying in business class to Davos is always going to be more appealing than schlepping to the local Rotary Club. But while there’s a time and place for these stages, they shouldn’t make up the entire calendar of events.

Map your stakeholder ecosystem. Figure out where your key audiences convene—not just online, but physically. Which industry conferences, trade associations, internal meetings, and community forums make the cut? Then set measurable targets for how much time you spend at each type of event.

Second, don’t only show up when you’re on the agenda. Audiences can tell when you view a room as a platform rather than a community. If you fly in, deliver your remarks, and disappear, you’re signaling that you only make time for broadcasting, not engaging.

Sit in the audience. Attend the breakout sessions. Ask smart questions. The most durable trust is built when people see that you’re willing to listen as much as you’re willing to talk.

Finally, be intentional about the rooms you convene. Who is invited to attend? Who are you platforming to speak? And is it representative of the full stakeholder ecosystem you claim to serve?

It’s all too easy to default to the usual names—the high-profile voices, the comfortable perspectives, the people who won’t disrupt the program flow. It’s much harder to design rooms that can hold friction without fracturing. But when rooms reflect the complexity of the world we operate in—not a curated slice of it—they build greater legitimacy.

Ultimately, communicators don’t just shape messages. We shape access. We decide where leaders show up, who gets invited, and which conversations are worth having.

Those choices may matter more than the message itself.

The room will always hold power.

Pluck: The Courage and Craft Behind Great Communication is produced by Justine Adelizzi, a strategic communications advisor and award-winning speechwriter. She is the founder of Pluck Works, a consultancy that helps executives and senior communicators translate bold ideas into messages that resonate.

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About five years ago, I worked on a speech that ended by imploring people to “stay in the story”—even when the path forward feels uncertain, and even when you know it’s going to break your heart. It was the beginning of the pandemic, at a moment when hope felt scarce, and it resonated with a lot of people.

I put more of myself into that speech than any other I had written. More than any professional ghostwriter would probably say you should. But that’s what happened. And I decided to revisit it recently, in another moment when hope feels scarce, to see if it still resonates all these years later.

Largely, it does. It speaks to many of the same issues we’re grappling with today, especially the need to hold two seemingly opposing truths at once.

But when I got to the conclusion—about the need to stay in the story as we try to solve problems in a three-dimensional world—I realized we had vastly oversimplified what we were asking people to do.

Because today, the problem isn’t just staying in the story. It’s juggling all the stories vying for our attention.

Stories large and small.

Stories close to home and far removed.

Stories that carry life-and-death consequences.

I’m writing this a few days out from the latest execution of an American citizen on the streets of Minneapolis. I’m vibrating with rage and anxious about what could happen if Philadelphia ends up being the next stop on ICE’s “enforcement” tour.

I generally try to limit my news intake. But there’s been no way to turn away from this story. And once that door is open, it’s difficult to keep the flood at bay: an endless series of existential threats to our institutions, our democracy, our planet.

The stakes feel huge, because they are. Against them, I feel small. Because there will never be enough time, attention, or resources to do right by every story that calls, pleading for action.

When the distance between concern and impact feels infinite, our sense of agency collapses. Without agency, we withdraw. We grow cynical. We become, in the words of the Edelman Trust Barometer, “insular.”

But turning away from these stories doesn’t make them go away. It certainly doesn’t change them.

So what do we do? How do we stay in the story without burning out or drowning in pessimism?

We find smaller stakes.

Looking for smaller stakes in a big-stakes world might seem like a controversial—or worse, irresponsible—argument. Like a permission slip to do less.

But I see it as the opposite. I see it as choosing responsibility and action—just at a scale where it doesn’t collapse under its own weight.

Smaller stakes are within reach, something you can get your hands around. They’re ownable. They challenge us to ask:

What spheres of influence do I shape?

Who in front of me needs help?

How can I make my values tangible today?

These questions can and should be posed in both our personal and professional lives. But I want to focus specifically on how we can think about embracing small-stakes leadership as communicators.

There’s plenty broken in what passes for communication today. The rhetoric that pits us versus them. The blatant hypocrisy. The bullshit platitudes. The carefully curated talking points that say nothing to no one.

It’s systemic rot. And there’s nothing any single one of us can do to “fix” it.

But here’s what we can do.

We can voice the riskier, more honest option when a leader is debating the best path forward.

We can say no to work that would further erode our institutions and our public dialogue.

We can say yes to the people and causes that could benefit from our way with words.

And we can help shoulder the burden with our fellow communicators when the weight of this work becomes heavy.

These actions may come with costs. They may strain relationships. They may limit opportunities. And, worst of all, they will never seem like enough in the grand scheme of things.

But they are enough to create moments of trust, clarity, and momentum. Small waves that can ripple out from each one of us and maybe—maybe!—start swelling into something bigger.

Progress won’t come from grand gestures or declarations of concern. It will come from everyday people taking responsibility in practice—at a human scale, with sustained care, even when no one is watching.

These smaller stakes won’t make the work easier. But they will make it possible.

Pluck: The Courage and Craft Behind Great Communication is produced by Justine Adelizzi, a strategic communications advisor and award-winning speechwriter. She is the founder of Pluck Works, a consultancy that helps executives and senior communicators translate bold ideas into messages that resonate.

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Over the past year, I’ve found myself having the same conversation. With executives navigating high-stakes decisions. With senior communicators trying to hold organizations together through near constant change. And, quietly, with myself.

The conversation always circles the same tensions: the pressure to say more, the fear of saying the wrong thing, and the uneasy realization that even well-crafted messaging isn’t landing the way it once did. Not because leaders lack ideas or communicators lack skill—but because the world our words live in has fundamentally changed.

The noise is louder. The stakes are higher. And audiences are far less patient with communication that doesn’t feel grounded in their lived reality.

When I started my business almost five years ago, I argued that communication without courage almost always falls flat. That avoiding hard truths comes with its own costs. That choosing what you’re willing to be criticized for is less risky than staying silent.

These beliefs still hold. But over time, I’ve come to see that a fearless mindset and courageous words are no longer sufficient.

Not without action to match.

What leaders need now isn’t simply the bravery to speak. They need the ability to be heard in a way that can actually change hearts and minds. This kind of resonance isn’t born out of how often or even what you say. It requires a much deeper alignment between what is decided, what is said, and what outcomes people ultimately experience.

It’s this pursuit of resonance that has led me to evolve my business from FEARLESScomms into Pluck Works.

The name matters. Pluck isn’t just about nerve or bravado. It’s about a steadier kind of courage: the willingness to show your thinking, to invite challenge, to stay present in uncomfortable moments, and to keep engaging even when the path forward isn’t obvious. Works is intentional, too. Courage is only sustainable when it’s applied—translated into decisions, language, and systems that hold up under time and pressure.

Pluck Works exists to help leaders and communicators nurture courage and turn it into resonant action. We’re moving communication upstream so it shapes decisions instead of merely explaining them. We’re embedding listening into how organizations operate—not as a gesture, but as strategic infrastructure that informs outcomes. We’re creating messages that cut through static at the right frequency to become shared language, carried forward by the people who hear it.

Because when communication resonates, it gets repeated. It shapes action. It becomes the foundation for turning the idea of transformation into a reality.

The launch of Pluck Works isn’t just about the name of my business. It’s also shaping how I want to show up here on Substack.

Moving forward, every issue of Pluck will now release on the first Tuesday of every month and be accompanied by an audio track (read by me!) that you can download and listen to.

I’ve also turned on paid subscriptions—not because I plan to paywall any content, but to give you the option to support me, my work, or my crippling iced latte habit.

Here’s what’s not changing: real talk about the courage and craft behind great communication. Pluck will continue to be the home for honest reflection, practical insight, and conversations about what it takes to lead and communicate well when certainty is in short supply.

If you’ve followed along since the FEARLESScomms days, I’m grateful. This next chapter is built on everything that came before.

And if you’re new here, welcome. We’re just getting started.

Pluck: The Courage and Craft Behind Great Communication is produced by Justine Adelizzi, a strategic communications advisor and award-winning speechwriter. She is the founder of Pluck Works, a consultancy that helps executives and senior communicators translate bold ideas into messages that resonate.

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(Guess what? You can now listen to this month’s issue using the voiceover above.)

Back in January, I asked if 2025 would be a year to thrive or survive.

It turned out to very much be a survive year, in ways I never could have anticipated.

The professional challenges were about what I expected. I helped clients navigate unwinnable situations. I recommended leaders say no far more often than they said yes. I questioned what communication should look like in a world where no one listens to each other anymore.

It was the personal challenges that took me by surprise.

As winter rolled in, I began the year with grand aspirations for investing in my health. I bought a parka and started taking daily walks in the frigid afternoons. I prioritized sleep, using apps to limit my screen time. I dusted off my barbell set and yoga mat so I could build strength and flexibility.

Yet spring delivered the grandest irony: a breast cancer diagnosis that left me facing major surgery and contemplating my mortality in ways I never had before.

As someone who has always relished having a firm sense of control, I struggled to wrap my head around a situation so wildly out of my grasp. I had to give up on all my plans for the foreseeable future and start making new ones.

I lined up coverage for my clients. I squeezed frivolity and fun into the weeks leading up to my looming hospital admission. I cut my hair short to make my recovery easier. I got my affairs in order in case something went wrong.

In the end, I was lucky. I was extraordinarily lucky. My surgery, while brutal, went well. Most importantly, I learned I wouldn’t need any further treatment. Once I recovered, I got to be done being a patient. I could be me again—just with a few new scars.

Yet even as I started joking about “that weird summer I had cancer,” I grappled with getting back to business as usual. I showed up as best I could with existing clients, but shelved any plans to take on new business. I met up with my entrepreneur pals, workshopping their big ideas while having none of my own. I wrote this newsletter, month after month, fueled only by a stubborn commitment to my own self-imposed publication schedule.

I kept the lights on. Barely.

I tried to give myself the same grace so many others had given me. Accept that, for the moment, my spark was gone. Trust that it would hopefully, eventually, come back.

Today, I find that faith has largely been rewarded. Fall brought with it travel, time with friends, and a delicious return to what felt like normalcy. Events like the Professional Speechwriters Association World Conference and Gathering of the Ghosts helped me reconnect with both the soul and business of my work. I even started to discover some unexpected benefits from my ambition vacation.

I’ve stopped overthinking and chasing perfection. I sweat the small stuff even less than before. I write faster and looser. I trust my instincts more.

And all of these newfound freedoms have helped me chart a bold new future for my business… one I’m really excited to tell you about next month.

Sitting here at the start of another winter, I’m not sorry to see 2025 end. Chuck the whole year in the trash, as far as I’m concerned. But I’ve always believed that setbacks only have as much power as you’re willing to give them.

That’s why I’m being intentional about what I carry forward from this year: a new appreciation for my health, for the people in my life, and for my own resilience.

What will 2026 bring? I have some ideas. But I also know the universe delights in proving us wrong.

What I do know is that, no matter what happens, I’ll keep showing up. Keep doing the work. Keep meeting the moment with plenty of pluck.

Pluck: The Courage and Craft Behind Great Communication is produced by Justine Adelizzi, a strategic communications advisor and award-winning speechwriter. She is the founder of Pluck Works, a consultancy that helps executives and senior communicators translate bold ideas into messages that resonate.

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I spent last week at my home away from home: the annual Professional Speechwriters Association World Conference.

I started going to this event years ago as a form of professional development. And don’t get me wrong, it’s still an incredible source of top-notch thinking from some of the brightest minds in our field.

But over time, the real value hasn’t come from any particular session or speaker—it’s come from the people who show up in that room, year after year. And that was especially true this year.

Communicators are some of my favorite people, so I spend a lot of time with them. They’re clients, they’re peers, they’re fellow entrepreneurs, they’re friends. And in what feels like the understatement of the century, we’ve been collectively going through it.

So many talented communicators—especially in the federal government—lost their jobs this year. Others, in both the public and private sectors, fear they might be next.

We’re all trying to coax ideas out of leaders who are terrified to say anything, and organizations that are more risk-averse than ever.

Then there’s the AI of it all—the monster on the hill that anyone who’s built a career in words will have to wrestle with sooner or later.

And let’s not even talk about the variety of tragedies, ailments, and indignities we accumulate just walking around this world.

Everybody’s struggling. Just in different flavors.

But we keep showing up. We keep doing the work. We keep believing that work matters. And a lot of that resilience comes out of the community we’ve built—one that counters the paradox at the heart of our work.

Communicators spend our days connecting people with ideas through words. Our entire job is connection. And yet the work itself can be profoundly lonely.

We operate behind the scenes, often as the lone voice in the room advocating for clarity, or humanity, or courage. We spend hours alone at the keyboard. And in an era of remote work, job losses, and the constant fear of saying the wrong thing, that isolation has only deepened.

That’s why events like PSA feel like pure oxygen.

For three days, you’re surrounded by people who get it. People who speak your language, who understand your unique challenges, who remind you that you’re not crazy for continuing to care so much.

That’s not networking. That’s nourishment. That’s essential infrastructure that keeps you standing upright when the wind blows.

During this year’s conference, I once again led a session on the humanity at the heart of our profession. In 2024, we talked courage; this year, we talked resilience. And at the end of what turned out to be an incredibly moving panel, we joined together with our arms raised—a physical symbol of connection.

That’s my big takeaway from last week: we’re not alone. But I also know I need to keep reminding myself, reminding all of us… because it can be really easy to forget.

The world gets noisy. The job gets heavy. And somehow, we never get around to reaching out, to checking in, to actually scheduling the damn Zoom catch-up.

We can’t take our community for granted. It needs to be tended to—not just at conferences and the other rare moments when we get to be in a room together, but in the quiet months in between.

So if you do anything on this fine Friday, take a moment for connection. Remind someone you’re here with them.

Because if fear and uncertainty and setbacks isolate us, community stitches us back together.

That’s what makes us brave enough to write the next line.

Pluck: The Courage and Craft Behind Great Communication is produced by Justine Adelizzi, a strategic communications advisor and award-winning speechwriter. She is the founder of Pluck Works, a consultancy that helps executives and senior communicators translate bold ideas into messages that resonate.

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Last month, I shared tips for communicators navigating a job search—using your well-honed storytelling skills to own your value and stand out to potential employers.

But what if you’re not interested in another job?

What if you’re considering the leap into entrepreneurship?

I made my own leap almost five years ago when I launched Pluck Works. In that time, I’ve talked to and encouraged dozens of other would-be business owners with the same advice:

Jump in. The water’s fine.

In fact, there’s no better time to hang out your shingle. Even when companies cut back on full-time hiring, there’s still plenty of work that needs doing—making contracts with highly qualified, skilled communicators a low-risk, high-reward proposition.

But it’s still important to make the leap with your eyes wide open. Here are some steps you can take to position yourself for success.

Understand your unique selling proposition

If becoming the hero of your own story is important in a job search, it’s even more critical when starting a business. You’re no longer trying to fit inside someone else’s box—you get to build your own.

The freedom that comes with this is thrilling… and overwhelming. When all options are suddenly on the table, figuring out where to focus your efforts can be a challenge.

So start here:

In a world with countless skilled communicators, what sets you and your work apart?

The answer to this question will become your north star as you work through all the other decisions you need to make when starting a business: who you’re selling to, how you’ll work with clients, what makes you competitive in the marketplace.

Every choice should amplify—not detract or distract from—what makes you special.

Prioritize landing clients, not perfecting your website

The moment you start honing in on your unique selling proposition, you’ll feel a pull to spend the next three months of your life crafting the perfect website.

Resist it.

Yes, you need a web presence—it’s an important validator for prospective clients. But a bare-bones site is enough to get you started. Weeks spent futzing with layouts and polishing copy is procrastination disguised as productivity.

Don’t get too hung up on your service offerings, either. I’ve seen would-be entrepreneurs spend countless hours tweaking package and pricing details without any real idea if someone will buy what they’re selling.

Instead, take things offline. You’re far better off spending time with prospective customers—understanding their challenges and testing your ideas for how to address them.

Work your network

Speaking of those prospective clients: they’re not going to be strangers.

I hate to break this to you, but the likelihood of your ideal customer visiting your shiny new website and reaching out to hire you is slim to none.

And cold outreach? Forget it. You’ll quickly learn why when your new “Founder” title attracts an avalanche of spam for lead magnets and virtual assistants on LinkedIn.

Instead, your first clients will almost certainly come from people you already know—or people who know people you already know. That’s the circle you need to cultivate.

Follow up when a friend says, “You should really meet…” Say yes when a former colleague offers to put in a good word for you at their new company. Take the meeting about the project you’re not convinced will be a good fit.

Every connection has the potential to lead to a working relationship—if not today, one day in the future.

Give yourself a runway

Even with a warm connection, how you show up with prospective clients matters. That’s why there’s no way to talk about starting a business without talking about money.

If you’re coming from a place of desperation—I need to land a client this week so I can pay my mortgage next month—that energy will leak into your conversations. People know (and don’t like) when they’re being given a hard sell.

Instead, make sure you enter entrepreneurship with a strong financial runway. Know exactly how many months you can go without earning a single penny. Then give yourself permission to spend the money while you try to make your business a reality.

Having and using a financial buffer doesn’t just buy you time. It buys you confidence.

Commit

Confidence really is what it comes down to. Confidence in yourself, confidence in your ideas, confidence in your ability to build something.

So if you’re going to walk this path, really commit to it.

I’ve seen budding entrepreneurs try to straddle two paths—launching a business while still applying for full-time jobs. It feels like covering all your bases… but it doesn’t work.

Prospective clients and potential employers alike can sense when your heart’s not fully in it. And your heart’s not going to be in it if it’s split between two potential futures.

So make a choice. Commit to it. Once you do, you’ll be surprised by how many others commit to you.

Pluck: The Courage and Craft Behind Great Communication is produced by Justine Adelizzi, a strategic communications advisor and award-winning speechwriter. She is the founder of Pluck Works, a consultancy that helps executives and senior communicators translate bold ideas into messages that resonate.

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It’s been a rough summer for communicators.

Organizations are cutting back. Layoffs are everywhere. Job searches are dragging on for months. Even the most seasoned pros are feeling nervous about their long-term prospects.

Yet it’s this exact moment when our greatest skill—storytelling—can become our greatest asset.

Stories connect us, move us, change us—and communicators understand their power better than anyone. That’s why we’re constantly hunting for them inside our organizations and our leaders.

Yet we often miss out on mining the story closest to us: our own story.

Play the hero

Communicators tend to shy away from the spotlight. We’re too focused on elevating others: helping the CEO sound visionary, empowering partners, inspiring audiences to action. And we do it all so seamlessly that our fingerprints disappear, allowing our stakeholders to shine as the heroes of the stories we craft.

It’s a brilliant skillset. But it doesn’t serve us well in a job search, where we’re expected to cast ourselves in the hero role.

Unfortunately, results don’t always speak for themselves in a hiring process. You need to make the case for what you uniquely make possible. The secret sauce your prospective boss and company can’t live without.

Maybe it’s your attention to detail, or your creativity, or your strategic insights. Whatever it is, it’s not arrogant to claim your role in the story. It’s honest. And it’s the only way your next employer will understand the value you bring to the table.

Embrace conflict

In keeping with playing the hero, you also need to get comfortable with your hero’s journey. And at the heart of every journey? Conflict.

It may feel risky and counterintuitive to talk about challenges in an interview where you’re trying to put your best foot forward. But when you invite someone into a story with emotional stakes, you create a powerful connection—actually syncing your brain waves.

Imagine telling your interviewer about a time you hit a roadblock, pushed through, and came out stronger on the other side.

They won’t see weakness. They’ll see confidence. They’ll see resilience. They’ll see growth. And—most importantly—they’ll see someone they want on their team, who can roll with the punches when things inevitably get tough.

Don’t edit out the hard parts of your story. They’re what make someone root for you.

Ask the hard questions

Just as you embrace the conflict within your own stories, you also shouldn’t shy away from some conflict with your interviewer.

Communications is a strange corner of the corporate world. Sometimes it’s internal, sometimes it’s external. Sometimes you’re part of the marketing team, sometimes you sit under HR, sometimes you’re parked in the CEO’s office. Sometimes even the hiring manager doesn’t fully understand the job they’re asking you to fill.

If you’re interviewing for a role with a murky reporting line, unclear responsibilities, and minimal access to the executives you’re meant to support, don’t hesitate to ask questions. You’re the expert in this space—you should act like it.

Speak to what you’ve seen work (and not work) in the past. Talk about what your own nonnegotiables as a communicator are. Don’t get so hung up trying to impress your prospective employer that you forget to interview them.

Own your value

There’s a thread running through each of these tips: owning your value.

When you pursue a communications role, you’re not applying for a “support” position—you’re stepping into a senior advisor role, even if the org chart doesn’t explicitly spell that out.

The influence, the access, the seat at the table—you not only deserve it, you need it in order to do your job properly. The time to establish that is during the interview process.

But here’s the part that takes courage: sometimes it won’t work out. Sometimes your candor won’t resonate, and you won’t get the offer.

That’s not a reflection of your worth. It’s a signal that the position isn’t right for you. That the organization isn’t built to recognize your value right now.

That’s not a job you actually want.

The interview process ultimately isn’t about getting “picked.” It’s about finding a mutually beneficial partnership. Telling your hard-won stories with clarity and courage will ensure that your next role is the right role—and that you’ll walk into it as the strong, confident leader you are.

Pluck: The Courage and Craft Behind Great Communication is produced by Justine Adelizzi, a strategic communications advisor and award-winning speechwriter. She is the founder of Pluck Works, a consultancy that helps executives and senior communicators translate bold ideas into messages that resonate.

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If there’s one thing just about every communicator agrees on today, it’s that ESG and DEI are well and truly dead.

Good riddance, I say.

Not to the ideas behind these concepts. But to the terrible acronyms that inspired no one and gave critics an easy target to pick apart and define for themselves.

I built my early career in Washington, home of the terrible acronym. While at the U.S. Department of Transportation, I learned that one of the primary bills funding our national infrastructure was SAFETEA-LU (Safe, Accountable, Flexible, Efficient Transportation Equity Act: A Legacy for Users). The reason for this mouthful? Alaska Representative Don Young, who introduced the bill in the House and wanted to honor his wife, Lu.

It’s fun to giggle at trifles like this. But acronyms-as-romantic-gestures are, thankfully, rare.

More often, acronyms are the technocrat’s best friend—designed by committee and compromise to make the complex (supposedly) simple. How else to explain why environmental, social, and governance issues got shoehorned under the ESG umbrella in a 2004 United Nations report?

Explaining the logic behind clunky acronyms can be hard for even their strongest proponents. Anything that requires a 5-minute explanation and a PowerPoint slide will struggle to gain traction with an audience.

It’s not a struggle shared by critics, however. Conservatives have been wildly successful at defining ESG and DEI on their own terms—as pejoratives that can be slapped on anything they deem woke, liberal, or alarmist. They don’t sweat the details because they don’t have to. In fact, the fewer specifics brought into the conversation, the better.

This casual dismissal of their meticulously constructed arguments makes advocates double down on their worst instincts even more. They keep pointing to the data, convinced that the right statistic will turn the tide in their favor.

But the intellectual case never gets a fair trial when the emotional case has already been decided.

So where do ESG and DEI go from here? Do they just need a rebrand? New buzz words or acronyms that haven’t yet been corrupted by critics?

Not quite.

Long before the communication problems that doomed them, there was an original sin baked into how ESG and DEI were conceived. They were treated as optional. As initiatives that could be tacked on to an organization’s core value proposition.

Sure, plenty of companies bought in. Some so they wouldn’t get left behind—everyone else is doing it! Others so they’d have a safety blanket against criticism—we can’t be evil, we have an ESG report! Still others so they could have an excuse to boost budget or headcount for a pet project—just create a DEI office!

But the ground beneath these rationales is never solid. It dissolves under pressure the second trends shift, expectations change, and leaders depart.

ESG and DEI will never succeed if they are cordoned off within a single line of business, or the responsibility of a single team, or trotted out in a single annual report. They need to be fully encoded into the DNA of how an organization hires, innovates, sells, and incentivizes. They need to be as nonnegotiable as pursuing profit, retaining employees, and remaining competitive in the marketplace.

This is difficult and grinding work—work that largely plays out behind the scenes and in executive offices. And that’s the bad news for communicators: most of it will be outside your control.

But there are a few actions communicators can take to support the next evolution of the ideas behind ESG and DEI:

• Keep it measurable. Refrain from talking about what you’re going to do. Wait until you can talk about what you’ve done, with verifiable metrics to back it up.

• Keep it concrete. Lose the flowery language about “doing right” by people or the planet. Connect efforts to how they create value for the company and its stakeholders.

• Keep it honest. Don’t portray your organization as further along or doing more than it actually is. Someone will notice, and it will undermine the efforts you are making.

It may feel uncomfortable to say no more than yes. It may feel like you’re not doing enough. But hold the line—this is how sustainability, diversity, and inclusion ultimately become part of business as usual.

Pluck: The Courage and Craft Behind Great Communication is produced by Justine Adelizzi, a strategic communications advisor and award-winning speechwriter. She is the founder of Pluck Works, a consultancy that helps executives and senior communicators translate bold ideas into messages that resonate.

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Last month, I wrote about speechwriting as a calling. In the weeks since, I’ve been reflecting on why I still believe so strongly in the power of words, even in such deeply cynical times.

Put simply, I’ve seen too much not to.

I’ve seen a cabinet secretary make it a personal mission to end cell phone use behind the wheel after hearing a woman speak about losing her mother to a distracted driver.

I’ve seen a high school dropout become an acclaimed economist after being told to “bloom where you’re planted.”

I’ve seen my own career transform because of a single keynote.

A few years ago, I worked as a career speechwriter at a federal agency. It was a great gig… until I realized just how tortured it could be.

Every speechwriter learns to be a chameleon. We serve leaders, and leadership transitions inevitably come with the territory. So we make ourselves malleable, molding our writing to fit different voices and styles.

But the politics of changing administrations put a unique pressure on federal speechwriters—to not only adapt to a new leader, but to embrace an entirely new perspective on your mission.

In my case, I went from thinking of my agency as a collaborator and an innovator to positioning it as a dinosaur, a meddler, a villain. I still remember one of the sound bites I crafted while trying to make inroads with my new speaker: “The era of red tape strangling good ideas is over.”

It was a good line. The boss loved it. It went over huge in the room.

And I felt like shit for writing it.

Around the same time, I attended a Ragan conference geared toward speechwriters and executive communicators. A specific session had caught my eye: an FBI speechwriter who successfully navigated three leadership transitions across administrations was going to share her secrets. I hoped it could provide me with some much-needed ideas for resolving the conflict I felt.

I watched that session. It was very good.

But it was the closing keynote that ended up changing my career forever.

Justina Chen, an author and former executive communications manager at Microsoft, was there to talk about the need for firebrand leaders—people who could inspire others through vision and vulnerability.

But Justina wasn’t just talking about the executives who communicators serve. She was also talking about us.

We had a responsibility to show up as leaders—and where we focused our efforts mattered. She posed a question I had never considered before:

Is the person you’re writing for worthy of your time and talent?

Justina’s question re-wired something in my brain. It gave me my power back—power I didn’t realize I had given away.

I didn’t have to go along with leaders I didn’t believe in, writing words I didn’t agree with.

I could chart my own path. I needed to chart my own path. I had a responsibility to use my time and talents wisely. My career—my life—was too short not to.

There were a few hundred people in the room when Justina delivered her remarks that day. For the vast majority, her words soon slipped from their minds—lost to the hustle of daily responsibilities.

Even the most idealistic speechwriter will overestimate how much impact their work can have on a room full of people.

But I fear we underestimate how much impact we can make on a more personal level, when the right words hit the right ears at the right moment.

I walked out of Justina’s session into the kind of sunny, early spring day that makes you fall in love with a place. The weather matched a new lightness I felt—a weight lifted off my shoulders as a new sense of optimism and purpose took root.

I resolved to quit my federal job and got serious about finding a new one. I felt empowered to be picky—to hold out for the right opportunity, with the right person. Almost a year later, I landed a new role on the other side of the country.

I wasn’t the same person in that job. I had a new confidence. I knew the value I was bringing to the table. I kept asking myself what I came to think of as The Question: Is the person you’re writing for worthy of your time and talent?

For a while, the answer was yes. When it became no, I didn’t hesitate to walk away.

Today, I still ask myself The Question. It’s my ultimate gut check, and it hasn’t steered me wrong yet.

I also pose The Question to other communicators. Almost always, I see an aha moment bloom on their faces—the same moment Justina gave me more than seven years ago.

There’s power in the words. I’m grateful and proud to pay them forward.

Pluck: The Courage and Craft Behind Great Communication is produced by Justine Adelizzi, a strategic communications advisor and award-winning speechwriter. She is the founder of Pluck Works, a consultancy that helps executives and senior communicators translate bold ideas into messages that resonate.

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Within the communications field, being a speechwriter comes with its own cachet. You’re the person behind the Very Important Person. You’re in the Room Where It Happens. You write the Words People Remember.

Shows like The West Wing make it all look impossibly sexy. And as a new crop of college graduates make their way into the world this month, at least a few have no doubt drunk the Kool-Aid and aspire to join our ranks.

But is being a speechwriter any way to make a living in 2025?

It’s complicated.

Let’s talk about the most practical issue first: Can you land a speechwriting job right now? The simple answer is yes… but you can’t be too attached to having “speechwriter” as your title.

Outside of politics, not many leaders are delivering long-form speeches anymore. Instead, panel discussions and interview-style fireside chats have become the norm.

What’s behind this shift? First, many executives don’t have the time or desire to put in the work a keynote requires. Even with a speechwriter drafting your remarks, you still need to show up with a strong idea and practice your delivery. This can be a surprisingly high bar to clear.

Then there’s the keynote commitment phobia. A speech is about as “on the record” as it gets. If a statement causes blowback, it’s a lot easier to claim you misspoke in a conversational setting than if you read from prepared remarks.

And why take the risk? It’s not like audiences are clamoring for sustained rhetoric. Attention spans are practically nonexistent. It’s hard enough to get people to show up for an event, let alone put away their phones and listen to someone talk for 20 minutes.

In this environment, hiring a dedicated speechwriter just doesn’t make sense for most organizations. Opportunities still exist in politics and academia, but they’re few and far between—and competition for open positions is stiff.

This doesn’t mean speechwriting is a dying art, though. It’s just gotten folded into communications roles with much broader portfolios. As leaders get asked to weigh in on increasingly complex and thorny issues, the demand for executive communications practitioners is expanding at a rapid clip.

Success in these roles demands a lot more than an ear for the spoken word. Executive communicators need to craft a consistent voice across engagements and platforms that resonates with internal and external stakeholders alike. They need to be fluent in digital best practices, audience analysis, event planning, and so much more. And while writing remarks for a town hall or conference might still fall within those responsibilities, it will be one of 20 other balls juggled that week.

So yes, it’s still possible to land a speechwriting job in 2025. But that still leaves a a more philosophical question to consider: should you want to?

Pretty much no one working in communications is having fun these days. The weariness is palpable any time a group of us convene.

We talk about whether budget cuts or advancements in AI will put us out of work.

We talk about the leaders we support who don’t want to say—or think they can’t say—much of anything at all.

We talk about the very real fear that we’re part of the problem—contributing to a culture where everyone talks but no one listens.

We talk about whether we’d be better off doing something—anything—else.

But then I remember that there’s a difference between having a job and following a calling.

Jobs are meant to be sought, celebrated, molded, loathed, discarded. I’ve had jobs where it felt like I got the Ted Sorensen dream—the travel, the access, the influence, the impact. I’ve also had jobs where seeing my principal’s name pop up on caller ID made me never want to write again. Each had their time, each imparted their lesson.

Callings, meanwhile, are both consistent and persistent. They keep saying the same thing in different words, tones, languages. They keep knocking on your door, tugging at your sleeve, asking you to follow across uneven terrain and into stormy weather. You could try to ignore it, but it would just keep showing up.

After all these years, I’ve accepted what speechwriting is.

You can take away the title, take away the job security, take away the speeches themselves.

You can make the work feel obsolete, irrelevant, impotent.

You’ll still find us out here: sharing knowledge, building connection, creating understanding, making meaning.

Call it what you want. We’ll keep choosing it. There’s no other option.

Pluck: The Courage and Craft Behind Great Communication is produced by Justine Adelizzi, a strategic communications advisor and award-winning speechwriter. She is the founder of Pluck Works, a consultancy that helps executives and senior communicators translate bold ideas into messages that resonate.

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My first apartment in DC had a magnetic poetry kit on the refrigerator door. Out of its many word tiles, one of the first phrases I created read: “You are the only thing standing between who you are and who you want to be.”

A grad student and budding working professional in her mid-20s, I found this terribly profound at the time. But almost two decades later, it still resonates.

When I talk about embracing fearlessness in our professional lives, I’m almost always talking about confronting internalized fears. Most of our cages are mental, with how we perceive ourselves or how we think others will perceive us preventing us from reaching our goals.

But the fears plaguing communicators and leaders today are anything but mental. Law firms are being sued. Colleges are facing funding cuts. Protestors are being detained and deported.

I’ve struggled with what fearlessness looks like in this environment. I’ve found myself advising clients to hold back—to not only limit what they say externally, but to their own teams. In many ways, it goes against every instinct I have: to get out there, to say the thing. But I can’t ignore that the potential costs for doing so are very real—and very high.

Here’s where I’ve landed. Being fearless has never meant being foolish. And while the stakes are high, I do believe there are smart ways for leaders and organizations to stay true to their values and stand up for what’s right without burning the house down.

Define your sphere of influence

With the “flood the zone” strategy in full effect, every day brings a head-spinning amount of news that demands attention and goads reaction. Leaders who try to respond to all of it risk not only exhausting themselves and their organizations, but their ability to create change.

Instead, get crystal clear about the issues you will weigh in on. Ask yourself two questions:

Does this directly impact our mission, employees, or industry?

Do we have a reasonable ability to exert influence on this?

Whatever makes the cut should easily clear both hurdles. Your evaluation standards should also distinguish between incendiary talk and concrete action. The former is cheap and can be used as a distraction. Hold your fire to combat the latter.

Move as a pack

If you’re the only one standing up in a crowded room, it’s easy to be singled out for criticism or retribution. It’s an entirely different story if the rest of the room stands up with you. There’s safety in numbers.

Now is not the time to try to go it alone. Figure out who your potential allies are, and quietly reach out to see if you can coordinate your efforts to minimize risk and maximize impact. We’re already seeing this happen in the education space, with many of the nation’s top colleges joining together to push back on President Trump’s attacks on academic independence.

Don’t be afraid to court strange bedfellows. Your toughest competitor in the marketplace may end up being your best comrade in arms if your entire industry is under attack.

Pay more when it costs less

It’s impossible to talk about fearlessness without talking about privilege.

Even taking every precaution, speaking up can lead to unfortunate consequences. But consequences aren’t borne equally—and women, people of color, trans individuals, and other marginalized communities are already paying a heavy price.

We need the people and institutions wielding the greatest power and privilege to step forward and shoulder the burden in this moment. Quite frankly, universities with heavy endowments and active donor bases don’t deserve applause for starting to take on this fight. They should be. Even if they have to pay, the cost isn’t nearly as high for them as it would be for others.

And that’s the point. If organizations with deep pockets, socially-conscious legacies, supportive boards, and highly engaged employees won’t step up, how the hell should we expect anyone else to?

Bottom line: the next few years are going to demand calculated risk-taking. But short-term risks to budgets or media mentions aren’t the only factors to consider. Longer-term risks to reputations and values carry much more weight—enough to make choosing fearlessness in fearful times not only possible, but necessary.

Pluck: The Courage and Craft Behind Great Communication is produced by Justine Adelizzi, a strategic communications advisor and award-winning speechwriter. She is the founder of Pluck Works, a consultancy that helps executives and senior communicators translate bold ideas into messages that resonate.

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When I decided to leave my career in the federal government, I began what ultimately became an almost yearlong job search. I cast a wide net, looking for speechwriting and executive communications roles in just about every major city and industry. I read countless job descriptions, sent out dozens of resumes, and got very, very good at talking about myself.

The jobs I interviewed for had a lot in common. They were looking for a skilled writer, obviously. They wanted someone who was strategic, collaborative, and detail-oriented. And, of course, the ideal candidate would have a can-do attitude and be great at juggling multiple priorities.

But as I’ve learned throughout my career, there’s a big jump to be made between the responsibilities and skills outlined in a job description and what it takes for a communicator to actually succeed in the role. Here are just a few of the “other duties as assigned” I’ve taken on over the years.

Translator

When you become an executive communicator, it’s not long before you get treated as an extension of your leader. Except most people in your organization will find you much easier to talk to. And talk they will: about how they should present something to your boss, or about how they should interpret a look or comment made in a meeting. Part soothsayer, part codebreaker, be prepared for the lines that form outside your office.

Diplomat

Of course, your leader will also treat you as an extension of themselves—one that can be dispatched to do reconnaissance or negotiate on their behalf. You might be asked to float an idea in a meeting to see how it will be received, or to liaise with lawyers and subject matter experts to figure out how to make a splashy point that’s also defensible. Get comfortable asking, “What can you live with?” without feeling too bad about it—after all, it’s for the boss.

Personal shopper

Surely you didn’t think getting your executive ready for an event just meant writing remarks and helping them practice. No, no, no—you’re responsible for making sure they get on that stage as their best self. And that best self has a lot of very human needs. So get used to keeping your leader’s favorite snack in your bag, and don’t be surprised when you’re asked to weigh in on what belt or lapel pin to buy.

Advance staff

Making sure your executive is ready for an event is only half the battle. You also need to make sure the event is ready for your executive. Every engagement should be maximized for your speaker’s success, from how the room is set up to what questions will be asked during a fireside chat. Be prepared to move furniture, test podiums and mics, and schmooze (or boss around) an unprepared moderator.

Therapist

Working this closely with a leader is a space few occupy. You travel with them, have meals with them, pick lint off their blazer for them. As they get comfortable with you, an intimacy develops. You can quickly become privy to their biggest problems and deepest insecurities. While this signals they see you as a safe space, it can come with its own risks. Keep their confidence, but create boundaries around what you will and won’t discuss.

Coach

Ultimately, your job is to help an executive say the right words, in the right rooms, from the right headspace—free of whatever baggage might otherwise hold them back. The idea of coaching someone in this way—especially someone who sits so far above you on the org chart—might feel inappropriate or wrong. But having the confidence to do it will transform you from just a communicator to a trusted advisor.

Pluck: The Courage and Craft Behind Great Communication is produced by Justine Adelizzi, a strategic communications advisor and award-winning speechwriter. She is the founder of Pluck Works, a consultancy that helps executives and senior communicators translate bold ideas into messages that resonate.

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It’s a golden age for the communications profession:

The need for communications services has never been greater, with 84% of leaders engaging in more channels than ever before.

Communications leaders have never held more sway, with 83% of Chief Communications Officers reporting growing influence in the C-suite.

Communications teams have never had a bigger footprint, increasingly absorbing other strategic functions like HR, ESG, and Corporate Affairs.

And yet… what has all this communication produced?

Trust is plummeting in every major institution, including business, government, and media. It’s a mistrust that runs so deep, it’s actually making us less polarized—united in our skepticism of each other and the world.

Put simply… every audience is becoming a hostile audience.

This is the reality all communicators are now grappling with in some form or another. It’s undermining our ability to even effectively be communicators.

Our profession relies on audiences believing that we’re communicating sincerely—not only that we believe what we’re saying, but that we believe it’s worth sharing. Cynicism breaks this essential communicator-audience contract—and cynicism is running rampant.

But why shouldn’t it be? In our rush to create more content and exert more influence, many communicators have lost touch with the audiences we’re meant to connect with.

Those audiences are increasingly seeing the game for what it is—and they’re sick to death of being told to ignore it.

Look no further than the corporate whiplash on DEI over the past five years. After the murder of George Floyd, businesses rushed to share their commitments on combating racism, promoting diversity, and creating a more equitable society. Now, after the second election of Donald Trump, the tide is rushing out, with the Metas and Amazons of the world tripping over themselves to reverse course.

Did these businesses’ values change overnight? Of course not. Audiences know these decisions were never based in values at all. Companies were chasing trends in service of chasing profits.

And communicators helped them do it.

It may feel unfair to lay blame for this at the feet of our profession. But while these choices may have originated in the C-suite or the boardroom… we were the ones workshopping the talking points, writing the social media posts, and sending the emails about them.

We’re part of the problem. We’ve been complicit in feeding the beast that’s now eating us alive, turning audiences against our leaders, our organizations, and our very profession.

We have to own this responsibility if we have any chance at being part of the solution. And we have to commit to doing better.

First, we need to get back to advocating for our audiences. Your organization doesn’t need another cheerleader for management decisions. It has plenty of those. Communicators instead need to voice the uncomfortable truths about how decisions will be received by an organization’s most important stakeholders, including its employees. Having these conversations in advance—and letting them shape not only the communications around decisions, but the decisions themselves—will ultimately help protect organizations and their leaders.

Second, we need to prioritize the long view. Too many leaders are currently solving for short-term issues without fully considering long-term implications. Communicators should not be among them. An organization’s most valuable asset is its reputation—something that can be built over years, yet squandered in seconds. Our job, then, should be to put decisions in the context of how they will play today and how they will fit into an organization’s broader legacy—not only with existing stakeholders, but with future ones.

Third, we need to say less to communicate more. It’s time to back away from the idea that more content, more statements, and more engagement is always better—even if it shrinks our budgets. The most valuable communicators will increasingly be the ones who understand when the juice is worth the squeeze—urging restraint when an issue is outside of an organization’s sphere of influence, and fearlessly diving into the fights that are actually worth having. Being more judicious in what’s said will let people start hearing a lot more.

None of this will be easy. Digging out of the hole we’re in will require each of us to unearth our most courageous selves. We’ll need to use louder voices, take up more space, and sometimes even argue against the need for our own work.

But the trust we gain back—from audiences and our organizations—will be worth it.

Pluck: The Courage and Craft Behind Great Communication is produced by Justine Adelizzi, a strategic communications advisor and award-winning speechwriter. She is the founder of Pluck Works, a consultancy that helps executives and senior communicators translate bold ideas into messages that resonate.

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It’s been five years since we rented the RV and took to the desert.

It wasn’t a trip I ever expected to make as a speechwriter to a Federal Reserve Bank president. And when I looked at the massive calendar on the wall of my office, it certainly didn’t fit in. San Diego, Dublin, Austin… and smack in the middle, Quartzsite, Arizona. The closest town to the annual meeting of the Rubber Tramp Rendezvous.

We were going to record interviews for the podcast we produced, Zip Code Economies. The show set out to reveal what the economy meant to individual people, at the community level. And as we geared up for our second season, what could be better than talking to a group of nomads who didn’t even have a zip code? Who spent the year traversing the country in vans, RVs, and buses, only coming together as a community for a single week in the middle of the Arizona desert?

I was excited for the experience. I knew it would make a great story. But I also knew I didn’t have time for it.

I’d spent most of the year since joining the Bank on the road. Jet-setting across the country and around the world. Editing speeches in the aisles of business class cabins. Meeting influential leaders shaping the global economy. It all felt very important.

I felt very important.

I also felt overwhelmed. I was already working until 8:00 or 9:00 most nights, unsure how I was going to get everything done that was on my plate. Looming largest of all was The Speech—an upcoming keynote at SXSW that had already consumed my thoughts for months. I started to hate the blinking cursor that confronted me each morning. After working on dozens of ideas and outlines, I still wasn’t any closer to a coherent draft.

But sure, let’s go to the frickin’ desert.

While the RV we rented fit in well at the Rubber Tramp Rendezvous, we certainly didn’t. And it wasn’t just because of the way we were dressed, or the recording equipment we carried with us. It was the pace we moved.

We found the people in the caravan living at a different speed. They weren’t caught up in any kind of hustle. They weren’t striving or seeking any sort of validation. They were perfectly content with themselves, their thoughts, their place. And they certainly weren’t impressed by us, or the very influential leaders we knew shaping the global economy.

But they were generous enough to welcome us into their world. As I toured a few rigs, I envisioned shrinking my life down into a 20-foot camper. What would I take? What would I leave behind? I was pleased to see a tiny cat and its clunky litter box could, indeed, make the cut.

As our interviews began, tragedy emerged as a common theme. One woman spoke of losing her daughter and the unimaginable grief that followed. She couldn’t stand to stay in her old life, so she left it behind. She bought an RV and drove for months, the road leeching away her raw agony bit by bit. Eventually, she hit the bottom of her valley, and the road began to serve a new purpose—filling her back up, mile by mile. She’d been driving ever since.

I didn’t know what to make of stories like this. It seemed so far removed from my own life—a life that was increasingly defined and consumed by the victories and trappings of my work. But I still walked away with one lingering impression:

These people understand something you don’t.

It wouldn’t take long to figure out what that was. Less than two months later, the pandemic clipped the world’s wings. The Speech I spent so much time obsessing over was canceled. The rest of the calendar cleared out. On the opposite coast from almost everyone I cared about, my life shrunk down to the two-bedroom apartment I shared with my partner and my not-so-tiny cat. My pace slowed with it.

Absent the hum of jet engines and the applause of crowds in my ear, I could finally hear my own voice and the hard truth it shared: My priorities were screwed up. I was sacrificing my health, my relationships, even my love of writing, for a job that would never be worth what I was investing into it.

Not long after this realization, I quit. Started my own business. Moved back to Philadelphia, where I grew up. Three things I never expected to do, and that ran counter to everything I had valued up until that point: fighting for better job titles, angling for more influence, seeking validation that I was talented, special, important.

Today, my career isn’t as impressive on paper. My wins aren’t as big or as public. But they are wins to be proud of, resulting from doing work I love, with people I like, the way I want. Wins that use a new metric for success.

Did I express an idea worth sharing?

Did I solve a problem?

Did I help someone feel heard?

It’s on that last measure that a piece of unfinished business remains.

The pandemic neatly cleaved time into two parts—what came before, and what came after. Our time in the desert firmly sat in the before—along with the interviews we recorded. Our nomadic friends never got to hear themselves on the podcast.

But they were heard.

Pluck: The Courage and Craft Behind Great Communication is produced by Justine Adelizzi, a strategic communications advisor and award-winning speechwriter. She is the founder of Pluck Works, a consultancy that helps executives and senior communicators translate bold ideas into messages that resonate.

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I have always loved a new year. I’m one of those annoying people who not only makes resolutions, but keeps a running tally of daily, weekly, and monthly goals to stay on track. If it involves checking an item off my to-do list, I’m there.

So what’s at the top of my list as we enter 2025? I have no shortage of personal goals (Read 25 books! Take a crocheting class! Go to afternoon tea!). Yet I find myself struggling to map out my professional plans for the year.

I suspect I’m not alone. We’re only a few days removed from the holidays, and I’ve already seen clients and peers wrestling with communications questions that don’t seem to have good answers. The fear and futility are palpable.

What the heck is a fearless communicator supposed to do in this environment? That’s the big question I’m wrestling with right now.

Here are the best answers I’ve come up with so far.

Press pause on the 24/7

When I’ve dealt with uncertainty in the past, it’s usually sent me scrambling for more information—eager to consume as much as possible to feel surer about my footing. I’m taking a different approach this time around.

I turned off breaking news notifications. I started using an app that essentially bricks my phone between 11:00PM and 9:00AM.

Put simply: I’m getting more intentional about my attention.

I’m not turning away from the world entirely, of course. Staying informed and taking the pulse on the national mood is part of what makes a great communicator.

But this does not—and cannot—mean giving into relentless beatings from a media ecosystem that stokes our anxieties and amplifies our worst instincts.

Doing the job this year is going to require a clear head.

Amplify your voice amid the noise

Once you press pause on the 24/7, it frees up bandwidth that can be redirected toward more worthwhile pursuits.

The world is going to demand a lot from communicators this year, and a lot is going to be out of our control. One thing we can control is what we invest in ourselves.

I’ve always been an advocate for professional development, and it’s going to be more important than ever now. That means it’s time to make the appointment with yourself: to attend the conference you’ve been meaning to get to, to read the book that’s been on your list for too long, to work on the passion project that’s never seemed to hit escape velocity.

Spending this time looking inward will benefit the time you spend looking outward. Getting more in touch with your own voice will help you resist getting swept up in everyone else’s agendas—and start setting your own.

Let your North Star pick your battles

There will be yucky choices this year—that’s just our new reality. Compromise is inevitable. But they need to be the right compromises—the ones that let you lose battles to win wars. That’s where your North Star comes in.

Your North Star is your professional raison d'être—the foundational code you’re willing to be criticized for. Mine is pretty simple: Don’t add to the garbage pile. There is already way too much of it, especially coming out of the communications profession.

What will following this North Star functionally look like this year? I’m keeping it pretty simple: Don’t lend your words to assholes, don’t spread lies, don’t feed cynicism. Use your sphere of influence to promote the same.

And let the rest go.

Is 2025 a year to survive or to thrive? Maybe it’s both: a time to survive what we can’t control, thrive in what we do, and—most importantly—understand the difference.

Pluck: The Courage and Craft Behind Great Communication is produced by Justine Adelizzi, a strategic communications advisor and award-winning speechwriter. She is the founder of Pluck Works, a consultancy that helps executives and senior communicators translate bold ideas into messages that resonate.

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For someone who never considered herself to be very woo-woo, I spend a lot of time talking about mindset.

Specifically, the storyteller’s mindset.

It’s the first thing I think about when I hear phrases like, “I’ve always…” or “I’ve never…” or “I’m someone who…” Those words usually mean I’m about to hear a story.

I’ve spent most of my life thinking about stories—first as a lonely kid who buried her head in books and TV shows, later as a communications professional with a knack for asking why and writing about the answers. And when you spend that much time looking at the world through the eyes of a storyteller, you start to realize that pretty much everything is a story.

What may be less obvious is that the longest and most important stories are the ones we tell ourselves.

I’ve worked with plenty of leaders who have extraordinary stories that the world would benefit from hearing. But they shy away from telling them. They don’t think anyone would be interested, they don’t feel it’s relevant to their role, they just don’t want to be vulnerable. More often than not, these excuses are rooted in a story: about who they think they are or about how they think a leader is supposed to act.

Communications professionals fall into the same trap. They often view themselves as facilitators for someone else’s story—not recognizing that their front row seat in ‘the room where it happens’ and their deep organizational connections give them a wholly unique—and valuable—perspective. So instead of connecting unexpected dots and picking up a megaphone of their own, they embrace a story that leaves them silent or bitching with colleagues over drinks.

But something magical happens when you start recognizing the stories you tell yourself.

You unlock the power to craft a new one.

I know this from experience. During one of the lowest moments in my career, I attended a conference where a speaker asked, “Is the person you’re writing for worthy of your time and talents?” It was a question that completely rewrote the narratives I’d been telling myself for years: that I was lucky to even be a speechwriter, that it would be crazy to throw away a stable job, that getting dirt kicked in your face is just a cost of doing business.

Later, while finally inching closer to a new role, a mentor shared that he had described me as ‘fearless’ to one of the interviewers checking my references. It was the first time someone had ever described me that way, and certainly the first time I’d ever thought to apply the label to myself. It planted the seed for a new story, one I still carry with me today.

I became a leadership coach a few years ago so that I could help other people have these same kind of “aha!” moments. And it’s truly been some of the most rewarding work I’ve ever done.

A few months ago, I met with an executive who was preparing for a panel on managing generational differences in the workplace. At the beginning of our conversation, she shared how much her work ethic had been shaped by watching her mother while she was growing up; toward the end, she talked about how much she was learning from her own teenaged daughter. I mentioned that I saw a beautiful thread, across generations, shaping who she was as a leader.

She paused for a few seconds, emotion written all over her face. Then she said, “Oh wow. I never thought of it that way.” It made me emotional, too.

We had found a new story—one that had always been there, just without the dots connected. And it had the potential to not only make her event better, but to deepen her relationship with herself and others.

That’s a powerful narrative.

If you’re a leader or communications professional looking for a new story, schedule some time to discuss how we can work together.

Pluck: The Courage and Craft Behind Great Communication is produced by Justine Adelizzi, a strategic communications advisor and award-winning speechwriter. She is the founder of Pluck Works, a consultancy that helps executives and senior communicators translate bold ideas into messages that resonate.

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Last week, I led a session at the 2024 Professional Speechwriters Association World Conference on why courage is a necessary ingredient for a lasting career in communications. The following is an adaptation of my remarks.

If you asked me how I became a speechwriter early in my career, I would have told you: I fell into it. I got lucky. I was in the right place at the right time.

It wasn’t until I met my community of fellow speechwriters that I realized this was a common story. A lot of us felt that way.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Sometimes, you are in the right place at the right time. Sometimes, you are lucky enough to get an opportunity you might not otherwise have. Sometimes, that is your origin story.

The problem comes when you carry that story for too long. When it follows you into the CEO’s office. When it keeps you quiet in an important meeting. When it tells you not to push back on a bad idea.

After all, you just fell into it. You’re lucky to even be here.

This story keeps you small. It stops you from owning your voice. And it has no business taking up that kind of mental real estate as you grow into your career.

While luck or chance may have opened a door, it’s sure as hell not what keeps you in the room.

I got into the communications business because I’m a good writer. But being a good writer doesn’t prepare you for what this profession demands.

There are the roles I never expected to play. A coach, a negotiator, an influencer, a therapist. A furniture mover, a personal shopper, a snack mom.

There are the questions I never expected to ask. How responsible are you for the words you wield? Does giving a voice to someone else mean losing your own? How much of yourself do you owe the organization you write for?

There are the challenges I never expected to encounter. Being locked out of the job I loved after a leadership change made young and female a liability. Being betrayed by a principal who turned out not to be what we were selling the world. Being unsure if I even wanted to write anymore.

Taking on these roles, answering these questions, navigating these challenges… it’s not for the faint of heart.

I may have fallen into this career. But that’s not why I’m still here.

Here are the stories I carry with me today:

I’m a communicator because I have the courage to ask hard questions.

I’m a communicator because I have the courage to voice my opinions.

I’m a communicator because I have the courage to stand for what’s right.

And I’m not the only one with these stories. Every communications professional has them. We just need to own them.

So here’s my challenge:

Forget how you got into this business. Get in touch with why you’re still here.

How have you displayed courage in your career? How have those moments changed you? How have they shaped the journey to where you are today?

Answer these questions, and write a new story.

I’m a communicator because I have the courage to…

Pluck: The Courage and Craft Behind Great Communication is produced by Justine Adelizzi, a strategic communications advisor and award-winning speechwriter. She is the founder of Pluck Works, a consultancy that helps executives and senior communicators translate bold ideas into messages that resonate.

Subscribe now