I have an email folder called Positive Strokes. Inside it are screenshots, email replies and kind words from people who’ve read something I’ve written and taken the time to let me know.

The folder just sits there quietly. A bit like the thank-you cards I used to pin to my cork noticeboard above my desk years ago. And whenever a new message arrives, a little smile appears on my face as I move it into the folder.

The messages themselves vary.

“That felt like you were inside my head.”

“Have you been reading my diary?”

“That’s exactly where I am.”

I never quite get used to receiving them. But every one makes me think getting the words out of my head was worth it. Because writing is a strange thing. Or at least it is for me.

A thought sits in my head for days, sometimes weeks. Following me around, and turning up when I’m trying to think about something else.

Eventually I give in and write it down. Then I press publish.

And after that, I’ve no real idea what happens. Someone might read the first line and move on. Another might save it for later and never come back. And some of the people I’m convinced will read it never see it at all.

Then, every now and again, a reply arrives, and I realise the words found somebody. They took the time to write back.

The truth is, these are exactly the sort of messages I used to share with my Mum and Dad.

They never really understood what I did. To be fair, I’m not convinced Organisational Development was ever going to be a phrase that found a natural home in our family. I tried explaining it. More than once. I’m not sure it helped though.

But tell them someone had been helped by something I’d written and they understood that immediately. They were proud. Proper proud.

I can still hear them.

“That’s lovely, our Andrea.”

Every time.

So whenever one of those messages arrives, I still find myself wanting to tell them. Look at this one. Someone wrote the loveliest thing.

Then I remember.

Positive Strokes is the wrong name.

It’s a folder for Mum and Dad.

Andrea