Mattering

Chapter 1

Connect to Your Impact

The Mattering Core

Recognition: You and your actions are valued, and your absence would be felt.

Reliance: You feel needed because others depend on you.

Importance: You feel significant because you're prioritized.

Ego Extension: You feel cared for because others are invested in your well-being.

Attunement: You feel deeply understood and meaningfully responded to.

Greg Bulanow felt glass crunch beneath his boots as he rushed toward the wreck. It was one of his first calls as a rookie firefighter, and he knew every minute counted. The driver was alive but trapped under the twisted steel. Greg's training took over. He squeezed through a jagged opening to reach the woman, who was crying out in pain. Her breathing was quick and panicked. Greg spoke to her gently. "We're going to get you out of here," he promised as he draped his heavy bunker coat around the woman to shield her from the flying shards of metal and glass as they worked to free her. Greg stayed by her side, steadying her through every jolt. When the last barrier gave way and she was lifted to safety, Greg felt both drained and deeply grateful. He had helped someone through one of the worst moments of their life.

Greg never planned to become a firefighter. After earning an English degree from a small liberal arts college in Ohio, he moved to Charleston, South Carolina, with his new wife, Jacqueline, envisioning a life of cobblestone streets and a future in writing. He'd work for a year or two, then pursue an MFA in creative writing. When he saw a fire department job listing in the newspaper, he applied, thinking it would be a way to save money, have an adventure, and collect good stories for graduate school.

But around the time Greg helped extract the woman from the wreck, his view of firefighting began to change. He was thinking less about becoming a writer and more about the meaning he found in the work. When Greg and his crew arrived on the scene of a medical emergency or accident, there was a moment when everything shifted. Strangers handed over their loved ones with absolute trust, believing that Greg and his team would make things better. And Greg wanted to live up to that trust. Over the next decade, his dedication paid off. By age thirty-six, he was chief of the North Charleston Fire Department, overseeing 250 employees across eleven stations.

But once Greg stepped into his new leadership role, firefighter morale-a perennial problem-now became his responsibility. The demands of the work were relentless. These men and women responded to roughly twenty-two thousand calls a year, and the physical and emotional signs of burnout were hard to miss. Many firefighters felt upper management did not understand their day-to-day challenges. Camaraderie was fading, and their personal lives seemed to be suffering, too. Some firefighters had gone through multiple divorces, while others were turning to heavy drinking. Firefighters were leaving the department, and the constant turnover left Greg scrambling to fill station gaps. Greg attempted to rebuild morale with new trucks and top-of-the-line gear and equipment. But when he unveiled the improvements, he was met with skepticism. Someone muttered that the department was trying to buy their support. The comment stung. It also made Greg realize that the problem needed a deeper solution.

The problem of invisibility

We live in a culture that constantly tells us that the answer to discontent is to find a deep, driving purpose. Self-help books, commencement speeches, and social media posts urge us to discover our calling, align our work with our values, raise children with intention, or serve the world through volunteering. This emphasis on meaning and purpose is understandable. It's essential to our well-being. But as I researched the burnout epidemic, the advice to "do something meaningful" often fell short. Greg's firefighters were a striking example. These were people saving lives, responding to emergencies, and doing work most would call deeply meaningful. And yet, many of them were burned out or disengaged, with some even leaving the force. It didn't add up.

When I asked Greg about this paradox, his response surprised me. He explained that firefighters can sometimes struggle to see the impact of their work. My head tilted, confused. Wait-they literally save lives-how is that even possible? Greg then explained something I didn't know. Firefighters are often the first to arrive at a crisis, whether it's a multicar pileup on the interstate or a heart attack in the middle of the night. After firefighters pull people out of burning cars or revive someone, the paramedics or ER staff take over. The patients are whisked to the hospital, while the firefighters pack up their equipment, climb into the truck, and head back to the station. Usually, they never hear how things turn out, Greg said. They never learn, for instance, whether the woman they helped rescue from the car wreck made it to the hospital or ever walked again-if their efforts that night made any difference. This uncertainty wears on them. There's no closure, no connection to the outcome. Instead, they just write up their report and then head out to the next call. Greg told me that, over time, the lack of closure can erode morale and contribute to burnout or mental health struggles.

There's a common denominator in the human experience that we all share. We all want to know that what we do, what we say, and who we are matters. . . . Every argument is really about, Do you see me? Do you see me? Does what I say mean anything to you? Do I matter to you?
-Oprah Winfrey

This disconnection from our impact isn't only a problem of workplaces. So often, we move through our days unsure if what we do matters to anyone at all. Like firefighters, we often struggle not because we don't contribute, but because we rarely see the impact. We drop off soup for a sick friend but never hear whether it brought comfort. We contribute to a GoFundMe, uncertain if our donation helped. We give advice to an acquaintance preparing for a job interview and never hear how it went. Whether it's because we live in a culture that prizes self-sufficiency or simply because we are busy and distracted, too often we forget to close the loop with others. Over time, this lack of closure can lead to a growing sense of detachment in our work, homes, neighborhoods, and communities.

As a rookie firefighter, Greg felt that same sense of detachment. He and his colleagues would risk their lives to put out a house fire only to pass by the same property a week later and see it demolished by the insurance company. Firefighters had risked their lives to save that house only to see it destroyed-how could that not erode morale and breed frustration?

Whether you're working in an office, managing a household, or driving a delivery route, it's difficult to stay purposeful if it seems like what you're doing has no real impact on others. When we lack the feeling that others are aware of us and our actions, we miss the very foundation of mattering, as in "the feeling that one is the object of another person's attention or notice," according to researcher Morris Rosenberg. Even small gestures of recognition, such as when a barista remembers our regular order, a colleague stops by, or a neighbor waves hello, show us that we are seen, that we hold value. Research finds these brief encounters strengthen our sense of belonging and anchor us in our communities. Similarly, we need to know that our actions make a positive impact, like a former student returning to say he pursued an advanced degree because a teacher once believed in him. In a world where much of our effort can feel invisible, these gestures become the social proof that we do, in fact, matter.

Gradually, Greg came to understand that it was exactly this kind of invisibility that had led his firefighters to feel so burned out. After the lukewarm reception to the new equipment, Greg realized what was missing. Firefighters put themselves on the line daily without seeing the lives they changed or the gratitude that often followed. Greg was determined to close that gap.

"I'm telling"

One of the first things Greg did was to direct his medical officer, the person who trains firefighters for medical calls, to begin following up on patient outcomes when firefighters requested more information. Previously, they'd often been left wondering, Whatever happened to that little girl we pulled from the wreck? Or, Did the man who collapsed during his morning run survive? Now it was the medical officer's job to find and share any available updates. Soon firefighters started receiving meaningful feedback about how their work had helped people.

Around the same time, Greg also introduced a new fire investigator, whose job was not only to determine the cause of each fire but also to debrief the crews on the efficacy of the tactics they'd used to fight it. Historically, fire investigations were kept under wraps due to the possibility of criminal inquiries, which meant firefighters rarely received feedback on whether their strategies had been effective. Just as the medical officer's follow-up system gave firefighters a clearer view of their lifesaving efforts, the fire investigator helped firefighters see that their actions directly influenced the outcome of each fire, such as saving someone's home or containing a burning building so it didn't spread to a neighbor's house, all without revealing information that would compromise an inquiry.

Greg also decided to implement a system in which, every two weeks on payday, shift commanders were required to email him at least one thing their team members had done that deserved recognition. Even if there was nothing noteworthy, they were still required to send a "nothing to report" email. This system, Greg hoped, would ensure that good work didn't go unnoticed. At first, Greg was deluged with "nothing to report" messages. Plenty of good things were happening at the fire stations, of course-acts of teamwork, lifesaving responses-but the firefighters' actions were so ingrained in the culture that people in leadership failed to notice them. Some supervisors wondered out loud why the department was thanking employees for doing what they were paid to do. "So much of being a firefighter is about action," Greg told me. "Telling people in leadership that they need to step back and observe requires a different mentality."

Recognizing that humor is a natural part of firehouse culture, where good-natured teasing helps manage stress and build camaraderie, Greg decided to shift his approach. He encouraged his firefighters to use the phrase "I'm telling" to "tattle" on one another: "I'm telling the battalion chief the great work you're doing because you deserve to be recognized for it." Perhaps the playful framing would make reporting on good work feel less like a formal obligation and more like an opportunity to joke around. The new framing steadily took root, and Greg began receiving more reports of his firefighters' admirable actions. When he received such feedback, he made it a point to respond personally by sending handwritten thank-you cards, inviting the crew to staff meetings where they were publicly praised, or presenting them with a Chief's Coin, a special token of recognition reserved for those who go above and beyond the call of duty. Once, for instance, a unit responded to a minor accident in which a car had totaled a bicycle. The cyclist was unhurt but inconsolable because her bike was her only mode of transportation, and now she would not be able to get to work. The firefighters loaded her bike onto the truck, went back to the station, repaired it, and delivered it back to her the next morning. Greg recognized their work with a Chief's Coin. This awareness, Greg knew, was the lifeblood of their purpose.

The deepest principle in Human Nature is the craving to be appreciated.
-William James

Gradually, Greg began to notice a shift in the firefighters. Battalion chiefs became more mindful of recognizing the daily acts of excellence that kept their teams running smoothly. Chiefs didn't wait for formal evaluations to offer feedback. A "good job" or "thanks for handling that so well" became a regular part of their communication. The firefighters were surrounded by reminders that others were aware of their actions, that they were seen, and that they mattered. At the same time, Greg also started to see signs that the firefighters' pride in their work was returning. They began to take more ownership of their stations, such as requesting new paint to create a homier environment. Some went a step further by painting murals on the walls, while others designed and printed custom T-shirts with slogans that embodied their camaraderie and expressed a renewed sense of meaning and fulfillment.

What made "I'm telling" so effective wasn't just that it surfaced good deeds; it also spotlighted the people behind them. This idea stretches beyond firehouses. In families, classrooms, offices, and friendships, people crave being seen and recognized. Research finds that when appreciation reflects the qualities of the person behind an action, it hits deeper. It's the difference between saying, "Thanks for staying late," and "I always know I can count on you." The first thanks them for the deed. The other affirms the doer, and it's that affirmation that connects us to our impact. Consider the difference between "Thanks for the sweater" and "You are always such a thoughtful friend." The real impact is not about the gift. It's about the thoughtfulness of the gifter.

Researchers note we often hold back from expressing appreciation because we underestimate how much it will mean or we get stuck trying to find the perfect words. That miscalculation holds us back. But it doesn't have to stop us. We can make "I'm telling" a daily habit by building in cues throughout the day to remind us. One woman I know makes a point of sending a quick note of thanks to her husband every morning on her train to work. The commute is her cue. She just drafts a short text like, "Thank you for waking up early with the kids and being such a patient and loving dad and partner." With practice, we can learn to make appreciation a reflex by starting small with just one sentence that speaks to the person behind the action.

Notice one small thing

During my first firehouse visit in South Carolina, over mugs of tea at their long kitchen table, the firefighters spoke candidly about the physical and emotional toll of their work and about the pride they felt showing up for their community, day after day. The affection they had for one another was clear. On the refrigerator hung a photo of the firefighter of the month, which was covered with playful doodles of hearts. I pointed out that the scribbles reminded me of what a high schooler might draw on her crush's yearbook photo. "Yeah, they all have a crush on me now," the honored firefighter chuckled. When I asked why the kitchen's two refrigerators were encircled with thick chains and locks, they laughed and explained. Each shift had their own refrigerator. Although they relied on each other for matters of life and death, there was no sharing of food between shifts. "You could put a stack of money on the table, and no one would touch it," one firefighter said. "Ketchup, on the other hand . . ."