A Jive love song

A Jive love song

I just reread my one-year Jive anniversary blog post and realized how much of it still rings true. I wanted to share it with the broader world, to tell what it feels like to work at a company that gets it. Much love to you, Jive.

May the Fourth Be My Jiversary
May 4, 2015

me First off–yes, I am very much aware of how auspicious it is that I share my Jive anniversary with May The Fourth. I did it so I would never forget my work anniversary–and so I would never forget this important “Star Trek Holiday.”

One year ago today, I arrived at Club Fed with uncertainty and a righteous cold. I spent most of my first week at Jive coughing in the bathroom, winning last place in Jiver bowling, and making fast friends with my coworkers at a healthy distance of ten feet.

I also learned that we do not use the Oxford comma, but this is my own blog post and I will do as I damn well please.

Since then, it’s been a whirlwind of videos and infographics and posters and blog posts and emails and and and etc.  I’ve never worked at a place where I’ve been allowed to be so prolific, or to take ownership over my projects. It’s really exhilarating and empowering. And (now I’m just stealing the words of our customers) there is something electric about working at a place that connects me with everyone.


Ok, so I still carry a lot of baggage from a previous employer who did me wrong by not having a way to communicate to our 100-person workplace that we had a company softball team. It’s a cut that runs deep. This is why Jive means so much more to me than just software. All the copy I write to promote Jive? It’s to help out poor, isolated Past Molly who had no way to share information with her team other than through emails that got ignored. And who had no way to assert herself or have a voice or get recognition or share a George Costanza GIF with the people to whom it mattered most.

koolaidSo yes. I don’t just make the Jive Kool-Aid, I also drink it. And the beer.

Oh, and speaking of Jive Kool Aid…JiveWorld. Holy holy holy crap. My first JiveWorld was an epic example of how awesome it is to work for a place that sells something people actually love and use.

I also loved experiencing Jiver Elation over a job well done IRL! (I will never run out of high-fives for my partners in video-adventure-land, Jessie Edwards and Kosheno Moore.)

IN CLOSING! After a year of collaborating with all you wickedly brilliant, creative, giving, and fun Jivers from across the company and the world, I’m more excited than ever to be here. I can’t wait to make more stuff with you all.

Much love to my near and dear Club Fed Octothorps for making Club Fed feel like home, and thanks to all the GNAKS near and far who make each day on Brewspace lovely.

Kindness and the Women’s March in DC

Kindness and the Women’s March in DC

On Saturday, we marched for women’s rights. For Black Lives Matter. For LGBTQIA+. For immigrants. For refugees. For indigenous people. For the marginalized in our own country. For the war torn abroad. For equality. For healthcare. For the environment. For love, no matter what. We marched against hate, ignorance, xenophobia, misogyny, and fear. This was a place for every human cause. Every humane cause.

The marchers were kind. The police were kind. The store clerks were kind. The Trump supporters (for the most part) were polite. We stood shoulder to shoulder — if not closer — with thousands upon thousands of hopers and helpers, dreamers and doers, and there was no violence. No arrests. When met with barricades, we slowed to keep everyone safe. When help was needed, every hand reached out. People climbed trees to scout paths. The crowd played telephone to share information about a missing child or an uneven step or a violin left on a train.

The Women’s March was emotional, for everyone. When the young child of immigrant parents spoke in Spanish, telling immigrants’ children to not be afraid, that the marchers will look out for them — we wept.

When we spied an eighty-year-old woman leaning deeply into her cane, eyes shut against hour four of the rally — we wept.

When we heard our own voices echo “Sí, se puede” off white buildings, 500,000+ voices ringing on in the hushed silence that followed — we wept.

And when we marched by a Syrian refugee who held his sign to face us, a sign that expressed his gratitude for America and its people and his support of all of our freedoms, when someone gave him an American flag, when that Syrian waved it over his head, and when he wept — we wept.

We wept openly for those oppressed. We wept in hope, in fear, in anger, and in elation. And we wept because we saw that we are not alone.

Two days in DC and we didn’t sightsee. Instead, we met with women and men and children and families, connecting over what went wrong and what we can do now.

Now. Now.

The word repeated itself. “What can we do now?” We can’t change what has past. And tomorrow may be too late. Now. It is what we have.

So we spoke to Americans, Canadians and British. To people from Delaware, Montana, Seattle, Utah, Pennsylvania, Florida, Washington, Oregon, California, Colorado. We spoke in the march and on the Mall; in parks, trains, subways, cafés, shops, Lyfts, national monuments, museums, airports, and airplanes. We cheered and chanted, high-fived and hugged, nodded and winked. We shared our shared experiences, our unique experiences, and overlapped each other in praise of the planning, and in wonder at the kindness of half a million densely-packed people.

And we repeated Our Numbers to one another, the ones that mattered to our hearts: 100,000 in Portland. 3,500 in Anchorage. 250,000 in Chicago. 250,000 in New York. 750,000 in Los Angeles. 6,000 in Salt Lake City. 3.3 million across 550 cities and towns in the U.S. And support in Paris, in Mexico City, in Berlin and in Sydney; in Cape Town, in Nairobi, and in Paradise Bay, Antarctica.

“I wish you could see yourselves,” gushed one speaker from the stage, blocks and blocks from where we stood. “You are so beautiful.”

We smiled, but didn’t know what that meant until we saw the photos from above, after it was over. We had no idea. We had no idea we were so many or so powerful.

We were — and are — united. This global rising showed us that we are not alone in this. And while it may feel, at times, that we are too late, that we are too divided, that white women came too late, that allies have been asleep — we aren’t now. We are all awake. And we all have now.


To my aunt from Alaska and to my best friend from college: Marching in Washington DC may have been the most impactful experience I’ve ever had. I can’t thank you both enough for being beside me. I will never forget this.

To my husband’s uncle who housed us in Baltimore: You are a saint and a champion. I loved sharing this with you.

And to those who say they didn’t need to march, who say that women like me, with food in my belly, clothes on my back, and the money in my pocket to fly to DC , do not have a reason to march; who say they personally do not feel the pain of inequality, the ache of poverty, the oppression of their race or gender, the panic of being without healthcare, the fear of rape or violence or abuse, the crushing burden — or the impact, or the bodily harm — of an unwanted or forced or unviable pregnancy, to those I say:

This is why I marched. So that everyone may feel your comfort. So one day everyone can enjoy the same complacency you do. We didn’t march for ourselves. We marched for everyone.

I took the march’s message to heart: we can not rest when the least of us suffers. We can no longer say, “that isn’t my issue.” Because all of it is our issue. So I will continue to actively fight for kindness. And hope. And equality. And I hope you will too. If you have questions, I will answer them. If you have ideas, I want to help. If you have complaints, I will listen.

And if you, like me, have a renewed sense of what you need to do — I will stand beside you.


“No hate. No fear. Everyone is welcome here.”
“My body, my choice.”
“We will not go away, welcome to your first day.”
Women’s March on Washington