So, people hear a name like “Seaside Planned Parenthood” and they probably picture something calm, well-organized, maybe even a bit nurturing. Like, you know, carefully tending to something by the ocean. I was involved in something that got called that, kind of as an internal nickname, and let me tell you, it wasn’t quite like that picture postcard.
I got pulled into this initiative. The “Seaside” bit was because our makeshift office for this project was in this drafty old building down by the water. Always smelled a bit damp. And the “Planned Parenthood” part? That became a dark joke among us pretty fast. We were supposed to be meticulously planning and rolling out a new community engagement program. Sounds great on paper, right?
My job was to try and get the scheduling and the resources to actually line up. So, I dove in. I started by trying to get everyone in the same room, just to agree on what we were doing that week. I made endless lists. I organized meetings. I even brought in doughnuts, thinking it might help.
Then the real fun began. One department wanted all the tiny budget we had for their pet idea. Another team insisted their way was the only way, and wouldn’t even listen to anyone else. It was like they were speaking different languages. Management, bless their hearts, kept changing their minds every other day. One Monday, we were told to focus all our energy on youth workshops. By Wednesday, after I’d already drafted the plans and started allocating bits of our non-existent budget, it suddenly switched to supporting senior citizens. No extra money, no extra people, just a complete U-turn.
I remember this one time specifically. We spent nearly two solid weeks designing these really nice brochures for a big launch event. We poured hours into them, getting the wording just right, picking colors. The day before they were due to go to the printers, we found out the whole event was off. Why? Someone forgot to actually book the venue. “Planned,” you see. Total joke.
We were meant to be these thoughtful “parents,” nurturing this project from an idea into something real and impactful. Honestly, it felt more like we were a bunch of overwhelmed babysitters, constantly trying to manage a toddler having a meltdown, a toddler who demanded ice cream one minute and then threw it on the floor the next.
I tried to set up a really simple online board to track tasks. Something basic, just so everyone could see who was doing what. The feedback? “Too complicated.” “Stifles creativity.” I suggested quick daily stand-ups, just 15 minutes. “Micromanagement,” they cried.
After a while, I figured out the “planned” part was just a nice word they liked to use in presentations. The “parenthood” was more like watching a slow-motion car crash you couldn’t stop. I stuck around for a few more months, mostly because I felt I had to. I kept notes on everything, every decision, every sudden change of direction. Mostly to cover my own backside, if I’m honest.
I watched good people with good ideas just get tired and give up. Enthusiasm just drained away. So why do I know all the messy details about this “Seaside Planned Parenthood” thing?
Because when the whole thing finally, and predictably, ran out of steam and quietly died, I was the one they asked to write the “Post-Project Review” document. They wanted something upbeat, focusing on “synergies achieved” and “foundational work laid.” You know the drill. I wrote down what actually happened, as diplomatically as I could manage. I detailed the lack of clear goals, the shifting priorities, the resource vacuums. That report got filed away pretty deep, pretty quick, I bet.
But the whole experience taught me a lot. So now, whenever I hear a project with a fancy, inspiring name, I always find myself wondering what’s really going on under the surface. That “seaside” view from the damp office really wasn’t worth the constant headache of all that “unplanned” chaos.
