The Two Pages I Write Before I Walk Away

I have a slightly unfashionable habit. Before I step away from a project, I write a handover note. Not a strategy deck, not a retrospective, not a folder of screenshots with names like final-final-v3. Just two pages, maybe three if the project has a complicated alarm code.

The habit started with a community larder I helped run in a church hall. I looked after the website and the volunteer rota for a couple of years, then stepped back because work got busy and something had to give. I thought I had handed things over. I had handed over the login. What I had not handed over was the reason the booking form closes on Thursday afternoons, the fact that the hall key sticks unless you lift the door slightly, and the name of the person at the parish council who actually answers emails.

Three weeks later the new volunteer sent me a very polite message asking how to change the opening hours. I realised I had left a project that only worked because the knowledge was in my head. That is not a handover. That is a trap with a friendly smile.

So I wrote the note. It took forty-five minutes. It has been reused, updated and passed on twice since. It is the most useful document I have written for any project, and almost nobody has ever asked me for it.

Write it for a person, not an archive

A handover note is not the same as documentation. Documentation is for audits, insurers and people who like flowcharts. A handover note is for the poor soul who takes over on a Tuesday and needs to know where the spare key lives and which door it opens.

I write mine to a named future person, even if I do not know their name yet. I start with a line like: ‘You are probably reading this because I have gone quiet. Here is what I would want to know if I were you.’ That sets the tone. It is not a legal document. It is a message from one volunteer to another.

The spare key under the mat is a good metaphor, but only if you also mention the mat. And the door. And the fact that the lock needs a firm push before you turn it. Leaving someone the key without the context is not kindness. It is a puzzle.

What actually goes in the note

Mine has six sections, and they are deliberately short.

First, where things live. The domain registrar, the hosting account, the shared drive, the cupboard with the banner in it. I say where the passwords are kept, but I do not put passwords in the note itself. Use a password manager, set up emergency access, and write down who has the keys to the manager. A handover note is not a secure vault. It is a map to the vault.

Second, the decisions. This is the bit people leave out and the bit that saves the most time. Why does the booking form close on Thursday? Because the hall manager needs the list by Friday morning and the old system sent too many late changes. Why is there no comments section on the website? Because we tried it and it became a place for arguments about bin collections. Write down the reasons, not just the rules. A new person can decide to change a rule. They cannot decide to change a reason they never knew about.

Third, the people. Not an org chart. A list of humans and what they actually do. Who has the hall key. Who signs off the insurance. Who answers the phone on a Saturday. Who is lovely but will send you a nine-paragraph email if you copy them in. Keep it fair and factual. This is not a gossip column.

Fourth, the unfinished jobs. Be honest. The newsletter template is half-migrated. The accessibility check on the PDFs has not been done. The photo gallery still has three pictures from a summer fete that nobody can identify. A successor needs to know what is wobbly, not just what is shiny.

Fifth, the next three steps. This is the most useful part. Not a full to-do list. Just three specific actions, in order, with names and dates where possible. ‘Ask the hall secretary about the new Wi-Fi password.’ ‘Export the member list before changing hosts.’ ‘Book a working bee for the first Saturday in March.’ Three steps is small enough to start and clear enough to finish.

Sixth, what not to touch. Every project has one. The ancient email forwarder that looks broken but keeps the contact form alive. The spreadsheet that must stay in the old format because the printer in the hall only understands that format. The newsletter pop-up that broke the booking flow in Safari and should never be switched on again without a proper test. Write it down. It is cheaper than a disaster.

Passwords are not the handover

I have to say this plainly, because I have seen it go wrong. A handover note should not contain passwords. It should tell you where the password manager is, who can get into it, and what to do if the person who set it up has vanished. Set up two-factor authentication. Add an emergency contact. Use a proper shared vault if the project can afford one. If it cannot, use a free one and accept that the note is a signpost, not a safe.

The same goes for domain renewals and hosting bills. Put the dates in the note. Put the card details in the password manager where they belong. Nobody wants to discover the domain expired because the reminder went to an email address nobody checks.

Write it while you still care

The best time to write a handover note is not the week you leave. It is a quiet week in the middle, when you still like the project and remember why it matters. I update mine at the end of each season, or whenever I hand over a specific job. It takes less time than a committee meeting and it makes the next person’s first month much less lonely.

Store it somewhere shared. Print a copy. Put it in the drawer with the actual spare key, if there is one. And then tell someone where it is.

Leaving things tidy is not admin. It is a kindness to whoever picks up the keys next. It is also a quiet way of saying that the project was never about you. It should survive your absence. A two-page note is a small, practical way of making sure it does.