As I write this, I’m sitting with the weight of another school year nearing its close—reflective, grateful, and searching for meaning in the midst of it all.

I’ve been a principal for 16 years. I’ve poured myself into school after school, often the ones that needed the most care. I’ve stood on stages, been a finalist for NC Principal of the Year, written a book from my heart, and still—there are moments, like now, when I wonder if it’s all making a difference.

Maybe you’ve felt that too.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about The Beatles.
Specifically, August 29, 1966—their last public concert at Candlestick Park in San Francisco. They had reached a breaking point. They felt like they weren’t playing well.  Between public backlash over John Lennon’s remarks about The Beatles being more popular Jesus Christ and diplomatic fallout in the Philippines from unintentionally snubbing the President and First Lady there, the pressures became too much. So they did something radical—they stepped back. No farewell tour. No grand finale. Just a quiet pause.

Each band member took time to rediscover who they were beyond the noise. John went to Spain to film How I Won the War. Paul collaborated with George Martin on a film score. George immersed himself in sitar studies with Ravi Shankar in India. Ringo stayed home to be with his family.

Then, something beautiful happened.

They returned—not to the stage, but to the studio. And from that retreat came a wave of brilliance: Strawberry Fields Forever, Penny Lane, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.

All of it began with a pause. A reset. A reclaiming of identity. A spark of innovation that changed the face of Music.

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As leaders, we may not have world tours or screaming fans, but we do know what it feels like to carry the weight of expectations and the constant drumbeat of demands. In that rhythm, we can forget to care for ourselves in the same way we care for others.

We all crave connection. We all crave belonging.
And while we work so hard to create that for our teams, our students, and our communities—we must also remember to create it for ourselves.

Take the walk.
Play the record.
Write what’s on your heart.
Give yourself the same grace you offer to everyone else.

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It’s easy to fall into the comparison trap—scrolling through highlight reels, seeing the accolades, the applause, the polished smiles. I’ve been there too. But the truth is, none of that defines your worth or your purpose.

Your worth is in the quiet moment with a student who needed someone to believe in them.
It’s in the coaching conversation that sparked a teacher’s growth.
It’s in the way you show up—consistently, compassionately, courageously.

You may not always see the impact. But it’s there.

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If you’re at a crossroads, unsure of what’s next, or simply longing to feel grounded again, let this be your reminder:

Somewhere in the universe, someone believes in you completely.

Not for your title.
Not for your credentials.
But for who you are. For how you lead with heart. For how you care, even when it’s hard.

You matter.

Your leadership matters.

Your impact matters, and it will continue to do so in ways seen and unseen.