Seven years ago today, a lifelong dream came true—I became a published author.
The Pepper Effect was more than a book. It was a love letter to The Beatles, to education, and to believing in the impossible. I’ll never forget the moving moments that surrounded its publication: — My daughter Maddie finding my book on the shelf at Barnes & Noble—the first time I ever saw it in a bookstore. — Hugging my parents and seeing the joy and pride on their faces when I handed them their copy. — My true Fab Four—my wife and daughters—by my side at my first book signing at Underdog Records. — Watching a stage adaptation of The Pepper Effect performed at a school in Canada.
I’m forever grateful for those moments and for every reader who took the time to read the book, share it, and apply its message in classrooms and schools around the world. If you haven’t read it yet, it’s available here: Order on Amazon.
Today, something serendipitous happened. On the book birthday of The Pepper Effect, I released a new episode of the #PrincipalLinerNotes podcast—featuring none other than Dave Burgess, the publisher who believed in me and gave my book its wings.
Our conversation is a celebration of creativity, connection, and passion for education. It’s also the beginning of a short summer season of the podcast, where I’ll be amplifying the voices of those who continue to inspire and lead.
I’m currently working on another book—fingers crossed that it gets the nod for publication. Until then, thank you for being in the band. Your encouragement, listens, reads, and reflections mean more than I can ever express.
Feel free to drop me a line at sean@seangaillard.com to share your thoughts on the podcast, the blog, or The Pepper Effect. I’d love to connect.
I’m excited to share that Principal Liner Notes now has a new home on the web: 🎶 seangaillard.com 🎶
This new site is where you can find all of my blog posts, reflections, podcast updates, and more. You’ll also be the first to hear a big announcement (or two) coming soon—things I’m really excited about and can’t wait to share.
To those who have followed, subscribed, shared, or just quietly read along—thank you. Your support fuels the creative spark and reminds me that this journey matters.
Please take a moment to subscribe at seangaillard.com and share it with a friend or fellow educator. I hope it continues to be a place of inspiration, connection, and purpose.
Today also marks the anniversary of an album that changed the world—Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. That album didn’t just change music, it changed my life. It lit the fire that led to my first book, The Pepper Effect, a celebration of belief, collaboration, and educational leadership.
There are checklists to check off. Boxes to move. Emails to answer. Meetings to attend. Conversations to wrap. It can feel like you’re racing a clock with no hands—just noise, motion, and that persistent push toward “done.” As school leaders, we often wear this urgency like a badge of honor. But somewhere in the frenzy, we lose sight of something vital:
The pause.
The other day, our custodian was out, and I had to stay late to close the building. Alone. I walked the halls, locking doors and preparing to set the alarm. The building was still. No laughter echoing down the halls. No rush of students heading to the buses. Just me and the walls that had witnessed a school year’s worth of highs, lows, pivots, and quiet victories.
That simple rhythm—step, door, lock, breathe—became something sacred. I wasn’t just closing a building. I was closing a chapter. In that silence, the year spoke back to me. I remembered the breakthroughs. The bruises. The bounce-backs. The beauty of what we had built together.
And I realized something all over again: reflection is not a luxury. It’s a necessity.
Since my heart episode last year—a moment that forced me to recharge not just physically, but mentally and spiritually—I’ve come to believe even more deeply in the power of pause. I spent too many years avoiding it. Confusing the speed of leadership with the strength of leadership. I mistook checklists for vision. And it nearly broke me.
Innovation doesn’t come from being in constant motion. It comes from being still enough to listen to what the year has been teaching us all along.
So I offer this, not just as a fellow school leader, but as someone who had to learn the hard way: Make reflection part of your leadership practice. Not later. Now.
Here are three ways I’m leaning into reflection, even in the middle of the end-of-year mania:
🎧 1. Schedule 15 Minutes of Stillness
Block out 15 minutes this week—no email, no meetings, no phone. Find a quiet corner of your school. Sit. Breathe. Let the silence remind you of your why.
📝 2. Journal with Three Prompts
What am I most proud of this year? What did I learn from my staff? What will I do differently next year? Keep it short. Keep it honest. But write it down. Let your words catch up with your heart.
🚶♂️ 3. Take a Solo Walk Through the Building
No agenda. No checklist. Just walk. Let the sights, sounds, and stillness speak to you. Every poster, every student project, every empty seat is a story. These are the artifacts of your leadership.
If you’re reading this and feeling overwhelmed or alone, know this: you’re not. I’m walking this with you. And if you need a thought partner or a word of encouragement, I’m here.
Leadership is lonely—but it doesn’t have to be isolating. Especially when we choose to pause, reflect, and lead with presence.
There are moments in leadership—more than we care to admit—when it feels like leadership isn’t there for you.
You stand in a room and no one greets you. No one looks up. No one notices.
You offer ideas, vision, care—and it’s met with silence, or worse, indifference.
You give your best self and sometimes receive no acknowledgment in return.
The gig is tough. The gig is lonely. The gig will ask you to keep showing up, especially when the room grows quiet. And sometimes, it stays quiet.
And yet—we still walk in.
Why?
Because we’re human.
Because we crave meaning.
Because we want to belong just like anyone else.
I carry what my father taught me in these moments: Hold your head high. Even when no one seems to see you. Especially then.
And so, I look for the small things.
The fleeting glances. The quiet nods. The invisible applause.
Those moments when you know—deep in your gut—that you’re still in the groove.
I remember those moments when I played in bands. We’d be deep into a tune, and someone across the band space would catch my eye and offer a knowing smile. Just a look. A small moment that said, We’ve got this.
There’s a video I love of the Dave Brubeck Quartet performing Take Five. During Joe Morello’s legendary drum solo, Brubeck stops playing. He turns from the piano—not to take center stage, but to watch. To admire. To honor. No words. Just presence.
The Beatles did it, too. During that final rooftop concert, even amid the tension, they stole glances. Smiles. They saw each other. And they saw Billy Preston, too—playing keys right alongside them, lifting the sound, lifting the moment.
Even as the world watched from the streets below, the real audience wasn’t the crowd down there—it was amidst the band.
That’s what keeps me going in leadership—the small, true things.
A student’s unexpected smile.
A teacher’s thank-you whispered in the hallway.
A quiet moment where someone sees you—and maybe, just maybe, you see them too.
We may not always receive the applause. But we can give it.
We can be the nod.
We can be the smile.
We can be the Dave Brubeck who turns his head in full admiration.
We can be the Beatle who shares a grin in the middle of the chaos.
Those small moves? They matter.
They are leadership.
And when the room is quiet—lead anyway.
You never know who might be listening for your cue.
This post is dedicated to my true Fab Four: Deb, Maddie, Emily, & Rachel.
This past weekend, our family was called to divide and conquer. A moment we had both dreamed of and quietly feared had finally arrived: our twin daughters were graduating from college—at two different universities, with ceremonies only an hour apart.
That scheduling twist, which had loomed as a distant possibility, finally became reality. But in true fashion, our daughters made the call for us. They knew the challenge of being in two places at once, and they handled it with grace, maturity, and love. One twin would be celebrated in Boone, the other in Charlotte. My wife, Deborah, attended Emily’s ceremony, while I went to Rachel’s.
It wasn’t easy. We wanted so badly to be in the same place, to celebrate both daughters together as a complete family. But our hearts remained united, even across the miles.
As I sat in the Convocation Center at Appalachian State University, surrounded by the joyful noise of other families, I found myself scanning the sea of black caps and gowns. I was determined to catch a glimpse of Rachel. Our oldest daughter, Maddie, who had just completed her second year of law school, finally spotted her and pointed excitedly.
And then—there she was.
Waving. Smiling. Radiant in her graduation regalia.
For a moment, time folded in on itself. Her wave transported me to another milestone—the day of Rachel’s First Communion. That same smile, that same sparkle in her eye. She had looked across the church, found me in the crowd, and sent me a quiet wave. I had waved back, with the same lump in my throat that returned to me all these years later.
But something else happened, too. In Rachel’s smile, I also saw Emily’s. Her twin’s light and laughter seemed to echo in that moment. It was as if both were standing there in front of me, even though Emily was an hour away in Charlotte. I felt a powerful closeness to both daughters, woven together in that one unforgettable glance.
That’s the thing about being a parent. These moments hit you like a thunderclap. They echo from the past and resonate into the future. And suddenly, you realize the most important title you’ll ever hold isn’t “Principal” or “Author” or anything in your email signature. It’s simply “Dad.”
I am so proud of all three of my daughters—Maddie, Emily, and Rachel. They are bright, strong, kind, and wise. They are charting their own paths as young adults, and watching them step into their lives fills me with awe. I’m even more grateful for my wife, Deborah, whose quiet strength and boundless love have held the center of our family together through every season of growth.
Now, with the nest officially empty, I find myself reflecting—not with sadness, but with gratitude. The house may be quieter, but my heart is louder than ever with pride and love.
What Matters Most
It’s easy to get lost in the deadlines, testing windows, evaluations, checklists, and calendar invites. But in the rush of it all, don’t lose sight of what matters most—your people. Your family. Your loved ones.
I’ve made mistakes. I’ve put the job first far too many times. I’ve been the principal who stared at the calendar and missed moments that I can’t get back. And I’m still learning.
John Lennon said it best in “Beautiful Boy (Darling Boy),” a song he wrote for his five-year-old son, Sean. It appears on Double Fantasy, the final album Lennon released in his lifetime, just weeks before he was so senselessly killed by gunfire at the age of 40.
In that song, Lennon offers this lyric that has never left me:
“Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”
It’s more than a line—it’s a truth that rings louder the older we get, especially when the nest starts to empty and the calendar continues to fill.
So, as the year closes and you check off your last task, I offer a few humble reminders:
Action Steps for Leaders to Thrive in Life and Work
1. Calendar Your Family First Put family time on the calendar with the same importance as meetings or walkthroughs. Block it out. Protect it.
2. Celebrate Milestones—Big and Small A graduation, a recital, a family dinner. These are not interruptions. They are the point.
3. Let Your Team In Model balance for your team. Share your family moments. Celebrate theirs. Normalize stepping away to be present.
4. Unplug With Purpose Turn off the notifications. Leave the laptop in the bag. Watch the game, take the walk, enjoy the silence.
5. Reflect Often Journal. Take a quiet moment in the car. Play a favorite song or album. Remind yourself why you do what you do—and for whom.
The nest may be empty, but the heart stays full. And at the end of the day, love is the legacy that lasts far beyond our leadership roles.
So here’s to what matters. Here’s to waving daughters, twin smiles, and a family that found a way to be in two places at once—with love as the through line.
In an old comic book from my childhood, there’s a powerful image that has always stayed with me. It was an issue of Detective Comics that told the origin story of Batman. A young Bruce Wayne walks into Wayne Manor, ready to begin his hero’s journey. As he enters, his shadow stretches behind him—not as a boy, but as the full-formed silhouette of Batman. It was a simple panel, but it carried a profound truth: even in our earliest steps, the shadows of our future potential are already taking shape.
This image made me think about our calling as educators. Every day, we walk alongside students and teachers who are living their own origin stories. Some are just starting out, unsure of who they are or where they belong. Yet within them, we can glimpse the shadows of what they may become—leaders, artists, scientists, changemakers, or quiet heroes who make the world better in unseen ways.
This week is Teacher Appreciation Week, a moment to celebrate the educators who see those shadows before anyone else does. Teachers have a remarkable gift—a kind of superpower. They tune into the potential of their students and help them believe in it, even when the students can’t yet see it for themselves. Our teachers transform the impossible into the possible. They are not just instructors; they are cultivators of hope.
As school leaders, we are called to be architects of that hope. Our job is to build cultures where teachers are empowered to do their best work—where they can create the conditions for students to discover who they are meant to be.
I’ll never forget my fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. McMonagle. I was a new student, the only Black child in the class, adjusting to a new school in a new state. I felt lost—alienated, unsure, and afraid. But Mrs. McMonagle saw something in me that I couldn’t see in myself. She created a space where I felt seen and welcomed. She introduced me to the joy of writing, literature, and even encouraged my growing love for The Beatles. She pushed me, challenged me, and inspired me. I am forever grateful for the way she believed in me and gave me a sense of belonging.
Everyone carries the shadow of future potential. Teachers have a special sense for detecting those shadows and helping students realize the greatness within them. This week, and every week, let’s honor and celebrate that gift.
Here’s to the ones who chose to build trajectories of hope in our classrooms. Here’s to the ones who see the future before it arrives.
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.
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.
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.
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.
A reflection inspired by John Bonham, legacy, and the rhythm of leadership #PrincipalLinerNotes
Special Thanks to Jimmy Casas and Lainie Rowell for their respective missions inspiring my gig! I am grateful that our PLN connections have evolved into sincere, lifelong friendships.
A very special thanks to my amazing wife, Deb, for being that constant source of love, inspiration, and strength every day! Thanks for inspiring Impact Visits!
A Soundcheck at Knebworth
It was just a soundcheck. August 1979. Knebworth. A wide open field waiting to be filled with music. Led Zeppelin was preparing for a monumental return to the British stage. But as the band warmed up, it wasn’t John Bonham—the thunderous backbone of the band—behind the drum kit. It was his 13-year-old son, Jason.
In a rare and touching moment, Bonham stepped away from the drums and wandered into the field. He didn’t just want to hear the band; he wanted to listen from a distance. He stood alone, away from the stage, and let the sound wash over him. The rhythm of his legacy. His son’s rhythm.
There were no headlines. No fanfare. But there was something sacred in that quiet act: a father making space for the next generation, a rock legend becoming an audience member. Trust. Love. Legacy. It was all there in that field of amplifiers and dreams.
As a teenager, I remember reading about that moment in one of the many music biographies I devoured. It stuck with me. Especially knowing that John Bonham would pass away just over a year later. His son, Jason, would grow up to carry the torch—eventually joining surviving members of Led Zeppelin for reunion shows, most notably in the legendary 2007 performance captured on Celebration Day.
That soundcheck was more than rehearsal. It was legacy in action. It was impact. It was a leader stepping back—so something deeper could move forward.
Stepping Back for Impact
The response to my recent blog post, The Loneliness of Leadership, has been both humbling and healing. I wrote it to name and navigate the isolation I’ve felt in leadership—and to extend a hand to others who may be feeling the same. The heartfelt messages and outreach reminded me that we’re not as alone as we think. There is resonance when we share our truth.
This morning, I had the sincere honor of being a guest on Jimmy Casas’ podcast, The Interview Chair. You can listen to that episode soon, but here’s what struck me during our conversation: Jimmy asked how I maintain mental health in leadership—especially after sharing my heart episode experience from last year. My answer came quickly: Impact Visits.
What Are Impact Visits?
Impact Visits are intentional moments carved out of the chaos. They’re brief detours in your day where you go and witness your leadership in motion—where the fingerprints of your work are making a difference.
Over the years of my principalship, my wife Deb would often tell me, especially on the hard days, “Go visit a classroom where you know it’s working.” She’d say it gently but with urgency—usually on the days when I was feeling discouraged, disconnected, or alienated. I didn’t always listen. I’d get swept up in the whirlwind of tasks and to-dos. But since my heart episode and my renewed focus on mental health, I’ve made it a point to follow her advice.
So, thank you, Deb. I know to listen to you now.
These are not evaluative visits. They’re not walk-throughs with clipboards and checklists. They’re personal moments—to be reminded, to be renewed. A time to refuel your spirit and reconnect to why you said yes to this work in the first place.
If you can, use these visits as a chance to connect. To offer a word of thanks. A fist bump. A simple “You’re doing great.” As my friend Lainie Rowell reminds us in her #EvolvingWithGratitude mission—gratitude is a powerful act of leadership. A little goes a long way.
Four Ways to Make Impact Visits Happen
Schedule Intentionally Block time on your calendar each week. Just 10–15 minutes to step into a classroom, a hallway, or the front line of your impact.
Make It Routine Ritual turns into rhythm. If you make Impact Visits a part of your leadership practice, they’ll become the pause that powers your next move.
Share the Visit Reflect on your visits with a thought partner or friend. If you don’t have someone, you’re welcome to reach out to me. I’d be honored to be that listening ear: sgaillard84@gmail.com
Encourage Others Inspire your team, your assistant principals, or even colleagues in your PLN to create their own version of Impact Visits. Help build a culture of reflection and renewal.
Your Beat Still Matters
Leadership is not a sprint of perfection. It’s a series of riffs—some raw, some refined. We owe it to ourselves and those we serve to keep our rhythm aligned with our core values.
So, take that walk. Stand in that hallway. Listen to the beat that’s still echoing from something you once helped shape.
Because even in the quiet moments—maybe especially in the quiet moments—we find proof that we’re still making a difference.
Typically, I don’t write blog posts back-to-back. I’ve kept to a steady rhythm of weekly writing since my heart episode last year. That ritual has become part of my healing—recommended by my therapist, yes, but also something I’ve come to cherish. Writing has broken through the fog of writer’s block that followed the release of The Pepper Effect. Through journaling and reflection, I’ve found my way back to words and meaning. I am even working on finishing up a proposal for a new book.
But this piece couldn’t wait.
I’ve been sitting with a question no one prepared me for in “Principal School”: Why does leadership have to feel so lonely?
It’s a question that’s erupted into big feelings—enough to make me pause on other writing projects and sit with this one instead.
There’s a scene in Peter Jackson’s Get Back documentary that lingers with me. George has left the band. A meeting doesn’t go well. Paul and Ringo return to the studio, uncertain of what’s next. John is nowhere to be found. Paul, visibly shaken, says quietly, “And then there were two.” He stares off into the distance. His eyes well with tears. His voice trembles. You can feel the grief. The possibility that something beautiful and world-changing might be coming to an end.
Watching that moment recently, I didn’t just see it through the eyes of a Beatles fan—I saw it through the lens of a leader holding onto connection, trying not to lose grip.
I’ve been a principal for almost sixteen years. I’ve served in multiple schools, answered the call for turnaround, and poured myself into the gig. I’m grateful for a beautiful family—my wife and three amazing daughters. Their love is a constant light. And I do have a handful of trusted friends, most not nearby. But I’ve felt friendship fade over the years—some lost to distance, some to time, some to disillusionment.
This is the part they don’t tell you about leadership. That people may see your title before they see you. That the weight of tough decisions can sometimes isolate you. That you’ll have days where it feels like everyone is counting on you—and no one is standing with you.
I once thought the PLN (Professional Learning Network) would solve this. Twitter, Voxer groups, hashtags that I created like #CelebrateMonday and #TrendThePositive—those were my entry points to community. And for a while, they worked. I met incredible educators, interviewed inspirational guests for the Principal Liner Notes podcast, and even achieved my dream of becoming a published author.
But not all connections held. Some collaborations quietly ended. Some people I looked up to didn’t turn out to be who I thought they were. And yes, I’ve even had a book idea stolen.
Still, I’m thankful for the moments of light in those spaces—moments when a shoutout brightened someone’s Monday or a podcast guest became a kindred spirit. Yet, after the episode ended or the tweet was sent, the silence would sometimes creep in.
Loneliness doesn’t negate purpose. It doesn’t mean the work isn’t good. But it does mean we need to be mindful of our well-being and human need for belonging.
Recently, I’ve had the privilege of co-facilitating the ISTE-ASCD webinar series with Andrea Trudeau. We’ve explored what it means to create spaces of connection and belonging—especially for those in unique roles like principals and school librarians. These conversations have reminded me that belonging doesn’t just happen. It’s a practice. A choice. A rhythm to keep playing, even when the band seems scattered.
In her book The Let Them Theory, Mel Robbins has a powerful chapter on the quiet heartbreak of adult friendships. She describes how friendships shift from group experiences to individual efforts—and how easy it is to look around one day and realize your circle has vanished. Her advice? Reach out first. Be kind without expectation. Smile. Be curious. Give it time.
It’s advice I’ve tried to follow, even when it’s hard. Even when it’s lonely.
So what do we do with this?
We remember that our core matters. Our heart matters. And so does connection.
Here are a few ways I’m working to move through leadership loneliness—and maybe they’ll help you, too:
Savor family and those who know you beyond your title. The gig will wait—those moments with loved ones won’t. I am grateful daily for my wife and our daughters and my family.
Reach out. A coffee, a text, a hallway chat. Don’t wait for someone else to go first.
Find “only ones” like you. Look for the school librarian, the instructional coach, the counselor—others who might be the only one in their role. Forge that bond.
Be vulnerable. Share your story. Someone else might need to hear it. I have been writing deeply about the experiences surrounding my heart episode. I am grateful that others have found it helpful for their journey.
Build something outside the gig. A book club. A podcast. A project that brings joy without the pressure.
You are not alone—even when it feels that way. Someone out there gets it. Someone is looking for connection, too.
Keep showing up. Keep being kind. Keep playing your part in this great, imperfect, meaningful symphony of leadership.
Postscript: During those Get Back sessions, Paul’s loneliness was palpable. But the story didn’t end there. The band found their way back. The Beatles regrouped. And they gave us the Rooftop Concert—a final live performance filled with joy, grit, and unity.
It was their last time playing live together. And it was iconic.
A reminder that even in moments of disconnection, something timeless can still emerge.
Leadership Liner Notes: Sean Gaillard 