This summer was supposed to be my breakthrough. I was a featured speaker at a major conference. I was on a roll with regular blogging and podcasting. I was amidst writing my second book. I was working on putting together an LLC.
Then, there were some hard realities that began to arise. My sessions at the conference were not well attended. This would be the second time in row that this happened where I was a featured speaker. The blogs and podcasts were not gaining the traction that I thought they merited. The usual friends who had supported my content in the past were not doing so.
I felt alienated and lost amidst a professional learning network that I once held high as a community. Feeling that same alienation in my daily work, I thought that if I invested in my PLN that I would get the return on investment that I craved. I figured if I upped my ante with blogging and podcasting that I would find solace with like-minded colleagues. Ultimately, I was looking for emotional support for my words and ideas in which I shared my humanity.
Impact is hard to judge when you write and podcast. There is no room to riff and vibe with when you do those things. All that I rely on are the likes and comments from my posts. The encouraging texts from friends in my PLN that I would receive after I posted a blog or a podcast. That traction has been missing lately and it hurts. When the reciprocity for the support I share for others, it does sting.
Over time, I realized I had begun measuring connection by engagement. I had unintentionally allowed algorithms, notifications, and analytics to become my scoreboard. Somewhere along the way, I confused being seen with being known and being followed with being supported.
The irony is not lost on me. Much of my recent writing has centered on mattering, belonging, and creating cultures where people feel noticed. Yet, I found myself looking for those very things in places that were never designed to provide them. Social media can introduce us to people, but it cannot sustain us. Likes can be affirming, but they are a poor substitute for authentic relationships. Real connection is built in conversations, shared experiences, and showing up for one another over time.
As I reflected on this difficult season, I found myself returning to something I wrote several weeks ago. At the time, I thought I was writing about the frustration of creating in the silence. Looking back now, I realize I was also writing about the danger of allowing that silence to define us.
Perhaps I needed to read my own words again.
What follows is a repost of that reflection, “When the Crickets Hurt.” Reading it today, I hear it differently than I did when I first pressed publish.
I have been thinking a great deal about noticing lately.
My current morning reading is The Power of Mattering by Zach Mercurio, and one chapter in particular has stayed with me. The chapter explores noticing as the first step toward helping people feel they matter. That idea has lingered with me long after I closed the book.
Two recent experiences reinforced that lesson. Both of them occurred in close proximity to each other and I believe the timing of the impact is of significance. Recently, I have been recalibrating my approach and taking proactive steps to reach out to others. I have been in the occasional doldrums of wondering why the phone wasn’t ringing for me or why my shoulder wasn’t being tapped for invitations. I decided to just simply outreach and share.
In each instance, I reached out to someone. In each instance, my outreach was met with silence. Neither situation was catastrophic. Neither involved ill intent, at least as far as I know. Both, however, reminded me of something deeply human. We notice when we are not noticed. It can sting and it does leave a mark.
That realization could have easily led me toward disappointment or resentment. Instead, it led me toward reflection. I decided to flip my own paradigm of giving into the weight of those doldrums. I stepped back and took a pause to reflect.
As I looked inward, I reflected on the times that I may have missed noticing someone else. I thought about the times that I failed to really see someone. How often have I unintentionally done the same thing to someone else?
Leadership has taught me many lessons over the years, but this one reaches beyond leadership. Every one of us wants to know that our presence matters. Every one of us wants to know that someone saw us, heard us, and cared enough to respond. We crave to be valued and validated. Those connections sustain and inspire. We feel connection and belonging with others. Human connection is universal and is an essential component for our well-being.
Noticing is never just about acknowledgement. It is about communicating, “I see you. You matter.”
The opposite carries weight as well. Silence often says more than we intend.
My recent experiences became unexpected gifts. They reminded me to respond. They reminded me to follow up. They reminded me that connection rarely happens by accident. It happens because someone makes the intentional choice to notice another person.
The more I read Mercurio’s work, the more I believe that noticing is not simply a leadership competency. It is a human practice. Leaders certainly need it, but so do neighbors, friends, colleagues, spouses, teachers, and strangers.
Recently, I have also been immersed in the music of the Bill Evans Trio. Listening closely to those recordings reveals something remarkable. Three musicians are not simply playing at the same time. They are listening to one another. Every phrase is met with another phrase. Every musical idea is acknowledged, expanded, or gently redirected. Space is given. Responses matter. The music exists because each musician notices the others.
Leadership works much the same way.
Organizations become healthier when people feel noticed. Relationships deepen when people feel heard. Cultures of mattering begin with small moments of intentional attention.
Noticing is the first note.
Connection is the melody.
Mattering is what people remember long after the conversation ends.
Here’s to continuing the conversation.
Want to Continue the Conversation?
I am available to serve as a thought partner, speaker, and leadership coach for individuals, teams, and organizations seeking to build more human centered cultures. My work focuses on helping leaders create spaces where people feel seen, valued, supported, and empowered to succeed.
I would be honored to connect, listen, and explore how we might work together. Please feel free to drop me a line at sgaillard84@gmail.com and check out the links below here:
Sean Gaillard Founder & CEO | The Gaillard Group Author • Speaker • Leadership Coach
I have been sitting with something that is difficult to admit.
I put a great deal of myself into the work I share. The blogs, podcasts, reflections, and Leadership Riffs often come from somewhere deep in my soul. When they are met with silence, especially from people I have consistently supported and celebrated, it hurts.
This is not about keeping score or expecting applause. It is about reciprocity. It is about knowing that the people you show up for might occasionally show up for you.
I will keep creating because I believe in the message. I will keep encouraging others because that is who I am. I am also learning to invest more deeply in the people and spaces where support, connection, and care move in both directions.
Thankful for the few folks out there who do show support of my eclectic content.
Two years ago, I probably would have said no. I would have found an excuse. I would have allowed fear, discomfort, or uncertainty to talk me out of the moment. My eyes would have remained fixed on an email, a text, or a document. I would have been determined to beat the clock or conquer another deadline.
This time, I said yes.
My daughter Rachel suggested that we ride bikes together at Sunset Beach. She had mentioned the idea to my wife, Deb, before, but I had been noncommittal. I had not ridden a bike in years, and Rachel gently reminded me of something that stopped me in my tracks.
“Dad, we’ve never ridden bikes together.”
She was right. We borrowed a few bikes stored at the house we were renting, and I wondered whether I would remember how to ride. I did.
Before long, I was smiling, laughing, and waving to people as we passed them. I wished strangers a good morning. I rode between Deb and Rachel, overwhelmed by the beauty and simplicity of the moment.
I could hear Mike Nesmith’s “Rio” playing in my mind. A lyric from the song found its way to my lips, and I softly sang, “I feel such a sense of well being. The problems have come to be solved.”
No, the problems had not disappeared. The professional disappointments were still there. The questions about purpose, belonging, and what comes next had not suddenly been answered. The pangs of imposter syndrome and professional loneliness still gnawed at me. For that moment, though, none of them controlled me. All I cared about was mattering to my wife and daughter and helping them feel that they mattered to me.
Deb, riding behind me, softly said, “This wouldn’t have happened two years ago.”
She was right. Two years ago, I would have found a way out of the ride. I would have stayed behind, protected by what felt familiar and safe. This time, I got on the bike.
As I rode through the streets of Sunset Beach, tears rolled down my face and a smile formed. For that moment, I was free.
At the end of our ride, I hugged Rachel. I felt proud of the strong woman she has become. I also felt proud that I had stepped outside my comfort zone and modeled something important for her.
We are never too old to try again. We are never too far gone to rediscover joy. We are never too broken to experience a moment of healing.
People want to matter. People want to belong. Sometimes the most meaningful way we communicate that is not through a speech, a program, or a grand gesture. Sometimes we simply say yes. I said yes to someone I love.
Healing does not always announce itself with fireworks, applause, professional recognition, or social media likes. Sometimes it arrives on an old bicycle, riding between the people you love, with the sun on your face and a song playing quietly in your soul. Sometimes healing looks like a bicycle ride.
That ride reminded me to remain close to my core. Our core is made up of the people, values, and moments that remind us who we are. We must stay close to the people who need our love, the people who remind us where we came from, and the people who knew us before the title, the position, or the accomplishments. We must stay close to the people who know our name and not merely our role.
For too many years, I made the mistake of prioritizing position over presence. It took two trips to the emergency room for me to begin understanding the cost of that choice. I learned it the hard way, and I would not wish that lesson on anyone.
We are called to be human centered in our work as leaders. Before we can do that authentically, we must be human centered at home. We must be intentionally present for the people who love us without a title, an agenda, or an expectation attached. They do not see us as a data point, and they do not need us to carry another deadline. They simply want us there. Rachel did not need me to solve a problem, answer an email, or accomplish something impressive. She wanted to ride bikes with her dad. This time, I said yes, and I am grateful I did.
Here’s to continuing the conversation.
Want to Continue the Conversation?
I am available to serve as a thought partner, speaker, and leadership coach for individuals, teams, and organizations seeking to build more human centered cultures. My work focuses on helping leaders create spaces where people feel seen, valued, supported, and empowered to succeed.
I would be honored to connect, listen, and explore how we might work together. Please feel free to drop me a line at sgaillard84@gmail.com and check out the links below here:
Sean Gaillard Founder & CEO | The Gaillard Group Author • Speaker • Leadership Coach
That number feels both impossible and deeply humbling.
As I write these words after several weeks of traveling from Charlotte to Maine, then to Orlando, and finally to Chicago, I cannot help but wonder what the person who wrote Blog Post Number One would think of the person writing Blog Post Number Two Hundred.
I imagine he would be surprised that the blog is still here.
He would marvel at watching three little girls grow into remarkable young women. He would be grateful for the unwavering love of an incredible wife who has stood beside him through seasons of joy, uncertainty, challenge, and hope. He would probably smile knowing that so much of life unfolded differently than he expected.
If I could sit across the table from that younger version of myself, I would not spend much time talking about titles, resumés, or accomplishments. I would encourage him to breathe more deeply, pray more often, trust his faith, and care for his nervous system as faithfully as he cares for everyone else. I would remind him that family always comes before work and that meaningful relationships will outlast recognition every single time.
Most of all, I would tell him to become more human-centered.
Two hundred blog posts later, I am still learning what that means.
My recent travels became an unexpected classroom.
Before heading to Orlando for the ISTE+ASCD Conference, Deb and I spent several peaceful days with family in Maine. Every morning, I found myself sitting quietly beside the lake, watching sunlight shimmer across the water. After a year filled with transition, those moments of stillness restored something within me. The lake reminded me that clarity often arrives when we finally become quiet enough to receive it.
Orlando continued the lesson.
One afternoon, I wandered into Park Ave CDs, a record store I had wanted to visit after doing some pre-trip research. A listening party for Madonna’s upcoming album filled the store with music, laughter, conversation, and people from every walk of life. I spent hours browsing records, discovering books, talking with strangers, and simply enjoying being present.
Before leaving, I thanked one of the employees for creating such a welcoming place.
The response has stayed with me ever since.
“We work to make this a safe space for everyone. We want everyone to belong.”
That simple sentence became one of the defining leadership lessons of my trip.
As the conference unfolded, I realized the moments that stayed with me had very little to do with keynote stages or crowded expo halls. They happened around dinner tables, over cups of coffee, during hallway conversations, and in those unplanned moments that never appear on a conference schedule.
One evening, I shared dinner with Matt Miller and Eric Nelson. Our conversation drifted toward teachers, leadership, AI, and one simple question that refuses to leave me: “How do we help teachers love teaching again?”
That conversation had very little to do with technology. It had everything to do with people.
Another morning, I shared coffee with Mandy Froehlich and Todd Whitaker. We laughed. We told stories. We talked about life more than the conference itself. Sometimes the best professional learning happens when nobody is trying to be professional.
I found myself reflecting in a crowded hallway with Chaunté Garrett and Craig Aarons-Martin about belonging in spaces like ISTE+ASCD. Conferences can be energizing, but they can also leave people wondering where they fit. Our conversation reminded me that belonging does not happen automatically. It happens because someone chooses to create space for another person.
During my virtual presentation on leadership in the age of AI, I found myself struggling with technology and timing. Right in the middle of it, Tamara Letter offered words of encouragement in the chat. It was a small gesture that made a tremendous difference. One voice reminding another person, “I’m with you,” can change everything.
Before my in-person presentation on #InstantPD, Natasha Nurse, Erik Francis, and Lindsey Cannon each offered encouragement in their own way. They reminded me that leadership is often quiet. Sometimes leadership is simply helping another person believe in themselves before they step into the room.
When it came time to facilitate my #InstantPD session, I found myself walking around the room before we even began. I wanted to greet people personally, thank them for coming, and learn their names. I cared less about how many people attended than I did about the people who had chosen to be there. Every educator deserved to know they mattered.
One of the greatest gifts of the conference came during an impromptu conversation with Angela Maiers. Sitting across from someone whose life’s work has centered on mattering felt less like meeting a renowned educator and more like sitting with someone who has spent years exploring many of the same questions that continue to shape my own journey. Our conversation reminded me that human centered leadership is not another initiative. It is a way of seeing people.
I experienced that same lesson while interviewing Jessica Garner. Somewhere along the way, our interview quietly transformed into a conversation. We explored artificial intelligence, differentiation, and learning, but what I remember most is the humanity that emerged when two people became curious together.
On the final day of the conference, I was wandering around looking for a place to rest. I ran into Greg Bagby and Cindy Gaston. After the warm words and welcoming, I asked what was on their respective turntables. That conversation became a communal sharing of music where we grooved, hummed, smiled, and connected to the beats being shared.
A few days later, Deb, my brother, my sister-in-law, and I visited the newly-opened Obama Presidential Center in Chicago.
Throughout the experience, one word kept appearing.
We.
It quietly echoed throughout the exhibits and invited every visitor to think beyond themselves. The recurring invitation to “Bring Change Home” reminded me that meaningful change begins in our families, our schools, our neighborhoods, and our communities. Lasting change has never belonged to one person. It grows wherever people choose to listen, encourage, and build something together.
As I reflected on Maine, Orlando, and Chicago, I realized they had all been teaching me the same lesson.
The lake.
The record store.
The dinner conversations.
The coffee.
The hallway encounters.
The encouraging text.
The shared laughter.
The presentation.
The interview.
The museum.
None of those moments were really about places.
They were about people.
After thousands of miles, countless conversations, and two hundred blog posts, I keep returning to the same simple truth:
People want to matter. People want to belong.
Connection is how we remind one another that we matter. Belonging is what makes us stay.
As I reflect on these travels and experiences, I remain grateful for YOU. Thanks for being sharing common ground with me and being such an essential part of the human journey.
What does it mean to lead while human? This has been my essential question for the last couple of years. Human-Centered Leadership is more than just some hip buzz word or shiny new toy in one’s bag of leadership trips. We are called to support each other’s humanity in a way that is inclusive, empowering, and inviting.
Below is a link to my most read blog post. I am still reflecting on why this post resonated on such a large level. I am not one who goes viral and I don’t legions of followers that hang on my every word. I do think that at the end of the day we all want to feel like we matter. The large response to my particular blog post shows that people are craving mattering. I hope that my revisit here brings some warmth, value, and connection to your day.
Last week, I experienced what it means to feel diminished.
I will not go into the details because this reflection is about something larger than one moment. The experience left me feeling invisible. I felt like I did not matter. I felt like my strengths and gifts were not needed or invested in. The weight of that feeling stayed with me long after the moment passed.
That experience became a catalyst for reflection.
I started thinking about the moments in my life when I have felt diminished on both a personal and professional level. I also thought about the times when I may have unintentionally contributed to someone else feeling that way. None of us are immune from causing harm when we fail to truly see each other.
The opposite of diminishment is mattering.
I recently found myself deeply moved by an episode of Lainie Rowell’s podcast, “Evolving with Gratitude,” featuring Jennifer Breheny Wallace, author of Mattering: The Secret to a Life of Deep Connection and Purpose, Their conversation explored the human need to feel valued not simply for achievement or output, but for who we are and what we uniquely bring into the world. ((Check out that pivotal episode here.)
That conversation stayed with me because it helped put language around something I had already been feeling deeply. The concept of mattering fueled my own deep dive into human-centered leadership. It helped me better understand why so many people are emotionally exhausted, disconnected, anxious, and overwhelmed right now.
Those numbers point toward something much deeper than engagement surveys or workplace morale. They point toward a growing crisis of human disconnection and invisibility.
Many people are not struggling because they lack talent, intelligence, work ethic, or resilience. Many are struggling because they no longer feel seen.
People are struggling right now because they do not feel seen. They feel valued for output, production, compliance, metrics, or whatever bottom line is driving the moment. Many people no longer feel valued for their humanity, creativity, presence, compassion, wisdom, or unique gifts. Over time, that kind of culture wears people down emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and physically.
I know this because I have lived it.
There was a season where the stress of carrying invisibility, anxiety, pressure, and emotional exhaustion landed me in the hospital twice. The nervous system keeps score when people carry the weight of feeling unseen for too long.
That realization has been sitting with me deeply lately.
When I think about the collaborative spaces that have brought me healing and renewal, I notice a common thread. My work with Sonia Matthew through “Leading While Human,” my conversations with Donya Ball on “Real Riffs,” and the gathering space we created through “The Disruption Table” alongside Marcel Schwantes have all centered around one truth: people want to feel seen, heard, valued, and connected.
Those collaborations have mattered to me more than I can fully express.
Each conversation became a reminder that leadership is not about performance alone. Leadership is about presence. It is about creating spaces where people can bring their full humanity into the room without fear of diminishment. Those conversations helped lessen my own sense of invisibility. They reminded me that my voice still mattered. They reminded me that I still had gifts worth sharing.
I believe many people are quietly carrying this same feeling right now.
Some are sitting in meetings feeling unseen. Some are showing up to workplaces where their gifts are overlooked. Some are leading teams while privately wondering if they matter at all. Some are exhausted from environments that celebrate output while neglecting the human beings producing it.
People do not need another gimmick, slogan, or leadership trend.
People need cultures of belonging.
My father used to say, “Everybody gets off the bench. Everybody plays.”
I carry those words with me more now than ever before.
Cultures of belonging are built when people are invited into the game. They are built when strengths are recognized. They are built when encouragement becomes intentional. They are built when someone chooses to pause long enough to truly see another human being.
We cannot wait for the perfect leader, perfect initiative, or perfect professional learning experience to create that kind of culture. We create it ourselves through everyday acts of listening, encouragement, trust, compassion, and belief in one another.
Everyone has a gift to share.
Sometimes the most important act of leadership is helping someone remember that their gift still matters.
Years ago, I remember reading about a hallowed single featuring members of the Wrecking Crew. The song was “My World Fell Down,” credited to a group called Sagittarius. The truth is that Sagittarius was never really a group. It was something more elusive and, in many ways, more meaningful.
Released in 1967, “My World Fell Down” felt like it existed in the same sonic universe as what Brian Wilson was building with The Beach Boys. Think about “Good Vibrations” and the unfolding ambition of SMiLE. The form was shifting. The rules were dissolving. Pop music was becoming something expansive, layered, and deeply expressive.
That single led me, years later in the late 1990s, to track down a CD reissue of Present Tense. That is when I learned that the architect behind Sagittarius was Gary Usher, a collaborator with Brian Wilson of The Beach Boys who co-wrote “In My Room” and produced The Notorious Byrd Brothers. Alongside him was another studio visionary, Curt Boettcher.
What they created together on Present Tense was not just an album. It was a sanctuary.
A Studio Project That Became Something More
Sagittarius was never built for the stage. It was built in the studio, piece by piece, with contributions from elite session musicians and collaborators. It was a collective before that word became fashionable. It was a shared space where ideas could breathe.
At the time, Gary Usher was an in-demand producer at Columbia Records. The expectations were constant. The pressure to deliver was real. The work never stopped.
He created something outside of that system.
Sagittarius became his creative outlet. It became a place to experiment, to reconnect with meaning, and to create without the weight of constant expectation.
There is a story that has stayed with me from those liner notes I read years ago. Usher was hesitant to fully reveal himself as the force behind Sagittarius. He feared that doing so would only bring more demands from the label. More work would follow. More pressure would build. Less space would remain.
He recorded during off hours. Nights and weekends became the canvas.
That tells you everything you need to know about this album.
The Sound of Freedom and Trust
Released in 1968, Present Tense moves across genres with ease:
Baroque pop
Sunshine pop
Psychedelia
It is unified not by category, but by feeling.
You hear it immediately in the opening track, “Another Time.” The harp enters. The harmonies follow. The song feels warm, sublime, and almost otherworldly. It sounds like something beyond the everyday. It sounds like possibility.
Curt Boettcher’s songwriting and arranging shine throughout the record. His work here would extend into The Millennium, another project that stretched the boundaries of what pop music could be.
Across the album, the listener hears:
Layered vocal harmonies that feel choral and immersive
Studio experimentation including phasing and multi-track recording
Orchestral textures that elevate each arrangement
There are also moments of bold experimentation. Usher and Boettcher explored musique concrète, early synthesizer textures, and even incorporated elements connected to The Firesign Theatre. These were not safe choices. They were necessary ones.
This was not about chasing a hit.
This was about making something that mattered.
The Return of Present Tense
That is why this reissue matters so much.
Music On Vinyl has brought Present Tense back into the world with care and intention. This Netherlands-based label is known for its commitment to quality, and it shows here.
This limited reissue of 1000 copies is pressed on 180-gram vinyl. The packaging is thoughtfully reproduced on high-quality cardstock. The sound is pristine.
Every detail comes through:
The depth of the harmonies
The nuance of the arrangements
The studio innovations that defined the original sessions
When I drop the needle on “Another Time,” I hear something that still stops me in my tracks. Those opening notes feel like the sound of heaven.
There is love in this reissue. The same kind of love that went into creating the album in the first place.
What compels me most about Present Tense is not just how it sounds. It is why it exists.
Gary Usher needed an outlet.
He needed space to create without expectation. He needed room to experiment without judgment. He needed to reconnect with the part of himself that made the work meaningful.
That resonates deeply.
In leadership, in music, and in life, the demands can take over. Expectations can define the work. Output can overshadow purpose.
Present Tense is a reminder that:
Space to create is essential
Trust in collaborators elevates the work
Courage to explore leads to meaning
This album is the sound of freedom. It is the sound of collaboration. It is the sound of quiet courage.
It is the sound of someone protecting their creative soul in a world that kept asking for more.
Take Your Present Tense for Present Tense
Every time I return to this album, I am reminded to be present in the work that matters.
To create. To collaborate. To trust.
To make space for something meaningful, even if it does not fit the mold.
I would love to hear how this album resonates with you. What do you hear when you listen to Present Tense? What does it bring out in you?
Listen and Subscribe: Vinyl Riffs with Sean Gaillard
This album will be featured in an upcoming episode of Vinyl Riffs with Sean Gaillard. If this resonates with you, I invite you to listen, subscribe, and share the journey.
There are moments when something you read does more than inform you. It meets you where you are. It names what you have been carrying. It invites you forward.
Lately, I have been intentionally seeking out readings that inspire and compel me as I navigate this liminal season. I am looking for connection. I am looking for meaning. I am looking for something that reminds me of what it means to belong. That search led me to this powerful reflection from Karen Eber: https://www.kareneber.com/blog/copy-moon-joy
In her piece, she explores the idea of “moon joy,” a term she draws from the experience of astronauts who describe the awe, wonder, and deep sense of connection that comes from seeing Earth from space. She connects that feeling to the story of the Artemis II crew and what it means to be part of something larger than yourself. That idea stayed with me long after I finished reading. I am grateful for her words and the way they opened something up in me.
I find myself in a liminal season. It is a space between what was and what is next. It is a space where I am searching for connection, meaning, and belonging. This kind of season can feel uncertain. It can feel isolating. It can also be a place where something new begins to take shape if I am willing to listen and remain open.
As I reflected on the Artemis II crew, I began to feel something unexpected. I felt like I was part of the crew. I felt like a fifth member. The feeling reminded me of being a fifth Beatle, close enough to the music to feel it, to learn from it, and to be changed by it.
That feeling stayed with me.
It led me to think more deeply about what it means to be part of a crew.
Over the course of my career in education, I have worked alongside incredible educators who care deeply about students and about each other. I have also seen how difficult it can be to move from a group of committed individuals to a truly aligned team. We often say we are collaborative. The reality is that we are not always moving together.
The Artemis II crew offers us something different. It offers us a model.
As Christina Koch describes it, a crew is “in it all the time, no matter what.” A crew is “stroking together every minute with the same purpose.” A crew is “willing to sacrifice for each other.” A crew “gives grace and holds accountable.”
That is not just a description of a space mission. It is a blueprint for human connection. It is a blueprint for human centered leadership. It is a blueprint for how we might choose to show up for one another.
As I sit with these ideas, I realize that this is what I have been searching for. I have been searching for a place where the work is shared. I have been searching for people who understand that belonging is not something we talk about but something we build together through how we show up each day. Karen Eber’s reflection on moon joy reminded me that awe and connection are not distant ideas. They are available to us when we pause long enough to notice and when we choose to move toward one another. The Artemis II crew reminded me that those moments are not accidental. They are built on trust, purpose, and a deep commitment to one another. This is the kind of leadership and humanity I want to be part of and help create.
We can build this.
If we are serious about developing a Crew Mindset in our schools and in our leadership, then it has to move beyond inspiration and into intentional action. The Artemis II crew does not simply talk about these ideas. They live them in preparation, in training, and in every moment they share responsibility for the mission. Their example gives us something concrete to learn from and apply.
1. Establish communication routines that create clarity and safety
Astronaut crews train through constant communication. They rehearse scenarios, speak with precision, and practice how to respond when things do not go as planned. Communication is not left to chance because the mission depends on shared understanding.
In our work, we can mirror this by creating consistent structures for communication that go beyond updates. Weekly team check ins can focus on priorities, challenges, and collective problem solving. Norms for listening can ensure that every voice is heard. Feedback can be specific, timely, and rooted in growth.
When communication is clear and safe, teams begin to move with confidence. People know where they stand and how they contribute to the mission.
2. Intentionally design for belonging in daily practice
The Artemis II crew represents more than individual excellence. Each astronaut brings a unique background, perspective, and skill set. That diversity is not incidental. It is essential to the success of the mission.
In schools, belonging must be designed with that same intention. Every team member should have a role that matters within collaborative structures. Leaders can rotate facilitation roles, invite input before decisions are made, and recognize contributions publicly and consistently.
Belonging is strengthened when people are known. Taking time to understand the people behind the roles creates connections that sustain teams through challenges.
When people feel that they belong, they invest more deeply in the work and in one another.
3. Normalize support and encouragement as a shared responsibility
Astronauts do not prepare alone. They rely on one another during simulations, debriefs, and high pressure training. They step in for each other and learn together because no one can carry the mission alone.
In our context, support must be proactive. Peer observation cycles can create opportunities for teachers to learn from one another. Teams can be given time to problem solve together rather than in isolation. Leaders can model encouragement by noticing effort and naming growth in real time.
Support and encouragement build resilience. They remind people that they are part of something larger than themselves.
4. Build trust through consistent accountability and follow through
The Artemis II mission depends on trust. Each crew member must believe that the others will do what they are trained to do. That trust is built through repetition, preparation, and shared accountability.
In schools, trust grows when expectations are clear and when commitments are honored. Teams can align around shared goals and revisit them regularly. Data conversations can focus on growth and collective responsibility. Leaders can follow through on what they say they will do.
Accountability must be paired with grace. When challenges arise, the response should be to support and adjust rather than to assign blame.
When trust is present, teams become capable of doing work that once felt out of reach.
This is not easy work. It is necessary work. It is human work.
It is crew work.
I invite you to reflect on your own crew. Who are the people you are moving with each day? How are you building communication, belonging, support, and trust together? Where is there an opportunity to lean in more deeply and to show up more fully?
The organ was an accident and Al Kooper was not an organist.
It is June 1965. Bob Dylan is in a Columbia Records studio in New York, pushing further away from the acoustic folk sound that made him a voice of protest and into something louder, riskier, and electric. His recent album, Bringing It All Back Home, has already signaled that shift. The influence of The Beatles is in the air, and Dylan is not looking back.
Producer Tom Wilson invites Kooper to the session. Kooper shows up with his guitar, even though he is there to observe. As the musicians settle in, one presence changes everything. Mike Bloomfield begins warming up.
Kooper listens.
He hears something different. He hears a level of artistry that causes him to pause. He makes a decision in that moment. He sets the guitar aside. He recognizes that he is not the right voice for that part of the song.
That decision does not end his contribution. It creates space for it.
As the band works through early takes, Kooper hears something else. He hears a part that is not there yet. He notices an organ sitting in the corner with an empty chair beside it. He shares the idea with Wilson. Wilson pushes back and reminds him that he is not an organist.
Kooper does not argue. He does not retreat.
He walks over and plays anyway.
Kooper would later recall, “He just sort of scoffed at me. He did not say no, so I went out there.” He slips into the track, feeling his way through the chords, slightly behind the beat, searching for the right touch.
Wilson notices. Bob Dylan notices more.
Dylan tells him to stay.
Later, Dylan insists that the organ be turned up in the mix.
The song is “Like a Rolling Stone.” It becomes a seismic shift in popular music. It stretches past six minutes. It blends poetry with electric instrumentation. It challenges what a hit song can be. It shows up at Newport and divides a crowd that expected something safer and more familiar.
That organ part, the one played by someone who was not supposed to be there, becomes essential to the song’s identity. It carries emotion. It adds tension. It lifts the track into something timeless.
You cannot imagine the song without it.
This is the leadership riff.
Kooper did not force his way in with the instrument he knew best. He listened first. He stepped back when needed. He paid attention to what the moment required. He trusted the idea that came to him. He acted on it, even when others questioned his credibility to do so.
Leadership asks the same of us.
There are moments when the room is filled with voices that seem stronger, louder, and more accomplished. Those moments can push us to the margins if we let them. Those moments can also invite us to listen more deeply and find where our contribution truly fits.
Kooper’s choice to set aside the guitar was not a failure. It was awareness. It was humility. It was the beginning of something better.
His decision to move to the organ was belief. It was risk. It was action.
That combination changed the song.
Too often, we allow doubt and outside voices to close the door before we ever reach for the handle. We convince ourselves that we are not ready, not qualified, or not invited. We stay seated when the chair is open.
Kooper reminds us to get up and move.
He reminds us that contribution is not always about mastery. It is about awareness, courage, and timing. It is about trusting that what we hear and feel has value.
He reminds us to play on anyway.
In this season, that lesson matters.
There will be rooms where you feel outmatched. There will be moments when someone questions your role before you even begin. There will be ideas that arrive quietly and ask you to take a step that feels uncertain.
Take it.
The work needs your voice, even if it comes through a different instrument than the one you planned to play.
That is how breakthroughs happen.
That is how songs change.
That is how leadership finds its sound.
Postscript
I am grateful to my good friend Max Pizarro for the conversation that sparked this reflection. He encouraged me to spend time with this story and to listen more closely. That nudge led to this piece and to a deeper appreciation of what it means to trust the moment and step into it.
I can already hear this one spinning forward as a future episode of Vinyl Riffs with Sean Gaillard. Stay tuned for that podcast episode to drop soon.
Leadership Liner Notes: Sean Gaillard 