Leadership

Diminished

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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.

Gallup research reveals that only 28% of employees strongly agree that their opinions count at work. Another Gallup study found that only 37% of employees strongly agree they are treated with respect in the workplace.

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.

Vinyl Riffs: Sagittarius’ “Present Tense and the Courage to Create

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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.

You can explore more about their work here:
https://www.musiconvinyl.com/

The Leadership Riff: Protecting the Creative Soul

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.

YouTube: https://youtube.com/@seangaillard3841?si=qQtdTHssmUu3qL8m
Apple Podcasts: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/vinyl-riffs-with-sean-gaillard/id1875382603
Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/0qZ1Qa79O5ssx10OYFPVKO?si=d05d95748ab54eb8

Call for Guests and Albums to Riff On

I am always looking to connect with others who feel this music deeply.

If you have an album that has shaped you, or if you want to join me for a conversation on Vinyl Riffs, I would love to hear from you.

Please reach out at: sgaillard84@gmail.com

Much gratitude to Gary Usher and Curt Boettcher for creating something timeless.

Much gratitude to Music On Vinyl for honoring that legacy with care.

Much gratitude to you for taking the time to listen, read, and share in this space.

The Crew Mindset: Finding Connection, Meaning, and Belonging From Artemis 2

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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?

We are in this together.

You matter in this crew.

The Last Minute Organ: How Al Kooper Took A Risk on Bob Dylan’s “Like A Rolling Stone”

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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.

The Revolver Effect: April 6, 1966 and The Courage to Begin Again

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On April 6, 1966, The Beatles walked into EMI Recording Studios in London and quietly began changing everything. There was no announcement. There were no crowds gathered outside signaling what was about to unfold. There was simply a band stepping into a new beginning.

That beginning started with a John Lennon demo known as “Mark 1,” which would later become “Tomorrow Never Knows,” the closing track of Revolver. It is a song that still feels ahead of its time, built on tape loops, backward guitar, distorted vocals, and the influence of Indian music. It was not just a song. It was a signal.

The band, alongside producer George Martin and a 19 year old engineer named Geoff Emerick, stepped into territory that had no clear blueprint. Touring had begun to wear on them. The noise, the expectations, and the repetition no longer matched who they were becoming. A storm was coming with their 1966 world tour, one that would eventually lead them to walk away from live performance altogether.

In that moment, they made a decision that continues to echo. They chose creation over replication. They chose the unknown over the expected. The songs on Revolver were not designed for the stage. They were designed for exploration.

Revolver exists in the shadow of albums like Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and Abbey Road, yet it stands as the turning point. It is the moment where identity begins to shift. It is where the band sheds the weight of expectation and begins to move with intention toward something deeper, more expansive, and more honest.

This year marks the 60th anniversary of Revolver. That milestone carries more than nostalgia. It carries an invitation to revisit what it means to begin again.

As I have been writing my upcoming book, Leadership Riffs, I found myself drawn into a chapter centered on Revolver. The more I wrote, the more I realized this was not meant to stay confined to a manuscript. This moment felt too important. This album felt too alive. It needed to be shared here and now as part of a larger conversation about leadership, identity, and growth.

Just as I explored Sgt. Pepper in The Pepper Effect, I see Revolver as its own blueprint. It offers a way of thinking about leadership that is rooted in courage, craft, and reinvention. It shows what becomes possible when individuals bring their full creative gifts into a shared space and trust one another enough to take risks together.

I call this The Revolver Effect, and it is grounded in four core riffs:

Believe in the Courage to Experiment
Step into the unknown without a clear map. Growth does not wait for certainty.

Believe in the Craft
Commit to depth, intentionality, and mastery. Substance will always outlast noise.

Believe in Expanding Your Voice
Allow yourself to grow beyond your original identity. Invite new influences and perspectives into your work.

Believe in Reinvention Through Letting Go
Release who you were so you can become who you are meant to be.

These riffs are shaping a short series through my Vinyl Riffs podcast along with companion reflections here. This is both a celebration and an exploration of an album that continues to resonate six decades later.

The first episode of this series is now live:

🎧 Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/episode/1sPr0XIOsps9HTs5Sd5zSA?si=a1eQ_dh-S7GHF_TM0FCEOg
📺 YouTube: https://youtu.be/D8vjcWG70n8
🍎 Apple Podcasts: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/the-revolver-effect-the-day-everything-changed/id1875382603?i=1000759946748

This series is a reflection. It is a way of making sense of the moment we are all navigating. It is a reminder that transformation rarely arrives with fanfare. It often begins quietly, with a decision to try something new.

April 6, 1966 was one of those moments.

Perhaps this is yours.

An Invitation to Celebrate “Revolver”

I invite you to listen, reflect, and join this journey. I would love to hear how Revolver has impacted you. Share your thoughts through social media and tag me or reach out directly to me. There is something powerful that happens when we bring our stories together.

Also, I am looking for guests to share their “Revolver” stories of impact and inspiration for upcoming episodes of “Vinyl Riffs.” Please let me know if you are interested.

Here are my social media channels for you to drop me a line via DM:

LinkedIn

Facebook

Instagram

Finding My Sound Amidst the Silence and the Noise

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We all want to be a part of something that is meaningful and that gives a sense of belonging. That truth has never felt more real to me than it does right now. It is not just a passing thought. It is something I carry with me in the quiet moments and in the spaces where I am trying to make sense of where I am and where I am going.

Sometimes the hardest truth to carry is that your own backyard may not hear your song the way it was meant to be heard. For me, that is not just a metaphor. I can point to moments that still sit with me. I remember sharing the idea for #CelebrateMonday in a meeting and being laughed at. That idea later grew beyond those walls as schools across the country and beyond began using it to build culture and recognize the good in their communities. I have shared #InstantPD, presented on it, and believed in its potential to create quick, meaningful learning for teachers, yet it never fully took root in the schools and district where I served. I have stood as a finalist for North Carolina Principal of the Year and still felt like I was on the outside of that circle, never quite included in the way I had hoped. I think about principal meetings where I would sit alone, not quite feeling like I fit in, with no one saving me a seat. I think about presenting at local and state conferences and seeing small turnouts for sessions I poured myself into. I think about traveling to state and national conferences on my own without a team beside me, navigating those spaces as an individual rather than as part of a group. These are not grievances. These are truths. They have shaped how I understand what it means to feel like an outsider in my own professional community.

That realization has forced me to look inward in ways that are both honest and uncomfortable. I have had to sit with the reality that the spaces I thought would affirm me have often been quiet. That silence can feel heavy. It can make you question your voice and your place.

I have felt adrift in that silence.

At the same time, I know that this season has been both joyful and agonizing. There have been moments of clarity where I feel aligned with the work I am doing. There have also been moments where I question everything and wonder if any of it is landing with anyone beyond me. That tension is real. It is part of what it means to be human in this work.

What I am learning is that peace cannot be dependent on whether others hear the music.

It has to come from within.

I have to be willing to be transparent with myself. I have to face the truths of my past, the realities of my present, and the uncertainty of my future without turning away. That kind of honesty is not easy. It requires me to separate the events of failure from my identity. It requires me to acknowledge the hurt without allowing it to define me. It requires me to keep going even when the path forward is not clear.

The absence of recognition does not mean the music is wrong.

It means I am still in the process of finding my people.

There are people out there who will recognize this sound. They will lean in. They will connect with what I am creating in a way that feels real and mutual. They will not just hear the dream. They will help me play it louder. That belief matters, even on the days when it feels fragile.

At the same time, I am coming to terms with another truth.

No band is going to come calling for me.

That realization is not defeat. It is clarity.

It is my cue to build something of my own.

Instead of waiting to be called in or tapped on the shoulder, I am choosing to create my own spaces and invite others in. I am doing that through the work I am building with my podcast projects and through the Disruption Table webinar, where leaders from different spaces can come together in honest conversation. I am doing that in collaboration with Dr. Donya Ball as we create a space for “Real Riffs,” a podcast that is grounded in truth, reflection, and the voices of those who want to be part of something real. That work is coming to life in April, and it represents more than a project. It represents a shift in how I see my role in this work.

If I want a space where belonging is real, where voices are valued, and where the work carries meaning, then I have to create it. I have to be willing to take the same risks I have been waiting for others to take with me. I have to trust that what I am building has value, even before anyone else affirms it.

This is what leading while human looks like for me right now.

It is holding joy and struggle in the same space.

It is continuing to create even when the response is quiet.

It is choosing peace within myself while still seeking connection with others.

It is believing that there is a place for this work and being willing to build that place if it does not yet exist.

I am still learning.

I am still searching.

I am still here.

There is a sound within me that is not finished.

I am going to keep playing until it finds its way.

Failure and The Work That Remains

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I have been sitting with failure in this season, and it has taken me on a deeper journey than I expected. I am spending time reflecting on my failures in ways that are honest and necessary. I am learning that failure hurts. I am also learning, through John C. Maxwell’s Failing Forward: Turning Mistakes into Stepping Stones for Success, that failure is an event, even when the pain feels personal and lasting. The hurt shows up in real ways. It shows up when I share something meaningful and no one seems to notice. It shows up when I am passed over for opportunities I believed I was ready for. It shows up when I write a blog post and there is clearly no resonance from even friends or loved ones. Those moments can feel like confirmation of failure, and they sting more than I want to admit.

I have been thinking about the idea that a prophet is not always accepted in their own town, and it has stayed with me. I have tried to find traction in familiar places and have come up short more times than I want to admit. I have felt unseen in places where I once felt grounded. I have carried an idealized vision of a band, a space where strengths are valued and belonging is real. I am coming to terms with the reality that this kind of space may not exist for me in my own neighborhood. That realization has been difficult, but it has also been clarifying.

What remains is the work and the responsibility to create what I cannot find.

I will keep writing, keep blogging, and keep podcasting because that is what I can contribute. I am building spaces like “Leading While Human,” the upcoming “Real Riffs,” and The Disruption Table because I am searching for kinship and connection. I am looking to build something that reflects the kind of belonging I know is possible. I may not be tapped for certain opportunities, but I am beginning to see that those missed opportunities may be leading me toward something better, something more aligned with who I am and what I value.

Some days it is easy to hold onto that truth. Other days it is painful.

I believe this work is leading me toward a path where I can help other leaders navigate failure with honesty and courage. I have already begun that work through my writing and my podcasts, and I see it growing into something more. I want to help others lead while human, to make space for reflection, belonging, and truth in a profession that often asks us to hide those very things.

I am learning to ignore the noise and stay focused on what is mine to offer with honesty and care. I know this work is leading somewhere, even if I cannot fully see it yet. My writing is more than expression. It is my way of reaching beyond my immediate surroundings to connect with others who are also navigating failure and searching for belonging.

Failure is part of the story, but it is not the end of it.

I will keep going.

Failure and Identity

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This is for the leader who feels like they have lost their place.

In 2007, Robert Plant, lead singer of the most iconic bands in music history, stood on stage with Led Zeppelin at the O2 Arena for what would become one of the most celebrated reunions in rock history. The world wanted more. Promoters offered a massive tour and an even larger payday. The expectation was clear. Step back into the machine. Relive the past. Give the audience what it wants.

Plant walked away.

He chose a different path. He followed his own creative instincts. He leaned into new sounds, new collaborations, and new risks, including his work with Alison Krauss. He stepped away from what the world defined as success and into something that aligned with who he was becoming.

Some called it a missed opportunity. Others called it a mistake.

It was neither.

It was identity.

That moment has stayed with me because it reframes how we think about failure. We are conditioned to believe that turning away from something big, something visible, something validated by others must mean we failed. We attach our worth to outcomes, roles, titles, and applause. When those things shift or disappear, we question who we are.

John C. Maxwell offers a powerful reframe in his work Failing Forward: Turning Mistakes into Stepping Stones for Success. Failure is an event, not a person. That idea has been sitting with me in this season. I have replayed decisions. I have questioned outcomes. I have wrestled with the weight of what did not work. I have felt the tension between what was and what is.

I am learning that failure does not get to define me unless I allow it to do so.

Walking away has been part of that learning.

Walking away from environments that drain rather than develop. Walking away from expectations that do not align with who I am. Walking away from traditional leadership paths that no longer reflect the kind of leader I want to be.

There have been moments when that felt like failure. There have been moments when it felt like I was stepping off a stage with no clear next act.

Those moments have become the catalyst for something else.

Space.

Space to think. Space to reflect. Space to reconnect with why I started this work in the first place. Space to explore new collaborations, new ideas, and new ways of showing up. That space has led to new conversations, new creative work, and new projects, including the podcast I am building with Donya Ball. That work is rooted in something real. It is not built on noise or performance. It is built on truth, reflection, and connection.

That would not have happened if I had stayed where I was.

We have to normalize this.

We have to normalize that walking away from what is toxic is not quitting. It is not weakness. It is not failure. It is an act of clarity. It is an act of courage. It is a commitment to protecting your humanity in spaces that often ask you to leave it behind.

Leadership has too often been framed as endurance at all costs. Stay longer. Push harder. Ignore the signals. Keep performing. That narrative is not only outdated, it is harmful.

There is a different way.

A way that allows leaders to reflect, to reset, and to realign. A way that recognizes that identity is not tied to a title or a role. A way that gives permission to step away in order to step into something more aligned and more sustainable.

I am still in that work.

I am still unpacking what failure means in my own story. I am still learning how to separate what happened from who I am. I am still finding my voice in spaces that value honesty over hype.

What I know is this.

Walking away did not end my story.

It helped me find it.

“Real Riffs”: Finding the Signal in the Noise

smgaillard Leadership , , ,

There comes a point where you get tired of the noise, the performance, and leadership being reduced to slogans, gimmicks, and quick fixes.

Over the past couple of years, I have been on a journey of searching, grappling, and wrestling with what it truly means to lead while remaining human-centered. I have written about it, spoken about it, and lived it through moments of clarity and moments of failure. Through it all, one truth continues to rise to the surface. Leadership is deeply human work, and too often that humanity gets lost.

This new project is a response to that realization.

I am deeply grateful to be on this journey with Dr. Donya Ball. What we have built together did not come from a strategy session or a content plan. It came from connection. It is the kind of connection that you recognize immediately and trust without hesitation.

Have you ever experienced that moment in music when you are in the middle of a jam session and someone takes the song in a direction that resonates with you? You lock eyes, exchange a nod, and realize that you are hearing the same thing. In that moment, a shared language emerges and you continue playing, knowing something meaningful is unfolding.

That is what this collaboration has felt like.

Donya and I found that same kinship, and out of that connection, “Real Riffs” was born.

This is not just another leadership podcast.

“Real Riffs” is built for you.

We are creating a space for real conversations about leadership without stunts, product placements, or games. We are committed to honest dialogue about the work, the weight, the joy, and the failures that come with leading. There are conversations that are not being had, topics that are being avoided, and truths that are being softened to fit a narrative. Leaders deserve better, and you deserve better.

“Real Riffs” is an open invitation.

We want to hear from you. We invite you to share the questions that stay with you, the challenges that keep you up at night, and the moments that push you to reflect and grow. You can share your ideas in the comments here, email me directly at sgaillard84@gmail.com, or reach out through direct message on social media to me or to Donya. You can also connect with Donya and learn more about her work at https://www.donyaball.com/.

We are not talking at you. We are building “Real Riffs” with you.

This podcast is designed to reach beyond education because leadership is not confined to a single profession. This space is for anyone doing the work of leading and striving to stay grounded in what matters most.

“Real Riffs” will launch in April, with new episodes released monthly.

Each episode will be approached like an album. We will drop the needle and let it play. Your questions will guide the direction, and your voice will help shape the sound. What emerges will be something real, something shared, and something worth holding onto.

This is your invitation to join the jam.

Bring your questions. Bring your experiences. Bring your truth.

Let’s create something that matters.

Failure Sucks: Learning to Lead While Human in the Moments That Hurt Us the Most

smgaillard Leadership , , , , , ,

Lately I have been reflecting on past failures as a leader. In many leadership circles across social media, conferences, and professional spaces, failure is often mentioned briefly and then quickly reframed as a lesson learned. The story usually resolves neatly, much like a sitcom where the main character faces a conflict and everything wraps up by the end of the episode.

Leadership does not work that way.

Failure in leadership rarely resolves quickly. Even when we fill our days scrolling through inspirational memes about perseverance and growth, the pain still lingers. The hurt continues. Failure does not disappear simply because we choose to frame it positively.

Too often we rush to the happy ending.

Several years ago, the “Famous Failures” memes were widely shared online. I remember drawing inspiration from those images that highlighted the early setbacks of people like Michael Jordan, Oprah Winfrey, and Albert Einstein. One of the examples that resonated deeply with me was the story of The Beatles being rejected by Decca Records before becoming the most influential band in history. A Decca executive reportedly told them that guitar groups were on the way out.

I wrote about that moment in my book The Pepper Effect. I shared that story many times with faculty during my years as a principal because it offered a powerful reminder that rejection and failure often precede greatness. In recent years I have noticed that the story no longer carries the same inspirational weight for some audiences. I sometimes walk away from sharing that anecdote feeling a quiet sense of disappointment. I love The Beatles. I wrote a book about them. I have spoken about their story at conferences and leadership gatherings. At times the response has been enthusiastic. At other times it has been a collection of polite nods.

That realization stings a little. It reminds me that even the stories we believe will inspire others do not always land the way we hope.

Leadership author John Maxwell addressed this tension in his book Failure Forward: Turning Mistakes into Stepping Stones for Success. Maxwell writes, “One of the greatest problems people have with failure is that they are too quick to judge isolated situations in their lives and label them as failures.” He reminds readers that mistakes are inevitable and that mistakes only become true failures when we continually respond to them incorrectly.

Amy Edmondson, a leading voice on psychological safety, explores similar ideas in her book Right Kind of Wrong: The Science of Failing Well. Edmondson encourages leaders to rethink how organizations respond to mistakes and to recognize the potential for growth and discovery that can emerge from them.

Both perspectives resonate with me. I appreciate the wisdom behind them.

Yet the more I reflect on my own experiences, the more I arrive at a simple and honest truth.

Failure sucks.

Failure is painful. Failure can be debilitating. Failure drains energy and confidence. Failure often shows up when we step into bold and unfamiliar territory. It waits quietly beside us as we take risks, stumble, and fall short.

There is not enough honest conversation about the emotional toll of failure. Many leadership conversations focus on the research, the strategies, and the case studies. Those perspectives are important. At the same time, they often overlook the personal hurt that accompanies failure.

Leading while human requires that we acknowledge that pain.

I recently attempted to start a book study for colleagues. No one responded. That moment hurt more than I expected. I think about a conference session where only three people showed up. The room felt far too large for such a small audience. I delivered the session anyway, though the experience was both humbling and uncomfortable.

Moments like those stay with you.

Failure has a way of reaching into the deeper parts of our identity and purpose. It can leave us questioning our abilities and wondering whether we truly belong in the spaces where we serve.

I wish there were a simple antidote.

There are many inspiring stories about overcoming failure. I am curious about John Maxwell’s upcoming book How to Get a Return on Failure: Fail Smarter, Return Stronger. The title alone reflects an important mindset shift. Organizations must build cultures that offer grace, coaching, and support when people struggle or fall short. Many organizations do this well. Others do not. In some seasons of my career, authentic and humane support was inconsistent or absent.

Those seasons can feel incredibly lonely.

During this current liminal season of my life and leadership, I often revisit my own failures. Some moments invite reflection. Some invite reconsideration. Some even invite regret. Those reflections lead me to a deeper question.

How do we remain human centered leaders while staying true to our own humanity?

Perhaps the pain of failure is part of what makes us human. Perhaps the sting becomes the catalyst that pushes us toward growth and perseverance. Charlie Brown runs toward the football again and again, even though Lucy might pull it away at the last moment. He still runs forward with hope.

Leadership sometimes feels exactly like that moment.

Failure invites us to pivot. Failure invites us to step back and reflect. Failure invites us to rediscover the gifts that still live within us. Failure teaches us lessons we could not learn any other way.

Those lessons matter.

At the same time, honesty requires that we acknowledge a simple truth.

Failure still sucks.

Leaders cannot pretend that the pain does not exist. We must acknowledge the hurt. We must allow ourselves moments of reflection and even moments of sadness. We gather ourselves again, roll up our sleeves, and keep moving forward.

Our response to failure ultimately defines us far more than the failure itself.

That is the work.

That is the calling.

That is the gig.

Our response to failure ultimately defines us far more than the failure itself.
Leading while human means we acknowledge the pain, gather ourselves, and keep showing up anyway.