life

Keeping the Faith When the Room Feels Quiet

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I remember being one of the last kids picked for kickball. Standing there in the dust with my hands in my pockets, waiting for someone to call my name. Everyone else seemed to belong somewhere. Everyone else seemed to have a team. That feeling has followed me into adulthood more times than I care to admit.

It rises up again whenever I put something out into the world and the room stays quiet. Every blog post. Every episode. Every reflection. Each one is a small act of courage. Each one is a piece of my soul placed gently on the table. Yet the silence that follows can hit with the same sting I felt on that kickball field.

There are days when it feels like no one wants me in their band. No replies. No call backs. No echoes of connection. I have chosen two of the loneliest gigs in the world. Leadership asks you to walk into the unknown even when no one notices. Writing asks you to offer your heart with no promise that anyone will take it. There is no applause built into any of this. There is no guarantee that your work will lead to opportunity.

So I have to keep the faith that there are quiet listeners out there. I have to trust that someone is reading or watching or absorbing even if I never hear the echo. I have to accept that my work may never be seen by the people I wish would see it. I have to keep creating anyway because that is the only way I can stay true to myself.

When doubt begins to weigh me down, I think of George Harrison. In the latter days of The Beatles, he felt like an outsider in his own band. His songs were often pushed aside. Yet he kept writing. He kept believing in his sound. Even in those difficult seasons, he delivered “Something” and “Here Comes The Sun.” Those songs became the heart of what many considered to be their greatest album, “Abbey Road.”

Then came the moment when his backlog of unheard songs found their place. “All Things Must Pass “emerged as a three album masterpiece by George Harrison. A triumph born from years of quiet rejection. A reminder that some brilliance finds its home only after the world grows ready for it. That album just celebrated its fifty fifth anniversary. It is a cherished album for me. It reminds me that the work we create in the shadows can one day light the way for someone else.

Maybe the same can be true for me. I have been part of good bands in my life. Maybe one more band is still out there. Until then, I will keep the faith even when the room feels quiet. I will write anyway. I will lead anyway. I will create anyway.

Because someone somewhere may need the sound I am trying to make. Even if I never hear the echo, the act of making it still matters.

Playing My Sound: A Way Back to Human Centeredness

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A reflection on writing, creating, and staying true to the sound inside

Today is Giving Tuesday. Traditionally, it is a day to support a charity or cause with a monetary donation. This year I want to give something different. I want to give something from the heart. I want to give the gift of reflection through this post. I struggle through my own valleys. I have moments of alienation. Yet, I still want to reach out and give to you on this Giving Tuesday.

In my last blog post titled, “A Call for Human Centeredness,” I shared a wish to reclaim what matters most. We live in a world that moves too quickly and fractures too easily. In this season dominated by artificial intelligence and constant digital noise, it feels more urgent than ever to slow down. This is the time to take moments for what we truly need. Take a walk, listen to music, and connect with others in real and meaningful ways.

Leadership is a profession lived shoulder to shoulder with people, yet it can be profoundly lonely. I have carried that loneliness for many years. When you have to deliver difficult truths, the isolation can be heavy. It is also relentless when you guide crucial conversations and shoulder responsibility for others. I know the emotional toll it can take. I understand the strain that loneliness can place on mental health. It is a quiet weight that can follow you home at the end of the day.

I wave a cautionary flag in this moment. I wave a cautionary flag against replacing deep human connection with chatbots or digital interactions that try to mimic intimacy. I wave a cautionary flag against the social and political fractures that have hardened us toward one another. I wave a cautionary flag against the myth that we are too busy to connect. Human centeredness often becomes the last item on the list when it should be the first.

As I wrote earlier in the last blog post, people matter most. Moments matter most. Belonging matters most.

Technology is not the enemy. I am grateful for the early days of Twitter. It opened doors that helped me publish my first book. It allowed me to speak at conferences and form friendships that continue to sustain me. Yet somewhere along the way, the human center has been overshadowed. To reclaim it, we have to build spaces that nourish our souls rather than simply fill our schedules.

For me, writing is that space. Creating this blog and working on my next book are my ways of building time for reflection and clarity. This is where I feel the freedom to dream. It allows me to express what matters. It is also my way to connect with you. If you are reading this and feel lonely, discouraged, or fatigued, I hope these words remind you of something important. You are not alone.

Every leader needs a trapdoor that allows the soul to breathe. Recently, I opened one by starting a TikTok account and creating a small series called Vinyl Riffs. The premise is simple. I talk about records I love and celebrate the joy of music. It lets me feel like a late night radio host spinning albums for anyone who needs a song. I do not know if the videos make sense. I do not expect to go viral. However, every time I create one, I feel my joy return. I feel myself reconnect with my passions, dreams, and ideas. I feel true to who I am.

By writing and creating, I am staying anchored to my purpose. I am staying faithful to the sound inside me. If I keep playing my sound, then maybe it will resonate with someone who needs it. Maybe there is a band out there that needs me and I need them. Maybe my sound will help someone find their own.

We all need something that restores us. Something that reminds us that we are human beings and not human doings. Something that lets our souls breathe.

So on this Giving Tuesday, here is my gift. An invitation.

Find the thing that fills you up and make space for it.
Write. Sing. Paint. Walk. Play. Listen. Build. Dream.
And most importantly, connect.

Because when we create, we reconnect with ourselves.
And when we reconnect with ourselves, we create space to connect with others.
This is the heart of human centeredness.
This is the gift worth giving.

To borrow wisdom from The Beatles, words that have guided me through so many seasons:

“And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.”
-Lennon and McCartney

May we continue to make love visible through connection, creativity, and courage. If you need a bandmate on that journey, I am here.

A Call for Human-Centeredness

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During this week of Thanksgiving, I am reflecting actively on the things I am grateful for this year. I am zoning in on those people who have filled my bucket with inspiration in meaningful ways. The last two years have been filled with intentional paths. I am intentionally focusing on inspiration for my self care. This approach benefits my well being. My PLN has been an oasis for inspiration and connection and belonging. I have been fortunate to develop authentic friendships beyond hashtags and GIFs with a select few.

There are two individuals who I want to honor in this space. I have been blessed with their friendship. Both have been mentioned here before and both have been guests on my podcast. This time, I want to share how both serve as beacons for human centeredness.

Meghan Lawson and Maria Galanis are humble voices in my PLN. They create space for belonging in the way they craft their content. Meghan writes a weekly blog that stirs the soul. Her Instagram is a pocket of joy. She shares inspiring words and pictures of her cats. She also shares the delight of friendships and learning communities. Maria posts beautiful reminders about cherishing family. She shares her love of Coldplay. She also celebrates those magical moments when she finds images of hearts in the wild.

Most importantly, both remind us what it means to be human centered. Their content is never about promoting themselves. They uplift our humanity in the joy they capture and share. Maria literally shares the images of hearts she discovers in her travels. Meghan shares the joy she feels when she amplifies the voices of others.

Human centeredness is not a buzz word. It is a mindset that our world needs more than ever. Especially in education. Too often we are buried in acronyms and staged icebreakers and meetings and data points. Human centeredness is the pause we take. It allows us to connect with others through a kind word. We also ask an authentic question and call out the good in the moment. We do not do it enough in our profession in my opinion. Human centeredness is the spark that ignites belonging. We sustain it when we lean into each other and take the time to help one another along the way.

The other day before Thanksgiving Break, I was passing out Little Debbie snack cakes. It was not a stunt for social media. It was an entry point to connect with the people I serve. I wanted to express gratitude. I wanted to listen and share a moment of joy face to face. I wanted to stand together as humans and bandmates.

This is the path I want to walk with intention. I want to offer a pathway for others to embrace human centeredness. I want to express gratitude for Meghan and Maria. They inspire me to live with greater presence and heart. I am grateful for our friendship.

Here is the simple truth that rises in my heart. People matter most. Moments matter most. Belonging matters most.

May we listen more than we speak. May we see one another fully and without agenda. May we choose connection over convenience. May we choose love over hurry. May we lift each other through small gestures that echo far beyond the moment.

When we lead from a place of human centeredness, we create rooms where others feel seen and valued. People feel safe to become who they are meant to be. We create communities where joy grows. We create teams that play like bands in perfect rhythm.

That is the work that lasts. That is the work that changes schools and lives.

Here is my invitation. Let us keep our hearts open. Let us reach across the divide with generosity and presence. Let us build something beautiful through the way we treat each other.

Human centeredness is not a strategy. It is a way of being.

And everything starts there.

Finding My Band

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When I was a kid, I was often one of the last picked for kickball. I remember the sting of waiting. I stood in awkward anticipation. I hoped someone would invite me on the team. I did my best to keep my head held high like my father had taught me. I watched captains point to someone else and tried not to show my disappointment. I was that kid hoping to belong. Hoping to be seen. Hoping to be chosen.

I think I have spent most of my life chasing that feeling of belonging. Wanting to be part of something bigger than myself. Wanting to feel the spark when you look around and know you are with your people who see you. Wanting a band.

A band for me is not just the literal type where individuals play music together. I use the band as an analogy for collaboration, belonging, and sustaining a shared vision. As a school leader, I would perpetuate this concept by referring to colleagues as “bandmates.” I thought that this mindset would help the culture and enhance belonging for all in the schoolhouse.

Being in a band is wonderful. There is purpose and possibility in the sound you create together. I felt that sense of belonging as a guitarist in a few literal bands. There is nothing like locking into a groove. Seeing another musician look over with that nod says we are in the pocket. I felt that same belonging when I taught English at Governor’s School. I was surrounded by a team of educators who celebrated collaboration and creativity. I felt it a few times in school leadership within administrative teams that shared a vision and worked in harmony.

Spinning on my turntable as of late is “The Beatles Anthology Collection.” It is a treasure trove of alternate takes, live recordings, and demos. It also includes unreleased tracks and a trio of their reunion songs. I love hearing the band workshopping songs and encouraging each other through various mistakes and flubs in the studio. It serves as a reminder of what a band should do when they face an echo of a failure. They should handle the resonance of a mistake wisely and stick together. You play through it, learn from it, and keep the groove moving on. Listening to this beautiful audio package of The Beatles in this alternate trajectory is wonderful. It makes me miss the joy of being in a band. I miss being with people who understand my sound.

Lately, I have been drifting. Feeling like a castaway. Wandering around a crossroads. Watching from a distance as others find their bands. I see camaraderie and connection and I often feel sadness that I am not part of it. Recently, I saw a group of leaders celebrating together in a LinkedIn post and I felt left out. I felt that old kickball feeling. The one that sits heavy.

For a long time I thought that if I waited long enough a band would find me. That a group would invite me in. That someone would want my presence, ideas, and voice. I waited. I believed. I hoped.

And then it hit me. I was waiting for a band that was never coming.

I have also forced the idea of band on others over the years. I regret that. Not everyone is ready to be in a band. I never took the time to realize that I am the barrier to the band. And the harder truth to accept is that maybe nobody wants to be in a band with me. Maybe I am not meant to join someone else’s group. Maybe I am meant to build something from the ground up. I am learning to sit with that. I am learning to accept it with honesty.

So here is where I am now.

I am at peace with where I am now.

I am at peace with the people I get to meet and support daily.

In the meantime, I am forming my own band.

Not by asking others or convincing colleagues or trying to prove myself that a band is the way to go. Not by waiting for an invitation that will never arrive. I am just going to keep creating. Keep writing. Keep podcasting. Keep blogging. Keep finishing the second book. Keep playing my sound without apology.

If I stay true to that maybe the right bandmates will hear the music. Maybe the ones who resonate with authenticity will wander into the room. Maybe belonging is not something you wait for. Maybe belonging is something you build.

I believe in the band. I always have.

And the next track begins now.

A Short Leadership Riff for Carrying On

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Sometimes we have to sit with the hurt. We cannot rush the healing or pretend we are fine. We acknowledge the sting we feel. We name it. We breathe through it.

And then we carry on.

We move forward with peace in our hearts. We keep showing up with love and integrity. We hold onto the belief that our story is still unfolding in ways we cannot yet see.

We walk forward with quiet strength. We choose to rise. We choose to keep playing our song.

Peace is not the absence of pain. It is the courage to continue in spite of it.

#LeadershipRiffs

Everyday Begins Again: A Leadership Riff for the Crossroads

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There is a scene near the end of Mad Men that has been living in my mind lately. It appears in “The Milk and Honey Route,” the penultimate episode of the entire series. Don Draper is sitting alone on a simple wooden bench at a literal crossroads. His past is heavy. His sense of identity is shaken. Every illusion he has held onto is slipping away.

He is not in a boardroom. He is not commanding a room or crafting the perfect pitch. He is simply a human being at a crossroads waiting for a bus. Two roads stretch away from him. The world around him is still and quiet. Then Buddy Holly’s song, “Everyday,” begins to play. It is light and gentle almost innocent against the weight of everything happening in his life. Don does not say a word. He simply smiles. It is small and worn but it is real.

And in that moment the crossroads becomes something else entirely. It is not a sign of failure. It is a place of possibility. A reminder that endings are also invitations. A signal that a new chapter might be waiting just beyond the next turn. That scene has always stayed with me and it echoes especially whenever I reach crossroads. The crossroads can sometimes be a place where I feel like a castaway from my own story. It sometimes resonates as place where the past feels louder than the future.

But crossroads are also moments of choice. They remind us that the narrative is not over.

Leaders Are Human First

Leadership can trick us into believing that we need to be composed and clear at all times. But human centeredness asks us to stop pretending. It reminds us that we can feel discouraged. We can feel disconnected. We can feel unsure. We can feel deeply human.

We cannot foster belonging for others if we ignore our own longing.
We cannot create connection for others if we are afraid to name the disconnection inside of us.
We cannot invite others to honor their gifts if we forget the gifts we carry.

When we forget our humanity leadership becomes empty.
When we honor our humanity belonging begins to grow.

Taking Back the Narrative

Lately, I have been wrestling with my narrative. The old version no longer fits yet the new one has not appeared in full shape. That in-between space can make even the strongest leader feel small. It can stir up doubt. It can amplify old wounds. It can convince us that we have failed.

But the narrative is not fixed. It is alive. It breathes.
We have the ability to reclaim it.
We have the ability to reinterpret the past.
We have the ability to decide what comes with us into the next chapter.

Reclaiming a narrative does not require us to erase pain.
It requires us to believe that we are still in the story.

How Might We Move Forward

I have been sitting with a set of big questions. Quiet questions. Honest questions that come from a place of wanting to understand what comes next.

How might we create belonging when we feel lost?
How might we honor our gifts when doubt feels heavy?
How might we acknowledge the seasons that humbled us?
How might we carry on when the path does not reveal itself?

Maybe the answer is simpler than we think.
We choose the next small step that moves us forward.
Not the perfect step.
Not the loudest or most impressive step.
Just the one that points toward healing and growth and connection.

Forward is not about speed. Forward is about intention. There is always a way forward at a crossroads.

A New Narrative Begins With One Step

Crossroads do not require us to know the entire map. They only require us to breathe to rise and to choose. Leaders carry the responsibility of illuminating a future path for others. That same responsibility calls us to illuminate a future path inside ourselves.

We keep showing up.
We keep tuning into the gifts that are still there.
We keep noticing the gifts others bring.
We keep giving ourselves permission to change.
We keep claiming belonging even when we feel like castaways.

Most of all we keep writing the next sentence of our narrative with honest hope and steady courage trusting that more of the story is still waiting to be revealed.

Your Move at the Crossroads

If you find yourself at your own crossroads I hope you remember this. You are not alone. You have not failed. You have not reached the end. You are standing in a place where your narrative can open into something new and meaningful. A place where the horizon stretches in every direction. A place where you get to choose the next chapter.

There is a future waiting that you cannot yet see. But it will meet you as soon as you take the next step toward it.

Failure Hurts, But the Beat Goes On

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Failure hurts. There’s no sugar-coating that simple truth. When the Beatles were turned down by Decca Records, it could have been the end of their story. But it wasn’t. They found another path and changed the world. As I wrote in The Pepper Effect, that “no” was just the prelude to a bigger “yes.”

And they’re in good company. Walt Disney was once fired for “lacking imagination,” and Oprah Winfrey was told she was “unfit for television” before becoming a media icon. Each of them had moments that could have ended their journeys, but instead, they used those setbacks to fuel their next success.

In leadership, we all have those moments. And I’ll say personally, I’ve had my own failures. Sometimes the things I write or the ideas I share don’t resonate the way I hope. Sometimes a well-intentioned plan becomes a flop and I fall on the sword of doubt. Each of those moments is a chance to keep creating, keep pushing, and keep striving. It’s a reminder that our perseverance can inspire others to do the same.

In leadership, we face our own versions of these stories. Sometimes failure lands on our shoulders alone, and it feels isolating. The secret I have learned over the years is that failure is less sharp when you’re in a band, when you have those who know you and stand by you. It’s easier to turn a setback into a new song when you’re not playing solo. That’s why it is essential to surround yourself with those who support and empower you. That’s why it is essential to stay connected with those who knew you and stood by before you got the leadership gig, corner office, or prestigious title.

When failure comes, and it will, remember that you’re not the first and you won’t be the last. Take a breath, lean on your bandmates, and see failure as the beginning of a new opportunity. Failure is the spark for something greater. I know that failure can hurt and force you to stand still in the marrow of your doubts. Someone needs your spark and there is a band relies upon your sound. One day, your failure story will be the inspiration for someone else and may even be that spark that sets the world as a better place for others.

When failure comes, let it be your cue, not your curtain call. Let it remind you that you’re not alone, that your story isn’t over, and that the band is still playing. Every “no” carries the seed of a future “yes.” Every closed door echoes with the sound of what’s next. Lean into your vision, surround yourself with those who believe in your song, and keep showing up with your whole heart. Because someone out there needs the music only you can make.

Between What Was and What Is Next

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This is a reflection for anyone who has ever stood in the in-between. The space where purpose meets uncertainty and the next chapter feels just out of reach. These are the moments that call for a leadership reset to pause, reflect, and begin again with renewed intention.

There is a strange stillness in the in-between. It is that quiet moment when one chapter fades but the next has not yet begun.

It is not regret. It is ache. The kind that comes from knowing you are at a crossroads. I have danced with failures and missed opportunities. I have wrestled with the silence that follows when you put your heart into something and it goes unseen. That silence has been my teacher.

I think often of those moments in music when an artist stood in their own in-between. When Miles Davis created Kind of Blue, he was leaving behind the familiar and stepping into something uncharted. He entered what is often called a liminal space, a threshold between what was and what could be. It was risky. It was uncertain. Yet from that space of transition came a timeless masterpiece that changed everything.

Or consider The Beatles during the Let It Be sessions. The band was fractured and weary. Yet in that fragile in-between space they still created moments of truth and beauty. They found the courage to keep recording even when it felt like the music had lost its way. Somehow, that honesty became the song that still echoes across time.

Liminal spaces are where the soul rewrites its melody. They are uncomfortable, but they are also sacred. They strip away titles, roles, and routines until only what is real remains.

What is real right now is that I still care. I still believe in people. I still believe in creativity, connection, and service. I still believe that words matter, even if no one reads them.

This is where the Leadership Reset comes alive. It is something I created and shared in a recent blog post. I was honored to share on a recent episode of the “Teachers on Fire Podcast” with Tim Cavey. It is a simple practice that can help any leader find rhythm again when the noise gets too loud or the silence feels too heavy.

Listen to the full conversation here: Take the 3 Minute Leadership Reset with Sean Gaillard

The 3 Minute Leadership Reset

1. Take a Breath (30 seconds)
Close your eyes.
Inhale slowly and say to yourself:

“I am still here.”

Exhale and say:

“I am enough.”

Do this three times. Feel your shoulders drop. Feel your pulse slow. You have just reclaimed your space in the moment.

2. Anchor in Gratitude (1 minute)
Ask yourself quietly:

What one small moment today reminded me I am alive?
What one connection, a smile, a song, a student, gave me a spark?
What one thing am I proud of, even if no one noticed it?

Write it down in a notebook or say it aloud. That is your leadership echo, a reminder that small actions still ripple outward.

3. Affirm and Reframe (1 minute)
Say these words out loud, slowly and intentionally:

“I am not invisible. I am building something that lasts beyond applause.”
“My work is meaningful, even when it is quiet.”
“The music I make through service, kindness, and creativity still plays, whether or not the crowd is listening.”

Let those words live in your breath. You have just tuned your soul back to the right frequency.

4. Reconnect (30 seconds)
Before moving on with your day, take one small action to reconnect:

Send a short message to a friend or colleague.
Share a kind word with a student or staff member.
Play a song that brings you joy.

These micro moments rebuild our leadership core from the inside out.

Maybe leadership is not about applause or spotlight moments. Maybe it is about keeping the song going when you cannot tell if anyone is listening.

So I will stay here for a while, between what was and what is next, trusting that this ache is not the end of the song but the bridge that leads to the next verse.

We are all in-between something. We are all tuning, listening, resetting. Wherever you are in your journey, may you find time to breathe, to notice, and to let your next melody emerge.

The Seat Saver: A Leadership Reflection on Belonging

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In the swirl of learning and connection at the ISTE Live and ASCD Annual Conference, a friend’s kind act of saving a seat became something greater. It was a quiet reminder that leadership is not found in titles or stages, but in creating space where others feel they belong.

The other day, I was reminiscing about my experience this past summer at the ISTELive and ASCD Annual Conference in San Antonio. I had traveled there for two special reasons: co-presenting with my friend and thought partner, Dr. Andrea Trudeau, on Principal and School Librarian Collaboration, and being honored as one of the recipients of the ISTE + ASCD 20 to Watch recognition.

This conference was meaningful on many levels. With ISTE and ASCD coming together for the first time, it felt like the formation of a supergroup similar to The Traveling Wilburys of education. The learning sessions, the keynotes, and the energy of being surrounded by thousands of passionate educators were inspiring. Still, I arrived feeling a bit like a solo act.

Even though I was meeting up with friends from my Professional Learning Network (PLN), I could not help but feel that familiar pang of introverted hesitation. Traveling alone sometimes brings that quiet ache of wondering, Will I find my place here?

A Seat Saved

Then came a simple yet powerful act of kindness.

On the first day, my friend Meghan Lawson reached out and invited me to sit with her group. Meghan was a seat saver in every sense of the phrase. She sent messages throughout the conference:

“We have a seat for you.”
“We are over here. Come join us.”

When I arrived, there she was with a smile and a wave, making sure there was space for me. She introduced me to her colleagues as if I had always been part of their circle. In those moments, I did not feel like an outsider anymore.

That act of saving a seat, so small on the surface, became a profound gesture of belonging. It was not just about a physical chair in a crowded session room. It was about creating space for someone else to feel seen, valued, and connected.

A Third Place in Action

This sense of belonging reminded me of an article by Superintendent Teresa Hill in the September 2025 issue of Educational Leadership titled “Help Students Find Their Third Place.” She builds on sociologist Ray Oldenburg’s concept of the third place, a setting beyond home (the first place) and work or school (the second place), where people gather, connect, and belong.

Hill’s words resonated deeply because, as leaders, we need to cultivate third places not just for students but for the adults we serve. Our schools, offices, and even conferences can become those spaces of belonging when we intentionally carve out room for others emotionally, physically, and spiritually.

That is exactly what Meghan did for me. Her saved seat was a third place. It represented welcome, community, and care. Andrea Trudeau did the same by inviting me to join sessions, co-presenting with encouragement and joy, and extending genuine friendship.

Even our friend Danny Steele showed up at our poster session just to support us. He did not need to be there, but he was, a quiet reminder that belonging is built one intentional gesture at a time.

Creating Space for Others

Something as simple as saving a seat carries great power. As leaders, we are often the ones carrying the weight of decisions, expectations, and responsibilities. It can be easy to isolate, even unintentionally. But we are called to do the opposite.

We are called to be seat savers, those who create and hold space for others to belong, contribute, and thrive.

Belonging is not a slogan or a tagline in a memo. It is the living, breathing act of inclusion. It is checking in with intentionality on another human. It is inviting others into a shared space of belonging. It is sharing what we have learned. It is offering encouragement without condition.

That is what Meghan and Andrea modeled in San Antonio. They made belonging an action, not an idea.

Paying It Forward

Before the conference ended, Meghan and I reached out to our friend Lauren Kaufman, who was not in attendance. We missed our friend. We looped her into our group chat and shared the sessions that had inspired us. In a way, we were saving her a seat, too, a digital one in our learning community.

I carried that spirit home. I wanted to continue saving seats for others through my social media posts, sharing reflections and takeaways from the conference. Those posts were not just updates. They were invitations, small ways of saying, Come sit with us.

The Leadership Invitation

I am grateful for friends like Meghan, Andrea, and Danny who made space for me in San Antonio. Their kindness reminded me that belonging begins with awareness and intention.

As leaders, we can all be seat savers. We can all be the ones who make sure everyone has a place in the band.

Because when we save a seat, we do not just fill space.
We create community.
We create belonging.
We create harmony.

A Lesson from My Dad

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Lately, if you have been following this blog, you might have noticed a thread weaving through my recent reflections, one centered on gratitude for those I love. A recent health setback prompted me to take a deeper inventory of what and who I am thankful for. That process led me home, in every sense of the word, back to my family, and especially to my father.

For leaders, it is essential to pause intentionally and take time for gratitude. That practice has been reinforced by my good friend, Lainie Rowell, author of Evolving with Gratitude. Her work reminds us that gratitude is not just an emotion but an action, one that ignites connection, strengthens relationships, and transforms the atmosphere of our lives. I was honored to contribute to her book and to witness how gratitude can change the temperature of a soul. It is the grounding rhythm beneath every meaningful leadership melody.

So today, I want to express my gratitude for my father, the best man I know, by sharing a few lessons he has taught me, lessons that have carried me through every stage of my life.

My father has been my teacher, mentor, protector, and moral compass. Through his words and example, he has taught me everything from the musical brilliance of Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On to the importance of a firm handshake and the art of being a gentleman. But the greatest lesson of all has been the power of unconditional love, a lesson deeply rooted in our shared faith.

For years, my father made countless sacrifices for our family. He did it with humility and grace, never once complaining, even in the face of racism or rejection. He stood firm in his devout faith and values, leading not with loud proclamations but with quiet strength. His faith-filled example spoke louder than any sermon ever could. Dad is also on call to say a prayer for you if you need it.

There is one phrase my father has said to me for as long as I can remember:
“Dare to be great.”

He said it to all four of his children. It was never about achievement or applause. It was about integrity, purpose, and belief in our God-given potential. Dad saw greatness in us long before we saw it in ourselves. It is his way to motivate and inspire. Most importantly, it is his way to show that he believes in you but that we also have to believe in ourselves.

I will never forget a small but powerful moment years ago. I had been invited to a local event where I introduced a special screening of Yellow Submarine. As the author of The Pepper Effect, I was thrilled to share my Beatles expertise before and after the film, but when the time came, only a few people showed up. My amazing wife, who has endured my lifelong fascination with The Beatles, was there by my side. And so was my father. He is not a Beatles fan, and that movie was probably far from his cup of tea, but he was there smiling, proud, and present. That is who he is. Showing up has always been my father’s love language.

My father is also the best leadership coach I know. His wisdom is wrapped in empathy and anchored in common sense. When I have faced discouragement, he has always been my one of my first calls. I remember one conversation in particular when I was sinking into self-doubt and negativity. Dad listened quietly, then in his calm and steady voice said,
“Hold your head high, son, like I taught you.”

Those words cut through everything. In an instant, the weight lifted. That is what Dad does. He restores balance, brings perspective, and reminds me of who I am. His optimism is not naïve. It is rooted in faith, experience, and courage.

There have been countless moments like that, moments where my father’s love, patience, and wisdom have guided me back to center. I am beyond blessed to be his son. I am grateful that my three daughters have grown up knowing him as “Papa,” the same man who has modeled grace, humility, and strength for generations.

The world is better, safer, and brighter because of my dad. His life is a testament to faith, love, and quiet greatness.

Dad has taught me to be a better husband, father, and teammate.

And as I reflect on all that he has taught me, I know that I still have much more to learn from him. I will never tire of those lessons.

His lessons continue to guide me, and his love will forever be the compass that leads my way.

Thank you, Dad.