life

Four Weeks to Rubber Soul: Day 28 | Finish

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Finish Makes Next Possible

Twenty-eight days ago, I began a creative journey inspired by an album that The Beatles recorded over approximately four weeks during the fall of 1965. I wanted to explore the lessons of creativity, collaboration, experimentation, and commitment found within the making of Rubber Soul. More importantly, I wanted to challenge myself to create something meaningful every single day while encouraging others to embrace their own creative possibilities.

Today, October 11, 2026, I reach the finish line of this journey. For twenty-eight consecutive days, I have written a blog post and recorded a reel inspired by four musicians whose creativity continues to shape my life. I have researched, reflected, listened, experimented, and shared ideas that have challenged me to think differently about my own creative process. What began as a celebration of an extraordinary album gradually became something much more personal.

Somewhere along the way, I discovered that I needed this experience as much as anyone who might have been reading or watching. I began with the hope of inspiring others, but I am finishing with a renewed understanding of what creativity means in my own life.

I began this journey hoping to build community and connection. I wanted to encourage others who might be struggling to find their creative voices or searching for their own bandmates. After all, one of the greatest lessons of The Beatles is that remarkable things can happen when people bring their individual talents together in pursuit of something meaningful. I hoped this series might create opportunities for conversation, encouragement, and perhaps even collaboration.

The experience did not always unfold as I imagined. There were days when the engagement was quiet and the response was less than I had hoped. I sometimes wondered whether these reflections were reaching anyone or whether the ideas I was sharing were making a difference. Those moments were difficult because the desire for connection was a genuine part of why I began this journey.

At times, I felt as though I was standing alone on a stage in an empty auditorium, sharing my voice with rows of unoccupied seats. There is a certain vulnerability in putting something personal into the world and wondering whether anyone is listening. I have experienced that feeling more than once throughout these four weeks.

Still, I kept showing up. I kept writing, recording, learning, and sharing. Even when the auditorium seemed empty, I continued to fill the space with my voice. I began to understand that the absence of applause did not mean the absence of purpose. The courage to create could not depend entirely upon whether someone was there to acknowledge the work.

I also want to recognize that the auditorium was never entirely empty. There were people who took the time to read these reflections, watch the daily reels, leave thoughtful comments, and offer words of encouragement. Some followed the journey quietly, while others shared their thoughts along the way. Every expression of support mattered, and I am genuinely grateful to everyone who made room for this creative journey in their lives.

That gratitude is important to me because I never wanted this experience to be simply about producing content. I wanted it to be about sharing ideas that might encourage someone else to begin creating, take a risk, or rediscover something meaningful in their own life. I may never know how these reflections resonated with everyone who encountered them, but I am grateful for every opportunity to make a connection.

The four words that guided this journey were Begin, Collaborate, Experiment, and Finish. Looking back, each one carries a deeper meaning than it did when I started.

I began with an idea and the willingness to take a creative risk. I explored collaboration by studying the extraordinary chemistry of The Beatles and reflecting on the importance of finding people who encourage and challenge one another. Although I did not discover the band of collaborators I had hoped to find, the experience reminded me why those connections matter and why I want to remain open to them.

I experimented with my writing, my voice, and the daily practice of recording and sharing reflections. I became more comfortable putting my ideas into the world without knowing how they would be received. The discipline of creating something every day gradually became less intimidating and more natural. I discovered that the simple act of showing up consistently could strengthen my confidence and give me the courage to explore new possibilities.

Now, I have finished something I promised myself I would complete. I have twenty-eight days of creative work to show for that commitment, along with lessons that I could never have anticipated when I began. I have learned that creativity requires discipline, but it also requires trust in ourselves and a willingness to keep going when the response is uncertain.

The Beatles offer a remarkable example of what finishing can make possible. When Rubber Soul was released on December 3, 1965, it represented a significant creative achievement. The Beatles had expanded their musical vocabulary, explored new approaches to songwriting, and demonstrated an increasing willingness to challenge their own artistic boundaries.

They could have continued repeating that successful formula, but their curiosity and creative ambitions carried them forward. Within months, they were recording Revolver, an album that would take their experimentation into even more adventurous territory. Their journey continued through Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and beyond, with each completed project opening possibilities that had not existed before.

That example has stayed with me as I have approached the conclusion of this challenge. Finishing something meaningful does not require us to remain in the same creative space. The accomplishment deserves to be celebrated, but it can also become the foundation for another beginning.

Finish is not the opposite of Begin. Finish is what makes Next possible.

There is something particularly meaningful about the timing of this final reflection. Today is October 11, and tomorrow marks the sixty-first anniversary of the beginning of The Beatles’ Rubber Soul recording sessions at EMI Studios in London. On October 12, 1965, they began recording music that would eventually become one of the most influential albums of their career.

I find something beautiful in that connection. As I finish this journey inspired by Rubber Soul, I am standing on the eve of the anniversary of its beginning. More than six decades separate these two creative experiences, yet the lessons of curiosity, commitment, and courage continue to resonate. An album created in 1965 inspired me to begin something in 2026, and finishing that experience has given me the courage to consider what comes next.

For much of my life, I have believed in the power of community, collaboration, and finding people who share a common purpose. I still believe in those things, and I still hope to find more bandmates who want to create, encourage, and build something meaningful together. That hope has not disappeared simply because this experience was sometimes quieter than I anticipated.

What has changed is my understanding of what I can do while those connections have yet to develop. I do not have to wait for a full auditorium to share my voice. I do not have to wait for someone to invite me into a creative space or measure the worth of an idea by the number of people who respond to it. I can begin where I am, create with what I have, and trust that the work itself has meaning.

Perhaps that is the true lesson I have discovered through Rubber Soul. The album is certainly a testament to the extraordinary possibilities of collaboration, but it is also a reminder that creativity requires curiosity, courage, and the willingness to move beyond what we already know. The Beatles continued to grow because they remained open to what might come next.

I want to carry that same spirit forward. I want to continue creating, learning, exploring, and sharing ideas that might make a difference in someone’s life. I want to remain open to the possibility of finding new bandmates while recognizing that I already have the ability to create something meaningful on my own.

I am grateful for everyone who followed this journey, read the daily reflections, watched the reels, shared a comment, or offered encouragement. Your presence and support have meant more than you may realize. I hope that somewhere along the way, something I shared encouraged you to consider your own creative possibilities.

Most of all, I am grateful that I did not abandon this journey when it became difficult or when the response was not what I had imagined. I gave myself the opportunity to discover something about my own creativity, discipline, and courage. I found a renewed sense of purpose in the simple act of showing up each day and creating something meaningful.

I do not want this journey to end. The daily rhythm of creating has become something I genuinely value, and I hope to continue nurturing it. I do not know exactly what the next creative chapter will look like, but I am no longer waiting for every detail to fall into place before I begin.

There is still music to discover, stories to tell, ideas to explore, and meaningful work to create. There are still people I hope to meet and bandmates I hope to find. There are possibilities I cannot yet imagine, and I want to remain open to discovering them.

Twenty-eight days ago, I stepped onto a stage with an idea and the hope that someone might listen. Today, I may still be standing on that same stage, but something has changed. I have filled that space with my voice, my creativity, and the courage to keep going. The auditorium may not be full, but I am no longer waiting for an audience before I begin.

I began. I explored the possibilities of collaboration. I experimented. I finished. The journey did not unfold exactly as I had imagined, but it gave me something I needed and reminded me that there is still so much more to discover.

As I finish this journey, I am grateful for everyone who shared even a small part of it. I am grateful for the music of The Beatles, for the lessons of Rubber Soul, and for the courage I have discovered through these twenty-eight days.

I may not know exactly what comes next, but I know that I am ready to begin.

Thank you for being part of Four Weeks to Rubber Soul.

Special Acknowledgements:

A very special thanks to Nicole Michael of 910 Public Relations and Dave Burgess of Dave Burgess Consulting, Inc. for their generosity in promoting this series on their respective platforms. Both have always been in corner for years and I grateful for their sincere support. Their belief in my work means the world to me.

Stay tuned for my next book with Dave Burgess Consulting, Inc: Leadership Riffs.

Today’s Reel:

“Songs in the Key of Life” at 50: The Music, the Memories, and My Father’s Lesson

smgaillard Music, Parenting , , , , , , , , ,

Some albums become part of our lives in ways that transcend the music itself. They become connected to the places we have called home, the people who shaped us, and the experiences that continue to influence our journey. For me, Stevie Wonder’s “Songs in the Key of Life” is one of those albums.

Today marks the 50th anniversary of this extraordinary masterpiece, originally released on September 28, 1976. As I reflect on this milestone, I find myself traveling back to my early childhood in Carson, California, where my love of music, family, and faith began taking shape.

The Soundtrack of My Childhood

I remember my dear father playing “Songs in the Key of Life” on our old stereo hi fi shortly after its release. Those songs filled our home, and I can still hear them today as vividly as I did fifty years ago. At the time, I had no idea that the music coming through those speakers would become such an important part of my life.

Carson holds a special place in my heart. Our home on Radlett Avenue provided the setting for so many memories that helped shape the person I am today. Every time I hear this album, I am transported back to those wonderful days of childhood, when life seemed filled with endless possibilities.

I remember running and dancing through the neighborhood, chasing ice cream trucks on my Big Wheel, enjoying story time with my mother, and playing catch with my father at the park. I remember dreaming about growing up to become a Jedi Knight or the Six Million Dollar Man. I was very much a product of a 1970s childhood, surrounded by the music, television, imagination, and cultural experiences of that remarkable decade.

Those memories remain precious to me. They are reminders of the love that surrounded me and the people who helped me discover the world. Whenever I return to “Songs in the Key of Life,” those feelings come rushing back.

A Remarkable Period of Creativity

Of course, “Songs in the Key of Life” represents something extraordinary beyond my personal memories. It stands as one of the defining artistic achievements of Stevie Wonder’s career and an incredible period of musical creativity.

Consider the remarkable sequence of albums he released between 1972 and 1976. There was “Music of My Mind” and “Talking Book” in 1972, followed by “Innervisions” in 1973 and “Fulfillingness’ First Finale” in 1974. Each album expanded his artistic possibilities, ultimately leading to the double album release of “Songs in the Key of Life” in 1976.

What an extraordinary creative journey! Stevie Wonder was willing to explore new sounds, embrace different musical influences, and push the boundaries of his songwriting. His music reflected the complexities of the human experience, from joy and celebration to struggle, injustice, spirituality, and love.

The result was an album filled with songs that continue to speak across generations. From the celebration of musical greatness in “Sir Duke” to the tenderness of “Isn’t She Lovely,” the social commentary of “Village Ghetto Land,” and the enduring message of love in “As,” the album offers a remarkable portrait of life itself.

There is a reason this music continues to resonate fifty years later. Stevie Wonder created something that speaks to our shared humanity while also allowing each listener to discover a deeply personal connection.

My Father’s Lesson About Love

Of all the memories associated with this album, one remains especially meaningful. It involves my father, a classroom at St. Philomena Catholic Church in Carson, and the song “As.”

My father was teaching a CCD class at our parish, and he decided to bring his copy of “Songs in the Key of Life” to share with the students. Rather than relying solely on a traditional lesson, he used music to communicate something profound about faith and the nature of God’s love.

He played “As” for the class. I remember my father in deep voice annotating the song and connecting the song to Scripture. Even though my father was teaching the class, I felt like he was talking directly to me. He was imparting the infinite nature of God’s love to me. He was giving me the gift of Faith. He was embedding a lesson in me that I would carry with me all my life and then pass on to my three daughters.

If you know the song, you understand its extraordinary message about the enduring and seemingly limitless nature of love. My father used that message to help his students understand the infinite love that God has for each of us. He connected a contemporary song to a timeless spiritual truth, making that lesson relevant, accessible, and meaningful I have carried that memory throughout my life.

My father could have taught that lesson in any number of ways. He chose to bring something familiar and beautiful into the classroom to help his students make a connection. He understood that music could communicate an idea in ways that ordinary explanations sometimes cannot.

Looking back, I recognize just how influential that experience became for me. My father was doing something that I would eventually embrace in my own professional journey. He was using music to build understanding, create connections, and make learning come alive.

The Lesson That Became Part of My Leadership

Years later, when I became an English teacher, I frequently incorporated music into my classroom. Songs became opportunities to explore language, poetry, history, culture, and the human experience. I wanted my students to discover connections between the literature we studied and the world they inhabited. I wanted learning to be something they could feel as well as understand.

That philosophy continued to shape my work when I became a school leader. Music has remained an important part of how I communicate, connect with others, and think about leadership. It has helped me consider how creativity, collaboration, belonging, and human connection can transform our schools and organizations.

There is something powerful about recognizing that a single childhood experience can influence an entire professional journey. My father probably never imagined that bringing a Stevie Wonder album into his CCD classroom would help shape the educator and leader his son would eventually become.

Yet, that is exactly what happened. I am a better father, husband, and teacher because of that event.

His lesson reminds me that meaningful teaching is not always about following a prescribed approach. Sometimes the most lasting learning happens when we connect with people through something they already love. Sometimes a song can help us understand an idea that might otherwise remain abstract.

The best educators and leaders recognize the importance of making those connections. They understand that people remember how an experience made them feel, especially when it brings them closer to something meaningful.

Fifty Years Later, the Music Plays On

Today, the celebration of Songs in the Key of Life includes an additional gift. Stevie Wonder has released a new four song EP featuring previously unreleased recordings from the original album sessions. It is wonderful to know that fifty years later, there is still more music to discover from this remarkable creative period.

For me, though, the greatest gift of this anniversary is the opportunity to revisit the memories and people connected to the album. I think about my father and mother, our home on Radlett Avenue, the joy of growing up in Carson, and the music that accompanied those formative years.

I think about the little boy who listened to Stevie Wonder through the family stereo without realizing how deeply those songs would become woven into his life. I also think about the father who understood that music could teach us something about love, faith, and our responsibilities to one another.

Fifty years later, I am still learning from that example. As spin the album today, the learning continues and my gratitude for what my father taught me grows.

Perhaps that is one of the greatest gifts of music. It allows us to return to places and moments that continue to live within us. A familiar melody can reconnect us with the people who loved us, the lessons that shaped us, and the dreams that helped us become who we are today.

As I listen to “Songs in the Key of Life” on this anniversary, I am filled with gratitude for Stevie Wonder’s artistry and for the family that introduced me to his music. I am equally grateful for the lasting influence of my father’s example, which continues to guide my work as an educator, leader, and lifelong learner.

The album may be fifty years old, but its music continues to inspire new connections, memories, and possibilities. For this boy from Carson, California, the songs will always be connected to the life I have been fortunate enough to experience.

Thank you, Stevie Wonder, for the music. Thank you, Dad, for the lessons and the love.

The music plays on, and so does the love.

Check out more in the reel right below here:

Persist: Day 13 of Four Weeks to Rubber Soul

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Today is Day 13 of Four Weeks to Rubber Soul, and the word for today is Persist. I have to admit that I am feeling this word in a very real way right now because this series has been more emotionally challenging than I expected.

I have been showing up every day, writing blog posts, recording reels, sharing ideas, and inviting people into the conversation. I am grateful for every person who has commented, responded, or offered encouragement, but the overall response has been pretty quiet. I would be lying if I said that did not hurt. When you put something personal into the world, you hope someone will meet you there. You hope the work will spark a thought, a conversation, or some kind of connection.

There have been moments during this series when I have wondered why I am doing it. I have asked myself whether anyone really cares about these daily reflections on creativity and “Rubber Soul.” I have wondered whether I am simply talking into the silence. Those are uncomfortable questions, but I think they belong in a series about creativity because the creative life is not always filled with applause, encouragement, or visible signs that the work is reaching anyone.

One of the things I envy about The Beatles is that they had a band. They had people in the room who could hear an idea, challenge it, improve it, add something unexpected, or simply help carry the weight of the creative process. “Rubber Soul” was created through that kind of interaction. John could bring something to Paul. Paul could bring something to John. George and Ringo brought their own voices, ideas, musicianship, and perspectives into the room. They did not have to create in complete isolation.

I do not have that kind of band for this project, and I suspect many people who are creating something meaningful do not have one either. Creativity can be an incredibly solitary pursuit. There are days filled with loneliness, uncertainty, doubt, and silence. You make the thing, send it into the world, and sometimes hear almost nothing in return. You still have to decide whether you are willing to return to the work the next day.

That is where persistence becomes important. Persistence is not pretending that the silence does not hurt. It is not acting as though encouragement, collaboration, or connection do not matter. Those things matter deeply. Persistence is choosing to continue even when the response does not match the effort and even when you wish someone were sitting beside you helping you figure out the next chord.

“Rubber Soul” reminds me that meaningful creative work often develops because people stay with the idea. Songs changed. Lyrics evolved. Arrangements were shaped and reshaped. John Lennon’s early approach to “In My Life,” for example, began as a much more literal reflection on places from his Liverpool past before developing into something more universal and emotionally resonant. The song became something greater because the creative process continued.

Persistence does not always mean stubbornly holding onto the first version of an idea. Sometimes it means staying with the work long enough to discover what the idea is trying to become. Sometimes it means returning the next morning when yesterday felt disappointing. Sometimes it simply means making the next thing even though you are not sure anyone is waiting for it.

I am beginning to realize that this may be one of the reasons I need to keep doing “Four Weeks to Rubber Soul.” My hope is not simply to talk about an album I love. My hope is that these daily blogs and reels might reach someone else who is creating alone. Maybe there is a writer, artist, educator, musician, podcaster, leader, or dreamer out there who does not have a band either.

If that is you, I hope this series can offer a little companionship. I hope these daily reflections can remind you that somebody else understands what it feels like to keep creating through uncertainty. I hope I can be a kind of bandmate from a distance, someone reminding you to keep working the song, keep following the idea, and keep believing that the creative process itself has value.

I need that kind of bandmate, too.

Maybe that is part of what I am discovering through this project. Creativity may sometimes be solitary, but it does not have to leave us completely alone. We can encourage one another. We can notice the work. We can remind each other that the quiet seasons still count and that the work happening inside us may not always be visible through comments, likes, or shares.

I am going to persist. I am going to keep writing, recording, reflecting, and following this monthlong journey wherever it leads. I still hope more people join the conversation, and I am not going to pretend that the response does not matter to me. At the same time, I am learning that the work can still matter even when the room feels quiet.

Maybe someone out there needs a bandmate today. Maybe I do, too. Until we find one another, we can keep making the music and reminding each other that we are not creating entirely alone.

That is my question for Day 13: What helps you persist when creativity feels lonely? If you are creating something and the room feels quiet, I hope you will keep going. I will be over here trying to do the same. Know that I am pulling for you and that I believe in what you have to offer.

Keep creating. Keep listening. Keep following the song. Thanks for being in the band!

Check out today’s reel for more:

Begin Your Creativity Journey with The Beatles: Day 1 of Four Weeks to Rubber Soul

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A man with a beard and glasses holds up two copies of the album 'Rubber Soul' by The Beatles, standing in a room with a light background.

For Day 1 of my creativity series on The Beatles and their “Rubber Soul,” I share a quick video riff. In this video riff, I simply invite you to begin. All creativity has to start somewhere after the catalyst for inspiration. It may not be a monumental beginning, but it’s a start.

The first day of the “Rubber Soul” sessions began with two songs, “Run For Your Life” and “Norwegian Wood.” The former was later dismissed by its main author, John Lennon. “Norwegian Wood” is another story. This track sets the stage for the introspective angles evident in the final proudct of the completed “Rubber Soul.”

Today is serendipitous in that we get another sneak peek at the upcoming “Rubber Soul” Super Deluxe Edition with Take 2 of “Norwegian Wood.” It’s rough and raw and not quite the near the poetic elegance that final master reaches. In fact, the song is entitled “This Bird Has Flown.” This title is later hued from the Lennon-McCartney songwriting forest as “Norwegian Wood.”

Check it out here:

In case you missed it, here’s the Day 1 Reel that kicks off our “Four Weeks to Rubber Soul.” Please feel free to share in the comments what you creative pursuit are your beginning to today.

@smgaillard0

Day 1 of Four Weeks to Rubber Soul. Today’s word: BEGIN. The Beatles did not walk into the studio with Rubber Soul fully formed. They brought songs, fragments, influences, ideas, and a willingness to work. That is where creative work begins. Show up. Start. Trust the work. What are you making? FourWeeksToRubberSoul WhyTheBeatlesMatter TheBeatles RubberSoul Creativity

♬ original sound – @smgaillard – @smgaillard

Four Weeks to Rubber Soul

smgaillard Leadership, Leadership Riffs, The Beatles , , , , , , , , , , , ,

On September 14, I am starting a four week creative experiment and countdown inspired by one of my favorite albums and one of the most important records in popular music history. I am getting ready for the upcoming Super Deluxe Edition of Rubber Soul, arriving October 2, and I wanted to do more than simply count the days. I want to use that time to create.

The Beatles recorded Rubber Soul in roughly a month during the fall of 1965. That still amazes me. In that brief stretch of time, they created an album that included “Drive My Car,” “Norwegian Wood,” “Nowhere Man,” “Michelle,” “Girl,” “If I Needed Someone,” and “In My Life.” During that same period, they also recorded “Day Tripper” and “We Can Work It Out.” In a matter of weeks, they created a classic that would help change the direction of popular music.

Rubber Soul marked a turning point for The Beatles. The writing became deeper. The sound became broader. The studio became part of the creative process in new ways. The band was stretching beyond what had worked before and exploring what might come next.

The impact traveled far beyond The Beatles. Brian Wilson heard Rubber Soul and was inspired to create Pet Sounds. The album also influenced bands such as The Kinks and The Rolling Stones. Decades later, its legacy remains strong. Rubber Soul entered the Grammy Hall of Fame in 2000, and “Michelle” won the Grammy for Song of the Year. It continues to appear on lists of the most important albums ever recorded.

What stays with me most is the process. Four people walked into a studio with ideas, songs, curiosity, tension, trust, and a willingness to try something different. They worked with George Martin and the Abbey Road team. They collaborated, experimented, changed direction, and kept moving.

That process is the inspiration behind Four Weeks to Rubber Soul. For the next four weeks, I am going to focus on four creative moves: Begin, Collaborate, Experiment, and Finish. Begin is about giving an idea permission to exist before it is fully formed. Collaborate is about recognizing that our work can become stronger when we allow other voices, perspectives, and gifts into the process. Experiment is about following curiosity, trying something unfamiliar, and accepting that not everything has to work the first time. Finish is about carrying the work across the line and releasing it rather than keeping it trapped in our heads, notebooks, or hard drives.

I want to see what happens when I commit to those four moves for four focused weeks. Starting September 14, I will share something every day inspired by Rubber Soul and the creative process behind it as I count down to October 2. Some days it will be a reel. Some days it will be a blog post. There will also be special riffs on Why The Beatles Matter. The goal is not simply to talk about an album I love. The goal is to use the album as a catalyst for making something.

The question I will carry through these four weeks is simple: What can we create when we trust the process, work with intention, and keep moving forward?

The first reel drops September 14. Follow along, create something of your own, tag me, and use #FourWeeksToRubberSoul so we can encourage one another through the process.

Let’s see what four focused weeks can create.

Revisitings and Realizations When The Applause Ends

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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.

When The Crickets Hurt

Sometimes Healing Looks Like a Bicycle Ride

smgaillard Leadership, Leadership Riffs, Parenting , , ,

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

Helping People and Organizations Succeed

🎙 Resources, Podcasts & Blog: https://linktr.ee/smgaillard

🎤 Speaking, Coaching & Workshops: https://bit.ly/4vhd8T7

Connections Matter: Still Learning at the 200th Blog Post

smgaillard #JoyfulLeaders, AI, Education, Kindness, Leadership, Leadership Riffs, Music , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

This is my 200th blog post.

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.

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.

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.