mental-health

Finding My Sound Amidst the Silence and the Noise

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

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

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

I have felt adrift in that silence.

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

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

It has to come from within.

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

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

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

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

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

No band is going to come calling for me.

That realization is not defeat. It is clarity.

It is my cue to build something of my own.

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

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

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

It is holding joy and struggle in the same space.

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

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

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

I am still learning.

I am still searching.

I am still here.

There is a sound within me that is not finished.

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

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

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

Leadership does not work that way.

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

Too often we rush to the happy ending.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Failure sucks.

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

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

Leading while human requires that we acknowledge that pain.

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

Moments like those stay with you.

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

I wish there were a simple antidote.

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

Those seasons can feel incredibly lonely.

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

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

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

Leadership sometimes feels exactly like that moment.

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

Those lessons matter.

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

Failure still sucks.

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

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

That is the work.

That is the calling.

That is the gig.

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

Nostalgia, Warmth, & Joy from “The A’s, The B’s, & The Monkees”-A Father’s Recollection

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There are weeks when leadership feels heavy and the noise of the world presses in. This has been one of those weeks. In the quiet spaces between meetings and responsibilities, I have found myself missing my daughters.

They are adults now. They are building lives of their own with courage and independence. I am proud of the paths they are carving. I would not change a thing about the strong women they have become. And yet, there are moments when I would give anything to load them into the car again, roll down the windows, and belt out a song at the top of our lungs.

As an unabashed fan of all things music, I always claimed the role of radio commander. I took that responsibility seriously. I wanted them to have a well balanced musical education. That meant a steady dose of The Beatles, plenty of The Beach Boys, and the soul and heartbeat of Motown. It also meant that they had to experience the joyful and slightly mischievous sounds of The Monkees.

We would sing along to “Daydream Believer,” “I’m a Believer,” and “Listen to the Band.” We would lean into the deeper cuts too, songs like “The Girl I Knew Somewhere,” “Cuddly Toy,” and “The Door into Summer.” They would giggle when I sang off key. We would quote silly lines from episodes of The Monkees television show. There was no agenda in those moments. There was only music, laughter, and the feeling that the world was right where it needed to be.

Recently, I put on the compilation The A’s, The B’s, and The Monkees and something in me softened. The songs came back like waves of warmth. I could hear their younger voices in the back seat. I could feel the steering wheel in my hands. I could sense that simple joy of being together with an upbeat soundtrack and sunshine in the grooves.

This upcoming episode of Vinyl Riffs with Sean Gaillard is rooted in that space. It is about nostalgia, warmth, and joy. It is about how music holds memory in a way nothing else quite can. It is about how a collection of A sides and B sides can become the soundtrack of a family story.

I have started this podcast project as a vehicle to express my passion. Leadership requires outlets. It demands a place where we can exhale and create without measurement or evaluation. For me, Vinyl Riffs is that trapdoor for creativity. It aligns with who I am at my core. It reminds me that before I was a leader, I was a listener. Before I carried titles, I carried records.

When I spin this album, I am not just revisiting songs. I am revisiting a season of life filled with back seat harmonies and open road joy. I am reminded that the moments that matter most are often soundtracked by simple melodies and shared laughter.

The A’s, The B’s, and The Monkees will always trigger memories of my daughters. It will always resonate with nostalgia, warmth, and joy. As I press record for this episode, I am grateful that music still gives me a way to hold those moments close while cheering them on from where they are now.

The Leadership I Lived and The Human-Centered Leadership I Choose Now

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There is a place I often call Principal School. It is the imaginary training ground where we believe all the lessons of leadership will be handed to us before we ever step into the role. Over time, I have learned that some of the most important lessons are never taught there at all. They are learned the hard way, often quietly, and sometimes at great cost.

One of the biggest myths perpetuated in school leadership is that there is a single way to lead well. I bought into that myth for far too long. I watched other principals on social media and began to believe that if my style did not look like theirs, then I must not be good enough. I measured myself against highlight reels instead of my own values. That comparison and pressure sent me to the emergency room twice. It took a toll on my body, my mind, and my spirit.

Another lesson they do not teach you in Principal School is that leadership can slowly pull you away from the very relationships that sustain you. I regret not investing the time I once did in friendships. I regret choosing email replies and late night work over phone calls and shared meals. I felt the weight of that loss deeply over the last few years when the invitations stopped coming. I am grateful for the meaningful friendships I still have, even though many of them live far away. Today, I cherish every text message, every phone call, and every Zoom conversation because I know how easily those connections can fade when duty becomes all consuming.

I also regret the moments I missed with my wife and daughters. There were times when I chose the principalship over being fully present with them. That truth is hard to name, but it matters. You blink, and your children are grown and moving out of the house. You do not get that time back. Now, I cherish my family even more, and I hold our time together with greater care and intention than ever before.

For my physical and mental health, I made the decision to step away from the principalship. I returned to my assistant principal roots and found something I had lost along the way. I found myself again. I am happier, healthier, and more grounded. I have grown in my therapy work and remain deeply committed to it. That commitment has helped me reconnect with my core, my purpose, and my humanity. The version of leadership I was living was not aligned with who I am or how I want to live. In trying to be everything for everyone at school, I lost sight of who I needed to be for myself and for the people who love me.

Recently, in a conversation with Dr. Andrea Trudeau, a phrase stayed with me. We need to rescript the narrative. Human Centered Leadership is not widely accepted in some spaces, and I am fully aware of that. Still, I am determined to disrupt the conversation in a good way. Leadership does not have to cost you your health. It does not have to require the sacrifice of your family or your friendships. Human Centered Leadership is not only about how you serve others. It is also about how you care for yourself and how you show up for those who cherish you as a spouse, a parent, and a friend.

I learned these lessons the hard way. I do not want others to have to do the same. My purpose now is simple and deeply personal. If these words help one leader put their phone down and spend time with their child, then I have done my job. If they help one leader step away from email long enough to call a friend, then I have done my job. If they help one person avoid being rushed to the hospital from the schoolhouse like I was, then I have done my job.

This post will not go viral. It will not collect metrics or applause. That is not the point. Leadership does not have to be lonely. Leadership does not have to break you. You can lead with love. You can protect your humanity. You can serve others well without losing yourself along the way.

This reflection is not the end of the conversation for me. It is the beginning of a deeper commitment to naming what matters and creating space for a more human way to lead. One of the ways I am continuing this work is through a new podcast series I am co- hosting with Dr. Sonia Matthew called Leading While Human.

Our first episode drops on February 1 and features a powerful conversation with Dr. Rachel Edoho-Eket. Throughout February, we will release a new episode every Sunday with guests including Lauren Kaufman, Dr. Donya Ball, and Principal Kafele. Each voice brings wisdom, honesty, and lived experience to the question of what it truly means to lead while human.

Leading While Human will be a quarterly podcast. Each series will feature four guests and four conversations designed to slow us down, ground us, and remind us that leadership does not have to cost us our health, our relationships, or our humanity.

I am grateful for the opportunity to learn alongside these voices and to invite others into this space. Stay tuned for what comes next as we continue to rescript the narrative on leadership together, one human centered conversation at a time.

Still Spinning Toward What Matters

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I keep returning to the same conviction lately. Leadership is not supposed to cost us our humanity.

That belief feels more urgent now than ever. Human centered leadership is not a slogan or a presentation slide. It is a way of being that honors dignity, presence, and care. It resists the temptation to reduce people to metrics, optics, or short term performance. It recognizes the unseen weight others carry and chooses compassion anyway.

This season has tested me in ways I did not anticipate. The pressure to produce test scores has felt relentless and narrow. Health scares forced me to stop and confront my own limits without avoidance. Failure has spoken loudly at times and left me questioning my impact and my place. There were moments when leadership felt less like calling and more like endurance.

Over time, I have begun to see that failure does not always signal an ending. Sometimes it offers an invitation.

Stepping away from a role I once loved because my health required it was hard. That decision still aches occasionally, but I know that I am a better person for my family. At the same time, it created space for a new beginning. I could not see it at first. It has helped me realize I was not a failure in that gig. I was holding on too tightly to the demands of the gig that I could not see straight. I experienced another new beginning. I reached out to start a book study in my current gig. Unfortunately, no one joined. That disappointment lingered, yet the act of reaching out still mattered. My account on X was hacked and ultimately deactivated. What initially felt like loss became an unexpected redirection toward platforms where connection feels more personal and more grounded.

This season reminds me often of Paul McCartney in the immediate aftermath of The Beatles’ breakup.

McCartney did not emerge from that moment with certainty or acclaim. His first solo album, “McCartney,” was raw, homemade, and introspective. Critics dismissed it as unfinished and small. What they missed was the deeper truth. McCartney was not chasing relevance. He was healing. He was rebuilding quietly. He was making music not for applause, but for survival and clarity.

That period was not a collapse. It was a recalibration.

That analogy resonates deeply with me right now. I am not trying to recreate a past version of myself or chase a louder stage. I am learning how to rebuild in a way that is sustainable, honest, and aligned with who I am becoming. The work has become quieter, but it has also become truer.

That sense of recalibration followed me recently while watching “CBS Sunday Morning.” A segment on an upcoming book by Dr. Ezekiel Emanuel titled Eat More Ice Cream stayed with me, particularly his advice for 2026. He spoke about the importance of developing social relationships for well being and longevity. That message landed deeply. I know I need to invest more intentionally in connection. I know there may be times when invitations do not come. That possibility still stings. The commitment to reaching out remains because isolation is not sustainable for any of us. I didn’t get any takers on that book study I mentioned. But I did take a giant step to reach out to others, and that is o.k.

Leadership can be lonely. I want to name that for anyone who feels unseen or alienated right now. I have been there. I still visit that place at times. Reaching out can feel vulnerable and risky, yet it remains essential. No one should feel invisible while carrying responsibility for others.

I was reminded again of what human centered leadership looks like through my three adult daughters. Watching them lead with empathy, courage, and quiet awareness in different capacities affirmed this kind of leadership. It shows what leadership looks like when it is lived rather than announced. That moment grounded me. It also reinforced my belief that the future deserves better models than the ones we often elevate today.

There is still an ache present in my life on occasion. Gratitude and struggle exist side by side. I remain deeply thankful for the steady support of my wife and for the ongoing work of therapy. Healing continues to teach me patience, humility, and honesty. Leadership demands the same posture.

Frank Sinatra’s “Cycles” has been playing often in my space lately. The message of that particular song feels fitting. Life moves in seasons. Endings and beginnings overlap more than we like to admit. Growth rarely arrives without discomfort. As leaders, it is important for us to strive for that constant path towards growth. 

As I continue writing my upcoming second book, Leadership Riffs, clarity keeps emerging as wrestle with the ideas shared here. This work is not about spotlighting me. It is about amplifying others. I want my platforms to honor educators and leaders who show up quietly, consistently, and with courage. I want to praise those doing the real work of human-centered leadership. I also want to gently drown out the noise of performative leadership. This noise is loud, fleeting, and hollow.

There is no One Word guiding me this year. There is no formal New Year’s Resolution.

There is simply a commitment.

A commitment to purpose. A commitment to humanity. A commitment to reaching out even when the response is uncertain. A commitment to acknowledging and celebrating those who lead with sincerity, care, and belonging.

That is where I am right now. Still spinning. Still rebuilding. Still choosing what matters.

Rediscovering the Heart of Leadership: A Call for a Human Centered Renaissance

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The other day, I had the privilege of speaking with a former superintendent from the early days of my principalship in Winston-Salem. It was one of those conversations that stays with you long after it ends. I felt deeply grateful for her wisdom, for the lessons she shared years ago, and for the way she continues to lead with humility and care.

At one point, our conversation turned to belonging. We did not speak of it as a buzzword or a program. We spoke of it as a fundamental human need in schools and in leadership. That moment mattered. It affirmed something that has been awakening in me over the past year and a half, a journey that began after my heart episode and has been deepened through therapy, reflection, and honest reckoning with myself. That conversation did not begin this journey, but it reignited it. It reminded me that leadership, at its best, is rooted in humanity.

That conversation also made something painfully clear.

The leadership we are currently celebrating in too many spaces is missing the mark.

Many systems have become overly reliant on noise, metrics, programs, and performance. Visibility is often mistaken for value. Activity is often mistaken for impact. Standing on tables, creating a staged video, or chasing what is trending is frequently confused with leadership. In the process, we are losing sight of what actually sustains schools and the people inside them.

A line from Dr. Donya Ball has been echoing in my mind ever since that conversation: “One of the biggest leadership turn offs is the leader who chases public recognition instead of private excellence.”

That distinction matters now more than ever.

Private excellence is where real leadership lives. It lives in quiet conversations. It lives in trust built over time. It lives in making people feel seen, heard, and valued when no one is watching. That is where belonging is cultivated, not performed. I am grateful for the inspiring words and thought partnership of Dr. Donya Ball. She is definitely a worthwhile addition to any Professional Learning Network.

Greater care is also required in choosing the voices we amplify. Many voices offer quick solutions and so-called fixes to deeply complex problems of practice. Some of those voices have not been in a classroom or schoolhouse doing the work in years. Others sell packaged answers designed more for self promotion than service. Discernment matters, because what we consume shapes what we believe leadership is supposed to look like.

There are sincere voices doing this work with integrity. These are leaders who stay close to schools, who listen more than they sell, and who center belonging over branding. That sincerity feels harder to find than it once was, which makes intentional discernment even more important.

The voices worth seeking are those that foster belonging, courage, and empowerment. They honor the complexity of schools. They understand that innovation does not come in a package and that transformation cannot be rushed.

This moment calls for a return to something more human. It calls for leadership that is analog in spirit and rooted in connection rather than consumption.

I often think about The Beatles performing Hey Jude on the David Frost Show in 1968. As the song reached its closing chorus, the band invited a diverse group of audience members to gather around them. Everyone sang together. There was no hierarchy in that moment and no spotlight chasing. There was shared humanity in action. Everyone had a place in the song.

That image offers a powerful metaphor for the leadership we need now.

Belonging is not an accessory to leadership. Belonging is the entry point. It is the foundation that allows people to take risks, grow, and contribute their gifts. My father used to say, “Everybody starts, everybody plays.” That belief has never felt more urgent.

Schools are facing real challenges. Budgets are shrinking. Demands are increasing. Pipelines into teaching and leadership are fragile. Burnout is widespread and cannot be resolved through another initiative or an unfunded mandate. This is not the moment to double down on outdated leadership playbooks.

There is still reason for hope. Educators continue to make a profound difference in the lives of others. This moment invites leaders to pause and reflect. It encourages them to reimagine how school communities are served in ways that are sustainable, affirming, and deeply human. We need to change the conversation on what it means to lead in schools. We must invite everyone to the table for this much-needed crucial conversation.

A few places offer meaningful starting points:

-Leaders can create intentional space for reflection in daily practice. They should treat it as a priority rather than an add on.
-Leaders can commit to real conversations that center around listening and learning.
-Leaders can commit to building belonging first, knowing everything else grows from that foundation.

School leadership is overdue for a renaissance. That renaissance must be rooted in presence, humility, and courage. When leaders dare to lead from the heart and make belonging the work, leadership can once again be reclaimed as a human act rather than a spectacle.

Author’s Note

This piece was written as an invitation rather than an indictment. It reflects a personal and professional awakening shaped by lived experience, reflection, and honest conversations about what leadership demands in this moment. The hope is that it encourages thoughtful pause, renewed discernment, and a recommitment to leadership grounded in humanity.

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 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.