Thirty days. Thirty consecutive days of blogging and creating reels. What began as my Four Weeks to Rubber Soul creative challenge has become a rhythm that I want to continue.
There is something deeply satisfying about sitting down, gathering my thoughts, finding the words, and pressing publish. Writing has become a source of peace and meaning for me. It gives me an opportunity to reflect, create, and share a little piece of myself with the world.
Not every blog post will be a masterpiece. Not every idea will resonate or find an audience. I am learning to be at peace with that reality because the satisfaction comes from the act of creating and the courage to share it.
I may not blog every single day moving forward, and that is perfectly fine. What matters is keeping the rhythm alive and giving myself the space to write without turning something I love into another obligation.
There is another purpose behind this daily practice. Every post helps keep my writing muscles limber as I continue working toward finishing my book, Leadership Riffs. The more I write, the more I discover about my voice, my ideas, and the stories I still want to tell.
The Beatles found an extraordinary creative groove during the recording of Rubber Soul. My own little creative journey has reminded me how much joy comes from showing up and doing the work.
Thirty days later, I still want to keep going. There are more words to write, more ideas to explore, and more stories to share.
I am finding peace in the process, and I want to keep that groove going.
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 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!
Today’s word for Day 6 of Four Weeks to Rubber Soul is Listen.
One of the things I love about The Beatles is how much they listened. They absorbed what was happening around them. Folk music. Soul. Motown. Indian music. Bob Dylan. The Beach Boys. They were fans, students, competitors, and curious creators all at once.
They listened deeply, but they did not simply copy what they heard. They took those influences, filtered them through their own voices, and created something that still sounded unmistakably like The Beatles. You can hear that sense of curiosity and expansion throughout Rubber Soul.
That idea keeps coming back to me during this project.
If I ever have the chance to meet you in person, there is a good chance I will ask you one of my favorite questions:
What’s on your turntable?
Sometimes I mean that literally. I genuinely want to know what record you are spinning. The question also goes much deeper than music.
What are you reading? What are you listening to? What are you noticing? What ideas have your attention right now? What is feeding your work, your soul, and your passion?
For me, asking that question is an invitation to connect. I want to know what matters to you because I can learn from you. Your interests, ideas, and passions may help me see something differently. Listening becomes more than receiving information. It becomes an act of connection.
Creativity works that way, too.
We listen to the things that move us. We notice the work of other people. We absorb ideas, sounds, conversations, books, art, and experiences. Somewhere in all of that listening, something begins to stir within us. We take what inspired us and begin making something of our own.
That is part of what Four Weeks to Rubber Soul has become for me.
This is a daily creativity challenge. Every day, I am showing up with a word, recording a reel, and writing a blog post inspired by an album that continues to challenge and inspire me. Some days the ideas arrive easily. Other days I have to dig a little deeper. The point is to keep listening, noticing, creating, and showing up.
Rubber Soul has stayed on my turntable for years because it represents a courageous creative pivot. It reminds me what can happen when artists remain curious, listen widely, trust one another, and allow themselves to grow.
Plus, the music is pretty damn good.
My hope is that these daily riffs might do for someone else what Rubber Soul continues to do for me. Maybe a thought, a song, a question, or one small idea will encourage you to make something, try something, or return to something you have been putting aside.
So, here is today’s invitation:
What’s on your turntable?
What are you listening to, reading, noticing, or experiencing that is challenging you and inspiring your creativity?
The email arrived, and I will admit that it rocked me a little. I felt the disappointment immediately. Then perspective started to find its way into the room.
Sometimes I feel a little like Charlie Brown running toward that football. I know Lucy may pull it away. I run toward it anyway.
For a long time, moments like this would send me straight into my feelings. Imposter syndrome would start whispering. Comparison would creep in. I would begin wondering what someone else had that I did not. I would question whether my voice mattered, whether my work was good enough, or whether I had somehow missed my moment.
I have had conversations with companies and organizations about speaking, consulting, collaboration, and other possibilities. Some of those conversations have felt promising. Some have seemed like the beginning of something meaningful. Then nothing happens.
That can wear on you if you allow every unanswered email, closed door, or rejection to become a referendum on your worth.
I am learning not to do that anymore.
More and more, I am subscribing to a different path. I want to find the people and spaces where I know I matter. I want to bring my ideas, experience, creativity, leadership, and full humanity into rooms where those things are actually valued. I do not want to spend my energy convincing people to see something they have already decided not to see.
If an opportunity is not meant to be, I can accept that. If the energy around something does not resound with a genuine “Hell yes,” I am beginning to see that as information. It may simply be a sign to keep moving.
Rejection is one of the constants of being human. Change is another. Rejection is not a definitive statement about my value. It is not a verdict on my journey. It does not erase what I have accomplished, what I know, what I have survived, what I have created, or what I still have left to offer.
Sometimes rejection simply means that this particular opportunity was not mine. The people who say no do not deserve unlimited space in my mind. The organizations that cannot see my value do not get to define it.
That lesson sounds simple when I write it. Living it is harder. Some days still sting. Some emails still hurt. Some opportunities still make me wonder what might have been. I am learning that I can acknowledge those feelings without building a home inside them.
I can feel disappointed and still carry on. I can question myself for a moment and still return to what I know. I can watch Lucy pull the football away one more time and still get back up.
My responsibility is to keep creating, writing, speaking, building, and sharing the ideas that live inside me. I also have to remember that my life is bigger than the educational gig, the conference invitation, the speaking opportunity, the job title, or the approval of an organization.
Joy has to exist outside of those things. I find it in music. I find it in writing. I find it in conversations with people who see me. I find it in creating something that did not exist before. I find it in the people I love. I find it in those moments when I am completely myself and do not feel the need to shrink, explain, perform, or prove anything.
Those are the spaces I want more of in my life. Spaces where curiosity matters. Spaces where creativity is welcomed. Spaces where humanity comes before status. Spaces where my voice is valued. Spaces where I know I matter.
I did not get the speaking gig, and that is disappointing. It does not change the work I am called to do or the value of what I bring. There are still rooms I have not entered, people I have not met, and possibilities I cannot yet see. My job is to keep moving toward them while continuing to build a life rooted in joy, purpose, creativity, and the people and spaces that remind me who I am.
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.
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.
Last week, I experienced what it means to feel diminished.
I will not go into the details because this reflection is about something larger than one moment. The experience left me feeling invisible. I felt like I did not matter. I felt like my strengths and gifts were not needed or invested in. The weight of that feeling stayed with me long after the moment passed.
That experience became a catalyst for reflection.
I started thinking about the moments in my life when I have felt diminished on both a personal and professional level. I also thought about the times when I may have unintentionally contributed to someone else feeling that way. None of us are immune from causing harm when we fail to truly see each other.
The opposite of diminishment is mattering.
I recently found myself deeply moved by an episode of Lainie Rowell’s podcast, “Evolving with Gratitude,” featuring Jennifer Breheny Wallace, author of Mattering: The Secret to a Life of Deep Connection and Purpose, Their conversation explored the human need to feel valued not simply for achievement or output, but for who we are and what we uniquely bring into the world. ((Check out that pivotal episode here.)
That conversation stayed with me because it helped put language around something I had already been feeling deeply. The concept of mattering fueled my own deep dive into human-centered leadership. It helped me better understand why so many people are emotionally exhausted, disconnected, anxious, and overwhelmed right now.
Those numbers point toward something much deeper than engagement surveys or workplace morale. They point toward a growing crisis of human disconnection and invisibility.
Many people are not struggling because they lack talent, intelligence, work ethic, or resilience. Many are struggling because they no longer feel seen.
People are struggling right now because they do not feel seen. They feel valued for output, production, compliance, metrics, or whatever bottom line is driving the moment. Many people no longer feel valued for their humanity, creativity, presence, compassion, wisdom, or unique gifts. Over time, that kind of culture wears people down emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and physically.
I know this because I have lived it.
There was a season where the stress of carrying invisibility, anxiety, pressure, and emotional exhaustion landed me in the hospital twice. The nervous system keeps score when people carry the weight of feeling unseen for too long.
That realization has been sitting with me deeply lately.
When I think about the collaborative spaces that have brought me healing and renewal, I notice a common thread. My work with Sonia Matthew through “Leading While Human,” my conversations with Donya Ball on “Real Riffs,” and the gathering space we created through “The Disruption Table” alongside Marcel Schwantes have all centered around one truth: people want to feel seen, heard, valued, and connected.
Those collaborations have mattered to me more than I can fully express.
Each conversation became a reminder that leadership is not about performance alone. Leadership is about presence. It is about creating spaces where people can bring their full humanity into the room without fear of diminishment. Those conversations helped lessen my own sense of invisibility. They reminded me that my voice still mattered. They reminded me that I still had gifts worth sharing.
I believe many people are quietly carrying this same feeling right now.
Some are sitting in meetings feeling unseen. Some are showing up to workplaces where their gifts are overlooked. Some are leading teams while privately wondering if they matter at all. Some are exhausted from environments that celebrate output while neglecting the human beings producing it.
People do not need another gimmick, slogan, or leadership trend.
People need cultures of belonging.
My father used to say, “Everybody gets off the bench. Everybody plays.”
I carry those words with me more now than ever before.
Cultures of belonging are built when people are invited into the game. They are built when strengths are recognized. They are built when encouragement becomes intentional. They are built when someone chooses to pause long enough to truly see another human being.
We cannot wait for the perfect leader, perfect initiative, or perfect professional learning experience to create that kind of culture. We create it ourselves through everyday acts of listening, encouragement, trust, compassion, and belief in one another.
Everyone has a gift to share.
Sometimes the most important act of leadership is helping someone remember that their gift still matters.
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.
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.
