Writing

Twin Tassels, One Heart: A Reflection on Graduation and What Truly Matters

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This post is dedicated to my true Fab Four: Deb, Maddie, Emily, & Rachel.

This past weekend, our family was called to divide and conquer. A moment we had both dreamed of and quietly feared had finally arrived: our twin daughters were graduating from college—at two different universities, with ceremonies only an hour apart.

That scheduling twist, which had loomed as a distant possibility, finally became reality. But in true fashion, our daughters made the call for us. They knew the challenge of being in two places at once, and they handled it with grace, maturity, and love. One twin would be celebrated in Boone, the other in Charlotte. My wife, Deborah, attended Emily’s ceremony, while I went to Rachel’s.

It wasn’t easy. We wanted so badly to be in the same place, to celebrate both daughters together as a complete family. But our hearts remained united, even across the miles.

As I sat in the Convocation Center at Appalachian State University, surrounded by the joyful noise of other families, I found myself scanning the sea of black caps and gowns. I was determined to catch a glimpse of Rachel. Our oldest daughter, Maddie, who had just completed her second year of law school, finally spotted her and pointed excitedly.

And then—there she was.

Waving. Smiling. Radiant in her graduation regalia.

For a moment, time folded in on itself. Her wave transported me to another milestone—the day of Rachel’s First Communion. That same smile, that same sparkle in her eye. She had looked across the church, found me in the crowd, and sent me a quiet wave. I had waved back, with the same lump in my throat that returned to me all these years later.

But something else happened, too. In Rachel’s smile, I also saw Emily’s. Her twin’s light and laughter seemed to echo in that moment. It was as if both were standing there in front of me, even though Emily was an hour away in Charlotte. I felt a powerful closeness to both daughters, woven together in that one unforgettable glance.

That’s the thing about being a parent. These moments hit you like a thunderclap. They echo from the past and resonate into the future. And suddenly, you realize the most important title you’ll ever hold isn’t “Principal” or “Author” or anything in your email signature. It’s simply “Dad.”

I am so proud of all three of my daughters—Maddie, Emily, and Rachel. They are bright, strong, kind, and wise. They are charting their own paths as young adults, and watching them step into their lives fills me with awe. I’m even more grateful for my wife, Deborah, whose quiet strength and boundless love have held the center of our family together through every season of growth.

Now, with the nest officially empty, I find myself reflecting—not with sadness, but with gratitude. The house may be quieter, but my heart is louder than ever with pride and love.

What Matters Most

It’s easy to get lost in the deadlines, testing windows, evaluations, checklists, and calendar invites. But in the rush of it all, don’t lose sight of what matters most—your people. Your family. Your loved ones.

I’ve made mistakes. I’ve put the job first far too many times. I’ve been the principal who stared at the calendar and missed moments that I can’t get back. And I’m still learning.

John Lennon said it best in “Beautiful Boy (Darling Boy),” a song he wrote for his five-year-old son, Sean. It appears on Double Fantasy, the final album Lennon released in his lifetime, just weeks before he was so senselessly killed by gunfire at the age of 40.

In that song, Lennon offers this lyric that has never left me:

“Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”

It’s more than a line—it’s a truth that rings louder the older we get, especially when the nest starts to empty and the calendar continues to fill.

So, as the year closes and you check off your last task, I offer a few humble reminders:

Action Steps for Leaders to Thrive in Life and Work

1. Calendar Your Family First
Put family time on the calendar with the same importance as meetings or walkthroughs. Block it out. Protect it.

2. Celebrate Milestones—Big and Small
A graduation, a recital, a family dinner. These are not interruptions. They are the point.

3. Let Your Team In
Model balance for your team. Share your family moments. Celebrate theirs. Normalize stepping away to be present.

4. Unplug With Purpose
Turn off the notifications. Leave the laptop in the bag. Watch the game, take the walk, enjoy the silence.

5. Reflect Often
Journal. Take a quiet moment in the car. Play a favorite song or album. Remind yourself why you do what you do—and for whom.

The nest may be empty, but the heart stays full. And at the end of the day, love is the legacy that lasts far beyond our leadership roles.

So here’s to what matters. Here’s to waving daughters, twin smiles, and a family that found a way to be in two places at once—with love as the through line.

Shadows of Future Potential: In Appreciation for Teachers

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In an old comic book from my childhood, there’s a powerful image that has always stayed with me. It was an issue of Detective Comics that told the origin story of Batman. A young Bruce Wayne walks into Wayne Manor, ready to begin his hero’s journey. As he enters, his shadow stretches behind him—not as a boy, but as the full-formed silhouette of Batman. It was a simple panel, but it carried a profound truth: even in our earliest steps, the shadows of our future potential are already taking shape.

This image made me think about our calling as educators. Every day, we walk alongside students and teachers who are living their own origin stories. Some are just starting out, unsure of who they are or where they belong. Yet within them, we can glimpse the shadows of what they may become—leaders, artists, scientists, changemakers, or quiet heroes who make the world better in unseen ways.

This week is Teacher Appreciation Week, a moment to celebrate the educators who see those shadows before anyone else does. Teachers have a remarkable gift—a kind of superpower. They tune into the potential of their students and help them believe in it, even when the students can’t yet see it for themselves. Our teachers transform the impossible into the possible. They are not just instructors; they are cultivators of hope.

As school leaders, we are called to be architects of that hope. Our job is to build cultures where teachers are empowered to do their best work—where they can create the conditions for students to discover who they are meant to be.

I’ll never forget my fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. McMonagle. I was a new student, the only Black child in the class, adjusting to a new school in a new state. I felt lost—alienated, unsure, and afraid. But Mrs. McMonagle saw something in me that I couldn’t see in myself. She created a space where I felt seen and welcomed. She introduced me to the joy of writing, literature, and even encouraged my growing love for The Beatles. She pushed me, challenged me, and inspired me. I am forever grateful for the way she believed in me and gave me a sense of belonging.

Everyone carries the shadow of future potential. Teachers have a special sense for detecting those shadows and helping students realize the greatness within them. This week, and every week, let’s honor and celebrate that gift.

Here’s to the ones who chose to build trajectories of hope in our classrooms. Here’s to the ones who see the future before it arrives.

Somewhere in the Universe, Someone Believes in You Completely

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As I write this, I’m sitting with the weight of another school year nearing its close—reflective, grateful, and searching for meaning in the midst of it all.

I’ve been a principal for 16 years. I’ve poured myself into school after school, often the ones that needed the most care. I’ve stood on stages, been a finalist for NC Principal of the Year, written a book from my heart, and still—there are moments, like now, when I wonder if it’s all making a difference.

Maybe you’ve felt that too.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about The Beatles.
Specifically, August 29, 1966—their last public concert at Candlestick Park in San Francisco. They had reached a breaking point. They felt like they weren’t playing well.  Between public backlash over John Lennon’s remarks about The Beatles being more popular Jesus Christ and diplomatic fallout in the Philippines from unintentionally snubbing the President and First Lady there, the pressures became too much. So they did something radical—they stepped back. No farewell tour. No grand finale. Just a quiet pause.

Each band member took time to rediscover who they were beyond the noise. John went to Spain to film How I Won the War. Paul collaborated with George Martin on a film score. George immersed himself in sitar studies with Ravi Shankar in India. Ringo stayed home to be with his family.

Then, something beautiful happened.

They returned—not to the stage, but to the studio. And from that retreat came a wave of brilliance: Strawberry Fields Forever, Penny Lane, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.

All of it began with a pause. A reset. A reclaiming of identity. A spark of innovation that changed the face of Music.

As leaders, we may not have world tours or screaming fans, but we do know what it feels like to carry the weight of expectations and the constant drumbeat of demands. In that rhythm, we can forget to care for ourselves in the same way we care for others.

We all crave connection. We all crave belonging.
And while we work so hard to create that for our teams, our students, and our communities—we must also remember to create it for ourselves.

Take the walk.
Play the record.
Write what’s on your heart.
Give yourself the same grace you offer to everyone else.

It’s easy to fall into the comparison trap—scrolling through highlight reels, seeing the accolades, the applause, the polished smiles. I’ve been there too. But the truth is, none of that defines your worth or your purpose.

Your worth is in the quiet moment with a student who needed someone to believe in them.
It’s in the coaching conversation that sparked a teacher’s growth.
It’s in the way you show up—consistently, compassionately, courageously.

You may not always see the impact. But it’s there.

If you’re at a crossroads, unsure of what’s next, or simply longing to feel grounded again, let this be your reminder:

Somewhere in the universe, someone believes in you completely.

Not for your title.
Not for your credentials.
But for who you are. For how you lead with heart. For how you care, even when it’s hard.

You matter.

Your leadership matters.

Your impact matters, and it will continue to do so in ways seen and unseen.

The Loneliness of Leadership: A Heartfelt Reflection for School Leaders

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Typically, I don’t write blog posts back-to-back. I’ve kept to a steady rhythm of weekly writing since my heart episode last year. That ritual has become part of my healing—recommended by my therapist, yes, but also something I’ve come to cherish. Writing has broken through the fog of writer’s block that followed the release of The Pepper Effect. Through journaling and reflection, I’ve found my way back to words and meaning. I am even working on finishing up a proposal for a new book.

But this piece couldn’t wait.

I’ve been sitting with a question no one prepared me for in “Principal School”:
Why does leadership have to feel so lonely?

It’s a question that’s erupted into big feelings—enough to make me pause on other writing projects and sit with this one instead.

There’s a scene in Peter Jackson’s Get Back documentary that lingers with me. George has left the band. A meeting doesn’t go well. Paul and Ringo return to the studio, uncertain of what’s next. John is nowhere to be found. Paul, visibly shaken, says quietly, “And then there were two.” He stares off into the distance. His eyes well with tears. His voice trembles. You can feel the grief. The possibility that something beautiful and world-changing might be coming to an end.

Watching that moment recently, I didn’t just see it through the eyes of a Beatles fan—I saw it through the lens of a leader holding onto connection, trying not to lose grip.

I’ve been a principal for almost sixteen years. I’ve served in multiple schools, answered the call for turnaround, and poured myself into the gig. I’m grateful for a beautiful family—my wife and three amazing daughters. Their love is a constant light. And I do have a handful of trusted friends, most not nearby. But I’ve felt friendship fade over the years—some lost to distance, some to time, some to disillusionment.

This is the part they don’t tell you about leadership. That people may see your title before they see you. That the weight of tough decisions can sometimes isolate you. That you’ll have days where it feels like everyone is counting on you—and no one is standing with you.

I once thought the PLN (Professional Learning Network) would solve this. Twitter, Voxer groups, hashtags that I created like #CelebrateMonday and #TrendThePositive—those were my entry points to community. And for a while, they worked. I met incredible educators, interviewed inspirational guests for the Principal Liner Notes podcast, and even achieved my dream of becoming a published author.

But not all connections held. Some collaborations quietly ended. Some people I looked up to didn’t turn out to be who I thought they were. And yes, I’ve even had a book idea stolen.

Still, I’m thankful for the moments of light in those spaces—moments when a shoutout brightened someone’s Monday or a podcast guest became a kindred spirit. Yet, after the episode ended or the tweet was sent, the silence would sometimes creep in.

Loneliness doesn’t negate purpose. It doesn’t mean the work isn’t good. But it does mean we need to be mindful of our well-being and human need for belonging.

Recently, I’ve had the privilege of co-facilitating the ISTE-ASCD webinar series with Andrea Trudeau. We’ve explored what it means to create spaces of connection and belonging—especially for those in unique roles like principals and school librarians. These conversations have reminded me that belonging doesn’t just happen. It’s a practice. A choice. A rhythm to keep playing, even when the band seems scattered.

In her book The Let Them Theory, Mel Robbins has a powerful chapter on the quiet heartbreak of adult friendships. She describes how friendships shift from group experiences to individual efforts—and how easy it is to look around one day and realize your circle has vanished. Her advice? Reach out first. Be kind without expectation. Smile. Be curious. Give it time.

It’s advice I’ve tried to follow, even when it’s hard. Even when it’s lonely.

So what do we do with this?

We remember that our core matters. Our heart matters. And so does connection.

Here are a few ways I’m working to move through leadership loneliness—and maybe they’ll help you, too:

  • Savor family and those who know you beyond your title. The gig will wait—those moments with loved ones won’t. I am grateful daily for my wife and our daughters and my family.
  • Reach out. A coffee, a text, a hallway chat. Don’t wait for someone else to go first.
  • Find “only ones” like you. Look for the school librarian, the instructional coach, the counselor—others who might be the only one in their role. Forge that bond.
  • Be vulnerable. Share your story. Someone else might need to hear it. I have been writing deeply about the experiences surrounding my heart episode. I am grateful that others have found it helpful for their journey.
  • Build something outside the gig. A book club. A podcast. A project that brings joy without the pressure.

You are not alone—even when it feels that way. Someone out there gets it. Someone is looking for connection, too.

Keep showing up. Keep being kind. Keep playing your part in this great, imperfect, meaningful symphony of leadership.

Postscript:
During those Get Back sessions, Paul’s loneliness was palpable. But the story didn’t end there. The band found their way back. The Beatles regrouped. And they gave us the Rooftop Concert—a final live performance filled with joy, grit, and unity.

It was their last time playing live together. And it was iconic.

A reminder that even in moments of disconnection, something timeless can still emerge.

The Power of a Check-In

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“So, what’s on your turntable?”

That question was a daily gift during my final year of teaching at Bedford High School. It came from my colleague and kindred spirit, Barry Low, our brilliant music teacher. Barry had a way of showing up with his warmth, wisdom, and that irresistible curiosity for all things music.

Back then, it was 2003. I had a small boombox perched in the corner of my English classroom. CDs were still king, and there was always one queued up and ready to play—usually something from The Beatles, Sinatra, or a little Bossa Nova to soundtrack the morning.

Barry would pop in between classes and ask that now-legendary question: “So, what’s on your turntable?”

Those moments felt like sacred mini-sessions—a spontaneous graduate seminar in music. We riffed on everything from Sergio Mendes to Frank Sinatra to Brazilian jazz. Barry always had a new artist to share, a bootleg CD to lend, or a story that made both of us laugh. My students waiting for class would often catch a glimpse of our camaraderie, and they were drawn in by his wit and warmth.

What Barry didn’t know at the time was how much I needed those check-ins. I was carrying some heavy emotional weight. I’d taken an ethical stand in my department and found myself increasingly isolated. There were days when the silence from others felt deafening. But Barry’s daily drop-ins cut through that fog. His kindness, his curiosity, his way of being present—it all reminded me that I wasn’t alone.

And isn’t that the thing? We never really know what someone is carrying when they walk through the doors of the schoolhouse. But one simple check-in can shift everything.

That’s the lesson Barry gave me—and it’s a lesson that’s stayed with me for over 20 years.

In my last blog post, I shared about being rushed to the hospital after a heart episode that occurred at school. I believe now more than ever in the power of a check-in. A few friends reached out after that moment. Their words, texts, phone calls, and prayers helped guide me back to healing. That experience reminded me again that compassion is not complicated. We just need to ask, “How are you really doing?” And mean it.

We live in an era where emojis and likes are often mistaken for connection. But real connection—life-giving connection—happens when we extend our arm, when we lean in, when we show up. As my good friend Max Pizarro says, “Arm extended.” That phrase carries a quiet power. It’s a posture of empathy. A stance of solidarity. An invitation to belong.

Lauren Kaufman recently wrote, “You don’t have to carry it all alone.” That line struck a deep chord. It reminded me of the invisible loads we all carry and the ways we can lighten each other’s burdens just by being present.

Belonging isn’t just a buzzword—it’s essential. Dr. Susie Wise puts it best in her book Design for Belonging: “Being accepted and invited to participate; being a part of something and having the opportunity to show up as yourself.”

That’s the heart of it. Create spaces where others can show up as themselves. Be the colleague who tunes into others. Be the leader who notices. Be the friend who checks in. Because that’s the gig—that’s the leadership jam that transforms classrooms, staff rooms, and lives.

We are the entry points for belonging. Let’s carry that with purpose and with rhythm.

So, what’s on your turntable today? Maybe it’s kindness. Maybe it’s courage. Maybe it’s simply showing up for someone. Whatever it is, press play and let it echo.

Further Reading:

🎧 Design for Belonging by Dr. Susie Wise — Purchase the book here

📝 Lauren Kaufman’s blog post, “Shine A Light, Share A Load” — Read it here

A Special Note of Gratitude on My Last Blog Post:

A special thanks to for the overwhelming response for my last blog post, “A Principal’s Rebirth: Finding Life, Love, & Leadership Again.” That post came from a deep place in my heart and I am humbled by the outreach many of you shared. I want my words to help others and this post serves a salve for others who are struggling. Please feel free to share that post linked HERE. Mental Health is so important and my hope is that this blog is a support for all who need it. I am here for you and I am glad that the world has you in it.

The Rooftop Moment: Embracing Creative Courage Amidst Doubt

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I’ve written and rewritten this blog post countless times in my mind. It has been weighing on my heart, especially after navigating a week filled with a few setbacks. Nothing catastrophic, but still moments of dejection that linger. One of those moments was particularly difficult: an idea I had for a collaborative book was taken in a new direction—without me.

As someone who values collaboration and the joy it brings, I’ve learned that I need to be more mindful of whom I choose to collaborate with. Seeing my work and ideas rebranded as someone else’s originality hurt deeply. It stung because the creative journey is already fraught with battles against Imposter Syndrome and anxiety. These emotions creep in especially when I venture into new creative territory: Will it be good enough? Will people understand what I’m trying to do? When someone else quickly disinvites you from a project and takes it solo, it’s a painful reminder of the delicate steps needed to protect your own creative vision.

Late last year, I thought I had cracked the code on a follow-up to my first book, The Pepper Effect. I had an outline, a vision, and an unshakable drive. But that momentum fizzled as life threw its challenges my way. Stress, high blood pressure, and self-doubt culminated in a health scare that landed me in the hospital. It was a wake-up call. With the support of my incredible wife, my family, my therapist, and my faith, I began to rebuild—both physically and emotionally. Part of that rebuilding process involved reconnecting with my writing. Blogging weekly became my creative anchor, a way to keep my writing muscles intact and grooving. Each blog post has been a step forward, a way to regain confidence and prepare myself for the marathon of writing another book.

The recent letdown with the collaborative book idea is a chapter I’m reframing not as failure, but as a lesson learned. It’s a reminder to trust my vision, something I wrote about extensively in The Pepper Effect. Sure, it stings to see accolades being given for an idea that I helped shape, but as Mel Robbins writes in The Let Them Theory, I can’t let other people’s actions control my journey. Let them take their version of the idea, I tell myself. Let me move forward with my vision. And as my therapist often reminds me, “…and that’s okay.”

When I need inspiration, I return to The Beatles. They are my creative North Star. My first book explored how their story is a template for creativity, collaboration, and innovation. My follow-up book, which I’m calling The Let It Be Effect, will continue in that vein, diving into the Get Back/Let It Be era. If you’ve followed me on social media, read my blogs, or listened to my podcasts, you’ve seen glimpses of this concept. The Let It Be Effect will build on the four tenets of The Pepper Effect (Believe in your vision, Believe in your masterpiece, Believe in your collaborators, Ignore the Naysayers), but it will also introduce something new: the idea of the Rooftop Moment.

The Rooftop Moment is inspired by the Beatles’ legendary final live performance in January 1969. During the recording of what would become the Let It Be album, the band faced immense challenges. They hadn’t performed live in three years, there were creative differences, and at one point, George Harrison even quit the band. Despite all this, they decided to perform—not in a grand concert hall, but on the rooftop of their Apple Corps headquarters in London. It was a cold January day, and the decision to perform wasn’t finalized until the last minute. According to director Michael Lindsay-Hogg, John Lennon’s decisive words were, “F— it—let’s go do it.”

And they did. The Beatles, joined by keyboardist Billy Preston, walked up to the rooftop and made history. That performance became their iconic Rooftop Concert, a moment of creative triumph amidst doubt and adversity. It was the final time they performed live together, and it remains a testament to the power of taking bold action despite uncertainty.

The Rooftop Moment is about just that: taking a dynamic leap of creative courage when the odds feel overwhelming. It’s about playing your gig, painting your masterpiece, or writing your book, even when doubt tries to hold you back. The Beatles ignored convention and their own self-doubts to create something unforgettable. I know I need to do the same with my follow-up book.

Let the critics and naysayers have their opinions. Let them. As for me, I’ll aim for my Rooftop Moment—that decisive act of putting my creativity into the world, no matter what. I’ll let the inspiration flow and trust that what I create will resonate with those who need it most. And that’s okay.

I hope this inspires you to find your own Rooftop Moment. Whether it’s a project you’ve been hesitant to start, a challenge you’re ready to face, or a dream you’ve been quietly nurturing, remember: the world is waiting for your masterpiece. Let it be.

Four Moves to Create Your Rooftop Moment:

  1. Lead with Vulnerability: Share your passion or a creative idea with your team or community, even if it feels risky. Vulnerability fosters connection and courage. For me, this was bringing my guitar to school and sharing a song I wrote based on our school’s core values during grade-level assemblies. It was risky, but it created a memorable and inspiring moment for my students and staff.
  2. Model Risk-Taking: Show your team that it’s okay to step outside their comfort zones by doing it yourself. Whether it’s trying a new teaching strategy or presenting an innovative idea, your example can inspire others to embrace risks.
  3. Create Space for Creativity: Provide opportunities for your staff and students to experiment and express their ideas. This could be through collaborative brainstorming sessions, innovation labs, or simply encouraging them to bring their unique talents to the table.
  4. Celebrate the Journey: Acknowledge the effort and courage it takes to create something new, even if the outcome isn’t perfect. Recognizing progress builds momentum and reinforces the value of the creative process.

Sometimes you have to aim for what I call that Rooftop Moment—that moment where you take a move for dynamic creative action amidst overwhelming odds and you simply play your gig, paint your masterpiece, write your book. The Beatles ignored convention and their own self-doubts and applied the Let Them theory in their own way. I know I have to do the same in writing my book follow-up because I know I have another book in me and that’s ok.

Playing to Empty Rooms: A Lesson in Perseverance

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As I write this, the early morning hours find me awake, wrestling with insomnia. It’s around 3:00 a.m., and in the quiet solitude, I decide to revisit this blog. Against my better judgment, I check the stats on a recent post. I know the adage, “Comparison is the thief of joy,” but still, I fall into the trap.

The numbers aren’t encouraging. They stir up a flood of past memories—times when my efforts seemed to fall flat. The book giveaway that garnered no participation. The speaking engagement with an empty room. The book study I excitedly promoted, only to find no one signed up.

I have played to empty rooms. It’s a gut-wrenching experience. You pour your heart into your work, stepping vulnerably onto a stage without a net, only to be met with silence. It feels like validation of your worst fear: that your voice doesn’t matter. That your efforts aren’t enough. The doubt can spiral quickly, pulling you into an abyss that’s hard to climb out of.

I find myself wondering about the lack of engagement with my writing. I tag others and hear no response. I try to support others when tagged, yet often feel like I’m shouting into the void when I press Publish.

Before I sink too deep into this whirlpool of self-doubt, I pause and take a cue from The Reset Mindset by Penny Zenker, a book that has been a lifeline for me recently. The concept of resetting resonates deeply. It’s about an intentional pause—a mindful shift in perspective to open the door to new possibilities. Resetting means revisiting your core purpose and recalibrating your moves with intention.

So here, in this moment of doubt, I reset.

Why do I write? It’s not for stats, clicks, or reposts. It’s for connection. Writing is my bridge—to myself, to others, and to meaning. It’s a way to foster belonging, to reflect, and to find resonance with others navigating the lonely and challenging paths of leadership.

When I embrace this reset mindset, I remember: this moment of doubt is just that—a moment. It doesn’t define me or my work. My writing is not about chasing external validation; it’s about helping others seek meaning in their own leadership journeys. It’s about creating space for reflection and connection.

I remind myself of the moments that truly matter: the time a struggling reader reached out with gratitude after finding solace in my book. The fulfillment of a lifelong dream in publishing a book, The Pepper Effect. The joy of being invited to speak at upcoming conferences like FETC and the North Carolina Middle School Matters Conference. These are the moments that validate my voice and purpose.

And then, as I often do, I think of The Beatles.

In December 1961, before Beatlemania, before sold-out arenas and screaming fans, The Beatles played a gig at the Palais Ballroom in Aldershot. A booking error left the show poorly promoted, and only 18 people attended. Imagine it: the band that would change the world, performing in near obscurity.

But they didn’t let it break them. They played on, laughing and joking through the set, treating it as an opportunity rather than a failure. That moment was just one small chapter in their story—a necessary step on the path to greatness.

Failures happen. We stumble. We fall. And yet, like The Beatles, we get back up and keep playing.

As I stand in my own empty room—whether as a writer or a leader—I hold fast to my purpose. We all must. The value of our voice, our vision, isn’t determined by the size of the audience. It’s found in the connection with that one reader, that one listener, that one colleague who sees and understands your purpose.

When you play to empty rooms, remember: it’s not the end. It’s a pit stop—a chance to hone your craft, to reset, and to move forward.

Someone out there needs your voice. Someone out there is better because of your vision. Take heart in the small moments of connection and press on.

Each moment—success or setback—is a step forward in this journey of leadership and perseverance. Let’s keep playing.

Garden Party Lessons: Writing, Reflection, and Finding Your Voice

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Pressing Publish

There, I had done it. I clicked the “Publish” button on my blog post draft. I could almost hear the applause in the background. The feeling of accomplishment in completing a piece of writing is a rush that emanates with satisfaction. I am not a mountain climber, but I do feel like I am perched proudly atop Mt. Everest. Writing has a grind similar to a hard workout, and once completed, there’s an exhilarating sense of achievement, a triumph over the doubts that come with sharing your ideas with the world.

I write for many reasons. First and foremost, I simply love it. I love the process and the connection it fosters with others. Leadership can be a lonely endeavor, and writing for me is a gateway to individual reflection, propelling me toward deeper connections. I want my words to resonate with kindred spirits. It can be challenging for leaders like me to find such connections, so I strive to maintain outreach, always seeking opportunities for connection, collaboration, and growth.

Lately, that connection through content creation has slowed due to a recent health scare. As a result, my nerve endings are a little more sensitive. However, I am back to a good place with my health and am channeling my reflections from that time into my content creation.

I hope that my gradual return to content creation will be welcomed with open arms by those who have followed me. I envisioned being victoriously held aloft by others in my professional learning network.

Well, none of those daydreams became realities. Consequently, I found myself in a brief space of doubt. Imposter Syndrome reared its ugly head and invited me to dance. I entertained the idea of taking down my content, feeling as though my blog posts and podcasts were adrift in an echo chamber of unacceptance. I believed my words had value and meaning, but the lack of likes and retweets made me feel less valuable as a writer and podcaster. I fell into the comparison trap, measuring my worth based on social media metrics.

This wasn’t the first time I had tasted this despair. Since my health scare, I have been feeling things more deeply. I was ready to fade into the shadows. Then, I got a timely reminder from a song and my favorite human.

Two Important Questions

My wife, Deborah, always reads me at the right time. She saw something I had posted hinting that I was going to withdraw from creating content. Deb simply asked me two questions:

“Why do you write?”
“Who’s your audience?”

My response was that I write to express myself and connect with others. As for my audience, there is no specific target because I write primarily for myself. Now, I am simplifying a complex conversation for the purposes of this blog, but her questions really hit home. Essentially, it doesn’t matter who likes, retweets, or shares if my purpose in writing is for myself. If my words connect with others, then that’s a beautiful bonus for which I am honored and grateful. If they don’t, that’s okay because I am doing something to fill my soul.

Deb’s words carried me to thinking about that classic song by Rick Nelson, “Garden Party.” The song tells the true story of Nelson playing a 1950s Rock & Roll Revival Concert at Madison Square Garden circa 1971. Nelson had changed considerably since his heyday as a 1950s television and Rock idol. He showed up with long hair, bell bottoms, and a purple velvet shirt. His set included recent songs from The Rolling Stones and Bob Dylan. The audience did not take kindly to this new version of Rick Nelson, a far cry from the teenage idol they had grown up with. There were reports of Nelson being booed off the stage.

Regardless, Rick Nelson took the elements of this episode of failure and transformed it into a Top Ten hit in 1972. “Garden Party” became the signature song of Rick Nelson’s career. In the song, Nelson reflects on the lessons learned from the audience’s rejection and sums it up beautifully: “But, it’s alright now, I learned my lesson well/You can’t please everyone, so you got to please yourself.”

A timely connection for me and anyone struggling to find their footing in the space of content creation. I have to remember that writing is my outlet. If others gather meaning from it, then all the more reason to continue. It’s important to maintain the truth in our expression. Rick Nelson did not compromise his artistic principles, and neither should I. It’s important that I should continue to write from my heart and keep at the process. I simply enjoy it. Creating content in the written word and digital production is an essential outlet to do what I want to do.

Deb’s words of wisdom and the lyrics from “Garden Party” lifted me to a new level of confidence in my expression.

3 Moves for Content Creation Confidence

In the journey of content creation, maintaining confidence is crucial. Here are three steps to help you stay confident:

  1. Remember Your ‘Why’: Always keep in mind why you started creating content in the first place. Whether it’s to express yourself, connect with others, or simply because you love it, your reason is valid and important.
  2. Focus on Authenticity: Stay true to your voice and message. Authenticity resonates more deeply than chasing trends or likes. When you are genuine, your content will find its audience.
  3. Celebrate Small Wins: Acknowledge and celebrate each step of your journey, whether it’s finishing a draft, receiving positive feedback, or simply pressing ‘publish.’ These small victories build your confidence over time.

Your content matters because you matter. Embrace your unique voice and share it with the world, knowing that your words have the power to inspire, connect, and uplift others. Keep writing, keep sharing, and keep believing in yourself. I believe in you and the world needs your voice.