Writing

Why The World Is Brighter Because of My Daughters

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This past week marked National Daughters Day. It is a day when parents everywhere pause to celebrate their daughters in big and small ways with pictures, posts, and memories shared. Because of some recent health setbacks, I did not post anything on that day. What I was able to do was send my three daughters a quick text letting them know that I love them. Still, I could not let the moment pass without honoring them in a way that feels most authentic to me. Writing about them is the best way I know how.

When I wrote my book, The Pepper Effect, I described it as a mash up love letter to The Beatles and to education. John, Paul, George, and Ringo will always hold a special place in my heart, but the book itself is dedicated to my real Fab Four, which is Deb and our daughters Maddie, Emily, and Rachel. Being with them is better than any Beatles reunion as I have often said.

Just last week, we celebrated my mother’s 80th birthday, and all three of our daughters came home to be with her. To have us all gathered around the table was a gift I will never forget. They are older now, living on their own, pursuing advanced degrees, and shaping their lives with purpose. As Deb and I sat at dinner, I found myself quietly watching them laugh and talk together. I did not want to interrupt the moment. I just wanted to sit in the presence of their joy. In that silence, I felt immense pride. I am grateful beyond measure for the miracles God entrusted to us in being their parents.

Their presence is electric, life giving, and affirming. In those quiet moments, I whispered a prayer of thanks for the privilege of being their dad.

Our house is quieter now. I miss the days of Beatles Rock Band tournaments, playing Pretty Pretty Princess, and endless games fueled by imagination. I miss sitting on the sidelines of soccer games and applauding at dance recitals. I miss those treasured moments of reading aloud together at night. Every time Deb and I get to be with them now, it feels like a blessing we hold onto tightly. I know the world needs their gifts, their voices, and their leadership. I know that I have to let them go as they walk into adulthood. Even as they share their light with others, I will always carry infinite love for them, with special space in my heart reserved for each one of them.

All three of my daughters have faced challenges that could have broken others. They have pushed through setbacks and disappointments with remarkable strength. They have endured misogyny and overcome it. They have experienced racism and ignorance, yet continue to stand tall as beautifully biracial women who embody resilience.

The greatest title I will ever hold is Dad. It is the most important name I have ever been called. Each of my daughters has shaped my heart and soul in ways words cannot fully capture. As I write this, tears are filling my eyes. I cry for how fast time has moved since they were born. I cry for the gratitude I have for the beautiful moments we have had together. I cry tears of pride and joy for the young women they are becoming. My tears are unapologetic as my infinite love is for my three beautiful daughters.

The world is a brighter, kinder, and better place because of Maddie, Emily, and Rachel. I love you all eternally. Proud Dad always.

Hold On to Your People: A Note for School Leaders (and Myself)

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They don’t tell you in principal school just how lonely this gig can be.

Sure, there’s training on instructional leadership, school law, strategic planning, and evaluation protocols. All important stuff. But no one pulls you aside and says, Hey, just so you know, this work will sometimes feel like you’re on an island. Even when you’re surrounded by people, it may feel like no one sees the real you.

This is something I’ve carried with me in all my years as a principal.

Maybe it’s the pace. Maybe it’s the weight of making sure every child is seen, every adult is supported, and every decision aligns with the mission. Or maybe it’s just that in the whirlwind of trying to show up for everyone else, I started to drift from those who know me best.

I’ve lost friends. Not from fights. Not from falling outs. Just from the slow fade that happens when the job becomes the only song you play. And I’m learning through therapy, reflection, and some long walks with myself that it doesn’t have to be that way.

This summer reminded me.

At the ISTE-ASCD Conference in San Antonio, I was surrounded by kindred spirits. Educators, innovators, and thought partners I’ve known for years through screens and conversations. We laughed. We shared. We learned together. But most importantly, I wasn’t “Principal Gaillard.” I was just Sean. The same Sean who loves vinyl records and The Beatles. The same Sean who shows up with a notepad full of scribbles and a heart full of ideas. That feeling of being seen and embraced without the title attached nourished something in me.

That same feeling showed up again in a different space at my cousin’s wedding in Michigan. No one was asking for school updates or strategic plans. I was simply a cousin. A brother. A nephew. A dad. A husband. I was known not because of what I do, but because of who I am. Nothing will beat the joyful moment of hitting the dance floor at the wedding repection with my wife and daughters.

Those moments sustained me. And they reminded me that who I am matters just as much as what I do. Maybe more.

So this post isn’t just a message for my fellow school leaders as we enter another school year. It’s a note to myself.

Don’t lose your people.

The ones who love you for your corny jokes. The ones who know your favorite song. The ones who don’t care about your school data but care deeply about your heart.

Leadership doesn’t have to be lonely. But we have to choose connection on purpose. That’s the work I’m trying to do. And if it helps, here are four small, doable moves I’m committing to this year. Maybe they’ll work for you too.

4 Moves to Stay Connected (That Even a Busy School Leader Can Do):

1. Send one text a week to a friend.
Not a long update. Just a quick check-in. Thinking of you. Hope you’re good. It takes less than a minute but can mean everything.

2. Put a standing “non-school” date on your calendar.
Maybe it’s coffee with a college friend once a month. Maybe it’s a walk with your partner every Thursday evening. Block the time like it’s a meeting. Because it is a meeting with the best parts of yourself.

3. Say “yes” to one invite.
Even when you’re tired. Even when the to-do list is yelling. If a friend invites you to dinner, a concert, a call—say yes. One yes can reconnect you to who you are outside of the principal’s office.

4. Name your people.
Make a list of 3 to 5 folks who know you beyond the job. Tape it to your desk. These are your people. When the days get heavy, look at those names. Then call one. Or just remember their laughter. That’s your reset button.

As this new school year begins, don’t forget the people who walk with you outside of the school walls. They’re the ones who keep your heart steady. They’re the ones who remind you that being just you is more than enough.

I’m holding onto my people this year.

Hold onto yours.

A Mindset for Masterpiece Leadership

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What if we lived like the masterpiece was already within us?

Not something to chase.
Not something to prove.
But something to uncover: one brushstroke, one note, one word, one choice at a time.

Every student.
Every educator.
Every human.

Brushstrokes of Belief

I think about the times I’ve compromised this mindset. When I was told I dreamed too big. When I was advised to play it safe. I think of the moments when I silenced the masterpiece inside me and gave in to the ease of the status quo. I remember the opportunities I allowed to slip by: ideas that could’ve blossomed into impact because I chose comfort over courage.

As leaders, we must stay grounded in our core. We must also recognize and nurture the masterpiece within the people we serve. Every child, every teacher, every staff member-each one carries the potential for something extraordinary. And it’s our role to invite them into that mindset by stewarding a culture of trust and belonging.

The Invitational Question

As the school year begins, it’s easy to get swept up in to-do lists, calendars, classroom setups, and kickoff meetings. We aim for a smooth start. We hope for a clean slate and an open horizon.

But what if we paused and started the year with one powerful, invitational question?-

How might we co-create a masterpiece in our schoolhouse: one that uplifts our students and each other?

Let that question be your catalyst.
Maybe it’s what your team needs to hear from you.
Maybe it’s what you need to hear from yourself.
Let it refuel your purpose. Let it restore your voice. Let it help you walk in your truth.

Rewriting the Lesson Plan Narrative

In The Pepper Effect, I write about believing in your school’s masterpiece. Just like The Beatles banded together to create Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, a masterpiece isn’t made in isolation—it’s built in collaboration and powered by belief.

At one school where I served as principal, we embraced this mindset in an unexpected place: lesson plans.

Too often, lesson plans become compliance checklists, stifling creativity and reducing the work of educators to mere documentation. Some principals use them as instruments of what Stephen M.R. Covey calls “Command and Control” leadership.

We flipped the script.

Instead of just turning in lesson plans, teachers would highlight a Masterpiece Moment: a singular experience they crafted with passion and intention. It might be a writing prompt, a science experiment, a read-aloud, or a student-led discussion. It didn’t have to be perfect: it had to be purposeful.

In faculty meetings, these moments were shared and celebrated. One teacher compared her lesson to Georgia O’Keeffe’s Sky Above Clouds. Another likened hers to a jazz solo-improvised yet deeply moving.

That small practice opened space for connection, creativity, and belonging. And it reminded us that teaching, like art, is about resonance not replication.

Beethoven’s Ninth and the Schoolhouse

When Beethoven composed his Ninth Symphony, he was completely deaf. Yet, out of silence, he created one of the most profound masterpieces in human history, a work that transcends time, language, and boundaries. The Ode to Joy finale still brings audiences to their feet in awe. It always brings me to tears.

What does that have to do with school leadership?

Everything.

Sometimes leadership feels like working through silence. This can occur when feedback is absent, progress feels slow, or inspiration wanes. And yet, like Beethoven, we still compose. We still create. We still believe. Because the masterpiece is not in the noise, it’s in the conviction, the resilience, and the courage to keep going.

Your school can be your Ode to Joy—crafted not out of perfection, but out of perseverance and purpose.

Four Moves to Practice Masterpiece Leadership All Year Long

1. Curate “Masterpiece Moments” Monthly
Set aside 5 minutes during staff meetings to highlight one standout teaching moment from a colleague. Let them share what made it special. Invite joy, not judgment.

2. Embed the Question Into Coaching & Walkthroughs
Use the question “What part of your instruction this week feels like a masterpiece?” as a reflection prompt in coaching conversations or feedback forms.

3. Display Masterpiece Boards
In a shared space, physically or virtually, let staff (and students!) contribute their own “masterpiece” moments throughout the year. This builds a gallery of impact, belonging, and belief.

4. Model It as a Leader
Share your own masterpiece moments as a principal—an email to families, a conversation with a student, a restored partnership. Let your staff see your brushstrokes, too.

The Masterpiece Within

A true masterpiece is timeless and universal. It’s not about accolades or applause; rather, it’s about meaning. It connects us to our humanity. It sparks new ideas. And in leadership, that’s our calling: to ignite that mindset in others.

Especially on the days filled with deadlines, meetings, emails, and decisions—remember:

You are the catalyst.
You carry the brush, the baton, the pen.

We all carry a masterpiece within us.
What if that belief became the prevailing mindset—in our schools, in our leadership, in our lives?

Let’s lead from that place.
Let’s teach from that place.
Let’s be that place.

Polishing Forks, Painting Ladders: Why Little Moments of Respect Matter

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A Collaborative Blog Post by Meghan Lawson & Sean Gaillard

Sean:

This post is a follow-up to our recent collaboration on Season 4 of The Bear. Meghan Lawson and I had such a great time thought-partnering and exploring leadership through the lens of this compelling show that we knew we had to keep the conversation going. When a story grabs your heart and your mind in equal measure, you follow it. For us, The Bear does just that.

We both love this show. We find ourselves returning to its characters, their struggles, their growth, and the environments they navigate because there are so many leadership lessons embedded in their journeys. These are not neat, polished takeaways. These are messy, raw, and very real moments that mirror the work we do in schools and systems every day.

One of the most moving scenes from Season Two is found in Episode Seven, “Forks.” It’s a moment where Richie, played with heart and grit by recent Emmy nominee Ebon Moss-Bachrach, has just completed a transformative stage at a fine dining restaurant. He wanders into the kitchen, reflecting, observing, absorbing. There, he finds Chef Terry, portrayed with quiet power by Olivia Colman, delicately peeling mushrooms.

They exchange a short but unforgettable conversation.

Richie asks, “Why do you do this?”
Terry replies, “Respect.”

That single word hangs in the air—soft yet commanding. It lands like a truth bomb.

Richie follows up, “Time well spent. That’s what it’s all about?”
Terry responds, “Yeah, I think so.”

As she steps away, she shares a simple, affirming note: Carmy, Richie’s current boss, told her that Richie was good with people.

That moment is not loud. It is not filled with urgency or ego. It is filled with presence, affirmation, and intentionality. Those are the moments worth striving for as a leader.

I love those quiet moments when I’m walking the hallways and visiting classrooms in the school I serve. These are the quiet moments that reflect the glow of a child who feels that sense of belonging. It is the knowing glance from a teacher when I see them in action with a teachable moment. Those are the moments which sustain and carry me on the days when I may be bereft of energy or I have forgotten my leadership purpose.

You go in quest of those moments that echo your purpose as a leader and resonate in impact that ignites the good for others. That makes the whole gig worthwhile.

Over the years, school leadership has sometimes been mistaken for performance art—standing on tables, performing viral-worthy stunts, orchestrating social media optics. While there’s a place for fun, it should never be contrived. Leadership is not about applause. It’s about authenticity.

The “Forks” episode plays like a compelling work of art. It simmers and marinates with beautifully-wrought simplicity. And in that quiet simplicity, we’re reminded: respect isn’t loud. It’s intentional.

And there it is—one leadership lesson.

Meghan:

Sean has so beautifully captured this story, and I’m so glad he mentions it because it is indeed one of my favorite moments from the show.

My husband works in college basketball, and a while back, I wrote a blog post titled, Painting Ladders. It was about how I learned from him that every little detail matters, and none of us are above contributing to those little details.

There was a season when his team won their conference. We all know the tradition: players climb the ladder to cut down the net. That moment is symbolic, beautiful, and hard-earned.

But before the moment, there was the ladder.

The team’s ladder was yellow—not one of the school’s colors. My husband didn’t complain or delegate. He went out, bought navy paint, and stayed up until midnight painting it. No announcement. No credit. He just did it.

Because it mattered. Because of respect.

I try to carry that lesson with me into schools. No job is below me. No detail is too small. It’s about honoring the work and the people who do it. It’s about the culture we’re building—one choice at a time.

“Every second counts” is a phrase repeated throughout The Bear. It’s even emblazoned on the kitchen wall. But this scene reminds us: it doesn’t mean hustle until you break. It means something deeper. Every second is an opportunity to honor your work, your people, and the space you share.

Leadership isn’t just pushing for results. It’s about presence. Listening. Quietly showing someone they matter.

Terry is peeling mushrooms. Richie is paying attention. A few words are exchanged. A leader is affirmed. A purpose is clarified.

That is leadership.

I believe these kinds of moments shape culture. Hallway conversations. Check-ins after a tough day. The unseen prep done with care. The fork that gets polished when no one is watching.

I remember when I first became a building principal. I had dreams of grand gestures for staff, but I was serving over 700 students PK–5 with no assistant principal or counselor. The grand ideas gave way to meaningful ones: showing up in classrooms, learning kids’ names (first, last, and middle), greeting students at the door, cleaning fingernails, brushing hair, riding the bus.

That’s where the culture was built.

There are no small moments in a school.

So, here’s to peeling mushrooms. Here’s to painting ladders. Here’s to time well spent, quiet presence, and respect that shows up without a microphone.

Every second really does count.

Let’s keep leading like it matters. Because it does.

Four Actionable Leadership Moves:

  1. Lead with Presence, Not Performance
    Show up consistently, not for the spotlight, but for the people. Leadership is built in everyday interactions, not staged moments.
  2. Honor the Small Details
    From a clean classroom to a student’s confidence boost, the smallest touches reflect the greatest respect. Don’t underestimate their impact.
  3. Practice Intentional Affirmation
    Just like Terry affirmed Richie, leaders should look for genuine moments to recognize others. Quiet encouragement often speaks the loudest.
  4. Be Willing to Paint the Ladder
    Do the behind-the-scenes work. Fix the overlooked things. Whether anyone notices or not, that’s how you show respect for the team and the mission.

Let’s keep polishing forks and painting ladders. Leadership lives in the quiet corners.

The In-Between Moments: Finding the Groove of Connection at ISTE + ASCD

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I’m dancing.

The groove is on the move in San Antonio, and Marvin Gaye’s “Got To Give It Up” is pulling me into the aisle at the end of an unforgettable MainStage experience at the ISTE + ASCD Conference. DJ Catwalk is spinning the exit music. The room is clearing out after being inspired by the beautiful voices and stories of Sabba Quidwai, Scott Shigeoka, and Jason Reynolds. And there I am—dancing alone. No choreography. No cool moves. Just me, caught in the joy of the moment.

This was one of those in-between moments—the kind you don’t plan for but end up meaning the most. The kind that happens off-script, off-schedule, and sometimes even offbeat. It’s like a classroom teachable moment or when a band falls into an unexpected groove and something beautiful just… happens.

I hadn’t been to ISTE in six years. I had never been to an ASCD event. I have been a member of both organizations for years. But this first combined experience didn’t feel like two worlds crashing together—it felt like home. It reminded me of The Brady Bunch hitting its stride: unless you were paying attention to the lyrics or the first season, you forgot it was a blended family. It was seamless, like when the Brady kids became a singing group and belted out “It’s A Sunshine Day.”

There were many moments that filled my heart.

I was honored to be named an ISTE-ASCD 20 to Watch Award recipient. (Grateful for to meet Lauren Richardson!) It was humbling beyond words. I was also privileged to co-present with my friend and thought-partner, Dr. Andrea Trudeau, on the partnership between principals and librarians—a project that has grown from our year-long ISTE-ASCD Expert Webinar Series. That presentation was special, no doubt.

But the moments in between—those moments between sessions, in the aisles, on bookstore strolls, and even in hurried walks through the Expo Hall—are the ones that have stayed with me. Like meeting finally, Jacie Maslyk, an amazing author and expert on STEM and Literacy, was akin to meeting a member of The Beatles. Or even meeting Jen Rafferty, an inspiring voice and friend in my PLN, was so meaningful.

I had the joy of finally meeting my longtime friend and collaborator, Meghan Lawson, in person. Walking the bookstore with her, sharing sessions, and learning side-by-side filled my soul. We made sure to share learning and send love to our mutual friend Lauren Kaufman, whose presence was deeply missed. And it was incredible to reconnect with some of my North Carolina PLN band—Brian Whitson, Lindsey Sipe, and Ashley McBride. Seeing familiar faces from home made it all the more meaningful.

I’ll never forget the rush of moving through the Expo Hall with Andrea as we tried to find one of our longtime inspirations, Jennifer Gonzalez. We’ve admired her work through her Cult of Pedagogy podcast and blog for years. When we finally met, the moment turned into a conversation about music, vinyl, and what’s on our respective turntables. It felt like family.

I had the honor of seeing my mentor, Todd Whitaker, co-present with Steve Gruenert. They are the co-authors of School Culture Rewired, a book that sparked the beginning of #CelebrateMonday for me years ago. During their session, Todd spotted me from the audience and invited me to share a quick story from my seat. That was another in-between moment I won’t forget.

There were so many others. Seeing Danny Steele drop the mic in a session on instructional leadership. Sitting in awe during Suzanne Dailey’s powerful Turbo Talk on happiness. One line in particular stuck with me: “Instead of asking someone how their day was, ask them, ‘Tell me something good.’” That simple shift reframed how I want to connect with others—whether in the hallway, in PLCs, or with students at dismissal. Of course, the uplifting symphony of the words of Baruti Kafele during his session on his book, What Is My Value Instructionally to the Teachers I Supervise? resonated with me deeply.

And perhaps one of the most unexpected and humbling moments? During a roundtable discussion hosted by Educational Leadership magazine, someone referenced this very blog—Principal Liner Notes—as a resource. That meant more to me than I can express. It was one of those quiet nods that affirms you’re doing something that matters.

Bringing It Home: Six In-Between Moves for Meaningful Momentum

When a conference like this ends, it’s easy to slip into the post-event blues. But I choose to stay in the groove—to keep the connection and meaning alive in small but powerful ways. Here are six moves I’m bringing back to the schoolhouse:

MoveWhat to TryWhy It Matters
1. Share One TrackDon’t overwhelm: just share one idea or resource with your team.Simple focus leads to deeper conversation.
2. Ask Better QuestionsReplace “How was your day?” with “Tell me something good.”Invites joy, not just information.
3. Cue the TurntableAsk someone what’s on their playlist, book stack, or lesson plan.Sparks connection beyond the surface.
4. Micro-PD MomentsHost a 15-minute “conference spark” PD during planning or lunch.Small doses of big ideas go a long way.
5. Partner Up with PurposeTry a principal-librarian collaboration or cross-role project.Creativity thrives in unlikely pairings.
6. Keep the Groove GoingSchedule a reconnection call with someone you met at ISTE-ASCD.Keeps momentum rolling beyond the swag bag.

Final Riff

This conference reminded me that the work we do is about people. It’s about presence. It’s about staying in rhythm with the learners, teachers, mentors, and friends who help us write our leadership song.

To everyone I met, hugged, high-fived, or learned with in San Antonio: thank you. You filled my heart. You reminded me of the beauty in the in-between.

So keep asking what’s on someone’s turntable. Keep dancing in the aisle. And most of all—keep leading without limits. .

Learn More About ISTE + ASCD here:

–https://www.ascd.org/

–https://iste.org/

In the Key of Brian

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How Brian Wilson’s Music Taught Me About Leadership, Vulnerability, and the Courage to Keep Going

Devastated.

Brian Wilson is gone.

The news hit me hard today. Brian wasn’t just a musical genius. He was a spiritual guide, a quiet architect of harmony, and the voice behind songs that shaped my life. His music—those symphonies of soul, longing, and joy—have been my compass through the loud and quiet moments of living.

Just last week, I was basking in the joy of a surprise Father’s Day gift from my wife and daugthers: tickets to see The Beach Boys live. Brian had long since retired from performing, but his presence was felt. It always is. It lingers in the harmonies. It rises in the arrangements. It pulses in every chorus sung by a crowd of strangers suddenly made family by melody.

I was fortunate to see Brian perform live several times in the late 1990s and early 2000s during his remarkable comeback. It was more than a concert. It was a rebirth.

Brian’s music has accompanied the milestones of my life.

I remember pressing my ear to a clock radio 45 years ago, trying to catch every layered nuance of Good Vibrations. I didn’t understand the complexity of what I was hearing yet—but I felt it. I was entranced.

I remember watching a Beach Boys concert on HBO in the 1980s with my dad. He loved R&B and soul, and yet there we were—grooving, smiling, singing along to Fun, Fun, Fun like it was gospel.

I remember hearing the opening chords of California Girls in the delivery room as my twin daughters were being born. That mini-symphony played while new life entered the world, and in that moment, I felt the rush of peace. God was with us. Everything was going to be okay.

I remember not getting Pet Sounds, in its first when I first heard it in 1990. But I grew into it—and came to see it for what it is: the greatest album of all time. A masterpiece of heart, soul, and innovation.

I remember hearing Cabin Essence from a bootleg copy of SMiLE on vinyl in a record store. I looked around in stunned silence. A clerk caught my gaze and nodded as if to silently say, “We get it, don’t we?” No words. Just knowing.

I remember driving my oldest daughter home from daycare, both of us singing Heroes and Villains at the top of our lungs. Laughter and joy spilling through the car like sunshine.

But Brian Wilson didn’t just give us songs. He gave us strength.

Through Pet Sounds, he showed me that vulnerability isn’t weakness—it’s strength in its purest form.
Through SMiLE, he taught me that unfinished dreams can be resurrected with grace, imagination, and perseverance.
Through his life, he reminded us that the creative process is messy, sacred, and worth the fight.

Brian Wilson’s willingness to face his mental health struggles publicly—amidst a whirlwind of fame and pressure—changed how I view courage. He didn’t hide his pain. He didn’t pretend it wasn’t there. He just kept going. Kept writing. Kept harmonizing. That quiet, determined bravery became a guiding light for me.

Last year, when I experienced a heart episode that resulted in me being rushed to the hospital, I found myself in one of the most vulnerable seasons of my life. Alongside the physical recovery came emotional weight—mental health struggles I didn’t always know how to name. In that difficult stretch, I thought of Brian. I revisited his story. I played Pet Sounds and SMiLE. His music gave me permission to slow down, to feel, to heal. His example reminded me that we don’t have to be perfect to keep going—we just have to keep showing up, one note at a time.

Brian Wilson’s quote, “Music is God’s voice,” echoes eternally in my mind.

As a school leader, that idea centers me. It reminds me that learning is sacred. That harmony matters. That love, when set to rhythm, can move hearts and minds in ways nothing else can.

For those who’ve followed this blog or listened to the Principal Liner Notes podcast, you’ve heard me talk about Creative Courage. That’s Brian Wilson to the core. The courage to innovate. To feel deeply. To fail. To rise. To try again.

Today, I mourn. But I also give thanks.

I give thanks for the peace his songs brought me in a delivery room.
I give thanks for the laughter his melodies brought into my car.
I give thanks for the strength his life gave me when I needed it most.

Brian Wilson changed my life.

His harmonies still ring. His spirit still sings. And for those of us willing to listen, his legacy keeps leading us forward—in the key of empathy, in the tempo of grace.

Thank you, Brian.
You gave us harmony.
You gave us honesty.
You gave us your heart.

We’ll carry the melody from here.

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.