We found out during the pandemic that we would be having our second child in 2021. We were ecstatic. We had been trying to have another kid for a few years after our first son, Isaac, was born.

But I was also, like, really tired.

The oldest boy was 4 at that point. We were finally out of diapers and just leaving that phase where kids are completely obsessed with things that can cause them mortal danger. All the high spots, sharp edges, pools of water, rusty pieces of metal, crazy looking bugs…you know the deal.

I was 30 when we had Isaac.
I would be 35 when we had Ian.

One of the first thoughts I had after the initial excitement died down?
“I’m going to have to learn how to drink coffee.”

I always hated coffee. I hated the smell, the taste, everything.

I even remember trying a White Chocolate Mocha on a field trip senior year because my friend Patrick wanted to try one. As peer pressure goes, I must admit that’s pretty mild. That drink was the second grossest thing I’d ever tasted…right behind a raw tomato.

I hated that I hated coffee. I thought coffee drinkers were so cool! I’m pretty basic at heart, so the idea of going to a coffee shop, grabbing some java, and hanging out with a book or doing work on my laptop seemed like the pinnacle of existence to my millennial soul.

Ordering a hot chocolate from Starbucks just isn’t the same!

But I knew I had 9 months or so to train myself to like coffee if I wanted to take advantage of the caffeine boost when the little one arrived. And that’s exactly what I did.

I started by ordering the sweetest drink I could find on the Starbucks app. And then I went to Old Village Roaster and got an iced coffee that was more like a milkshake. I continued just like that until I eventually made it to a blonde vanilla latte. Just like that, something shifted. I liked it!

Today my go-to drink is a Vanilla Cold Brew with no cream. But I’m not terribly picky. I’m far from a true javaphile, but I do love treating myself to a good coffee in the morning. Now and then I’ll even bring a book.

This makes my millennial soul happy… and keeps it well caffeinated.

I don’t have the best hearing. Maybe it’s from all the high school years listening to my portable CD player with maxed-out volume or completely ignoring the almost daily “loud environment” warnings from my Apple Watch. Whatever the culprit, my ears don’t work quite as well as they used to.

Just this evening, a neighbor I don’t know well was walking down the road. “How are you today?” “Good, you?” “Living the dream, ya know?”

All pretty common stuff.

Then he mumbled something. Or, to be honest, he probably spoke at a perfectly normal volume, and my ears are the problem. Either way, I had zero clue what he said.

I defaulted to my standard nod and smile. “You know it!”

I’m still not sure what the man said, but I’m quite sure from his reaction that “you know it” was the incorrect response.

There’s something inherently awkward for everyone involved when you can’t hear them. I don’t know why I don’t just say “I’m sorry, what was that?” and walk closer to lend my ear to them as they repeat the question or statement or rant…or to cuss me out.

I do this often…even when it doesn’t have anything to do with volume.

The meeting at work when I briefly lose focus and have to pretend to be caught up real quick. The friendly cashier at the store who says something I can’t quite decipher. Or, when the 5-year-old tells me an elaborate Minecraft story where the only real possible response is “Wow, really? That’s cool, buddy.” when I’m really not quite following him.

But I’m just choosing to fake understanding in those moments.
And I end up missing a little more true connection with another human.

I don’t know what my neighbor said last night. Maybe never will. He may be telling someone the story now of the neighbor who said “you know it” when he asked what my kid’s name was or if I knew how to make a cake.

I told you, I have ZERO clue what he said!

Old habits die hard, so I’ll probably still smile, nod, and say something agreeable when I don’t understand something. But hopefully I can learn. I’d rather be the guy who asks and actually knows, than the guy who nods and never does.

My hearing may not be as good as it once was, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still listen.

Before embarking on my 100 Day Writing Challenge, I asked my Facebook friends for writing prompt suggestions. Full disclosure: I haven’t used any of them yet. 🤪

But two of them stuck out to me:

“A time you failed miserably” and “A time you succeeded well.” I don’t know what this says about me, but I honestly can’t think of any truly strong examples of either one. This is funny to me because I wouldn’t consider myself an even-keeled person…at all.

I am an emotional human.
I can get really positive and really negative.
I bounce between being super confident and thinking I’m the worst.
You’d think I’d be able to quickly identify my spectacular failures at least!

Maybe it has something to do with suppressing some feelings of failure trauma? 🤷‍♂️

Sure, I can recall moments I’m proud of. And I have books worth of examples of times I’ve really screwed up. But even the times I’ve $*!t the bed don’t really seem like failures. You learn and move on. And the successful times? I’ve definitely come to realize that the successes don’t stick with you very long.

Perhaps it’s just part of maturing…which I’m also not sure applies to me. But maybe you eventually start to understand that life is really about the journey. It’s less about winning and losing and more about learning and growing.

Maybe failure is only failure if you let it be. And success just is what it is.
So, I still don’t have a strong answer for either prompt.
Perhaps that’s really the true success?

Want to know the secret to being a great communicator?
Have something to say.

I don’t consider myself a particularly good communicator. I’m not a naturally gifted writer, and I was the kid who would pee down his leg if I had to get up and talk in front of the class. But I am a wonderer. I spend lots of my time thinking about life and people and all the things. The biggest change for me in how I communicate has been feeling a growing responsibility to share my reflections of the world with people I think it might help.

As I’ve grown, I’ve also come to appreciate great communication from great communicators. And the ones I admire most all have one thing in common: They all actually have something to say.

If you do not have something to say, it’s not time to talk or type yet.
It’s time to develop a point of view.

It’s tempting to feel like you need to add to the noise. We’re told we have to be consistent or feed the algorithm or any number of other tips we marketing people might share. But great communication requires patience. It takes wrestling with an idea until that something finally, and truly, takes shape.

The communicator’s job is to release an idea into the world. The best communicators aren’t communicating just so they can be heard. They communicate so the idea can be heard. Our job is to share the message the best we can. It’s then up to others whether the idea lands.

If we really want to communicate well, it’s about sharing something. It’s about wrestling an idea to the ground. It’s about becoming burdened with the obligation to get an idea out in the world.

The act of refining a message chisels it into your mind and heart. I rarely feel like I fully understand anything until I’ve put in the noble work of trying to communicate it well. I fight with the idea, so I can distill it down into its purest form.

When you have something to say, I don’t think you worry as much about being up in front of the class anymore. Because now it’s less about what people might think of you and more about helping people with how they might think about the world.

“Dad, I can’t believe your mom is so slow.”

I looked back at Isaac and squinted, trying to figure out where the conversation was going. My mom has had some poor health, so I was preparing for one of those talks when you have to explain the tough parts of life to your kid.

“Yeah, it took her 9 months to make a joke.” Isaac could hardly contain himself as he delivered the punchline perfectly. We both cackled.

I’m sure he lifted the joke straight from YouTube. It didn’t matter. Hearing your kid deliver a perfect dad joke is still a top proud parent moment.

One of our favorite pastimes is trying to catch each other off guard with a pun. And Ian likes to join in with knock knock jokes. He hasn’t quite caught on that he’s supposed to actually interrupt BEFORE I finish saying “interrupting cow who?” for the joke to work!

I’ve been trying to savor these goofy moments because, honestly, parenting has been hard the last little bit. The boys bicker nonstop. Ian may be five, but we’re still waiting for him to grow out of those terrible twos. Isaac is hurtling toward the teen years. His attitude is proof.

Truth is: I’ve been a little tired lately. And I’ve been a little too quick to snap at them when they haven’t gotten dressed after I’ve asked for the 47th time. And I’ve gotten a little short with my responses when the whining crashes in like a tsunami. And I’ve maybe allowed my eyes to roll and my head to shake in disappointment a little too quickly because of it all.

But I’m trying to remember that I only have a little more time left with my little boys while they’re little. They’re growing up, like little boys do.

The other day Isaac was away with some friends. Meg was driving and a literal chicken crossed the road right in front of us. “Oh man!” I said immediately. “I wish Ike was here. He would have thought that was hilarious.” And he did when I told him about it the next day.

I know my little dudes will be around less as they get older. I know I'll wish for far more of these little moments than I'll actually get. In the meantime, I want to catch all the little jokes and cherish my little guys for who they are now and for the men they’re growing into, little by little.

Maybe they’ll be dads one day, I don’t know.
But I do know they’ll be armed with plenty of dad jokes.

What makes a good leader? We all have our own thoughts and values about leadership. For me, great leadership can be boiled down into three traits.

The Backbone

In a world of spineless leadership, it’s refreshing to be around people who give a damn. We’re naturally drawn to people who stand for something, because most people only stand for themselves.

Your values are your backbone.
They’re not a stiff set of rules.
They give structure that lets you bend and flex
without losing what’s holding you up.

We’ve all had seasons of struggle, those moments when we don’t stand quite as tall as we’d like. Maybe our confidence has been shot, or disappointment has gotten the best of us.

It’s often in these moments that I’m most tempted to shrink.

I’ve been inspired by leaders who stood their ground. They didn't flinch, even when it cost them. Watching them gives us permission to stand a little taller, and hold true to what matters most.

If you want to be a great leader, you have to have a backbone.

The Funny Bone

Sometimes I take things too seriously.
If you know me, you probably think that’s a joke, because mostly I like to make jokes.

But I can fall into the trap of taking things too seriously… and being a little too emotional.
Okay, so maybe that’s obvious.

But it takes a lot of trauma to be this funny, you know?

Funny thing about the funny bone: turns out it isn’t actually a bone. It’s a nerve, sitting almost right under the skin, with nothing protecting it. That’s why it stings so much when you hit it.

Levity works the same way.
It’s not avoiding the difficult things.
It’s staying close enough to feel all of it,
and still finding a way to make people laugh anyway.

We’ve all had the heavy moments in life, whether sadness or stress, grief or busyness, and probably times with all of the above.

It’s tempting to go quiet when life gets tough.

I’m grateful for the people who have made room for me to laugh, especially in the moments when I didn’t even feel like smiling.

The ability to make things feel lighter when life is heavy is a gift. And it gives us permission to do the same for others.

If you want to be a great leader, you have to have a funny bone.

The Wishbone

Finally, the wishbone.
Technically not a human bone, but deal with it.

I looked it up once. The wishbone is actually part of what helps birds fly. It’s equal parts science and magic, which is about the best metaphor for leadership I’ve come across.

Leadership has always felt to me like a strange mix of scientific skill and magical trickery.

At Thanksgiving dinner, the wishbone only does its job when two people pull. When it’s stretched beyond what it’s supposed to handle. It only fulfills its purpose when it breaks.

That’s leadership too.People come together, stretch toward a vision of the future, and something usually breaks along the way. Comfort zones. Bad habits. Your pride, if you’re doing it right.

But in that breaking, something new gets made.
In the world, and in you.
Especially in you.

Hope isn’t meant to be kept to yourself. It’s meant to be shared and given away freely, even when it stretches you. And especially when it’s tough.

The best leaders will help you believe in a better tomorrow. It’ll give you permission to believe in yourself again.

If you want to be a great leader, you have to have a wishbone.

I once heard Marshall Women’s basketball coach, Juli Fulks, say: “If you want to be a good leader, show up and ask, ‘How can I help?’”

That’s really the whole job, isn’t it?
Help others stand a little taller.
Bring some levity when it’s needed.
Share hope and stretch toward a better future, together.

That’s the bones of great leadership.

“There are no boring people.”
I used to believe this.
But I’ve learned that many people really are boring.
Some of them even make you want to gouge your eyes and ears out every time they talk.

But what makes people boring isn’t what you think.
It isn’t because someone is quiet or follows the rules.
It’s not because they’re a little shy or socially awkward.
It’s not even because they don’t have many interesting things happening in their life.

Whether quiet or loud, introvert or extrovert,
being boring has very little to do with someone’s actual personality or experiences.
A boring person is boring because they are fully focused on themselves.

The most interesting people aren't the ones with the wildest stories.
They haven’t experienced the craziest adventures.
They're the ones who ask great questions.
And they show genuine curiosity.
They’re the people who show up without showing off.

Interesting people are interesting because they show interest in you.

I have this idea to start a Leadership Book Club.

My idea is mostly selfish of course. I just want to create a reason for people to talk to me about the leadership books we’re reading.

I don’t know if I’ll ever follow up on this idea. But here are the 8 books I’d start with if I did. They’re not necessarily my all-time favorites, and I’d recommend different ones depending on the person. But these are a few books that have left a lasting impact on how I approach my work life.

Honorable Mention

What leadership books have bene the most influential to you?

I’m going to screw up my boys. I probably already have. We all will, I suppose. It’s not so much whether or not we mess up as parents…it’s more about the particular type of damage we’ll inadvertently inflict and how deep we let the scars dig.

I really want to be a good dad.

The problem is that being a good parent is much harder than Danny Tanner made it look.

Kids can be stubborn. We adults can be, too. There’s also ungratefulness, broken trust, silent resentment, and down right rebellion. And like the old Sour Patch Kids commercials, you’re never quite sure which version of your kiddo you’re going to get from day to day.

Despite my best efforts, today wasn’t a banner day of parenting. I walked back something I said to my 10 year old in frustration. I even said I was sorry. I said many other things while being stirred up. Those things I stand by. He was, as a matter of fact, being a jerk. 😂

Sometimes it’s hard to stick to principles your kiddos don’t understand. They can’t fully comprehend that you’re trying to protect them, you’re trying to help them…that at a fundamental level you only want what’s best for them. They can’t see the young man you see in them. They can’t see the version of themselves that they are becoming like you can. They only see a few feet in front of them (mostly because that’s where the iPad comes into view).

I was tempted to give in on a parenting conviction today to keep the peace with my son. In the end, though, I know I have that conviction for his sake, their sake. That even if he doesn’t understand the why after explaining it to him, I still have to choose what I know to be right for my son.

On the flip side, I chose to swallow my pride a little bit and went to talk to him before he went to sleep. “Do you still want to do our puzzles?” We do the NYT app every night together. We love Wordle and like to gripe about Connections. Without really any words, he gathered his stuff and nestled in close to give his input on today’s puzzles.

And maybe that’s all any of us parents can do.

Hold onto our principles and convictions for the good of our kids…

But willingly let go of our pride and extend an olive branch every now and then.

Maybe it’s not so much about proving you are a good parent.

Maybe the most important thing is simply that you’re trying your best to be a bit better every day.

Here’s hoping.

“Dad, where are the pandas?”

My almost 5-year-old asked me this while walking down the road this weekend. He had caught up with me during my morning walk. Running full speed with no shoes down our holler. He tugged at my hand when he asked, but the question didn’t quite register at first. “Do what, buddy?” I leaned down to ask him.

Ian stopped and pointed into the woods beside us. There’s bamboo across the road from us. It’s not incredibly uncommon to see the neighborhood boys running around with bamboo swords. Ian pointed toward the woods and started chopping the air with his hands like a politician making an important speech.

“We have bamboo!” he said emphatically. “So why don’t we have any pandas?!”

I didn’t have a great answer for him. “You know what, that’s a good question,” was my reply. We finished our walk while he educated me on the eating habits of pandas. And what pandas looked like. And how there are pandas in Minecraft. But they only spawn in the jungle. But they eat bamboo. And maybe cake? Well, you get the picture.

We have bamboo. So, we should have pandas.

Even though I thought our panda conversation was cute, and I was so intrigued by how his little mind works, it made me think. I don’t want to go full LinkedIn cringe here, but it did make me a little introspective.

What’s the thing I expect to have just because I’ve got part of the puzzle? What expectations am I holding onto because I’ve done part of the work?

Ian doesn’t know pandas don’t live in southeast Ohio. He doesn’t know they need a habitat and all those things (that, honestly, I don’t either). Maybe a trip to the zoo is in order.

But just because we have bamboo doesn’t guarantee the pandas.
Just because I have done my part doesn’t guarantee me results.
What expectations do I have that I’ve confused with a guarantee?
What’s my bamboo?

Meg and I struggled for a few years to have this barefoot little boy rambling about pandas. And we struggled with infertility for several years before trying to have his older brother. While it’s easy to look back with gratitude now that we have two healthy and ornery little boys, the journey wasn’t easy.

Years of struggles and tests. More questions than answers. Never knowing if we would ever have kids. And then not knowing if we’d ever have another. Those years were tough for us. We questioned lots of things and earned some scars that may never heal. At the core of the struggle was expectation and disappointment.

“I just don’t understand.”
“It just doesn’t seem fair.”
“We’ve done everything the right way.”

We might as well have been saying
“We’ve got bamboo. Why don’t we have pandas?!”

Truth is, there was so much we didn’t understand. And so much we still don’t. My boys have taught me so much about life. More than they will ever know.

But maybe their greatest gift has been teaching me to be grateful for the rambunctious little pandas when they do show up.

Besides, we do already have bamboo.

hello to healthier habits

I’ve lost over 30 pounds in a little over 5 weeks. I really needed to reverse my bad health habits. And, while I still have a long way to go, I already feel so much better than I did a month a half ago.

People get opinionated about GLP-1’s. I dabbled with Semaglutide a couple years ago, but I didn’t change my diet up much. I got sick. Very sick. Wasn’t fun. But it wasn’t the medicine’s fault, it was mine.

better, not perfect

This time around has been different. Notably, it hasn’t been perfect, but I have been different. I’ve been taking Zepbound. It has been just the shot in the arm…er, belly fat…that I needed. But as magical of a medicine it might be, it’s not perfect. There are no magic pills. GLP-1’s help, but there’s still work to do.

walking it out

Megan, the boys, and I have made more walking a cornerstone of our days. I’ve been trying to get up earlier in the morning to walk up our road. And then the whole family and half the neighborhood takes to the street late in the evening. It’s been nice. I most enjoy my morning walks with a book on the weekdays or often with Meg on the weekends.

you are what you eat

I’ve eaten much better this time around. Still not perfect, but better. And I guess that’s the best you can hope for. I’m not sure I can adequately explain the quieting of the “food noise” to someone who hasn’t experience the deafening of that noise or what it’s like when the medicine quiets it down. I’m still on the lower dose, so some of that noise has crept up again. I’ve have been a little iffy on the salads lately, though!

you don’t know how bad you’ve felt until you start to feel normal again

My biggest takeaway through becoming just a bit healthier this past month or so is that I didn’t fully realize how awful I had been feeling. Tired all the time. Headaches. Struggling every day. Dragging myself around. I don’t feel 20 again or anything. And I’m still very much tired quite a bit (Old Village Roaster’s Vanilla Cold Brew for the win! ☕️🥱). But it’s been almost weird to not feel bad. This sounds like a really low bar, but, if you’ve been where I have been, you’ll know what I mean.

shoutout to luxe

I’m grateful to my friends at luxe for helping walk me through the process. They’ve answered my questions, given me guidance, and didn’t laugh too hard when I didn’t take the cap off of my first dose. 🤦‍♂️ They had even thoroughly showed me how to do everything beforehand! But if you’re interested in the journey and are local, I’d definitely recommend them.

why.

I still have lots of questions. Will I be on this forever? How hard will it be to get to my goals? If I lose enough weight, can I stop using the cpap machine? When will I be able to get a shirt that’s not from JC Penney’s big and tall section? Am I going to be able to stick with it this time? Can I eat this slice of pizza without having to run to the bathroom. Can I keep it to A slice of pizza and not falling into the trap of more?

But the biggest question I have is this: why?
Why now? Why is this different? Why do I want to be healthier?

I’ve been thinking about that quite a bit. Wondering what’s different than past weight loss journeys I’ve been on. I’ve lost lots of weight over the years. I’m fairly good at losing weight. Problem is that I’m even better at finding it. I don’t know if it’s the medicine or something deeper, but this time feels a little different. I’m being more kind and patient with myself. I’m trying to focus on healthy habits and showing up for others instead of being so in my head all the time. And the medicine really does help a lot.

I don’t know what the future holds for me health wise, but I really want to squeeze every bit of life out of however many days I have left. That’s a little easier to do when you’re actually able to bend over and tie your shoes without passing out.

Birds of a feather flock together.

Some version of that phrase has been around since the B.C.’s. But the first time it’s known to show up in English was in 1545, when a man named William Turner wrote this:

In modern English, that reads roughly:

I won’t get into how sharp this rhetoric was at the time, or the feuds between the Roman Catholic Church and the Protestant Reformers. But let’s just say Turner wasn’t calling anyone birds as a pet name.

The gist is pretty simple: people tend to cluster with their own kind…and look out for their own interests. These birds aren’t flocking to figure out the greater good. They’re out for what’s best for their sect.

Flocking together wasn’t just a 1545 thing. It’s universal.

And it’s not all bad. I’m old enough to have chanted “Ducks Fly Together!” in the theater when D2: The Mighty Ducks came out. There’s magic in sticking together. In community. It’s part of our DNA.

The problem comes when our sole focus becomes “promoting, maintaining, and setting forward” our own sect no matter the cost to everyone else.

There are two ways to flock. We can flock together just for the good of our own little groups. Or we can flock together for the good of the whole. It’s the same instinct. The only difference is who we count as our flock. Just the birds that look, act, think and believe like me? Or do I truly want what’s best for all of us?

The choice seems easy.
We’d like to think we always choose the greater good.
And maybe we convince ourselves that we do.

But the birds out front,
the ones we trust to lead us to brighter skies,
too often, they fly only for themselves.
And truth be told, so do the rest of us.

Birds of a feather, you know?

Alan punched my left arm hard before scurrying away from the cafeteria table. “I am not your friend!” he grumbled as he picked up his lunch tray. This 2nd grade memory is seared into my brain all these years later.

It was just weeks into the school year. I was the new kid. I didn’t know anyone, so at lunch or recess I gravitated toward the random kid assigned to sit next to me in class. The only thing we had in common was that the first letters of our last names were kind of close together.

Apparently, my desk neighbor didn’t find this a sufficient foundation for elementary school friendship.

This wouldn’t be the only time I was left wondering if there was a place for me at a table I wanted to be at. I have a library full of memories dedicated to this particular plight. Both of the physical and metaphorical variety, from childhood and, well, all the way through yesterday.

The need to fit in, to belong, is programmed deep within us all. It may manifest in different ways depending on the individual, but it’s a universal part of our wiring. We were created or evolved or both (depending on your worldview) to be part of the tribe.

Some of us spend our whole lives worrying about the table we’re sitting at. Even if we have somewhere we do belong, we are forever focused on the next table that seems a bit more important or a bit more interesting.

Like the child chomping at the bit to graduate from the kid’s table to go sit with the adults. Sometimes we get so focused on where we’re not that we somehow forget to appreciate where we are…or rather who we’re with.

I was looking at Matthew 18 a few weeks ago. The disciples asked Jesus: “Who, then, is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?” They wanted to know if they had a seat at his table. But not just any seat. They wanted to know how important their seat would be. Jesus’ answer is profound.

As I read through this passage (during church…sorry to whoever was preaching that Sunday 😬), the thought hit me. “I want to make every table I’m at the kid’s table.”

Jesus brought a child into the mix. He told his disciples that being important starts and ends with becoming like a kid. To be great means taking a lowly position. It means choosing to put others above yourself.

Making my table the kid’s table means I have to stop searching for a “more important” table. When I am with people, I take the lower position. I put the interests of others above my own, as Paul talks about in Philippians. When you’re at the kid’s table, you lead with curiosity, wonder and a bit of whimsy.

My wife loves the phrase, “be where your feet are.” I think this is wonderful advice. My version would be: “be present at the table you’re sitting at.”

Most of all, I always want to scoot over and make room when someone else is looking for their seat. Wherever I sit, everyone is welcome. Because, at the kid’s table, just sitting close by is more than enough of a foundation for friendship. Always has been.

I don’t know much, but there’s a curious thread I’ve noticed in my life and work.

Want to be better at public speaking?
Stop worrying about how you’ll do and focus on what your audience needs to hear.

Want to get better at marketing?
Stop thinking about what you’re selling and focus on how the thing helps people.

Want to be a better leader?
Stop protecting your status and focus on being the leader your team needs.

Want to network better?
Stop looking for what people can do for you and focus on what you can do for others.

Want to be better at sales?
Stop trying to close the deal and focus on what the person across from you really needs.

Want to be a better coworker?
Stop just getting by and focus on who’s depending on you.

Want to have better conversations?
Stop thinking so much about what to say and focus on what the other person is trying to say (and ask lots of questions).

Want to be more creative?
Stop worrying about approval and focus on sharing the thing inside you that others need to experience.

Want to be happier and less depressed?
The science says to stop trying to make yourself happy and focus on how you show up for others.

Want to be more disciplined?
Stop relying on motivation and focus on who’s counting on you.

Want to be less anxious?
Stop imagining the worst-case scenario and focus on the people you have in your life right now.

Want to be more generous?
Stop worrying if you have enough and focus on how what you have can help someone else.

Want to be a kinder human?
Stop worrying so much about what people think and focus on what the people around you need.

Want to grow spiritually?
Stop centering your life on yourself and focus on giving of yourself to others.

Want to be a better parent?
Stop trying to be perfect and focus on what your kid needs in this moment.

Want to have a better marriage?
Stop keeping score and focus on what your spouse actually needs from you today.

At least for me, the thread always leads back to the same place: pulling my attention away from myself and focusing on others.

Feelings are free.
You can feel however you want about anything you want.
You can care. You can have compassion. You can even have conviction.
You can have all the feelings you could ever want to feel,
These can even be the strongest, most genuine types of feelings.
You can have all of these,
And still not have done a damn thing.

I’m an emotional human.
I feel all the feelings. All the time.
It can feel exhausting.
It feels like work, but it isn’t.
Feelings are important. But they aren’t work.
Feelings are just feelings.

I’ve grown in my admiration of people who push past feeling.
Sure, these people I revere care. They have compassion. They have conviction.
I’ve met many wonderful people who have all these feelings.
I’ve met many more who can fake these feelings…at least for a while.

But the humans I most want to be like are the ones who go beyond emotions.
They’re the ones who turn their care into action.
They give their time, or their talent, or their treasure.
Much of the time, they give all three.
They give of themselves. Sometimes all of themselves.
They give a damn.

Giving a damn costs you something.
It’s active. It’s action.
It’s actually giving of yourself for something other than yourself.
Giving a damn isn’t afraid of the nitty gritty.
It’s not afraid of getting into the depths of the mud and muck.
It’s ready to roll up its sleeves and get its hands dirty.

Giving a damn is more than just feeling.

Giving a damn turns conviction into contribution.

Inspired by Anne-Laure Le Cunff’s book Tiny Experiments, I’ve pledged to write for 100 weekdays straight.

I love writing.
I don’t know if I’m particularly skilled at it.
But I love it, and I’m not sure if it matters if I’m any good or not.

Writing helps me think. I’m a verbal processor at heart. I can’t make sense of the ideas that swirl around in my head without trying to develop the right words for what’s in my brain and on my heart. I’ve found that there’s not a huge audience for ALL the random things that occupy my thoughts at any given time. So writing allows me to work through the ideas, values and feelings I have and share them when I can.

What I’ve learned through 10 days

Today marks my 10th day of writing each weekday. Here are my observations so far:

• Writing as a daily practice will be a part of my life going forward. Pairing a solid reading habit with a good writing habit (in place of journaling, which doesn’t work super well for me) has proven to be very good for my mental health.

• Posting daily will not be a thing for me after my pledge is complete. I’ve found that I am not able to fully form my ideas in one day’s time. I need the ability to step away from my thoughts, let them simmer on the back burner for a while, and then come back to them to feel effective.

• Research is a skill I want to cultivate. I’ve found myself wanting to dig deeper into certain topics to give my pieces more depth. A recent podcast interview featuring Daniel Pink provided lots of inspiration and insight.

• I’m discovering the voice I most connect to when writing. I’ve never been very musical, but I’ve always been attracted to the rhythm of words and ideas (I also have to look up how to spell rhythm every time I type it). I haven’t fully developed this yet, and I’m still experimenting greatly. But these recent books have been great learning for me:

  • The Elements of Eloquence by Mark Forsyth

  • Several Short Sentences about Writing by Verlyn Klinkenborg

  • Good Writing: 36 Ways to Improve Your Sentences by Neal Allen & Anne Lamott

• 100 days is way longer than I realized. I felt like I’ve been writing for a while, so it was sobering when I realized I’m only 10% of the way toward my goal!

• I care way too much about the metrics. Shortly after this scheduled post goes live, I’m sure I’ll check to see if anyone has read it. I’ll get giddy if you do me the honor of hitting the like button, leaving a comment, or sending me a message about something I’ve written. I think this comes from a combination of my day job in marketing and that deep-seated desire to be liked. 🤪 But I’m finding it unhelpful in promoting my actual practical practice of writing for me. So, it’s at least something I need to keep aware of.

• Writing is hard work. My posts are short. My thoughts aren’t all that well thought out. I do it for fun, and it is still difficult. I have nothing but respect for the great writers who wrestle with the craft to bring beauty and insight into the world for us. #Respect

• I expected to have more things to repost to LinkedIn. I thought I would end up writing several things that are related to my work or to leadership. I figured I could easily just cross-post these pieces to LinkedIn to stay active over there. Turns out, this hasn’t been as easy as I thought!

I’ll share more insights from my journey as I go through it.

If you’ve done me the honor of reading, providing feedback, or leaving me a note, it’s appreciated way more than you know.

I was always nice.
A nice guy.
A nice kid.

Well, maybe not a nice baby.
I’ve heard horror stories.

“If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.”
Maxims like these have been drilled into me since before my memories took hold.
So nice I would be.

But here’s what I’ve learned about being nice.
What I’ve learned about myself.

Being nice can be performative, passive and people-pleasing.
I may have been good to someone,
But it was often more about what was good FOR ME
Rather than being good TO someone else.

My niceness was selfishness in disguise.
All wrapped up in entitlement.

Age has taught me the wisdom of being kind.
It doesn’t allow you to serve your selfishness.
You put yourself in service to someone else.

Sometimes being nice and being kind can look the same.
In fact, sometimes it’s perfectly fine to be nice.
But sometimes being kind means saying the hard thing.
And sometimes it means sacrificing yourself for someone else.

Niceness centers the world around me.
Kindness centers me around others.

I was always nice.
But now I try to be kind.

No weapon is as potent as a deaf ear.

They say,
“Sticks and stones may break my bones,
but words will never hurt me”
We all know this is nonsense.

But as mighty as the tongue may be,
with all its power to strike directly to the soul,
it’s the indifferent ear that wields far more destruction.

It’s when the bid for connection is brushed away,
when the story told is met with a shrug,
when the beating heart through words is met with a silent nod,
it’s the way they look by you…
or maybe right through you.
This is the death blow.

In all manner of human connection,
friend or foe,
romantic or platonic,
personal or professional,
the cruelest assault has always been indifference.

As I’ve learned more about the Six Types of Working Genius framework, I’ve begun to understand myself (and how I operate) much better.

This is the Working Genius in a nutshell:

• There are SIX basic types of work.

• TWO are your Working Geniuses - the type of work that energizes you.

• TWO are your Working Frustrations - the type of work that drains you.

• TWO are your Working Competencies - things you can do for a while but won’t energize you.

The Working Genius is all about ranking, not rating.

My geniuses are Wonder & Enablement.

Wonder is the one always asking the big questions. Is this as good as it could be? What are we missing? Enablement is the one that loves to jump in and help a person or an idea get moving.

That doesn’t mean I’m the best at these skills.
It just means that these are the types of work that excite me when I get to work within them.

What the Working Genius has taught me about myself.

My biggest Working Frustration is Tenacity. This is all about being relentless in getting things across the finish line. Crossing the T’s and dotting the I’s. It’s not that I’m bad at or incapable of this type of work, it’s that it drains me.

I’ve been in a season of having to do a bunch of tenacity type work. Lots of spreadsheets and organization and coordination and double checking and triple checking and on and on.

I've walked out of the office those days wiped out.
Even when I’m not particularly tired.

That’s the thing about work. Just because something is in my working frustration doesn’t mean I get to punt it. “All jobs are six letter jobs” is often said in Working Genius circles. This means we all have to do things that don’t particularly bring us joy every now and then.

The gift of knowing my geniuses and frustrations

The more we understand ourselves and what fills our cup, the better we can navigate the energy we bring to our work. We can maximize our geniuses, minimize our weaknesses, and manage our competencies.

In other words, in seasons knee deep in tenacity, I can know why I’m struggling without being overcome by guilt or shame.

The Working Genius has also given me the tools to know how to fill my tank when I need it. By spending time leaning into my geniuses of Wonder and Enablement.

I still have to do the draining work.
I just don’t have to run on empty while I do it.

Heavy hevel moments

For most of my life I’ve had what I now call hevel moments.
These are moments when everything has seemed pointless, hopeless, or just downright meaningless.

I’ve always been an emotional human, even as a kid. From navigating my parents' divorce, to our fight for fertility in adulthood, to simply feeling crushed by the everyday responsibilities of life, I‘ve become well acquainted with my own melancholic tendencies.

I’ve started thinking of these as hevel moments as I’ve connected with the Biblical book of Ecclesiastes. “Meaningless, Meaningless Says the Teacher.” This word for meaningless or vanity or vapor is hevel.

The book of Ecclesiastes feels much more pessimistic than the rest of scripture. It basically dismantles all the things that humans typically focus on. It illustrates the absurdity in relying on the things we fight so hard for. Power. Pleasure. Prosperity. All of these deemed worthless when considering the world as it is here "under the sun.” We might as well be trying to chase the wind or catch smoke. It’s all going to be in vain.

But we miss the point of Ecclesiastes if we only focus on the hevel here under the sun. Because Ecclesiastes isn’t really about the darkness. It’s about the light that shines through it.

A new kind of moment

I recently learned the term glimmers coined by the clinician Deb Dana.

Several times throughout Ecclesiastes, Qoheleth (the narrator) breaks through the pessimism with just a touch of optimism. One of my Bible professors in college described it as if Qoheleth is pulling back a curtain to let a little light shine in the darkness.

The response to hevel and those heavy feelings of meaningless isn’t despair or apathy. For Qoheleth, it’s enjoying the little rays of sunlight we can experience even while we are here under the sun.

Be happy.
Do good.
Eat.
Drink.
Find satisfaction in your work.
This is the gift of God.

Glimmers from beyond the sun

glim·​mer
a faint, wavering light or a tiny, fleeting sign of something, such as hope or understanding

In Dana’s work on glimmers, noticing the expected and unexpected small gifts in your own life helps you begin to notice even more of the good, too. Instead of constantly searching for dangers like our hunter-gatherer ancestors did, we can be on the lookout for beauty and joy.

For someone who has lived their life experiencing and expecting hevel moments, noticing these glimpses of good in my own life doesn’t come easy. But I don’t want to focus so much on the hevel that I miss the glimmers of God’s goodness shining in my every day.

These glimmers are Isaac’s chuckles as he tells a corny joke.
Ian’s little hand finding mine in a crowd.
Meg’s mischievous glance across the room when someone says something we find funny.
Sitting around a table with people I love.
A morning walk or reading a good book.
Finding joy in the work I get to do.
Finding purpose in loving and serving the people God has placed in my life.

These are the moments when God pulls back the curtain, just a little, and lets me see a little glimmer of heaven on earth.