The kind of early where the coffee hasn’t quite convinced you that you’re awake yet, the highway is mostly empty, and you find yourself wondering why golf courses apparently cannot be located within a reasonable driving distance of your home.

Today, I’m headed three hours away for golf. Three hours there. Eighteen holes. Three hours home…maybe blessed with the company of my golfer daughter on the way home if she doesn’t ride with the team.

And somewhere in between all of that, there is still work to do. Emails to answer. Decisions to make. People who need things. Problems that will not politely wait until the final putt drops.

There will probably be some midnight oil burned tonight. And I’m okay with that.

Because somewhere along the way, I think we got leadership and balance a little mixed up.

We started talking about “work-life balance” as though the goal was to divide our lives neatly into equal little boxes.

Work goes here. Family goes there. Leadership here. Motherhood there.

And if everything doesn’t fit perfectly between 8 and 5, somehow we’ve done it wrong.

But life doesn’t work that way. Neither does leadership. And motherhood certainly doesn’t.

Sometimes balance looks like leaving before sunrise to drive three hours to watch your daughter play golf. Sometimes it looks like taking a work call from the parking lot.

Sometimes it looks like answering emails after everyone else has gone to bed because you decided that, for a few hours, the emails could wait.

That isn’t always poor balance. Sometimes that is balance. Because balance isn’t giving everything equal time. It’s understanding what deserves your presence right now.

I Know What They’ll Remember

Maybe I know this because I was somebody’s kid once, too.

When I think back to my high school basketball career, I remember that my mom missed exactly one game. One. Out of all those years and all those games, I remember the one she missed because she was at virtually every other one.

My dad tried his best to get there, too. But Dad had cows to milk twice a day, 365 days a year. Cows, as it turns out, have very little respect for the high school basketball schedule.

So Dad couldn’t always be there. But here’s what is interesting: I remember every game he made it to. I knew what it took for him to be sitting in those stands. I understood, even then, that being there cost him something.

And all these years later, I still remember.

Which means I have a pretty good idea what my own kids will remember, too. They’ll know when I was there. They’ll know when I wasn’t.

And, maybe most importantly, they’ll know when I was truly present.

Because there is a difference between occupying a seat and showing up. Kids know it.

They know when we’re watching.

They know when we’re listening.

They know when the phone is put away.

They know when their thing, for those few hours, has become our thing.

And I have yet to receive an email that seemed particularly concerned about the level of presence I provided it.

Emails are remarkably resilient that way.

They wait.

Our kids don’t.

They Notice Who Shows Up

Our kids probably won’t remember every meeting we attended. They won’t remember the emails we answered or the deadlines we met. They may never completely understand the weight of the jobs we carried while we were raising them.

But they will remember who was standing beside the first tee. They’ll remember looking over after a great shot—or a terrible one—and seeing a familiar face.

They’ll remember the rides home. The gas-station snacks. The conversations somewhere between mile 47 and mile 173.

And maybe years from now, they’ll realize something else. Mom was busy. Really busy.

And she came anyway. That matters.

Because love is certainly something we say. But, more often, love is something we show.

It is presence. It is sacrifice. It is inconvenience. It is choosing someone over something else that also matters.

And our children learn how to love other people by watching how we love them.

They learn what support looks like because somebody showed up for them when it would have been easier not to.

They learn that loving someone means celebrating their victories without needing any credit for them.

They learn that sometimes support means walking quietly beside someone through a bad round instead of trying to fix it.

And maybe most importantly, they learn that you don’t only show up when someone is winning.

You show up because they’re yours.

My mom taught me that by almost never missing.

My dad taught me that by making it whenever he possibly could.

Two different versions of presence. Both unmistakably love.

And Our People Are Watching, Too

There is another reason I think this matters. Leaders are always teaching. Usually when we don’t realize it.

The people around us notice what we celebrate. They notice what we prioritize. They notice what we apologize for. And they especially notice what we model.

If I tell the people I work with that family matters but never leave work to attend something important for mine, what have I actually taught them?

If I tell someone, “Go to your kid’s game,” while making them feel guilty for leaving at 3:30, they heard the real message.

And if the only leadership I model is constant availability, immediate responses and a willingness to sacrifice every personal moment for the organization, eventually the people around me will believe that is what leadership requires. I don’t want to teach that.

I want the people I have the privilege to lead alongside to know:

Go. Go to the game. Go to the concert. Go to the parent-teacher conference. Take your dad to the appointment. Have lunch with your mom. Take the trip. Sit in the bleachers. Stand beside the first tee.

Be there for the things that won’t come around again. The work will still be there. And that doesn’t mean the work doesn’t matter. It does.

Our responsibilities deserve due diligence. The people who depend on us deserve our preparation, our attention and our very best work. Our families deserve those things, too. The trick isn’t choosing one and neglecting the other.

That’s where balance actually lives.

Not in some perfect 50/50 division of hours, but in understanding what needs you most, when it needs you, and being disciplined enough to honor both.

Sometimes family gets the daylight and work gets a little midnight oil. Sometimes work requires more of us for a season and our families give us grace. Neither should perpetually receive only what is left over.

And somewhere in learning that rhythm—rather than chasing an impossible equation—I think we find something pretty close to happiness.

Maybe even partnership. At home. At work. And within ourselves.

Nobody Is Watching

There’s something important about the work done when nobody is watching.

Leadership gets plenty of visible moments. Stages. Meetings. Presentations. Titles. Decisions. But some of the most important leadership happens completely unnoticed.

It happens when you quietly finish the work after everyone else is asleep because you spent the afternoon being Mom.

It happens when you give someone on your team permission to do the same.

It happens when you refuse to make people choose between being excellent professionals and present parents.

And it happens when our kids see that ambition and love do not have to be enemies.

You can care deeply about your work. You can lead important things. You can carry significant responsibility. And you can still show up.

Not perfectly. Not every single time. My dad couldn’t. Someday I won’t either. But undeniably. Someday, There Won’t Be a Three-Hour Drive

That’s the part I keep thinking about this morning. These drives feel long right now. The tournaments take entire days. The schedules are complicated. There is always somewhere else I could probably be.

But someday, there won’t be a golf bag in the back. There won’t be a tee time three hours away. There won’t be a teenager sitting beside me, half asleep, while the sun sinks down over a North Dakota highway.

And I suspect I will miss this.

Maybe even the ridiculously early alarm.

So today, I drive.

I’ll watch every shot I can.

I’ll celebrate the good ones and remind her that the bad ones don’t define the round.

I’ll be Mom.

And when the day is over, if there is work waiting for me, I’ll do it.

Maybe late. Maybe tired. Maybe with another cup of coffee that I absolutely should not be drinking at that hour.

Because this is the balance I want my daughters—and the people I have the privilege to lead alongside—to see.

Do your work well. Keep your commitments. Serve people faithfully. Love your people fiercely. And when something truly matters, show up.

Let your kids know, undeniably, that they are worth rearranging the day for. Let the people you lead know they are allowed to do the same.

Because the emails will wait. There will always be another meeting. There will always be another deadline. But there won’t always be another three-hour drive to watch your kid play golf.

My mom taught me that by being in the stands. My dad taught me that every time he managed to get the cows milked and made it there anyway.

And all these years later, I remember. I have a feeling my girls will, too. So I’ll take the drive. The work can have me later.

Right now, she gets me.

A Mustang Shelby belongs to the second category.

I have to say - I’m one of the luckiest women around to have a terrific friend that owns a Mustang Shelby - and even better - he knew I was having a tough week so he offered to make my day better and said - “trust me - I’ll pick you up at 4 - - you’ll feel like a new person within a mile.” (For the record he’s 6’3” and only 35 so I felt pretty special to get this ride. (That’s for you S.S.!! HAHA))

Before the ride, life is ordinary. Your inbox is full. Decisions are waiting. Some vague concern follows you from room to room, demanding attention without ever introducing itself. The days have begun to feel suspiciously similar—useful, perhaps, but flattened by repetition and responsibility.

Leadership can feel that way too.

Over time, the work of leading can become the work of managing: managing schedules, expectations, budgets, conflicts, risks, and an endless stream of decisions. You become so focused on keeping everything moving that you forget leadership is supposed to move people—including you.

Then, I’m sitting in my office just typing away, and I hear the Shelby pull up. I see my assistant director look out the window. He said, “Who’s that?” with wide eyes. I said with a smile, “that’s my ride” as I put on my sunglasses and headed outside. (I now wonder what in the world he was thinking…)

It doesn’t politely and quietly pull up. It announces itself with a low, mechanical thunder that rises through the pavement and into your ribs. The sound is too physical to be merely heard. You feel it in your sternum, your fingertips, the soles of your shoes. It is the sound of enormous potential waiting for direction.

That is the first lesson in leadership this car has to teach me: power and purpose are not the same thing.

A Shelby has extraordinary power, but power alone does not make the ride worthwhile. It needs a driver, a road, and a destination, or at the bare minimum - a direction (and a fuzz buster). The same is true of an organization. Talent, resources, authority, and ambition are only stored energy until someone gives them direction.

You settle into the seat. The hood stretches toward the horizon. For a moment, the entire machine trembles beneath you like an animal trying to remain still.

Then after we get out of town, the road opens.

The throttle goes down, the Shelby surges forward, and every unnecessary thought disappears. You are not reconsidering a conversation from Tuesday. You are not worrying about next quarter. You are not composing an imaginary response to an email you haven’t received.

You are here.

The engine climbs. The scenery compresses. Your body presses into the seat, and the world becomes immediate again.

That may be the real gift of a car like this—not speed itself, but presence. And presence may be one of the most undervalued qualities in leadership. I can feel my heart thump in my chest, my ears, my fingertips….

People know when a leader is physically in the room but mentally somewhere else. They can feel the divided attention, the half-listening, and the answer being prepared before they have finished speaking. They also know when a leader is fully present—when they are being heard rather than handled. Presence tells people: this moment matters, this work matters, and you matter.

A Shelby demands that kind of attention. You cannot lead it casually. You respect its power, remain aware of the road, and make constant adjustments without losing sight of where you are going.

Good leadership works much the same way. You cannot control every curve, obstacle, or change in the weather. You can only remain awake, read the conditions, and respond with intention. Leadership is less about gripping the wheel hard enough to control the road and more about developing the judgment to navigate what comes.

There is another lesson hidden in the acceleration: commitment changes momentum.

When the Shelby moves, it moves decisively. There is no committee meeting between the accelerator and the engine. The response is immediate. Just as quick is deceleration - the car ahead of us moving too damn slowly, and we find out how well the brakes work. I’m grateful my friend is a really great driver. Then tires squeal as we pull around the car and find our way back to seeing the world an fast forward.

Organizations rarely have that luxury, nor should every decision be made at full throttle. But teams lose energy when leaders linger indefinitely at the edge of action. Endless hesitation communicates uncertainty. It causes talented people to idle while they wait for permission to move.

A thoughtful decision made with conviction can create momentum. It tells people where to focus, what matters now, and what they can stop worrying about.

That does not mean driving recklessly. Speed without judgment is dangerous. Confidence without humility is worse. Nooo. He was in absolute control. Like a sharpshooter waiting to strike. There was nothing that was out of control about this ride. The point is not to floor it everywhere. The point is to recognize when the road is open—and to have the courage to move when it is.

Then comes the unexpected laugh. It escapes when the car pulls harder than your mind anticipated. It is spontaneous, almost childlike—the sound of delight arriving before self-consciousness can stop it.

That laugh matters too.

Leadership often becomes unnecessarily solemn. Responsibility is real, but seriousness is not the same as significance. A leader who has lost the capacity for delight may still keep the machine running, but people are unlikely to feel inspired by the journey.

Joy is not a distraction from leadership. It is a source of energy for it.

People want to know that the work can contain more than pressure. They want leaders who notice progress, celebrate effort, and remember that achievement is not the only meaningful part of the experience. How a team feels while traveling matters alongside where it eventually arrives.

The ride ends, of course. The engine falls quiet. The door closes with a solid, ordinary thunk. The inbox has not experienced a spiritual awakening. The difficult conversation is still waiting. The numbers have not changed. But something has shifted.

The problems seem a little smaller—not because they have changed, but because you have remembered that they are not the entirety of the work. Leadership is not only about carrying what is heavy. It is also about creating motion, awakening possibility, and reminding people that the destination is worth pursuing.

You walk away carrying a trace of the machine’s electricity. You do not become a different leader in one ride. Your organization does not transform before you reach the parking lot. The clouds do not part to reveal a perfect strategy.

It is subtler than that. Life—and perhaps your leadership—is just a tick better than it was before the ride. You remember that power needs direction. That presence is more valuable than perpetual availability. That momentum sometimes requires commitment. That control is not the same as judgment. That joy belongs in serious work.

And that leadership is not merely the responsibility of keeping everything on the road. It is the privilege of helping people feel that they are going somewhere.

The Shelby eventually disappears into the distance, but the feeling stays behind:

There is more to leadership than managing the journey. Every now and then, you have to make people believe in the road ahead. And a little excitement remains - he now knows you grew up driving a stick shift and he said next time, I’m behind the wheel…. watch out world… I like to go fast.

I have answered approximately 147 questions. Made decisions about things ranging from genuinely important to why on earth am I the person deciding this? I have solved problems, responded thoughtfully, listened carefully, encouraged people, navigated something mildly ridiculous, and probably reheated the same cup of coffee twice without ever actually drinking it.  Sometimes this even happens while walking an 18 hole golf course behind my daughter because I don’t want to miss a minute of this little time I have to experience her first 18 years of life.  Huh.  18 years. 18 holes.  That’s a future Substack…I digress…

All day long,  I have tried to be patient.  Professional.  Measured.  Kind.  Frankly, sometimes I can be delightful. Haha. 😂 

Then I come home.  Apparently there is a finite daily allotment of emotional intelligence, and I occasionally use all of mine before reaching my own driveway.

One of my kids says something completely reasonable like:  “Mom, can you help me with something?”  And I say:  “Of COURSE!”

Except it sounds nothing like of course.  It sounds more like:  “OF. COURSE. WHAT A DELIGHTFUL ADDITION TO MY EVENING.” Technically, I said the right words.  My tone, however, suggested that her request may be the final event that causes civilization as we know it to collapse.

Welcome home, kids.  Mom’s here.

The People We Love Get the Leftovers

I don’t think we talk about this enough in leadership.  We spend so much of ourselves during the day being what other people need us to be.  We listen.  We regulate our reactions.  We answer the question we’ve already answered three times.  We take the unexpected phone call.  We choose our words carefully when someone is upset.

We walk into a meeting frustrated and consciously decide not to bring that frustration into the room.  We give people grace.  We say, “No problem.”  And mean it.  Mostly.

Then we get home having successfully given our best patience, empathy, emotional regulation, and pleasant facial expressions to practically everyone we encountered.

And the people we love most get whatever is left in the tank.  Which, some days, is approximately three tablespoons.  That isn’t because we love them less.  It’s probably because home is where we finally feel safe enough to stop holding everything together.

But understanding why it happens doesn’t mean we shouldn’t pay attention to it.  Because our kids don’t experience our intentions. They experience us.

And unfortunately, they are also exceptionally skilled at detecting tone.  You can say:  “That’s great!”  And your daughter can immediately identify whether you meant:

That is actually great!

or

I am saying the words “that’s great” because I understand the basic social conventions of motherhood.  There is no fooling them.  They have known us their entire lives.  They know every eyebrow.

And Then It’s 10:30

And sometimes it isn’t one of those little moments.  Sometimes it matters.  It’s 10:30 at night.  You’re tired.  Not normal tired.  The kind of tired where your body is technically awake but several major departments of your brain have already shut down for the evening.  

Customer service is closed.  Emotional processing is operating on reduced hours.  Enthusiasm apparently left the building around 9:47.

And then your oldest daughter comes to you.  Actually calls you from upstairs.  You are numbly folding laundry half asleep.  You can’t find your phone…finally resort to answering on your watch…. “Hello?  I’m on my watch.” As though announcing that is something monumental. 

She has something she wants to tell you.   Something important.  Something she has probably been thinking about before she decided to tell you.  

Not necessarily something that would make the national news.  But something really  important to her.  And if you’re the parent of an older kid, you know what an honor that actually is.  Because they don’t have to tell us everything anymore.  We no longer receive the preschooler’s complete daily briefing:  Emma had applesauce. Mrs. Johnson wore different shoes. Somebody cried at recess. Also I found a rock.

Older kids choose what pieces of their lives they bring home.  They choose what they tell us.  They choose when to open the door.  And when they do, that’s a privilege.  So at 10:30, my daughter opened the door. WIDE OPEN.

And I wish I had walked through it better. 😞. I said the right things.  Technically.  I listened.  Technically.  I responded.  Technically.

If this were a multiple-choice parenting test, I probably could have argued for partial credit.  But parenting isn’t graded on a rubric.  My tone didn’t match my words.  My face didn’t communicate what my heart actually felt.  There wasn’t enough curiosity. There wasn’t enough understanding.  And there definitely wasn’t enough enthusiasm.

There wasn’t enough:  “Wait—really? Tell me more.”  There wasn’t enough:  “I can see why this matters to you. I am so excited for you.”  There wasn’t enough of the mom she deserved in that moment.  And she felt it.

Worse, it hurt her.  That’s the part that stays with you.

When You Hear Yourself 30 Seconds Too Late

There is a particularly annoying feature of motherhood where occasionally your wisdom arrives approximately thirty seconds after you actually needed it.  Very useful.

Thanks, brain.  Suddenly you replay the conversation.  You hear your own voice differently.  You see her face.

And you realize that while you thought you were communicating:  “I’m listening.”

What she may have heard was:  “This isn’t that important to me.”  And those are two very different messages.  Especially when the truth is exactly the opposite.

Because inside my head, there is so much more.  I love that you told me.  I love that you still want to tell me things.  I care about the things that make you excited.  I want to know what you’re thinking.  I want to know what you’re dreaming about.  I want to be the person you come to.  But she can’t hear what’s inside my head.  

I even tried to fix it and come back in the room.   But there really aren’t second chances in these moments. 

Which is honestly unfortunate because the version of me inside my head handles these situations beautifully.  In my head I am insightful.  Warm.  Patient.  Possibly award-winning.

Actual 10:30 p.m. me apparently has the emotional range of a baked potato.  And that night, the words coming out of my mouth didn’t give my daughter what she deserved. Damn, I regret that.

Intent Doesn’t Get the Final Vote

This is where leadership and parenting collide pretty hard.  As leaders, we talk all the time about impact versus intent.  We know that saying, “That’s not what I meant,” doesn’t magically erase how something landed.

Yet at home, it is incredibly tempting.  “I was exited.”  “I was just tired.”  “I did say I was happy for you.”  “I didn’t mean it that way.”  All of those things might be true.  And none of them changes the fact that it hurt.

My exhaustion explains my response.  It doesn’t excuse it.  

And I don’t want my daughter to have to translate my love through my exhaustion.  I don’t want her to have to think:  Mom sounded completely uninterested, but I’m sure deep down she cares.

No.  She deserves to hear it.  She deserves to see it.  And sometimes she deserves a mom who can muster a little more than:  “Oh. That’s good.”  Good grief, woman.  AWe can do better.

The Fix Isn’t Pretending

Now, I don’t think the solution is becoming some wildly enthusiastic version of ourselves at all hours of the day.

Nobody needs 10:30 p.m. Mom suddenly sitting upright shouting:

“OH MY GOSH! AMAZING! TELL ME EVERYTHING!”

That would probably result in my children quietly backing out of the room and checking whether I had accidentally taken someone else’s medication.  Kids can spot fake enthusiasm from another ZIP code anyway.

The answer is probably simpler.  Be honest.  “This sounds important, and I want to hear it. I’m tired, so if my face isn’t cooperating with my heart right now, please know that’s me—not you.”

Or:

“I want to give this the attention it deserves. Can we talk now and you give me a little grace, or can we pick it up tomorrow when my brain has rebooted?”  Because our kids don’t need a performance.  They need to know that our exhaustion isn’t about them.  And they need to know that what matters to them matters to us.

There Is Always the Do-Over

Fortunately, I believe strongly in a sophisticated parenting technique I like to call:

The Do-Over.  Sometimes I hear myself respond and immediately think:  Well, that sounded terrible.  

My first instinct might be to defend myself.  “I wasn’t being crabby.”  “I said I was happy for you.”  “You took that wrong.”  But none of those things repairs anything.

So instead:

“Hang on. That came out wrong. Let me try again.”  And sometimes the do-over doesn’t happen immediately.  Sometimes you go to bed.  And then you lie there thinking about it.  Because apparently that’s when the brain decides to reopen for business.  Fantastic.  And you realize you need to go back.

So maybe the next day you say:  “I’ve been thinking about what you told me last night. You were sharing something important with me, and I didn’t respond the way I wish I had. I said some of the right things, but my tone didn’t show you how much I cared. You deserved more understanding and more enthusiasm from me. I’m sorry.”

And then maybe the most important part:  “Tell me again.”

I love those three words.  Tell me again.  They mean:  Your story is worth hearing twice.  Your excitement deserves another chance.  I care enough to come back. You are worth me getting this right.

We can’t undo every moment.  PM But we can return to them.

Kids Don’t Schedule Vulnerability

I’ve started thinking that one of the hardest lol parts of being both a leader and a parent is that there is no convenient scheduling system for the important stuff.

No Outlook invitation arrives:

10:30–10:47 p.m. — Daughter Will Share Something Meaningful. Please Arrive Emotionally Available.  That would be incredibly helpful.  I would accept.  I would prepare.  I might even bring snacks.

But kids don’t schedule vulnerability.  They come when they’re ready.  Sometimes that’s in the car.  Sometimes it’s while you’re cooking.  Sometimes it’s when you’re halfway out the door.  And apparently sometimes it’s at 10:30 p.m. when you have approximately one functioning brain cell remaining and it is primarily responsible for remembering to plug in your phone.  It’s inconvenient.  And it’s sacred.

Maybe we can’t always be perfectly ready for those moments.  But we can get better at recognizing them.

Oh.

This is one of those moments.  Put the phone down.  Turn toward her.  Look at her face.  Ask one more question.  Match her joy.  And remember that while you’ve had a thousand things happen today, she chose this thing to bring to you.

Save Something for Home

And maybe that’s the lesson I needed at 10:30 on an ordinary night when I was running on fumes and my daughter still had something important left to say.  The people we love don’t always bring us their important things during office hours.

They bring them when we’re brushing our teeth.  When we’ve already mentally clocked out.  When we’re wearing pajamas that should never be seen by another human being and wondering whether eating a handful of peanuts over the sink counts as dinner.

They bring them when they’re ready.  And sometimes, if we’re lucky, they bring them to us.  That night, my daughter did.

And I wish I had understood in the moment what I understand now: she wasn’t asking me to solve anything. She wasn’t even asking for very much.  She was handing me something that mattered to her and hoping I would hold it like it mattered to me, too.

I said the right words.  But I didn’t hold it very well. At all.And I hate that.

So maybe good parenting isn’t getting every 10:30 p.m. moment right. Maybe it’s being willing to go back when you get one wrong. To knock on the bedroom door. To sit on the edge of the bed. To say, “I’ve been thinking about what you told me, and I don’t think I gave it the response it deserved.”

Because our kids deserve to know something else, too:

Their parents will mess up.

We’ll be tired. We’ll miss the moment. We’ll use the correct words with completely incorrect punctuation. We’ll occasionally respond to Very Important News with the emotional enthusiasm of someone confirming a dental appointment.

But we can come back.

And sweetheart, if you ever happen to read this one, this is me coming back.

What you told me mattered.

You mattered.

I wish my face, my voice, and my tired 10:30 p.m. brain had done a better job of telling you that.  Next time, I hope I get the moment right.  But if I don’t, I hope you keep telling me anyway.  Because no matter how long the day has been, I never want you to stop bringing me the things that matter to you.

I’ll work on staying awake for them.  And maybe keeping some emergency peanuts nearby…maybe some coffee…

There is a very particular kind of energy that exists at the beginning of a school year.  You can feel it before you even walk through the doors.

Freshly waxed floors. New bulletin boards. Teachers carrying iced coffee like it is a medical necessity. Kids wearing new shoes they absolutely cannot get dirty because Mom or Dad said so. Administrators already wondering why the copier is making that noise.

And parents?  Parents are peeling out of the BBB drop-off lane like they just won parole.

Welcome back to school.

There really is nothing quite like it.  For those of us who have spent our careers in education, the beginning of a school year still carries a little magic. No matter how many first days we’ve experienced, there is something hopeful about starting over.

New students. New staff. New opportunities.  A clean slate.  And, because it is 2026, probably at least one new software platform nobody remembers having a say in agreeing to purchase.  And one big software platform the whole state is feverishly trying to implement together… while simultaneously explaining that change to parents. 

Please Be Patient. Everyone Is Learning Something.

We talk a lot about giving students grace at the beginning of the year.  We should.  But maybe we need to extend a little of that grace to the adults, too.

The teacher who is learning 127 names.  The secretary who has answered the same transportation question 42 times before 9:15 a.m.  The principal who is trying to remember which door is supposed to be locked, which bus is late, and why a third grader is standing in the office holding one shoe.

The superintendent who is trying to understand a new state requirement that apparently arrived sometime between Friday afternoon and Monday morning.

The parent who cannot find the login.  The student who cannot find the classroom.  And the technology director who has been asked 73 times:  “Did you change my password?” “ No. You forgot your password.  Again”

Patience may be one of the most important things we bring into a new school year.  Because almost everyone is carrying a little uncertainty.  Even the people who look like they have it completely together.

And Then There Is the Software

Every school year seems to begin with at least one sentence that strikes fear into the hearts of educators everywhere:

“We’ve transitioned to a new system.”

Wonderful.  Just when you finally figured out where the button was in the old one.  Now the attendance system looks different. The grading platform has been updated. The parent portal has moved. The state reporting system has a new interface. Something that used to require three clicks now requires nine, a verification code, your mother’s maiden name, and possibly a small blood sample.  Oh and did I forget to mention it means the parents interface changes too.  Hurrah! 

Someone inevitably says:  “It’s actually much more intuitive.”  That person should probably leave the room.

Eventually, we will figure it out.  We always do.

Until then, screenshot everything, write down your passwords somewhere secure, be nice to your technology people, and remember that no child’s educational future will be destroyed because you couldn’t find the “submit” button on August 27.

Meanwhile, Parents Everywhere Are Rejoicing

We should acknowledge another important stakeholder group during this sacred season:

Parents.  They love their children deeply.They have also spent approximately three months hearing:  “There’s nothing to eat.”  “I’m bored.”  “Can you take me somewhere?”  “Can someone come over?”  “Why can’t I stay up until 2:00?”  By mid-August, some parents aren’t dropping their children off at school.  They’re making a handoff.

Godspeed, educators.  We’ll see you at 3:30.  And honestly, there is something wonderful about that, too.  Schools restore rhythm to family life. Bedtimes return. Activities begin. Backpacks appear by the door. Dinner conversations include stories about teachers, friends, recess, practices, assignments, and the occasionally dramatic injustice of assigned seating.

Our schools don’t simply educate children.  They become part of the rhythm of a community.

Don’t Let the Checklist Steal the Joy

This is the part I hope we remember.

The beginning of the school year comes with so much stuff.  Trainings.  Schedules.  Compliance.  Transportation.  Enrollment.  IEPs.  504s.  Lunch accounts.  Staffing.  Budgets.  Evaluations.  Technology.  Policies.  Meetings about meetings we apparently need to have before the other meetings.  

All of it matters.  But none of it is the reason we came into education.

The kids are.

And sometimes, in our rush to get everything ready for kids, we forget to actually enjoy them when they arrive.

Look up.  Walk the hallway.  Stand outside during arrival.  Visit the kindergarten room when they are figuring out how lunch works.  Watch the high school seniors walk in knowing this is their last first day.  Notice the nervous new teacher whose classroom is beautiful but whose stomach is doing backflips.  Find the kid standing slightly outside the group.  Say hello.  Learn a name.  Laugh.

Those moments matter more than we sometimes realize.

Remember: Not Everyone Loves the First Day

There is another side to the excitement of a new school year.  For some children, school is the safest and most predictable place in their lives.  For others, walking through those doors takes tremendous courage.

Some are worried about friendships.  Some are worried about academics.  Some don’t have the new shoes.  Some didn’t have the idyllic summer.

Some teachers are beginning the year while carrying grief, divorce, financial worries, aging parents, struggling children, or challenges nobody at school knows about.

Some administrators are already exhausted before the first bell rings.

So as we celebrate the excitement, let’s also pay attention.  Leadership at the beginning of the year isn’t only about creating energy.  Sometimes it is about noticing who doesn’t have any.

Perfection Is Not the Goal

Every August, we put enormous pressure on ourselves to have everything exactly right.  It won’t be.  A bus will be late.  A schedule will be wrong.  Someone will be assigned to the wrong lunch.  The Wi-Fi will choose the precise moment 400 students need it to reconsider its purpose in life.

A parent will be frustrated.  A teacher will forget something.  An administrator will make a decision they wish they could redo.

And school will still happen.  Children will learn.  Teachers will teach.  Relationships will form.  Teams will become teams.  Communities will settle into their rhythms.

By October, we will barely remember most of the things that felt like emergencies in August.  That perspective is worth carrying with us.

So, Here We Go

Another school year.  Another chance to get it right — and occasionally get it spectacularly wrong and try again tomorrow.

Let’s bring excitement.  Let’s bring patience.  Let’s bring high expectations without forgetting grace.  Let’s help the new person.  Let’s thank the veteran.  Let’s be kind to the secretary.  Let’s protect the custodian at all costs.  Let’s appreciate the bus drivers who somehow manage dozens of children while operating a 30,000-pound vehicle.

Let’s give parents a little grace when they’re worried.

Let’s laugh when we can.

Let’s remember that the technology will eventually work.  Probably.

And when the days become busy — because they will — let’s remember what an extraordinary privilege it is to do this work.

Every morning, families across our communities send us the people they love most in the world.  They trust us with their children.  Not their test scores.  Not their attendance percentages.  Not their data points.  Their children.  That is an enormous responsibility.  But it is also an incredible gift.

So welcome back, educators.  Take a deep breath. Find your sense of humor. Reset your password.  And when those doors open, look up from the checklist long enough to see the reason we’re all here walking through them.

Here’s to a great school year.

Superintendent Bootcamp is in two days. Even the name feels unnecessarily aggressive.

“Superintendent Bootcamp” sounds less like professional development and more like I should arrive before sunrise carrying a tractor tire while someone with a whistle asks whether I am truly committed to improving student outcomes.

I assume there will be coffee. There had better be coffee.

At the moment, however, I am not at bootcamp. I am at work with my nine-year-old daughter in the breakroom, 22 days away from the first day of school and wishing it were tomorrow. She has reached the stage of summer when unrestricted freedom has lost some of its shine.

The snacks are no longer surprising. The days are suspiciously long. The adults keep working even though she is available to do something fun. She has worn all the outfits, watched all the things, and asked “What are we doing today?” with the persistence of a congressional investigator.

She is ready for school. Not in the vague way adults say children are “ready for school.” She is ready now. Today. Hand her a backpack and point her toward a classroom. If the district opened early, she would report for duty with sharpened pencils and no questions asked. My older daughter is six days away from golf practice and chomping at the bit. Six days is apparently an unreasonable bureaucratic delay.

She is mentally on the course already. Her body remains trapped here with the rest of us, in this strange late-summer waiting room where everyone is ready for the next thing except the calendar. So one daughter wants school to start tomorrow. The other wants golf to start yesterday. I want football season immediately—but would also like summer to slow down.

This is not hypocrisy. This is parenting in August.

I want Friday night lights, cooler air, sweatshirts, marching bands, and the sound of a crowd reacting to something that appeared completely obvious from the bleachers. I want fall. I also want someone to put July back. Just one week of it. Maybe two. Nothing extravagant. I would use the time responsibly, by which I mean I would stare at my list of summer projects, feel overwhelmed, and complete none of them in a slightly more relaxed setting - maybe back to Maine? Maybe golfing along the east coast again?

Approximately 100 summer projects are waiting at our house. I say “approximately” because counting them would itself become a summer project, and we are not accepting new applications at this time. Some are legitimate projects. Others are ordinary household tasks that have remained undone long enough to acquire project status. Replacing a lightbulb is a task. Thinking about replacing it for six weeks, buying the wrong bulb, leaving that bulb on the counter, and repeatedly saying, “I need to deal with that,” is a project.

We have projects inside, projects outside, and projects whose exact location is currently unknown. There are things to paint, things to organize, things to repair, and things we bought specifically to help organize the other things. Those organizational supplies are not currently organized. They know what they did.

Every spring, summer stretches before us like an endless golden opportunity. This will be the summer, we think. We will tackle the house. We will make memories. We will sit outside. We will take little trips. We will clean that closet. We will become the sort of family that casually eats dinner on the patio beneath tasteful string lights.

Then August arrives, kicks open the door, and says, “You have three weeks left, one hundred projects, two children with conflicting countdowns, and Superintendent Bootcamp on Thursday. Best of luck.” Suddenly every weekend is already occupied. Every evening has been promised to three different things. The calendar looks less like a planning tool and more like evidence collected during an investigation.

And somehow I am supposed to be digging out from a mountain of work. The advice for this is always very sensible. Prioritize. Delegate. Focus on what matters.

Thank you. Brilliant.

I will delegate the garage to the nine-year-old. She can begin immediately after she finishes reorganizing the breakroom and opening school 22 days early.

I will prioritize the yard, the laundry, Superintendent Bootcamp, family time, football anticipation, golf preparation, professional responsibilities, back-to-school planning, and sitting quietly for five consecutive minutes.

The system is flawless. What I actually want is not better productivity. I want time to obey contradictory instructions. Hurry up, because my girls are excited. Slow down, because they are growing. Bring me football season, but do not take away this summer. Let golf practice begin, but give me more days before the school-year machinery starts running at full speed. Get me through Superintendent Bootcamp, but perhaps do not make me attend Superintendent Bootcamp?…wait…I host Superintendent Bootcamp. Attendance is not an option! HAHA

That last request is not contradictory. It is simply reasonable.

There is something especially strange about being a parent during the weeks before school begins. Children measure time by anticipation. Twenty-two days until school. Six days until golf. Two days until Mom goes to professional-development basic training and emerges able to construct a district improvement plan using only a paper clip, a strategic framework, and the phrase “continuous improvement.”

Adults measure the same period by loss. Only 22 days left. Only six days before practice begins. Only two days before the next responsibility arrives.

The children are pulling the calendar forward while I have both feet planted, trying to hold it back. They see beginnings. I see beginnings too—but I also see how quickly beginnings become seasons, seasons become years, and nine-year-olds stop spending summer days in the breakroom with their moms.

Even when they spend those days asking for snacks every 11 minutes. Especially then, probably. I know I am supposed to appreciate it. That instruction appears frequently in parenting: “Enjoy every minute.” This is usually said by someone who is not currently being asked to locate a specific water bottle that has not been seen since June.

I cannot enjoy every minute. Some minutes are terrible. I’ve had a lot of terrible minutes lately too. Some minutes involve wet towels on furniture. Some minutes involve a child announcing, from three rooms away, that she cannot find something while making no detectable effort to look for it.

Some minutes are meetings about future meetings. Some minutes are Superintendent Bootcamp. I would, however, like to notice more of them. That feels possible.

I can notice my nine-year-old in the breakroom, impatient for school and still happy to spend the day near me.

I can notice my older daughter’s excitement about golf before practices, schedules, scores, frustrations, and early alarms complicate it.

I can enjoy their anticipation without demanding that I share their desire to fast-forward.

I can want football weather while admitting that the grass still smells like summer.

I can accept that the house will not be transformed before school begins.

The projects will wait. They have demonstrated extraordinary skill in that area. Maybe digging out is not always about getting everything done.

Maybe good leadership—and decent parenting, and basic human survival—sometimes means deciding which things will remain unfinished without being allowed to ruin the things already happening.

The garage can be messy while my daughter tells me, again, exactly how many days remain until school. The yard can be imperfect while the older one prepares for golf. The inbox can contain unanswered messages while I look forward to football and try not to wish away the heat too aggressively. The lightbulb can remain on the counter. At this point, it is family.

I will go to and lead Superintendent Bootcamp. I will learn important things. I will take responsible notes. I will try not to laugh when someone says, “Let’s do a quick icebreaker,” because no icebreaker in the history of education has ever been quick. I will actually attempt to dissuade anyone who wants to do an icebreaker - I like every good Superintendent hates icebreakers. I will return to the mountain of work and begin digging.

But I am going to try to stop occasionally and look around. Because this ridiculous moment—two girls waiting impatiently for what comes next, a house full of unfinished plans, football on the horizon, and a mother trying to lead while quietly bargaining with the passage of time—is not an interruption of life.

It is life. Messy, impatient, overbooked life. Life with 100 projects, no free weekends, and at least one organizational bin that has become part of the clutter it was purchased to solve. Life moving much too slowly for my daughters and much too quickly for me.

So yes, I would like fall to hurry up. And I would like summer to last longer. And I would like someone else to finish the house projects.

And if Superintendent Bootcamp includes actual push-ups, I am resigning.

We’ve had an amazing week.

The kind of week where, if I tried to plan it intentionally, I probably would have screwed it up. We golfed in Hilton Head. We golfed at Duke University, where we happened to play with the CFO of Duke—which we did not discover until approximately the 17th hole. Seventeen holes. Apparently none of us are particularly good at networking. BTW - this CFO is one of the kindest and most wonderful women I’ve met.

We just knew we were golfing with really great people. We laughed, talked, hit some good shots and plenty of questionable ones (especially me), and somewhere along the way Aliya shot a personal best at Duke. Let me say that again - at Duke University. Because apparently when you’re going to have a great round, you might as well have it somewhere memorable.

Then came Washington, D.C. And the Holocaust Museum.

There are experiences that make you think about your life, and then there are experiences that rearrange the scale you use to measure it. You walk into a place like that carrying whatever frustrations, disappointments, hurts, and inconveniences you’ve collected lately. And then you learn again what real pain looks like. Real fear. Real loss. Real courage. You leave a little quieter. Maybe a little more grateful. Hopefully a little more aware of how important it is to stand up for people when standing up for them actually costs something.

Then we headed north.

Old Orchard Beach. Cold Atlantic water. And I mean cold. The kind of cold where your body briefly questions every decision you have made since birth.e

But we went in anyway.

And here is another important leadership lesson nobody is going to put in a textbook: Snuggles are just better when you’re cold. Maybe that’s true about life, too. Sometimes comfort means more after discomfort. Warmth means more after cold. People mean more when you realize you won’t always have them beside you.

Which brings me to where I am tonight.

Saying goodbye.

Not the dramatic kind. Nobody is disappearing. Phones still work. Flights exist. Group texts will undoubtedly continue. But this one feels different.

Kirk & Nan

Rob & Angie

Jon

And others who have been doing this work alongside me for so long that I’m not sure I realized how much I leaned on them.

That’s the strange thing about professional friendships. You don’t necessarily call someone every day and say, “Thank goodness you are here.” You just know they are. They’re at the conference. They’re on the call. They’re sitting three chairs down. They know the history behind the history. They remember the thing that happened ten years ago that explains why we do the thing we do today. And when something gets hard, you can look across a room and catch their eye.

Sometimes that’s all you need. A look that says: Yep. I see it too.

Or: Don’t say it.

Or occasionally: For the love of God, Aimee, definitely do not say it. (Shut up - my friends know this is the one used most often.) :)

Those people become the quiet supports in a career. And then, one by one, they retire. They move on. They begin the next chapter they have absolutely earned. And suddenly you look around the room and realize something mildly horrifying.

You’re the old one.

Okay, perhaps “experienced” is a better leadership term. But still. I looked around and realized that it’s Lisa, Tina, Eileen, Paul, G.A, and me (and I’m sure others I’ve missed here). We’re the veterans now.

When exactly did that happen? I’m pretty sure five minutes ago I was the person looking around for someone who knew what we were supposed to do. Now apparently people may be looking at us. That realization carries some weight. Because for years, there have been people ahead of me. Not necessarily above me. Ahead of me. People who had already walked through the difficult season I was entering. People who understood the politics. The personalities. The history. The unwritten rules. People I could quietly lean against when the wind picked up.

And now many of them are gone.

Which leaves a question I haven’t been able to shake:

How do you lead when the people you quietly leaned on aren’t there anymore? Maybe this is one of the transitions nobody really prepares us for. Early in our careers, leadership is about learning. Then it becomes about doing. Then, somewhere along the way, it becomes about carrying.

Carrying history. Carrying institutional memory. Carrying relationships. Carrying people through hard seasons. And eventually you realize you have become the post at the end of the fence. For years, I thought leadership meant becoming strong enough that you didn’t need to lean on anyone.

I don’t believe that anymore. The strongest leaders I know have always leaned. On colleagues. On friends. On mentors. On people who understood without requiring the entire backstory. The difference now is that some of us have become the people others are leaning on.

And maybe that’s what the next season of leadership asks of us. Not to pretend we have all the answers. Not to become harder. Not to suddenly transform into the wise old people in the room who speak exclusively in profound sentences.

God help us all if that happens.

Maybe our job is simply to become steady. To remember what the people before us taught us. To tell the stories that shouldn’t be forgotten. To make the phone call. To notice the person standing at the edge of the room. To offer the same quiet reassurance someone once offered us. To look across the table when things get complicated and give someone else that look:

Yep. I see it too.

Because a fence post isn’t valuable because it stands alone.

It’s valuable because it gives everything connected to it something solid to hold onto. And maybe that’s what this season is. Standing a little steadier. Holding a little more. And making sure the people coming behind us have somewhere to lean.

This week gave me golf and laughter.

A personal best at Duke. Perspective in Washington, D.C. Freezing water in Maine. Cold snuggles. And some really difficult goodbyes.

I started the week thinking about how lucky we were to have these experiences. I’m ending it thinking about how lucky I’ve been to have these people. Kirk. Rob. Jon. And so many others.

Thank you for being fence posts when I didn’t even realize I was leaning.

Lisa, Tina, Eileen, Paul, G.A — Looks like it’s our turn.

I’m not entirely sure when we became the veterans. But here we are. So I guess we plant our feet. We remember who held the fence before us. Because when the wind blows - it is the fence post that holds the entire line together.

And then there are work conferences in Orlando.

These are not the same thing.

Nobody sees “Conference Location: Orlando, Florida” and thinks, Wonderful. I look forward to sitting inside a windowless ballroom for nine consecutive hours.

We will sit in the ballroom. We will learn things. We will network. We will take notes.We will nod thoughtfully when someone says something particularly insightful. We may even come home with a tote bag we did not need and approximately 14 pens that will somehow disappear before we unpack. We are professionals.

But there are also roller coasters.

And I believe good leadership requires us to explore all available professional development opportunities.

Sometimes professional development has breakout sessions. Sometimes it goes 70 miles per hour and drops you from a height that makes you briefly reconsider every decision you have made since birth.

It’s called balance. Look it up.

I’ve written before that I’m not entirely convinced work-life balance exists. Most of the time, it feels less like balance and more like trying to carry six grocery bags, a purse, a laptop, and a Stanley cup into the house in one trip because heaven forbid we make two.

You lean. You adjust. You almost drop something. You refuse help. You whisper words that probably shouldn’t be included in a leadership book. And somehow, you make it through the door. That’s balance.

So when work takes you to Orlando, you do the work. You show up. You listen. You learn. You have important conversations. You do all the things responsible adults and organizational leaders are supposed to do.

And then you change your shoes. Because we have rides to ride. There is something incredibly freeing about screaming on a roller coaster.

I spend a significant portion of my professional life trying to remain composed. Leaders are supposed to be calm. Thoughtful. Measured. Strategic.

Apparently, running down the hallway yelling, “YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME,” is frowned upon in most professional settings. Roller coasters, however, encourage this behavior.

On a roller coaster, no one cares what your title is. No one cares how many people you supervise. No one cares how many emails are sitting unanswered in your inbox. Once that restraint clicks into place, we are all equals. Just a bunch of people who paid an alarming amount of money to be terrified on purpose.

And I love it. I love the screams. I love the laughter. I love that split second at the top of the hill when you look at the person next to you and both realize you have made a terrible mistake. Or when your kids convince you to sit in the front row of the ride and your life passes before your eyes And I love that approximately 30 seconds after nearly losing consciousness, someone inevitably says: “Again?”

Of course, theme parks also provide excellent leadership training in patience and conflict resolution. Because there are lines.

So. Many. Lines. You wait 45 minutes. You move six feet. You wait another 20 minutes.

You become deeply invested in the lives of complete strangers standing near you. You know which child is hungry. Which marriage is currently under stress. Which family has lost their sunscreen. And which person desperately needs to reconsider whatever they ate for lunch.

Because sometimes leadership means tolerating people. Even people with flatulence. Especially people with flatulence.

There are moments in life when your only option is to extend grace, turn your head slightly, and hope the line starts moving.

These are the leadership skills no one teaches you in graduate school. Patience. Resilience. Situational awareness. Strategic positioning upwind. Orlando teaches them all.

Then there is the 1 a.m. ice cream.

Now, I am a grown woman. I understand nutrition. I understand sleep. I understand that nothing good generally happens when someone says, “You know what we need right now?” after midnight and you realize there is still another hour in the late night Magic kingdom event and 3 rides we haven’t done yet.

But when it’s all done and the rides are over, sometimes you need ice cream at 1 a.m. Not because you’re hungry. Because you’re together. Because nobody wants the day to end quite yet. Because you’re tired in that wonderful way that comes from squeezing every last possible drop out of a day.

So you get the ice cream. You sit there exhausted. You laugh about something that probably isn’t actually that funny. And for a little while, you forget about tomorrow.

I spend a lot of my life being responsible. Most leaders do. We are responsible for organizations. Budgets. People. Decisions. Problems we didn’t create but somehow inherited. Emails that begin with, “I just wanted to make you aware…” Which, for the record, has never once been followed by anything I actually wanted to be made aware of.

And when you’re also a parent, there is an entirely separate list of responsibilities running in the background of your brain at all times. Did everyone eat? Where is Lizzy?Does everyone have what they need? Did I remember the tickets? The sunscreen? The charger? The other charger? The charger for the charger?

Parenting is essentially being the unpaid logistics coordinator for a small, highly opinionated organization. And then something happens that catches you completely off guard.

My older daughter told me how much she appreciated this trip. Just like that. A simple comment. And suddenly, everything else got quiet. Because our kids grow up while we’re busy. They grow up while we’re answering emails. While we’re sitting in meetings. While we’re solving problems. While we’re trying to do meaningful work and make a difference. They grow up while we’re leading.

And one day you realize the little kid who once needed you to hold her hand everywhere is now standing beside you, old enough to tell you that she sees what you did. That she knows you tried. That she appreciates the experience you gave her.

And somehow, that hits harder than any roller coaster drop ever could. The conference was important. The work matters. I believe deeply in what I do. But years from now, I probably won’t remember every session I attended. I won’t remember what was written on slide 37 of the keynote. I may not even remember what was in that conference tote bag.

But I will remember this. The screaming. The laughing. The exhaustion. The 1 a.m. ice cream. The ridiculous conversations in line. The unfortunate digestive choices of strangers. And my daughter telling me she appreciated the trip.

Because while we are busy building organizations, leading teams, and trying to make a difference in the world, we are also building a life.

And the people we love are building their memories of us. I hope my daughters remember that I worked hard. I hope they know I cared deeply about the work I was called to do. I hope they saw me try to make things better.

But I also hope they remember that I knew when to let the fun happen. That when the opportunity presented itself, I rode the roller coaster. I screamed right alongside them. I stayed up too late. I bought the 1 a.m. ice cream. I laughed until I cried. I stood patiently in the lines. Mostly. I strategically repositioned myself when necessary.

And for a few days in Orlando, I remembered something every leader needs to remember from time to time: You can take your work seriously without taking yourself seriously all the time. You can care deeply about your calling and still have fun.You can lead and laugh. You can work and play. And sometimes, the very best thing you can do is put down the laptop, change your shoes, and get on the roller coaster.

Because someday, the conference will be over. The emails will still be there.

But your kids won’t always be standing beside you in line, waiting to ride.

Mine, however, weighs about 55 pounds, has the attention span of a toddler after a Pixy Stix, and firmly believes the geese in our back yard are part of an organized crime ring.

His name is Rudy. He’s a Goldendoodle.

And while he has never attended a conference, earned a doctorate, or built a strategic plan, I’m becoming increasingly convinced he understands people better than most executives. Which is mildly irritating.

Lesson One: Be ridiculously excited to see people.

I can leave the house to check the mail. Forty-three seconds later, I walk back in. You would think I just returned from climbing Mount Everest.

His tail is wagging so hard it looks medically unsafe. His entire back end is involved in the celebration. Somewhere in his mind, this is the greatest reunion in human history. He literally has to stand with a paw on my foot in the hopes I won’t move.

Now compare that to how we sometimes greet people at work. “Morning.” Without looking up from our laptop. Imagine if people felt as genuinely welcomed by us as Rudy makes every Amazon delivery driver feel.

Leadership isn’t only about vision. Sometimes it’s about making people feel like they matter the second they walk into the room.

Lesson Two: Everybody deserves a second chance.

Unless you’re a squirrel or a goose. Then apparently you’ve made permanent life choices. But for humans? Rudy is incredibly forgiving. Step on his paw accidentally? Thirty seconds later, he’s bringing you a tennis ball.

Leave him home longer than you intended? He’s forgotten before you’ve taken your shoes off. Meanwhile, some of us are still irritated about an email someone sent in 2021. Leadership gets lighter when we stop carrying every offense like it’s another committee assignment.

Lesson Three: You don’t have to fix everything.

One of the hardest parts of leadership is believing every problem belongs to you. Someone is frustrated. Someone’s marriage is struggling. The budget is upside down. The legislature did… well… legislative things. The board has questions. Parents have concerns. Staff members are exhausted. You desperately want to make everything okay.

Rudy has a different strategy. When life is hard, he doesn’t offer advice. He doesn’t tell me to make a pros-and-cons list. He certainly doesn’t ask if I’ve aligned my response to the strategic plan. He simply walks over, leans all 55 pounds directly against my legs, sighs dramatically, and stays.

That’s it. And somehow…. It helps. Presence has a funny way of accomplishing what words often cannot.

The older I get, the more I believe leaders overestimate their advice and underestimate their availability.

Lesson Four: Chase the ball.

Not every ball. Let’s be adults here. But the ball. The one that matters.

Rudy has never once looked at a tennis ball and said, “You know, I should probably form a committee to discuss whether pursuing this opportunity aligns with my long-term vision.” No. Ball. Go.

There is probably a lesson there for those of us who spend six weeks discussing something that could have been solved with one uncomfortable phone call.

Leadership occasionally requires analysis. It also requires movement. Sometimes we’re waiting until we feel completely confident. Here’s a secret. You won’t. Go anyway.

Lesson Five: Nobody cares what your title is.

Rudy has absolutely no idea I’m an executive director. He has no idea that I have my doctorate. He has never once asked how membership renewals are going. He doesn’t know if the legislature behaved. He couldn’t care less whether the board unanimously approved the budget.

He has exactly three questions. Are you home? Are we going outside? Is there any chance you’re eating cheese?

Honestly…. Those aren’t terrible priorities. Because here’s what I’ve learned after years in education. Nobody remembers every memo. Nobody remembers every strategic objective. Very few people remember the perfectly crafted PowerPoint.

They remember how you made them feel., They remember whether you listened. Whether you believed in them. Whether you stayed calm when everyone else panicked. Whether your office felt safe to walk into.

That’s leadership. Everything else is mostly paperwork.

The Final Lesson

Every afternoon, when I pull into the driveway, Rudy is already watching.

Not because he needs something - he’s just watching for me to come home. Because he’s simply happy I’m home. There is something profoundly grounding about being loved by someone who couldn’t care less about your résumé.

Leadership has a sneaky way of convincing us that our worth is tied to our productivity. That if we answer one more email…. Solve one more crisis…. Attend one more meeting…. Then maybe we’ve earned the right to rest.

Rudy disagrees. To him, I’m enough before I answer the email. Before I fix the budget. Before I solve the problem. Before I accomplish anything. And maybe that’s the greatest leadership lesson of all. The best leaders create that same feeling for others. They make people believe their value isn’t found in flawless performance or perfect results. It’s found in the simple truth that they matter.

Now if you’ll excuse me…

Someone has dropped a slobbery tennis ball in my lap. Apparently, my leadership coaching session isn’t over yet.

The weather finally cooperates. The lake is calling. The flowers need watering. The grill is begging to be lit. Kids suddenly remember that you promised them a bike ride, a trip for ice cream, or one afternoon where your phone stays in your pocket.

And your inbox? It apparently didn’t get the memo that it’s summer.

Conference planning doesn’t stop because it’s 82 degrees and sunny. Budgets don’t magically balance themselves. Personnel issues don’t disappear because fireworks are on sale. Deadlines don’t politely wait until after the holiday.

Somewhere around Wednesday of Fourth of July week, every leader asks the same question: “Am I failing at work…or am I failing my family?”

The answer is usually…Neither. And somehow, both.

We’ve been sold this beautiful image of “work-life balance” like it’s some perfectly level seesaw. Put in eight productive hours. Close the laptop. Walk into a Terry Redlin painting where everyone smiles over grilled burgers and sparklers and a Golden Retriever is sleeping at your feet.

I’ve been a leader long enough to know that’s not how this works.

Balance isn’t fifty-fifty. Balance is knowing that today might be 70%-30%. Tomorrow might be 30%-70%.

Some weeks are 90%-10% because your organization genuinely needs you. Other weeks, your daughter asks if you’ll come watch her hit golf balls or your other daughter wants you to throw softball in the yard, or your family wants one evening on the lake or by the fire pit, and suddenly your carefully color-coded calendar loses to a sunset. As it should!

I’ve answered emails from the bleachers during basketball games or walking 20 yards behind my daughter at a golf meet. I’ve finished presentations after everyone else went to bed. I’ve taken work calls while secretly wishing I were the one jumping off the dock instead of discussing spreadsheets.

And I’ve also closed my laptop in the middle of the afternoon because I realized the work would still be there tomorrow—but my kids wouldn’t always be asking me to come outside.

That’s not imbalance. That’s leadership. Not leadership at work. Leadership at life.

The people who matter most don’t usually remember whether your email went out at 2:00 or 4:30. They remember that you came. That you watched. That you laughed. That you put your phone down long enough to actually be present.

Ironically, I’ve found something else to be true. The leaders who occasionally leave work early to make memories often become better leaders.

Because they come back rested. More patient. More creative. Less resentful. More human.

We ask our employees to take care of themselves. We encourage our teachers to spend time with family. We tell our teams that relationships matter. Then we quietly convince ourselves that those same rules don’t apply to us. What a terrible example that sets.

Leadership isn’t proving that you can outwork everyone. It’s modeling a life worth following.

So if you’re reading this during Fourth of July week while mentally juggling committee reports, payroll, strategic plans, conference agendas, grocery lists, sunscreen, and whether there’s enough propane in the grill…or maybe you just got off of the statewide coffee chat with me…

Welcome to leadership. Not the polished version from the keynote speeches. The real version. The one where you answer two emails from the picnic table. Then close the computer.

Watch the fireworks. Laugh a little louder than usual. Because the work will still be waiting on Monday.

Your children won’t always be waiting at the back door asking, “Are you coming?” And one day, you’ll realize they stopped asking.

If balance exists at all, maybe it isn’t found in perfectly dividing our hours. Maybe it’s found in being fully present wherever we’ve chosen to be.

This week, choose well.

The inbox can wait a little longer. Summer can’t.

Happy 4th of July to the leaders I care for every day - and your families.

As if the title comes with a magic switch that allows you to neatly fold your own grief, tuck it into a desk drawer, smile brightly at 8:00 a.m., and spend the rest of the day solving everyone else’s problems.

I have looked for that switch.

It doesn’t exist.

Some mornings, leadership feels like standing in front of a room full of people while your own heart is quietly breaking behind your ribs. You answer emails. You make decisions. You encourage your team. You celebrate someone else’s success.

And somewhere in between all of that, you’re wondering how you’re going to make it through the next hour.

No one teaches you this part of leadership.

Business books love to talk about resilience. They celebrate grit. They tell stories about overcoming adversity—usually after the adversity is over and neatly packaged into an inspirational keynote.

They rarely talk about Monday. The Monday where your personal life is unraveling, but your staff still needs direction and your presence.

The Monday where your phone holds news you’d rather not read, but your calendar is still full.

The Monday where all you really want to do is crawl under a blanket, disappear from the world, and let someone else be responsible for everything.

But you don’t. Not because you’re strong every minute. Not because you’re fearless. Because people are counting on you.

Here’s what I’ve learned. Leadership isn’t pretending you aren’t hurting. It’s deciding that your pain doesn’t get to choose your character.

Some days, all I can give is 70 percent. Sometimes it’s 50. Some days I stare into space and those days it feels like about 12. Those are the days I stop trying to be extraordinary.

I just try to be kind. I answer one more email. I make one more phone call. I check on one more colleague. I smile at one more person. I text someone Happy Birthday

Not because I’m overflowing. Because I know what it feels like to need someone else to show up.

Pain has an interesting way of making us self-protective. It whispers that we should withdraw. Cancel the meeting. Skip the event. Stop answering texts. Build walls until we feel safe again.

Sometimes rest is exactly what’s needed. But isolation is a clever liar. It convinces us that because we’re hurting, we have nothing left to offer.

The truth is often the opposite.

Some of the most compassionate leaders I know became that way because life broke their hearts first. They know how to notice the quiet person in the meeting. They recognize exhaustion behind a smile. They hear the hesitation in someone’s voice because they’ve spoken with that same hesitation themselves.

Pain doesn’t always make us weaker. Handled well, it can make us gentler. More patient. More present. More willing to extend grace because we desperately needed it ourselves.

I don’t know what chapter you’re living right now. Maybe everything is wonderful.

Maybe you’re carrying something so heavy that simply getting out of bed deserves applause.

If that’s you, hear this: You do not have to be fearless to lead. You do not have to have every answer. You do not have to wait until your heart heals before your life has purpose again.

Sometimes leadership looks less like charging up a mountain with a flag and more like quietly putting one foot in front of the other while carrying a weight no one else can see.

And maybe that’s the kind of leadership people remember most.

Not because you were invincible. But because you were human. Because you kept showing up.

Because even while your own heart was hurting…

…you still found room to care for someone else’s.

And maybe that is leadership at its very best.

Leadership books spend a lot of time talking about vision, strategic planning, communication, culture, and influence.

They spend remarkably little time talking about what to do when you fall down in front of hundreds of people.

This seems like a significant oversight.

Recently, I was reflecting on a growing younger superintendent I’ve had the privilege of watching grow over the years. Like many leaders, he didn’t begin as the polished, vastly more confident version of himself that people see today. His early years were a little scrambled. He was learning on the fly, figuring things out, making mistakes, and trying to find his footing.

But somewhere along the way, something clicked.

Good mentors helped shape him. Experience refined him. He learned the technical side of leadership. He learned the people side of leadership. Frankly he is still learning. What is really neat is that eventually, he figured out how to pair solid leadership skills with something that was already uniquely his: his personality.

That’s when he became truly something fun to watch.

Now, I wasn’t personally present for every legendary moment. Some of them have reached me through videos, photos, and the kind of stories that take on a life of their own.

I’ve seen the video of him umpiring a baseball game and ending up on the ground in a way that suggested gravity had filed a personal complaint against him.

I’ve seen footage of him participating in an inflatable Halloween costume race where athletic performance was clearly secondary to entertainment value.

And I’ve watched him ride an imaginary horse at an event with the kind of enthusiasm that made everyone around him laugh.

And every single time, people loved it.

Not because he was trying to be the center of attention. Not because he was trying to be funny. But because he wasn’t afraid to be himself.

Truthfully, though, I can’t throw too many stones.

Some of you may remember when years ago, when we hosted our first conference at the Bismarck Event Center, I was standing on stage welcoming attendees. I was doing all the things leaders do—making announcements, greeting guests, trying to appear reasonably competent.

Then I stepped a little too far to the side. Ok maybe it was a lot too far.

Unfortunately, there was no more stage.

One second I was speaking.

The next second I was gone.

Just completely disappeared off the edge.

I landed in a heap by the stairs to the stage in front of a room full of educational leaders.

Now, when something like that happens, there are really only two options.

You can crawl into a hole and hope everyone somehow missed it. (I am not going to lie here…that was really my preferable go-to option.)

Or you can stand up, take a bow, and move on. A little more self-deprecating, but truly the better option.

So that’s exactly what I did.

I stood up. I bowed. The audience laughed. I laughed. And the conference continued.

Nobody died. Nobody wrote a newspaper article. Nobody revoked my leadership credentials.

Life moved on.

And honestly, maybe that’s one of the most important leadership lessons I’ve ever learned.

If you can’t laugh at yourself, what exactly are you supposed to do next?

Leadership is full of stumbles. Sometimes they’re strategic mistakes. Sometimes they’re communication mistakes. Sometimes they’re decisions you wish you could take back.

And sometimes they’re actual stumbles.

The leaders people trust most are rarely the ones who never make mistakes. They’re the ones who make mistakes and don’t pretend otherwise.

They’re the ones who can say, “Well, that happened.” They’re the ones who can laugh, learn, adjust, and keep moving forward.

Humor creates connection. Humility creates trust. And the ability to laugh at yourself creates psychological safety for everyone around you.

When leaders take themselves too seriously, everyone else becomes nervous. People become afraid to take risks. Afraid to ask questions. Afraid to admit mistakes.

But when leaders show they’re human, something remarkable happens. Everyone else relaxes.

Teachers become more willing to try new things. Principals become more willing to admit challenges. Teams become more willing to innovate because they know perfection isn’t the expectation.

Authenticity becomes contagious.

That’s why I think one of the most underrated leadership superpowers is the ability to laugh with others—and especially at yourself.

Not because leadership isn’t serious. Leadership is incredibly serious work. But serious work doesn’t require serious people every minute of every day.

In fact, some of the very best leaders I’ve known are the ones who can walk into a room, make people smile, build relationships, and remind everyone that we’re all just humans doing our best.

That’s certainly true of the superintendent I’ve been thinking about. I’ve watched him grow into a remarkable leader. Not because he became someone different, but because he became more comfortable being exactly who he is.

He learned and is still learning the craft of leadership. He embraced mentorship. He gained confidence. But perhaps his greatest strength is that he never lost the ability to laugh.

In a profession where everyone feels pressure to appear perfect, he gives people permission to be real.

And that’s a gift.

Because schools don’t need leaders who pretend they have all the answers. They need leaders who are willing to get back up after they fall down, dust themselves off, laugh a little, and keep moving forward.

Whether that’s behind home plate. Inside an inflatable costume. Or on an imaginary horse. Or occasionally off the side of a stage. Bad ankles and all. (Can I blame the high heels?)

Here is the thing to take home… sometimes the ability to laugh at yourself isn’t a distraction from leadership.

Sometimes it’s the very thing that makes people want to follow you.

Now, there are certain moments in life when you know you’re about to make a bad decision. This was one of them.

Not a dangerous decision. Not a life-altering decision. Just the kind of decision that guarantees you’ll be standing in your kitchen at midnight wondering how things escalated so quickly.

What followed was less “baking a cake” and more “engaging in a battle of wills with a bowl of egg whites.” The recipe called for meringue. Simple enough.

Egg whites. Sugar. Cream of tartar. Vanilla. Beat until stiff peaks form.

Those three little words—stiff peaks form—are carrying an awful lot of confidence for something that took us three attempts and nearly the entire lifespan of a KitchenAid mixer.

The first batch never had a chance. It got foamy. It got fluffy. It looked promising. Then it just sat there like a middle school student who forgot the assignment was due today. No peaks. No structure. No progress. Just a bowl of sweet, stubborn disappointment. Into the garbage it went.

The second batch was greeted with optimism. Surely we had learned something. Surely we had identified the problem. Surely we were smarter than a recipe. The second batch quickly reminded us that confidence and competence are not the same thing. Into the garbage it went.

At this point, any rational person would have called it a night. A rational person would have gone to bed. A rational person would have bought a cake tomorrow.

But somewhere between the first failure and the second failure, the mission changed. This was no longer about cake. It was about principle. It was about refusing to let a bowl of egg whites win. The third batch became personal.

The KitchenAid ran. And ran. And ran. I began having the same concerns for that mixer that I sometimes have for school leaders in April. You’ve got one more push left in you. I think. Maybe. Hopefully.

The motor was warm. The mixer sounded tired. Frankly, I sounded tired. My daughter sounded tired. Even my dog Rudy seemed concerned about the direction of the operation.

And yet nobody quit. Nobody suggested we save it for tomorrow. Nobody admitted defeat.

At exactly 12:09 a.m., it happened. The whisk came up. And there they were.

Stiff peaks. Beautiful. Magnificent. Perfect.

Three hours earlier, I would not have believed that a grown woman could feel genuine joy over the structural integrity of whipped egg whites. Yet there we were, celebrating as if we’d just won a state championship.

And somewhere in the middle of the laughter, I realized this is exactly why leadership is so exhausting. And so rewarding. Most people think leadership is about vision. Or strategy. Or decision-making.

And it is.

But a surprising amount of leadership is simply refusing to quit after the second failed batch.

It’s keeping people moving when nobody can yet see the outcome. It’s staying calm when the plan isn’t working. It’s making adjustments and then trying again. Protecting the mixer. Protecting the team. And believing the effort is still worth it long after everyone is tired.

Whether you’re leading a school district, an organization, a family, or a kitchen project that has gotten wildly out of hand, success rarely happens on the first attempt. Sometimes not on the second, either.

The people who ultimately succeed aren’t always the smartest or most talented. They’re often just the ones willing to keep mixing when everyone else would have gone to bed.

Tonight wasn’t really about a cake. And honestly, it wasn’t even about the meringue. It was about laughter after a long day that started with work, continued through Lizzy’s softball game, included Buffalo Wild Wings somewhere in the middle, and should have ended hours before it actually did.

It was about choosing connection over efficiency.

As leaders, we’re constantly trying to optimize everything. We manage calendars, budgets, meetings, strategic plans, staffing shortages, legislative sessions, and a hundred competing priorities. We spend our days deciding what deserves our time and what doesn’t.

But some of life’s best investments make absolutely no sense on paper.

No reasonable productivity expert would recommend throwing away two batches of meringue, nearly burning out a KitchenAid mixer, and staying up until after midnight on a Monday night.

And yet, here we are.

The stiff peaks finally appeared at 12:09 a.m.

The cake was finally finished at 12:24.

The kitchen looked like we’d hosted a baking competition for people with no supervision.

Rudy was exhausted. I was exhausted. My daughter was exhausted. But we were also laughing. Years from now, I doubt either of us will remember how the cake tasted (although it was amazing - if you need a recipe for Smore’s Cake with stiff peaks, you know who to go to).

But I think we’ll remember the battle with the meringue. We’ll remember refusing to quit after two failures. We’ll remember cheering over egg whites as though we’d just won a championship. We’ll remember a random Monday night in June when sleep lost and connection won.

And maybe that’s the leadership lesson.

Not every worthwhile investment produces an immediate return. Sometimes the most important things we build aren’t strategic plans, organizations, or initiatives.

Sometimes it’s simply trust. Connection. Belonging.

The quiet understanding that when life gets hard, frustrating, messy, or unexpectedly complicated, there are people who will stand beside you and keep mixing.

Even after midnight.

Especially after midnight.

School funding. Personnel. Strategic planning. Legislative priorities. Crisis management.

Turns out, leadership is actually about making approximately 47,000 decisions before noon and then staring blankly into your refrigerator at 6:15 p.m. wondering if cereal counts as a balanced dinner.

Spoiler alert: some nights, it absolutely does.

The older I get—and the longer I spend in leadership—the more I’ve realized that exhaustion isn’t always about working hard. Sometimes it’s about deciding hard. Every decision takes a tiny bite out of your mental energy.

What should I prioritize today? Should I respond to that email now or later? Do I call this superintendent back today or tomorrow? Should I intervene or let the team work through it? Do I need to attend that meeting? Is this issue urgent or just loud?

By lunchtime, you’ve already made hundreds of choices. Most aren’t life-changing, but together they create an invisible mental tax.

Then you leave work.

And somehow the decisions keep coming.

What’s for dinner? Should I go for a walk? Do I need groceries? Should my youngest be able to ride her scooter to her friend’s house? Should I clean out that closet? Should I start that load of laundry? Should I watch TV? Should I read? Should I finally clean out that junk drawer? Should I listen to an audiobook? And if so…which audiobook?

The audiobook decision alone can consume more energy than some state legislative hearings.

You spend twenty minutes reading reviews. “This book changed my life.” “This book was terrible.” “This narrator is amazing.” “This narrator sounds like a depressed GPS.”

Eventually, you choose nothing and listen to the same ‘sounds like a cult’ podcast you’ve been listening to for three years.

Leadership exhaustion isn’t always dramatic. It’s often death by a thousand tiny choices. Researchers call it decision fatigue.

I call it standing in Target holding two nearly identical bottles of shampoo and feeling irrationally angry.

At some point, your brain simply says: “I’m out.”

That’s when we start making questionable choices. We order takeout for the third night in a row. We avoid difficult conversations. We postpone decisions that need attention. We scroll social media while wondering why we’re tired. We stare into space pretending we’re thinking when we’re actually buffering.

Leaders are especially vulnerable because people bring us decisions all day long.

Some are important. Many are not. Yet each one demands attention.

One of the best leaders I ever worked with had a simple philosophy: “If someone else can make the decision, let them.” At the time I thought he was being lazy. Now I think he was a genius.

The strongest leaders don’t make every decision. They create environments where good decisions happen without them. That’s leadership maturity. Because if your team needs you to decide everything, eventually everyone loses. Including you.

I’ve also learned that routines are underrated. There is a reason successful people wear the same styles, eat similar breakfasts, and establish habits. They’re not boring. They’re conserving decision-making energy. Every routine removes one more decision from the day.

My morning coffee doesn’t require a committee meeting. My walking route doesn’t need strategic planning. My favorite restaurants don’t require a feasibility study. The fewer decisions I have to make about the little things, the more energy I have for the things that actually matter.

Of course, knowing this doesn’t stop me from spending fifteen minutes deciding whether I should go for a walk.

The internal conversation usually sounds something like this:

“You should walk.” “But it’s hot.” “You’ll feel better.” “But the couch looks supportive.” “You need exercise.” “You know what else requires energy? Exercise.” “My back is killing me - that might make it worse.”

Leadership, parenting, relationships, and life all require thousands of decisions. The goal isn’t to eliminate them. The goal is to recognize that your brain has limits.

Some days you’re not lazy. You’re not unmotivated. You’re simply decision-tired. There’s a difference.

So if tonight you find yourself staring into the refrigerator, unable to determine what constitutes dinner, give yourself a little grace. You’ve probably already solved bigger problems today than whatever is sitting in your vegetable drawer.

And if all else fails? Have the cereal.

At least that’s one decision you’ve already made.

Maybe it’s because you finally slowed down enough to notice things again.

The little things.
The funny things.
The important things.

Lessons learned from this trip:

Even 1/8 of an inch matters when your daughter is standing at the entrance to a roller coaster and doesn’t quite meet the height requirement. It will absolutely break her heart. And somehow yours too. Because as parents, we always wish we could magically fix disappointment — even when the rules are the rules.

What counts as “cold” in Las Vegas is apparently completely different than what counts as cold in North Dakota. Native Las Vegans were bundled up in sweatshirts while we happily soaked up the “cool” sunshine like it was the first warm day after a prairie winter.

The Wizard of Oz at the Sphere? Absolutely epic. One of those experiences where technology, nostalgia, storytelling, and imagination collide in a way that reminds you humans are capable of creating breathtaking things.

And today? Lunch by the pool.
Hot dogs. A veggie tray. Fruit.

Objectively simple food. But sitting in the sun beside your kids while nobody is rushing anywhere somehow turns ordinary food into something that tastes gourmet. Maybe peace is the secret ingredient we’re all missing most of the time.

One of my favorite moments of the trip happened quietly. I listened to Aliya reading two of my Substack posts out loud to her sister and boyfriend. She was proud of me.

As parents, there are moments that hit you harder than big accomplishments ever could. That was one of them. Not because of the writing itself — but because your child seeing value in your voice feels deeply personal. Like maybe all those years of pouring yourself into work, parenting, leadership, and survival actually left behind something meaningful.

And maybe that’s the biggest lesson from this trip.

The world did not fall apart because I slowed down.

I wasn’t constantly worrying.
I wasn’t trying to manage everyone’s emotions.
I wasn’t exhausting myself trying to please people.

While I checked in with work, I allowed myself to truly be present.

Aside from normal sibling irritation, there was mostly harmony. Laughter. Rest. Yes….Presence.

It reminded me of something leaders forget far too often:

Balance is not weakness. It is survival.

Leadership has a way of convincing us that exhaustion is proof of commitment. That if we care enough, we should always be available, always solving, always carrying the emotional weight of everyone around us.

But human beings are not designed to live at full emotional throttle forever.

Without moments of stillness, joy, family, sunlight, laughter, and perspective — leaders eventually become empty versions of themselves trying to pour into everyone else.

And empty people cannot lead well for long.

Sometimes the most productive thing a leader can do is sit poolside eating a hot dog while their kids laugh nearby and the world waits for a minute.

The emails will still be there.
The problems will still be there.
But hopefully… so will you.

Not because it’s over.
Not even close.

You still have twenty hours of driving waiting for you on the way home.

But suddenly, everyone becomes aware that the clock is ticking.

The vacation no longer feels endless.

And honestly, I think that’s the exact moment vacations become emotional.

The first few days are pure survival and adrenaline. Twenty hours in a car with children should qualify as an Olympic endurance sport. There are snacks everywhere, somebody always has to go to the bathroom immediately after the last exit, and at least once during the drive, you wonder whether siblings have always been this psychologically committed to irritating each other.

By day three or four, though, something softer settles in.

You have rhythms.

Morning coffee on the balcony (with a side of La Croix).
Pool towels are drying everywhere.
Inside jokes nobody outside the family would understand.
Late suppers cooked in tiny condo kitchens with one questionable frying pan and a spatula that bends under pressure. You start to see that “that is too much food, Mom, you brought way too much” is actually about 1/2 gone as planned.

The kids alternate between laughing hysterically together and fighting with the intensity of international diplomacy negotiations gone wrong. Chirades isn’t just a game; it is a professional “on stage and acting” moment that is so funny, I’m fairly sure I had tears running down my face as I laughed.

And then, there are absolutely moments where you consider whether forcing siblings to sit face-to-face and compliment each other for three uninterrupted hours could count as innovative parenting.

“Tell your sister something kind.”

“I already did yesterday.”

“Excellent. Dig deeper.”

And somehow, mixed into all of this chaos, is overwhelming joy.

Not polished joy…Not social media joy…Real joy.

The kind where everyone is slightly sunburned, over-tired, mildly annoyed, and deeply connected all at the same time.

Then comes the moment.

Maybe it happens sitting by the pool watching your kids swim at dusk.
Maybe it hits while making supper.
Maybe it comes late at night after everyone else falls asleep.

You realize: there are now fewer vacation days ahead than behind.

And even though you still have time left, your heart starts trying to hold onto everything tighter.

You linger longer at the pool.
You say yes to ice cream.
You let bedtime slide.
You stay up talking.
You mentally photograph moments because deep down you already know this version of your family will never exist in exactly this way again.

Your kids won’t always be these ages.
They won’t always need this kind of togetherness.
One day, the traditions quietly become memories.

And that realization carries both gratitude and grief at the exact same time.

Oddly enough, I think this has everything to do with leadership.

Because leadership is not really about control.

It’s about creating experiences people carry with them long after the moment passes.

Someone planned this trip.
Someone packed the bags.
Someone drove twenty exhausting hours.
Someone grocery shopped.
Someone kept cooking meals after long days in the sun.
Someone kept saying, “Let’s make this fun.”

That is leadership.

Leadership often looks less like authority and more like stewardship.

It is emotional labor… Patience… Intentionality.
Creating environments where people feel safe, connected, valued, and joyful.

The funny thing about leadership is that when it’s done well, the people benefiting often don’t fully see all the work holding it together.

Kids don’t think about the planning.
Students don’t always see the late nights.
Staff members don’t always see the weight leaders carry quietly.

They just experience the outcome: security, belonging, memories, joy.

The best leaders understand something important:
People rarely remember perfection.

They remember how it felt to be around you.

That’s true in schools.
That’s true in families.
That’s true in life.

Maybe that’s why the halfway point of vacation feels so emotional.

Because somewhere between the cannonballs in the pool, the sibling arguments, the exhaustion, the laughter, and the late-night talks, you realize you are actively living the moments you will someday miss terribly.

And maybe leadership, at its best, is simply understanding that while you still have the chance.

Not the curated Instagram version with matching Stanley cups and smiling children framed by a mountain sunset. I mean the real version. The one where you’ve spent three straight days planning and packing, cleaning the house “just enough,” grocery shopping like you’re preparing for an apocalyptic event, locating chargers no one has seen since Christmas, and trying to mentally hold together seventeen different timelines at once, including leaving work in a place you feel safe to walk away for a few days.

And then — because fate has a dark sense of humor — your sciatic nerve decides this is the exact moment to stage a hostile takeover of your body.

Not a little soreness…..Not “I slept funny.”

I’m talking about the kind of sciatic pain where your leg feels like it’s plugged into an electrical socket while simultaneously being stabbed by a tiny angry woodland creature. The kind where sitting hurts, standing hurts, walking hurts, and existing itself begins to feel unnecessarily aggressive.

Yesterday, walking from my car to the grocery store felt like a half-marathon that required a figure 4 yoga pose about every 5 steps and an elderly gentleman saying - “boy, I get that kind of back pain”.

Which OF COURSE means you now get to spend 21 hours over two days in a vehicle with your children while your nervous system whispers: “Hey Aimee, remember now…No sudden movements. No loud noises. No sibling conflict. No breathing near me.” Do not pass GO do not collect $200.

Unfortunately, children on road trips specialize in all four that your system wants to rebel on. And this is where leadership enters the chat - we know this - everything in life has a leadership lesson if you’re looking for it.

Because somewhere around Hour 3 — after someone spills a drink, somebody else claims they’re being looked at “weird,” and you’ve heard “SHE’S TOUCHING ME” enough times to qualify as psychological warfare — you realize something important:

Pain destroys tolerance.

Physical pain. Emotional pain. Mental exhaustion. Stress overload. All of it shrinks our capacity. Even good people become shorter. Less patient. More reactive. Less generous in interpretation.

You stop assuming positive intent because your body and brain are too busy surviving. Honestly, that might be one of the most important leadership lessons nobody talks about.

Every organization has people operating with invisible sciatic pain.

Not literal sciatica necessarily — although at my age, honestly, probably some of that too — but unseen burdens people carry into every interaction:

• exhaustion

• grief

• stress

• financial pressure

• marriage struggles

• burnout

• health issues

• caring for aging parents

• loneliness

• fear

• overwhelm

And then we wonder why people snap in meetings -why teams become reactive - why tiny problems become giant emotional events - and why patience disappears.

Most conflict isn’t actually about the spilled drink. It’s about the inflamed nerve underneath it all.

Great leaders learn to recognize this before they escalate things unnecessarily.

That does not mean allowing dysfunction. It does not mean avoiding accountability.
It does not mean everyone gets to behave badly because life is hard.

But it does mean wise leaders pause long enough to ask: “Is this person difficult… or are they hurting?” There’s a difference.

Some of the best leaders I’ve ever known possess an almost supernatural ability to lower the emotional temperature in the room. They don’t absorb every frustration as a personal attack.

They recognize when people are operating at the edge of their tolerance window. They understand that sometimes the most important thing a leader can do is create steadiness when everybody else feels inflamed.

Ironically, parenting on road trips teaches this better than most leadership books.

Because eventually, somewhere between the gas station snacks, the fifth bathroom stop, and the argument over whose elbow crossed the invisible seat line, you realize your family doesn’t actually need a perfect vacation.

They need a regulated adult - a calm center.

Someone who can laugh eventually — even while limping into a Starbucks like an injured pioneer woman searching for ibuprofen and iced coffee, all while wishing Starbucks could make a miehl as good as Missouri River Coffee Company and that their coffee included a potent nerve blocker.

And maybe that’s true in leadership too. People don’t need perfection from us nearly as much as they need emotional steadiness.

They need leaders who understand that everyone is carrying something.

Even if it’s invisible.

Even if it looks like bickering.

Even if it sounds like complaining.

Even if it’s disguised as resistance.

Sometimes it’s just pain talking.

And sometimes the wisest thing we can do is respond accordingly.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go stretch in a parking lot while my children argue about music selection and what movie is next, like teen and tweener hostage negotiators.

There are many things nobody prepares you for when your parents grow older.

Nobody talks about the emotional whiplash of becoming the adult in the relationship while still somehow feeling twelve years old the second your mother or father gives you “the look.”

Nobody explains how one day you’ll be discussing Medicaid paperwork, prescription refill timing, and bowel regularity… while also being scolded because you moved “the good scissors.”

And absolutely nobody warns you about the jelly packets.

The jelly packets deserve their own chapter in the handbook of aging parents.

At my parents’ assisted living home dining room, there exists an underground economy built entirely on condiments. Specifically, grape jelly. Strawberry if times are hard.

Every meal ends the same way:
Mom casually slides two jelly packets into her cardigan pocket like she’s running a tiny black-market operation out of Assisted Living Unit B. If not wearing said cardigan, she slips it into the chair of my Dad’s walker. That, along with copious amounts of flavored coffee creamers (which, to be fair, at least they use the creamer. And if they don’t think anyone notices, they do. The staff gets quite a chuckle over the heist.

“Mom,” I whisper, trying not to alert the other residents. “Why are you taking the jelly?”

“I might need it later.”

Now, to be clear, my parents eat toast constantly. CONSTANTLY. But not once in their lives that I can remember, outside of a rare breakfast at Perkins, have they actually used one of those tiny dining-room jelly packets.

Because my sister makes homemade grape jelly every year — my mother’s absolute favorite — and I occasionally bring over chokecherry jelly. I bake them fresh homemade bread every week.

Their room is basically stocked like a tiny prairie farmhouse bakery.

There is literally no circumstance under which either of them would willingly open institutional grape jelly.

And yet… the packets disappear and are smuggled out anyway.

Not for eating.
Not for saving.
Possibly just for the thrill.

The truly remarkable part is the confidence.

There is no shame. No hesitation. Just a smooth, practiced motion. Napkin. Spoon. Jelly. Pocket. Honestly, if she’d applied this level of stealth and determination to corporate America in the 1980s, she could’ve run a Fortune 500 company.

And Dad?
Dad acts like the getaway driver.

He watches quietly from his chair while pretending not to notice. Then later, when we get back to the room, he’ll ask in a low voice:
“Did your mother get any extra butter?”

It’s like they’re planning a prison break. The thing is… I laugh about it now because if I don’t, I’ll cry about it later.

Aging is cruel in such deeply ordinary ways.

It’s not always the dramatic moments that break your heart. Sometimes it’s realizing your once fiercely independent parents now get excited about pudding cups and Bingo prizes. Sometimes it’s hearing your dad repeat the same story four times because he can’t remember he already told it. Sometimes it’s watching your mother carefully fold napkins into her purse because somewhere deep inside her Depression-era instincts still whisper: Save things. You may need them.

And maybe that’s what gets me the most.

What looks silly on the outside is often rooted in survival on the inside.

Their generation saved everything because there were times they truly had nothing.
They reused foil. Washed Ziploc bags. Stored Cool Whip containers like heirlooms. Kept coffee cans full of screws no human being would ever use again. Made sure we didn’t tear the Christmas wrap and carefully folded it for use again next year.

And now they save jelly.

Because maybe part of growing older is trying to hold onto control in tiny ways when so much else has been taken from you.

So yes, I tease my mother about her condiment smuggling ring.
I roll my eyes when Dad insists on bringing home six extra crackers “just in case.”
I laugh when they argue over whose coffee cup is whose, like two exhausted Walmart shoppers fighting over carts.

But underneath all of it is this overwhelming tenderness.

Because these are the people who once carried me.
Who stayed up with fevers.
Who sat through terrible middle school concerts.
Who somehow paid bills, bought groceries, and made Christmas magical even when money was tight.

Who has been married for nearly 69 years.

And now life has shifted.
Now I carry things for them.
Now I will explain the paperwork.
Now I repeat myself gently.
Now I drive.

It’s humbling and heartbreaking and holy all at once.

The truth is, growing older is absurd for everyone involved.

The parents don’t know how to stop being parents.
The kids don’t know how to become caretakers.
And somewhere in the middle, everybody’s stealing jelly packets, pretending things are still normal.

Maybe humor is the mercy God gives us for seasons like this.

Because if you can laugh together — really laugh — then for a moment the fear loosens its grip.
For a moment, they are still themselves.
For a moment, you are still their child.
For a moment, the room feels lighter.

And honestly?
If civilization collapses someday, I know exactly whose nursing home room I’m heading to first.

My mother will have enough jelly stored away to barter for gasoline to run my generator I haven’t purchased yet…..

Every parent in America suddenly becomes a hybrid of therapist, Uber driver, laundromat operator, and emotional support animal. The calendar looks like it was assembled by a caffeinated raccoon: awards day, color run, golf banquet, awards with names spelled wrong, “wear neon day,” field day, locker cleanout, final exams, teacher gifts, graduation parties, and somehow—despite all evidence to the contrary—your child still informing you at 9:42 p.m. that they need poster board “by tomorrow morning.”

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Why is a poster board always a hostage negotiation?

And the children themselves? They’re feral by May.

No one is learning anything anymore. Let’s just tell the truth. Teachers are surviving on caffeine and the thin hope of summer break. Students are watching movies with vaguely educational themes while pretending to work on iPad assignments named things like “Final Reflection Packet.” Even the principals have that thousand-yard stare that says, “If one more parent emails me about parking for graduation, I may disappear into the Badlands.”

And yet… underneath all the chaos, there’s this ache.

Because every May, while we’re busy counting down to summer, something else is quietly counting down too.

Time.

I caught myself doing the math the other day, which frankly should be illegal for mothers in May.

My oldest daughter only has two more school years left.

Two.

That means only three more summers before she spreads her wings and leaves for college.

Three summers.

Three more chances for late-night Dairy Queen runs. Three more lake weekends where towels somehow never dry. Three more years of hearing her thunder down the stairs looking for her phone charger or car keys, she swears she plugged in “right there.” Three more years of watching her little sister orbit around her like she hung the moon.

And then one day, she’ll pack up her room in that weirdly efficient way teenagers do when they’re emotionally avoiding things.

Her sister will stand in the doorway pretending she’s fine.

I probably won’t be.

Nobody warns you that parenting is basically a long series of beautiful heartbreaks disguised as ordinary Tuesdays.

You spend their entire childhood exhausted and overwhelmed. Then, suddenly, you’d give anything to relive one random Tuesday from 2017 when they were little and sticky and asking for seventeen snacks an hour.

When they still climbed into your lap without asking.

When summer meant sidewalk chalk and sprinkler runs and exhausted little bodies asleep in the backseat after softball games.

Now summer means schedules. Jobs. Practices. Camps. College visits are looming on the horizon like emotional jump scares.

And still, somehow, hope arrives with May too.

Because summer still holds magic.

There will still be laughter echoing across patios. Sunburned shoulders after long lake days. Country songs playing too loudly. Golf carts. Fireflies. Fast food eaten in swimsuits because nobody wants to go inside. Late sunsets and conversations that somehow get deeper when they happen in lawn chairs. Guitar by the firepit.

There will still be moments when your kids forget to be “too old” and become little again for half a second.

And maybe that’s the sacred thing about the end of the school year.

It reminds us that life keeps moving whether we’re emotionally prepared or not.

The grades change.
The backpacks get bigger.
The hugs get shorter.
The summers get fewer.

But the love somehow keeps growing anyway.

So here’s to the final days of school.

To exhausted educators crawling heroically toward summer.
To parents signing seventeen permission slips with one dying pen.
To seniors standing on the edge of everything.
To younger siblings, quietly realizing childhood doesn’t last forever.
To mothers sitting in parking lots trying not to cry after awards ceremonies.

And to summer—coming in loud and golden and hopeful as ever.

May we soak up every last minute of it before another school year slips quietly into memory.

Something shifts this time of year.

As we move closer to the June primaries, the tone changes. Social media fills up. Campaign messaging sharpens. And too often, schools and educators become an easy target.

Lately, there’s been a troubling pattern: candidates and public voices grabbing negative headlines from other states—incidents that happened somewhere else, under entirely different systems—and using them to suggest that North Dakota schools are somehow on the same path.

Let’s call that what it is.

It’s not just misleading. It’s damaging.

And during a campaign, it’s especially concerning.

Because here’s what gets lost in all of that noise:

North Dakota students are not struggling in some hidden crisis.

North Dakota public school students are among the best in the country. And so are the educators who teach them and the administrators who lead them.

On the National Assessment of Educational Progress—the Nation’s Report Card and the only truly apples-to-apples comparison across all 50 states—

North Dakota ranks:

• #2 in the nation in 4th-grade math

• #2 in the nation in 8th-grade math

That’s not spin. That’s not interpretation. That’s a national, standardized measure that no state controls.

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Our kids are outperforming the vast majority of the country.

Let that sink in for a minute.

While some candidates are posting alarming stories from other states, North Dakota students are quietly—consistently—delivering top-tier results.

And it doesn’t stop there:

• 4th-grade reading scores are above the national average

• 8th-grade reading scores are at the national average

• North Dakota has been a top-performing state on NAEP for decades

• Even through post-pandemic disruption, our students maintained above-average performance across every category tested

So when someone takes a headline from another state and tries to imply that North Dakota schools are failing…

They’re not just stretching the truth. They’re ignoring it.

And here’s where it becomes even more concerning.

Because many of the same voices pointing to “low proficiency” rates in North Dakota are leaving out one critical piece of context:

Our standards are higher.

If you’ve ever wondered why North Dakota’s state assessment (NDA+) might show lower “proficiency” percentages than other states, here’s the simplest way to understand it:

It’s a field goal.

Most states are kicking from 25 yards.

North Dakota moved the ball back to 35—and we’re kicking into the wind.

Same kicker. Same strength. Higher expectation.

So yes—other states might report 60–70% of students as “proficient,” while North Dakota reports closer to 40%.

But that doesn’t mean their students know more.

It means we define “proficient” more honestly.

And here’s the proof:

When measured on NAEP—the national gold standard—our students rank at the very top. That’s not failure. That’s rigor paired with results.

So when candidates ignore that context and use out-of-state failures or misinterpreted data to criticize North Dakota schools, it raises a deeper question:

Is this about understanding education—or about scoring political points?

Because leadership requires more than repeating the loudest narrative.

It requires discipline. Context. And a commitment to truth.

Our educators are not abstract figures in a national debate. They are your neighbors. They are raising families here. Coaching teams. Showing up early and staying late. Doing the work that doesn’t make headlines—but changes lives.

And our students? They are achieving at levels that should make this state proud.

So when they are casually lumped into narratives built from failures hundreds or thousands of miles away, it doesn’t just misrepresent reality—it diminishes the work of kids who are doing exactly what we ask of them.

And it chips away at something we cannot afford to lose:

Trust.

There is a responsible way to talk about education during a campaign.

If there are real concerns within North Dakota schools, name them—specifically and honestly.

If there are lessons from other states, bring them forward with context—not fear.

And if something has nothing to do with North Dakota?

Have the discipline—and the integrity—to leave it there.

Because campaign season is not a free pass to tear down the very people and systems that are serving our kids well.

North Dakota doesn’t need borrowed outrage.

We need grounded leadership.

And our kids deserve nothing less.

Bottom Line:
North Dakota students rank #2 in the nation in math on the one test, no state controls.
Our standards are higher—that’s why proficiency looks lower.
If you’re talking about our schools, start with our facts—not someone else’s headlines.

Tonight feels heavier than most nights. Not in a burdensome way—but in a full way. The kind of full that makes you sit a little longer, breathe a little deeper, and quietly take inventory of a life that has moved faster than you ever realized.

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Today, my dad turned 91.

Ninety-one.

There was a time when that number would have felt impossible—like something reserved for stories, not real life. Because my dad was never just a man in my mind. He was a force. A behemoth. The kind of man people didn’t just know—they felt. He walked into a room and it settled differently. People trusted him. Leaned on him. Counted on him. He was the protector, the fixer, the steady hand in any storm.

And today, I cut his hair.

I helped him shave. I buttoned his shirt.

There’s something sacred—and a little disorienting—about caring for the person who once carried the weight of the world for you. And yet, in his mind, I know he still believes he can do it all. Still believes he can protect everyone in the room.

And maybe, in some ways, he still does.

Because strength isn’t just in the hands anymore. It’s in what he built. It’s in what he passed on. It’s in me.

I caught myself today remembering what it felt like to be his little girl. The safety of that. The certainty that nothing bad could happen as long as he was there. And for a moment, just a fleeting one, I could feel it again.

And then the day kept moving.

Because it always does.

Tonight, my oldest—my baby who somehow isn’t a baby anymore—came home from her first day at her first job. A barista. There was something about watching her walk through that door—tired, proud, a little more grown than she was this morning—that stopped me in my tracks.

I wanted to freeze it. Bottle it.

Hold onto it just a little longer.

She ate dinner, barely pausing, and went straight to her homework. Responsible. Driven. Becoming her own person right in front of me.

And I am so unbelievably proud.

Then came bedtime with my youngest.

We read. We laughed. I tickled her back the way I always have, the quiet rhythm of it slowing her breathing, pulling her into that soft space between awake and asleep. And as I sat there, I found myself staring at the back of her head—her braids, her stillness, her innocence.

And suddenly, I wasn’t in this moment anymore.

I was holding her as a baby. Rocking her.

Memorizing her tiny fingers, her soft hair, the way she fit perfectly into my arms.

And it hit me—again—how fast it all goes.

How you don’t notice the shift while you’re in it. How one day you’re the child, and the next you’re the one doing the caring. How one day you’re holding your babies, and the next you’re watching them step into the world.

It’s all happening at once.

Behind me.
In front of me.
Inside of me.

And tonight, it feels overwhelming in the best possible way.

Because this is what it means to live a full life. To love deeply. To feel the ache of time passing and still be grateful for every second of it.

Being a leader—whether at work or at home—isn’t just about decisions and direction. It’s about heart. It’s about loving hard, even when you know how fragile time is. Especially then.

It’s about showing up for the people who once carried you, and for the ones who are learning to stand on their own. It’s about holding both at the same time.

And tonight, as I check on my girls one last time and think about my dad, I’m reminded of the only thing that really matters:

The people.

The love.

The legacy we’re building in quiet moments no one else sees.

So I’ll say it again, just like I always have—

I love you to the moon and back…

A million trillion times.