It was a late-summer Tuesday night at the shore.

I had just gotten back from Philly after a day in the office and Sean and I had a hankering for fish tacos. The neighborhood place was hopping, so we wandered a couple blocks away to a new bowl place instead.

We were the only people there.

We debriefed our Tuesdays while watching vacationers stroll past the window. Some were sunburned. Some were dressed for dinner. Some were families in whatever they’d thrown on after the beach, headed somewhere to make another summer memory.

Then a man wearing headphones rode past on an old rusty bicycle.

He waved to Sean.

This isn’t particularly unusual.

Sean grew up in this town and is basically the Kevin Bacon of the place. He either knows you directly or is one degree away from knowing you.

Five minutes later, the man on the bicycle walked into the restaurant.

He wanted to bend Sean's ear about a few things happening around town.

And then he started talking.

He’d owned a business in town for years. Prices had gotten too high. His business wasn’t getting the foot traffic it used to. The tourists didn’t seem to be pouring in the way they had in summers past.

He went on for about ten minutes.

Meanwhile, I was sitting across the table feeling my blood pressure rise.

My consultant brain had clocked in for the evening.

What are the actual tourism numbers? What’s the data on consumer spending? Are other merchants experiencing this same thing or is this specific to his biz? Has his customer changed? What’s within the city’s control? What’s within his? What action has he taken?

I had mentally constructed approximately eighteen ways to diagnose the problem and was well on my way to a strategic plan.

Sean did none of that.

He sat quietly.

He maintained eye contact. He nodded. He made what I can only describe as an excellent empathy face.

When the man finally finished, Sean thanked him for sharing his perspective.

That was it.

The man paused.

“Wow. Thanks for letting me vent. I guess I have a lot bottled up.”

Then he put his headphones back on, climbed onto his rusty bike and rode away.

Nothing had changed.

But something had.

He felt better.

I looked at Sean.

“That was really good, babe.”

And then, naturally, I proceeded to tell him the eighteen things I thought could potentially be done about the man’s problem.

Sean just nodded and smiled while inhaling his dinner.

The next day, I found myself talking with a leader who was burned out.

People kept coming to her with their frustrations. Some of those frustrations she shared. Others were longstanding problems she desperately wanted to improve.

She wanted people to know they could come to her.

More than that, she wanted them to know they could come to her and get a positive outcome.

There’s a big difference between those two things.

Somewhere along the way, every frustration someone brought her had become another item on her plate.

This isn’t working became You have to fix this.

I’m frustrated became You have to make me feel better.

I wish this were different became You’re responsible for making it different.

No wonder she was exhausted.

None of what she described was on fire. These weren’t crises. They were longstanding, complicated and legitimately annoying things that would take time to improve.

And suddenly I thought about the guy on the rusty bike.

So I told her the story about Sean.

Maybe, I suggested, not every frustration someone brought her needed to become something she carried.

Maybe sometimes people just needed her to listen. To see them. To acknowledge that, yes, this thing is frustrating.

We started laughing because somehow our leadership conversation had wandered into Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus.

Remember that old relationship stereotype? A woman wants to talk about a problem and have her partner listen. The man immediately starts trying to fix it. She feels unheard. He can’t understand why she doesn’t appreciate his excellent solutions.

She recognized the dynamic from her own relationships.

So did I.

Maybe, I told her, she needed to stop acting like a dude.

We laughed.

But there was something useful underneath the joke.

Not every frustration someone brings you is yours to fix.

Of course, some are.

That’s the tricky part.

Leadership requires the discernment to know the difference.

Is this something that needs action? Something that goes on the list? Something that needs time?

Or does this person just need to be heard?

Maybe that’s why I couldn’t stop thinking about the guy on the rusty bike.

He came into the restaurant with a lot bottled up. Ten minutes later, he put his headphones back on and rode away.

Nothing had been fixed.

But he felt better.

Apparently, I need to stop acting like a dude sometimes too.

P.S. The next day, the man on the rusty bike called and texted Sean with a few more problems.

So perhaps there’s one additional lesson here:

Maintain a good empathy face.

Just not an excellent one.

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Every August, I declare Taylor Swift’s “august” the national anthem of the month.

I play it constantly.

There’s something about the song that sounds exactly like August feels to me. Whimsical and joyous, with just a hint of sorrow. A last gasp of summer knowing that it won’t last forever. And clocking in at 4:20, it’s long enough to savor but still leaves you wanting just one more chorus.

And now we’ve arrived at the hardest part of it.

Late August. The denouement.

Late August always reminds me of the week between Christmas and New Year’s. One thing hasn’t quite ended; the next hasn’t quite begun. Time gets weird – slow motion and warp speed simultaneously. Our rhythms change. We start looking ahead while desperately wanting to hold onto what is still here.

The dreaded in between.

A little anticipatory grief thrown in to boot.

A sort of bridge.

In music, a bridge is the part of a song that takes us somewhere different before carrying us into what comes next. It breaks the familiar pattern. It can shift the perspective, change the energy or build toward the emotional high point of the song.

Taylor Swift is the G.O.A.T. of the modern bridge.

And, appropriately, august has a pretty great one.

“To live for the hope of it all.”

That line has been stuck in my head all month.

Maybe all summer.

Because this summer hasn’t looked quite like I thought it would.

I haven’t spent nearly enough time sitting on the beach reading or with my friends. Work has been way busier than in summers past. I haven’t had nearly enough downtime.

And yet I’ve had adventures. I’ve loved being on the water: sailing, boating, paddleboarding. I’ve continued to rack up the miles: walking, biking and running. Hosted. Gone to incredible dinners and parties. Eaten fudge and ice cream while strolling the boardwalk. Seen drone shows. Listened (and danced) to live music. Had the viral Dot Cake. Spent time with my fav people. Missed people I also love. I even threatened to buy a souvenir hermit crab and name it august.

I haven’t smiled this much in a long time.

I’ve had a lot of feelings.

But not nearly enough of any of it.

The only way I could have had enough summer was if they had perfected cloning in a backroom research lab at Penn Medicine. See, I wanted to be on the boat and on the beach. At dinner and the happy hour at Tideline I was missing. Reading a book and having an adventure. Everywhere, doing everything, all at once.

And time is marching on regardless.

That’s what late August does.

And maybe that’s what bridges are for.

I’m so not ready for the next verse. But the song continues playing whether I’m ready or not.

So before it does, I’ve been thinking about a question:

What did this summer have to say?

1. It told me that sometimes you have to stop fighting the current, trust the detours along the path and let the sea steer.

The Middle of the Labyrinth

Letting the Sea Steer

2. It reminded me that there is an entire world happening after dark if we get quiet enough to hear it.

Night Music

3. It taught me what happens when you stop numbing and accidentally start feeling everything.

Rawdogging Life

4. It reminded me, again and again, that none of us becomes who we are meant to become alone.

The Piece You Can’t Finish Alone

A Killer. And a Prince.

5. And it introduced me to more people worth knowing, including: a mushroom farmer who has spent a lifetime growing things and people, a doctor willing to tell her story of being a patient herself and a champion who has spent her athletic career championing others.

People Worth Knowing: Ed Leo

People Worth Knowing: Dr. Jen Lee

People Worth Knowing: Danielle Walsh

Maybe that’s one of the gifts of a bridge.

You can turn around and see where you’ve come from.

And still, something keeps pulling you forward, despite the ache of not being done.

I’m so not done with summer.

But summer’s almost done with me. With all of us.

“August slipped away into a moment in time.”

So, I’m just going to stand here a little longer. Take in the view. And live for the hope of it all.

How was your summer? And how are you feeling about September?

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I first met Ed Leo through close friends at the Jersey Shore. Every now and then, he’d make it down to Longport for a night with family and friends.

I connected with Jackie, his wife, almost immediately.

Ed was quieter.

There was something about him that intrigued me.

He wasn’t the loudest person on the beach. He wasn’t trying to be the center of attention. He was thoughtful, quietly present and seemed genuinely happy just to be there.

I knew he’d spent his career in the mushroom business, but beyond that, I knew very little. So this summer, I asked Jackie if she thought Ed might be willing to be part of my People Worth Knowing series. I mentioned it to him when I saw him a few weeks ago and, since Ed isn’t much of an email guy, Jackie graciously became the go-between.

I’m so glad she did.

Until I read Ed’s answers, I’d never really thought about how mushrooms are grown.

I assumed there were growing seasons.

There aren’t.

For more than 35 years, Ed has worked in a business that never really stops. Mushrooms grow every day of the year. Christmas isn’t entirely a day off. Vacations get interrupted. Family dinners sometimes end with a phone call. Even a quiet Sunday afternoon can be cut short by a power outage or a problem that needs solving.

The responsibility never stops.

Suddenly those visits to the shore looked different to me.

They weren’t just nights away.

They were hard-earned moments of presence.

I thought I was going to learn about mushrooms.

Instead, I found myself thinking about what it means to care for something every single day.

A marriage.

A family.

A business.

A community.

A reputation.

Those things don’t happen overnight.

They are cultivated.

Those are the things Ed Leo has been cultivating all along.

He just happens to grow mushrooms, too.

You’ve spent your career in an industry that most people know very little about. What’s the story you wish everyone understood about mushrooms?

The mushroom growing community is a very tight-knit group of farmers and families. We are each other’s colleagues, confidantes, mentors, social friends, as well as competitors. You’re either born into this business or you’re not.

Until recently, most farms were generational family businesses that operated 24 hours a day, seven days a week. There are no growing seasons. Because mushrooms are grown inside temperature-controlled concrete structures, they grow every day of the year.

We plan not to harvest on Christmas Day, which means our pickers don’t have to come in. That doesn’t give me the day off, though. I still stop by to check temperatures and make sure everything is running the way it should.

Another interesting fact is that we cultivate our product. Mushrooms don’t naturally occur the way we grow them. We use by-products like horse manure, chicken manure, cocoa bean shells from the Hershey factory, spent compost and hay to create the conditions they need to grow. Mushrooms don’t need sunlight, which is still kind of weird when you think about it.

After the mushrooms are harvested, those same materials are reprocessed into fertilizer and mulch. We use by-products, then give back by-products.

What has the mushroom business taught you about people, leadership and community?

Mushroom farming is all about people. The people make the community we’re all so dedicated to.

Some of our employees have traveled more than 3,000 miles just to work here. They willingly work around the clock, just like I do, and they’re grateful for the opportunity. Many come here alone so they can send money home to their families in Mexico.

Their work ethic inspires me. Watching people willingly live apart from their families so they can create a better life for them is amazing.

Until this point, I was still thinking about mushrooms. Ed was thinking about people.

When people think about farming, they often think about hard work. They don’t always think about uncertainty. What does living with uncertainty look like in your world?

That’s a great question.

As farmers, we depend completely on other people’s products to grow ours. If supplies become scarce, quality drops or prices go up, we don’t have much choice. We have to adapt.

The weight of other people’s livelihoods resting on my success literally keeps me awake at night. Just ask Jackie.

The more pounds we pick, the more everyone benefits. But if something like our mushroom spawn isn’t good quality, the harvest suffers. When that happens, my employees and my family feel it, too.

Labor is another challenge. Every year it gets harder to find employees. Immigration is certainly part of that story. Over the years, employers have also faced uncertainty when workers lacked legal work authorization or provided false documentation, creating disruptions that are difficult for everyone involved.

At the same time, the labor market has changed. Years ago, many Mexican migrant workers in our area picked mushrooms. Today they’re also working in landscaping, construction, restaurants and tree care. Many have gone on to own businesses of their own.

Then there are the costs you can’t control. Electricity bills during the summer can exceed $20,000 a month. Fuel prices fluctuate. Every season brings a new uncertainty.

What’s keeping mushroom growers up at night these days?

Everything I just mentioned.

But lately, something else has been keeping me up at night.

Retirement.

The rising cost of doing business is causing me to think about stepping away about five years earlier than I expected.

Now I’m trying to figure out what that looks like. Do I sell everything? Do I rent it out? Do I work for someone else?

I haven’t had a boss in 35 years. What does that even look or feel like?

Was there ever a moment when you thought, “I’m not sure we’re going to make it”? Tell me that story.

More than once!

The first was in 1996, right after I bought the farm. It wasn’t a thriving business when I purchased it. It was empty, so I started from scratch.

Jackie and I had just gotten married when, two months later, both my father and Jackie’s father died nine days apart. I wasn’t taking a paycheck yet, so we lived on Jackie’s teacher’s salary. Neither of our fathers left behind generational wealth, and the financial stress was almost enough to make me shut everything down.

COVID was another one.

We had nothing to compare it to. Restaurant sales, which made up about 80 percent of our business, came to a standstill. Schools and institutions stopped buying mushrooms. Retail grocery stores were all that remained.

At the same time, we couldn’t get important supplies. Much of our peat moss comes from Canada, and transportation between the U.S. and Canada became extremely difficult.

It was awful. Nobody knew what to do because nobody had ever lived through anything like it.

The industry still hasn’t fully recovered.

Looking back over your career, what changed the most?

Technology.

Today we produce nearly twice as many mushrooms per square foot as we did in the 1980s because of better equipment and better growing techniques.

When I asked about family, Ed didn’t hesitate.

You’ve spent decades building a career. What role has your family played in that journey?

Jackie is the reason I’ve been able to stay in business by myself, without a partner, for so long. She’s my best friend.

She didn’t come from a farming family, so she had no idea what she was getting into. After we had our three children, she left teaching because our schedules had become too hectic. She managed our home while I managed the farm.

I’ve had to leave vacations, miss family events and get called out in the middle of the night because of power outages or snowstorms. My family doesn’t like it. Jackie lets me know that. But in a funny way, that also makes me feel loved and appreciated.

On the other hand, Jackie and I made decisions not to pursue bigger opportunities or expand the business because family came first. That came with a financial cost, but we’ve always been okay with that.

Because of those decisions, I was able to coach both of my boys’ baseball teams from T-ball through Little League and rarely missed Annie’s lacrosse games, even through college.

Together, we put family first.

What are you most proud of?

My family.

As my children have become adults, I can see the work ethic we’ve tried to model reflected in them. I’m proud of each and every one of them.

When people remember you years from now, what do you hope they remember?

I hope they remember how I treated people.

I hope they remember me as an honest, respectable and humble guy.

If someone finished reading this conversation and remembered only one thing about mushrooms or the people who grow them, what would you hope it would be?

I hope people understand how close-knit the mushroom farming community really is.

Every mushroom farming family knows one another. We support each other. We work together and share the same common goal.

It’s almost like a fraternity.

It’s a very small group of people that produces the majority of all the mushrooms sold.

When Ed first mentioned retirement, I sent one follow-up question. His answer may have been my favorite of the entire interview.

What will you miss most? And what are you looking forward to?

I’ll definitely miss the people the most.

The early morning coffee. Talking shop with fellow growers who understand the ups and downs in a way nobody else can.

I’ll also miss walking into the mushroom houses each morning and seeing what happened overnight. There’s something exciting about seeing the progress every single day.

Oddly enough, I’ll even miss solving problems. If a crop doesn’t look quite right, I enjoy figuring out what’s happening and what adjustments might help.

I’ll miss the connection with my employees, too. I’ve watched many of them become U.S. citizens and have been invited to quinceañeras, weddings and the births of their children. One employee even named his daughter after Jackie.

As for retirement, I’m looking forward to giving my brain and my nerves a rest. I want my time to be mine. I want the freedom to travel, to come and go as I please and finally experience what that feels like.

And now, the Lightning Round. Because apparently I have enough restraint not to make a single fungi joke in an entire interview about mushrooms!

Lightning Round

Favorite way to eat mushrooms?
Sautéed in butter, garlic and white wine. Salt them after cooking, not during.

Most underrated mushroom?
Oyster.

One thing every home cook gets wrong?
Store mushrooms in an open brown paper bag in the refrigerator.

If you hadn’t spent your career in the mushroom business?
I probably would have gone into mushroom sales.

The person who influenced you most?
My father.

Morning person or night owl?
Morning.

Favorite place in Chester County?
Kennett Square. I love that I grew up here. I love walking into a grocery store and running into someone I knew in third grade.

Best advice you’ve ever received?
“You have to know where you come from in order to know where you’re going.”

Last thing that made you laugh?
Jackie says I don’t laugh enough.

One word your family would use to describe you?
Hard worker.

What’s one thing you’re still hoping to learn?
How to fly a plane.

One employee named his daughter after Jackie.

I can’t think of a better measure of a life than that.

When I first met Ed, all I knew was that he grew mushrooms.

Now I know he has spent a lifetime cultivating something so much bigger.

Who in your world has quietly spent a lifetime cultivating something that deserves to be seen? I'd love to hear about them in the comments.

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I’m a sucker for streaks.

As I write this, I’ve meditated for 2,257 consecutive days. (I missed exactly one day in the last 2,836, which still bugs me.) I’ve closed my Apple Watch rings for 2,250 straight days. My Duolingo French streak is 1,713 days. Wordle? 1,318 (I’m not counting PARER on 9/16/22.)

Habits are my happy place. They keep me grounded. They quiet my brain. They remind me that small things, repeated over time, become something much bigger.

Plus, moderation and I aren’t exactly besties. When I commit, I’m all in.

One year ago, I accidentally started the most interesting streak of them all.

I wasn’t trying to quit drinking forever. I wasn’t making a grand declaration or swearing off alcohol for the rest of my life. Honestly, I just needed a break. A reset. An experiment.

Let’s see what happens.

A few weeks became a month. A month became a season. Somewhere along the way, my competitive brain chimed in.

Well, I’ve come this far. Let’s see if I can make it to a year.

Today is day 365.

I thought this experiment would be about alcohol.

It wasn’t.

It was about feelings.

Rawdogging life, as the kids say, is not for the faint of heart.

Being alive is a lot—like, a lot. Sometimes all before lunch. A difficult conversation. An unexpected kindness. A song that reminds you of someone you’ve lost. A beautiful sunset. An email that stings. A random Tuesday that somehow feels heavier than it should. Joy. Shame. Awe. Disappointment. Gratitude. Worry. Relief.

That’s the deal we sign up for. You don’t get to keep the awe and return the grief. You don’t get the joy without vulnerability. The whole package is what makes us human.

For years, I thought booze took the edge off.

Eventually, I realized it didn’t take the edge off. It just postponed it.

The feelings were waiting for me the next morning, usually joined by crippling anxiety and a lot less sleep. It bought me a few hours of relief, but it never let me keep the peace.

I’ve spent my career helping other people make sense of themselves.

Making sense of myself has been a little more complicated.

When it comes to other people’s feelings, I usually know exactly what’s going on. My own? Those have taken a little longer to understand.

That’s where Pam comes in.

I have a therapist named Pam, who I pay a couple of times a month to ask me one very simple question.

“How do you feel?”

It’s remarkable how often I answer that question with what I think.

“Well...” I’ll begin. “I think...”

Every. Single. Time.

Boy, do I have thoughts.

Leadership. Song lyrics. Healthcare. Politics. Words. Death. TV shows. Astrology. AI. Aging. Aliens. My mom. Movies. Sunrises.

Thoughts are not my problem.

Pam patiently reminds me that thoughts and feelings are not the same thing.

We’re making progress.

Before she retired, my longtime therapist Barbara gave me one of the most useful metaphors I’ve ever heard. I’ve shared it with hundreds of coaching clients, colleagues and friends over the years because it has never stopped feeling true.

Imagine you’re standing in a swimming pool holding a beach ball underwater. It takes constant effort. The moment you let go, the beach ball doesn’t quietly float to the surface. It explodes upward, shooting water everywhere.

That’s what happens when we spend our lives pushing feelings down. They don’t disappear. They gather force.

Now imagine never pushing the beach ball under in the first place. It simply floats on the surface, rising and falling with the movement of the water. No dramatic explosion. Just small adjustments as the waves pass.

I think feelings are supposed to work like that.

They come. They go. We notice them. We let them move through us.

The harder we push them down, the higher they eventually fly.

Reading this now, I’m struck by the fact that I’ve been wrestling with this idea for a very long time.

In 2011, I wrote a blog post called Outrunning Grief. It wasn’t about losing my dad. It was about the unraveling of my marriage and the grief that comes with watching a life I thought I’d have disappear.

I ended the piece with these words:

I distract myself with puzzles and escape into adventures. I drown out your nagging voice with loud music and noise. I pour myself into work and when all that fails I barricade the door and turn to TV, cupcakes, wine or sleep...

I hadn’t looked at that essay in years.

When I read it again this week, one word jumped off the page.

Wine.

Not because it was the biggest issue.

Because it was quietly sitting in the middle of a much bigger pattern.

I wasn’t just outrunning grief.

I was outrunning discomfort.

I buried myself in work and achievement. I distracted myself with entertainment. I stayed in motion. I kept thinking because analyzing everything was way easier than feeling. Wine wasn’t the story. It was simply one more way to avoid sitting still long enough to ask myself what was actually going on.

Looking back now, I can see that I spent a lot of my life trying to manage my humanity instead of experience it.

Six months after my dad died, I stopped drinking.

Not because I had some grand epiphany. Not because I hit rock bottom. I simply wanted to see what would happen if I stopped reaching for one more way to take the edge off life.

I had no idea that little experiment would become one hell of a teacher.

Little by little, I stopped running.

I cried when I needed to cry. I laughed when something was funny. I let myself be overwhelmed by moments of awe that somehow arrived right alongside the heartbreak.

Losing my dad taught me something I didn’t expect.

Grief isn’t an interruption to our humanity.

It’s an expression of it.

If love is one of the best parts of being human, grief is the price we pay for loving deeply.

I don’t mean it was easy. It hasn’t been. It was excruciating at times.

But once I understood that, I found myself asking a different question.

Why would I want to numb either one?

Because once I stopped trying to mute the difficult emotions, something else happened.

The beautiful ones got louder too.

Wonder. Curiosity. Connection. Creativity. Presence. Love.

Instead of pouring wine over those feelings hoping to dilute them, I started paying attention.

And then I started writing about them.

Or maybe that’s backwards.

Maybe paying attention and writing are really the same thing.

Somewhere along the way, I started seeing stories where I used to see ordinary moments.

Or maybe they were always there.

I was finally paying attention.

A few days ago, someone wrote me a note.

“I look forward to the new pieces. There is always wisdom and a feeling of being human.”

That phrase has stayed with me.

A feeling of being human.

I don’t sit down trying to write something wise.

Most weeks, I'm just trying to understand my own experience as honestly as I can. I’m trying to connect what I think with what I feel. I’m trying to pay close enough attention that a metaphor emerges.

Maybe that’s what writing has become for me. Not an escape from life. A way of participating in it more fully.

One year ago, I thought I was giving something up. Instead, I got something back.

Not because life became easier. It didn’t.

Not because I suddenly became some enlightened, emotionally regulated person. Ask Pam, Monica, Sean or my mom.

But because I slowly stopped trying to outrun what it means to be human.

The highs and the lows. The awe and the ache. The uncertainty and the joy.

The whole messy, beautiful deal.

As it turns out, that’s exactly where life is.

And tomorrow, if all goes according to plan, I’ll wake up and do it again.

Day 366.

Bring on the feelings.

🥂 (Mocktails, of course.)

If this piece resonated, I’d love to hear your thoughts.

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And if someone in your life could use it, I’d be grateful if you’d share it.

I had waited weeks before sleeping over at Sean’s house.

Partly because we were taking things slowly.

But mostly because sleep and I have been in a complicated relationship for months.

Despite lots of sunshine, exercise, HRT and all the things, sleep lately has been elusive. I worried that my being awake for an hour or two in the middle of the night would be distracting for him and disastrous for me.

He challenged that perhaps I would sleep better with him beside me.

I liked that romantic idea.

And because he is a man who once slept through having a cavity filled, he assured me that my insomnia wouldn’t negatively impact him.

So, we tried it.

In the middle of the night, I heard it.

These guttural whines and whinnies. Some were low and mournful. Others were higher pitched. Almost hopeful.

I sat there listening to this strange music for quite some time.

It immediately brought me back to Close Encounters of the Third Kind. In my memory, the aliens sounded something like this when they finally made contact with the humans.

I felt Sean stir.

I tapped him.

He opened his eyes and greeted me with such joy despite it being the middle of the night.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he said.

I quietly explained that the dock was singing to us.

Or perhaps aliens had landed in the backyard along the bay and were trying to make contact. Maybe today was Disclosure Day and we simply weren’t evolved enough to realize it.

I insisted he listen.

He chuckled.

He told me he had lived on the water with these sounds for so long that he didn’t even hear them anymore.

I tried to recreate the melody.

Apparently, my rendition reminded him of the theme song from Deliverance.

Funny. But incorrect, Sean.

I made him listen again.

Eventually, he heard it.

Resting my head on his chest, I asked,

“What do you think they’re trying to tell us in this song?”

In a sleepy, relaxed voice, he replied,

“I think they’re telling us it’s been too long since our last boat ride.”

I smiled to myself.

And as the marina played its night music, I drifted back to sleep for a few more hours until the first light of dawn glistened through the windows.

Each of our houses has night sounds.

I’ve come to appreciate this intimate music just as much as the sounds that greet the morning on the bay. Boats bumping softly against their slips. Metal shifting with the tide. Gulls announcing another day.

Most of those sounds disappear into the background once the sun comes up. It is only in the quiet of the night that they reveal themselves.

Maybe people are like that too.

In the middle of the night, when we’re tired enough to stop performing and honest enough to say the strange thing out loud, we reveal ourselves.

I hear songs in docks. Aliens in the backyard. Questions at two in the morning.

He could have smiled politely and gone back to sleep.

Instead, he listened until he could hear it too.

Maybe that’s what true intimacy is.

Being deeply known in the hours when we’re least edited.

Finding ourselves met not with annoyance or judgment, but with curiosity, laughter, snuggles and the occasional suggestion that perhaps the aliens are simply telling us it’s been too long since our last boat ride.

It’s a soft song for a soft season.

And I find myself humming along.

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I don’t usually send two essays in one week.

But this morning I woke up to the news that Glen Hansard had died.

It stopped me.

Three months ago, I went to see him play in Philadelphia. I came home that night and wrote an essay called Passing Through.

This morning I read it again.

I wasn’t expecting it to hit me the way it did.

When I wrote it, I thought I was writing about leaving the house.

About saying yes to a Monday night and how easily life can get smaller than we intend.

I didn’t know I was writing about the last time I’d ever see Glen Hansard.

None of us did.

That's the hard thing about ordinary moments.

What I remember isn’t the set list.

I remember writing two words in my notebook:

No distance. No pretense.

That’s who he seemed to be.

He sang with every cell in his body.

He laughed when someone yelled, “I fucking love you, Glen,” and then he blushed.

He told stories about friends and fellow musicians.

He invited us to sing.

And for a few minutes, a church full of strangers became a choir.

There wasn’t much distance between the stage and the audience.

There’s a difference between performing and showing up.

He showed up.

I’m sad today.

Not because I knew him. I didn’t.

I’m sad because the world lost someone who made people feel more alive.

My heart is with his wife, his son, his brothers, his bandmates, and the friends who knew him beyond the stage.

They lost someone they loved.

The rest of us lost an artist and someone who reminded us, if only for a few hours at a time, how to be a little more present.

There aren’t that many people who can do that.

One line from my original essay keeps echoing in my head.

Because I went.

It means something different today.

I’m grateful I listened to whatever quiet voice told me to leave the house that Monday night.

Mostly, I’m grateful Glen Hansard spent his life making music the way he did.

With his whole heart.

We almost never know when something will be the last time.

Maybe that’s why ordinary Mondays matter more than we realize.

I’m glad I went.

I was listening to an interview between Louis C.K. and Rick Rubin recently when a story stopped me in my tracks.

Years ago, Chris Rock hired Louis to write for him. Louis talked about how, by that point in his career, he had pretty much given up on the idea that he would be the guy. He figured he’d write for other people. Make other people famous. Stay behind the scenes.

Then one day, Chris looked at him and asked:

“Why aren’t you directing or starring in something? Why aren’t you doing your own thing?”

Louis was stunned.

Chris kept going.

“I’m the luckiest guy that I got you here. But I feel like a baseball manager of a minor league team. Here’s this great player. He hits home runs every time he’s at bat, but at some point, I need to say something. You don’t belong here. You’ve got to take a shot. You’ve got to try to do your own thing. You’ve got to go bigger.”

I mean, what a loving thing.

At the end of the conversation, Rick Rubin asked Louis to describe a handful of comedians in just a few words.

When he got to Chris Rock, Louis didn’t hesitate.

“Killer. Killer and a prince.”

I haven’t stopped thinking about those words.

A prince.

Not brilliant or visionary.

Not the funniest person in the room.

A prince.

Someone who saw talent, nurtured it and then had the generosity to say, “I think you’re meant for more than this.”

I don’t know if there is a higher compliment for a leader.

❦

Recently, someone I care deeply about professionally didn’t get a job they really wanted.

I was surprised. Genuinely.

More than that, I was disappointed for them.

And if I’m being honest, I felt an ache on their behalf.

Not because I wanted them to leave. Quite the opposite. But because when you’ve spent years coaching someone, advocating for them and helping them grow, you become invested in their dreams too.

You want them to soar.

Even while secretly hoping they keep choosing you.

Nobody tells you that part.

Nobody tells you that one of the prices of investing deeply in people is that their disappointments become your disappointments too.

Or that you’ll occasionally find yourself rooting for someone’s next chapter while quietly wondering where it leaves you.

There is an ache in that.

Leadership is funny that way.

We spend so much time talking about succession plans, talent dialogues and leadership pipelines.

What we don’t talk about nearly enough is the emotional side of developing people.

The part where someone you believe in doesn’t get picked.

The part where someone takes a chance on something bigger.

The part where someone leaves.

Or wants to. Or almost does.

Nobody warns you that loving people’s potential comes with its own kind of grief.

Not tragic grief.

Just the tender, deeply human kind.

The kind that comes from caring.

❦

I sent my colleague a note.

Not because I had answers. I didn’t.

They were grieving and suffering and the moment seemed to call for some sort of strange newfangled career bereavement card.

Truthfully, it was also my attempt to sort through my own emotional whiplash.

I was relieved they were staying.

I was heartbroken for them.

Both things were true.

Part of the note said:

I was stunned.

I think they made a mistake.

I would bet on you a thousand times over and still will for the rest of your career.

And later:

Congratulations and I’m sorry both seem to apply here.

I also wrote:

Can you hold the story of not being chosen without turning on yourself?

I think that’s the question underneath so many disappointments.

Can we feel the hurt without making it a verdict on who we are?

Can we grieve what didn’t happen without losing faith in ourselves?

Can we resist the urge to turn disappointment into shame?

I don’t know.

I’m still learning this one.

❦

What I do know is this:

Every leader who truly invests in people eventually has to learn how to hold on, let go and move forward.

Often all at the same time.

And sometimes, if we’re being honest, we have to pick ourselves back up too.

We have to make peace with the fact that the people we champion may one day want something we can’t offer them.

We have to resist making their ambition, their departure or even their desire to leave mean something about our worth.

And then we have to keep believing in people anyway.

Because if we stop investing deeply to protect ourselves from disappointment, we stop becoming the kind of leaders we needed ourselves.

The kind who saw us.

The kind who pushed us.

The kind who wanted more for us than they wanted from us.

❦

I keep thinking about Chris Rock looking at Louis C.K. and saying, “You don’t belong here.”

What an extraordinary act of generosity.

Maybe that’s the work.

To see people clearly.

To tell them the truth about their gifts.

To want more for them than we want from them.

And maybe, if we do it well enough, years from now someone will tell a story about us and say:

She believed in me.

She pushed me.

She saw something in me before I could see it in myself.

She wanted more for me than she wanted from me.

She was a prince.

Or in my case, perhaps, a princess.

Lead on, warriors.

An appreciative nod to William Bridges. His work on transitions has been a faithful companion throughout my leadership journey.

When Dr. Jennifer Lee reached out to me, I assumed we’d be talking about leadership.

That’s what people usually want to discuss.

Their careers.

Their teams.

A difficult decision.

A challenge they’re trying to navigate.

Instead, Jen wanted to talk about storytelling.

More specifically, she wanted to talk about telling her own story.

She wanted to know what it’s like to put yourself out into the world. To write honestly. To create something deeply personal and then hand it over to strangers, knowing they might misunderstand it, criticize it or simply keep scrolling.

That surprised me.

Because Jen isn’t someone who seeks the spotlight.

She’s the kind of leader who quietly makes things work.

As Vice Chair of Clinical Operations for Penn’s Department of Family Medicine and Community Health, she’s happiest helping other people succeed. In fact, she describes her greatest joy as “highlighting the success of others.” That’s where she’s most comfortable.

Behind the scenes.

Talking about herself feels different.

Harder.

Then she shared something with me that made perfect sense of why this story had been waiting to be told.

Jen was born with an extraordinarily rare congenital facial difference. Over the course of her life, she has undergone roughly thirty surgeries. Despite all those operations, she has never considered herself sick.

She has spent her life on both sides of the exam table, first as a patient, now as a physician. That perspective has shaped not only the way she practices medicine, but the way she leads and sees the world.

I’m grateful she chose to begin telling that story here.

Tell me about the congenital facial difference you were born with and what it was like growing up with it. How did those experiences shape your identity and your decision to pursue medicine?

I was born with Tessier facial clefting and a cleft palate, which happens when facial structures fail to fuse during development. In my case, I have a Tessier class 3 cleft on the right side of my face, extending from my upper lip to my orbit, and means I was born without a tear duct or full eye lid on this side. On the left, I have a Tessier class 7 cleft, which extended laterally from my mouth and impacted full development of the cheek bone. While something like a cleft lip is quite common (1 in 700 live births), these facial clefts are much less common (cited to impact 1 in 150,000 live births). To have two distinct clefts happen at the same time is cited only in case reports, I am told. They are not genetic, and in some cases are thought to be related to amniotic bands or other complex environmental factors.

As someone who has always lived with facial differences, it is difficult to disentangle how my face presents to the world from my lived experiences. As severe as my clefts were at birth, I count myself lucky that I had surgery very early in childhood, and with advanced techniques through leaders in the field at CHOP that minimized any functional impacts. For example, my palate was repaired early, which was considered experimental at the time to do this before speech, and so my speech has not been impacted. I had much of my major surgery from the ages of 3 months old to 7 years old, and so my personal memories have been formed after my facial structures had been mostly normalized. Remarkably, I was rarely picked on in what I would otherwise consider a very “normal” middle class childhood. I also consider myself lucky to have minimal functional impacts in other ways. Despite my eyelid not forming, I have full vision in my right eye. Other than my scars and some issues with chronic tearing, I have no daily limitations related to what I was born with.

I am reminded that my experience comes from privilege – to have access to high-quality care and the ability to afford that. In college on a medical mission trip, I met a child who did not have access to quality surgical care and went deaf and blind from unrepaired clefting and complications of prematurity. That was one of a handful of pivotal moments that set me on the path to becoming a physician.

You've spent much of your life on both sides of the exam table. How has being a patient influenced the way you practice medicine, lead teams and think about care delivery?

As an n of 1, I think I have learned intuitively to check assumptions I make about patients. I have appreciated that every person I encounter has so many layers to what makes them “them,” and I greatly enjoy getting to know how that impacts their decisions around their health. I have also learned that as a physician, sometimes listening is more powerful than “doing”, particularly if there is no clear right answer or the path forward is difficult. As I transition into leadership, I think these same lessons still apply. We all have complex and intersectional identities that we bring into the workplace, some of which are more easily identifiable than others. Giving space to let individuality shine and complement each other’s strengths is one of my greatest joys in leading a team.

You describe yourself as someone who works quietly behind the scenes. What do you love about that role, and what have you learned about leadership through your work?

My greatest joy is highlighting the success of others. In my role in clinical operations, I absolutely love that I get to work with clinicians and other leaders who have tremendous ideas on how to improve care delivery in truly novel ways. I get to listen to those ideas, ask questions, and then help make sure they are translated into a framework that allows them to come to fruition. I really can think of no better job.

You’ve undergone roughly thirty surgeries over the course of your life but have never been sick. What have those experiences taught you about resilience, people and yourself?

We are so much more resilient than we give ourselves credit for. I think sometimes we think that you have to have these big defining moments when you talk about resilience, but I actually think it is the daily choice to be present and to show up for others despite the chaos and stress of daily life that is more defining. Those small moments are what prepare us for when the big moments – a flare of chronic illness, recovering from surgery, navigating a loved one’s health challenge – do arrive.

What has your life taught you about seeing and being seen? More broadly, what have you learned about belonging and the assumptions we make about one another?

I joke that I wear what I have been through on my face, so my only option is to be open and transparent about my journey. In 2020, I went through a staged complex eyelid reconstruction and came back to work wearing an eye patch between each stage of the procedure. Between the COVID-era masks and face shields and my eye patch, you could only make out my right eye when I was working clinically. I remember feeling so nervous that I would make patients feel uncomfortable, or that I would become the center of attention during their appointment. What I learned during that time is that people are much kinder and more caring than we often give them credit for. Patients who knew me well wanted to know that I was ok and not in pain, and were then quickly able to move on. Patients who I never met before occasionally asked questions about what happened, but rarely did I get negative or demeaning responses. I learned that your comfort in your own skin goes a long way in making others feel ok to ask questions, and then you can both move on with building a relationship or having a conversation without trying to dance around an awkward topic.

You told me you feel called to tell your story. Why now? What makes that exciting, difficult or even a little scary?

One of the reasons I have wanted to talk more about my story is that I feel like I am approaching the “end” of another chapter. Since 2020, I have had 7 additional surgeries, experienced a miscarriage, and had two lovely children – all while working full time in medicine as we navigated the complexities of the COVID pandemic. I have worked hard in my life to make sure that my professional identity stands on its own and that I am known for more than just the rare circumstances of my birth. Now, it feels important to me to bring all of those threads back together, as they are so intrinsically linked as part of who I am.

After everything you’ve experienced, what do you wish people understood about being human?

We are all carrying something with us, whether it is obvious in your first meeting or not. Human beings are so complex, dynamic, and resilient. We have tremendous capacity for compassion if we take a step back and remember to let that part of us shine through.

If someone finished reading this article and remembered only one thing about Dr. Jennifer Lee, what would you hope it would be?

The way I look is the least interesting thing about me. I want to be remembered as someone whose confidence and courage has been built slowly over time by choosing daily to be seen, to build relationships, and to shine light on everyone around me.

Lightning Round

Favorite way to spend a Saturday?

Outside with my two young kids and husband – taking walks, tending our small vegetable garden, and just enjoying simple every day moments together

A book that has stayed with you?

The most impactful book that I read recently was Covenant of Water by Abraham Verghese

What brings you joy outside of medicine?

I am pretty simple – a good meal shared with loved ones is one of my greatest joys

What does a great day look like for you?

Any day at the beach is a great day in my book

Hidden talent or something most people wouldn’t know about you?

When I was 7, I was chosen to represent CHOP at the Children’s Craniofacial Foundation and got to meet Cher!

Some people change the world by standing on stages.

And there are people who change it one patient, one colleague and one quiet act of leadership at a time.

Jen is firmly in the second camp.

I’m grateful she chose to let us see a little more of her story. It reminds us that the things we notice first about someone are almost never the most interesting things about them.

So now I'm curious: who in your world is quietly making a difference? Who is hiding in plain sight? Whose story deserves to be told? I'd love to hear about them in the comments.

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Each time I get on the sailboat, I go from pumped up to absolutely exhausted.

The change happens almost as soon as we leave the inlet.

I curl up on the seating area in a patch of sun like a dog. Or maybe a cat. I close my eyes and let the boat rock me.

The water laps against the hull.

Up.

Then down.

Up.

Then down.

It’s so quiet.

I can fully exhale in that quiet.

All of the fight and armor and defenses leave my body.

Horizon’s Call’s sails go up. The engine falls quiet.

And so do I.

Someone has apparently shot me with a tranquilizer dart.

I am, objectively, terrible company.

I don’t help.

I don’t trim sails. I don’t watch the instruments. I mostly yawn for the thirty-sixth time since boarding and drift in and out of sleep.

Maybe it’s the rhythm of the waves. Maybe it’s the ocean air. Maybe it’s something ancient in us that remembers water as our first home.

Or maybe it's knowing that someone else has the helm.

Whatever it is, the sea seems to know exactly how to settle my nervous system.

Once we’re out on the ocean, I always have the same strange feeling.

I look back at the coastline and it feels like a cross between The Truman Show and The Hunger Games.

As though we’re approaching the edge of the world we’ve built for ourselves. The place where the script ends and something older and wilder begins.

The houses get smaller.

The beach narrows.

The whole thing starts to feel staged.

Sometimes I have the strange feeling that what lies beyond the horizon might not exist at all.

That maybe the ocean simply ends there.

That beyond the curve of the earth is the edge of the dome.

We sail by 31st Street in Longport. I spot the water tower with the smiley face and instinctively scan the beach. Are Brian and Sara there? Ian and Ranita? Jean and Dean? Elise and Yale?

Who’s gathered today?

I can’t tell from this distance. But I know they’re down there.

There it is. My little corner of the world.

And then I remember what a privilege this view is.

Most of my life is lived looking out at the ocean from the shore.

This is the opposite perspective.

Out here, I get to look back at home from the sea.

I never take that vantage point for granted.

Then my mind invariably wanders to the idea that there could be extraterrestrial life in the ocean.

I know.

But scientists study Earth’s deepest oceans because they’re the closest thing we have to alien worlds.

Creatures survive there without sunlight, in crushing darkness, looking like something dreamed up by science fiction.

I mean, Rocky from Project Hail Mary is basically a crab.

And besides, to the creatures in the sea, we’re the aliens.

The ocean does that to me.

It fills me with awe.

It makes me think strange, expansive thoughts. It reminds me how much I don’t know. How small I am. How much mystery remains.

And for reasons I can’t quite explain, that perspective relaxes me.

My brain wanders.

My nervous system rests.

For a few precious hours, neither one has to be in charge.

As we head back toward the inlet, I start to wake up.

The coastline comes back into focus.

The world returns.

The perspective of the sea begins to fade and my small human concerns take center stage once again.

By the time we're docking, I'm no longer the woman asleep in a patch of sun, letting the sea rock me to sleep.

I’m rope bitch.

Technically, they’re called lines, not ropes. But line bitch just doesn’t have the same ring to it.

I stand at the bow with my boat hook, waiting to grab them.

Don’t miss.

Don’t fumble it.

Don’t let us drift into the dock.

And then I smile.

Because for a few precious hours, I didn’t have to be in charge.

I just had to catch the lines.

What helps you stop steering? I'd love to hear in the comments.

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One of my favorite things about getting older is realizing how many remarkable people are hiding in plain sight.

Sometimes they’re lying on the reformer next to you in a Pilates class at 7a.

For months, I watched Danielle Walsh attack workouts with a level of intensity that made me wonder: What sport does this person play?

The answer turned out to be ultimate frisbee.

But that was only the beginning.

Danielle is a national champion, a member of Team USA, a mathematician, a former NASA intern and a strategy executive who recently stepped away from elite competition after years of organizing her life around teammates, training and the pursuit of excellence.

She also really loves her cat.

I had to know more!

For those of us who know almost nothing about ultimate frisbee, give us the quick primer. What is it, how is it played and what makes it so compelling?

Ultimate frisbee is a 7-on-7 (or 5-on-5 on the sand), non-contact team sport where players pass a disc down the field and score by catching it in the opponent’s end zone, similar to football. You can’t run with the disc, so movement relies on quick cuts, throws and teamwork to advance it.

What makes it compelling is the combination of athleticism and strategy, especially in the co-ed division that I played in. And on every play, there’s a pretty good chance of seeing a SportsCenter Top 10-level layout catch or block.

What’s the biggest misconception people have about ultimate?

That it’s either a sport played with your dog or that it’s disc golf.

You played collegiate basketball before ultimate. What pulled you toward this sport so intensely?

This is a great question with a silly response.

At the end of each basketball season, our team would try to win an intramural championship in another sport. The first and best option was ultimate frisbee. We would put together a team every year with one goal: win the coveted intramural championship T-shirt.

And we did. Every year.

Mostly because we were more athletic than everyone else, not because we had any actual frisbee skills.

After my senior year, I got into grad school. I knew I needed a break from basketball, but I also knew I needed a physical outlet. So I joined my graduate school’s ultimate team because I had some experience and genuinely enjoyed running around on the field.

Those teammates are some of the best people I’ve ever met and remain some of my closest friends to this day.

What qualities or mindsets have served you best both on and off the field?

This is going to sound cocky, but I always go into everything thinking that I am the best player on the field.

I also believe that even if I’m the best, I still have to prove it to every opponent.

That mindset helps me overcome adversity and recover from mistakes, which happen often because, in reality, I’m not actually the best. I just think I am.

You captained Philadelphia AMP to a national championship. What did leadership look like on a team competing at that level and what have you learned about bringing out the best in other people?

In high school I attended a basketball camp called Point Guard College. They talked about different kinds of leadership and how you can’t rely on just one style. You have to adapt to different situations and become what people need from you in that moment.

At the time, I was always a lead-by-example person, but that camp changed how I thought about leadership.

During our championship run, we had just won a national title the year before, but we also had wholesale changes in leadership and a lot of player turnover. Many veterans retired and we had a much younger team.

We almost had to reset our culture.

A lot of leadership became reading the moment, reading personalities and figuring out what the team needed.

Sometimes that meant leading by example. Sometimes it meant using my voice and saying the things people needed to hear. And sometimes it meant making sure we were having fun because this is nobody’s full-time job.

A lot of it comes down to sports IQ, emotional intelligence and trusting your gut because there is no formula or script for what resonates with people or wins championships.

What might surprise people about who you are when you’re not competing?

That I love Pilates.

Honestly, that fact surprises a lot of people.

Also, I love my cat, Arnold. He is my best friend.

You played your final match in November. How emotional was it stepping away from competition and what has this transition phase taught you about yourself?

I had been saying I was going to retire for about three years, so once we won the championship with Team USA in November, it just felt right. It felt like the perfect way to go out.

It hasn’t been that emotional yet, mainly because ultimate is nearly year-round, so it allows for very little downtime. I’m really enjoying having free time because I haven’t had much of it since high school, outside of the pandemic.

I’m not sure what I’ve learned about myself yet.

But I do really, really miss spending time with my teammates and that sense of team and working together for something bigger than yourself.

When you look back on your athletic career, what are you most proud of that has nothing to do with winning?

The relationships I’ve built with some of the best people on earth and how much I’ve learned about myself through sports.

Those are definitely at the top.

But I truly do love winning.

What’s next for Danielle Walsh?

TBD.

Right now, I’m enjoying my time and traveling a lot more.

Lightning Round

Favorite tournament city?
San Diego.

Least favorite?
Portimão, Portugal.

Worst weather you’ve ever played in?
Torrential snowfall and 40 mph winds in Axton, Virginia. I’m from Florida. It was absolutely brutal.

Pregame ritual?
I have to eat Chipotle the day before a game or tournament.

Best sports movie?
Love & Basketball, of course.

One word your teammates would use to describe you?
Intense.

Hardest part of being a captain?
How much of yourself you have to give.

Pilates exercise you secretly hate?
Standing splits on the reformer. I will do anything not to do them because I’m convinced I’m going to split my groin in two.

Favorite thing about Philadelphia sports culture?
For frisbee specifically, the community.

For other sports… I’m not actually a Philly sports fan.

What does the future of ultimate frisbee look like?
Hopefully, a future with more attention and more financial support.

It’s a really interesting sport, and it deserves more notice.

Danielle taught me something while putting this piece together: extraordinary people are often hiding in plain sight. Sometimes all it takes is a single overheard conversation to discover an entirely different world.

So now I’m curious: who in your world is hiding in plain sight? Whose story deserves to be told?

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A couple of Saturday mornings ago, we rode our bikes twenty-one miles around Absecon Island and stopped for breakfast along the way.

For years, he had sailed these waters and used a church on Atlantic Avenue as a marker. He knew it from the bay.

But he’d never actually been there.

I couldn’t wait to show him.

Because beside that church sits a beautiful labyrinth.

He wasn’t very familiar with labyrinths, and we decided to walk it.

Separately.

Together.

At one point, he reached the center before I did.

He stood there waiting.

As I made my way inward, there were moments when I was so close I could almost touch him.

Then the path would bend and carry me far away again.

I could still see him standing in the middle, but suddenly I was on the outer edge.

I felt the distance.

And yet, I wasn’t worried.

Because after all this time, I trusted what I had long hoped was true:

The path only looked like it was taking me away.

It was actually bringing me closer.

Eventually, I reached the center.

We kissed.

And it felt strangely inevitable.

Not because life had been easy.

Not because either of us knew what lay ahead.

But because neither of us had stopped walking.

There were years when I felt lost on the path.

Years when I couldn’t imagine what might be waiting for me.

Years when I mistook detours for dead ends.

But maybe walking the path was always the point.

It built stamina.

Resilience.

And if we’re being honest, some pretty great gams.

Anyone seeing us now might think we were always headed here.

Maybe.

Or maybe two people simply spent four years following winding paths without knowing what was waiting at the center.

Patiently.

Trusting something they couldn’t yet see.

The funny thing about labyrinths is that from above, the route looks obvious.

But from inside, all you can do is keep walking.

And have faith that what feels like distance is sometimes just another turn toward home.

After all, stories have a way of revealing themselves one turn at a time.

Thanks for walking with me.

If these reflections resonate with you, I’d love to have you along for future turns in the path. Subscribe below and join the conversation in the comments.

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Last Father’s Day was my first without my dad.

This year is my second.

Grief is strange that way. The first year feels impossible. The second year feels impossible in a different way. The shock has faded, but the absence remains.

Father’s Day can bring a lot of things with it. Celebration. Gratitude. Joy. Longing. Heartache. Sometimes all of them at once.

And these days, I have a very easy answer to one of those questions people love to ask: If you could have dinner with anyone, living or dead, who would it be?

My dad.

Without hesitation.

He’d probably have a couple of Manhattans and we’d end up arguing about politics. I’d get frustrated. He’d tell stories about being the toughest guy in Morris County. We’d disagree about something completely unimportant. And it would be music to my ears.

Years ago, after listening to me complain about my father one too many times, my dear friend Falconer, who had lost his beloved mother, smiled and said, “Cindy, you have no idea how much this is music to my ears.”

I understand what he meant now.

What I wouldn’t give to hear that music again.

In 2013, my dad, Bob Morgan, was inducted into the inaugural Roxbury High School Athletics Hall of Fame. Since my parents were in Florida and unable to attend, my brother Michael and I had the privilege of accepting the honor on his behalf.

We each gave speeches that night.

I reread them recently and realized they capture something I can never recreate. They tell the story of my dad as we knew him then: athlete, teacher, coach, competitor, mentor, storyteller, proud Gael and, most importantly, Dad.

Reading them now, thirteen years later and sixteen months after his death, I was struck by something I couldn’t have appreciated back then.

We thought we were honoring his accomplishments.

What we were really doing was saying thank you.

So, for Father's Day, I thought I'd share those words with you.

Wherever this day finds you, I hope it brings gratitude, memories, and maybe even a little music.

And Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

Blue and Gold. Roxbury forever.

Passion for the Game

Delivered May 18, 2013 by my brother, Michael Morgan, upon my dad’s induction into the inaugural Roxbury High School Athletics Hall of Fame.

As a history teacher at Dover High School, I thought it might be fitting to start with the words of President Calvin Coolidge, who said, “No person was ever honored for what he received. Honor has been the reward for what he gave.” Ladies and gentlemen, members of the Roxbury Athletic Hall of Fame committee, and Gael’s fans everywhere, my name is Michael Morgan, and I am honored to introduce the next nominee, my father: Bob Morgan.

Physical activity and sports were always my Dad’s passion. From as early as he can remember, he loved being a student of whatever game was in season. Through discipline, hard work, practice, outstanding coaching and great teammates, my father became a “triple threat,” excelling at football, basketball and baseball during his time as a player at Roxbury High School from 1958-1961.

His accomplishments were impressive at the time and seem even more so in retrospect. As a three-sport athlete myself, I’m in awe reading the list of my dad’s achievements. Let me brag a little about him: My dad earned 12 Varsity Letters during his four years at Roxbury, playing varsity football, basketball, and baseball as a freshman all the way through to graduation.

Football

Football was my dad’s lifetime love – from playing to coaching to cheering me on, to watching college and pro ball on TV. There isn’t a fall weekend that goes by that football isn’t front and center. My dad played quarterback, linebacker and punter during his days as a Gael. When he was a sophomore, he led his team to win the Group II Section 2 title. He was also named 1st Team All Morris County in both 1960 & ‘61 and second team all Group II, as well.

While these accolades were impressive, that isn’t what sticks in my dad’s mind when he talks about his Roxbury football career. Instead, it’s his coaches and the support that they gave him. These men made a tremendous difference in my dad’s life and served as the models for his own style as a coach. Bob Schiffner, his head coach and mentor, was a father figure and lifetime friend. Rich Mirschak, the backfield coach, was relentless with his conditioning and “peeloffs.” My Dad never forgot Rich’s adage, which served him well throughout his life: “Perfect fundamentals result in perfect execution.”

He remembers beating the Gael’s archenemies – Dover and Hackettstown – with thousands of fans cheering his team on. On a personal note, I want to share a little irony with you: my dad was very supportive of my own athletic career with the Hackettstown Tigers, and rarely missed one of my football, basketball or baseball games. He also rooted me on when I served as head coach of the Dover Tigers’ football and basketball teams. Underneath it all, though, I knew he had to fight through his own hatred of both of those former rivals to cheer me on. And while I don’t think he would list tiger as his least favorite animal anymore, Blue and Gold always pumped through his veins and still does.

My dad went on to play football at Syracuse University for Coach Ben Schwartzwalder, where he was linebacker. As a senior, he started during six games, and his team went on to play LSU in the Sugar Bowl on New Year’s Day. My Aunt Judy remembers watching the game and seeing my dad on television. He played with a pretty special group of teammates at Syracuse. My parents enjoyed watching the movie The Express, which featured the Hollywood-version of his teammate Ernie Davis’s life, tragically ended too soon. And my dad cheers as his teammate Coach Tom Coughlin leads the Giants to victory each Sunday afternoon – that is when we’re lucky.

Basketball

Even though football was my Dad’s lifetime love, believe it or not, basketball was his favorite sport. Don Manning was his coach, as well as his fifth grade teacher. When he was a senior, their team won the championship, and he set the high school scoring record with 1,029 career points. He remains Roxbury High School’s second leading scorer. He credits his unselfish teammates with this accomplishment. Scoring over a thousand points was something of a family tradition, which my cousin Lisa Fiorello, Jim’s daughter, and I both followed during our high school basketball careers. My dad would tease the two of us that while our numbers were impressive, when he did it, they only played 18 games a season and there were no three-pointers. While it annoyed me at the time, of course he had a point, and now that I’m older, it helps to put his record into perspective. He had to average nearly 16 points a game every game for four years to break that record! Pretty amazing. When my dad was teaching me the fundamentals of basketball, we were competitive with one another. We would play tough games of one-on-one, horse and any other game you could think of. When he would win, my mom would often shake her head and mutter under her breath, “Bob – you really are the Great Santini.”

Baseball

My dad was darned good at Baseball too. He pitched and played third base and his team won the Jersey Hills Conference in1958. He was so good that he drew the attention of pro scouts at an early age and they followed him throughout his high school career. His coach, Andy George, taught my dad discipline in hitting and fielding, as well as how to handle the pressure of the game.

Teaching & Coaching

In addition to being an excellent baseball coach, Andy George also changed my dad’s life when he hired him to teach Physical Education and Health at Roxbury High School. He was honored work alongside his good friends and his former teachers and coaches. He also coached football with Jim Fiorello. He fondly remembers their long meetings, which resulted in great success. Their coaching philosophy was on always doing things the right way and never taking the easy path. Teaching great players and athletes always made coaching challenging and enjoyable for my dad. Beating Montclair with a curl/pitch and going to state finals twice against Union are two vivid memories for my dad. I can still remember him wearing a “Beat the Farmers” t-shirt when he mowed the lawn years after those big games.

In closing, I come back to Coolidge’s quote, “No person was ever honored for what he received. Honor has been the reward for what he gave.” My dad got so much out of being a Roxbury Gael. And, while I know there are lots of Gael’s fans here tonight, I would be challenged to find a bigger Roxbury fan than my dad. He gave his life to the Blue and Gold – as a player, a teacher, and a coach. On behalf of my dad and my entire family, thank you for recognizing and honoring his tremendous achievements and commitment to Roxbury High School.

Finding My Father

Delivered May 18, 2013, upon my dad’s induction into the inaugural Roxbury High School Athletics Hall of Fame. Looking back, I realize I was finding my father long before I was losing him.

On behalf of my Dad and my entire family, I reluctantly accept this great honor. I’ll explain that ‘reluctantly’ in a moment but first I have a question: How many of you have seen ‘Remember the Titans?’

Show of hands. If you have, you may remember the little blonde girl in the stands cheering on the Titans and her dad, the coach. I was that little girl – the coach’s daughter. My dad and Gael’s football had a big impact on my life.

At 12 months old, I loudly clapped after the organ played a hymn during my Christening, which I was told disrupted the sanctity of the entire ceremony. Embarrassed, my mom explained to her friends that I didn’t know the difference between the Roxbury band and an organist. When I saw my first play at 4, I cried at the intermission until my mom told me that it was “half-time,” a concept I was much more familiar with. When I was 7, I remember an all-important conversation with my dad when I asked, “What exactly is a Gael?”

Elusive

One of my favorite writers, Norman McLean, said, “It is those we live with and love and should know who elude us.” When I learned that my father would be inducted in the Roxbury Athletics Hall of Fame, I couldn’t have been more proud, but I also realized I knew very little about his days as a player. Never one to live in the glory days of the past, my Dad never mentioned his accomplishments. I think I even remember my brother and me kicking around his 1,000 point basketball in the yard until my mom came out and said, “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

When I read the newspaper clipping that detailed some of his achievements, I thought, “Who is this man?”

So I went on a quest to find the Roxbury star athlete who had eluded me, and better understand this foundational part of his early life, which helped him to become the man he is and the Dad that Michael and I know and love.

I made some phone calls. First I called Gary Irwin, who helped to make this special night happen, to tell him Michael and I would come and speak on behalf of my parents who unfortunately couldn’t get back from Florida to be here. He said he had to rewrite my Dad’s bio because it didn’t highlight enough of his achievements. “That’s your Dad,” he said, “incredibly talented and way too modest.”

Strong

Next I called my Aunt Judy, my Dad’s middle sister, renowned for her memory.

“Aunt Judy,” I asked, “tell me about my Dad when he was in high school. How much did sports mean to him?”

“Sports was everything to Bobby,” she said. “When our father died, your dad was only 6 years old. He was raised by three women – your Nana, your Aunt Joan and me. We lived in Kenvil, which was a working class town. At that time, no one from Kenvil had broken into Roxbury athletics.”

I was beginning to learn where my dad — Bobby — got his toughness.

She remembered the family going to see their first football game. My dad was 10, and Roxbury was playing Dover. There were thousands of people in the stands; Roxbury won, 14 to 12, and my Dad’s life was changed forever. He fell in love with football that day, and for the next eight years committed himself to being the best Roxbury athlete he could be. Playing quarterback for Roxbury that day was Bill Tardive. His family would take my Dad under their wing and Bill — known to me as Uncle Bill — would become a lifelong friend.

The Natural

My next call was to Frank Darling, one of my Dad’s teammates, a quiet, soft-spoken man who played receiver.

“Bobby Morgan was some player, boy,” Frank told me. “He was a natural. He did it all, Cindy. And he was a guy with a lot of achievements.” Frank and my Dad were close through high school. He remembers their pre-game ritual of eating tuna fish sandwiches at my Nana’s house. He also remembers a line from a newspaper story about the team that ended up serving as their tagline. “Bobby Morgan always threaded the needle, and the needle was Frank Darling.”

One rainy Saturday afternoon, Aunt Judy remembers the local newspaper calling the house to get her mom’s reaction to my dad having broken the Morris County record for throwing the javelin. She was baffled.

When my Dad got home, she asked him, “Where were you after school? Did you throw the javelin in a track meet?” He sheepishly responded, “Yeah. I did. Baseball got rained out so they asked me to come to the track meet. How did you find out? I didn’t really want anyone to know.”

Humble

When my Dad had 30 points to go to break the 1,000 point mark in basketball, he had been on a hot streak, so Nana, Aunt Joan, and Aunt Judy all went to the game hoping he would do it that night. Unbeknownst to my Nana, the cheerleaders had bought her a corsage and were ready with a special ceremony once the record had been broken. He only scored 28 points that night, and they had to pop the flowers in the refrigerator until the next game two nights later when he accomplished the goal. I asked my Aunt Judy if she remembers my Dad being frustrated that he was just two points shy. She said, “No way. He just felt badly about the flowers!”

Aunt Judy described her brother as humble and self motivated. He hung a tire in the back yard and tossed footballs and baseballs though it every night after practice. He always gave credit where credit was due. He didn’t love the spotlight; he preferred no fuss.

“Bobby was sensitive and had a big heart, but he didn’t easily show it to the world,” she told me. ‘Instead, they saw his toughness.”

I spoke with my Dad a few weeks ago, reassured him that he deserved this recognition, and asked him what he wanted me to say on his behalf. He said, “Be sure to thank the committee. Tell them I appreciate this special honor. With the exception of my time at Syracuse and the army, I spent my entire life in Roxbury. So this means so much.” He continued, “Please congratulate the other honorees,” and he went on to brag about each of your accomplishments.

Be sure to mention Jim Fiorello. He was my close friend and mentor for many years.” And with a laugh he joked, “Tell him that I can still probably benchpress more than he can.”

Proud

He got serious for a moment, and talked about his pride in growing up in Kenvil. Before his time, no one from Kenvil or any other town outside of Succasunna played Roxbury athletics. He was an outsider and had to work that much harder to break in. Hailing from Wharton, Coach Schiffner, another outsider, gave him a shot to play. He got lucky, he said. Once he broke through, many others would follow, including several of the other honorees this evening.

Not many of us knew Bob Morgan as a player. We know him as a teacher, coach, friend and Dad. I asked him if he was a different man when playing each of those roles. He paused and answered, “Nah. Who I am is who I am.” Dad’s motto was simple: work hard, lift weights, be dedicated and smart, don’t make mistakes and put your best effort out there. That’s what he was taught and that is what he hoped to pass along.

The Teacher

Who I am today is very much a reflection of my Dad, and all that he taught me. He instilled in me a passion for competition, taught me to be tough and how to “handle” the pressure of winning and losing gracefully. He made me believe I could achieve anything I wanted as long as I dedicated myself to it fully. He showed me how to think strategically and how to bring out the best performance in others, which would serve both Michael and me well in our chosen professions. I owe so much to my Dad. I feel honored that through this experience of accepting this award I have come to know him a little more deeply, and I hope you have too.

Just a couple of nights ago after he had a couple of beers, I asked him if he ever thought about the old days. He reluctantly admitted, “On Sunday mornings in the summer, I illegally hit golf balls on the old Roosevelt Field, where I played football, and I feel home.” I have little doubt that on those hazy summer mornings, he can still feel the roar of the crowds, see the great players that came before him who shaped his life and those who would follow, wearing the Blue and Gold and upholding the legacy of Roxbury Gael’s athletics of which he was so proud to be a part.

Happy Father’s Day to all who are celebrating, remembering, missing, or simply making their way through the day.

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My first business trip gifted me a profound moment of insight that has stayed with me forever. Once you see something, you can’t unsee it.

I grabbed my luggage at the Pittsburgh airport. Despite it being a two-night trip, I checked a bag because I couldn’t decide what to wear, so I brought seven potential outfits. Decisiveness with packing would load in later in my career.

I got in the cab and excitedly explained to my driver that I was a sales rep in northern New Jersey, barely a year out of college, and my organization trusted me so much that I was flying to Pittsburgh to do field ride-alongs with pharmaceutical reps in their territories. This was my first time flying alone and I was deeply concerned that someone could just walk off with your suitcase because no one checked.

The countryside rolled by outside the window. Fields. Gentle hills. Darkness everywhere. Not even a hint of a city nearby.

Then we entered a tunnel.

Moments later, boom.

There was Pittsburgh.

What struck me most was that there had been no sign of it. No warning. No gradual reveal. One second, darkness. The next, an entire city shimmering in front of me.

I didn’t see it.

Until I did.

I’ve been using this metaphor to understand life ever since.

Clueless.

And then: “I see Pittsburgh.”

Recently, a coaching client and close friend shared devastating news. Her research program was terminated.

Twelve years of work.

Gone.

People’s livelihoods lost. Hope for a cure diminished. Efficacy trials in the final stage before European approval failed to show meaningful benefit beyond an already powerful placebo effect.

The grief came fast.

She had to tell patients. Her team. Colleagues at partner organizations and pharmaceutical companies. She had to stand upright inside a moment that collapsed something she had devoted a huge portion of her life to building.

We don’t talk enough about grief in the workplace.

If you start looking for it, it’s everywhere.

The doctor who loses a patient they can’t stop thinking about.

The employee who realizes the version of the organization they loved no longer exists.

The person pitching an idea they believed could change everything and watching it get cut in a budget meeting.

The empty desk after someone retires, resigns or dies.

The years long project that ends.

The dream that quietly expires while everyone keeps answering emails and updating PowerPoint decks as if nothing happened.

We tend to reserve grief for death. But grief is really about attachment. Love. Investment. Meaning. It appears whenever something we built our identity, hopes or future around disappears.

And sometimes the hardest part is that workplace grief is rarely publicly acknowledged.

There are no casseroles for the person whose life’s work implodes.

No funerals or paid bereavement days for the team whose mission evaporates.

No ritual for becoming untethered from a version of yourself you thought would exist forever.

You are often expected to absorb the blow quickly, remain professional and move on.

But humans don’t move on that fast.

A part of us has to catch up.

Because grief can be like that tunnel too.

You are driving along in darkness, not fully understanding what’s happening to you. Then suddenly, something comes into view.

You realize:
Oh.

This is grief.

You didn’t have language for it before.

Until you did.

Suddenly, you see Pittsburgh.

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When I wrote the essay below on June 1, 2013, I was standing at the edge of a life I had not yet fully entered.

Thirteen years later to the day, I reread it and realized life had already begun changing me.

At the time, I thought the piece was about courage. About risk-taking. About learning from my niece and nephew as they hurled themselves into the freezing waters of Lake Hopatcong on Memorial Day weekend while I stood safely on the dock wrapped in caution, practicality and a deep aversion to being cold.

But rereading it now, I realize something else entirely:

Life was already preparing my leap.

Back then, I still believed careful planning, good decisions and enough self-protection could spare a person from upheaval. I was someone who naturally moved toward safety. In the original piece, I wrote about repeatedly failing childhood hearing tests because I wouldn’t raise my hand unless I was absolutely certain I heard the tone correctly. Even then, I was wired to avoid mistakes. Avoid risk. Avoid getting it wrong.

And yet life has a way of moving you forward whether you feel ready or not.

In the years since I wrote this, I got divorced. Moved cities. Started over professionally and personally. Deepened my creative life. Began sharing my writing and photography publicly. Allowed myself to become more visible despite the projections, opinions and vulnerability that come with being seen. Built new communities while holding tightly to old friendships. Took emotional, creative and financial risks I once would have talked myself out of.

Some of those leaps I chose. Others life chose for me.

All required courage.

People sometimes tell me I’m brave now, which is funny considering how much of my life was spent trying to avoid discomfort, uncertainty and emotional exposure. But maybe courage is not a personality trait as much as a practice. Maybe it’s something life slowly teaches you through repetition. Through heartbreak. Through reinvention. Through finally realizing that staying on the dock does not actually protect you from change.

Resistance, I’ve learned, is mostly futile.

It’s a little like riding a motorcycle. You have to lean into the turn. Lean against it too hard and you risk toppling over completely.

And now Michael and Madelyn, the fearless kids at the center of this story, are making their own leaps into adulthood. Madelyn is graduating and heading off to dental school. Michael is now thriving as a mechanical engineer, building a life and career of his own. The little kids jumping into freezing lake water have become young adults launching themselves into the world.

Maybe that’s part of why this piece hit me emotionally when I rediscovered it.

Because somewhere along the way, I did become someone willing to jump.

It’s still scary.

I do it anyway.

And while I still have no interest in plunging into freezing water, maybe this is finally the year I invest in a wetsuit anyway.

Leap of Faith: What I learned at the start of my summer vacation

Published June 1, 2013

I got goose bumps just watching as Michael and Madelyn hurled themselves off the dock and into the icy water of Lake Hopatcong on Memorial Day weekend to kick off the official start of summer 2013. Their polar bear swim has become an annual tradition, typically taking place any time between Mother’s Day and Memorial Day. But I can’t remember a time when the water was this cold in northwest New Jersey.

“Come on Aunt Cindy, jump in with us,” Michael begged as they revved themselves up for the great leap. “Ask me again in August,” I said, shaking my head. “You two are crazy!”

Madelyn, my nine-year old niece, took a running start down the dock and jumped without a moment of hesitation. She emerged with a big grin. “It was awesome!” she said. Stopping at the edge to gauge the temperature, Michael, my ten-year old nephew, needed a little egging on from his sister and me before he finally launched his body through the air and into the shimmering deep.

With wet heads and towels tightly wrapped around their goose-bumped bodies, they celebrated their accomplishment, dancing around the dock and high-fiving each other, euphoric, exhilarated and thrilled with themselves.

Watching them, I thought: When did I stop leaping? When was the last time I risked it, made myself vulnerable and jumped into metaphorical icy waters only to emerge ebullient and energized?

With age comes wisdom, certainly, but it can also bring an abundance of caution or a little too strong a commitment to comfort that can rob one of life’s little crazy bits, also known as the best parts. It’s easy to rationalize our way out of jumping. “Why would I want to be wet and cold when I can be warm and comfortable here on the dock?” I thought. “I have a week full of meetings. I can’t risk getting sick.” Here’s what I forgot: with big risks come big rewards.

Even when I was younger than Madelyn and Michael, risk-taking was never my strength. I failed every hearing test I ever took between kindergarten and third grade. My concerned parents took me to a specialist, who ran a battery of tests, and announced my diagnosis: I would never be a gambler. Unless I was 100% certain of hearing the tone, I wouldn’t raise my hand. Even by kindergarten, the fearless, wild kid within me had learned that safety and security trump taking risks. For the rest of my childhood and well into adulthood, I would have to push myself to override my safety precautions to say, “Risk it, Cindy! So what if you fall flat on your face? Do it anyway! The payoff will be worth it!”

As I got older, I stopped pushing so hard. I became a little complacent in my safe, routine existence. I feared change, failure, looking foolish, getting my feelings hurt, feeling too vulnerable. I tucked my heart away to keep it safe from injury. I started dreaming small. Then I turned 40 and it just hit me that playing it safe wasn’t working. I wasn’t all that happy and I wasn’t even safe. I wasn’t fully alive.

So here is my comeback, two years in the making so far. I’m asking myself the big, hard questions — what do I want for my life, what’s going to make me truly happy? I’m excavating through layers of fear and learning that great strength comes not from playing it safe but from being vulnerable and takings risks. With a little help from friends and family and teachers like the amazing Michael and Madelyn, I’m in my running start, dashing headlong, knowing that nothing will stop me from making the leap, or the joy and exhilaration that follow.

I feel so lucky to have Michael and Madelyn to instruct me on the pure happiness of truly living. In return they can always count on me to be standing on the dock, egging them on to embrace their vulnerabilities and take the big jump, and serving, incognito, as their lifeguard and biggest fan, looking out for their safety, documenting their courage, then wrapping them in warm towels and celebrating their accomplishments.

Next summer, I just might be convinced to put on my bathing suit and with a running start euphorically leap with them into their annual kick-off to the summer of 2014.

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Todd Pfeiffer is one of those people.

Our families oddly orbited each other growing up in northwest New Jersey. His grandmother rented half of a house to my family. When we moved out in the 1980s, Todd and his friends moved in. Our fathers taught and coached together at Roxbury High School. We both grew up in Hackettstown during a time when kids rode their bikes around town, disappeared into the woods, built things, figured stuff out and learned how to navigate the world before anyone was supervising every second of it.

Todd went on to build a career in film and television as a first assistant director, working on productions ranging from indie classics to major television series including Mayor of Kingstown, Elementary and The Good Nurse.

What interested me most was hearing how a small town kid like me learned to manage chaos, lead massive productions and somehow still remain unmistakably himself.

We both grew up in Hackettstown, New Jersey in families that oddly orbited each other for years. What do you think growing up there gave you?

Hackettstown was kind of the perfect place to grow up.

It had the small town connection to family history and the past, but you could also get to New York City pretty easily. At the time, I had no idea how much that combination would help me later in life.

I learned my way through the woods and around farms, then eventually started venturing into the city during a really exciting time in the late ‘70s and ‘80s. Looking back, it probably gave me the ability to adapt to almost any situation that got thrown at me later at work.

You’ve spent decades in film and television working alongside some of the biggest names in Hollywood. How does a kid from northwest New Jersey even find his way into that world?

My path into film production was anything but normal.

After returning from Syracuse University, I was working for a swimming pool company and bought a 1965 Dodge Coronet for $300 because I had a thing for older cars. A friend connected me with a producer looking for an older car to use in a low budget film.

That producer was Sara Driver. The director was Jim Jarmusch.

They rented my car for a month for $400, which seemed like a pretty good deal considering I’d only paid $300 for it.

The next year I opened up the Village Voice and there was my car in a full-page ad for Stranger Than Paradise.

That film became one of the most successful indie films ever made.

That connection eventually led to me working on Mystery Train in Memphis. At the time I was working in a cabinet shop and took a leave of absence just to have the experience.

I ended up doing everything. Projectionist. Assistant director department. Driving trucks. Whatever needed to get done.

I turned 26 while filming and celebrated my birthday with Screaming Jay Hawkins singing “Happy Birthday” to me at the piano in the hotel lobby. Later that night I sat at a bar with Joe Strummer from The Clash and somehow ended up partying with INXS.

The next day I decided I had to join the carnival.

I decided I had to join the carnival.

For people who don’t know, what exactly does a first assistant director do?

A first assistant director runs the set while filming.

Someone once told me my job was to “dispense information and radiate calm.” That’s probably the simplest explanation.

My responsibility is helping facilitate the director’s vision while managing all the realities and constraints around production. Budget. Actors. Locations. Time. Logistics. Chaos.

I build the shooting schedule, break down the script and coordinate all the moving pieces that allow production to function.

It’s hard to simplify the job for people outside the business, but at the risk of sounding pretentious, “boss” is probably the easiest way to describe it.

You’ve worked on everything from indie films to major television productions. What separates great sets from chaotic ones?

For any production to really succeed, an amazing number of things have to fall into place.

You need a good script, a good shoot, good editing and subject matter people actually care about. I’ve been on sets that were incredible environments and the project still didn’t work.

I do think energy matters though.

I think the vibe on set can translate to performances and what ends up on film. If I’m doing my job right, I’m usually the person trying to keep chaos at bay all day long.

Hollywood can be exciting, exhausting and surreal. What has that industry taught you about people?

That people are amazingly resilient and creative.

Film crews work incredibly hard. Long hours. Rain. Snow. Heat. Remote locations. Dangerous locations. You end up spending more time with the crew than your own family sometimes.

That creates a real bond.

There’s definitely hierarchy in production, but I try to make everyone feel important because every single person matters to whether the whole thing succeeds or fails.

You also realize pretty quickly that a group of people working together well can become something much bigger than the individual parts.

After all these years, you still come back to your farm in Hackettstown between productions. What does that place give you that Hollywood never could?

I’ve been lucky to still call Hackettstown home. My family’s roots there go back to the 1800s.

Production is intense and all-consuming. Coming home lets me just be me again.

Most people there don’t even know what I do.

I commuted to New York City for years. Sometimes more than two hours each way on top of long production days. People thought I was insane, but northwest New Jersey was worth it.

You can’t put a price on sitting outside hearing nothing but wildlife, the occasional airplane and Island Dragway on a summer Saturday night.

You’ve spent your career managing pressure, personalities, deadlines and unpredictability. What has that taught you about leadership?

I think I was probably organizing things from the beginning.

As a kid I was putting together outings, building go-karts and organizing events. Production just became a much bigger version of that.

In production you learn pretty quickly that no plan is absolute. You always need backup plans floating around in your head because things change constantly.

I also try to treat people equally regardless of their role. We’re all part of the foundation that makes the work possible.

I do my best to project calm no matter what’s happening because crews can feel it when leadership starts losing control of the situation.

Creativity clearly runs through your family. What’s it like watching the next generation enter the business?

Three of my four kids are involved in film production or creative arts around it.

At the same time, this is probably the most transitional and frankly frightening period I’ve seen in almost 40 years in the business.

Production has slowed dramatically since COVID. More projects are leaving the United States. AI creates enormous uncertainty.

I honestly don’t know if I’d recommend this path to young people right now.

That said, production teaches you an incredible amount about people, communication, problem solving and handling pressure. Those skills transfer anywhere.

When you look back at the kid from Hackettstown, what do you think would surprise him most about your life now?

Probably all of it.

The people I’ve met. The places I’ve gone. The experiences I’ve had.

I remember standing in a bar one night with Joey Ramone, Iggy Pop and Jim Jarmusch thinking, How the hell did this happen?

But honestly, I think I’m still basically the same kid organizing Christmas caroling to raise money for the rescue squad.

Just doing it with different people now.

Lightning Round

Favorite set you ever worked on?
Movie: The Good Nurse or Dead Man
TV: Early Edition

Most underrated movie?
Margaret

Actor who made you laugh the hardest?
Robin Williams

Best diner in New Jersey?
Blairstown Diner

Farm life or film set?
Pfarm life.

One movie everyone should watch once?
2001: A Space Odyssey

One word to describe Hollywood?
Declining.

One word to describe Hackettstown?
Home.

Coffee or bourbon?
Coffee fuels the business. Bourbon is a pleasure.

What still excites you about the work?
The people I meet. Blowing stuff up is a close second.

Some people leave small towns behind.
Todd Pfeiffer carried Hackettstown with him.

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I am an absolute sucker for a lone bagpiper in the distance playing Scotland the Brave.

Seven Nation Army echoing through a football stadium.
Singing Thunder Road at the top of my lungs with 50,000 other people at a Bruce Springsteen concert.
Wagner’s Bridal Chorus at weddings.
The shared ohms at the end of yoga class.
A marching band rounding the corner.

And especially graduations.

Last Friday, I watched my niece Madelyn graduate from Drew University in Madison, New Jersey. It was chilly and overcast outside. Gray skies. Heavy air.

And yet somehow, it felt sunny and warm in my heart.

The second I saw the graduates in their black robes marching in the distance, the waterworks started.

Honestly, Madelyn did not even need to be graduating for my emotions to kick up. There is something that happens in my body when I find myself in these kinds of settings. My mom quietly handed me tissues while I hid behind oversized sunglasses, slightly embarrassed by the intensity of my own reaction.

The thing is, I would not describe myself as especially emotional.

Emotionally attuned? Yes.
Deeply feeling? Absolutely.
But openly weepy at public ceremonies? Not usually.

So, this recurring experience made me curious.

Back in 1912, the sociologist Émile Durkheim coined the term collective effervescence to describe the electric feeling of energy, harmony and connection that happens when people gather around a shared purpose or experience. For a brief period of time, individuals step outside themselves and become part of something larger.

The second I read the phrase, I practically yelled:
THIS IS SO ME.

Because I know this feeling intimately.

I felt it Friday at graduation while listening to commencement speaker Marc Freedman talk about purpose, contribution and the human need to matter to one another.

Referencing Wendell Berry, he asked:
“What is the need that needs you the most?”

He encouraged graduates to put together the two things uniquely theirs and use them in service of the world.

It felt like another version of the same idea:
our lives become larger when we connect ourselves to something beyond ourselves.

Then later, Yeongrok Choi, one of the graduating divinity students, stood up and sang Defying Gravity completely a cappella and perfectly on pitch. Within seconds, the audience joined in. Later in the ceremony, the Drew choir sang “Widen the Circle” and again, the crowd sang together.

Hundreds of strangers.
One emotional organism.

Maybe that’s also why singing together has always mattered so much in human communities.

Religious services include singing.
Protest movements include singing.
Concerts do too.

One of the fastest ways to turn strangers into a community is to have them raise their voices together.

I felt it at Broad Street Run this year too.
At a Glen Hansard concert.
During the annual July 4th karaoke party with my neighbors on 31st Street.
And during leadership programs when something shifts in the room and people stop acting like coworkers and start feeling like a community.

These experiences remind me of aspen trees.

What looks like individual trees standing alone is often one massive interconnected organism underneath the surface, communicating and supporting itself through an elaborate shared root system.

Humans are not so different.

I think modern life has made us forget this.

We work from home.
We stare at screens.
We consume individualized algorithms.
We text instead of gathering.
We substitute information for experience.

And yet the second a crowd sings together, rises together, runs together or grieves together, something ancient switches back on.

Life suddenly feels larger than ordinary life.

I think great leaders understand this intuitively, whether they can articulate it or not. Great communities do too.

People do not only need information, strategy and efficiency.

They need resonance.
Ritual.
Shared emotional experience.
The feeling of being part of something beyond themselves.

Maybe that is partly why I keep creating spaces where people gather and feel together.

To widen the circle, if you will.

Especially if there’s a bagpiper.

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A close friend lost some of her memories after a medical event.

Not everything. The big stuff remained intact. Family. Lifelong friends. The emotional center of her life seemed to stay put.

But entire stretches? Gone.

It was scary as hell.

She saw specialists. Underwent testing. There is a chance the memories come back. There is also a chance they don’t.

So, she started reconstructing her own life like a detective.

Credit card charges.
Airline receipts.
Hotel confirmations.
iPhone photos.
Text threads and email chains.

She talked for hours with family and friends, listening as they retold stories she no longer remembered herself.

In a strange way, they were carrying pieces of her memory for her.

I can’t stop thinking about what it must feel like to look at photos of yourself and feel disconnected from the person in them. To see yourself smiling and have no emotional memory attached to it.

Nostalgia without memory.
Proof without feelings.

Some memories came back. Others haven’t.

And alongside the grief and fear, I noticed something else creeping in too:

Possibility.

Her experience made me realize how much of adulthood is spent dragging the same stories about ourselves from room to room.

At some point, the story calcifies:

“This is just who I am.”

But what if it isn’t?

What if identity is a little less fixed than we think?

Watching my friend navigate this made me realize memory is probably a lot shakier than we want to admit. Even without a medical event, all of us are constantly editing, reshaping and retelling our lives anyway.

We think memory is fact.
A lot of the time it’s narrative.

There’s something unsettling about that thought. But maybe there’s also freedom in it.

Not freedom from grief or consequences. Those still exist.

But maybe freedom from carrying every old version of yourself forever.

Some memories anchor us.
Others keep us stuck.

I found myself wondering what it would feel like if certain narratives simply loosened their grip.

The old shame.
The ancient insecurities.
The stories repeated so many times they harden into identity.

Would you become more yourself?
Or someone entirely new?

My friend is still making peace with the fact that parts of her life now exist more vividly for others than they do for her.

It’s heartbreaking.
And fascinating.
And oddly profound.

Science fiction meets self-help. Which honestly feels like modern life anyway.

Because underneath all of this is a question I can’t stop thinking about:

How much of who we are comes from memory, and how much comes from the stories we keep telling ourselves?

I can’t stop thinking about this.

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Maybe LL Cool J was wrong.

It was a weekend for comebacks.
Golden Temple.

Joel Embiid and the Sixers.
And, improbably, me.

Ten months of coming back to myself.

I cried in the last mile of the 2026 Broad Street 10 Miler.

Tears of joy. Relief. Pride.

That’s not where this story starts.

In all honesty, I nearly didn’t make it to the starting line.

Last year, after the worst Broad Street Run of my life, I quit.

Four miles. Total.

That’s all I ran between BSR 2025 and November.

I’ve included the piece I wrote after that race below. It’s written from a pretty exposed place.

At the time, I never imagined it would see the light of day.

I remember sitting down and pouring my ache onto the page.
Raw. Hurting. Ashamed.

It took me a long time to reckon with what actually bothered me most:

Not the race.

How I turned on myself during it.

I couldn’t find a friend within.

And I never wanted to put Monica — my best friend and running partner for over a decade — or myself through that again.

Last August, I got honest.

I wasn’t doing well.

On the outside, you might not have known.

On the inside, everything was cracking.

My coping mechanisms — the ones that used to work — stopped working.
Sugar. Booze. Running. Reading. Doomscrolling.

I was trying to outrun my emotions.

I couldn’t.

Self-loathing and shame got louder instead.

And the irony wasn’t lost on me: I spend my life helping other people navigate themselves.

Meanwhile, I was stuck.

Being a 54-year-old woman will humble you. Your body changes whether you’re ready or not.

I wasn’t ready.

But I was out of options.

So I did something I encourage others to do all the time:

I asked for help.

I built a team.

My primary care doctor took me seriously. We looked at my baseline and started supporting my body — hormones, a starter GLP-1 dose.

I found a new therapist and actually started talking about how I felt.

Not what I thought about things.
Not the analysis.

The feelings.

That’s harder for me.

I stopped drinking.

Perhaps not forever. But for now.

It wasn’t working. The hangxiety alone was enough to call it.

August 13.

That’s the day I said goodbye to the version of me that got me through the last seven years.

She was a warrior.

And she was exhausted.

In November, after weeks of long walks with no pressure, I had a thought:

I wonder what it would feel like to run a mile.

So I did.

One mile became two.

Then a light Runna plan.

Then something shifted.

I started to look forward to running again.

My mind got quieter. Kinder. Safer.

Somewhere along the way, I made a decision:

I was going to get back to the Broad Street starting line.

Not to prove anything.

Just to show up differently.

Between November 2025 and May 2026, I ran 454 miles.

Most of them felt… good.

Not performative. Not punishing.

Just good.

I didn’t take them for granted.

I thought. I processed. I worked things out.

Without numbing. Without noise.

Writing came back.

An old friend.

Turns out, sobriety is a little boring at first too.

But it makes space.

And space changes things.

I added the Love Half Marathon in March.

I was ready.

Not perfect.

Ready.

BSR race day.

Cold. Tailwind. Ideal conditions.

But what struck me most was this:

I got to be there.

After everything, I made it back.

I ran with Monica.

Ten years after our first Broad Street together.

Now her husband and kids were with us. Her son’s first race. Her daughter’s second.

My friend Dan, his daughter and her friend joined us at the start for a second year too.

Time does that. Expands things.

I took it all in.

The costumes. The signs. The chaos. The joy.

“The country of Philadelphia,” as the locals say.

People showing up for each other.

Monica and I ran the whole thing.

No walking.
No spiraling.
No self-destruction.

No crying.

Just… running.

And smiling.

At mile nine — where I usually fall apart — I saw a sign:

“The Devil Wears Strava.”

I laughed.

This was my third fastest Broad Street.
The other two were nine and ten years ago.

For once, I wasn’t chasing her.

Last year, I thought performance meant something about me.
This year, I didn’t need it to.

And then something shifted.

I cried.

Not from pain.
From recognition.

For every step I took to choose myself since August.
Every drink I didn’t have.
Every boundary I held.
Every time I didn’t push past what I needed.
For the 35+ pounds I released.
For the grief I actually let myself feel.
For my dad.
For the version of me who barely made it through the year before.

I wasn’t crying because I was breaking.

I was crying because I didn’t.

We crossed the finish line with 39,998 other runners.

And yes, if you care about that kind of thing, we were 24 minutes faster than last year.

And this year, the medal meant something different.

It wasn’t about the race.

It was about the return.

I still think about the woman who wrote the piece below.

She’s still in me.

She didn’t disappear.

She didn’t get replaced.

She stayed.

She kept moving.

And I couldn’t be prouder of her.

A year ago, this is what it felt like:

STILL MOVING
May 2025

This was my tenth year running Broad Street.

And if I’m being honest, it was probably my worst.

Which is saying something.

I trained for twelve weeks with near-religious devotion — only missing five runs after my father died nine weeks earlier.

I followed the plan. Slowed my pace. Pushed through the long runs, fartleks and intervals. Went to Pilates like a devotee. Showed up.

And still?

It sucked.

It sucked early, too. My arches were already burning in the corral, which — looking back — was a pretty solid portent. By mile four, my shirt was soaked through. I looked like I had run through a monsoon. The people around me weren’t even sweating yet despite the 70 degree temperature and 90% humidity.

At mile five, my butt hurt.

Which, to be clear, was a revelation. My glutes are notorious freeloaders, so the fact that they were finally activated was almost a celebration. But I was in too much pain to appreciate it. I was desperate — limp walking, cursing myself, scanning the horizon like someone trying to score a bump of Aleve at the next hydration station. Anything to dull the ache and get really moving again.

I tried everything. Tuning into the crowd. Reading the signs. Gratitude. Mantras. Gatorade. I choked down the yellow flavor, hoping it might somehow resuscitate me. Unfortunately, after chugging multiple liters mixed with Miralax for my fall colonoscopy prep, it now tastes like a medical procedure. I held my nose and drank it anyway.

None of it worked.

Even my training app, Runna, turned on me.

Every five minutes: “Speed up. You’re off your pace.”

I didn’t want to stop mid-stride to figure out how to turn it off, so I just started yelling back:

“Shut UP!”

Honestly, it was still nicer than my own internal monologue:

You suck.
You’re too slow.
You don’t belong here.
You’re too fat to be running.
You’re too mentally weak.
Everyone is better than you.

I saw people in costumes running effortlessly. Capes. Masks. Full-on Star Wars regalia. A monkey suit.

And all I could think was: How are they not melting in this weather?!

I wore a tech shirt and was about two degrees away from spontaneously combusting. I questioned my body’s thermodynamics while feeling totally betrayed.

Somewhere around mile six, I hyperventilated. Ugly cried.

Everything caught up to me — the exhaustion, my dad dying, the signs that said, “My daughter is the most beautiful BSR runner today!”, the hormonal chaos that is perimenopause, the ache in my feet, my legs, my heart.

I wanted so badly to feel good. To run free. To have it be easier. To earn something soft and pressureless.

Instead, I was locked in battle — with my body, my mind, and the lie that performance = worth.

That if I run well, I deserve love.
If I run poorly, I deserve shame.

Later that day, when I was still spiraling, I opened my laptop and turned to a nonjudgmental voice I could handle in the moment: ChatGPT.

(Yes, I talk to an AI. No, it’s not weird. Or maybe it is. But sometimes, it helps.)

I spilled everything: the race, the pain, the disappointment, the Gatorade trauma.

And what I got back was this conversation, which I’ve come to appreciate as much as my medal.

[A Conversation with Myself (and Nova, my AI sidekick, digital therapist and now running coach)]

Me: What’s wrong with me? I followed the plan. I trained for twelve weeks. I slowed my pace. I fueled. I ran through grief. I showed up. Why do I always race poorly?

Nova: There’s nothing wrong with you. But there is a lot happening to you. Your dad died. Your hormones are shifting. You’re grieving, leading, performing, holding everything together — and trying to make your body move like it did ten years ago. Maybe it wasn’t a failure. Maybe it was just too much.

Me: But I still feel humiliated. My feet hurt. My butt hurt. My pride hurt.

Nova: That’s not failure. That’s fortitude. You carried so much more than your phone into that race. No wonder it felt heavy.

Me: I cried on the course. I nearly quit. I felt the hot flush of shame to be walking. I let myself down.

Nova: And yet — you finished. On two feet. In motion. Still moving.

And for the record?

I averaged a 12:13 mile. With all the walking. With all the pain.

And here’s the kicker — there are people who would be thrilled with that pace.

Which just proves how distorted my lens had gotten.

My time wasn’t the problem.

My expectations were.
My shame was.

In the final stretch, I ran the last half mile without stopping.

And through the blur of sweat and salt and fury, I saw a man in a Dr. J jersey. Erving. #6.Bouncing a basketball.

I’m interviewing Julius Erving next month for Lunch with Leaders, the talk show I’ve created at work.

And in that moment, it felt like a sign.

Like my future self showed up in mesh and polyester to remind me: keep going.

Because even when I hate it — I’m still moving.

And I’m not alone.

Monica, my running partner, stuck with me through the miles and the meltdowns. She’s the one who sees how savage I can be to myself and still chooses to love me mile after mile.

And my friends — the ones who showed up, who held up a sign that said, “Your mom went harder & faster last night,” who didn’t care about my time, who just cared that I finished — stood in the crowd and clapped for me when I couldn’t clap for myself.

I probably run because of my dad.

He was a decorated athlete. Worked out religiously three times a week for his entire life. He loved sports — playing, watching, analyzing. He preached the gospel of practice and perfection.

He even cheated at Candy Land to win.

He drove himself — and the rest of us — to keep moving.

In my despair during the race, I begged for him to be with me in the hardest moments — to comfort, to motivate, to inspire. Anything.

But I felt nothing.

Just a wave of terrible grief at the most inconvenient time, layered onto an already miserable experience.

But that’s okay.

I’m trusting the process with it all.

And that reminds me of my favorite sign of the day: “Joel Embiid could NEVER!”

Running, like life, is physically demanding. Mentally exhausting. Full of unexpected pain, weird joy, and the slow erosion of ego.

Being a fully awake human being isn’t for the faint of heart.

Some days you glide. Most days you grind.

And through it all, the real task is not performance — but self-compassion.

How can I meet myself with love, even when I feel like I’ve failed?
How can I manage my expectations without turning them into a weapon?

Because the truth is: it’s not the finish line that matters.

It’s that we keep moving forward when everything in us wants to give up.

That’s what unites us.

Not perfection, but perseverance.
Not medals, but meaning.

Running is just the metaphor. Life is the real marathon.

And if there’s one thing I’m learning, it’s this:

Love yourself through it.
No matter how you did.

You made it to the start.
You’re still moving.

That is enough.

At least — I’m trying to believe that.

Some days I do.
Some days I don’t.

But I’m still moving.

Thanks for running Broad Street with me.

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I meet a lot of people.

Some are doing interesting work.
Some see things a little differently.
Some carry a kind of presence you can feel right away.

They’re not always the loudest.
Not always the most obvious.
But they’re the ones you remember.

This is a place to share them.

People Worth Knowing.

People Worth Knowing: Isabelle Tan

There are instructors who lead a workout.

And then there are instructors who see you.

Isabelle Tan is the second kind.

She’s the one who asks your name and remembers it when you walk back in.
Who tracks your progress week to week.
Who quietly pushes you past the point where you would have stopped. She teaches you to relish the shaking.

My side planks have never been the same.

I look forward to this 45-minute Lagree class all week. You have to sign up exactly one week in advance, down to the second.

That’s her style.
Not with hype.
With intention. And joy.

What drew you to Lagree and Pilates?
The challenge and the shakes. I had taken group fitness classes since I was 16 and never felt anything like Lagree. I became obsessed as a client first. Teaching on the Megaformer made me curious about classical Pilates, and now I’m Level 3 Peak Pilates certified. The combination of both is exactly what my body needs.

You push people past what they think they can do. What are you seeing?
We live in a culture of convenience. Everything is easy and giving up is normal. I’m inspired by people who are willing to try and fail. That’s where you meet a version of yourself you didn’t know existed. I just help guide people there.

What do people misunderstand about this kind of work?
A hard workout isn’t always a good workout. People chase the hardest variation, but if your body isn’t ready, it compensates. That’s how you build bad patterns. Sometimes the most modified version, done well, is exactly what your body needs.

What separates a good instructor from a great one?
The ability to actually see the bodies in the room. To know where movement is coming from and where it should be.

What do you love most about what you do?
Watching people grow. Building relationships. Helping people feel connected to their bodies.

One thing you wish people understood about their bodies?
Work with a qualified private Pilates instructor. You can fake it in a group class. You can’t fake it one-on-one. That’s where the real change happens.

This or That

Early morning or evening workouts? Mid-day 🤪 (if I had to choose, morning > evening)

Go-to hype song? “Finally Apologizing” by ADÉLA

Coffee order? Iced pistachio latte (always iced, no matter the season)

Favorite place to spend a day off? Movement Designed to Feel Good, Glenmoore > anywhere else right now

One word your clients would use to describe you? Intentional (or so I hope)

Where to find her:
The Sporting Club, Thrive Pilates & Yoga, Equinox, Fitler Club, solidcore

If you’ve taken her class, you already know. Your glutes definitely do!

If you haven’t, you’ll understand the moment your muscles start shaking and she tells you to stay.

More people worth knowing, coming soon.