People are sometimes surprised to learn how deeply sad I can be.

I understand why.

I’m the coach. The motivational speaker. The preacher. The person people call when they need help figuring out what to do next. And, depending on the day, the clown.

Long before anybody called me the Empathy Revolutionary, they called me the Nickanator.

So sadness can seem inconsistent with who people know me to be.

It isn’t.

Years ago, I was going through a divorce when my mentor, who had become like a father to me, died. It was an extraordinarily painful season, but I was still working. Still leading. Still doing all the things people had come to expect from me.

One day, my manager asked how I was doing.

I told him, with genuine pride, “I haven’t cried in 24 hours.”

He looked horrified.

I was celebrating. 😂

Because sometimes surviving requires us to change the measurement.

There are seasons when getting out of bed is an accomplishment. When answering the phone is progress. When making it through an entire day without crying deserves a little check mark on the scoreboard.

That experience taught me something I’m still learning: strength and sadness are not opposites.

Elisabeth Kübler-Ross famously wrote about people who have known suffering, struggle and loss, concluding, “Beautiful people do not just happen.”

I believe that.

The parts of us that people admire are sometimes connected to the parts of our stories they cannot see. The compassion may have come through grief. The patience may have been learned through disappointment. The ability to sit calmly with somebody in their worst moment may exist because you remember exactly what it felt like when somebody sat with you in yours.

Pain and purpose are not always separate stories.

But lately I’ve been learning something else about grief.

Sometimes rumination is evidence that grief is necessary.

I am a thinker. Give me a problem and my brain immediately reports for duty.

What happened?

Why did it happen?

What did I miss?

What can I do?

What should I have done?

What if I try this?

Surely there is an Excel spreadsheet for this foolishness somewhere.

But some problems cannot be thought into submission.

There are people whose needs I cannot meet. Relationships I cannot repair alone. Outcomes I cannot change. Things I desperately wish were different that simply are not.

And when my mind keeps returning to one of those things—turning it over and over, replaying conversations, looking for an answer that apparently did not appear during the first 347 reviews—I’m learning to ask a different question.

Am I actually trying to solve something that I need to grieve?

Whew.

Because grief doesn’t only belong to death.

Sometimes you have to grieve what you hoped would happen.

Who you thought someone would become.

The relationship you wanted.

The apology that may never come.

The person you couldn’t save.

The outcome you worked for and still didn’t get.

Sometimes the mind keeps searching for a solution because accepting that there isn’t one hurts.

So we think.

And think.

And think some more.

Perhaps there comes a point when thinking is no longer helping us process the pain. It is helping us avoid feeling it.

That is where I am learning to surrender.

Not because I suddenly understand everything. Not because I like what happened. Not because I’ve discovered some spiritual loophole that makes it stop hurting.

Because some things are simply bigger than me.

They have to be grieved.

And then they have to be turned over to God.

The encouragement I want to offer is this: please don’t mistake your sadness for evidence that you’re failing.

You can be deeply sad and still deeply grateful.

You can grieve and still laugh until your stomach hurts.

You can need help today and be the person who helps somebody tomorrow.

You can be strong and still have days when “I haven’t cried in 24 hours” is the victory.

The sorrow and the joy do not cancel each other out.

Sometimes they explain each other.

So if your mind has been running the same lap for days, weeks or months, perhaps there isn’t another lap to run.

Maybe there is something to grieve.

Cry.

Mourn what didn’t happen.

Admit what hurts.

Give yourself permission to stop solving.

Then turn over to God what was never yours to carry forever.

And won’t you bless the Lord with me that we can know deep sadness without surrendering to despair.

But they are. So here we go.

Twice in recent history, American voters had the opportunity to choose a woman to lead this country. Twice, we decided that a vagina was, at minimum, a complication — and at worst, a disqualifier. Some people disengaged entirely. Others explicitly argued that character flaws were more tolerable than female leadership.

That happened.

Then last week, the sitting president declared, “We ended DEI in America,” and some of the most powerful people in this country rose to their feet in applause.

Let’s move past acronyms for a moment and talk about meaning.

You cannot “end” difference. It is not a policy. It is a human reality. Difference exists whether we acknowledge it or not — across gender, geography, temperament, ability, wealth, culture, and experience. Pretending otherwise does not eliminate it; it simply removes our responsibility to account for it.

Equity, stripped of political language, means treating people fairly according to their needs. Any parent raising more than one child understands this instinctively. Fairness is not sameness. If one child needs tutoring and the other needs therapy, giving them identical treatment is not justice — it is negligence.

We teach inclusion in kindergarten. “You can’t play unless everyone can play.” It is one of the first social contracts we give five-year-olds. It is not radical. It is foundational.

So when leaders applaud the “ending” of diversity, equity, and inclusion, what exactly are we celebrating? The refusal to account for difference? The decision to treat unequal starting points as equal? The comfort of not adjusting systems so more people can participate fully?

It would be easy to locate this in one man. But that would let the rest of us off the hook.

Because this is Women’s History Month. And if we are honest, cultural skepticism toward women’s leadership did not begin in a campaign cycle. It lives in everyday language.

How many times have we said, casually and without reflection:

“Whew, teenage girls.”

“I work in an office full of women — the drama.”

These comments feel small. Harmless, even. But they reinforce a narrative: that women are inherently chaotic, overly emotional, less steady. And if you believe that — even subtly — then you are participating in the same cultural water that makes female leadership feel threatening.

Meanwhile, across the globe, women are leading nations, institutions, movements, and corporations. And when researchers ask people what they actually want in a leader, the top traits are consistent: empathy, collaboration, steadiness, compassion, the ability to build consensus.

Those are traditionally coded as feminine leadership traits.

So what are we rejecting when we reject the structures designed to support difference?

Difference and fairness are not threats.

Inclusion isn’t a threat.

Empathy is.

Empathy requires adjustment. Empathy requires humility. Empathy requires us to admit our own hypocrisy.

If we are going to have an honest conversation about the future of this country, we must be willing to look beyond slogans and examine our own reflexes.

Because applause is never just about the person at the podium.

It’s about the people standing. But it’s also about the people watching. Mirror up.

— Dr. Nicole Price

Empathy Revolutionary

My sixth-grade teacher has passed away.

Such is the way of the world.

But Mr. Cooper? He deserves a moment.

I was new to the school—again. Behind in my lessons—again. I walked into Mr. Cooper’s classroom and immediately put my head down and cried. I didn’t recognize the math on the board. I hadn’t been taught the concepts. I felt like I was drowning.

By the end of the year? I could teach those lessons.

That’s what Mr. Charles E. Cooper, Sr. did. He pulled me from overwhelmed to overprepared. He didn’t just fill in gaps—he built confidence. He built me.

And then there was the speech.

Mr. Cooper assigned Normalcy, Never Again—what most people know as Dr. King’s I Have a Dream speech. I thought he meant the whole thing, so I memorized all of it. And when I delivered it in full, he just looked at me with a kind of joy I’ll never forget.

That was the first time I saw someone look at me like that.

Like they could already see my future.

I was eleven years old.

We don’t talk enough about what it means to be seen like that.

We don’t talk enough about people like Mr. Cooper.

Only 1% of K–12 teachers in the U.S. are Black men.

That means entire generations of children grow up never being taught—or deeply affirmed—by someone who looks like him.

I was one of the lucky ones. And even among that 1%, Mr. Cooper stood out.

He was sharp, brilliant, warm, firm. He had standards. He believed in excellence. And he believed in us long enough for us to start believing in ourselves.

His legacy lives in my life’s work.

I’ve been thinking a lot about legacy lately.

Who shaped us?

Who refused to let us shrink?

Who saw us—even before we had the words or confidence to see ourselves?

Maybe for you, it wasn’t a teacher.

Maybe it was a coach. A neighbor. A grandparent. A pastor. A supervisor.

Someone who didn’t just give you rules—but gave you room to grow.

I’d love to hear who your Mr. Cooper was.

And maybe more importantly: Who are you being a Mr. Cooper for?

Who are you encouraging in private?

Who are you lifting from overwhelm to excellence?

Who are you looking at with joy and saying, “I see something in you”?

That’s what legacy looks like.

That’s how we change the story—one person at a time.

Thank you, Mr. Cooper.

For teaching me math. For assigning me King.

For seeing me before I fully saw myself.

Rest well, sir.

Your impact lives on.

Dr. Nicole Price

Empathy Revolutionary

Would love to hear from you. Who saw you like Mr. Cooper saw me? Who are you committed to seeing today?

Feel free to hit reply or leave a comment below. Let’s honor our mentors by becoming what they were for us.

#WeGotWorkToDo #EmpathyRevolutionary #HolyEducatedMFer

I almost didn’t write this.

Not because I didn’t have anything to say.

But because I wasn’t sure how to say it without sounding… hypocritical.

You see, I’ve spent the last few years advocating for empathy in leadership, in relationships, in systems.

I believe in compassion and accountability.

I believe we can do hard things with soft hearts.

But recently, I’ve felt… tired.

And when that feeling lingers long enough, it starts sounding like apathy.

Like disengagement.

Like hypocrisy.

How do you stay rooted in empathy when you’re running on fumes?

What does it mean to lead with feeling when your own are frayed?

I started wondering:

Am I losing steam? Am I losing myself?

And then it hit me—I’m not disengaged.

I’m just exhausted.

There’s a difference.

This realization didn’t come in a blaze of clarity.

It came when I sat down, as I do every year, to choose a “word of the year.”

Something to center me. A guiding theme.

And nothing fit.

Words like growth, courage, vision—they just didn’t land.

Not because I don’t want those things.

But because they felt like assignments.

Heavy. Strategic. External.

And I knew I needed something different.

Not a challenge. Not a stretch goal.

A blessing.

So I started writing softer words—ones that wouldn’t test me but would heal me.

And I realized I’m not alone.

Ten Gentle Word Candidates for 2026:

1. Ease – Not laziness. Grace. Doors that open without you begging.

2. Receive – You’ve given enough. This year, open hands > open tabs.

3. Nourish – Your body. Your spirit. Your relationships that refill, not deplete.

4. Replenish – Energy you’ve poured out… returning.

5. Delight – Not happiness for show. Real joy that makes your shoulders drop.

6. Softness – Not weakness. The strength to live unarmored where it’s safe.

7. Peace – Not a truce. The kind that protects your soul.

8. Bloom – Gently. Not struggling seedlings—perennials returning. (Still not sure about this one. Blooming things must be buried first… 👀)

9. Sanctuary – Environments and people that honor your wholeness.

10. Light – Not the spotlight. The quiet glow that reminds you who you are.

If you’re still searching for your word, try this:

Ask yourself:

Which of these feels like a warm blanket, not a homework assignment?

Then ask:

Which one feels like a blessing I’m finally worthy of?

Let your body answer.

Choose the word that makes your breath softer and your jaw unclench.

And if you’re not ready to pick one yet?

That’s okay too.

You’ve survived.

Now you get to decide how to live.

Wishing you light (the internal kind) and sanctuary in the new year.

About Me

I’m a strategist, writer, and speaker who believes empathy is not a soft skill—it’s a leadership imperative.

Around here, I talk about systems, storytelling, spiritual grit, and what it means to live and lead with heart.

Sometimes, that means showing up tired. But always, it means showing up real.

My brother could ride his dirt bike up that hill, standing as he pedaled.

Me? I’d make it halfway before I had to get off and walk.

There were other options:

1. Roll back down

2. Sit on the hill and wait

3. Never try it at all

But only two would get me to my granny’s house: riding or walking that bike up.

The first time I followed him, I cried because he left me behind.

The second time, I tried to muscle my way through with willpower. I was unsuccessful and cried again.

Eventually, I stopped trying to conquer the hill with pride and started walking my bike up.

Not because I had given up, but because I had gotten clear: if I wanted to get where I was going, I needed a strategy that worked.

And back then, it never occurred to me that the road itself could be redesigned.

But recently, near where I live now, I saw the city reduce the grade of another steep road—intentionally reshaping the incline to make it more accessible.

And it got me thinking.

For so many of us, life has felt like that hill.

We’ve learned to endure.

We’ve learned to push, to sweat, to cry, to adapt.

We’ve told ourselves, “Just keep going.”

But what if the hill was never supposed to be that steep in the first place?

What if we’ve been taught to idolize resilience, when what we actually need is relief?

Empathy invites us to look beyond the struggle and ask:

Could this be easier for someone else, too?

Could we build a path that doesn’t break people down just for trying to move forward?

Resilience is valuable.

But redesign is transformational.

And there’s grace in asking both:

• How can I move through this with what I have?

• And how can I help make it better for the next person who comes behind me?

If you’re in a season where you’re walk-riding your bike up the hill, I see you.

That’s not failure. That’s wisdom.

If you’ve made it to your version of grandma’s house—by grit or grace—I celebrate you.

And if you’re working behind the scenes to smooth the roads for someone else?

That’s compassionate empathy.

That’s love in motion.

That’s the work that outlasts us.

It never even occurred to me that we could change the road.

Now I know better.

Let’s keep building better roads—together.

#EmpathyRevolutionary

#WeGotWorkToDo

#ResilienceAndResistance

#HolyEducatedMFer