Every morning that I go into the office, I stop at Starbucks.

Not just any Starbucks. The Starbucks in North Creek Plaza in Bothell, Washington.

For years, that wasn’t particularly noteworthy. The Starbucks was conveniently located on my route to work, and like millions of Americans, I had my routine. Pull into the drive-thru, order my coffee, and continue on with my day.

Then I moved.

Today, that Starbucks isn’t on my way at all. In fact, I pass at least two other Starbucks to get there. Rationally, it doesn’t make much sense.

At least that’s what a friend of mine thought.

One morning he was riding with me when I made the familiar turn toward Starbucks.

“Why are we going here?” he asked. “There are three other Starbucks on the way.”

It was a fair question. It was also the beginning of an existential crisis I wasn’t expecting before my first cup of coffee.

As I drove, I started thinking about it. Why was I going here? Why was I spending extra time and extra gas to get coffee from this location when there were perfectly good Starbucks between me and my destination?

That’s when I realized something.

It wasn’t about the coffee.

Well, not entirely.

My drink, for those of you who are curious, is a Grande Caramel Macchiato made with coconut milk and an extra pump of mocha.

I know. I know.

Somewhere, a coffee purist just rolled their eyes so hard they may require medical attention.

I’ve been informed more than once that what I’m drinking is technically dessert.

That’s fine.

I’ve made my peace with that.

It’s delicious.

The only exception is every year, between the Friday after Thanksgiving and the day after New Year’s, when I temporarily abandon it in favor of a Grande Peppermint Mocha. It seems like the right thing to do. Merry Christmas to me and a ho-ho-ho to all.

The people at Starbucks know that.

In fact, shortly after Thanksgiving last year, I pulled up to the speaker and before I could order, someone asked, “Is it Peppermint Mocha season yet, Stephen?”

I laughed.

Not because it was particularly funny.

But because they remembered.

They remembered my name. They remembered my drink. And somehow, they even remembered that for a few weeks every year I become a Peppermint Mocha guy.

And you know what?

That feels good.

For years, while teaching customer service classes, I’ve talked about something psychologists call the cocktail party effect. You can be standing in a crowded room surrounded by conversations and hear nothing but noise. Yet the moment someone says your name, your brain notices.

Our names matter.

They help us feel seen.

And every morning, before I’ve had enough caffeine to form a complete thought, someone at Starbucks is reminding me that they know exactly who I am.

One of the statistics I often share in class comes from researcher John Gattorna. His research suggests that 68 percent of customers leave a company because they perceive indifference. Not because of price. Not because of product quality. Not because a competitor offers something better.

They leave because they feel like nobody cares.

Seven out of ten.

That’s significant.

What makes that statistic so fascinating is that indifference doesn’t require a bad company. It doesn’t require bad leadership. It doesn’t require an entire team to stop caring.

All it takes is one person having a bad day.

And honestly, who among us hasn’t had one of those?

I’ve asked that question in training classes for years.

“By a show of hands, who has ever come to work and just didn’t feel it today?”

Every hand goes up.

People are tired. They’re worried about money. They’re dealing with relationship problems. They’re not feeling well. They’re trying to figure out how to pay the rent.

We’re human.

The problem isn’t that we have those days.

The problem is when someone else pays the price for them.

In my classes, I don’t just talk about the problem. I give people seven simple skills that communicate care, even on the days when they may not feel like it.

I call them skills because that’s exactly what they are. Things we learn to do so consistently that they become second nature.

Smile and make eye contact.

Ask and use the customer’s name.

Ask warm questions.

Acknowledge the request.

Build value and create the wow.

Ask, “What else?”

Thank the guest and invite them to return.

Simple things.

But powerful things.

As I thought about my Starbucks, I realized something interesting. Without ever knowing it, the people there practice many of the same skills I teach in my classes.

But they don’t do it because they’re following a customer service playbook. At least they don’t make it seem that way.

They do it because they’re good at making people feel seen.

Take Ivy, for example.

I have a granddaughter named Ivy, which is how the conversation started in the first place. Somewhere along the way, asking about my grandkids became part of our routine.

It takes all of ten seconds.

But every time she asks, she’s communicating something important:

“I remember what matters to you.”

Then there’s Sophia.

Sophia is always looking out for Winston, my Goldendoodle. More specifically, she wants to know whether Winston needs a pup cup.

The answer, for the record, is always yes.

Winston has never once declined a pup cup on principle.

Then there’s Stu.

Stu has developed a fist bump he calls the Bada Boom. I have no idea where it came from, and I’m not entirely sure I understand it.

What I do know is that when Stu is working the drive-thru, there’s a pretty good chance my morning is going to include a laugh, a fist bump, and a reminder not to take life quite so seriously.

And honestly, I look forward to it.

It’s a great way to start the day.

Owen has one of those smiles that improves your mood before you’ve had your first sip of coffee. I don’t know whether that’s natural optimism, too much caffeine, or some secret Starbucks training module called Advanced Smiling, but it’s contagious.

James has mastered the art of making a thirty-second interaction feel unhurried. There are cars behind me. People are waiting. Everyone is busy. Yet somehow, when James is working, I never feel rushed.

That’s a skill.

Then there’s Liz and Jaz.

Both of them seem genuinely happy to see me.

In fact, they often act far more excited to see me than I am capable of being before 9:00 a.m.

I don’t know if that’s natural optimism, caffeine, or some secret Starbucks hiring requirement, but I like it!

Every interaction leaves me feeling a little more awake and a little more welcome.

And we can’t forget about Harrison.

One morning I picked up my coffee, drove to work, got out of my car, and immediately spilled the entire thing all over the parking lot.

I stood there staring at it for a moment, wishing I had Samantha’s powers from Bewitched. One twitch of the nose and the coffee would have magically jumped back into the cup.

It did not.

Physics remains undefeated.

So I got back in my car and drove straight back to Starbucks.

When I pulled up to the window, they immediately knew something was wrong.

“What happened?”

I told them the story.

Harrison listened, laughed with me, and then said matter-of-factly, “Well, I’m not charging you for another coffee. This one’s on me.”

Now let’s be honest.

We’re talking about a six-dollar cup of coffee.

Harrison didn’t pay off my mortgage. He didn’t buy me a car. He didn’t solve world hunger.

He gave me a replacement coffee.

But somehow it felt like much more than that.

I remember driving away thinking about how easy it would have been for him to simply ring me up and hand me another drink. After all, spilling the first one was entirely my fault.

Instead, he chose grace.

And years later, I still remember it.

As I started writing this story, I realized I was in trouble.

Every time I thought I was done, I’d remember another employee.

“Oh, I need to mention Sophia.”

Then Stu.

Then Owen.

Then James.

Then Harrison.

Then Liz.

Then Jaz.

At some point this stopped being a story and started looking like the credits at the end of a Marvel movie.

Every time I thought I was done, another barista would wander into the next draft.

The more I thought about my friend’s question, the more I realized he had asked the wrong one.

The question isn’t why I drive past other Starbucks.

The question is why I keep coming back to this one.

The answer isn’t the coffee.

The answer is the people.

Sometimes I wonder what I look forward to more in the morning: the coffee or seeing my peeps at Starbucks?

I honestly don’t know.

What I do know is that they are usually the first people I interact with each day. Before the meetings. Before the emails. Before the deadlines. Before whatever challenge happens to be waiting for me at the office.

Every morning, I am greeted by people who know my name, know my order, remember Peppermint Mocha season, ask about my grandkids, ask about Winston, make me laugh, and make me feel welcome.

The relationship is what keeps me coming back.

It’s the feeling that somebody notices when I arrive.

The feeling that somebody is quietly rooting for me.

The feeling that, for a few minutes each morning, I am more than the next car in line.

I am Stephen.

And maybe that’s what all of us want.

To be seen.

To be remembered.

To matter.

As I’ve been writing this story, another thought keeps creeping into my mind.

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In September, our offices are moving to a different city.

When that happens, I probably won’t be coming to this Starbucks anymore.

That makes me sad.

Not because I’ll miss the coffee.

Starbucks will happily sell me a Grande Caramel Macchiato made with coconut milk and an extra pump of mocha at a thousand other locations.

What I’ll miss are the people.

I’ll miss Ivy asking about my grandkids.

I’ll miss Sophia making sure Winston isn’t being deprived of a pup cup.

I’ll miss Stu’s Bada Boom fist bump.

I’ll miss Owen’s smile.

I’ll miss the way James somehow makes thirty seconds feel unhurried.

I’ll miss Liz and Jazz making me feel welcome before I’ve had enough caffeine to be properly human.

And I’ll miss knowing that if I spill my coffee in a parking lot somewhere, Harrison will probably laugh before he helps me.

Maybe that’s why Gattorna’s statistic has stayed with me for so many years.

If people leave because they perceive indifference, perhaps they stay because they feel cared about.

We spend a lot of time in customer service looking for the next big thing: the next technology, the next loyalty program, the next innovation.

Meanwhile, the people at my Starbucks have figured out something remarkably simple.

Remember my name.

Remember what matters to me.

Show me a little grace when I spill my coffee.

Make me feel like you’re genuinely happy to see me.

That’s not complicated.

But apparently, it’s powerful enough to make a guy drive past two other Starbucks every morning.

And powerful enough that he’ll miss them when he no longer can.

So Where Does This Show Up in Your Life?

Who are the people you keep coming back to?

Not because you have to.

Not because they’re the cheapest, the fastest, or the most convenient.

But because they make you feel seen.

When was the last time someone remembered your name, asked about something important in your life, or made you feel like they were genuinely happy to see you?

How did that make you feel?

Now, flip the question around.

Who in your life might benefit from that same feeling?

Is there a customer, coworker, employee, neighbor, friend, or family member who would be surprised to discover that you remembered something important to them?

Who could you ask a warm question instead of a transactional one?

Who could you make feel welcome instead of simply acknowledged?

What small thing could you do this week that would let someone know they matter?

And finally, if a friend asked why people keep coming back to you, what would the answer be?

Would it be the product?

The service?

The convenience?

Or would it be something much more personal than that?

Author’s Note

This story is about the team at Starbucks Store #3356-40986 in North Creek Plaza, Bothell, Washington.

While I’ve mentioned a few people by name, this story really belongs to the entire team and those who train them. The names in this story are simply examples of the many people who have made me feel welcome over the years.

Thank you for reminding me every morning what great customer service—and genuine human connection—looks like. I hope this story reminds you that the little things you do every day matter more than you probably realize.

I’ve taught it in training rooms, hotel ballrooms, conference centers with aggressive carpet patterns, and at least one room that was clearly meant to be a storage closet but had chairs in it, so… training room.

I’ve taught win-win to frontline employees, managers, executives, and that one guy in every class who leans back with his arms crossed like he’s auditioning to be skeptical.

A win-win, I’d explain, is when both sides walk away better off than they were before. Not equally thrilled. Not equally inconvenienced. Just… better.

What I apparently forgot to teach was how to apply this concept to myself. You know what they say—do as I say, not what I do. Apparently, I took that part a little too literally.

About a year after leaving a customer service and sales training company I’d spent a meaningful chapter of my career with—long enough for my email to stop working, but not long enough for my ideas to—I got a call.

They wanted help.

Specifically, they wanted me to design a training program focused on Resort Spas and Wellness Centers—something they could add to their expanding library of training offerings for clients, despite the fact that I was already teaching many of the same principles to my own clients.

Let’s be clear: I knew their training philosophy and the look and feel they were after. What they were really asking me to do was take what I knew and put their signature touch on it.

It was flattering. Genuinely so.

It was also complicated.

I no longer worked there. I had moved on. I was busy. And, if I was being honest, I had already given a lot of myself to that organization. Time, energy, ideas, weekends, late nights, and more than a few pieces of intellectual property that never really had my name on them.

Still, the ask wasn’t unreasonable. And the work?
The work was mine.

So I said yes.

Well—almost yes.

I told them I’d be happy to do it… and that I’d follow up with a proposal.

That part took me longer than expected.

Not because I didn’t know how to build the training. I could have done that in my sleep.

What gave me pause was something else entirely.

I didn’t really want to do it.

Not in a dramatic, stomp-my-feet kind of way. I just didn’t have the time. Or the energy. Or—if I’m being honest—the desire.

I had moved on. I was busy. My calendar was already full of things I had chosen.

At the same time, I didn’t want to burn any bridges. I respected them. I respected the work. And I didn’t want my answer to sound like no when what I really meant was not like this.

That’s when the internal debate started.

Because the question wasn’t, “What should I charge?”
It was, “Under what conditions would I actually want to say yes?”

That’s when my own win-win philosophy finally raised its hand.

If this was going to be a win-win, it couldn’t just work for them.
It had to work for me, too.

So I asked myself a different question.

At what price would this feel worth it?
At what number would I happily rearrange my schedule, bring real energy to the work, and deliver something I’d be proud of?

Once I framed it that way, the answer came surprisingly easily.

I built the proposal carefully. Thoughtfully. Respectfully.

Then I named a number.

And immediately had the very mature reaction of thinking, Who do you think you are?

That’s when the imposter syndrome kicked in.

If you’ve never experienced imposter syndrome, it’s that helpful little voice that shows up uninvited and says, Everyone else is going to figure out you have no idea what you’re doing… any minute now. It tends to arrive right after you do something brave and right before you do something terrifying. Like attaching a price to your own work.

In my case, it took me three full days to actually hit send.

The proposal was done. The number was there. I just kept reopening the email, rereading it, and thinking, I cannot believe I’m asking them to pay this. I wasn’t second-guessing the work. I was second-guessing myself. There was a very real part of me that felt almost embarrassed by the number, like I’d accidentally worn the wrong outfit to a formal event.

Eventually, I took a breath, reminded myself this was me practicing what I preached, and sent it.

And then I waited.

A day passed.
Then two.
Then enough time that I started mentally drafting a follow-up email I absolutely was not going to send.

You know the one:
“Just checking in!”
Which actually means…
“Please don’t hate me for believing I have value.”

As the silence stretched on, my imagination filled in the gaps.

I had vivid visions of them sitting around a conference table, proposal projected on the wall, laughing out loud.

Who does he think he is?
Why does he think he’s worth this much?

I decided that if the answer was no, I’d be fine. Disappointed, but fine. After all, this was me practicing what I preached.

And then… nothing.

Weeks passed.
Then months.

Six months, to be exact.

Just when I had fully assumed the conversation was over and I mentally moved the whole thing into the “Well, that was a growth experience” file, the email finally came.

They said yes.

No counteroffer.
No negotiation.
No “Can we circle back on this?”

Just… yes.

And when the work started, I didn’t phone it in.

I worked hard on it. Really hard.

The kind of hard that doesn’t show up on a calendar, but absolutely shows up in your posture. I put in countless hours writing, revising, rewriting, second-guessing, then rewriting again because I remembered something in the shower that suddenly felt very important.

I poured my heart and soul into it. Not in a dramatic, tortured-artist way. More in a “Why am I still tweaking this slide at 10:47 p.m. when no one asked me to?” kind of way.

I built it carefully. Thoughtfully. And then I revised it. And then revised the revisions. And then made a few more adjustments because someone said, “What if we just tweaked this one thing?”, which, as everyone knows, is never just one thing.

And I did all of it gladly.

Because by that point, this wasn’t just a project. It was a promise—to myself—that if I was going to say yes, I was going to show up fully.

When it was finally done, I knew I had delivered something solid. Thoughtful. Something that carried my style, layered with their signature in the best way.

The kind of work where I felt confident that, once it left my hands, they could work their magic with it.

And then came the most satisfying part of the story.

The check arrived.

Not with fireworks. Not with a drumroll. Just quietly. Professionally. Exactly as promised. The kind of moment that doesn’t announce itself, but still makes you pause and smile.

Because by then, the money wasn’t really about the money.

It was about having trusted myself.
About honoring my time.
About saying yes in a way that didn’t leave me tired, resentful, or wishing I’d handled it differently.

And then—later—that decision turned into something very tangible.

A beautiful in-ground pool in my backyard.
The kind with a hot tub tucked just close enough to spill warmth into the water.
Waterfalls that make everything feel calmer the moment you turn them on.
Landscaping that somehow makes the yard feel like it’s always been that way, as if it was just waiting for us to notice.

But the real payoff wasn’t the pool.

It was the memories it created.

Long afternoons that turned into evenings.
Kids jumping in before they were supposed to.
Conversations that lasted longer because no one was in a hurry to leave.
Moments that didn’t feel planned or productive—just lived.

Every time I look at it now, I don’t just see water and stone and carefully chosen plants. I see what happens when you make a decision that truly works for everyone involved.

Not bravado.
Not revenge.
Not “look what I did.”

Just a quiet, deeply satisfying win-win—
one that kept giving long after the work was done.

So, where does this show up in your life?

• Where are you saying yes simply because you can, even though part of you doesn’t really want to?

• What work are you doing today that still fits your skills—but no longer fits your energy, your season, or your priorities?

• Where might you be confusing being generous with being depleted?

• What would it look like to ask a better question than, “Can I do this?”
  What if you asked instead, “Under what conditions would I be glad I said yes?”

• Is there a relationship, request, or opportunity in your life where you’re afraid to name what would actually make it a win-win?

• And finally—if you trusted your experience just a little more, what decision might you make differently this week?

Not because I was gifted.
Not because I was passionate.
But mostly because someone had to be.

I was the oldest of five. My mom had a lot on her plate during those years. She had just had two babies born just over a year apart, and the only thing my dad knew how to do in the kitchen was burn boiling water. So the kitchen became less of a hobby and more of a survival skill.

I don’t remember exactly when I started cooking. I just remember dragging a stool up to the stove so I could reach the burners. And I should say this clearly… I’m not complaining. I loved it. The kitchen was the one place where effort reliably turned into something real. You followed the steps, paid attention, and something good happened at the end. It was also where I got to be creative. Where I could make something out of nothing and feel proud of it.

Then one day, I heard a name.

Baked Alaska.

The name alone sounded elegant. Mysterious. Fancy. And I liked fancy.

I asked my mom what it was.

She said, very casually, “You take a cake, put ice cream on top of it, spread egg whites all over the ice cream, and bake it.”

I paused.

In my eleven-year-old brain, I pictured unbeaten egg whites—slimy, translucent, vaguely tragic—smeared over ice cream and shoved into an oven. It was… unsettling.

I asked the obvious question.
“Why doesn’t the ice cream melt?”

She said, “You have to be very careful. If there are any holes in the egg whites, it’ll melt and make a huge mess in the oven.”

That description didn’t scare me.
It multiplied my curiosity by ten.

So I did what any reasonable eleven-year-old would do.

I researched.

That’s when I learned the crucial detail my mom had left out: the egg whites weren’t just egg whites. They were meringue. Whipped. Structured. Protective. Suddenly, the whole thing made sense… and my excitement doubled.

I also knew there was absolutely no chance I was going to get permission to make this. One misplaced hole in the meringue and I’d destroy the oven, the kitchen, and possibly my future.

So I came up with a better plan.

I would surprise them.

Their anniversary was coming up. No permission needed. I’d just… present it. Honestly, for an eleven-year-old, the confidence was impressive.

I used Grandma Brown’s chocolate cake recipe, bought the best Neapolitan ice cream I could find, whipped the egg whites until they were glossy and proud, and made sure there wasn’t a single hole in that meringue armor.

I was nervous sliding a block of ice cream into a 450-degree oven. But I was also excited. I couldn’t tell if that excitement came from confidence or ignorance.

Turns out, probably both.

To everyone’s surprise—including mine—I produced a pretty darn good Baked Alaska. I’d give it a solid seven out of ten.

You might think that’s where the story ends.

It is not.

Fast forward four years.

Now I’m fifteen. Older. Bolder. Still wildly confident. And apparently incapable of learning the lesson, Let’s not push this any further.

Because somewhere along the way, I learned about a Flaming Baked Alaska.

This was Baked Alaska… but flambéed.

Fire. Drama. Showmanship.
I mean, what could be better?

My method of operation hadn’t changed. I lived by a simple rule: when permission was risky, surprises were safer—and forgiveness could be dealt with later.

Easter was coming up, and I volunteered to make dessert. Which, of course, meant it was going to be a surprise.

Now, one of the key ingredients in anything flambé is alcohol. And in our household, for religious reasons, alcohol wasn’t just uncommon… it was forbidden. But in my research, I learned something important: when you flambé, the alcohol burns off completely. You’re not eating it. You’re not drinking it.

Which meant, at least in my fifteen-year-old brain, that this wasn’t really breaking the rules.

So I went to my dad and said, “I need you to come with me. We have to get something.”

“What do we need?” he asked, amused. (What can I say—he knew me.)

“It’s a surprise,” I grinned.

We drove into the parking lot of a nearby liquor store. My dad looked at me like I had just suggested something wildly out of character… and was waiting to see if lightning might strike.

I smiled, got out of the car, and walked in. He followed behind.

Inside, I found exactly what I needed: cherry brandy.

“I need this, please.”

The clerk looked at me. Then my dad. Then back at me.

My dad shrugged. “I guess we’ll take a bottle.”

I paid $12.82. We left.

In the car, my dad finally asked, “What’s this all about?”

“It’s part of the surprise.”

He said something like, “Oh boy.” And in hindsight, I have to give him credit. He was good-natured, and more importantly, I think it showed that he trusted me.

Easter Sunday arrived.

Dinner was perfect. My mom always had a way of making holidays feel elevated and warm. Around the table sat my parents, my four younger siblings, my aunt, and my uncle.

And then—it was my moment.

I took the Baked Alaska out of the freezer, browned just right in that all too scary 450 degree oven. I then heated the cherry brandy so that it would ignite and carried it all out to the dining room table.

Gasps. Oohs. Aahs.

I lit the brandy and began pouring it over the meringue.

It was stunning. Flames danced across the surface. It looked like something out of a Disney movie.

Then it happened.

I hadn’t thought about the volume of brandy compared to what the platter could hold.

A stream of flaming cherry brandy spilled over the edge and onto the table.

Around the centerpiece.
Inbetween the dishes.

I had created my very own in-home volcano.

Streams of flaming brandy crawled across the tablecloth, the one that had probably been in the family for generations, inch by inch as it covered the tabletop with a firey sensation.

“PUT IT OUT!” my mother screamed.

“NO! LET IT BURN!” my uncle yelled. “YOU HAVE TO BURN THE ALCOHOL OFF!”

The kids were screaming. My dad looked exactly as surprised as a man who had already said, “Oh boy.”

Chaos.
Fire.
Conflicting adult instructions.

And fifteen-year-old me, standing there realizing something very important.

I was creative.
I was bold.
But I had never stopped to do the math.

Eventually, the fire went out. The tablecloth survived—barely. And Easter dessert went down in family history.

Oh… and if you’re wondering, the Baked Alaska was absolutely delicious.
The tablecloth, on the other hand… that’s another story.

So, where does this show up in your life?

Where are you relying on confidence to carry you through something that actually requires preparation, patience, or support?

When have you mistaken boldness for readiness—and only realized it once things started to spill?

What are you excited about right now that might deserve one more moment of planning?

Who is quietly trusting you—and how are you honoring that trust?

And what would it look like to keep your creativity and ambition fully intact, while adding just enough restraint to make sure the table doesn’t catch fire?

So, where does this show up in your life?

• Where are you leaning on confidence to carry you through something that actually requires preparation, patience, or a little more thought?

• When have you mistaken enthusiasm for readiness—and only realized it once things started to spill beyond your control?

• What idea, project, or decision are you most excited about right now? Have you paused long enough to think through the downstream effects, or are you trusting that excitement alone will be enough?

• Where are you skipping the “math”—the logistics, the planning, the unglamorous details—because they feel boring, restrictive, or inconvenient?

• Who in your life is quietly trusting you the way my dad trusted me? A partner, a colleague, a team, a family member? And how are you honoring that trust?

• Where might a small pause, an extra question, or a second opinion prevent a good idea from turning into unnecessary chaos?

• And finally, what would it look like to keep your creativity, ambition, and boldness fully intact…
  while adding just enough restraint to make sure the table doesn’t catch fire?

It was July 4th, 1997.

I had recently been hired as the Director of Food and Beverage at a historic resort in Santa Barbara, California. While the hotel had been there for more than 80 years, I hadn’t even been there a full year yet.

Which meant I was still operating under two dangerously incorrect assumptions:

1. I knew what I was doing.

2. I had seen “busy.”

The resort was beautiful. Historic. Oceanfront. It stretched over two blocks along the coast, directly across from East Beach. Our restaurant sat on the east end of the property with sweeping ocean views. The kind of place people chose when they wanted dinner to feel like a memory.

As the Fourth of July approached, my executive chef and restaurant manager sat me down and said, very calmly:

“Just so you know. The Fourth of July is crazy. Not just crazy. Crazy crazy.”

They explained that people came from everywhere to pack the beach in front of the resort to watch fireworks launched from Fisherman’s Wharf. Crowds. Traffic. Chaos. Humanity at full capacity.

Their recommendation was simple.

“We should do a buffet.”

A buffet.

A classic, All-American, Independence Day barbecue buffet. Hamburgers. Barbecue chicken. Coleslaw. Mac and cheese. Potato salad. Every food item ever photographed under a tiny American flag.

It sounded logical.
Efficient.
Responsible.

Which, in retrospect, should have terrified me.

We were fully committed to the buffet. The regular menu would not be available. No backup plan. Just patriotic confidence and an aggressive amount of potato salad.

Now let’s talk mise en place.

Mise en place is a French term that means “everything in its place.” In a professional kitchen, it’s the difference between smooth service and total chaos. Under normal circumstances, the kitchen would be set up for the regular menu. The line would be stocked. Stations ready. Everything positioned for a smooth, efficient night.

But on this night, because we committed to the buffet, the mise en place changed. The kitchen was reconfigured entirely to support the buffet.

That was standard operating practice.
Logical.
Correct.

What I didn’t fully appreciate at the time was that while we had mise en place for the food, we didn’t have it for the people experiencing it.

Our guests.

As the evening approached, everything felt set.

The staff was excited. The kitchen was ready. The buffet looked fantastic. Trays lined up. Grills going. Food that actually made you proud to stand behind it.

Guests began to arrive. The crowd built slowly at first, then steadily. Drinks were poured. Music played. From the outside, it looked like exactly what we had planned.

A busy, festive Fourth of July at a beautiful resort by the beach.

For a brief moment, it even felt like we were ahead of it.

What we didn’t anticipate was the reaction.

Many guests didn’t come because it was the Fourth of July. They came because they loved our restaurant. Loved our chef. This was a special occasion, so they made reservations expecting our regular menu and a beautiful ocean-view dinner with fireworks in the background.

They were expecting our scallops linguine.
Crab cakes with mango salsa.
Our ribeye service. The one people talked about long after the plates were cleared.

What they found instead was a buffet line and a gentleman politely asking if they preferred their hamburger with or without cheese.

They were caught off guard.

Completely.

Their elegant, oceanfront dining experience had been replaced with hamburgers on a buffet line.

They did not take this discovery quietly.

They asked questions.

Then they made statements.

Then they asked for management. Which, of course, was me.

Often using the tone people reserve for airline delays, cable outages, and deeply personal betrayals.

There were complaints about expectations, reservations, menus that no longer existed, and how long they had been looking forward to this exact dinner. Some were polite. Some were passionate. A few were suddenly experts in hospitality operations.

And nearly all of them wanted to know the same thing.

Why no one had told them.

And just when I thought we were dealing with the fallout, another assumption quietly surfaced.

Room service.

Normally, only about 3 to 4 percent of our guests ordered room service for dinner. Santa Barbara was known for its fabulous restaurants, and when people stayed with us, they went out on the town to eat.

So, in a sold-out 200-room hotel, that meant maybe eight rooms would order dinner via room service.

Yeah. Room service barely existed in my brain.

But this night?

Every single guest with an ocean-view room had the exact same idea at the exact same time.

“We’ll just eat dinner on the balcony while watching the fireworks.”

Which was a lovely idea.

And from the guests’ perspective, it made perfect sense. We hadn’t made any changes to the room service menu. There were no notes, no callouts, no adjustments for the holiday. As far as anyone ordering from their room was concerned, it was business as usual. The idea that room service might work differently that night hadn’t crossed their minds, nor mine for that matter, if I’m being honest.

If the kitchen had been set up for the regular menu.
If we had done even a little mise en place for that.

We had not.

Room service orders stacked up. Guests grew frustrated. Dinners took over an hour. Sometimes two. Phones rang nonstop. The kitchen worked heroically against physics.

And then, just when I thought the evening had reached peak chaos, there were the bars.

Plural.

I didn’t just open the restaurant bar that night. I opened a second bar on the west end of the property, outside one of our ballrooms. Three buildings and nearly three blocks away.

This detail matters.

I thought it would be a great way to capture the fireworks crowd drifting in from the beach.

In my head, this was genius.

In reality, this was the moment the universe quietly cracked its knuckles.

I spent the night sprinting between the kitchen, the restaurant, the east bar, and the west bar. Which eventually stopped feeling like two bars and started feeling like two entirely separate countries with no diplomatic relations.

To be clear, I had planned for this.

I had positioned a staff member between the two bars to support the bartenders as needed. Calm. Capable. Intended to float wherever the gaps appeared.

Unfortunately, the room service fiasco required an immediate reassignment. He was pulled into that operation instead.

Which is how I unexpectedly became the floating resource.

This is about the time I realized the night had officially gone off the rails.

Go-for this.
Go-for that.

Need ice? I’ll get it.
Need cups? On my way.
Need change, vodka, napkins, or emotional reassurance? Also me.

At some point, my job description quietly changed from Director of Food and Beverage to:

Crazy Guy Running Very Fast With Things.

My walkie-talkie never stopped.

“We need vodka.”
“We need change.”
“We need more ice.”
“We need backup.”
“We need you.”

I realized I was no longer walking anywhere. I was jogging. Purposefully. In dress shoes and my Tom Ford suit. While holding paperwork that had absolutely no relevance to my current reality.

Guests would stop me mid-stride to ask perfectly reasonable questions like, “Excuse me, where’s the restroom?” while I was thinking:

I don’t even know where I am anymore.

By the end of the night, I had mentally divided the resort into zones.

East end. Beverages, optimism, denial.
West end. Cocktails, chaos, bargaining.

And somewhere in the middle was me. Redistributing ice. Negotiating peace treaties. Answering radios that never stopped. Wondering whose idea it was to give one human responsibility for two bars three blocks apart on the busiest night of the year.

Spoiler alert.

It was mine.

At one point, I found an empty space, laid down on the floor, curled into the fetal position, and practiced breathing techniques that would have impressed my yoga instructor.

Had I had one.

Then I stood up.
Straightened my jacket.
And went back to work.

Because, apparently, that’s leadership.

Eventually, the fireworks ended.

Then the crowds started to thin. People drifted back to their cars. The beach emptied. The noise finally settled.

The mess they left behind was cleaned up. Glassware washed. Floors mopped. Chairs stacked.

And then we just stood there.

The kitchen crew.
The servers.
The bartenders.

Looking at each other in that quiet, wordless way that only comes after surviving something together.

It was a night I desperately wanted to forget.

And one I never will.

My team, however, was definitely a team.

They showed up. They stayed. They ran. They adapted. They absorbed frustration that wasn’t theirs and kept going anyway. The kitchen, the servers, the bartenders. Every one of them pushed through exhaustion, confusion, and sheer volume with professionalism and grit.

And standing there at the end of the night, in that quiet after the storm, I remember wondering, not for the first time, whether any of them would actually come back for their next shift.

They did.

And that, in many ways, may have been the biggest lesson of the night.

Looking back, the night wasn’t undone by the buffet, the bars, or even room service. It was undone by an assumption. We had carefully prepared the food, the logistics, and the operations. What we hadn’t prepared were the people experiencing it. Expectations were assumed instead of clarified. We didn’t communicate the change. We didn’t pause to think about how the night would feel from the other side of the table.

We had mise en place for the kitchen.

We just didn’t have mise en place for the people.

So, where does this show up in your life?

• Where are you so confident in the plan that you stop checking the assumptions underneath it?

• Where have you prepared your systems, your processes, or your logistics, but failed to prepare the people who would experience them?

• Where are you optimizing for efficiency while quietly creating confusion, frustration, or disappointment for others?

• Where have you mistaken silence for understanding, or agreement for alignment?

• Where might a small communication, a pause for curiosity, or a reset of expectations prevent a problem from becoming a crisis?

• Have you ever experienced this from the guest’s perspective, where an organization made an operational change to benefit itself, but the cost of that decision was quietly passed on to you?

• And finally, where in your life could one overlooked assumption turn a well-intended plan into a long night you’ll never forget?

Not a toy watch.
Not a plastic one with a cartoon mouse waving cheerfully from the dial.
A real watch. The kind adults give adults. Classy. Timeless. Sophisticated.
We also imagined it might magically make him punctual, but we did not want to push our luck.

So we launched the mission.

We did chores with extra enthusiasm, and by enthusiasm I mean we did them without complaining every single time. Then we branched out to the neighbors. We pulled weeds. We dusted shelves. We walked tiny dogs who had no interest in being walked by children. Every dollar went into a sandwich bag labeled Dad’s Watch Fund, written in the finest crayon handwriting.

Eventually, we felt rich.
Like mall rich.

So off we went.

At the jewelry store, we swaggered in with the confidence of two kids carrying twenty seven dollars in wrinkled bills and enough pride to power a small city. We told the jeweler we were looking for something special for our dad. To his eternal credit, he treated us like royalty. He pulled out multiple watches and walked us through the features like we were seasoned collectors rather than two lint covered humans held together by hope and fruit snacks.

One watch stood out. It was perfect. Sleek, shiny, masculine. Everything we thought a dad watch should be. But then reality hit. It cost a few dollars more than we had. My sister and I exchanged a defeated glance, sighed, and pointed to the second best option.

Still proud. Still glowing.
We chose the lesser priced watch, and the jeweler smiled, said he would gift wrap it, and disappeared into the back.

We went home holding that little wrapped box like it was a chest of treasure. And for the first time in our young lives, we were feeling something new: the joy of giving. That night, I could not sleep. Not because I was excited for what I would get, but because I could not wait to see his face when he opened our gift.

Christmas morning arrived, and in true Lambert family tradition, the routine kicked in. First: orange juice. Always orange juice. I am convinced Mom insisted on it to make sure we got at least one healthy thing before the chocolate avalanche that followed.

Next came the line up. Shortest to tallest. Which meant that despite being the oldest child, I was always last. Genetics are cruel.

We marched out of the hallway like a little parade and ran to our Santa piles. In our house, Santa did not wrap gifts. They just appeared. Like magic. Like he staged a toy store explosion overnight.

After Santa, we opened family gifts one at a time, youngest to oldest. Normally, I would have been laser focused on hurrying everyone along so I could get to my own presents.

But not this year.

This year, I had just one thought:
Let us get to Dad.

When it was finally his turn, my sister and I scooted close, vibrating with anticipation. I was thinking:

What is he going to say? Will he love it? Is he going to cry? We almost got him the good one. This is the best Christmas ever.

He opened the box.

He looked surprised.
But not nearly as surprised as we were.

Because inside
was the more expensive watch.

We gasped. We stared at the watch. Then at Dad. Then at each other. Then back at the watch. It was like watching a tennis match of disbelief.

The jeweler had secretly wrapped the one we really wanted.
The one we could not afford.
The one we left behind with a little sigh.

We never found out why he did it. Maybe he saw something in our faces. Maybe he remembered being nine and seven and all in. Maybe he simply wanted to sprinkle some magic into the world that day.

But that moment, that memory,
has lasted far longer than the watch ever did.

So, Where Does This Show Up in Your Life

Sometimes the smallest moment becomes the thing someone remembers for a lifetime.

• When was the last time you felt the pure joy of giving?
Not out of obligation. Not because it was expected. Because it felt good to give from your heart. Kids do this instinctively. Adults often forget how.

• Has someone ever done something quietly kind for you that stayed with you?
A small gesture. A gentle word. A moment of unexpected generosity. Those are the things that echo long after the moment passes.

• Do you treat the little moments like they matter?
Because they do. A brief interaction. A bit of encouragement. A choice to see someone fully. You never know when you are creating a memory that will live inside someone for years.

• Who might be watching how you show up?
Your kids. Your partner. Your coworkers. A stranger in line. We teach others what kindness looks like in ways we do not always realize.

• And maybe the most important question of all:
Where could you sprinkle a little magic today? A small generosity. A kind word. A gesture that costs little but means much. Someone out there may remember it forever.

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Everyone adored John.

He was the kind of man who could carry your luggage, open your door, and somehow make you feel like you’d just won a sweepstakes. He was charming, old-school polite, and the absolute epitome of what 5-star service should be. He was also retired—sort of. He worked part-time to fund his many globe-trotting adventures. He knew what it meant to give great service, but perhaps more importantly, he knew what it felt like to receive it.

And he had this uncanny ability to remember people. I don’t mean, “Oh, your face looks familiar.” I mean names. Full names. Guest preferences. Room numbers. Where you were from. Even if you hadn’t been to the resort in two years, John would greet you with a warm, “Welcome back, Mr. Thompson. Still enjoying your sunrise hikes?” And just like that, people melted. He made every guest feel like the most important person on property.

John once shared a story with me—one that stuck. Over the years, I’ve told it in nearly every service and communication class I’ve led, not just because it’s memorable, but because it captures something deeper about what it means to truly serve.

He was standing at the front desk one afternoon when an elderly couple approached. They had just checked into one of our nicest villas and, well… they were less than thrilled.

Actually, SHE wasn’t thrilled.

The woman, stylish and composed in that way only someone with decades of “telling people what’s what” can pull off, marched up to the desk and declared, “I asked for a room with a view of the mountains!”

The Guest Service Advocate, a sweet young woman barely two months into the job, smiled nervously. (We called our front desk team “Advocates” because their role was to look after the guests—not just check them in.) “Ma’am, you do have a mountain view. In fact, it’s one of our best. Guests love that view.”

The woman wasn’t convinced.

She spun on her heel with the precision of a stage actress, dramatically extended her arm toward the window behind her, and declared with the conviction of someone used to getting exactly what they wanted, “Those are not the mountains I want to see.” She paused for effect, then pointed—slowly, deliberately—toward her right. “I want to see those mountains.” Her tone made it sound less like a request and more like a royal decree.

It was… an oddly specific direction for a mountain.

The poor agent blinked. “Ma’am, all our villas face—” but before she could finish, the woman cut her off with a raised voice and an arched eyebrow that could melt steel.

The husband, God bless him, had already parked himself in a lobby chair and buried his nose in a newspaper. He was clearly a seasoned veteran of the “we’re changing rooms” routine. Smart man.

At this point, the agent was furiously typing, scanning the reservation system for another room that might, miraculously, face the exact preferred range of mountains.

And that’s when John stepped in.

With the calm of a man who could probably talk his way into first class on a fully booked flight, John gently leaned in and said, “Ma’am, how about this… why don’t I take you to every available room we have, and together, we’ll find the perfect view.”

You would’ve thought he offered her the keys to a castle.

She smiled. “That would be wonderful,” she said. And off they went.

(Side note: her husband didn’t even flinch. I think he muttered, “Godspeed, John,” but I can’t confirm.)

John spent the next hour giving this guest what I can only describe as the Mountain View Tour of Southern Utah. They visited villas and deluxe rooms, some of which didn’t exactly meet the “luxury” part of her expectations—but hey, the mountains were there.

And at each stop, the same routine:

She’d enter the room, stride over to the window like a Broadway actress hitting her mark, throw open the blinds with flair, stare out silently for a beat or two, close the blinds with a snap, turn to John, and say, “Let’s see the next one.”

Six rooms. Then seven. Possibly eight. (I believe John lost count somewhere around room five and just started praying.)

Finally, she turned to him and said, “I’ve made my decision.”

They returned to the front desk. She walked up with the confidence of someone delivering a presidential address and said, “I’ll stay with the room I have.”

And that… was that.

Now, of course, the back-of-house chatter started immediately. “Heads up—demanding guest in Villa 2021.” Everyone from housekeeping to the spa staff knew her name within the hour. We braced for a week of special requests, firm tone phone calls, and maybe a few pointed finger snaps.

But you know what happened?

Nothing.

She was gracious. Relaxed. Polite. Not a single complaint for the rest of her stay. Smiled at everyone. Tipped generously. Thanked us every chance she got.

A complete 180.

So what changed?

John.

John didn’t argue. He didn’t get defensive. He didn’t roll his eyes or try to prove she was wrong. He didn’t treat her like a problem—he treated her like a person. One who had expectations. One who just needed to feel heard.

And by physically walking her through every option—by showing her that we cared enough to help her find the right view—he gave her what she really needed:

Control. Respect. Confidence that we were on her side.

I’m convinced that if we had pushed back, she would have pushed all week. But because John met her with calm, kindness, and the tiniest dash of showmanship, she relaxed. She let her guard down. She trusted us.

The mountains never changed. But the experience did.

Psychologically, what John did was powerful. He activated what psychologists call the “rest and digest” response—essentially calming the guest’s nervous system by creating a sense of safety and control. When people feel cornered or dismissed, the brain often enters a stress response (fight, flight, freeze, or fawn). But John’s calm presence, combined with the invitation to participate in the solution, gave her back a sense of agency. He validated her concern without resistance, which allowed her to relax, shift out of defensiveness, and feel seen. In the end, it wasn’t the room that changed—it was the emotional state she brought into it.

So, where does this show up in your life?

Have you ever dealt with someone whose frustration wasn’t really about the issue at hand—but about how they were being heard (or not being heard)?

Do you meet people’s intensity with your own—or with calm confidence? Do you allow space for people to feel seen, even when the request seems unnecessary, overblown, or yes—even a little ridiculous? And when your customers are frustrated, do you look for the easiest solution… or the one that helps them feel seen, valued, and in control?

Sometimes, it’s not about the room. It’s about the view. And more often than not, it’s about the way you help them see it.

It became our mantra, something I’d toss out when blisters flared up, backpacks felt impossibly heavy, or another mile stretched longer than anyone wanted to walk. I believed it, too. The mountains always gave something back, sometimes a view, sometimes a sunset, sometimes just a story we’d tell for years.

This story’s payoff didn’t come at the summit. It came in silence. And it came from one of my Scouts—let’s call him Rob.

We were deep into a 50-mile backpacking trip, the kind that makes you question your life choices somewhere around mile 27. We’d climbed to this incredible overlook, 3,000 feet above a canyon that felt like something out of a painting. Below us, there was a ribbon of river weaving through trees, waterfalls catching the light just right, and pastures that made even the teenage boys go quiet. At least for a second.

Most of the scouts, there were about fourteen of them, bounced around the edge without a care in the world. They climbed rocks, leaned over ledges, and did their very best to give me a heart attack. I spent most of that time mentally inventorying our first aid supplies and silently calculating the going rate for a helicopter extraction.

But then I noticed Rob. He was a good 30 or 40 yards back, standing still, hands fidgeting at his sides. He wasn’t goofing off or chatting. He was staring toward the cliff, but he wasn’t moving.

I knew why. Earlier, he’d confided in me that he was deathly afraid of heights. Not nervous, terrified. And now, here he was, faced with the kind of drop that makes your stomach twist even if you like heights. I knew it bothered him. I knew he wanted to be hanging with the other boys. But I understood why he couldn't.

So I watched.

I didn’t call out to him. I didn’t try to coax or coach. I just stood there, quiet. I am sure that Rob didn’t even know I was watching.

And slowly, so slowly, it started to happen. He started inching forward toward the cliff.

It wasn’t dramatic. It was thoughtful. Deliberate. A step, then a pause. Another step. Hesitation. Deep breath. A few more steps. You could see him thinking through every movement, like he was wrestling with his own shadow.

But after what felt like ten quiet minutes, Rob reached the edge.

And then, he did something I’ll never forget. He stretched out his arms wide, looked up into the sky, took a deep breath and then yelled.

It was simple. It was powerful. It was beautiful.

That, right there, was my payoff. Not the view. Not the waterfall. Not even the summit. Watching Rob face something that had always stopped him, that moment alone was worth every blister, sunburn, and sore muscle on that trip.

Now, let’s be clear: Rob is still afraid of heights. That fear didn’t vanish. And that’s okay.

Because the lesson wasn’t about being fearless. It was about learning he could face it. That he could inch forward. That he could decide when the fear doesn’t get to win.

The fear may still be there. But it doesn’t control Rob. Not anymore.

And maybe that’s the real takeaway:
Not all victories shout. Some whisper.
Some don’t come with applause, medals, or grand moments.
They happen in silence, hesitant steps, shaky breaths, private battles won one inch at a time.

They live in the quiet decisions we make when no one’s watching.
In the courage to inch forward when fear says, don’t.
In the moment we stretch our arms wide, not because the fear is gone, but because we’re tired of it winning.

Rob didn’t conquer his fear that day. But he didn’t let it conquer him either.
He didn’t need to leap. He just needed to move.

And that movement, quiet, deliberate, unseen by most, was a victory.
That moment was the payoff. Not the view. Not the trail.
But the transformation that happened inside.

Because sometimes, the most powerful victories are the quiet ones.

So, where does this show up in your life?

• What quiet victory have you experienced that no one else noticed—but changed you in a profound way? Maybe it was standing up for yourself, setting a boundary, or even showing up to something that scared you.

• Is there something you’ve been avoiding because fear keeps whispering that you're not ready, not enough, or not capable? What’s one small, deliberate step forward you could take—just one—that might begin to shift that story?

• Can you think of a time when you didn’t need to overcome your fear entirely, but you simply refused to let it win? How did that feel? What changed after?

• Who in your life is currently inching toward something hard, uncertain, or vulnerable? How can you support them without fixing, pushing, or rescuing? Can you simply be there—quietly watching, quietly believing?

• Are you waiting for the fear to go away before you move forward? What would happen if you moved with the fear instead?

• What does “the edge” look like for you? Is it a conversation you’ve been avoiding? A dream you’ve been postponing? A truth you’ve been hiding? What would it look like to stretch your arms wide and take a breath at that edge?

• When was the last time you celebrated a victory that didn’t come with applause or recognition—one that only you could truly understand?

But what I remember most wasn’t the ice cream.

It was my grandpa.

From the moment he entered a room, there was something steady about him. He had the kind of presence that didn’t need to announce itself. Quiet, dignified, and deeply rooted. He carried himself like a man who knew who he was. If you asked me to describe him using two words, they would be principled and disciplined. And this story? Well, it's a perfect example of how Grandpa lived his life.

At Snelgrove’s, while the rest of us buzzed with indecision, debating between banana splits, sundaes, or shakes, Grandpa would sit calmly at the end of the booth. He’d take the menu in hand, brow furrowed, studying every page as if some hidden gem might appear this time. He turned those pages like a scholar examining sacred text.

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Then the server would arrive. One by one, we’d place our orders, often second-guessing ourselves mid-sentence, asking the server questions and saying a lot of "oh geeze, I don't know". When it came time for Grandpa, always the last to speak, he’d close the menu slowly, place it on the table, rest his hands on top, and say with a small, knowing nod, “I’ll take a chocolate malt.”

Every single time.

No variation. No hesitation.

After all that study and reflection, he always chose the same thing.

A chocolate malt.

My grandfather’s chocolate malt wasn’t just a dessert. It was a declaration. A quiet testament that sometimes, you don’t need something new to feel fulfilled. You just need something that’s true.

As a kid, I thought he was being indecisive, or maybe a little dramatic. But now I see it clearly. He was present. Intentional. He honored the moment, but he trusted what he loved.

And it wasn’t just about the malt. That same steadiness lived in every part of him. His faith. His devotion to my grandmother. His role as a father and grandfather. He didn’t chase novelty or applause. He didn’t need to. He made a commitment and he stood by it. Every time.

In a world obsessed with reinvention, he showed me something quieter but more lasting. Devotion. Not the loud kind, but the kind that speaks through action. Through presence. Through showing up again and again with quiet confidence.

The chocolate malt was more than a favorite treat. It was a ritual. A reminder. That sometimes the most meaningful choices aren’t the ones we make once. They’re the ones we make always. With love, with grace, and with unwavering heart.

So, where does this show up in your life?

In today’s world, we’re often told that if we’re not chasing something new, we’re falling behind. But my grandfather modeled something quietly powerful: the peace that comes from knowing yourself well enough to trust your choices—even the small ones.

Psychologists call these kinds of personal rituals "identity-affirming behaviors." According to Kennon Sheldon, a leading researcher in self-determination theory, people are happiest when their actions are aligned with their core values and internal sense of self. These rituals—whether it’s a favorite breakfast, a morning routine, or a chocolate malt—are not just habits. They’re reflections of our deepest identity.

The problem is, many people do the opposite. Instead of leaning into rituals and trusting what already brings them clarity, they constantly chase the next new thing—hoping it will fix their anxiety or finally make them feel settled. They change jobs, hobbies, partners, diets, even cities, thinking reinvention is the answer. But without grounding, reinvention often becomes restlessness in disguise. We mistake motion for progress and distraction for purpose. When we don’t have rituals to return to, we get stuck in an exhausting cycle of searching, rather than settling into what we already know to be true.

Ask yourself:

- Where do you find comfort in repetition—not out of habit, but out of meaning?
- Are there areas in your life where you're chasing novelty when what you really crave is stability?
- What choices could you stop overthinking if you simply trusted your past self?
- And what would it look like to choose something *because it’s true*, not because it’s trendy?

My grandfather didn’t waffle because he wasn’t indecisive. He was **present**, and he was **intentional**. That’s a kind of clarity many of us are searching for—without realizing it might be sitting right there on the menu, waiting to be chosen again.

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Points to Ponder

• What are your “chocolate malts”? The small comforts that never let you down?

• Where in your life could consistency bring more peace or clarity?

• Are you choosing what brings you joy, or what you think you're supposed to want

• Are there places where slowing down might reveal something you’ve been missing?

• Do your daily choices reflect your core values—or are they driven by noise and pressure?

• What rituals in your life reinforce your sense of identity?

• Where have you mistaken constant change for meaningful progress?

• How might trusting your past self bring you more ease and clarity now?

When I was twelve years old, my family moved from one side of the San Fernando Valley, just north of Los Angeles, to the other. It was only about twenty miles, but to a seventh grader, it felt like a cross-country expedition. The move came a couple of weeks after the new semester had started, but my parents decided I should start at my new school right away—no easing in, no delay, just rip the Band-Aid off.

I wasn’t exactly thrilled—but I wasn’t completely dreading it either. I was buzzing with a mix of nerves and curiosity. The idea of a new school came with a strange kind of electricity. New kids, new teachers, new hallways to figure out. It was a chance to reinvent myself, maybe even be someone braver. But beneath the excitement was a knot in my stomach—the kind that makes your palms sweat and your voice catch. The unknown was thrilling, but also terrifying.

We had lived in our old neighborhood for years. I knew every shortcut home, every cranky neighbor, and exactly which fences you could hop if you were running late for dinner. It was the kind of place where the sidewalks felt like old friends and every corner held a memory. Starting over meant letting go of all that—and stepping into a world where nobody knew my name, my stories, or the path I always took home.

Since we were moving two weeks after the semester had already started, I didn’t have the luxury of easing into things. My parents wanted me to start school right away, even if the logistics weren’t exactly ideal. My dad could drop me off in the mornings on his way to work, but getting home in the afternoons? That was on me. For two weeks, I’d have to rely on public transportation. And this was completely new territory. I wasn’t used to taking the bus—any bus—much less riding it alone. This wasn’t a friendly yellow school bus with a familiar driver and noisy kids. This was the real bus. With strangers. With rules. With questionable upholstery and smells no one could quite identify.

My dad drove me through the route once beforehand, narrating each stop like it was some kind of backlot tour at Universal Studios. “This is where you’ll switch buses… that’s where you’ll get off… and whatever you do, don’t talk to anyone.” I nodded along like I had it all under control. In reality, I was buzzing with nervous energy. This was my shot to prove I was grown-up—a big kid, a city commuter, a lone wolf with exact change. Who needed training wheels when you had a transfer slip?

My first stop was about two miles down Devonshire Boulevard, at Reseda. That was where I had to get off, cross the street (preferably without getting killed), and catch the Reseda Boulevard bus. I followed my dad’s instructions exactly, feeling like I was on a mission. I got off, crossed the intersection like a mini Frogger, and waited at the next stop, trying to look like I did this every day.

That’s when things got… weird.

When the second bus pulled up, I climbed aboard and instantly noticed something unsettling. I was the only passenger. Just me and the driver. No friendly grandma clutching her grocery bags. No cluster of students arguing about homework. Not even a half-dead office worker pretending to nap with one eye open. Just silence... and me. My brain immediately kicked into overdrive. Was this normal? Had I boarded a ghost bus? Was I about to be on the news? I sat down cautiously, gripping my backpack like it could double as a shield or, worst case, a parachute.

Now, to today’s kids, that might sound like a dream—your own private bus with zero witnesses and plenty of legroom. But I was raised in the late ’70s, when “Stranger Danger” wasn’t just a slogan—it was practically a parenting strategy. We were marinated in true crime. The Hillside Strangler. The Zodiac Killer. The Patty Hearst kidnapping. And then there was the Chowchilla school bus hijacking—twenty-six kids and their bus driver kidnapped and buried underground in a moving van. That story was passed around playgrounds like a ghost tale, and it embedded itself in our little brains like a bedtime warning. So sitting alone on a city bus with one strange adult? That wasn’t peaceful—it was how kidnappings started.

I tried to act normal, like this was just another day in the life of a worldly twelve-year-old. I sat near the front—close enough to the driver that I could make a run for it if needed, but not so close that it looked weird. I clutched my backpack like it held state secrets and told him my stop: Louise Avenue, right at the corner of Ventura Boulevard. He nodded without much reaction. Meanwhile, I was silently rehearsing escape plans, memorizing landmarks, and wondering if I could kick out a window if things got dicey.

We rolled along in complete silence. The engine hummed like a warning, and sunlight flickered through the windows in jittery little bursts. I stared out at the passing houses and strip malls, trying to act calm—but my brain had other plans. The worst part about being a creative kid is that your imagination doesn’t always work for you. Sometimes, it turns on you. What if he locks the doors? What if this is the part in the movie where the music changes? I imagined newspaper headlines, dramatic reenactments, and my mom sobbing into a tissue on the evening news. My imagination was sprinting while the bus crawled forward like nothing was wrong.

Then the bus made a left turn. A slow, deliberate turn down a long side street that looked like it led absolutely nowhere. That was definitely not part of the plan. Cue the internal sirens. This is it, I thought. He’s taking me to a second location. My heart was pounding in my ears. I imagined the bus doors locking, the windows tinting black, the radio cutting to something slow and creepy. And of course, my face—frozen in that awkward school photomy mom insisted on keeping—flashing across the evening news with the words “MISSING” in bold red underneath.

I yanked the cord like it was an eject lever. I didn’t even wait to see what street we were on. The driver looked over at me, a little surprised, and said, “I thought you were getting off at Louise?” His voice was calm, maybe even amused, which only made me more suspicious. Channeling every hostage negotiation tactic I’d absorbed from TV, I replied, “I want to get off here.” No explanation. Just get me out.

He shrugged, pulled to the curb, and opened the door.

I practically leapt off the bus. I didn’t care where I was—I was off the bus. I speed-walked a couple of blocks back to Reseda, heart still thudding in my chest. But as I stood there at the stop, trying to act casual, a strange feeling crept in: pride. I had handled it. I had sensed danger, made a move, and gotten myself out. I felt like some kind of street-smart secret agent. I figured I’d catch the next bus and continue my journey home like the brave, capable preteen I was very much pretending to be—but almost starting to believe I was.

A few minutes later, I spotted a bus turning the corner. I stood up a little straighter, ready to redeem myself and finish the ride like a champ. The bus slowed as it approached, and I could feel the music in my head swell, this was my comeback moment.

And then I saw the driver.

Same bus. Same guy.

He looked at me. I looked at him. There was a pause. A beat. A mutual recognition. And then… he smiled. Not in a creepy way, more like an amused uncle who just watched you trip over your own shoelaces while trying to look cool.

I froze for a second, absolutely mortified. The pride I had been marinating in evaporated instantly. But I had no choice. I gave him a sheepish smile, nodded like we were in on some secret joke, and climbed back aboard like I totally meant to do that.

This time, I didn’t pretend to be cool. I just sat down quietly and held onto what little dignity I had left. The bus rolled on, and I kept my eyes glued to the windows, double-checking every landmark, every cross street. When we finally reached Louise Avenue, the corner of Ventura Boulevard, I pulled the cord once, calmly, and got off like a pro.

No dramatics. No imaginary headlines. Just a smooth exit onto a familiar curb.

Over the next two weeks, riding the bus became less of a terrifying ordeal and more of a daily adventure. I started to settle in. I watched the people around me—the regulars, the quiet ones, the loud talkers with grocery bags and big opinions. I learned the rhythm of the route, the way the sun hit the windows at different times of day, the smell of the brakes, the feel of the city. It was like L.A. had opened up to me a little more.

By my second ride—when I didn’t leap off the bus like it was on fire—I learned that the dreaded left-hand turn wasn’t some off-the-grid detour. It was just a stop at California State University Northridge. A completely normal part of the route. No abduction, no moving van, no school photo flashing on the news. Just a bus doing exactly what it was supposed to do.

And me? I was doing what I was supposed to do too. I was growing up. Little by little, stop by stop, I was becoming more self-reliant. More confident. More capable. What once felt like danger became just another part of my day. I had faced the unknown—and while I may have jumped off too early, at least I got back on.

To this day, I thank my parents for having the confidence in me to give me that opportunity. It must have been scary for them too, trusting a twelve-year-old to navigate the city alone. But they did. And because of that trust, I got to learn something important: that fear passes, confidence grows, and sometimes the best kind of growing up starts with a wrong turn.

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Where Does This Show Up In Your Life?

- Do you ever mistake uncertainty for danger? That unexpected turn wasn’t a threat—it was part of the journey. How often do we panic when things don’t go exactly as planned, even when we’re still headed in the right direction?

- Are you pulling the cord too early? Whether it’s a job, a relationship, or a personal goal, are you jumping off at the first sign of discomfort instead of trusting the route and riding it out a little longer?

- Have you ever judged a situation without the full picture? Just like I didn’t know the bus looped through CSUN, we often make quick decisions based on limited information. What might you be misreading right now?

- When was the last time you got back on the bus after an awkward exit? Mistakes and missteps happen. The real growth comes from being willing to reboard—even when your cheeks are a little red.

- Are you giving yourself credit for how far you’ve come? What once felt terrifying may now be part of your daily rhythm. Take a moment to notice your progress. You may be braver than you think.

Growing up, at any age, is realizing the scary turn is part of the journey.

My wife and I were driving with our young kids on Highway 101, somewhere between Santa Barbara and Solvang.
The ocean shimmered off to our left. The hills were lush from a recent rain. The traffic was light.

Life felt good.

Then traffic began to slow.
First a little. Then a lot.

Up ahead, I saw a semi-truck pulled off to the side of the highway.
It was carrying massive pipes — fifteen, maybe twenty feet long.
Some of them had come loose and were now sprawled across the road.

And then I saw him.

A man — early thirties maybe — running down the shoulder of the road.
He kept glancing over his shoulder, terrified.
I figured he must be the truck driver, trying to clear the pipes and prevent a disaster.

But what I saw next made my stomach drop.

A car came barreling down the shoulder.
A woman was driving, young, maybe a mother. Two small children were in the back seat.
She wasn’t just driving.
She was chasing him.

Her eyes were locked on the man.
And her face — it wasn’t anger.
It was panic.
Absolute, pure panic.

The man veered off into the fields.
The woman followed him.
And then — she hit him.

I’ll never forget it.
He flew into the air like a rag doll, at least 30 feet, before crashing down and lying still on the ground.

It was one of the most confusing, horrifying things I had ever witnessed.
Why was she chasing him?
Why did she look so terrified?
What on earth had just happened?

It took me years, and a little learning, to fully understand it.

Later, I came across something called the Reticular Activating System, or RAS for short.

The RAS is a network of neurons in our brainstem.
Its job is to filter the world around us, to focus our attention on what our brain thinks is most important.
Whatever we consciously (or unconsciously) tell it to notice, it notices.

There’s also something called Attentional Bias —
Simply put, we tend to move toward what we focus on — whether we want to or not.

That poor woman wasn’t trying to chase that man.
She was trying to avoid him.
But her brain, overwhelmed by fear, locked onto him.
And because she was focused completely, utterly, on the man, she drove straight into him.

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This isn't just about accidents on highways.

Mountain bikers know this better than anyone.
When you're flying down a rocky trail, if you stare at the rocks, you will hit the rocks.
If you stare at the spaces between the rocks, you’ll ride cleanly through.

Why?
Because we hit what we focus on.

The same principle applies to everything in life — including something as personal as weight loss.

Studies so that if you focus only on the weight you want to lose — 30 pounds, 50 pounds, whatever it is, you might make progress at first.
But once you hit that number, you relax.
You celebrate.
You eat a little here, a little there.
And before you know it, you’re right back where you started.
That's the cycle of yo-yo dieting.

Because your brain was locked onto losing weight — not on becoming and living as a healthy person.

Instead, the key is to focus on the weight you want to be.
The lifestyle you want to live.
The person you want to become.

"I am strong, fit, and weigh 180 pounds."
"I am active and energetic with my kids."
"I am a healthy person making healthy choices."

When you focus on that vision, that identity, your brain, your habits, and your life start moving toward it.
And once you get there, you’re motivated to stay there. because it’s who you are, not just a temporary goal you hit and leave behind.

Life will always throw distractions at us. Obstacles. Rocks in the trail. Pipes in the road.

The question is: Where are you focusing?

Are you staring at the problems, the obstacles, the fears and accidentally driving straight into them?

Or are you fixing your eyes on the spaces between the rocks?
On the road ahead?
On the future you want to create?

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So, where does this show up in your life?

This story might sound extreme… a highway accident, a woman overcome by fear. but the truth is, this principle plays out in quieter, subtler ways every single day.

• Are you constantly worried about messing up… and finding yourself doing just that?

• Do you focus so much on trying not to be like your parents, your ex, your worst boss — that you end up reacting exactly like them in stressful moments?

• Have you ever obsessed over your flaws, your weight, your shortcomings — only to feel like you're stuck in the same cycle no matter how hard you try?

That’s the RAS and attentional bias at work.
That’s the brain following the signal you’re unintentionally sending it.

We don’t move toward what we hope for.
We move toward what we focus on.

If you’re always thinking:

• “I don’t want to screw this up.”

• “I can’t afford to fail again.”

• “I’m not good at relationships.”

Then guess what?
Your brain locks onto those thoughts.
And your actions — slowly, silently — start steering you right toward the thing you're trying to avoid.

But when you shift your focus to who you want to be instead of what you’re afraid of, everything starts to change.

Try this:

• Write out the sentence: “I am the kind of person who…” and finish it with the identity you want to live into.

• Read it every morning.

• Let your RAS do what it was built to do — help you notice opportunities, habits, and behaviors that match that identity.

Don’t fixate on the rocks.
Find the space between them.
Focus forward.

Because your life, your energy, your confidence, your future, will always follow your focus.

Sixteen words.

And they cracked something open in me.

Her voice was soft. Steady. Not accusing—just… true. And I felt those words hit me like a wave. They didn’t just land in my ears—they landed in my chest.

In that moment, my whole life played out in flashes: the mistakes I’ve made, the private battles I’ve fought, the shame I’ve carried quietly behind the scenes. Not past struggles, but present ones—ones that no one knew about. What if all of that had been made public? What if my worst moments, the parts of me I kept hidden out of fear and survival, were the only ones people saw?

It was humbling. And painful. But also freeing.

Because Kendell wasn’t just asking me to be kinder to her boyfriend’s family—she was inviting me to be a better version of myself. To stop seeing people as categories, headlines, or reputations—and to start seeing them as humans.

That moment changed me.

I started paying closer attention—to the people around me and to the assumptions I made without even realizing it. I began asking questions before drawing conclusions. I started leading with curiosity instead of criticism. And maybe most importantly, I found myself reaching out to others—friends, coworkers, even strangers—on a more human level.

Not every story needs to have a hero and a villain. Sometimes, it just needs a little more grace.

I began to notice the invisible weights people carry. The quiet pain behind polite smiles. The stories behind rough edges. And I worked—imperfectly, but earnestly—to give people the same kind of understanding I’ve needed in my own life. I reminded myself that we’re all just trying to get through the day. That some wounds bleed on the outside, but most don’t.

And that night, I realized something else:
Sometimes, the wisest voices don’t come from pulpits, podiums, or parenting books.
Sometimes, they come from your own child—sitting across from you on an ordinary evening, gently holding up a mirror.

Grace Over Gavel

A Life Lesson on Judging Others

Let’s be real—it’s easy to judge. It’s easy to point fingers when you’re standing on the outside looking in. It’s easy to shake your head at someone else’s mess and think, Well, I would never…

But judging someone based on their most visible flaws says more about us than it does about them.

What takes courage—what takes character—is compassion.

Everyone has a story. Everyone has challenges. Some are worn on the outside—addiction, arrest records, family dysfunction. Others are tucked away—depression, trauma, grief, self-doubt. Just because you can’t see someone’s pain doesn’t mean they aren’t carrying it.

That night, my daughter reminded me that we all need a little more grace. Grace to be seen beyond our worst day. Grace to start again. Grace to be human.

So before you judge someone—pause.
Ask yourself: What if that were me?
What if my mistakes were printed on headlines instead of tucked in journals?

And then—choose grace. Every time.

Because those sixteen words from a sixteen-year-old?
They were the best sermon I’ve ever heard.

So, where does this show up in your life?

• Have you ever said something in fear or protection that ended up hurting someone?

• Are there times when your concern for someone blurs into judgment?

• What assumptions do you find yourself making based on someone's visible struggles?

• When was the last time you paused to consider the unseen battles someone else might be facing?

• How might your words change if you led with curiosity instead of certainty?

• Have you ever mistaken fear for wisdom—and judged someone under the guise of protecting someone else?

Years ago, my church threw what might’ve been the Super Bowl of potlucks: the annual Dutch Oven Picnic. Don’t let the name fool you—it wasn’t just a few folks with casseroles and camping chairs. It was epic. Every year, over 1,500 people showed up like clockwork. Families brought lawn chairs, toddlers ran wild through the grass like sugar-fueled gazelles, and the food line stretched all the way to New Jersey. It wasn’t just an event. It was a community tradition, the kind that made you feel like you were part of something bigger.

And at the center of it all, like the calm eye of a very delicious storm, was a man named Gary Smith.

Gary, somewhere in his late 60s, had earned folk-hero status in our community, and all because of chicken. Not just any chicken, mind you. We’re talking Dutch Oven Chicken that could make grown men weep. For over 15 years, it was his claim to fame. And to be clear, he didn’t cook it. He orchestrated it.

Gary had the kind of quiet confidence that made you trust him instantly. He didn’t need to talk himself up; his chicken did that for him. The man had spreadsheets, color-coded and scary-accurate. He’d type in the number of expected guests and, voila! Out came a full-blown blueprint: how many chickens to buy, what spices to use, how many coals to light, how many Dutch ovens to heat, and even a timeline that looked like it was designed by NASA.

Gary wasn’t in it for the spotlight. He didn’t care about praise or recognition. He just liked knowing people left full, happy, and maybe a little greasy. That was enough. Over the years, his chicken had become part of the picnic’s very identity. His chicken was so legendary, it wasn’t just on the menu; it was the main reason people showed up.

And then, just like that, the winds shifted.

The church leadership changed, not in a headline-making way, just your typical out-with-the-old, in-with-the-new. As part of the refresh, they decided it was time for someone else to take over the food. They thanked Gary for all he'd done and gently told him the torch was being passed.

Let’s be honest—this could’ve gone sideways fast. Most people, after pouring 15 years into something, might’ve felt slighted. Offended. Maybe even humiliated. I mean, how do you just set that kind of dedication aside like it’s no big deal?

But Gary wasn’t most people.

He took it all in stride, with the same quiet grace he’d always carried. He even reached out to the new person taking over and offered them everything—his notes, his recipes, and yes, the sacred spreadsheet that could probably power a small franchise. They politely declined, saying they wanted to “try something different.”

In the weeks before the picnic, you could feel the tension. People were whispering: “Does Gary know? Is he okay? He’s not mad, is he?” The guy had become part of the picnic’s DNA, of course people were worried. When someone gives that much of themselves for that long, losing it can feel like losing a part of yourself.

The night of the picnic arrived, and the crowd didn’t disappoint. People poured in, the Dutch ovens were fired up, and the new team had their own version of chicken sizzling away. And Gary? He wasn’t behind the tables. He wasn’t checking coals or directing volunteers. He was just sitting at a picnic table, plate in hand, laughing and catching up like nothing had changed.

I found a moment to sit down beside him, away from the buzz of the crowd. I leaned in and asked, “Gary, really—are you okay with all this?”

He paused for a beat, then smiled. “I was surprised, sure. Didn’t see it coming. And yeah, I miss it. But that’s okay. It’s someone else’s turn.”

Then he chuckled, looked me in the eye, and said the line that’s stuck with me ever since: There’s more than one way to cook a chicken.

Gary’s story is more than just a tale about chicken—it’s a lesson in identity, humility, and grace.

We live in a world where we often tie our worth to what we do. We invest time, energy, and heart into our roles, at work, in our communities, even in our families—and when those roles shift or are taken away, it can feel like we’re being erased. That’s where bitterness can grow. That’s where resentment takes root.

Psychologists call this “role identity attachment.” We invest so much of ourselves into what we do, whether it’s organizing events, leading teams, or raising a family, that when those roles shift or end, we can feel like we’re disappearing with them.

A study published in the Academy of Management Review found that when people lose meaningful roles, the healthiest path forward is not clinging tighter, but rebuilding identity around enduring values. That’s what Gary did. He didn’t see the change as a loss. He saw it as a new chapter and chose to show up in it with humility, humor, and heart.

But Gary chose the harder road. He didn’t see the change as a dismissal, he saw it as a passing of the baton. He didn’t hang on out of pride or fear. He let go, knowing what he’d given mattered, and that it was time for someone else to carry it forward.

That simple phrase—“There’s more than one way to cook a chicken”—has stuck with me. And not just because it’s clever. It holds a truth I’ve had to learn myself, often the hard way.

When I was working with the Boy Scouts of America, I was in charge of the annual Klondike Derby. Every winter, 400 to 600 scouts and their leaders would head into the snowy mountains for events like ice fishing, sled pulling, and building snow caves where they actually slept overnight. It was epic. I poured my heart, creativity, and energy into it for three years, then passed the torch.

Years later, I co-founded Pride of Southern Utah. For four years, I helped shape events, build community connections, and create something I was deeply proud of. And when I moved out of state, I handed it over to the next team.

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Letting go in both situations wasn’t easy. I had poured so much of myself into them. But when I think about Gary’s story, I’m reminded that my role wasn’t to control the legacy. It was to give my best while it was mine to lead, and then step aside and trust that others would bring their own gifts to the table. And that’s exactly what they did. Honestly? They’ve taken things further than I ever could have on my own.

I tend to have a creative mind. When I take on a project, whether in work or volunteer life, I usually have a pretty specific vision of how I want things to go. Naturally, when I hand off tasks or responsibilities, I expect people to follow that vision... exactly.

But more often than not, they don’t. They add their own twist, take a different route, or come up with a method I never would’ve considered. In my younger years, that really bothered me. And if I’m being honest, it still gets under my skin sometimes. It’s hard to watch someone go off-script when you’ve poured yourself into the blueprint.

And yet, I find myself returning to Gary’s words more often than I’d like to admit: There’s more than one way to cook a chicken.

That one simple phrase has genuinely shifted the way I think. It reminds me that when others bring their own flavor to the table, it’s not a threat—it’s an opportunity. It doesn’t mean the outcome will be worse. More often than not, it turns out better. Or at the very least, different in a good way.

I’ve come to realize the world doesn’t need just one way of doing things. My way isn’t always the right way, and it’s certainly not the only way. When I step back and make space for other people’s approaches, ideas, and styles, something incredible happens: growth. Innovation. Collaboration. A richer, more creative outcome than I ever could’ve produced on my own.

So now, whenever I feel that tug of control or the urge to step in and “fix” things, I hear Gary’s voice again: There’s more than one way to cook a chicken.

And honestly? I think the world’s better for it.

So, where does this show up in your life?

• Are you holding tightly to a role, project, or identity that once defined you but might be ready for someone else to carry forward?

• Is there a part of your life right now where change is happening, and you're not sure who you are without the title or task attached?

• Are you watching someone do it differently than you would and struggling to let that be okay?

• What would it look like to trust that what you built still matters, even if it's no longer yours to lead?

• And seriously, what’s your version of “cooking the chicken”?

I would love to hear your feedback! Please leave a comment with what you thought, and if you feel if you can relate to this story in anyway. Thank you!!

I looked at him like he’d just asked us to co-sign a loan for his pirate ship.
A cruise? With teenagers? For fun?
But instead of laughing in his face (which I absolutely considered), we gave the most parent-like response possible: “If you can organize it, and we mean really organize it, we’re in.”

And organize it he did. Over the next few weeks, Thomas transformed into a one-man cruise agency crossed with a motivational speaker. He was calling parents, holding info sessions, printing flyers. I think he even drafted a cancellation policy. One dad pulled me aside and said, “Your son scheduled a meeting with me and my wife. In our own living room. He had printed materials and a whiteboard! It felt like a timeshare pitch…but we signed up.”

Another parent, whose son was a little more on the shy and reserved side, told me, "My kid came home, looked stunned, and said, 'I can't believe Tom talked me into this.’” That’s when I realized: we weren’t going on this cruise because we were great parents. We were going because Thomas could sell the ocean to a fish.
At some point, I looked at his mom and whispered, “I guess we are actually going on this cruise?”

Eventually, he got four friends locked in. The five boys would share one cabin--five teenage boys, one bathroom, zero chance of a good night’s sleep. His mom and I were stationed across the hall like glorified hall monitors… with buffet privileges and a growing sense of “What have we done?”

On the drive to the port, I held an official “Dad Meeting”--right there in the car, somewhere between a gas station and the cruise terminal. I laid down the law, or at least gently suggested it with an authoritative tone. I told the boys there were just two rules:
1. Obey the rules of the ship remembering who you are.
2. Have dinner with us every night in the main dining room, wearing a jacket and tie, like gentlemen, not lost extras from a beach movie.

Now, these were good kids. Responsible, respectful, only mildly dangerous in groups. I wasn’t that worried. But I did want to see them every day--not to keep tabs, but because I genuinely wanted to hear about their adventures. Their stories, their mishaps, their daily buffet conquests. I wasn’t just the chaperone. I was the proud, curious, slightly sentimental dad who didn’t want to miss a minute.

And I added one more twist: each night at dinner, they had to order at least one thing they’d never eaten before. Escargot? Duck pâté? Cold melon soup in a glass? Yep. If it looked weird or sounded vaguely European, it was going on their plate.
Because if you’re going to be young, overdressed, and slightly confused--do it on a cruise ship.

The moment we boarded, the boys went into full cruise-mode. Unlimited food. Waterslides. A teen-only club with laser lights and mystery fog that smelled like someone left Axe body spray in a microwave. They were in heaven. Their eyes were so wide, you’d think they’d just discovered a resort run by Doritos and freedom. For a brief moment, I genuinely thought they might skip dinner forever, just sucked into the black hole of teenage bliss and soft-serve ice cream.

But to their credit, the boys kept their promise.

Every night, like clockwork, they’d appear… sunburned, windblown, still a little damp, and radiating that chaotic post-adventure energy only teenage boys can pull off. They’d stroll into the dining room like it was a red carpet, each one sporting matching Ray-Bans they had somehow acquired, which only fueled their growing cruise ship mystique. They’d sit down, tie slightly crooked, and dive into tales of water slides, karaoke battles, and competitive ice cream consumption.

Then one night, just as we were settling in with our menus, a group of fellow passengers walked by, did a double take, and gasped.
“Oh my gosh! It’s The Five Guys!”

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They rushed over to the table, gushing like they’d stumbled upon a boy band at sea. The boys took it in stride… smiling, nodding, chatting like seasoned cruise celebrities.
When the group walked off, I turned to Thomas, eyebrows raised.
“The Five Guys?”
He shrugged. “Yeah. That’s what they call us.”

And just like that, a legend was born.
Every night, it happened again.
Someone would wander by, freeze mid-step, light up like they’d spotted a unicorn in cargo shorts, and say it: “It’s The Five Guys!” Then they’d swarm the table like seagulls on french fries--asking the boys what they’d done that day, how they all knew each other, and whether they’d be performing again. Performing?

That confused me… until a couple approached me near the pool one afternoon.
“You’re with The Five Guys, right?” the woman asked.
At this point, I wasn’t sure if I was their dad, their manager, or just their unpaid publicist.
“They’re incredible,” she went on. “We were on the upper pool deck, and there was a reggae band playing down below. Then, all of a sudden, each of your boys grabbed a random passenger and pulled them out to dance. Before we knew it, they had a whole crowd moving. It was like a flash mob, but, you know. spontaneous and fun.”

I blinked. I hadn’t raised cruise celebrities… but apparently, I had.

By the end of the trip, The Five Guys had groupies.
I wish I were joking.

They took photos with families. They got invited to join trivia teams. One woman offered to adopt them all “just for the energy.” It was like they’d tapped into some hidden cruise magic and sprinkled it all over the Lido deck.

But what really struck me was this: they didn’t do anything extraordinary. They didn’t plan a big performance or try to get attention. They just showed up. They were fully present, fully engaged, and totally unafraid to pull strangers into a moment of joy.

And in that simple, wonderful way--they connected.
With each other. With the cruise guests. With every salsa-dancing stranger they yanked onto the pool deck.
And maybe, without realizing it, they reminded a bunch of grown-ups what it looks like to just… have fun together.

Which, in hindsight, should’ve been a clue.
Because, probably to no one’s surprise. Tom is now a top-producing salesman for a global company.

He builds relationships effortlessly. He listens. He finds common ground. He knows how to read a room, light it up, and make people feel like they belong in the conversation.

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Honestly? He’s still doing exactly what he did on that cruise, he’s just traded his board shorts and charm for a day job and a fat paycheck.

So it really wasn’t a surprise that in his early 20s, Thomas started selling pest control--door to door, no less.
And yes, of course, he ended up being the company’s top producer that year.
I asked him once what his secret was.
He said, “It’s simple, Dad. I strike up a conversation, become their friend, and then/ and only then, I ask, ‘By the way, do you need pest control?’”
Then he grinned and added, “And the answer is always yes.”

I think about that a lot.
Because as Siva Devaki, co-founder of Mass Mailer, once said, “Sales is not about selling anymore, but about building trust and educating.”
And that’s exactly what Thomas did.
Whether it was convincing skeptical parents, rallying his friends, making strangers feel like part of something fun, or helping someone protect their home from ants--he started by building trust. The sale was just a byproduct.

Connection isn’t just a nice-to-have soft skill. It’s the core of everything:
Sales. Leadership. Teamwork. Hospitality. Influence.
Whether you’re convincing your parents to chaperone a teenage cruise, inviting strangers onto a dance floor, or knocking on a stranger’s door with a clipboard, success starts the same way:
You make people feel seen. Heard. Valued.

In business--and in life--connection is everything.
It begins with trust. It grows through shared experiences.
And whether you're sixteen years old or the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, the ones who lead best are the ones who show up with heart.

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Operation: Mildly Rebellious Babysitting

John was seven. Marissa was six. I was sixteen, angsty, and full of hormones and resentment. That night, I sulked hard. I wrote mental manifestos. I imagined running away to Europe. Or at least Bakersfield.

But then… inspiration struck. Not the wholesome, big-brother kind. No, this was petty rebellion disguised as a bonding activity. I was going to take them somewhere. Somewhere epic. Not because I loved them, but because I wanted to make a point. Mostly to the mirror. Today, I’d call it malicious obedience, doing exactly what I was told, just not the way anyone expected.

Problem: I was broke. Solution: Go full raccoon mode. I raided junk drawers, couch cushions, old birthday cards, anywhere a rogue nickel might hide. After an exhaustive hunt, I emerged victorious with exactly $32.68.

Next? Food. I knew I didn’t have enough money to buy lunches, so I packed a picnic worthy of a third-tier field trip: three PB&Js, off-brand chips, stale cookies, and enough juice boxes to keep us hydrated or mildly sticky. Honestly, it was a culinary effort so uninspired it would’ve gotten me chopped in the first round of a cooking competition for toddlers.

Then I loaded the kids in the car. “Where are we going?” they asked.

“We’re going where we’ve never gone, seeing what we’ve never seen, and doing what we’ve never done,” I said, channeling my dad’s signature line for unplanned family outings. They were impressed. Suspicious, but impressed.

As we pulled off the freeway toward Magic Mountain Amusement Park, the excitement in the backseat hit a fever pitch. The car barely parked before they exploded with glee. “Are we going HERE?!”

“Yes,” I replied, soaking up the glory, until I handed over $15 for parking. I knew I was cutting it close. I still had park tickets to buy.

At the ticket booth, I tried my luck. “Three tickets, please.” The cashier totaled it up. And… drumroll… I was short. By something ridiculous, like 87 cents. I froze. My plan, my beautiful, rebellious, PB&J-fueled plan, was crashing and burning at the gate.

But then? A miracle. The cashier peered at the bouncing kids behind me and said, “Well, clearly these two are under the age limit, so they’re free.” Now, I don’t know what kind of magical prescription she was wearing, but John and Marissa were definitely not under three. I didn’t question it. I just nodded like a grateful orphan in a Hallmark movie, handed her five bucks (it was cheaper than arguing), and strutted in like I’d just hacked the system. Because I had.

And with my leftover $10. 56? Victory fries. But first: coasters.

We headed straight for The Revolution, Magic Mountain’s famous loop-de-loop. The kids kept asking what ride we were going on. I kept dodging the question with distractions,“Look over there! Is that a funnel cake stand?” “Did you see that guy with the Monkey?” I was basically running a misdirection campaign worthy of a magician. They had no idea they were about to have the time of my life. Because let’s be honest, this whole thing? Still mostly about me. I wanted to get them on that coaster before they knew what was happening. Because knowing my luck, they’d do something ridiculous… like get scared and ruin everything.

But I could only distract them for so long. As we reached the loading area, and it became more and more obvious where I was taking them, their excitement turned to worry. Their glees gave way to silence. At the loading zone, I realized the seats were in pairs. I couldn’t ride beside both of them. So I said, “You two sit in front. I’ll sit behind you… for protection.”

With puppy dog eyes and a tear running down Marissa’s cheek, they cautiously agreed and sat in the seat in front of me. I leaned in and whispered, “If you’re scared, close your eyes and count to 60. It’ll all be over by then.” A lady behind me muttered, “Who puts kids that young on a ride like this?” I heard her comment and immediately added her to my mental list of people I would avoid eye contact with for the rest of the day.

But guess what? They LOVED it. Eyes wide. Hair a mess. Screaming in pure joy. John even shouted, “It worked! I closed my eyes and counted to 60!”

“Again!” they yelled. So we did. All day long. We went full thrill-seeker mode. We screamed through coasters, ditched the lunches for greasy park food, and even braved the terrifying Colossus.

By sunset, we were sweaty, sticky, possibly dehydrated, and ridiculously happy. Our legs were jelly, our faces a little sunburned, and our voices nearly gone from screaming. No phones. No filters. Just three siblings high on adrenaline and nacho cheese.

The car ride home was quiet. Not because we had nothing to say, but because we’d said it all with laughter, shrieks, and nacho breath. And if I remember correctly, they both fell asleep in the back seat.

What started as a moody teen’s act of rebellion turned into one of the most memorable, laughter-filled days of my life. Somewhere between the loop-de-loops and stolen snacks, something shifted. I wasn’t just the babysitter anymore, I was their leader, their bodyguard, their brother. And they? They were my co-conspirators in the greatest heist of unexpected joy.

What I didn’t realize then, but science now confirms, is that joy does more than just make a good day. Psychologist Barbara Fredrickson developed something called the *Broaden-and-Build Theory of Positive Emotions*, which suggests that moments of happiness, amusement, love, or awe don’t just feel good, they *do* good. They expand the way we think, encouraging curiosity, creativity, and connection. And over time, those broadened moments build lasting emotional and social resources: stronger relationships, deeper resilience, and even better coping skills.

That day at Magic Mountain was a textbook example. I started off resistant, even resentful,doing the bare minimum to follow the rules. But joy snuck in through the backdoor, disguised as a roller coaster and a bag of greasy fries. One loop-de-loop turned into a day of laughter, bonding, and unexpected pride. I wasn’t just checking the babysitting box anymore,I was becoming something else: a trusted big brother, a fun memory-maker, a leader.

Fredrickson gives examples of how joy can help a child make friends on the playground or help an adult reframe a tough situation in a new light. It’s not about ignoring hard things, it’s about how positive emotions create a wider lens. That day with John and Marissa didn’t erase my teenage angst, but it cracked it open just enough to let something better in. (*Broaden-and-Build Theory of Positive Emotions* by Barbara Fredrickson, 2001, American Psychologist, 56(3), 218–226.)

Even now, all these years later, the story lives vividly in our memories. And while the details tend to get a little more dramatic every time one of us tells it, the heart of it never changes. It’s a story of laughter, trust, and the kind of wild, beautiful magic that only siblings and roller coasters can create.

I have a list of people I’d like to find and thank in the afterlife, and this kind lady in the ticket booth is one of them. She may not have known what a difference she made. She probably forgot about us by the time her shift ended. But her small act of compassion turned a frustrated teen’s forced babysitting gig into one of the most treasured days of my life. She didn’t just save me a few bucks, she gave me the chance to be the kind of big brother I didn’t even know I could be. She helped create a moment of joy, adventure, and connection that would ripple through decades of memories and laughter. That’s the thing about kindness: you don’t always get to see the impact. But when it lands in the right heart, it echoes forever.

Here’s something to think about:

- Kindness counts, even when it’s quiet. You never know when a small gesture becomes a life-changing moment for someone else.
- When in doubt, make it an adventure. You might be stuck with a situation, but you’re not stuck with how you experience it.
- Plans are optional. Memories aren’t. Some of the best memories come when things don’t go according to plan.
- Teenagers are wildly underestimated. Especially by themselves.
- And yes, when all else fails, pack the snacks. Always pack the snacks.

So Ask Yourself:
- When was the last time I turned a chore or obligation into something unexpectedly joyful?
- Am I underestimating the younger (or older) version of myself,and the impact I had on others?
- What small act of kindness from a stranger has stuck with me,and have I paid it forward?
- How often do I let spontaneity take the wheel?
- Am I saying no to something today that could become a favorite memory tomorrow?

I grew up in the San Fernando Valley, just north of Los Angeles, where the palm trees were plenty, the traffic never stopped, and the closest we got to farming was the pumpkin patch in October. You know, the kind where you pet a goat, take a hayride, and pick a pumpkin under a canopy of twinkle lights. It felt like a three-hour road trip, even though it was probably thirty minutes away.
That was our version of country life.

But my younger brother, Michael?

He had… other ideas.

After getting married, he and his wife Kim moved to Mesa, Arizona, and bought a house on a one-acre lot. One of those properties where suburbia ends and "some guy’s got a goat" begins. And to Michael, that acre looked like freedom.

He didn’t just want a backyard.
He wanted a homestead.
He wanted his kids to know where food came from.
He wanted to get his hands dirty.
He wanted to live off the land.

So… in came the animals.

A cow named T-Bone.
A pig named Pork Chop.
A goat whose name is lost to history.
And, of course… chickens.

When I visited, Michael gave me a tour like he was unveiling a theme park. He was still in his suit and tie from work but beamed with pride as he showed off his handmade pens, his garden beds, and his small but mighty flock. You could tell he was proud. And honestly? I was impressed.

Well… mostly.

Because let me tell you: when your backyard becomes a barnyard, it smells exactly how you’d expect. Especially in 104-degree Arizona heat. One whiff of that goat pen and my city-slicker sinuses nearly walked off the job.

Later that afternoon, while Michael was outside wrestling a bale of hay or constructing a coop out of reclaimed lumber, I was in the kitchen chatting with Kim. I asked her how she really felt about their homesteading life.

She smiled. That weary, loving, “I married a man with too many ideas” kind of smile.

Now, I’ve always loved Kim. But that moment cemented it. I mean, she really is an angel, because anyone who can survive life with Michael and keep chickens in the backyard deserves a medal or at least a spa day.

Then she told me a story.

On day one, Michael decided it was time for a good old-fashioned lesson in farm-to-table living. He picked out a plump hen, set up the chopping block, called the kids over, and took a deep, noble breath.

And then… he froze.

He looked at the chicken.
The chicken looked at him.
Both looked confused as to what came next.

And just like that, Michael’s inner pioneer packed up and called in sick.

That’s when Aaron, his twelve-year-old son, full of determination and middle-school swagger, stepped forward and said, “I’ll do it.”

Because of course he did.

So Michael handed him the ax.
Aaron squared up like he was entering the final round of a video game.
He raised the blade.

A long, dramatic pause.

And then Aaron, with all the solemnity of a kid who just realized he was very much not ready to behead a living creature, slowly set the ax down, sighed, and said,
“Yeah… I don’t feel like chicken for dinner anyways.”

And so, the chicken lived another day.

A few days later, Michael, determined to follow through, once again picked out a hen and declared it dinner. This time, he was ready. He set up the block, brought the kids over, and took his swing.

And missed.

Well — not missed entirely. It was worse.

The blade landed just off the mark.
The chicken’s head wasn’t completely severed — just… loosely negotiated.

And that bird? Took. Off.

If you’ve ever heard the phrase “running around like a chicken with its head cut off,” let me assure you — it’s not a metaphor. It’s a documentary.

That chicken bolted across the yard like it was escaping federal charges.

Feathers flew. Blood misted the air. The kids screamed.
One locked themselves in the bathroom.
Another ran behind the barn.
And Michael, bless him, was sprinting after the chicken, ax in hand, shouting apologies and some very creative language.

Kim, still at the window, just shook her head and muttered, “Well… that escalated quickly.”

By the time the bird finally gave up the ghost and gravity did what the ax couldn’t, the backyard looked like a crime scene in a barn-themed slasher film.

Feathers clung to the grass like confetti at a very confusing birthday party.
The kids were emotionally fried.
Michael stood in the carnage, out of breath, rethinking everything.
And Kim had already opened her DoorDash app.

They didn’t eat chicken that night.

Instead, they piled the kids in the car and drove in silence to the nearest burger joint. No one said a word until ten minutes in, when one of the kids, still sniffling, asked quietly,
“…Can we just have pizza next time?”

And just like that, they all burst out laughing. Even Michael.

Because sometimes, all you can do is laugh… and pass the fries.

We all start with big ideas.
Noble intentions.
Dreams of doing something real — raising our kids right, living with purpose, getting closer to the land.

But dreams don’t always prepare you for the mess.

Michael had a vision. He wanted to teach his kids where food really comes from. A lesson in self-reliance, responsibility, and connection.

And honestly? It was a great idea.

Until it wasn’t.

Because what he got instead wasn’t a Norman Rockwell painting — it was blood, feathers, trauma… and a chicken that refused to die with dignity.

But that’s the part we forget: real life doesn’t come filtered or flawless.

It’s awkward. It’s unexpected. And sometimes it smells like goat in 104-degree heat.

But here’s what life does respond to:
• A good sense of humor.
• A willingness to adjust.
• And the courage to keep going anyway.

Perfection isn’t required.
Being willing to laugh, pivot, and show up again is.

The best stories, the strongest families, the richest lessons — they’re rarely tidy.
They’re born in chaos.
Raised in recovery.
And remembered with laughter.

So if you find yourself ankle-deep in feathers, with dinner derailed and the kids traumatized…

Take a breath.
Wipe off the mess.
Go get burgers.

Because growth lives in the giggles.
Wisdom lives in the recovery.
And sometimes, the best success story starts with a chicken that wouldn’t quit.

"The best thing to hold onto in life is each other… and a good sense of humor."
— Audrey Hepburn

Points to Ponder

• Have I been holding back because I’m afraid I won’t get it “right”?

• What moment in my life felt like a failure, but now makes a great story?

• Where can I offer myself (or someone else) a little grace today?

• Am I missing the joy by clinging too tightly to the plan?

• What might happen if I let go of perfection — and embraced meaning instead?

It was during one of these mornings that I noticed them: the purple flip flops.

Every single day, they sat neatly by the poolside. Same spot. Same placement. And while there was nothing particularly remarkable about them—other than purple being my favorite color—they were just ordinary, worn flip flops. Still, something about them caught my eye. Maybe it was because purple has always been my favorite color. Whatever the reason, they became a quiet mystery I couldn’t ignore.

Who did they belong to? Why were they always there before we arrived?

Mark and I occasionally speculated, but it became a passing curiosity, like wondering about a character in a book you’ll never finish.

Then one day, running a bit behind schedule, we finally got our answer.

As we lounged in the hot tub, an older woman, wrapped in a towel and exuding a kind of quiet dignity, climbed out of the pool. She patted herself dry, shuffled to the purple flip flops, slid her feet in, and disappeared into the locker room.

Case solved!

But that wasn't the end. In fact, it was just the beginning.

Over the next few months, I started to pay more attention. Every morning, there she was, slicing through the water with smooth, determined strokes. From the moment I got into the hot tub to the moment I left to shower, she never stopped moving. Always steady. Always purposeful.

She wore a bright swim cap, the same purple flip flops nearby, and what looked like a perpetual, peaceful focus. I guessed she was in her late 70s or early 80s, though her spirit didn’t seem to have aged a day.

One morning, as I sat on the bench drying off, she took a seat next to me. I couldn’t help myself.

“I have to say,” I said, “I’m amazed by how dedicated you are. How long have you been swimming?”

She chuckled, a warm, throaty laugh that immediately put me at ease. “Oh, only about five years,” she said.

Five years? I blinked. “You seem like you could be a competitive swimmer.”

She shook her head, smiling. “No, nothing like that. Actually, it’s a bit of a story.”

And so she told me.

About eight years earlier, she'd been in a horrific car accident. She showed me the faint scars on her left ankle, hidden by her towel—the result of pins and screws holding her bones together. She’d also needed a full hip replacement.

Doctors had been grim about her prognosis. They told her she’d likely need a cane, maybe a walker. That she should expect a wheelchair eventually.

“They were kind about it,” she said. “But firm. They didn’t want me to have false hope.” She paused, looking out over the still surface of the pool. “But something inside me refused to accept that. It was like this fire lit up inside me, an internal fight I didn’t know I had.”

Instead of resigning herself to that fate, she started doing research. She met with physical therapists. She talked to orthopedic specialists. And she learned that swimming, with its low impact on joints and muscles, could be her salvation.

The first few months had been brutal. Just getting into the water hurt. Kicking her legs, moving her hips, even floating, felt like she was battling gravity itself.

But she kept showing up.

Stroke after painful stroke, lap after grueling lap, she fought for her life back.

Now, nearly every day for the last five years, she swam. Not for medals. Not for records. For freedom. For dignity. For life.

I sat there, towel half-forgotten in my lap, humbled beyond words.

Before she stood to leave, she smiled at me.

“You know,” she said, “sometimes the smallest decision, the choice to fight, the choice to believe... changes everything.”

She slid into her purple flip flops and walked away, leaving me with more than just a solved mystery.

She left me with a lesson.

The Moral of the Story:

Life doesn’t always come at us gently. Sometimes it shatters our expectations, redefines what we thought we were capable of, and dares us to rebuild. In those moments, it’s not the grand gestures that save us. It’s the quiet resolve. The almost invisible decision to try again.

True strength isn’t measured in muscle or speed or medals. It lives in persistence. In the patient, painful work of healing. In the willingness to keep moving when no one is watching, when there’s no scoreboard, no applause, just you, your pain, and the path forward.

That woman didn’t just reclaim her body. She reclaimed her agency. She challenged the story others had written for her and chose to write a new one. Not out of defiance, but out of belief. Not out of anger, but out of quiet hope.

And maybe that’s the real message: The smallest choices, the ones that seem almost forgettable, can be the ones that rewrite the ending. Deciding to research. To show up. To swim. To not give up. That’s what changes everything.

In a world that glorifies quick fixes and flashy turnarounds, her story is a reminder that real change is often slow, steady, and unseen. It’s found in a pool before sunrise. In a scar that doesn’t define but reminds. In a pair of ordinary, purple flip flops by the water’s edge.

Years after I solved the mystery of the purple flip flops, I broke my back. (That’s a story for another time.) It was tough. I spent nine days in the hospital, came home with six new screws in my back, and wore a brace for three months. And through it all, I often thought of that woman—her determination, her quiet strength, her decision to swim. I wasn’t in nearly as bad shape as she was, but the lesson she taught me stayed with me. It helped me find my own resolve. It reminded me that healing isn’t just physical—it’s about showing up every day, even when it hurts.

“The strongest people are not those who show strength in front of us but those who win battles we know nothing about.”

— Unknown

Questions to Ponder:

- Is there a small, daily decision you could make that might change your path?

- What part of your life needs you to show up for it, even if it hurts?

- Have you ever made a quiet choice that ended up changing everything?

- Who in your life is swimming quietly beside you, modeling quiet strength?

- Are you waiting for the pain to go away before you move forward, or are you willing to move through it?

Sometimes the loudest leadership shows up in the quietest moments. This is a story about storms, stories, and the man who taught me what true leadership really looks like.

Being a Scoutmaster was one of the greatest joys of my life.
Seven years. Three of my boys. Countless miles hiked. Dozens of nights under the stars. Hundreds of freeze-dried meals. And a thousand memories I wouldn’t trade for anything.

That’s the part I loved most: the together part.
Especially because, during much of my time as Scoutmaster, I wasn’t doing it alone.

Enter Jared.
The first time I was introduced to him, we were at church. I. in my standard Sunday uniform--suit, white shirt, polished shoes, and, of course, a tie. Jared? He strolled in wearing jeans, a colored button-up, and a tie that looked like it had been borrowed from his dad’s closet just to meet the dress code. My first thought was, “OK, boy.” Followed immediately by, “Well… at least he’s wearing a tie.”

Jared was everything I wasn’t. A small-town cowboy type, born and raised in a place where people said “reckon” without irony. Meanwhile, I was a city guy--more comfortable running a board meeting than riding a horse. He was relaxed. Approachable. Boots-on-the-ground (I mean boot....he really wore boots). I was more structured, schedule-driven, and fully committed to the agenda I created for every troop meeting. If I was the “dad” of the group, Jared was the “fun uncle.” The one who let you stay up late as long as you promised not to tell.

But here’s the thing: it didn't take long for me to realize just how lucky we all were to have him. Jared could connect with the boys in ways I couldn’t. He was less judgmental than I was back then. More instinctively kind. And--this one was tough to admit--he was a lot more fun.

Don’t get me wrong--he had high standards and could be tough on the boys.
But they respected that. They respected him. He was the yin to my yang. Where I focused on structure, he brought spontaneity. Where I planned down to the minute, he rolled with the moment. We balanced each other in all the right ways, and the troop was better for it.

Before Jared, I was what you’d call a “car camping Scoutmaster.” Tents near the parking lot. Coolers. Maybe a short day hike if everyone felt motivated. I had fond memories of backpacking and long canoe trips from my own youth, but I didn’t exactly have the adult skill set to lead that kind of thing now. So you can imagine my mix of excitement and low-grade panic the day Jared came up to me and said, “Hey, I think we should become a backpacking troop.”

And with that, we became a backpacking troop--meaning, we did things the hard way. No RVs, no plug-ins, no drive-up campsites with hot showers and flushing toilets. We carried our lives on our backs and slept under the canopy of heaven, as we liked to call it. And when the weather turned--or the trail was longer than expected, or the blisters were bigger than planned--we figured it out.

Together, we made a great team.
He had this way with the boys--something almost magical. He could take a muddy, soaked, half-complaining group of teenage boys and have them belly-laughing around a fire five minutes later. He knew just when to be serious and when to be silly. And when things went sideways--and they always did at some point--he was the steady presence that turned struggle into story.

After four years, Jared told me he and his growing family were moving out of the area. I was happy for him--really, I was--but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t also heartbroken. Selfishly, I didn’t want to lose my partner on the trail. But more than that, I knew how much the boys would miss him.

So, we planned a sendoff.
A big dinner. All the scouts, their parents, our leaders. I wanted it to be meaningful. Something that let him know just how much he had meant to all of us. So, I made a video.

It was simple, really. Just a series of interviews with the boys. I asked each of them a handful of questions about Jared. “What did you learn from him?” “How did he make you feel?” “What’s your favorite memory of Jared?”

Now, here’s where it gets interesting.
I interviewed them individually, days apart, one-on-one. And yet… when I got to editing the footage, I started noticing a pattern. Nearly three-quarters of the scouts answered the “favorite memory” question with something that sounded almost identical.

They’d begin with: “That one time we were all huddled under the tarp, trying to stay dry, and Jared told us a story…”

Or: “When we were stuck in that cave waiting out the rain and Jared told us about the time…”

Or: “We were cold and wet and tired, and Jared started talking about…”

It wasn’t the trips with the best views.
It wasn’t the nights with the best food.
It wasn’t the hikes where everything went right.

It was the stories. Told in moments when everything went sideways--soaked through, fogged in, winds howling. Those in-between times when we were waiting. Struggling. Enduring.

That’s what they remembered.

It wasn’t about the destination. It was about the moment someone saw them, calmed them, entertained them, encouraged them. It was about connection--when things were hard. When they were worried. Cold. Discouraged. And Jared, without fail, would offer them not just warmth, but story. A bridge between discomfort and comfort. A reminder that this moment, however miserable, would one day be a memory they’d cherish.

The Moral of the Story: The Most Impactful Leaders Show Up in the Rain We tend to think leadership is about being in front--guiding the path, making the plans, calling the shots. We imagine the leader as the person on the peak of the mountain, pointing toward the next goal. But in reality, the most powerful leadership moments don’t happen at the summit. They happen in the struggle.

They happen under the tarp, when the rain won’t let up, and spirits are low.
They happen in the pause, not the progress.
They happen when people are cold, tired, and unsure--and someone decides to show up with them, not above them.

Jared didn’t lead through volume. He didn’t need to be the loudest voice or the biggest personality. He led through presence. Through empathy. Through the stories he shared when things got hard. He knew instinctively that leadership isn't about perfection--it's about connection.

Those boys didn't remember the awards.
They didn’t remember how far we hiked or how well things went.
They remembered who sat with them in the discomfort.
They remembered the stories that reminded them that storms pass.
They remembered the feeling of being seen, heard, and comforted.

And isn’t that true for all of us?
We don’t remember every detail of the people who’ve shaped us. We remember how they made us feel when we needed them most. We remember the ones who sat beside us when the skies opened up--not the ones who shouted advice from dry ground.

So here’s the truth I’ve carried with me since then:
You don’t have to have all the answers to be a good leader.
You just have to be willing to sit in the rain with someone until they remember the sun.

Whether you're a parent, a teacher, a boss, a mentor, or just a friend--your influence won’t come from your title. It will come from your timing. Will you be there when it matters most? Will you bring calm to the chaos? Will you trade control for compassion?

The boys remembered Jared’s stories because they were more than entertainment--they were anchors.
And when the wind blew, and the ground turned to mud, and nothing went according to plan…
Jared was the anchor.

So if you want to make a lasting difference--don’t wait for perfect conditions.
Don’t wait until the trail clears or the rain stops.
Show up anyway.
Speak kindness.
Tell stories.
Be human.

Because the moments that change us aren’t the polished ones.
They’re the wet, uncomfortable, uncertain ones--when someone reminds us we’re not alone.

And years later, when someone asks what made the biggest impact, they won’t talk about the sunny days.
They’ll say, “It was that one time… under the tarp… when someone sat beside me and helped me believe we’d get through it.”

So here’s the takeaway:
We think leadership is about big speeches and big wins. But more often, it’s about being present in the in-between. It’s about showing up in the rain, unflinching. It’s about knowing that the people you lead won’t remember everything you did--but they’ll never forget how you made them feel when they needed you most.

So the next time you find yourself in someone’s storm…
Be the one who brings a story.
Be the calm in the chaos.
Be the Jared under the tarp.

Because years from now, when they’re asked what they remember most, it won’t be the mountaintop.
It’ll be that moment--huddled together--when you helped them believe the sun would come back out.

Did someone ever sit with you in your storm? Drop a comment—I’d love to hear your story. And if Jared reminds you of someone, share this with them.

Every once in a while, I’d go watch him play. I’ve never been a huge baseball guy, but watching Jake changed that a bit. There was one thing in particular that always caught my eye: he had a knack for stealing second.

And I don’t just mean once or twice. I saw him do it game after game. Sometimes he’d slide in clean. Sometimes he’d hit the dirt like a movie stuntman. Either way, it was hard to miss.

But here’s what really got me: it clearly meant something to him. It wasn’t just a move. It mattered. You could see it in his face every time he took off running.

So one day I asked him, “What’s the deal with stealing second? I’ve watched you do it a bunch of times, and every time it looks like it lights you up inside. Why?”

He leaned in a little, like he was about to tell me a secret.

“Stephen,” he said, “there’s nothing more thrilling than stealing second.”

I laughed. “Really?”

He nodded.

“You’re standing there on first, muscles tight, watching the pitcher, waiting for just the right moment. It’s all timing, nerves, instinct. You’ve got this tiny window where you either go for it… or you don’t.”

“And when you run,” he said, “you just… go.”

He didn’t always make it. Sometimes he’d get thrown out. Other times, he’d trip, or misjudge the timing. He even told me once his cleat got stuck and he face-planted so hard he left a dent in the dirt.

But when he made it? When he slid in just ahead of the tag, popped up and dusted himself off?

“You feel like you can do anything,” he said.

I asked him, “Weren’t you scared to run?”

Jake gave me a look — kind of like the look your dad gives you when you ask if it’s okay to stick a fork in the toaster.

“Cautious? Sure,” he said. “Scared? No. Because the minute you let fear in, you’ve already lost.”

Then he said something that really stuck with me:

“You can’t let fear settle in. Even just a little. Because fear doesn’t just slow you down. It tells you not to run at all.”

I felt that.

Not in a dramatic, Hollywood-music-swell kind of way. More like a quiet click. Like something in my brain slid into place.

It reminded me of something I’ve come to believe over the years:

Fear and faith can’t live in the same space.
They’ll pass each other in the hallway, sure — but they’re not roommates.

You can feel nervous. You can have questions. But if fear gets too comfortable, faith slips out the back door.

Fear shrinks us.
It plays out worst-case scenarios in our heads and convinces us they’re facts.
It keeps us on the bench, arms crossed, waiting for the “right time” that never comes.

But faith?

Faith says, “Go anyway.”
Faith says, “You’re ready enough.”
Faith says, “Even if it’s hard, you’ll figure it out on the way.”
Faith says, “You’re not meant to live your whole life on first base.”

So I’ll ask you what I asked myself that day:

What’s your second base?

Maybe it’s asking for a raise.
Starting something new.
Apologizing. Forgiving.
Telling someone how you really feel.

Maybe it’s leaving a job, a place, or even a version of yourself that no longer fits.

Whatever it is — when fear shows up (and it always will) — you need a way to move forward anyway.

Here are 5 steps that have worked for me.
Not just for stealing second, but for doing anything that scares you just enough to mean something.

STEP 1: Rally Your Supporters
Find your people. The ones who remind you of who you are when you forget.
The ones who cheer you on when you’re about to chicken out.

STEP 2: See It. Feel It. Taste It.
Picture the win. Feel what it’s going to be like when it happens.
Don’t just think it — believe it, down to your bones.
(Bonus if it tastes like churros.)

STEP 3: Know the Payoff
I used to take Scout groups on these brutal 50-mile backpacking trips.
Halfway through, the kids would flop onto the ground like we were marching them through the Sahara.

I’d tell them: “Look for the payoff.”

The view. The stillness. That earned sense of pride. The fact that you have EARNED what you are seeing and where you are standing.

Life’s the same.
You’ve got to walk through the hard stuff to get to the good stuff.

STEP 4: Run. Run. RUN.
Literally. Move your body.
Get out of your head.
Go for a walk. Turn up some music.
Fear hates motion.

STEP 5: Pray.
Or meditate. Breathe. Listen.
Call it whatever you want, but reconnect with something bigger than you —
something that reminds you that you're not alone in this.

I’ll end with this:

When I was in sixth grade, I had to give my first oral report. And I was a wreck.
Pacing, sweating, absolutely convinced I was going to faint or throw up on the class hamster.

My mom sat me down and said,

“Stephen, sometimes the only way out is straight through.”

I still don’t remember what that report was about.
But I remember getting up there, shaking like a leaf, and doing it anyway.

And you know what?

I didn’t die.

That moment stuck with me — because life doesn’t wait until you feel ready.
It just hands you the ball and says, “Your move.”

So when that moment comes… when fear shows up… what are you going to do?

Stay safe on first?

Or take the leap, risk the fall, and run?

I can’t promise you’ll always make it.
But I can promise you this:

The ones who run?
They’re the ones who grow.
They’re the ones who lead.
They’re the ones who live full, fearless lives.

So take a breath.
Watch the pitcher.
And run.

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Growing up, there were a few unshakable truths in house.

First: school always started too early and ended way too late.
Second: the neighbor’s dog hated everyone, including himself.
And third—every Thursday night, without fail, my mom made fried chicken.

Now, to Mom, this wasn’t just dinner—it was devotion. It was her signature dish. Her midweek love letter to the family, served up with mashed potatoes, green beans, and something she called “gravy” that had a personality all its own.

It was part of the rhythm of our lives.
Thursdays were for spelling tests, scout meetings—and fried chicken.

And while I wouldn’t exactly call it my favorite meal, I knew how much it mattered to her. It was tradition. It was hers. And I respected that.

That said... we all have our preferences. And mine? Well, let’s just say fried chicken didn’t top the list.

The breading had a mind of its own—sometimes crisp, sometimes a little soft around the edges. The meat could run a little dry on occasion (maybe more than occasionally). And to this day, I swear it squeaked when I bit into it. Not in a bad way, just… surprising. Like my dinner was trying to talk back.

But I was a good kid. I said thank you. I smiled. I cleared my plate, even if it took an extra glass of milk to wash it down.

It was part of our family language, and I spoke it fluently—even if the taste wasn’t my native tongue.

Until one night, I wasn’t.

I was fifteen. Right in the thick of teenage angst and hormonal confusion. That magical age where your emotions are louder than your logic and your tact has gone on vacation indefinitely.

I came home that night already grumpy. Something had set me off—maybe a test, maybe a fight with a friend, maybe just a particularly bad hair day. Whatever it was, I walked through that door carrying a full backpack and a short fuse.

I slumped into my usual spot at the dinner table, glanced down… and there it was.

Fried chicken.

Again.

My mood detonated on the spot.

I didn’t plan it. I didn’t think it through. I just blurted it out:

“Why do you always make this? I hate it!”

The silence that followed was nuclear.

My mom froze mid-tong, standing like a statue of Southern hospitality turned to stone. My siblings stared at me like I’d just smacked Santa. And my dad… well, he lowered his fork with a precision that sent a chill down my spine. The man didn’t slam it. He didn’t sigh. He just set it down, folded his hands, and said with the calm of a judge about to deliver a verdict:

“Go to your room. No dinner tonight.”

Just like that. No yelling. No lectures.

Sentenced. Exiled. Banished.

And let me tell you something: I stormed off like the main character in a teen drama. Slammed the door. Threw my backpack down. Flopped onto my bed with the weight of a thousand injustices.

And then… I waited.

And stewed.

And got hungry.

At first, I was too mad to care. But as the minutes ticked by, that smell—the unmistakable aroma of fried chicken and whatever my mom passed off as gravy—started wafting under the door like a greasy ghost. It filled the room, wrapped around my stomach, and began whispering in my ear.

“You’re still hungry. And you’re still not getting any.”

I rolled over, groaning. My stomach started staging a full-scale rebellion.

Finally, after what felt like hours, there was a knock at the door.

It opened, and there stood my dad.

Not with a plate of food. But with something even more powerful.

Wisdom.

He walked in, sat down at the foot of my bed, and gave me a look. The kind of look dads give when they’re about to change your life, but also when they’re wondering how their DNA could have created someone so mouthy.

He asked how I was feeling.

“Hungry,” I mumbled.

He nodded. “Did you think about what you said at dinner?”

“Sort of,” I replied. Teenage for not really but let’s get this over with.

Then he did something odd. He looked over his shoulder like someone might be listening. He leaned in, voice low.

“What I’m about to tell you… you can’t repeat. Not to your mother, not to your brothers. Got it?”

He had my attention now.

I nodded; eyes wide.

“I hate your mom’s fried chicken too.”

I stared at him like he’d just admitted to being a Russian spy.

“You do?!”

It was like discovering a secret resistance. Like we were two prisoners in the same greasy gulag. I was ready to organize, protest, maybe even throw the chicken out the window in solidarity.

But he wasn’t smiling.

He wasn’t joking.

He looked me dead in the eyes and said:

“Yeah. I hate it. I always have. But I eat it anyway. Every Thursday.

“But why?” I asked with a sense of disappointment.

Then he said it. The sentence that changed my life.

“Because I love your mother more than I hate her chicken.”

And just like that, something shifted.

It wasn’t about the chicken.

It never was.

The Moral of the Story: Real Love Isn’t Loud—It’s Consistent

What my dad gave me that night wasn’t just permission to dislike a meal. He gave me a masterclass in mature love. The kind of love that doesn’t need applause or affirmation. The kind that shows up, smiles, and eats the dry chicken—every Thursday—for decades.

Because love, real love, isn’t about everything being perfect.

It’s about choosing grace over gripes.

It’s about recognizing the heart behind the habit. That, in her mind, that chicken was an act of service. A routine born of love. A way of holding the family together, week by week.

And my dad honored that.

Not because he liked the meal, but because he loved the person who made it.

What I Carry With Me Now

Since then, I’ve come to realize how often life serves us things we don’t particularly like—but come from people we deeply love.

A family tradition that drives us nuts.
A holiday casserole that should’ve stayed in the 1970s.
A story we’ve heard a hundred times—but we smile anyway, because it’s them telling it.

Those are our Thursday chickens.

And our response says everything.

Do we roll our eyes?
Or do we smile, say thank you, and pass the mashed potatoes?

Because here’s the truth:

Appreciation is more nourishing than criticism.
Grace goes further than good seasoning.
And choosing kindness—even when it’s hard to swallow—is what builds relationships that last.

So now, every time I’m tempted to complain about something small, I remember my dad, sitting at the table, chewing slowly, smiling at the woman he adored, and choosing love over preference.

That’s the kind of person I still want to be.
The kind who picks people over plates.
The kind who stays kind, even when the chicken squeaks.

Stephen Lambert