I have spoken at many conferences about leadership, about coaching, about managing and combatting stress in our difficult roles of building and district leadership, but those messages, while important, never quite landed on the culture that we’ve built at Seneca Township High School. For almost 25 years I’ve led groups of people within this building, why wouldn’t I speak about that!?

But that piece I wrote a year ago, (click here) I Don't Go to Work, I Go to School was a combination of the approach I try to bring daily, from the recovering Hall of Fame washed up Head Coach, to the overloaded district Superintendent. This keynote is about the mindset that we as educators are blessed to bestow on kids and adults everyday… if we choose to do so.

And that’s the difference, right? How do you choose to show up? The old coach in me doesn’t expect you to hit a grand slam every day, but even singles get guys on base or move runners. The big ticket, just don’t choose to strike out looking with the bat on your shoulder.

There was one defining moment in my career that changed everything for me when it came to that perspective. It wasn’t in a classroom, or on a softball field, or in an office, or even in a crowded hallway. Though there are a million memories in each of these hallowed places, that distinction belongs to the Emergency Delivery Room at Morris Hospital on April 30, 2008. It was the day I became DAD. My entire approach to teaching, coaching, and leading kids changed on that day that my daughter entered the world. The weight, the joy, the responsibility, the pride, flowed through my body and has not left it. If we approach teaching or leading buildings like the decisions we make would directly impact our kids, man, our buildings would be awesome.

I am not a theorist, I live in pragmatic reality. Some days you just don’t have the energy, some days you just don’t have the juice. But, dang it, if you taught your lesson on even the most mundane of topics, like John Winthrop’s City on a Hill speech, or the driest of concepts, like mixed fractions, as if that lesson was being taught around your dinner table to your own children, I can bet you would individualize and specialize that lesson to be one of your greatest. I didn’t come up with this concept; I first heard it from Jonathan Alsheimer…

… but I’ve taken his message and presented it to Board of Education members, to disgruntled community members, and to selfish stakeholders who only care about property tax rates.

I take that exact approach and questioning to my decision-making as a leader, “Is this decision great for our kids?” If the answer is yes, then let’s find a way to get it done. It’s simplistic, maybe even idealistic, but try to stop me and I’ll fight you. You may teach or lead a building for 25, or 35 years, but you might only have that student for 1 of those years. That student is somebody else’s entire world, why wouldn’t we do everything we can to bring him the best experience he can get in our building. I would fight to do the same thing to empower my child and as a district leader, to defend my own daughter’s opportunities.

A friend recently said to me, “Why the hell would you spend all that money to send your kid to Bama for a nursing degree when she could get the same degree in Illinois?” Recognizing the power of a pause, I stopped, and replied, “If I could pull the stars down to my daughter and hand her one, I’d do it. This is her dream and I’ll fight to help her build it.”

It’s why the intro to my keynote is about the greatest title I was ever given, Dad.

And, man, is that kid living that dream. I’m proud as Hell that I could be a tiny part of that foundation and journey. So, leaders, lead everyday like the decisions you make, even the most unpopular ones, would directly impact your own children, I can guarantee your district or building will be better for it.

Well, then there are weeks, like this past one, when your foot stages a hostile takeover of your entire existence.

Welcome to this week of Built Under Pressure.

My weight? Stable.

My running? Not so much.

My plantar fascia? Apparently it has filed for workers’ compensation and has taken over my progress for the week.

Apparently, I’m Old Now

I’ve spent the better part of two years convincing myself that I’m a runner. It’s more of a mental game than anything, I have tried Brooks, Saucony, Asics, and hated them all, but the ole trusty “Unc Edition” (as my 13 year old son calls them) New Balances- comfortable, light, and perfect… Or, so I thought, because those beat up 3+ year old shoes probably in conjunction with my low arches led to the almost 46-year old discovery that my feet are hijacking my progress and pre-race prep.

A visit to a running store in Naperville gave me the kind of honest feedback nobody wants: Low arches. Flat feet. One foot a size 13 1/2, the other a 12 1/2, didn’t know that was a thing… Not exactly built like your typical runner.

I mean you know the Instagram or Tik Tok videos… The, Dexter and the Moonrocks “Freakin’ Out” song blaring, big boys come a runnin’, that’s my internal aura when I’m running down the streets, I can overcome some debilitating issues, right?

Basically, at the Naperville running-store, the sweet lady looked me up and down and thought to herself, perhaps he’s the version of:

“Sir, have you considered taking up something more appropriate for your demographic? Perhaps golf?”

I’ve spent years lifting, running, rucking, and generally beating the hell out of my body trying to get to a level of body composition, health, and strength that I’m happy with. I’m nowhere near there yet. I am confident that some day I’ll get into the 225 weight class and chisel up this body some more. But, apparently somewhere along the way, my feet looked at my age and said:

“Enough, Unc.” The culprit?

Plantar fasciitis.

For those who have never experienced it, plantar fasciitis is inflammation or irritation involving the plantar fascia, the thick band of tissue running along the bottom of your foot that helps support your arch.

And when it gets pissed off? Holy sh*t.

That first few steps out of bed can feel like someone has installed a tiny medieval torture device underneath your heel.

You wake up thinking: “Today’s going to be a great day.”

Then you put your foot on the floor. NOPE.

Your body immediately reminds you that you’re 45 and not 25. Thankfully, my wife’s best friend is a massage therapist and introduced me to scraping of the fascia.

So I Started Attacking My Foot

I’ve tried to be smarter about recovery. I’ve been using a racketball to work into the arch. I’ve used ice packs.

Then my neighbor, who used to do iron mans let me borrow his scraper. I used the stainless-steel handheld scraper to work on the tissue for a couple nights but then the massage therapist took over and using that thing had direct contact with Satan, as each scrape on the sack of fascia was like strings pulled by a puppeteer to make my body convulse.

At this point, my foot-recovery routine looks less like athletic rehabilitation and more like I’m trying to strip paint off a 1978 Ford F-150.

But I’m still doing the work. I lifted three times this week and my nutrition was decent, despite some working lunch catered meals meetings. But the weekend hit and my wife’s homemade meatloaf took over…

I even managed back-to-back running days this week in the new kicks. And then my foot reminded me who was in charge, despite the overpriced Hoka’s and the equally overpriced arch inserts.

The second running day this week brought enough pain that I had to pull back.

So the weekend became recovery mode. Rest. Ice. Boating. Watching 13 year old football. Recovery. Meatloaf.

And approximately 47 conversations with myself about whether I should just ignore the pain and run anyway or internal questioning if I’ll even be able to compete in 13 days.

Because that’s what we do, right? We confuse toughness with stupidity.

Tonight, I’m Going to Run

As you read this, after work, tonight, I’m planning to run multiple yards at my son’s football practice. That’s 8+ miles of running. I’ll be smart about it and combo some run/walks to do each 4.167 yard in about 50 minutes each. If the plantar is painful enough, I’ll pivot to walking and more Peloton garage biking this week.

I know there could be pain. And I’m prepared for that. But there’s something important about this distinction: Adversity doesn’t mean pretending the setback doesn’t exist.

It means figuring out how to respond to it. Sometimes resilience means pushing. Sometimes resilience means modifying. Sometimes resilience means sitting your ass down with an ice pack, the racketball, rolling it out, and scraping your foot like your smoothing bondo on the front fender of that ‘78 F150… and despite your toughness and resilience, accepting that your body isn’t negotiating.

The goal isn’t to prove that I can destroy my foot. The goal is to stay in the game.

The Test Isn’t Perfect Conditions

I’ve written this before in my leadership work, and I’m learning it all over again through fitness: The test of a man isn’t how he trains when conditions are perfect.

The test is what he does when they’re not. It’s easy to eat well when the meals are prepared. Costco chipotle chicken for the win for lunch today! It’s easy to train when you’re healthy. It’s easy to run when your foot doesn’t hurt. It’s easy to be disciplined when you’re sleeping eight hours and life isn’t throwing shit at you from every direction over the past month. But what happens when the plan gets punched in the mouth? That’s where character starts showing up.

This past week, I couldn’t run the way I wanted. So I lifted. I recovered. I worked on the foot. I adjusted. Perhaps, most importantly, I didn’t quit.

Maybe Built Under Pressure Was Never About the Scale

This journey started because I wanted to lose weight, 261 in January, down to 238 at the end of August. The scale still matters. I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t. We wage war daily. But Built Under Pressure has become something bigger. Now, it’s about learning how to respond when the plan doesn’t go according to plan. Can’t run, your nutrition better be on point, or else. It’s about discipline when motivation disappears. It’s about making good decisions when nobody is watching. It’s about recognizing that a setback isn’t an excuse to abandon the mission. And it’s about understanding that sometimes holding steady is actually winning.

Monthly Weight Loss:

January: -11.6 LBS, 261.8 to 250.2, erase the fat…

February: -4.0 LBS, 250.2 to 246.2, keep on working…

March: -1.4 lbs… 246.2 to 244.8, challenging month but finished -17 pounds overall…

April: +1.0 pounds, 244.8 to 245.8, -16 pounds overall…

May: -1.6 pounds, 245.8 to 244.2, -17.6 pounds overall…

June: -0.8 pounds, 244.2 to 243.8, -18.4 pounds overall…

July: -2.2 pounds, 243.8 to 241.6, -20.6 pounds overall…

August: -2.8 pounds, -23.4 pounds overall, 238.8!

This week, I didn’t lose the weight I wanted. I didn’t run the mileage I wanted. I spent a weekend frustrated because my damn foot hurt and my savior was meatloaf. But I lifted three times. I ran two days in some pain. I attacked the injury myself and with the help of a masochistic friend. I recovered. And I’m still moving forward. That’s not failure. That’s the work.

The Man in the Mirror

There’s a version of this journey where I get pissed off, decide the plantar fasciitis is bullshit, lace up the shoes and go run until my foot falls off. Maybe in 13 days, that’s exactly what will happen at Prairie on Fire. Maybe, it’ll be an awful performance where the foot taps me out despite trying to run through the pain.

That’s not toughness. That’s being an idiot. The stronger version of me says: “Okay. This sucks. Now what?” That’s the question. Not: Why me? Not: This isn’t fair. Not: I can’t do this anymore. Just: Now what?

Adjust. Recover. Lift. Eat right. Get back to work. Take care of the foot. Try again. And keep stacking days. Because Built Under Pressure isn’t about never getting knocked backward. It’s about refusing to stay there.

And if old man age thinks he’s going to catch me because I have flat feet and a pissed-off plantar fascia? He’s going to have to work a hell of a lot harder than that.

I’m still here. I’m still training. I’m still fighting. I’m still in the game.

And tomorrow morning, I’ll still put my feet on the floor. Even if the right one tells me to f*** off, like the Instagram Video said, “Remember who you are big boy.”

The parking lot is full. The hallways are loud. The remodeled new Main Office is gorgeous! The freshmen are lost, stumbling around, trying to figure out where they are going. Teachers have new bulletin boards, new lesson plans, new shoes, and just enough optimism left to believe every copier in the building might actually work this year.

For a few glorious weeks, we are all in. And then September arrives.

The meetings multiply. The emails pile up. Attendance issues emerge. A parent is upset. A kid is struggling. Someone needs coverage. Someone else needs a hard decision. The new-school-year shine starts to fade.

So here is the question I’ve been wrestling with:

How do we keep the new-school-year energy when the new-school-year feeling is gone?

Because our kids don’t need us to be excited only in August. They need us to be present in September. And October. And February.

And that random Tuesday in March when everyone, including the adults, is running on fumes, counting down the days to Spring Break.

I Don’t Go to Work. I Go to School.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately due to my own stressful month of August. The “catch phrase” that I say is as much a self-empowering, self-fulfilling prophesy, as it is reality. I have been blessed to show up to Seneca High School for the past 23 years. Each morning I wake up and head off to school. I say it to our staff, to our students, to groups I keynote to, even as a reminder myself to appreciate the “Power of a Pause.”

I don’t go to work. I go to school.

There is a difference.

I get to walk into a building every morning with roughly 400 teenagers and 90 adults who give me the opportunity to make the inside of those walls a little more magical.

That is an incredible privilege.

And here’s the uncomfortable truth: Without students, none of us have jobs.

The budget meetings don’t matter without kids.

The strategic plan doesn’t matter without kids.

The beautiful facilities don’t matter without kids.

The curriculum maps don’t matter without kids.

The ribbon cuttings, championship plaque hoisting, leadership awards, test scores or 7-0 Board votes don’t matter without kids.

They are the WHY.

Now, before my readers get all antsy and say, “I do not need another keynote about remembering my why…” maybe you do. I know a lot of educators and leaders who see the calendar turn to September and think to themselves, oh man, another year, here we go, let’s get through this so I’m one step closer to year 35 and the big beautiful TRS retirement. When leadership gets difficult or even mundane, I try to get back to the kids. Find one student to connect with in the morning before school; ask about their golf match last night- Lady Irish golf off to a 8-0 start this morning, WOW! Find one student to connect with a band shirt they are wearing, but, be careful Anne’s Nirvana logo shirt… she didn’t know it was a band… just liked the shirt.

Walk through the commons at 7:45. Say hello. Ask a kid how their weekend was. Stop in the lunchroom. Walk the hallway instead of taking the shortcut through my office.

Learn the name of the kid who doesn’t necessarily want to be noticed. Notice the kid who isn’t there.

And when you see the same kid for the 47th time that week, don’t just walk past them. There are a couple of miserable adults who walk down hallways in buildings without simply acknowledging their peers or the kids, I always interrupt their solemn stare and break the chain of their monotony with locked eye contact, a smile, and a question… they do not like it, but I do not care, we get to go to school. We aren’t fighting crime on the streets and we aren’t on an assembly line making auto parts, this job is a blessing… and these kids, they are little individual baskets of emotion, uniqueness, and somebody’s else’s entire world. Even for a second, See them.

Because every year the faces change. But the problems don’t.

Kids still need someone to believe in them. They need adults who will push them. They need adults who will listen. They need adults who will notice when something is wrong.

And they desperately need adults who will make them feel like their presence matters.

Phil Januszewski Remins Me of My Magic

This is why I am so grateful we brought Phil Januszewski to Seneca High School to kick off this school year. I’ve gotten to know Phil pretty well over the last six months or so. I think if we lived closer to one another, it might be dangerous, for concert venues, for our wives and kids, and for breweries.

Phil isn’t simply a speaker. He’s a chemistry teacher. He’s a energy giver. He’s the kind of guy who somehow makes the people around him glow a little brighter with his electric haircut, arm sleeve tattoos, vibe pumping dance moves, but most importantly his enthusiasm.

His Positive Growth Lounge is built around joy, purpose, connection, personal growth and positive impact and that was exactly the energy he brought into our school on our welcome back institute day.

One of the things I loved most about Phil’s message was the reminder that our job isn’t simply to deliver content. Every one of us has something uniquely ours to give.

Our personality. Our story. Our encouragement. Our humor. Our passion. Our ability to listen.

Our ability to make a kid believe they can do something they didn’t think they could do. Phil challenges me as a leader to share my magic with everyone. What gifts do I bring to my role that I can pour into others?

That’s our magic.

And the challenge is to get that magic through us and into the lives of our students. But here’s the problem with inspirational keynotes:

What happens on Day 2?

A 60-minute keynote can make everyone feel fantastic. We can laugh. We can clap. We can leave energized. We can post the pictures. We can say, “That was exactly what I needed.”

And then Monday morning comes. The angry parent email comes. The student discipline issue brings the teacher to his wit’s end and the dean of student referral comes. The kid won’t turn in the assignment. The parent calls. The faculty meeting runs long. The online bloodborne pathogen training has somehow become longer and even more eye-gouging boring. Suddenly, Phil’s message is sitting on a shelf somewhere in our brain next to last year’s professional development binder.

That’s the leadership challenge. How do we turn a moment of inspiration into culture?

The Meantimes Are Where Culture Is Built

I have spent a lot of my career chasing mountaintops and written about those mountaintop moments recently Celebrate the Meantimes.

The ribbon cutting. The championship game. The big project. The perfect Board vote. The new building addition. The headline. The award-winning accomplishment.

But I’ve learned that the magic isn’t usually up there. It’s in the meantimes.

It’s the cup of coffee with a teacher before school.

It’s sitting beside a kid who needs five minutes of your time.

It’s joking around with a student during tee drills when I was coaching.

It’s getting to know the difficult Board member instead of simply trying to win the argument.

It’s walking through the cafeteria.

It’s catching a kid doing something right.

It’s asking, “How are you really doing?”

Those moments rarely make the newsletter.

Nobody takes a picture.

Nobody gives you a plaque.

But those are the moments that build culture.

My own writing about The Seneca Way has evolved around this exact idea: we don’t get to choose which moments students eventually remember, but we do get to influence students, parents and our community every single day.

That’s culture.

Not a slogan.

Not a strategic plan sitting in a three-ring binder.

Culture is what happens when nobody is watching and it is the environment on the random Wednesday in October; that’s why I love The Seneca Way.

What Does The Seneca Way Actually Look Like?

For us, here at Seneca High School, The Seneca Way (our district mission) isn’t complicated.

It’s progressiveness. It’s being goal-focused. It’s taking chances. It’s building relationships. It’s rigor, relevance and relationships.

And most importantly, it means asking one simple question:

Is this good for our kids? If the answer is yes, let’s go. It’s my job to make it happen.

It isn’t just words on a wall or something in a binder on the Superintendent's Office collecting dust. How do I know that? How can I measure that? It’s found in exit interviews that I have with graduating seniors. From the award-winning graduating college senior, to the transition student entering a much larger world of finding a job, the mission resonates with the kids, form their lips.

I’ve watched that philosophy come alive through our Superintendent Student Advisory Committee. This group of students once told me:

“I wish we could hear about the art and music kids as much as we hear about the football team.”

So we listened. Those students helped create Irish Fest, an incredible celebration of fine arts, vocational arts, robotics, graphic design, broadcasting, welding, CNC production, music and countless other student talents.

That wasn’t an administrator’s idea. It came from kids. And that matters.

Because student voice isn’t asking kids what they think and then doing whatever we were already planning to do.

Student voice means giving students enough ownership to actually change something.

That is The Seneca Way.

So How Do We Quantify Building Culture?

This might be one of the hardest questions for a Superintendent. We can measure test scores. Graduation rates. Attendance. Discipline referrals. Enrollment. IEP growth, Low-Income percentages. College credits. Athletic championships. Building Budgets.

But how do you measure a kid walking into school who didn’t want to be there, and suddenly realizing somebody knows his name? How do you quantify the teacher who spends two extra minutes with a student? How do you measure a student finding their voice? How do you measure belonging? How do you measure the kid who graduates and, ten years later, tells you:

“You probably don’t remember this, but you changed my life.”

You don’t. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t happening.

Jessica Cabeen’s Challenge: Make Them Glad They Came

I was reminded of this recently through the work of principal and author and her focus on relational moves during the first 20 days of school (Attendance with Care).

Her ideas are beautifully simple: Take attendance with care.

Don’t just mark a kid absent. Notice them. When they return, don’t begin with “Where were you?” Instead, try: “Hey, I’m glad you’re back. We missed you.”

Same accountability. Different invitation. She also highlights the 2x10 strategy: two minutes a day for ten days simply getting to know one student beyond behavior, attendance and grades. When I was a teacher, this was my jam. I loved identifying with our rural “mother truckers” talking about the gear kit they put in their wrangler, the difference between a 3 inch or 4 inch body lift, the 38 inch mud dobbers they were throwing on their F250. I was a salesman, I got them to love my social science classes through rural midwest mother trucker commonalities and I did it with bell ringers while taking attendance. Twenty minutes. That’s it. Twenty minutes can change a relationship.

She also challenges educators to make the first family contact a positive one and to create predictable welcomes that communicate: You are expected here. You are known here. Your presence matters. Now, at Seneca, as part of The Seneca Way and our RISE (another “Senecaized” positive behavior intervention program) program we have three simple expectations: Be Here. Be Kind. Be Accountable.

Those aren’t just teacher strategies. Those are leadership strategies. They are cultural expectations that should not exist in silos in individual classrooms, the expectation should be district wide and you start from you: the leader. I’ve taken this mantra from a fatherhood place and pushed it onto our district.

Because if I lead this district as though every decision impacts my own children, this place should feel like Disney World. And if I teach as though my own kid is sitting in the front row? That classroom should be absolute fire.

I’ve written before about the same idea: teach as though your son or daughter is sitting in the front row. I’ve seen other speakers adopt it and share it out to the world like Jonathan Alsheimer, but when I had my own kids 18 and 14 years ago, I was doing it in Room 103 every single day, because that little boy or girl in the front row, he’s someone’s everything. Why can’t I try just a little bit harder to make sure he knows I care? Why would we give our own kids our very best, but settle for anything less for somebody else’s?

The Kids Are Still Here

So as the back-to-school adrenaline starts wearing off, here’s my challenge to all of our Stressed Leaders struggling today. Ironically enough, my Director of Student Services was venting to me about a paraprofessional workplace drama… feelings… While Phil’s message was on-point, on-brand, and in-your-face, the luster can wear off for some.

Don’t chase the feeling. Chase the purpose.

When the emails get ridiculous, find a kid. When the meeting drains you, find a kid. When the politics frustrate you, find a kid. When you’re questioning whether what you do matters, find a kid. That’s exactly what I did this morning, I found a bunch of freshman kids and sat with them at their table, asked about the first two weeks of high school. Asked about their volleyball game, the Tik Tok they were just making that I photobombed and no doubt ruined.

Walk the halls. Stand in the commons. Eat lunch with students. Ask questions. Listen. Laugh. Push. Encourage. Be present.

Because the greatest danger for leaders isn’t that we stop caring. It’s that we become so busy running the school that we stop experiencing the school. And I’ve done that. For years, I was addicted to hustle. I wanted to be everything to everyone. I chased the mountaintops. Meanwhile, I was blowing past the meantimes.

The coffee. The hallway conversation. The kid who needed five minutes. The teacher who needed someone to listen. The student who simply wanted an adult to notice them.

And when the day gets hard, remind yourself: You don’t go to work. You go to school.

And every morning, you get another opportunity to make the inside of those walls a little more magical. That’s The Seneca Way. That’s leadership. That’s our WHY. And that’s how we keep the back-to-school energy alive long after August is gone.

Leaders Stay in the Game and do it with whatever mascot loving, back-to-school energy you’ve got.

With, Irish Pride. ☘️

** This one goes out to all those currently driving the Struggle Bus, riding on the Struggle Bus, or run over recently by the Struggle Bus… it’s for the peeps who are down, who are questioning, who might be doubting. It’s the after effect of someone else’s choice. It’s vulnerable, it’s hard, it’s messy. You might read it and become angry with me, that’s OK. This writing was as much for me as it was for someone else out there who needed it. If you need a spark, keep on keepin’ on, no matter the hard, no matter the current struggle, we choose our hard. Choose your hard my friends. Thank you for reading.

The Forcefield

When the police showed up at my house, I wasn’t home.

Instead, they told my wife the tragic news.

For a few terrifying minutes, before she knew what had happened, her mind went to the only deep dark places a mother’s mind goes when two solemn teary eyed veteran police officers stare at the ground to deliver unexpected news.

Something happened to Cam at Alabama during Rush… Something happened to Dan and Costner on their drive to the football game…

That is what crisis does.

It doesn’t knock politely.

It detonates into your life and immediately starts rearranging everything you thought you understood, regardless of your feeble attempts to protect the ones you love.

I’m angry that I couldn’t be there when the police showed up and forced my wife into that panic state. I’m full of rage thinking about my mother’s choice that inserted its demons into my wife’s head in those fleeting moments.

And when you are a husband, a father, and a leader, your first instinct is always to protect.

I have always thought of myself that way. Maybe a little too much. I’m the guy who wants to build the forcefield.

Around my wife.

Around my kids.

Around my friendships.

Around my employees.

Around my school district.

Around the projects I’ve poured myself into.

Around the people who trust me to lead them.

If I could somehow stand at the front door of every person I love and tell the world, “You’re going to have to get through me first,” while I defended their attack upon my loved ones, I would.

A good friend once called me their families Optimus Prime. At first, it didn’t mean much. I didn’t watch Transformers or know the reference; as I’ve noted prior I was a GI Joe guy. In my leadership keynote I talk exactly about this Optimus Prime Energy (What kind of transformer are you?) of becoming the transformer.

But as career challenges interrupted my flow state...

As projects became bogged down in someone else’s misguided emotion and my need to protect the project’s dignity, to fight the naysayers with everything I’ve got…

Most recently, my Mother’s choice to end her life attacked the perimeters of what I choose to protect, who I hold most sacred to defend. The rage boiling inside my head, I find myself sitting in my office, on an early Saturday morning, less than a week later, freshly drenched in sweat after a long run (still getting this nagging foot injury back to health from the 12 hour overnight effort a couple weeks back)… I’m looking up at this figurine on my office bookshelf, questioning my mission as a leader…

Call it Optimus Prime Syndrome.

When the shit hits the fan, I don’t want to run from the explosion.

I want to transform, plant my feet, and protect my people and that’s what happened Sunday afternoon to our family. It’s what has happened to a immense work project recently with outside minority voice.

When my wife recapped the police interaction at my front door, I was angry that my fractured relationship with my mother had slithered its way inside the protective forces of my four walls. Those four walls that I had fought so hard to erect. While our relationship had its peaks and valleys, she was still my Mother. Her act, while I cannot understand it and over a week later, still cannot reason with her choice… it was her act, her decision, her choice to end her life and here we are dealing with the aftermath.

But there is a problem with trying to build a forcefield around everyone and everything you love: You can’t.

Despite my darndest energy…

You can’t protect your children from every disappointment.

You can’t protect your wife from every hurt.

You can’t protect your employees from every difficult day.

You can’t protect your organization from every criticism.

And you certainly can’t protect yourself from the decisions other adults make.

That last one has been a difficult lesson for me.

The last few weeks have brought rage, grief, confusion, disappointment, and revelations about relationships that were already fragmented, awkward, toxic at times, and painfully complicated.

There have been moments when I’ve wanted to stay in the valley of anger.

I have every reason to be angry.

But I am beginning to understand something important: Anger can be fuel, but it is a terrible place to build a home. It can fuel a weight-lifting session, a hard look in the mirror when faced with a tough decision, but it isn’t a place to dwell.

I don’t want to live there.

I don’t want my children growing up in a house where someone else’s decisions dictate the emotional climate. Too often, I’ve let the stress of work seep inside the forcefield of our family’s four walls. As a hard-charging leader, it’s not fair to my wife or kids, but I also possess the humility to admit, it is reality at times. Sometimes, too often. Today, on a call with a group of fellow hard-charging men, challenged me, “You are already intense, yet that intensity is watered down in the next (why do you not apply that same intensity to your family that you do to your career?).”

And there it is… like Jeff Goldblum in Jurassic Park, I’m guilty, “Well, yes, there it is. Life finds a way.” In the same vein where I’m uber focused, chasing the next goal, I’m side-tracked and then blind-sided by life, and in this case, death. While the start of a stress-inducing school year weighs on me, the weight of a massive project is pushing on me, my family is rocked with one kid out the door and now, the impact, of Mom’s choice. How do I respond? How does the hero of the movie react? How does Dan, the real leader, show up and show out?

I don’t want my marriage carrying the weight of someone else’s choices.

I don’t want my leadership poisoned by resentment.

I don’t want my work, my relationships, my writing, my passions, or my faith slowly infected by something I didn’t do or I didn’t create.

That doesn’t mean I pretend it didn’t happen.

It means I refuse to allow it to become the author of what happens next.

Choosing bliss.

A couple morning’s ago while I was slowly working back from this foot injury, I was thinking a lot about Ed Mylett’s concept of blissful dissatisfaction.

If you haven’t listened to Ed Mylett’s podcast, as a leader, just start. I’m blessed that my good friend recommended him to me a while ago and Dan knows that I used to say I was too busy to listen to podcasts, “Dan, I’m a music guy, not audio books and certainly not podcasts.” Boy, was I ever wrong. Somewhere at some time, the Dan & Dan Podcast for Leaders needs to become a reality, but the plate is already quite full.

The idea isn’t that you ignore pain or pretend everything is wonderful at this time of chaos. It’s that you learn to deeply appreciate the life you have while continuing to pursue the life you’re capable of creating.

That distinction matters to me right now. Because I am incredibly blessed.

I have a wife I love. I have kids who still want me around. I have friends who have climbed down into the valley with me instead of standing at the top shouting advice, especially as I struggle to relate my own anger and resentment.

I have an incredible school community. I have people who trust me to lead.

I have books to write. I have races to run.

I have projects that excite me. I have a home filled with noise, laughter, chaos, dirty dishes, always too much laundry to do, hectic schedules, sports, work, and all of the ordinary nonsense that I once thought was just life happening around me. Even though the daughter is down living her best life at Bama and the house aura is different, it’s still filled with all of these things, just in a slightly different energy.

Maybe that’s the point. That’s life.

• The bonfire after a night of boating. The dinner table at 8:30 after football practice.

• The long car ride after a game where you learn more about your son than watching him catch passes or making tackles. The Saturday afternoon boat ride where you know fall is sneaking in to steal the joys of River Dan.

• The stupid Dad joke that doesn’t land. The kid walking through the kitchen after his 45 minute shower and all you can think about is the water bill.

• The first time he rides the jet ski solo, telling you its the best feeling ever, but whacks it off the dock while trying to back her in… how do you respond in that moment? What if your reaction is all he remembers about this epic day?

• The teacher who stops by your office and wants to tell you something but lacks the courage to say it. You know they have something bigger to word vomit instead of making small talk.

• The colleague who needs five minutes, but really needs an hour. That tension in the air you know exists, but you’re both too polite and professional to attack it.

• The student who needs someone to believe in them, but won’t ever ask for it.

• The sunrise lift you want to hit snooze on.

• The training run when your foot tells you to walk instead.

• The quiet cup of coffee before the office wakes up.

• The ridiculous family memories that seem completely insignificant today but will someday be the photographs we wish we could step back into.

Those are the meantimes.

And I’ve spent enough of my life chasing the mountaintops to understand that the meantimes are where the real life is.

Maybe bliss isn’t some giant emotional high.

Maybe bliss is recognizing that this is enough to be grateful for today.

And then getting back to work.

The protector’s attempt to control the battlefield.

That’s probably the biggest leadership lesson I’ve taken from all of this week’s chaos and turmoil.

I have spent a significant portion of my life believing that if I worked hard enough, planned well enough, communicated clearly enough, loved people enough, and stayed vigilant enough, I could prevent bad things from happening to myself, to my family, and to my career. If I can just push a little harder in everything I do, now even chronicling it all in spreadsheet tabs, formulas, and data-driven decision-making, everything will be just perfect, and nothing will penetrate that protective outer layer of my life.

Until it doesn’t work…

I’ve busted my ass to make sure I can put that forcefield around those people and those institutions. I’ve controlled the narrative, I’ve fought back the doubters, and I’ve built enough silent energy and forces internally to defend against anyone else’s toxic attack.

Until it all breaks…

Why?

Because, it’s bullshit.

Leadership doesn’t give you that power. Parenting doesn’t give you that power. Marriage doesn’t give you that power. Life certainly doesn’t.

What leadership gives you is something different: The ability to control your response to life when it breaks.

I cannot control what other people choose. I can control how I show up; in the moment, broken, enraged, and after.

I can choose patience. I can choose boundaries. I can choose truth. I can choose to protect my family without suffocating them. I can choose to protect my employees without carrying every problem home. I can choose to lead my school district with the same conviction I’ve always had. I can choose to keep building things. I can choose to keep writing. I can choose to keep training. I can choose to laugh. I can choose to be present.

And I can choose to fill other people’s lives with joy.

That last one matters. Because maybe my responsibility isn’t to erect an impenetrable forcefield around everyone. Maybe my responsibility is to be a source of light inside the forcefield when the storms come.

To be the dad who sits at the table, without checking the Cubs box score, wondering why does he keep pitching Thierlbar? Why won’t he run with my boy, Jumbo Assad? To be the husband who listens or in recent case, who actually opens up. To be the superintendent who steadies the room. To be the friend who answers the phone, no matter how “busy” I am. To be the coach who says, keep going. To be the leader who walks into difficult circumstances and doesn’t make them worse.

The guy who can look at a really shitty situation and still say: There is good here. Find it. That’s leadership.

That’s Optimus Prime Energy!

And maybe that’s what resilience actually looks like.

Not becoming harder. Not becoming colder. Not pretending the valley doesn’t hurt. Not admitting there’s some pain.

But refusing to let the valley convince you that there isn’t another mountain ahead and that you are the badass who will scale it no matter the circumstances, even other people’s environments.

Inheriting someone else’s darkness.

There are things I may never understand, not right now, maybe not ever.

There are questions I may never get answered. I guess that’s part of life, and death.

There’s thoughts I still am not processing properly because the rage overtakes my emotion.

There are wounds that may take longer to heal than I will allow them to; maybe that’s OK too.

There are moments when anger will come roaring back. I’m human.

But I don’t have to live there.

I can acknowledge the rage without becoming rage.

I can acknowledge the grief without becoming grief.

I can acknowledge the betrayal without becoming bitter.

And I can acknowledge what happened without allowing it to define what happens next.

Because my children are watching.

My wife is watching.

My employees are watching.

My students are watching.

And more importantly, I am watching the man I am becoming.

I want that man to be strong. I want him to be the hero I know he can become. But I don’t want him to be hardened.

I want him to be protective. But not controlling.

I want him to be relentless. But still joyful.

I want him to be ambitious. But still grateful.

I want him to be capable of walking into adversity and saying:

“Okay. This is hard. Now what are we going to do?”

That’s the man I want my kids to remember.

That’s the leader I want my employees to experience.

That’s the husband I want my wife to have.

That’s the father I want to become.

So I’m doubling down.

On my family.

On my faith.

On my marriage.

On my health.

On my work.

On my students.

On my people.

On the things I’m building.

On the dreams that still make me excited to wake up at 5 a.m.

I’m choosing bliss, not because everything is good, but because so much of my life is good.

And I refuse to allow one person’s decisions to blind me to that truth.

The forcefield isn’t about keeping every bad thing out.

It is about protecting what matters most inside.

And inside my forcefield is a family I love, a life I am grateful for, people I am honored to serve, and a future I am still damn excited to build.

The valley is real.

So is the mountain.

And I’m still climbing. For the guy who pleads and demands for leaders to Stay in the Game, I’m being tested. You’re damn right; I’m Staying in the Game.

This post was difficult to write. It happened on Sunday afternoon. I wrote this on Monday morning. I was blessed that in college, working three jobs and being a student, I could churn out a 10-page research paper in a couple of hours easily. I rewrote it all on Tuesday, deleted it all, again, then rewrote on Thursday, before closing my laptop and not looking at it again until Saturday morning. I thought about clicking submit for my readers on Sunday morning, but decided against it. I revisited again the next Monday afternoon after work, but decided against it as well. A religious man advised me to seek Proverbs in my back and forth… so I did… Proverbs 29:11 states, "A fool gives full vent to his spirit, but a wise man quietly holds it back."

Tuesday, during lunch, I sat on a call with some epic men, and my thoughts shifted from anger to bliss. At first, I rationalized, this piece of writing is just for me; maybe it’s my way to let off some steam and rage write. Then I challenged that thought with, “What if someone else out there is in a struggle state and this might help them on some level?” Despite my embarrassment, anger, shame, or guilt, maybe it’ll be something someone needs to hear or read.

As I circled back and forth on my own twists and turns, I realized that if I was coaching someone else, I would lead them to seek their own definition of truth and why this piece of writing mattered to them. Was it for me? Or, is it for an audience? I’m not entirely sure the answer to that question, but as someone who is always trying to serve, I soon came to glean that many people I have served have been in darker places than I and I have always tried to sit with them and then help guide them out of the dark. If I can provide some light to someone else, that is what I will do.

That is Optimus Prime Energy. Most people are unwilling to let their emotions be visible, especially on a platform like this. For a guy who struggles to show emotion outwardly, this blog has become a good force for me to grow in many facets of life. Nobody knows the layers to the story and that’s OK. Maybe Mom was trying to reignite my passion to serve others and remind me of what really matters. If it helps one person, that’s enough.

Drama. Professional disagreements. Unexpected and unsettling family news. Back-to-school excitement and stress. A nagging foot injury (my former players might say, “Coach, there’s a difference between being injured and hurting…”), ok pain, that keeps reminding me that I’m much closer to 46 than I am to 26.

Real life. The kind of week that forces you to make a choice:

Are you going to react like a sheep, or respond like a lion?

I’m not talking about fake social media “alpha male” instagramable nonsense.

I’m talking about resilience. Composure. Discipline. Showing up when it would be easier not to. Because this week, after spending most of the summer bouncing between 245 and 250 pounds, I finally hit my back-to-school goal. It wasn’t by accident, my nutrition was better, my approach to looking more at food as a fuel, not a passion, seemed to help.

239.8 pounds. The Back-to-School goal, achieved.

I started the 2026 year north of 260. When you used to weigh 365 pounds, and hit a low mark of 244, getting to 239 was not just being 5 pounds less than I once was, it is a symbol, a checkmark to cross off on this journey, to keep going.

Because, if I’m being honest, the last few months haven’t exactly been a master class in nutritional excellence.

I’ve had some great weeks. I’ve had some average weeks. I’ve had some “How did I eat that entire bag of chips?” weeks.

But this week, I locked in. And that number on the scale wasn’t really the victory.

The victory was remembering who I am and who I’m trying to become.

Back to School Edition (32 weeks) Built Under Pressure Check-In:

Monthly Weight Loss:

January: -11.6 LBS, 261.8 to 250.2, erase the fat…

February: -4.0 LBS, 250.2 to 246.2, keep on working…

March: -1.4 lbs… 246.2 to 244.8, challenging month but finished -17 pounds overall…

April: +1.0 pounds, 244.8 to 245.8, -16 pounds overall…

May: -1.6 pounds, 245.8 to 244.2, -17.6 pounds overall…

June: -0.8 pounds, 244.2 to 243.8, -18.4 pounds overall…

July: -2.2 pounds, 243.8 to 241.6, -20.6 pounds overall… DANGEROUSLY CLOSE TO THE 239’s!

August 16: -1.8 pounds, -22.4 pounds overall, 239.8!

Ed Mylett talks about the power of “One More.”

One more rep. One more mile. One more healthy choice. One more difficult conversation handled professionally. One more opportunity to do the right thing.

The difference between 260 and 239.9 wasn’t one heroic moment. It was thousands of small decisions, most good, some poor.

What parts of your life could you do, “Just one more rep?” With your job, your spouse, your kids, your side hustle, your workouts… One more. One more. One more.

Training for the Prairie on Fire challenge has become one giant mental exercise.

My goal is simple. Run or ruck every hour, on the hour, for 12 consecutive hours. Fifty miles. For a non-endurance person, that seems daunting. For the endurance runner, it’s not that special. Some guys will go 48 hours doing this.

But for this 239.9 pound guy, it’s a simple goal- 12 hours, refusing to quit. Refusing to tap out. And, full vulnerability, here on August 16th, I’m not sure I can get to that number.

Seven in the morning until seven at night.

The problem?

My foot apparently didn’t get the memo. It’s been barking at me for over a week now since my last 12 hour overnight effort.

Every run becomes a negotiation. Every ruck becomes a mental battle.

Every morning, my foot presents a very compelling argument for staying in bed.

But here’s the thing.

Lions don’t negotiate with excuses.

The past me would just rest, and while resting binge watch a series while eating a bag of cool ranch doritos.

But lions…

One of the things I’m struggling with - the hard truth, that there have been times in life where I have been a sheep and if I want to be a lion, I need to kill that sheep.

Lions… they adjust. They adapt. They keep moving forward.

This week, I started stacking my 5 AM habits again.

Lifting.

Writing.

Training.

Working on books.

Connecting with employees without distractions.

Showing up with intentionality instead of simply reacting to whatever chaos walked through my office door.

And that’s where Pastor Petie Kinder’s recent message at Peak City Church hit me right between the eyes. It was a message I needed reminded of again.

The meantimes matter more than the mountaintops.

I had written my back-to-school staff welcome speech but when I heard that podcast, I had to back up and remind myself that the best part of my job is the daily relationships created with kids and adults in our high school. We spend so much of our lives chasing the big moments.

The finish line.

The promotion.

The conference.

The vacation.

The race.

The number on the scale.

I’m guilty of all of this.

But the magic?

The magic lives in the meantime.

At 5 AM.

During rehab.

During difficult family conversations.

During back-to-school preparation.

During those moments when nobody is watching and nobody is applauding.

Because that’s where leaders are built.

So, here’s my Monday morning challenge for you.

What’s your “one more?”

One more workout?

One more chapter?

One more act of kindness?

One more opportunity to reconnect with your spouse?

One more chance to lead your team with patience?

Because life isn’t built on the mountaintops.

It’s built in the meantimes.

And if this week taught me anything, it’s this:

The lions aren’t the loudest people in the room.

They’re the ones who quietly keep showing up.

Even when they’re tired.

Even when they’re hurting.

Even when life gets messy.

Especially then.

Now go win your week.

And if you fall down?

Get up.

You’ve still got one more in you.

DFQ. Stay in the game.

I know two families from the always crazy youth sports world.

One treated every weekend like a social media marketing campaign.

Tournament rings, hashtagging every buzz word fresh on the mountaintop. Recruiting graphics. Perfectly edited highlight videos. Tagging college coaches on every post, with stupid remarks like #thegrindneverstops … except when we are spending 1/2 the day posting about our grind on social media, right?

Every accomplishment was posted, shared, celebrated, compared, and shown off for the world of other Facebook & Instagram travel Moms.

While Mom 1 and her kid were lapping up the social media viralness, the other family posted almost nothing.

Instead, they invested in the meantimes. The extra swings with Dad after practice. The long drives home after tough losses where the cup of ice cream didn’t make the strikeouts feel too much better. The conversations about attitude, effort, and accountability… about body language after a failure.

The family dinners squeezed in between tournaments. The ordinary Tuesday nights nobody else ever saw. Ten years later, one kid had a social media scrapbook with a bunch of has-been washed-up shoulda-seen-me fairytales.

The other became a resilient, humble, hard-working young adult.

The difference wasn’t talent. It was where the parents chose to spend their energy.

As parents, we’re conditioned to chase the mountaintops and then celebrate the crap out of that feat. The championships. The all-state teams. The scholarships. The viral moments. But the real work of parenting doesn’t happen on the mountaintop; it happens in the meantimes.

The meantimes are where character is built.

They’re where your child learns how to respond to failure.

They’re where his grit is developed.

They’re where her confidence is earned instead of borrowed.

And they’re where you have the opportunity to become your child’s biggest fan, not because they’re succeeding, but because they’re struggling. Especially because they’re struggling.

Before you quit on a season, a team, a coach, your kid, or even yourself, remember three things:

1. When in doubt, zoom out.

Don’t judge your child’s journey by one at bat, one cold shooting game, one season, or one disappointing weekend. Life is measured in seasons, not moments.

2. The blessing usually comes from staying.

Growth rarely happens during the once-in-a-lifetime championship mountaintop moment. It happens during the thousands of ordinary moments that nobody applauds.

Stay planted. Stay faithful.

3. Your child needs your presence more than your pressure.

The trophies will eventually collect dust. I have a garage full of travel softball trophies, we are talking hundreds. Guess how many times my daughter goes out to the garage to marvel at them…? The uniforms will be packed away, most sold at a town-wide garage sale. The social media posts disappeared into the endless scroll.

But your encouragement?

Your belief?

Your willingness to keep showing up?

Your child will carry those things forever. The mountaintops are fun. You shoud absolutely celebrate them.

Take the pictures. Enjoy the victories. But never forget where the real magic happens.

Be your child’s biggest fan in the struggle. Cheer the growth nobody else sees. Celebrate the grind. Because someday you’ll realize that the meantimes weren’t just preparing your child for life.

They were the best part of the journey all along.

...that I realized something.

It’s MY time.

Not someday. Not when my schedule slows down. Not when the board approves the next project. Not after my next keynote. Not after I lose the desired 15ish pounds to get to 229.9, but when…

Now.

Ironically, it took a 23-hour road trip packed into an SUV with my wife, my eighteen-year-old daughter, my thirteen-year-old son, and enough Buc-ee’s beef jerky wrappers to qualify as hazardous waste (I was trying ) for me to finally understand something Arthur Brooks writes so beautifully in his book, From Strength to Strength.

“Life is finite. Time is finite. The question is not whether you have enough time, but whether you are spending it on what matters most.”

That quote hit me harder than my son’s farts did about six hours into Kentucky…

Which brings me to Asheville, North Carolina.

Asheville Is...Different

I loved Asheville. No, I really did. It was the site of a board of director leadership retreat that I really enjoyed. But for a conservative kid from rural Illinois...

...it felt like someone dumped me into a Pinterest board curated by Willie Nelson and something Denver puked out. I’ve never seen so many CBD signs in my life. CBD coffee. CBD dog treats. CBD soap. CBD beer. CBD candles. I’m fairly certain someone offered CBD-infused kale instead of a Caesar salad at dinner. Every restaurant proudly announced everything was farm-to-table. Fantastic. We had an amazing burger at a great spot for lunch downtown.

Except when you’re traveling with a thirteen-year-old boy whose food pyramid consists primarily of steak, burgers, chicken, and whatever protein Costco happened to rotate into the freezer aisle that week.

The waitress proudly explained at one restaurant where I asked about the special:

“Our locally sourced root vegetable reduction is paired with heritage mushrooms and fermented in organic goat milk...”

My all-too-much-like-his father 13 year-old-son interrupted.

“Do you guys have... steak, like ribeye’s?” I’ve never been prouder.

Asheville was different, and though we rafted through the French Broad River, yes, we mounted and tamed the French Broad…

… the city was just a bit… different… for my kids; my wife and I made the executive decisions to pit-stop in Cincinnati, a city we had never visited and boy, it did not disappoint!

From a Reds game, to a thriving downtown, and clean, district where the Reds and Bengals stadiums sit in between an epic ballpark village area of restaurants, shops, and bars, to a river-front area that was HGTV designed by true land planners with a clue (Hello Illinois…).

A great evening of fun, followed by a wonderful breakfast and of course, had to take the ladies to an outlet mall, before trekking back to Illinois… Cincy was amazing and we’ll be back some day in the future!

The point is, we took a chance on something new, twice…

1. Asheville, not a bust, but not our cup of tea.

2. Cincinnati, never been, but will be back.

3. Time is running out, take the leap of faith and choose to explore.

Through Me...Not To Me

Sunday morning, once home, I completed what I affectionately call my own version of a triathlon.

A ruck to work - 1.75 miles. A yard (a little over 4.16 miles) to prep in my running program for Prairie on Fire race upcoming in 6 weeks. A Leg Lift followed all of that mess.

No medals. No television coverage. No dramatic music. Just sweat, music, ...and one of my favorite podcasts.

Pete Kinder from Peak City Church said something that completely shifted my thinking. God doesn’t simply work to us. He works through us.

Man... How often do I make everything about me? Why is this happening to me? Why is leadership so hard sometimes? Why am I dealing with this criticism? Why can’t people just...

...stop being assholes?

Instead...

What if every difficult season wasn’t happening to me...

...but was happening through me?

Maybe the frustration at work sharpens my empathy? Instead of digging my heels in with that all-too-toxic employee who hates life and seeks to infect his misfortunate on everyone else, at the expense of leadership decision-making, what if I embraced the reality that he is simply in a bad spot in his life and could use a smile and encouragement instead of my resting dick face?

Maybe the setback builds resilience. I’ve spent too much time the past few years getting stronger, faster, leaner, but with one fit in the obsessed workout camp, while the other rests comfortably in a not-too-focused diet plan. It’s just one chocolate chip cookie… of course I want the extra dinner roll with the steak… Just a few Sun Cruisers on the river today… I workout more than most people I know, but my weight sits comfortably in the low to mid 240’s and if I’m being entirely transparent and honest with my readers, I will mentally play the victim when I step on the scale. “Why isn’t it moving?” I’ll pout for a few minutes and then just push replay on my normal day of putting bad shit in front of me and consuming it. It wasn’t until this week when my coach called me out and challenged me, “Every time you think about eating a donut or a chocolate chip cookie, ask yourself if the crowd of people watching you speak would feel motivated watching you eat a donut.”

Boy, truer words were never spoken… It isn’t about trying to look like some Abercrombie model, I’m 45, but it is about feeling confident in my skin on stage. The story is told the same, but there’s no denying there is more confidence at 229 or 239 than 245.

Maybe the criticism keeps my ego in check.

Maybe the platform isn’t mine at all.

Maybe it’s simply borrowed.

In his epic book, Arthur Brooks writes:

“Success addiction convinces us that our value comes from achievement instead of contribution.”

That sentence stopped me cold.

I’ve spent years chasing accomplishments. I still face the chase…

Writing more books. Getting offered to do more Keynotes. Planning and Executing School projects. Planning and Advertising more Summits. Chasing Weight loss.

… The next thing.

The next mountain. The next finish line. Meanwhile...

Something keeps whispering... “Dan...just be faithful with today.”

Twenty-Three Hours

Twenty-three hours in a vehicle sounds miserable to most, right?

Well, parts of it were. I told you about Indiana, Kentucky, and Tennessee…

Then came North Carolina. Construction. Traffic. An Accident. GPS rerouting.

Suddenly we’re winding through 2-lane mountain back roads where every cabin and trailer looked like the opening scene of Deliverance.

At one point I was pretty confident our GPS simply shrugged and said, “Good luck.”

Meanwhile...

My son was laughing. Then farting. Then belching. Then laughing because he farted and grossed his sister out. My daughter talked in her sleep in the passenger seat. My wife reminded me every eleven minutes that perhaps I should slow down just a little and that rumble strips exist for a reason.

Normal family chaos. The kind you don’t appreciate until you realize someday...

...those seats will soon be empty.

Mr. Brooks reminds readers:

“Happiness is not found by adding more to life. It comes from subtracting what distracts you from what matters.”

That one kinda hurts. Because distraction has become socially acceptable.

Phones. Emails. Notifications. Another meeting. Another project. Another excuse.

I’ve always said I’m doing all of this for my family.

This trip reminded me... I also need to do more with my family.

It’s Always Been My Time

Here’s the funny part. Sunday morning, back from vacation,…

I realized that I like the chase, always have, however, 23 hours in a car… river tubing… walking around an odd town and discovering an exciting new one on the way home…

Something kept saying to me, “It’s my time.” Sunday morning workout before yet another going away party for my daughter, it is my time. Time to be fully committed to all the things I chase instead of being halfway in…

It is my time… But that’s not actually true. It’s always been my time. I’ve simply been too distracted to notice. Too busy chasing tomorrow to embrace today. Too focused on outcomes instead of opportunities. Too committed to building a career that I occasionally forgot I was simultaneously building a family.

Family. Faith. Fitness. Leadership.

Not in that order by accident.

In that order on purpose.

No more living with one foot committed and the other hesitating.

No more waiting until life slows down.

Life doesn’t slow down.

It speeds up.

Kids grow up.

Parents age.

Friends move away.

The calendar doesn’t ask permission.

So this Monday morning...

I’m choosing intentionality.

To train hard because I want to hike mountains with my grandchildren someday.

To eat better because discipline is contagious and easy for me to be halfway in, halfway committed to my nutrition.

To pray first instead of panic or complain first.

To put my phone away when I’m with the people I claim matter most.

To lead my school with conviction.

To be there, even for the employee who’s effort bothers me and who’s attitude frustrates the heck out of me.

To love my wife without distraction.

To laugh at my son’s terrible gas because someday...

I’d give anything to hear it again.

(Actually...maybe not anything. Let’s not get carried away.)

Monday Morning Challenge

Ask yourself one question today:

If someone followed me around for the next five days, would they conclude that my calendar reflects what I say matters most?

Because leadership isn’t measured by what we claim to value.

It’s measured by where we spend our time.

It’s measured by how we react when things go south.

Your time.

My time.

God’s time.

It’s all a gift.

I’m doubling down on Family, Faith, Fitness, and Leadership this week.

I’m 7 months into 2026 with a weight loss journey that has me over 20 pounds lost, but still chasing 239.9. The good news, I came back from a conference/vacation down 0.4 pounds overall thanks to some committed action and intention.

It’s YOUR time. Let’s stop treating it like we’ll always have more of it.

Stay in the Game.

Somewhere this morning a school leader is already staring at a calendar that somehow became full before 7:30 a.m. Someone is wondering if they’re making enough progress in the gym. Someone else is trying to become a better husband, father, wife, mother, friend, or leader while quietly wondering if they’re falling behind in all of them.

Welcome to the second half of the year. This is where momentum either compounds…or quietly disappears.

This weekend, after one of the many going away parties for my 18-year old daughter who is set to go off to ‘Bama, I took my lovely wife Karie on a date. Long overdue, but family and work demands seem to complicate this avenue. 26 years ago she stumbled into the Bradley University Jimmy John’s not knowing her future would never be the same… But, a lifetime later, here we are…, on a Saturday night in Ottawa, Illinois…

In a church…

Watching a cover band…

By candlelight…

Far cry from our younger days of slow pitch softball, tent camping after a long day on the river, or a euchre tournament.

We went to see Lumos, a three-piece string orchestra, (See Lumos Here) who covered one of our favorite bands, Coldplay.

While there are many songs from Coldplay’s discography that speak to me, Green Eyes, has been one my wife and I’s songs forever; but the lyrics to Fix You meet me where my feet are right now.

Coldplay’s Fix You has always struck me as an anthem for anyone struggling, disguised as a love song.

Chris Martin wrote it after watching someone he loved experience unimaginable grief. His wife’s father had just died and he wanted to ease her pain. At the same time, their previous album was criticized for being “too soft,” and “past their prime.”

He wanted to make everything okay… for his wife, for his bandmates, for himself… but he couldn’t.

If you’ve spent any time in leadership, you’ve learned painful truths:

You can’t fix everyone’s problems. You can’t erase a student’s trauma. You can’t save every struggling employee. You can’t make every parent happy. You can’t solve every family issue that walks through your front door. You can’t carry everyone’s burden.

But…

You can become the light that helps people find their way.

Fix You opens with an uncomfortable reality.

Sometimes you give everything you’ve got…and it still doesn’t work.

In a school building…

Every principal knows that feeling.

Every superintendent has lived it.

Every teacher has experienced it.

… You prepare.

… You plan.

… You communicate.

…. You give your very best…

…and sometimes the outcome still isn’t what you hoped for.

Leadership isn’t measured by outcomes, it’s measured by whether you keep showing up after disappointment.

As we move into August, schools enter one of the most important seasons of the year.

Back to School Schedules… for students, for staff, for parents, for the community, for athletics, for support staffing, for yourself… I mean, I have to wear pants soon (the summer of shorts is fleeting…)

Professional development. Building Culture. Hiring those unfilled spots at the last minute. Convocation speakers, your welcome back speech. First impressions. Relationships.

The first thirty days don’t determine everything…

…but they influence almost everything.

This isn’t simply preparation. It’s culture construction.

The seeds you plant in August become the harvest you’ll experience in November.

The second half of the calendar year works the same way personally.

Maybe you’ve lost twenty pounds. Maybe you’ve gained five.

Maybe you’ve been crushing workouts while your nutrition keeps pulling you backward. Maybe you’ve started and stopped more Monday mornings than you care to admit.

Momentum doesn’t require perfection. It requires another step.

Another workout. Another prepared meal. Another difficult conversation.

Another sunrise where you choose discipline over excuses.

As the song reminds us, if you never try, you’ll never discover what you’re capable of.

Coldplay spent years hearing people say they were finished. I’ve always liked the band but many people mock them or chastise them for a litany of reasons…

Too emotional. Too predictable. Too soft. Yet they kept writing. Kept touring. Kept improving. Went viral for a CEO/HR Manager uncomfortable jumbotron moment. But they kept showing up.

Criticism has an expiration date. Consistency doesn’t.

One of my favorite moments in the song Fix You comes near the end. About halfway through the song the guitar crescendo builds up to an epic conclusion of the song.

“Tears stream down your face
When you lose something you cannot replace
Tears stream down your face, and I…

Tears stream down your face
I promise you I will learn from my mistakes
Tears stream down your face, and I…

Lights will guide you home…

And ignite your bones…

And, I will try to Fix You…”

The demands of leading and focusing on outcomes only can cripples us. Not because someone promises to fix everything. But because there’s a promise to learn from mistakes. That’s leadership.

You’re going to miss something this year. You’ll make a decision you’d like back. You’ll say something imperfectly. You’ll trust the wrong person. You’ll underestimate someone. You’ll overreact one day because you’re simply exhausted.

Own it.

Learn from it.

Move forward.

That’s what resilient leaders do.

As for our personal lives…

As men, the second half of the year is often where our commitments get tested.

The vacation is over. The routine returns. The excuses become easier. The calendar gets fuller. Don’t allow busyness to become permission for mediocrity.

Lead your family.

Lead your fitness.

Lead your faith.

Most importantly, outside the 3 F’s, Lead yourself.

Because the people following you deserve someone who is becoming healthier, not just busier.

This week, I’m not trying to fix everything.

Fix your morning routine. As you read this I am currently lifting weights.

After my session, I’m dialing in my planned nutrition for the day with yesterday’s meal prep.

I’m leaving for North Carolina late tonight and freed up my calendar for this conference to better be where my feet are, engaged with the personnel and cultivating meaningful relationships, not distracted by work emails and work problems.

Fix the difficult conversation you’ve been avoiding, I know the one I need to have for my family.

Fix your attention on what actually matters. You may never remove someone else’s pain. But you can become the steady light that reminds them there is still hope ahead.

And sometimes… that’s exactly the leader people need.

Like Lumos and their candlelit performance, this week, be the person who lights the hallway instead of adding to the darkness.

Build momentum. Prepare with purpose. Learn from your mistakes. Lead yourself before you lead others. Because the best school year you’ll ever have…

…is built one ordinary Monday at a time. Stay in the Game.

If I’m being completely transparent and honest, in 2026 I came out of the gates like a bat out of hell- lifts, runs, rucks, nutrition, but after Spring Break to the beginning of the summer I limped along towards a meandering set of goals that I couldn’t quite get the gumption to achieve. Mostly nutritional failures wrapped up in a pretty pink bow of stress packaged poor decisions.

The purpose of this weekly blog, “Built Under Pressure,” was to publicly hold myself accountable, through stress and pressures of leadership and my own high expectations… for 1/2 of the, 1/2 of the year, thus far, I’ve been pretty dialed in. For a litany of reasons, rather excuses, I could explain why spring was difficult, but we are beyond that.

Summer consisted of:

• A State Championship High School Softball Run

• College Freshman Orientation in Tuscaloosa, Alabama

• The 3rd Annual Stressed Leaders Summit that I host- EPIC Success!

• A Family & Friends Weeklong Vacation in Mexico

• Travel Basketball Tournaments & Practices

• And next week we leave for a conference in Asheville, North Carolina

• This all before moving our oldest 11 hours away from home to her freshman year at the University of Alabama

The distractions are always there, but as I FOMO’ed along to my buddy Dustin running a 24 hour race in the 110 real feel heat of Texas this weekend, I could feel myself finding the missing link to get myself ready for my race in 48 days.

There’s one limiting factor that has hijacked much of my progress this spring and summer, from Mexico Dan to River Dan, the sun cruiser’s, the Sunday Bloody Mary’s, and the Ice Cold post-dinner Martini hijack my efforts. A couple of drinks, whether its on the river or at a pool, usually leads to…

• a bad dinner at night, Hello Bianchi’s Pizza…

• which might lead to ice cream, Jonny’s Old Fashioned! afterwards…

• which leads to missing the 5 AM workout…

• which leads to an unproductive Monday…

• which leads to poor eating all of Monday…

• which leads to a waste of a day…

• which leads to the guilt trips in my head and questioning the purpose of many of my decisions… a vicious cycle when one is trying to better himself

We’ve all been there, but I find myself struggling to rebound from these events as I get older, even though I don’t typically drink near as much as I use to. And I’ve never been the guy to come home from work, life, or any stressful situation and say, “Man, I need a cold one,” nope, it’s always just been a social thing.

But this weekend, I was locked in. Even on the River today, a couple of Go Brewing NA’s around a couple of diet cokes and a beautiful day on the River was had, without the sun cruisers or margaritas. A late night celebratory dinner at a friend’s house and stayed locked in.

The weekend is usually the stumbling point, so I chose to go harder over the weekend. Saturday was a pre-POF 1/2 yard fest, 2.08 miles in 30 minutes (half the distance and time of the normal yard) as we build up for the event. I’m fairly confident I will be the largest man there so my ability to lock in these next 7 weeks is critical to hang with the smaller, faster, and better equipped endurance runners.

Saturday brought that big dawg energy to get ready to compete against the better in shape endurance runners.

Sunday, was a nice ruck to the gym, lift, then ruck back home too.

Almost 7 Months (30 weeks) Built Under Pressure Check-In:

Monthly Weight Loss:

January: -11.6 LBS, 261.8 to 250.2, erase the fat…

February: -4.0 LBS, 250.2 to 246.2, keep on working…

March: -1.4 lbs… 246.2 to 244.8, challenging month but finished -17 pounds overall…

April: +1.0 pounds, 244.8 to 245.8, -16 pounds overall…

May: -1.6 pounds, 245.8 to 244.2, -17.6 pounds overall…

June: -0.8 pounds, 244.2 to 243.8, -18.4 pounds overall…

July: -2.2 pounds, 243.8 to 241.6, -20.6 pounds overall… DANGEROUSLY CLOSE TO THE 239’s!

It’s late on Sunday as I reflect, knowing the 5 AM alarm chimes tomorrow morning to continue this epic energy.

Hopefully after a week in North Carolina we come back hitting that 239.9 in August!

Others are already angry because... well... it’s the internet, and outrage seems to be our favorite hobby with any and everything becoming too woke, or too anti-woke, whatever… save me the flame war, I’m not interested.

But, as a former teacher of world history and a passionate reader of Greek & Roman histories, I love anything to do with Homer’s works.

Years ago in my classroom social science teaching days I used to teach about ancient Greek polis city-states and the histories of Herodotus and Homer. As an end of unit treat the students would watch the film Troy and analyze the Hollywood versus Greek historic points.

Brad Pitt and Eric Bana are both epic in the film, but one of my favorite characters in the film is the villain Agamemnon. There’s something intriguing about that man’s ego and pursuit of global domination at all costs that captured my attention long ago.

Ironically, a rival English teacher would show the same film, to many of the same students, but with much less intention and purpose compared to me; perhaps he just wanted a couple of days to sleep at his desk… the world may never know why he wanted to steal my historic thunder. With a little over a year left until this man retires from our district, all joking aside, this building will be losing one of its most influential teachers. It will be a grave loss to our students, but I remind the readers, that he stole my curriculum for years.

The funny thing is, while everyone debates casting decisions, historical accuracy, or whatever cultural battle is trending this week around this film, they’re missing what has made The Odyssey endure for nearly 3,000 years and what always attracted me.

It isn’t the monsters. It isn’t the gods. It isn’t the Cyclops. It isn’t the story of the Trojan Horse. It isn’t even the cast of villains.

It’s the leadership. More specifically... It’s ownership.

Homer never describes Odysseus as the strongest warrior. That was Achilles.

He wasn’t the biggest. He wasn’t the fastest. He wasn’t the most feared man on the battlefield. Homer repeatedly describes him as “the man of many turns.”

Resourceful. Patient. Clever. Cunning. Able to adapt. He even reminds me of this veteran English teacher.

Odysseus reminds me of a current book I am reading by former NFL fullback Jed Collins, called 4th and Goal, his story of his final year in the NFL playing for the Detroit Lions. For our non-football fans, the position of a fullback is not one of glory, it isn’t one of highlight reel ESPN clicks, of multi-million dollar contracts, and often times the position is the most often cut by general managers. Jed writes about the concept of being continuously fired despite his performance in the NFL. He built a great career in New Orleans, was ranked as one of the best at his position, only to see the Saints tell him unceremoniously, “Goodbye Jed, we are moving in a different direction.” Essentially, you’re fired.

Jed’s book is about his comeback chronicle of his final year in the NFL with the Lions, trying to reassert himself amongst bigger, better, and faster competitors, a lot like Odysseus.

Odysseus was a leader who refused to surrender when the situation became impossible. That’s why we’re still talking about him today.

Picture the scene from the book. The city of Troy has finally fallen after ten brutal years of war. Smoke rolls through shattered streets. Broken shields litter the ground amongst the fallen soldiers. The sea breeze carries the smell of ash, decaying death, and victory. Thousands of Greek warriors finally board their ships, convinced they’re headed home. Odysseus probably believed the hardest part was over.

He was wrong. The voyage home would prove far more difficult than the war itself.

Leadership often works exactly the same way. Landing the promotion isn’t the hard part. Leading afterward is.

This week I was a guest on Head Football Coach and Leadership Guru John Perry’s Never Stop Getting Better podcast.

I read John’s book earlier this summer about his coaching journey from Pearl, Mississippi, to Nixa, Missouri. He’s one of the top high school football coaches in the nation, but what pulled me into his story was about his journey of being an undersized offensive lineman trying to run with the big dogs. From coaching in his hometown to being pulled halfway across the nation, John’s story of being a “0-star” athlete inspires me. Everyone loves an underdog story, but many don’t see the work to become the overcomer instead of the underdog. The grind of Odysseus’ journey home is a never-ending saga that should inspire leaders to never stop getting better.

One of my favorite episodes in The Odyssey takes place on a lonely island where a cave sits carved into a rocky hillside. Inside lives Polyphemus, the Cyclops.

Odysseus and his men enter expecting food and shelter.

Instead...

The giant rolls a massive stone over the cave entrance. Then calmly picks up two of Odysseus’ soldiers...

...and eats them. Not exactly the team-building retreat or host hospitality they had envisioned. Odysseus could have panicked. He could have blamed fate. He could have blamed the gods. Instead, he accepted the reality in front of him.

He developed a plan. He offered the Cyclops wine. Waited patiently.

Then, after the giant collapsed into a drunken sleep, Odysseus and his remaining men drove a sharpened olive stake into the Cyclops’ eye before escaping beneath the bellies of sheep.

Was it pretty? No.

Was it perfect? Also no.

But leaders rarely get perfect options. They get imperfect circumstances.

Their job is deciding what happens next.

Unfortunately...

Odysseus immediately reminds us that leaders are still human. As his ship sails away, his ego gets the better of him. He can’t simply leave. He shouts back. Boasts. Reveals his name. The blinded Cyclops calls upon Poseidon, who curses Odysseus for years.

One emotional decision. One moment of pride. We’ve all been there, right? As I sit in my office early this morning writing this, I have a large project I am building. It’s been on my mind for the last couple of years and I am getting close to the finish line, but I have a couple of naysayers who have thoughts about hijacking my progress. The flawed man inside of me wants to yell and scream like Odysseus. If I’m being completely transparent, that man inside of me wants the project to succeed on its’ own merit for the purpose of its goals, but also wants to boast to these naysayers. That is not a move of integrity and like Odysseus celebration after his win, it could lead to problems.

For Odysseus…

Years of consequences, for one act of ego.

How many leadership headaches begin exactly the same way?

One email. One sarcastic comment. One emotional reaction. One meeting where we just had to prove we were right.

Leadership isn’t usually destroyed by catastrophe. It’s eroded by moments we fail to own.

From Greek to Roman, Marcus Aurelius understood this nearly a thousand years later.

His advice couldn’t be more direct.

“Blame yourself—or blame no one.”

Read that again. He doesn’t say blame yourself because you’re inadequate. He says blame yourself because ownership is power. The moment everything becomes everyone else’s fault...

...you surrender your ability to change anything.

From Odysseus, to Marcus Aurelius, to the two authors I featured earlier, we all have leadership stories of success and moments of failure, but absolute ownership of wins and losses is what sets leaders apart. Serial entrepreneur Andy Frisella built his companies around a remarkably similar philosophy.

He has often said that if anything negative happened inside his business, it was ultimately his responsibility.

Sales down? His fault.

Culture slipping? His fault.

Employees underperforming? His fault.

Customer unhappy? Again, his fault.

That doesn’t mean he personally caused every problem.

It means he refused to surrender ownership of the outcome.

That’s a mindset. And mindsets build cultures.

There’s another scene from The Odyssey I enjoyed, the Sirens. Odysseus sails toward the island of the Sirens. The sea is calm. The cliffs rise dramatically from the shoreline. Beautiful voices drift across the water. Every sailor who hears them becomes hypnotized, entranced by the sounds, steering directly toward the rocks where their ships are destroyed. Every time I hear my wife’s favorite Pearl Jam song, “Sirens” it reminds me of this scene.

Odysseus wants to hear the song. But he also knows himself and his own limitations, his flaws. So he gives his crew very specific instructions. They fill their ears with beeswax. They tie him tightly to the mast. Then he orders them: “No matter what I say... don’t untie me.”

As the haunting music reaches the ship, Odysseus loses his composure. He screams. He begs. He commands. He threatens. “Untie me!” His crew refuses.

They know the mission matters more than the moment. That’s leadership too.

Great leaders create systems that protect them from becoming the worst version of themselves.

Who ties you to the mast?

Who tells you the truth when your emotions take over?

Who reminds you of your mission when your ego starts steering the ship?

If the answer is nobody...

...you’re sailing dangerously close to the rocks.

One of the greatest misconceptions about leadership is that success comes from always making the right decision.

Odysseus disproves that.

• He makes mistakes.

• He loses men.

• He becomes impatient.

• His pride creates unnecessary suffering.

But through it all...

• He keeps rowing.

• He keeps adapting.

• He keeps owning what comes next.

That’s why Homer made him unforgettable. Not because he was flawless. Because he refused to quit.

Leadership today isn’t much different. You don’t get to choose whether storms come. Parents will criticize. Boards will question. Employees will disappoint you. Budgets will tighten. Friends will misunderstand your intentions. Life will occasionally punch you square in the mouth. You don’t own the storm. You own the helm of the sheep, you have always been in the captain’s chair. It’s the only part that has ever belonged to you. As leaders, we need to stop asking whose fault it is. Start asking a better question.

What part of this can I own?

Because ownership isn’t about carrying guilt. It’s about reclaiming influence. The strongest leaders I know don’t waste energy assigning blame. They invest that energy becoming better captains. Homer understood it. Marcus Aurelius understood it. Andy Frisella understands it.

The ship may not always go where you planned. The winds may turn against you. The sea may become violent. But the captain still has a job.

Grip the wheel.

Steady the crew.

Adjust the sails.

Own your response.

Because history doesn’t remember the Stressed Leaders who had calm seas. It remembers the ones who brought their people home through the storm. Stay in the game.

It’s the pursuit. It’s the comeback.

Not because comebacks are dramatic. They are. But because comebacks reveal something championships often hide.

Character. Integrity.

Last week I was lucky enough to spend the week in Mexico, taking in the sunshine, poolside food and drinks, while spending time with family and friends from across the nation. What I did not expect to see or become immersed in was the passion of World Cup Soccer. The frenzied fanatics in the resort lobbies, sports bars, and even on the pool big screen were intense- so much patriotism on display because of sports.

Watching Mexico vs. England in our resort lobby with fans of both nations glued to the television was intoxicating. I would never call myself a soccer fan, but people watching this game gave me an extra level of appreciation for their devotion. This past week I found myself captivated by Argentina’s march back to another World Cup Final. Some fellas in my online workout group were live messaging the moments of the match and what a gut-punch of emotion for the boys across the pond. If you watched Argentina’s semifinal against England, it looked over. England led late. The commentators were already talking about tactics, substitutions, and what England would need to do to finish the job.

Then Argentina did what Argentina has done over and over again.

They refused to acknowledge the ending everyone else had accepted.

Two goals in seven minutes.

Another impossible comeback.

Another opponent left wondering how they had lost a game they were already celebrating.

It wasn’t a fluke, either. Throughout this tournament Argentina has become something almost mythical. Four straight knockout victories without leading after 90 minutes. Read that again- four elimination victories without ever leading in regulation… They simply refuse to die.

I loved one quote from striker Lautaro Martínez after the match.

“This team never settles and always wants more.”

That’s not just soccer. That’s leadership.

As leaders, we spend far too much time believing our comeback story begins the day everyone notices us again.

It doesn’t.

It begins the day we quietly decide we aren’t finished.

Nobody applauds that decision.

Nobody writes newspaper articles because you chose to wake up thirty minutes earlier for that 5 AM lift.

Nobody gives you a standing ovation because you finally had the hard conversation you’ve been avoiding with a teacher who isn’t getting the job done.

Nobody celebrates when you decide to stop feeling sorry for yourself and start doing the work again when you’ve questioned your own belief.

The comeback starts long before anyone sees the scoreboard change.

Famous Stoic Marcus Aurelius wrote something nearly two thousand years ago that still punches me square in the face every time I read it.

“Don’t waste time debating what a good man should be. Be one.”

Leadership has become strangely performative.

We announce our goals in social media district messages.

We post our workouts on Instagram with filters.

We share our books on LinkedIn.

We tell everyone what we’re building.

Then we wonder why we’re exhausted before we’ve actually built anything.

Aurelius would probably laugh at us. I wonder if my epic project that I’ve been working on for almost three years would make him appreciate the effort? I’ve faced numerous roadblocks and hurdles along the way, even recently when we are getting so close to the finish line. Earlier this week I wrote about a critic, you know the type. Smartest guy in the room, knows more than you’ll ever know, loudly questions what you are building but rarely built anything novel himself… So, when challenged, I did what 5-time Mr. Olympia Chad Bumstead did, I shut up, put my head down, and continued to do the work that nobody sees. More investigation, more research, more game planning, more contingency preparations.

Stop talking. Start becoming.

Another quote of the famous stoic has stayed with me for years.

“No man is more unhappy than he who never faces adversity. For he is not permitted to prove himself.”

That’s a hard truth.

Most of us pray adversity away.

Marcus welcomed it. One of my character flaws as a leader is sometimes I want the adversity. I want the struggle and I’m not really sure why…

Not because suffering is enjoyable, but because adversity introduces you to the person you’ve been claiming to be. Shut up and prove it.

Anybody can lead when enrollment is up.

Anybody can lead when the budget leads to a massive surplus.

Anybody can lead when parents and community love every decision.

Anybody can stick to nutrition when life is calm and the calendar is empty.

Adversity asks a much better question.

Who are you when everything gets hard?

One of the biggest lies leadership tells us is that motivation comes from recognition.

It doesn’t.

Recognition is the byproduct.

Character is built in obscurity.

When nobody notices that you’re choosing patience over frustration.

When nobody notices that you stayed late to mentor a struggling employee.

When nobody notices that you’re reading one more chapter instead of scrolling your phone.

When nobody notices that you’ve quietly lost fifteen pounds because you’ve been showing up every morning before sunrise, even when you don’t want to.

Those moments don’t make headlines.

They make leaders.

Looking back over my own career, the moments that shaped me weren’t the standing ovations.

They were the lonely ones.

The nights after difficult board meetings.

The years coaching softball before we ever won any championships.

The early mornings, alone at my desk, wondering whether anyone appreciated what I was trying to build here.

The setbacks that made me question whether I was the right person for the job.

At the time, none of those moments felt like progress.

They felt like survival.

Only in hindsight do you realize they were preparing you for everything that came next.

Planting corn rarely looks exciting, but a great harvest always does.

That’s why Argentina’s team fascinates this non-soccer fan.

By the time they score the winning goal, they’ve already spent ninety minutes earning the right to believe it was still possible.

The comeback wasn’t created in stoppage time.

It was cultivated through years of believing they were never out of the fight.

Leadership works the same way.

People see the promotion.

They don’t see the thousand ordinary Tuesdays. They don’t see the Saturday early morning at the desk working on strategic plans.

They see the healthier body, but they may not remember when he was 360 pounds or think deeply about the journey to lose 120 pounds that was mired in sweat, frustration, and constantly debating nutrition choices.

They don’t see the years of trying to say no to convenience.

They see the confident speaker.

They don’t see the practice rounds in an empty auditorium on a Sunday evening when the room was empty.

They see the championship.

They never see the empty gym.

Maybe that’s the reminder we all need this summer Friday morning.

Stop waiting for your audience.

Stop waiting for someone to validate your effort.

Stop waiting until people notice before deciding to become the leader you want to be.

Because the truth is... The audience isn’t writing your comeback story.

You are.

One workout. One conversation. One decision. One act of integrity.

Argentina didn’t become world champions because they believed they were destined to win.

They became champions because they refused to accept defeat before the final whistle.

As leaders, husbands, wives, parents, coaches, teachers, and friends, we would do well to adopt the same mindset.

The comeback you’re waiting for doesn’t begin when life gets easier.

It begins the moment you decide that adversity doesn’t get the final word.

Today don’t announce your comeback.

Don’t post about it. Don’t wait for applause. Just go to work.

Quietly. Relentlessly.

Because the greatest comeback stories are never written by people looking at the crowd.

They’re written by people too busy doing the work to notice whether anyone is watching.

Stay in the game.

Not the “Hope you had a great trip!” kind.

The “Let me tell you everything you’re doing wrong...” kind. As a school district Superintendent, you are always ON. The modern progression of boundary-less text messages, emails, direct messages has eliminated grace, boundaries, and the types of conversations people most likely wouldn’t have face-to-face but feel safe behind a keyboard to start.

You know the type.

The kind that instantly hijacks your brain.

Five minutes earlier I was thinking about sunrise runs on the beach, shrimp ceviche, and whether my wife would appreciate all of the fanfare my Mexico nightclub karaoke brings to the table (yes, it’s legendary, ask around).

Five minutes later?

I was mentally preparing closing arguments for a courtroom trial that nobody had scheduled.

Leadership is funny that way.

One critical voice can suddenly become the voice in your head.

One unhappy taxpayer.

One disgruntled employee.

One angry parent.

One anonymous keyboard warrior.

One Board critic.

Suddenly, your brain starts manufacturing an audience that doesn’t actually exist.

You begin preparing to defeat an army...

...when it’s really just one guy with a cell phone.

When I was earning my first Master’s Degree at Aurora University I had a professor in Organizational Theory (sounds as fun as it actually was) share the study by psychologist Thomas Gilovich called the Spotlight Effect.

His famous study had college students wear an embarrassing Barry Manilow T-shirt into a room full of strangers. The students assumed about half the room noticed.

Reality?

Only about 20% even registered the shirt.

Everyone else was too busy worrying about themselves.

I’ve realized leadership works exactly the same way. There’s an old quote, you know the one…

Be kind… it’s such a simple mantra, that in leadership, you wish other’s would heed such simplistic advice… not always the case, right?

There is much providential advice, as a leader, you wished other’s would follow, like treat others the way you’d like to be treated…

… or, if not-faith based, but musician based, take my guy Eddie’s advice…

But, in leadership, when it comes to the minority voice or the loudest critics…

We convince ourselves that everyone is talking about us.

Everyone is questioning our decisions.

Everyone is criticizing the latest initiative.

Everyone is waiting for us to fail.

Most of the time...

They’re not.

They’re worried about their own kids.

Their own mortgage.

Their own marriage.

Their own job.

Their own insecurities.

They’re the main character in their movie.

Just like you’re the main character in yours.

Years ago, that text message would’ve lived rent-free in my head for weeks.

I’d replay it during my morning run.

I’d think about it lifting weights.

I’d rewrite responses in the shower.

I’d build an entire championship speech to defeat an opponent who wasn’t even interested in showing up for the debate.

What a colossal waste of energy.

Vacation reminded me of something different.

I woke up daily to watch the Gulf of Mexico sunrise on my daily runs.

I left my phone in the hotel room all day long.

I didn’t bring my laptop.

I laughed with my wife and kids.

I watched my kids become adults right in front of me.

Those moments were real.

The argument in my head wasn’t.

As leaders, we have to ask ourselves a difficult question:

Am I leading my organization... or am I managing imaginary critics?

Because there’s a huge difference.

When you start making decisions trying to satisfy every loud voice, you stop serving the silent majority who trusted you to lead in the first place.

The loudest voice is rarely the wisest voice.

And it certainly isn’t always the majority.

Leadership requires listening.

It also requires discernment.

Not every criticism deserves equal weight.

Not every complaint deserves equal space in your head.

Not every text message deserves to become your identity.

Here’s what I’ve learned entering 23 years in education.

The people plotting against you...

...usually aren’t plotting against you.

The audience you’re afraid of...

...usually doesn’t exist.

And the people whose opinions matter most?

They’re quietly watching.

Quietly appreciating.

Quietly rooting for you.

Our district treasurer stopped in today to discuss a few matters and what is usually a ten minute conversation spilled into an hour… he’s seen my career arc from a rookie head coach of his daughter when he was a Board member, to a fledgling administrator learning the financial ropes while he was the treasurer, to know a bold Superintendent who makes moves, others don’t… he’s rooting for me.

Your fans… They don’t send nearly as many emails.

So here’s your Monday Morning Reset, on this Tuesday.

Before you walk into your building today...

Ask yourself:

Whose voice am I allowing to occupy my mind?

Is it one critic?

Or the hundreds of people you’re privileged to serve?

Are you chasing ghosts?

Or leading people?

Because leadership isn’t about winning arguments that don’t exist.

It’s about making decisions that matter, even when someone disagrees.

Don’t give one ounce of criticism the power to outweigh pounds of encouragement.

Lead boldly.

Lead humbly.

And if your brain starts inventing imaginary audiences this week...

Remember the Barry Manilow T-shirt.

Odds are...

Nobody’s looking nearly as hard as you think.

Now get out there.

Your people are waiting.

Not for perfection…

But, for your voice, your heart, and your leadership.

Welcome to the Halfway Point World Tour of Dan Stecken’s 2026 fitness journey.

A man, a stage, a microphone, wailing away in a Cancun Karaoke bar, chasing the power of a scale starting with 2…3… something…

The lights are still on.

The crowd is still here.

The guitars are still plugged in.

And somewhere backstage... the lead singer is sitting on an upside-down roadie case eating bland un-seasoned Costco rotisserie chicken, wondering how in the hell he forgot half the lyrics and why he can’t break on through to the other side…

That lead singer is me.

And this is still Built Under Pressure.

As I sit in my office this afternoon, sizing up the midway point of the year, post-vacation, post-Stressed Leaders Summit, listening to my rock playlist, I’m reminded that yes, I’ve made immense progress this year, but, I’ve stalled…

When January rolled around, I had big plans.

Lose the weight.

Run farther.

Lift heavier.

Get stronger.

Become the version of myself who makes TSA agents glance twice… to have that expressionless agent scan my Gold Star Real ID with the TSA-precheck approved boarding pass and say to himself, “This can’t be the same dude…”

Some of that happened. As I walked through Immigration at the Cancun airport the guy did side-eye me, asked about my glasses, and passed me through. But surely he thought this guy’s ID says 260 pounds, this guy has to be 220, right?

Some of it happened…

Some of it...

Well...

6+ Month (27 weeks) Built Under Pressure Check-In:

Monthly Weight Loss:

January: -11.6 LBS, 261.8 to 250.2, erase the fat…

February: -4.0 LBS, 250.2 to 246.2, keep on working…

March: -1.4 lbs… 246.2 to 244.8, challenging month but finished -17 pounds overall…

April: +1.0 pounds, 244.8 to 245.8, -16 pounds overall…

May: -1.6 pounds, 245.8 to 244.2, -17.6 pounds overall…

June: -0.8 pounds, 244.2 to 243.8, -18.4 pounds overall…

Let’s just say the band hit a rough stretch somewhere between graduation, the Stressed Leaders Summit, board meetings, family chaos, travel sports, vacation ceviche, and approximately 14,000 reasons why “I’ll rebound Monday” seemed like a somewhat acceptable strategy in April, May, and June.

If anything I strive to be honest, Rolling Stone ripped my spring performance, Dave Portnoy scored me a 5.6 on the One-Bite Scale. But, here’s the good news:

Rock stars don’t cancel the tour because one show wasn’t perfect.

They lace up the boots.

Tune the guitar.

Walk back on stage.

And play the next song. Despite, their hangover… no matter, how hard they lived last night… That’s where I am today.

Not starting over. Re-starting.

There’s a difference. Because my bad shows weren’t boo’ed off stage shows, they were just hiccups, because no matter the nutritional flaws, the workouts are still there, but at 45+ years old, man is it getting harder. Some friends just saw John Cougar Mellencamp at Tinley Park; the dude is 72 and still rocked they said, why can’t I at 45?

Last week reminded me what I’m capable of, post-vacation.

The scale rebounded. The workouts were strong. The long runs returned. The weights moved. The nutrition tightened up.

Then the weekend hit… The momentum?

It’s back, but then Friday came and went.

Maybe not Eddie Vedder climbing speaker stacks in 1992 Pink Pop momentum, but you need someone to keep rockin’, that’s me...

But definitely “this crowd is getting louder” momentum.

Because that’s the thing about discipline. It never disappears. It just waits for you to come back.

The second half of my year has some pretty big tour dates circled.

🎸 August 14 — Back to School, fighting weight of 239.9 will be realized!

I want to walk into the building lighter. Sharper. More energetic.

Not because anyone else cares, but because I care.

🎸 September 12 — Prairie on Fire Ultra Marathon

Every sweaty July, humid, hot, not quite Texas, but sticky icky run is buying confidence for September. It isn’t about any finish line, but an internal test to see just how far I can go on painful feet, on weary legs, on a mindset that I speak about but now need to prove in the arena.

Every mile in this humidity is money in the bank.

As Chris Cornell sang,

“To be yourself is all that you can do.”

Right now, being myself means embracing the grind instead of wishing it away.

🎸 September 25 — Alabama Football Weekend

My daughter will be living her dream.

I don’t want to be the dad watching from the stands wishing I’d taken better care of myself.

I want to walk across that campus feeling healthy enough to enjoy every step. I’ve told myself I’ll own these overalls, though at almost 46 years old, maybe I shouldn’t embarrass my kid and instead look somewhat sophisticated and pretend.

🎸 October 2 — Turning 46

Forty-six isn’t the finish line, it’s the halfway point, hopefully.

It’s another album release.

Another chance to write better songs.

It would be easy to question myself, to question the choices I make, to let doubt win… but as my guy Marcus Mumford says, “I was swallowed up by doubt, if only things had been black and white…” well that’s true for everyone, comfort and ease don’t exist when you are on this kind of journey to build yourself, under pressure.

Another opportunity to prove Father Time still has to earn his victory over me, damn his doubts.

And then October...

Four keynote speeches.

Thousands of leaders.

Multiple stages.

If I’m asking audiences to stay in the game...

I’d better look like I’m staying in mine.

I love summer.

I love sweating through shirts before 7:00 AM on a morning run.

I love humidity that makes normal people question their life choices.

Every miserable run is another verse in the story.

As Pearl Jam reminded us...

“I know someday you’ll have a beautiful life...”

Beautiful lives aren’t built in comfort or air conditioning.

They’re built one uncomfortable decision at a time.

Life doesn’t get less busy.

Leadership doesn’t suddenly become easier.

Kids don’t stop needing rides.

Boards don’t stop boarding.

Emails don’t politely wait until Monday.

The calendar never magically clears.

Rage Against the Machine didn’t write songs called “Comfortable in the Name Of...”

The Killers didn’t tell us somebody else was coming to save us.

Brandon Flowers simply reminded us:

“I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldier.”

Exactly.

We’re not soldiers in some impossible war against perfection. We’re simply chasing progress.

The stall wasn’t the story.

The restart is.

Because every rock band has bad shows.

Equipment fails.

Voices crack.

Strings break.

The crowd doesn’t remember the mistake.

They remember whether the band came back for the encore.

So here’s my challenge.

Where are your tour dates?

What have you circled on the calendar that deserves a better version of you?

What have you been postponing because life got loud?

What song have you stopped playing because you missed a note?

The audience isn’t asking for perfection.

They’re waiting for you to get back on stage.

This week...

I’m locking in.

Meal prep.

Heavy lifts.

Long runs.

Protein first.

No negotiating with the little voice that says, “You’ve earned the pizza.”

No...

I’ve earned the result.

Because the version of me speaking this fall...

The version running Prairie on Fire...

The version walking across Alabama’s campus...

The version blowing out 46 candles...

He’s built today.

Not someday.

So turn it up.

Sweat a little.

Lift something heavy.

Run farther than you planned.

My guy Chris Cornell and Soundgarden reminded us,

“The day I tried to live...”

That’s exactly what this second half is about.

Not surviving. But, Living. L-I-V-I-N. I’m not a monk, I’m not perfect, but I work my tail off to get where I’m going and I ain’t gonna stop.

The tour isn’t over.

The best shows are still ahead.

Now grab your water bottle, cue the playlist, and get back on stage.

This is Built Under Pressure. Stay in the Game Friends. 🎸💪

For the first time in a while… at least this Spring…

I feel like I’m back. This week’s successes of Built Under Pressure was something to revel in.

The scale finally moved, sub 243, closing in on 239.9 (from a beginning of 261).

The workouts have been consistent, weights were flying around the gym.

The runs are getting longer and on schedule with Mike’s preparation for my plans to just do my best at Prairie On Fire; no massive goal, just a date on the calendar to build to in the Fall.

And for the first time this year, I stepped on the scale and saw something I’ve been chasing: 242.8.

Now, before anyone starts handing me a fitness influencer trophy, let’s pump the brakes. I’m still a 45-year-old guy who doesn’t really enjoy Costco rotisserie chicken when he can grill a ribeye instead, lifting heavy things, and occasionally destroying my nutrition plan because my son asks if we can go get ice cream.

And yes… I said yes.

Because sometimes the win isn’t saying no to the ice cream.

Sometimes the win is having ice cream with your kid and then getting your butt back on track the next morning.

That’s the balance. That’s the game. That’s being Built Under Pressure.

This week I was ON.

Meal prep was locked in.

Stir fry, chicken, steak, shrimp. Protein for days.

Rotisserie chicken because apparently Costco has solved the “busy dad who needs calories” problem. Even though I don’t LOVE that chicken, it is quick and easy, just could use some more seasoning in my opinion.

Daily movement. Lifting. Running. Consistency. The boring stuff.

The stuff nobody wants to post about because there’s no highlight reel for eating chicken at 10:30 AM on a Tuesday and running 2 miles at noon daily on my lunch break.

But that’s where transformation happens.

Not in one heroic moment.

In the boring repetitions.

Then comes the test.

Vacation.

Mexico.

The place where “Mexico Dan” is born. Mexico’s #1 tourist returns! Roll out the Red Carpet! Mexico Dan is a different animal. Mexico Dan wears a straw hat. Mexico Dan reads books by the pool. Mexico Dan sits under a palapa in the afternoon pop-up tropical storm, loving the sound of the rain amidst the crashing of the waves.

Mexico Dan enjoys a swim-up bar. Often, too much.

Mexico Dan eats tacos, guacamole, pico de gallo, and ceviche like he is preparing for a competitive Mexican All-You-Can-Eat event.

Mexico Dan believes “all-inclusive” is a challenge, not a vacation package.

And honestly? I love that guy. Everyone loves that guy. I’m not Superintendent Stecken, I’m Mexico Dan.

Because life is not supposed to be a punishment.

The goal isn’t to become the guy who never enjoys anything.

The goal is to become the guy who enjoys everything because he built the discipline to appreciate it.

But this vacation is also a challenge. Because the old version of me would pack my laptop. I would wake up early, answer emails, “just check on a few things,” and somehow convince myself I was being productive while sitting next to my family sleeping.

Sound familiar?

How many of us do that?

How many leaders finally get away, but mentally never leave?

The body is at the beach.

The brain is still at the office.

The phone is still buzzing.

The email inbox is still winning.

This trip, I’m trying something different.

No laptop.

Phone stays in the room when I’m at the pool.

Sunrise beach runs along the Gulf.

A few lifts in the resort gym.

Books.

Conversations.

Being present.

Being where my feet are.

Because my kids are getting older.

The moments are changing.

The season is changing.

And I don’t want to wake up someday realizing I was so busy building a life that I forgot to actually live it.

John Wooden once said:

“Make each day your masterpiece.”

Not your perfect day.

Not your most productive day.

Your masterpiece.

And sometimes the masterpiece is not a business win.

Sometimes it’s a sunrise run.

Sometimes it’s laughing with your kid on the pickle ball court or on the pool aerobic underwater bikes, yes that’s a thing.

Sometimes it’s sitting next to your spouse and realizing the chaos finally slowed down long enough to breathe and how beautiful she always is.

Leaders, parents, coaches, professionals…

What moments are you running past?

What memories are you too busy creating that you are forgetting to experience?

What is the cost of always being “on?”

Because here’s the truth:

The same discipline that builds success can also steal joy if we aren’t careful.

This week reminded me of something I wrote during my Stressed Leaders journey:

Momentum matters.

Not perfection.

Momentum.

You don’t need a perfect week.

You need a commitment to get back up.

You don’t need a perfect diet.

You need the discipline to make the next right choice.

You don’t need a perfect routine.

You need to build one that survives real life.

Because real life includes:

Stress.

Travel.

Celebrations.

Kids.

Late nights.

Ice cream.

Chaos.

The goal is not eliminating pressure.

The goal is becoming stronger under pressure.

When I get back from Mexico, the mission continues.

The next target?

Breaking 240. 239.9 it’s on the horizon and it’s going to be a real thing this summer; I’m so close.

Then continuing toward the ultimate goal: 229.9 by Prairie on Fire.

Not because a number on a scale defines me.

But because I want my kids to see something.

I want them to see their dad still fighting.

Still improving.

Still chasing growth.

Still willing to do hard things.

I want them to understand that getting older doesn’t mean settling.

That leadership doesn’t mean slowing down your growth.

That we are never finished becoming who we are capable of becoming.

Where do you need momentum?

Where do you need to slow down?

Where do you need to stop chasing long enough to appreciate the harvest you’re already growing?

Built Under Pressure isn’t about being perfect.

It’s about staying in the game.

Keep pushing.

Keep improving.

Keep showing up.

And don’t forget…

Sometimes the strongest thing a leader can do is put down the phone, look around, and realize:

The moment you’ve been chasing… it’s probably already here.

This week, while cleaning out my office, preparing for a remodeling project, I found something I hadn’t seen in a bit.

A toy. Not just any toy. Optimus Prime.

And taped to the bottom of this little piece of plastic was a Post-It note. A thank you note from a family.

A reminder. A moment. A gut punch. I had just keynoted to a group of 50+ organizational leaders the week prior at our 3rd Annual Stressed Leaders Summit about the power of tiny moments, the ones we, as leaders, often race by because we are too busy to notice the littlest things, the tiniest of interactions, the slightest gestures that seem insignificant at the time… the lessons we never knew were that important, until years later.

The family had thanked me for being their “Optimus Prime.”

Now, before you judge me, yes, I realize how ridiculous this may sound. Here I am, sitting in my desk chair, folding boxes to store all of my various items in them to prepare for painting, carpet cleaning, and new office furniture, reveling in this little toy gift, that a family presented to me as a nice gesture. No doubt they had little knowledge how much these kinds of things mean to me. Across my office, are sentimental gifts, adorned from various moments like this: an Optimus Prime toy here, an autographed “Hockey Tough” goalie mask from my all-time favorite team I coached, the little things that make me pause and appreciate the blessings I have been given in my career.

Yes, here I am a 45-year-old superintendent, husband, dad, and leadership nerd sitting in my office holding a 1980s Transformer toy, wondering why a plastic robot truck is making me emotional.

But here’s the thing…

They weren’t thanking me because I could transform into a semi-truck.

Although, honestly, after some recent small-town political maneuvering with other boards and community conversations requiring me to transform into Snake Eyes and ninja-like save the day, I wish I had the transforming feature.

They weren’t thanking me because I could fight Megatron. Though every now and then, the right tone in a text message where I’m being challenged by someone… some days… Tempting.

They were thanking me because Optimus Prime represents something bigger.

Optimus Prime can be seen as a metaphor for leadership, courage, and the pursuit of justice and freedom. He represents someone who, even in the face of overwhelming adversity, uses strength to protect others, serve others, and fight for something bigger than himself.

That’s leadership. Not the title. Not the spacious office. Not the new fancy corner desk. No…

The service. The sacrifice. The willingness to step into the chaos and say to kids, to staff, to someone: “Don’t worry. I’ve got you. And we’ve got this.”

And that got me thinking…

What kind of leaders are you developing?

Are you building Optimus Primes?

Or are you just creating more Transformers who know how to look good when things are easy? Or, are you elevating and empowering others to handle the tough times? Do you show the genuine care for the success and goals of others?

Because leadership isn’t about creating followers.

It’s about developing people who can eventually transform the world without you. A friend recently said this about the 3rd Stressed Leaders Summit that I helped build… “You have built the anti-average leadership group, the people who want to push themselves, and each other, to be great. (Your leadership summit) is the workout comparison of the endurance athlete, not the many, but the few.”

Re-reading his words as I type this newsletter, I have to laugh at my own blind spot. I’m not sure I sometimes recognize the impact I can have on people, until it’s much later after the moment. In my own keynote I reference my own missteps as a leader because of my constant need to chase, to strive, and to overlook these moments. Here was a friend telling me that what we’ve built… is one of those exact moments.

And in the 10 days since our summit, my relationships with a few key leaders from that event have multiplied in respect, admiration, and gratitude. Phil continues to open doors for me with other speakers. Justin continues to tell me that my future is in the speaking game, if I ever decided to leave the hot seat. Dan will always challenge me and that’s the type of energy I need. Adam is always there to appreciate me, even in my moments of doubt and frustration. Jake somehow never fails to show the best side of me, even when I don’t see it. Mike is always there to bring me hype energy, especially when I need it in dull moments of drift. These are just a few of the people that have elevated my life and purpose as a leader and they continue to build a community of leaders with me, that feels unstoppable. How do I not see these moments in real time?

The Best Coaches Don’t Create Copies of Themselves, They Create Transformers

I have spent over 20 years coaching, teaching, and leading young people.

And I’ve learned something: The goal is not to create another version of you.

That’s where a lot of leaders mess up.

We want everyone to think like us. Work like us. Communicate like us. Care like us.

Basically, we want to manufacture little leadership robots.

Congratulations.

You created a workforce full of mini versions of yourself.

That sounds exhausting. But, great coaches don’t create clones.

They develop people… It’s the exact premise of the instructional model of our district mission, The Seneca Way. Coaches don’t run sprints, and you don’t get stronger by watching others lift in the weight room. You have to develop the athlete, the learner, the professional, the leader.

Think about the best coaches you’ve ever had in your past.

They didn’t just teach you the playbook.

They taught you how to handle adversity.

How to respond after failure.

How to lead when nobody was watching.

They didn’t just help you win games.

They helped you become someone.

That’s the difference between management and leadership.

Managers ask:

“Did you complete the task successfully?”

Leaders ask:

“Who are you becoming?”

As I sat in my office, contemplating the evaluations (that yes, were overdue) of my leadership team, I had to ask myself, who are these members of my team becoming and have I helped support their visions (hopefully) of not being average?

My Upcoming Book About Youth Sports Is Really About Leadership

As I sit, holding this toy, I find myself drifting into my “other” callings… writing, speaking, and what matters to me beyond my career. In my upcoming book about the challenges of parenting in today’s chaotic world of youth sports, I write about my younger self as a brand-new dad coach, with advice for other young parents out there. I could belabor the larger context of the book, that competitive youth sports, if done properly, can be magical for a family, a community, and for the kid, but when done improperly, as is most often the case, it is a quicksand swamp-infested toxicity that is destroying families and hurting children more than helping them.

But specifically chapter 2 is for the young Dad-coach. Even as a varsity head coach, as a Dad-Coach:

I was inexperienced at managing the Dad-Daughter relationship on the field, in the dugout, on the car ride home, in the 1:1 practices in a batting cage or on the diamond.

I was overly competitive. I cared too deeply. And honestly?

I probably needed someone to take my clipboard and bucket away from me once in a while. If you’re reading this Cam, do you remember running laps… during the game… at Durdan’s around the outfield fence, because you struck out looking… with runners in scoring position… at 9 years old… we don’t do that, not with runners in scoring position, EVER!

Here I was punishing and embarrassing my kid in front of a crowd of people for being 9 years old. Did it work…? … yeah she maybe struck out looking 2 or 3 more times in the next 1000+ games… heck, as a senior she struck out 8 times in 170 plate appearances, 0 looking… I don’t know if she had more than 2 K’s looking in 4 years at the varsity level… so yeah, the tough love might have worked, but as I look back, now that she is 18- what a complete idiotic move as a coach… and an even larger moronic move as Dad.

Because every young coach starts with the same temptation: Winning. Winning above all, no matter what he might say out loud to the parents, to the community, or to the kids. Winning… Winning cures all… Winning is what makes people smile… Winning is what makes you look like a good coach, right?

The scoreboard. The trophies. The rankings. The validation.

But somewhere along the way, we have to remember:

Your kid is not your legacy project.

Your players are not your résumé.

Your coaching accolades get buried long before you.

Today, my daughter was named Joliet Herald All-Area, that’s a monster area. In four years of varsity softball she hit over 30 home runs… not too shabby. I’m incredibly proud of the player she became. But her performance in four years, and in one at bat at 9 years old, is not a reflection of my parenting or my legacy.

The people you lead are not there to make you look successful.

You are there to help them become successful.

Legendary Alabama football coach Nick Saban once talked about how, after winning national championships, hours after the celebration, he was already thinking about the next season, the transfer portal, depth charts, recruiting visits, coaching changes, etc.

That hunger helped make him great, but it came at a cost: his family, his mental wellness, his physical health, and a host of other issues he’ll probably never admit to.

But here is the larger reminder: You are not Nick Saban. And this is not SEC football.

No, you are Mom. You are Dad. You are a coach. You are a teacher. You are the leader.

The long game matters.

Because someday your kid won’t remember the tournament bracket.

They won’t remember the perfect practice plan.

They won’t remember every win.

They’ll remember whether you enjoyed the ride with them, both the long journey and the short ride homes from tournaments- more about the car ride home in chapter 5.

Don’t Become Megatron

So, this is where leadership gets uncomfortable. Every organization has a choice.

You can be Optimus Prime… or you can become Megatron.

Before anyone gets offended, I’m not saying leaders are evil villains with giant robots.

Although some Monday morning emails that await you or parent meetings feel like they have a little Decepticon energy.

Megatron represents leadership built around power. Control. Fear. Winning at all costs.

Optimus Prime represents leadership built around purpose.

Service. Sacrifice. Belief.

Both are powerful. Only one builds something that lasts.

The same is true in our organizations.

You can lead through fear.

You can lead through compliance.

You can demand people follow because of your title.

Or…

You can build people who believe.

People who grow.

People who eventually become leaders themselves.

The 1980’s Lesson We Forgot

Growing up, we had some pretty amazing leadership experts on Saturday morning cartoons and Mattel Action Figures in our bedrooms:

GI Joe taught us courage. Sure, most people loved Duke, the respected and fearless leader, but let’s not forget the heavy artillery wielding Roadblock with Hulkamania style biceps and the coolest aura of them all. Or, maybe you’re more of a Snake Eyes guy, the quiet ninja lurking in the shadows, the only one who could take down Storm Shadow. And Sergeant Slaughter, with that 1980’s mustache energy, and oh by the way, I’m also a professional wrestler who tamed the Iron Sheik and the Ultimate Warrior? GO JOE!

He-Man reminded us that strength was about responsibility. But how could one not at least side-eye the evil villainous power of Skeletor? Secretly, I always rooted for the bad guy; I mean I am a Ric Flair fan. But Skeletor, the lord of destruction with the psychotic laugh, I’d like to think Heath Ledger’s Joker character stemmed from Skeletor’s willingness to just watch the world burn on Saturday mornings.

The Thundercats taught us about teamwork. Sure, Lion-O was fearless and noble, but Cheetara, the keen female superhero who outwitted every man on the show, every episode, I can hear her power in real time.

But, Optimus Prime taught me something even deeper as an adult, in my office, at 45:

Power means nothing if it isn’t used to serve others.

(Ironically, none of these lessons came from a leadership seminar with a $999 registration fee.)

Funny how that works.

The Question Every Leader Needs to Ask

When people leave your organization…

When students graduate…

When employees move on…

When athletes finish their final season…

What do they carry with them?

Your policies?

Your procedures?

Your expectations?

Or…

Do they carry a piece of belief you gave them?

Do they leave stronger?

More confident?

More prepared?

More capable?

Because the greatest compliment a leader can receive isn’t:

“You were successful.”

It’s:

“You helped me become someone I didn’t know I could be.”

That’s the mission.

That’s the work.

That’s the long game.

Am I developing leaders who can eventually transform the world… or am I just building people who need me forever or who accept the status quo as good enough?

Putting that Optimus Prime toy into a tote for my new office reveal is going to be important, because what used to sit on a shelf is now going to sit in my direct line of sight each day with a simple mental reminder each day: Be the Optimus Prime.

Protect the vulnerable.

Believe in people before they believe in themselves.

Fight for something bigger than yourself.

Because leadership was never about being the strongest person in the room.

It was always about using your strength so someone else could become stronger.

To every leader out there: Stay in the game. The world needs more Optimus Primes.

There is a weird feeling after accomplishing something big.

The adrenaline wears off.

The endorphins fade.

The excitement quiets down.

And suddenly you’re standing there asking yourself:

“Alright… now what?”

That’s exactly where I’ve been this week and honestly the past couple of months.

Coming off the 3rd Annual Stressed Leaders Summit, I was riding one of those rare professional highs that reminds you why you do the work.

Watching leaders connect.

Watching people laugh.

Watching walls come down.

Watching strangers become friends.

It was everything I hoped it would be. I mean something I dreamt about 3 years ago has exceeded even my expectations and the feedback, the gratitude, the enthusiasm, the momentum is unbridled right now.

And then reality hit.

The summit ended.

The laundry was still there.

The emails were still there.

The calendar was still full.

And my personal life looked like someone hit shuffle on every possible responsibility.

End of school year chaos.

My daughter graduating high school.

Softball coaching, playing career ending.

Watching my kids grow up way too fast.

Work projects.

Family commitments.

Life.

The funny thing about momentum is this:

Sometimes you lose it not because you quit.

Sometimes you lose it because life gets loud.

And if I’m being honest, my nutrition has felt like one of those areas where I lost my edge.

Not completely.

But enough.

A few too many meals out.

A few too many “I’ll re-group tomorrow” moments.

A few too many excuses disguised as being busy.

The guilt, the frustration of seeing Johnny Influencer on X, Instagram, LinkedIn talking about his system, how great his fitness is, and I’m here eating jerky trying to refocus on the nutrition I need to continue this fledgling Built Under Pressure Weight Loss Journey.

And that’s the trap.

Because successful people don’t usually fail because they don’t know what to do.

They fail because they stop doing the things they already know matter.

So this Monday morning, I’m resetting.

Not because I hate where I am.

Because I respect where I want to go.

Father’s Day Reminded Me Why

This weekend was Father’s Day.

And every year that day forces me to think about my why.

My kids.

My son.

My daughter.

The example I’m setting.

I don’t want my kids to look at me and see someone who was perfect.

That’s impossible.

I want them to see someone who kept improving.

Someone who got knocked down and got back up, repeatedly.

Someone who didn’t settle.

Someone who chased growth.

Because the greatest lesson I can teach them isn’t found in a speech.

It’s found in my actions.

They are watching.

They see how I handle adversity. They saw me cleaning up a flooded basement in a 72-power outage.

They see how I respond when I struggle, frustrated by a lack of success in weaker moments.

They see whether I choose comfort or growth.

And I want them to know:

You are never too old to get better.

You are never too busy to invest in yourself.

You are never too far away from your next comeback.

The Second Half Starts Now

The first half of the year was chaos.

Beautiful chaos.

Meaningful chaos.

But chaos.

Overall, I’m still down about 15 pounds, but the Spring of 2026 could be called the Spring of Stagnation.

The second half?

It’s time to rebuild.

Lift consistently.

Run consistently.

Eat intentionally.

Write consistently.

Lead intentionally.

Speak motivationally.

Not because I’m chasing some number on a scale.

Not because I need to prove something.

Because I want to be the best version of myself for the people who count on me.

That’s the real Built Under Pressure journey.

It’s not about never struggling.

It’s about refusing to stay stuck.

So here’s your Monday Morning Reset:

Where have you lost momentum? For me, consistent food preparation…

What habit have you let slide? My ability to seek clarity in the “why” of why I do, what I do.

What version of yourself are you avoiding because starting again feels uncomfortable?

Start today.

Not next Monday.

Not January 1st. And that’s exactly what I did- massive quantities of steak, chicken, and shrimp combo protein stir fry, lunches for the entire week and extra steaks for steak caesar salad dinners.

Today. June 22nd, 2026.

The second half of the year is here.

The question isn’t whether life will get hard.

It will.

The question is:

Who are you going to become because of it?

Built Under Pressure. Get back up with me, today. Our why’s need to see and deserve to the see the best versions of us. Don’t Fu**ing Quit. Stay in the game.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

Because if there was an Olympic event for overcommitting yourself to things you genuinely love, I would’ve medaled this spring. Not only would I have achieved Gold, I would have destroyed any steroid-infused East German, any from birth-to-18 Chinese Overcommitting Genetic Chain Coached Freak, and obviously ran at a marathon pace past any Kenyan Over-committer.

Possibly gold, realistically world record breaking pace. Maybe even performance-enhancing-drug tested afterward…

For 51 straight days, my calendar looked like someone handed a caffeinated squirrel access to my Outlook, gave my Google Calendar password to Rumpelstiltskin, and laughed maniacally as I chased glory.

Graduation. Senior Daughter Graduation…

Awards Nights, Scholarship Dinners, Baccalaureate.

State softball championship game.

Final Event of the Junior High State track meet.

Travel basketball tournaments.

Board meetings.

Speaking engagements.

Book projects.

District initiatives. Projects at work that other leaders simply aren’t doing, but I strive and chase to be on The Edge of everything I do. We can always go higher and further right?

College orientation 11 hours away.

Graduation parties, Graduation Speeches, Graduation Feelings.

Leadership summit planning.

And somewhere in there, I was apparently supposed to sleep, exercise, consume my proteins first, eat vegetables, and maintain healthy emotional regulation.

“Bold strategy, Cotton… Let’s see how it plays out…” Newsflash: Didn’t work.

At one point my basement flooded, we lost power for a few days but dodged tornadoes, lost internet, and if I’m being honest, I briefly lost my faith.

Not permanently. Just for a few minutes. Maybe fifteen.

The funny thing is none of these were bad things.

That’s what made it so confusing.

I wasn’t drowning in problems.

I was drowning in blessings. Countless blessings.

And somehow that can be just as exhausting.

Because nobody prepares you for the reality that some of the heaviest seasons of life arrive carrying things you prayed for, the items you dreamt of, the pursuits you’ve been chasing for years.

My daughter playing in the State Championship Game, up to bat, with the chance for an underdog overcoming story of a lifetime. Our softball journey together of 18 years coming to a close, in that at bat…

A son who still wants Dad to coach his basketball team, despite how hard he is on him, despite getting the leftovers from Dad.

Speaking opportunities growing by the day.

Multiple books to write… just sitting in my google docs, open tabs waiting for my undivided attention… ha, what’s that?

Leaders to serve, to pour into, over 50 leaders trusting me to support them, at a growing summit. The Anti-Conference Conference that continues to grow and get rave reviews.

A career that continues to open doors, both in person, and across the nation virtually (I was invited to attend a conference in Thailand this morning).

Meanwhile, in the middle of all that, my daughter graduated high school.

Just typing those words still feels strange, especially for someone like me who leads a district, who watched her journey, live, in-person, every single day.

For eighteen years your life revolves around her practices, her school events, our family vacations, Friday night football games, and helping them become who they’re supposed to become, building a foundation of roots, encouraging her to spread her wings.

Then one day you’re sitting in a folding chair, on stage, watching her receive a diploma while trying not to ugly cry in public with the reality that speech you wrote for a crowd of 1000+, was intended simply for her.

And suddenly you realize the countdown clock you never noticed, like the advent of the high school shot clock, has expired. 00.00

Because, the game clock doesn’t ever stop… The innings keep moving to end the game no matter how many coaching conferences you called to slow it down… The chapters keep closing, the pages kept turning…

Which is exactly why the keynote, that I delivered, hit me square between the eyes.

Because leadership teaches us to chase.

More growth.

More impact.

More influence.

More productivity.

More efficiency.

More everything.

But what if the greatest leadership skill isn’t learning how to move faster?

What if it’s learning when to stop? When to pause? When to slow down?

The centerpiece of my keynote wasn’t a strategic plan.

It wasn’t a leadership framework.

It wasn’t a shiny acronym.

It was a kid named Mason.

A kid carrying enough baggage to break most adults.

A kid who grew up surrounded by addiction, poverty, loss, and every statistical reason in the world to fail.

A kid standing quietly in the shadows while everyone else focused on the fires.

And the lesson wasn’t really about Mason. It was about all the Masons.

The ones sitting quietly in our schools. The ones working in our offices. The ones living in our homes. The ones we miss because we’re busy responding to emails from people who aren’t nearly as important.

Mason didn’t need a new initiative. He didn’t need a task force. He didn’t need a consultant. He needed somebody to slow down long enough to see him.

That’s it. That’s the secret.

The older I get, the more convinced I become that leadership isn’t about managing chaos.

In an AI world, in an everyone DM’ing your LinkedIn with their latest greatest efficiency solution, where we can be contacted by email or text 24/7 365, and are always ON. It’s about noticing people.

The world rewards speed.

People remember presence.

Nobody remembers the email you answered in four minutes.

Nobody remembers how many tabs you had open.

Nobody remembers how efficiently you managed your calendar.

But people remember how you made them feel.

They remember the conversation.

They remember the encouragement.

They remember the moment someone believed in them when they couldn’t believe in themselves.

Years later, they remember.

Sometimes more vividly than you do.

That’s why I told the room that leadership isn’t about the fires.

It’s about the pauses.

It’s about the moments hiding between the meetings.

It’s about slowing down enough to notice the harvest you’ve been growing.

That sometimes we have the unique ability to craft a moment that might change Mason’s stars. That might impact the life he lives and I may never see the yield of that crop. In rural Illinois we have a saying, “Plant Corn… Get Corn.” And it means a lot of different things to a lot of different people, but when you teach, coach, and lead kids from rural poverty, you meet their parents, you understand who the kid is for the first time, why they act the way they do, because, in rural Illinois… when you plant corn… you get corn…

But, what if you, I, we have the power to change that? To completely alter the yield of that crop forever with one simple moment, one funny story, one gesture, one extra effort moment as a leader?

Because here’s what I’ve learned after 22 years in education:

The most meaningful moments of your career will almost never happen when you’re looking for them.

They happen in hallways. Parking lots. Ball fields. Funeral homes. Coffee shops. Campfires. Hospital rooms. Front porches. Random Tuesday afternoons.

They’re quiet. Unplanned. Ordinary.

Until years later when you realize they weren’t ordinary at all.

And maybe that’s the challenge I want to leave with you this week. It’s the message I shared in my keynote and what I tried to pour into people who became part of my tribe during this event.

Stop sprinting through your own life.

The emails will still be there tomorrow.

The complaints will still be there tomorrow.

The fires will still be there tomorrow.

But that conversation with your kid?

That walk with your spouse?

That student lingering after class?

That employee carrying something heavy?

That former player calling you years later?

Those moments don’t wait.

The harvest doesn’t always announce itself.

Sometimes it’s standing right in front of us while we’re staring at our phones.

So this week, pause.

Put the phone down.

Look somebody in the eye.

Listen longer.

Laugh harder.

Stay at the dinner table a little longer.

Take the walk.

Make the call.

Watch the sunset.

Go to the game.

Take the picture.

Because someday you’ll realize those weren’t interruptions to your life.

They were your life.

And after spending two incredible days with 50 leaders in Starved Rock Country, that’s the lesson I came home with:

The magic was never hiding.

We’ve just been moving too fast to see it.

Slow down.

As I told the crew, “Everyone has a Mason. Your Mason is waiting.”

For the last two weeks, my Garmin watch has politely informed me that my stress level was reaching historic proportions. That’s impressive considering I’ve spent years as a school administrator, coached softball for over two decades, and survived countless parent meetings that began with, “I just have one quick question.”

Yet somehow, these last few weeks have been the most emotionally exhausting stretch of all.

Maybe it’s because this spring wasn’t just busy, it was life happening at full speed.

Prom.

Baccalaureate.

Honors Night.

Graduation.

Graduation party.

The end of a 20+ year with the game of softball.

Eight straight elimination softball games that felt like they aged me eight years.

And somewhere in between all of that, I found myself sitting in the stands watching my daughter play the final high school softball game of her life.

We lost the state championship 3-1 to an absolute beast in the circle—the Gatorade Player of the Year. Sometimes you tip your cap and acknowledge greatness. But that final score hardly tells the story. My own daughter’s insta words probably say it best (I’m told typos don’t matter on Instagram…)

Because for me, that game represented a journey that started 22 years ago. A freshly out of college teacher who desperately thought he wanted to be a varsity head coach. The early years were a grind trying to build something, but like always we prevailed and built something epic.

Then came fatherhood… I can still remember holding that little 8 pound baby girl. I still remember taking an eight-year-old girl to her very first travel softball practice. Like every sports parent, I thought we were just driving to practice, my practice plan ready, buckets, hitting nets, and soft hands paddles loaded in the back of the truck…

Turns out, we were beginning a journey.

As you read this, today’s journey involved 3 aau boys basketball games in the suburbs with my son and then immediately packed up into the car for the 11 hour drive to Tuscaloosa for her 2-day college orientation… where did my little girl go? I’m riding shotgun typing while she drives down 55 past St. Louis. We’ll stroll into town around 1 am for 745 am orientation registration, maybe we should just hit Waffle House at 1 am?

That softball journey filled with early mornings, late nights, rain delays, extra innings, road trips, batting cages, victories, heartbreaks, life lessons, family travel softball vacations, and more gas station snacks at dads favorite Kwik trip than any physician would recommend.

As a coach, I spent years helping young athletes chase their dreams. Yet somehow, watching my own daughter achieve more than I ever did as a coach has been one of the greatest gifts of my life. A wish answered, a dream fulfilled, she made it to the state title game, something I never did as a coach.

And now, just like that, I’m sitting in the passenger seat while she drives… Eleven hours to college orientation… The University of Alabama.

Her hands on the wheel. My hands gripping the door handle. Her country playlist playing songs I don’t recognize or ever want to hear again. Me wondering how every song somehow sounds exactly the same.

And somewhere between those exits and Buc-ee’s stops, a question keeps finding its way into my thoughts:

Where did my little girl go?

The truth is, she didn’t go anywhere.

She became who she was always meant to become.

That’s the beautiful and heartbreaking part of parenthood.

We spend years teaching our children how to walk, talk, think, dream, compete, fail, recover, and grow. Then one day they do all those things without us.

And while our hearts ache for the little kid who needed us for everything, we discover a new kind of joy in watching the young adult who needs us differently.

For all the parents reading this, whether your child is entering kindergarten, middle school, high school, or college, here’s my reminder:

Don’t rush through the ordinary moments.

The car rides.

The practices.

The games.

The concerts.

The random conversations.

The annoying playlists.

The requests that seem inconvenient at the time.

Because one day you’ll realize those weren’t interruptions to life.

They were life.

And while my Garmin may continue to insist I’m drowning, I know the truth.

I’m not drowning.

I’m just learning what every parent eventually learns.

The moments we wish would end, those moments sometimes become the moments we wish we could have back.

Next week is our 3rd Annual Stressed Leaders Summit. While my speaking game has grown immensely, I’ve found my signature keynote that I’m developing keeps revolving around the power of moments and the mentality I bring to school every day. Embrace the moments that you’re blessed to enjoy even when the garmin watch is telling you to quit yelling at the umpire and go take a walk. There’s power and love in those moments. So slow down and take the picture.

Embrace the chaos.

Take the picture.

Stay for the conversation.

Enjoy the drive.

Even if the country music is terrible.

Because before you know it, you’ll look over from the passenger seat and realize the little girl who once needed you to buckle her seatbelt in that lifted truck is now driving herself toward her future.

And you’ll be incredibly proud.

And incredibly emotional.

And somehow, both can be true at the same time.

Stay in the Game,

Dan

For many school leaders, that means one thing: You made it.

Barely.

You survived the school year. The budget meetings. The personnel issues. The parent emails. The board meetings. The spring concerts. The graduations. The ceremonies. The awards nights. The endless demands that somehow found a way to multiply when you thought your tank was already empty.

Now here’s the question: Did you finish strong? Or did you simply survive?

Because there’s a difference.

I know what many of you are feeling right now.

You’re exhausted.

Not physically exhausted.

Soul exhausted.

The kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix.

The kind of tired where you wonder if anyone truly understands the weight you’re carrying, quietly.

The kind of tired where other leaders have shared with me in the past, but secretly ask yourself now: “Can I really keep doing this?”

Three years ago, that question became the foundation of the Stressed Leaders movement. It led to a book, it opened the doors for the first retreat, and then it grew to an incredible summit in its third year. We already have OVER 50 leaders signed up!

And that question isn’t rhetorical… not because leaders are weak, but because leaders care.

Because the best leaders I know carry everyone else’s burdens while pretending they don’t have any of their own.

And eventually that catches up with you. I know, because it was, and some days, especially this spring, is me.

That’s why, in two short weeks, leaders from across education, business, athletics, healthcare, and industry will gather at the 2026 Stressed Leaders Summit.

Not for another conference… but, the anti-conference conference.

Not for another binder that collects dust with strategic plans with KPI’s or workbooks, nope, not today Satan.

Not for another keynote you forget by Wednesday, rather, inspiration and practical usage.

This is different. This is a reset. A recalibration.

A reminder of who you are before the job convinced you otherwise.

This year’s lineup is the strongest we’ve ever assembled.

You’ll hear from Jonelle Carter, whose message on leadership, identity, self-talk, and personal growth has transformed leaders across the country. Jonelle doesn’t just inspire audiences, she moves them. She challenges leaders to stop shrinking themselves and start leading from a place of courage, authenticity, and purpose. Monday evening is a celebration of some of the strongest women in leadership that I am blessed to know and you could be too.

Tuesday’s Session kicks off at 9 AM, fired up by yours truly FIRST. You’ll hear from returning legends on Tuesday Jake Carr and Dan Cox, who both have been deep in the lab reinventing their entrepreneurial journeys to share with our guests.

You’ll hear from Justin Pickens, one of the most powerful educational voices in America today. Justin’s story of breaking cycles, overcoming adversity, and becoming the educator students desperately need will leave you questioning whether you’ve been settling for “good enough” when greatness was sitting right in front of you. Getting to know Justin has been a critical improvement in my life and I cannot wait for our guests to see the same.

You’ll experience the energy and wisdom of Phil Januszewski from Positive Growth Lounge, whose ability to connect leadership, purpose, and human growth is unlike anything you’ve experienced. Phil reminds us that positivity isn’t a personality trait, it’s a leadership strategy.

And this is just a glimpse of a few of our speakers… the list of speakers is truly a DREAM TEAM!

You’ll connect with leaders who understand exactly what it feels like to wear the armor every day.

Because leadership is lonely.

Until you realize you’re not alone.

That’s what happens at the Stressed Leaders Summit.

The walls come down.

The conversations get real.

The masks disappear.

The armor loosens.

Leaders remember why they started & begin to remove the Stress from Stressed Leadership.

Every year I hear the same thing:

“I didn’t realize how badly I needed this.”

Every year someone pulls me aside and says:

“This changed me.”

Not because we have all the answers.

But because we create space for leaders to breathe again.

To think again.

To dream again.

To remember that they matter too.

Leadership isn’t about becoming indestructible.

It’s about becoming sustainable.

The world doesn’t need fewer leaders.

It needs healthy leaders.

Resilient leaders.

Purpose-driven leaders.

Leaders who can carry the weight without losing themselves in the process.

Maybe that’s you.

Maybe you’ve spent the last nine months carrying everyone else’s problems.

Maybe you’ve been so focused on helping others succeed that you’ve forgotten to invest in yourself.

Maybe you’re running on fumes.

If so, this is your invitation.

Not next year.

Not someday.

Now.

Two weeks.

One room.

One decision.

You can spend another summer recovering from leadership.

Join us: Sign up Here - Registration closes THIS WEEK!

Or you can spend two days rebuilding the leader behind the title.

The 2026 Stressed Leaders Summit isn’t for people looking for comfort.

It’s for leaders who refuse to quit.

Leaders who want more.

Leaders who know they still have another level inside them.

Leaders who are determined to Stay in the Game.

We’ll see you in the room. Join the DREAM TEAM:

Because sometimes the most important leadership decision you’ll make all year...

Is deciding to invest in yourself.

You will teach your tail off if you teach like your son or daughter was sitting in the front row.

And while I loved teaching, being a softball head coach was my motivator every single day at Seneca High School. I became a head coach at 23, not because of my love of baseball and my early knowledge of sabermetrics…

…but because nobody else wanted that job! But, I loved it!

Early on, however, it felt like a futile grind. I inherited a program with no direction and kids that had very little experience or drive to become great softball players. On the totem pole of female athletics at SHS at that time it went:

• basketball,

• track,

• volleyball,

• … and in a distant last place… softball.

We didn’t have any players playing competitive ball in the summer, nobody was working on hitting or pitching outside of the 3 month season in the spring, and no kids seemed to have the love or drive that I had for the game; the school had 1 regional title in over 20 years!

I had to build a culture and change the outlook of the program in an area of the Midwest that was churning out Division 1 players annually. I had a team of kids who could barely play slow pitch much less highly competitive travel softball.

So, I put in the work. We built a travel program. I opened the gym during the winter for pitching lessons for any kid who wanted to learn to pitch; every Saturday, all winter long, for years. Hours in the gym, in youth camps; I worked on hitting, pitching, catching camps with kids of all ages. I met 8 year olds who could barely walk and talk at the same time and watched them grow into softball players. Slowly, but surely, the results began to pay off. In the winter, after classes, the baseball coach and I turned an old automotive shop into batting cages. I lived in those cages.

I must have sent out this remind message 7,000+ times- “Anybody who wants to hit, I’ll be in the cages after school, from 5-7 pm.” After a decade of creating this, I finally had a varsity team full of kids who wanted it… and wanted it as much as their coach did.

Little did I know this grind would prepare me for my next career arc, as a District Superintendent. Resetting culture, changing expectations, long hours, embracing the grind of the job, and giving the “players” the freedom to thrive in their own way became my focus.

Coaches don’t run sprints. Coaches don’t take the game winning shots. And coaches don’t miss those shots either. In life sometimes we become too result driven, outcomes, wins, losses, instead of chasing the greatness within the grind. Real coaches are process driven, not focused only on outcomes, but the pain and pleasure of the grind is what matters.

You think she meant to kick the ground ball?

Hey coach, I wasn’t trying to strike out…

Traditional leadership tends to focus on control, ensuring that staff follow directives, meet expectations, and stay on track. Many coaches have a “My way or the highway” approach to dealing with athletes. But great leadership isn’t about compliance, or dominance; it’s about empowering people to excel with your support and sometimes just shutting up and staying out of the way.

I had to learn this lesson the hard way early in my coaching career and it was a “career” that almost didn’t happen. After 4 straight Regional Championship Title game losses, three by one run in back-to back- to back years, I was almost ready to hang it up. I vividly remember the bus ride home from Peru St. Bede in 2010, ready to hang it up. I told my assistant coach, “I’m done… I can’t take these gut wrenching losses any more…”

Then in those last couple of losing years we started to win more, win closer games, not fold under pressure, and eventually in my last 8 years of coaching, we won 5 regional titles and appeared in 4 Sweet 16 Title games. We rattled off 10 straight years of 20+ win seasons and a couple of 30+ win seasons.

• 2006 - L Regional Title 4-1

• 2008 - L Regional Title 3-2

• 2009 - L Regional Title 2-1

• 2010 - L Regional Title 5-4

• 2011 - W Regional Title 2-1, Lost Sectional Sweet 16 Title 13-3 to St. Joe Ogden (State Champs)

• 2012 - W Regional Title 2-1, Lost in Sectional Round.

• 2013 - W Regional Title 5-3, Lost Sectional Sweet 16 Title 4-3 to Beecher (State Champs)

• 2016 - L Regional Title 6-5

• 2017 - W Regional Title 6-3, Lost Sectional Sweet 16 Title 3-2 to Beecher (2nd Place in State)

• 2018 - W Regional Title 1-0, Lost Sectional Sweet 16 Title 2-1 to Beecher (State Champs)

• 2019 - L Regional Title 1-0… in 54 minutes…

And then, just like that, as the program was built, starting with 0 travel players, I exited with a program of over 20 travel players chomping at the bit to make it to the State Finals. I knew I was headed into District Executive Leadership, but the damn Beecher Lady Bobcats had beaten my three best teams. In my early coaching career I felt like I could never get over the Regional Hump and at the end, the Sectional Hump thanks to the Beecher Lady Bobcats.

My daughter entered high school and I handed the keys over to a guy I hoped would be a special head coach and elevate the program even higher. I always wanted my kids to have other voices in their lives, not just Dad’s. A lot of people told me I was a fool to just hand this program over, but it wasn’t about me, or my coaching record. I never got into teaching to become a state title head coach, even though it quickly became my identity.

My daughter’s sophomore and junior season, she earned a lot of nice accolades including All-State, All-Area, All-Conference awards, but…

• Sophomore Year - lost 5-4 to… Beecher in the Sweet 16 Sectional Title

• Junior Year - lost 1-0 to… Beecher in the Sweet 16 Sectional Title

Recently, I’ve written about the month of May, it’s been exhausting chasing softball, track & travel basketball for my son, and all of life’s other demands… I wrote about 51 straight days of family chaos, about the pace of life, and in April when the IHSA released it’s postseason route… there stood Beecher, again… potentially in the Sweet 16 Round Sectional Title Game… their 31-0 record versus Seneca’s 36-2 record. Another Division 1 pitcher from Beecher standing in our way, and in the way of my daughter.

The game could not have started off any better as my daughter stepped into the box in the bottom of 1, runner at 2nd, 2 outs, and lined a single to left field to score the first run for the Irish; the first lead against Beecher I can ever remember. Up 4-1 in the top of the 7th inning, most folks from the Land of the Irish were celebrating, but as I quietly leaned up against the fence, stoic, and by myself, I knew a Hayhurst coached team wouldn’t go away quietly… the game started to fall apart as Beecher would have 5 consecutive 2 out hits in their final at bats, to take a 5-4 lead, unreal. It was happening AGAIN.

Snakebit…

By a damn Bobcat…

Again…

Until the Lady Irish refused to lose, down 5-4 in the bottom of the 7th, they rallied to hit an epic walk off single to left again, same pitch, same location, screw ball riding in on the hands, lined to left field to win 6-5. The emotion from the players, the fans, the alumni, the parents, the coaches, the crowd, electric… tears everywhere! VOLUME UP!

My daughter did something I never could, she won a Sectional Title, advanced to the Super Sectional round of 8 on Monday Night, against another powerhouse program, and defeated those damn Bobcats from Beecher.

As she later replayed, in the privacy of our car, on the way to celebrate with her teammates and families, she beamed with pride and ferocious focus, “I told the girls we are not losing to Fu**iing Beecher again, lock in and let’s go win this in the bottom of the 7th.” That’s a leader, that’s MY kid!

Minus the Not-So-Family-Friendly language, I could not have been more proud of her effort and her leadership. Teaching like a coach, teaching like your daughter is sitting in the front row of your classroom, that’s what this moment was about for me. A full circle moment, where I got to quietly, and nervously, watch a 7th inning collapse, but a comeback for the ages, damn them snakebites and that Bobcat nemesis.

This May was our May and I was so proud to watch these ladies do something I never could do, but isn’t that what leadership is really about? Coaches don’t hit the ball, catch the ball, throw the ball, field the ball, or step up when it counts. We try to put our players in the best position to succeed, when the game is on the line.

I think Seneca coach Brian Holman said it best when talking about leadership accountability and coaching hard- “I try to make them as confident as they can be with some of the stuff we do,” Seneca coach Brian Holman said. “Sometimes that looks like yelling, sometimes that looks like long practices, but when you’re down one in the bottom of the seventh against the defending state champions with seven, eight, nine up, you have that ultimate confidence that no matter what we’re going to fight through this.”

Coaching hard doesn’t always make you popular, especially with players or staff members who don’t want to be pushed. It’s much easier to coach in compliance than to coach with tenacity and high expectations. It’s easier to blame the coach when things go south, when your performance dips, but remember coaches never hit the ball or catch the ball, but sometimes you can’t tell parents or those toxic employees that.

A lot of people told me I was nuts to walk away from the field after that 2019 loss, but I knew I was ready to chase something else; the Superintendent Seat. I was confident that another coach could get us past Beecher. I was confident that my own daughter would rise to the occasion. While my wife was covered in tears after the game, I felt an ease, like the monkey was finally off our backs.

As I went for a morning run the next day, I couldn’t help but think about how funny leadership really is. Twenty-one years ago, I thought success meant standing in the spotlight, coaching at third base, hosting a Title plaque. I thought it meant being the teacher with the great lesson, the coach holding the trophy, or even the leader with all the answers. Age has a way of humbling you. Experience teaches you that the greatest moments of leadership aren’t the ones where you win. They’re the ones where the people you poured into, those people win.

My daughter.

My wife.

Our staff.

A bunch of high school aged girls jumping around, hugging, smiling, crying, some that I coached from 8 years old to 18 years old.

That is the heart of servant leadership.

It’s teaching history like your own children are sitting in the front row. It’s opening the gym on Saturday mornings or the cages in the evening, for years, when nobody is watching. It’s believing in people before they believe in themselves. It’s staying after practice, making the phone call, having the difficult conversation, raising expectations, and refusing to lower the standard because it’s uncomfortable. It is coaching, teaching, and leading with the understanding that your ultimate purpose is not to create followers, it’s to develop people who eventually surpass you. I got to see these people that I care about surpass me and it feels amazing.

The irony is that when I finally stopped chasing trophies and started focusing entirely on people, the trophies showed up anyway.

The Regional titles came.

The 20-win seasons came.

The 30-win seasons are now the annual expectation.

The championships came. Then a new championship arrived.

But those were never the best part.

The best part was standing in the, once quiet and lonely, now packed outfield fence line years later, watching my daughter and her teammates accomplish something I never could. Watching another coach lead the program and elevate it to new heights. Watching young women who had once been little girls in our camps refuse to quit when the title game was slipping away. Watching confidence, culture, toughness, and belief get passed from one generation to the next.

That’s what leadership is.

Leadership is planting trees whose shade you may never sit under.

It’s building something that lasts longer than your tenure.

It’s creating opportunities for others to write chapters that are greater than your own.

And maybe that’s why this victory feels different.

The monkey wasn’t just off my daughter’s back. It wasn’t just off Seneca Softball’s back. It was a reminder that the work matters. That coaching hard is valuable. That adversity serves a purpose. That the losses teach lessons the victories never could. That sometimes the thing standing in your way for years, our Beecher, your setback, life’s disappointments, whatever the struggle is, isn’t there to stop you. It’s there to prepare you.

The teacher in me learned to teach like my children were sitting in the front row.

The coach in me learned that players grow most when they are challenged, not protected.

The leader in me has learned that success, on the softball diamond or in the district office, isn’t measured by what I accomplish, but by what continues thriving after I’m gone.

And the father in me learned that there is no greater joy than watching your child and her friends and teammates stand on your shoulders and reach places you never could.

That is the reward.

That is the mission.

And after 21 years in education, I still believe the greatest leaders, teachers, and coaches are simply servants who thrive in helping others discover their best moments, in slaying their dragons, and in finding their purpose.