I stood in front of Taos Pueblo last week and realized I could barely remember standing there the first time.

I mean, I remember it being atmospheric and pretty. But nothing looked familiar beyond the basic mental picture, and I couldn’t recall walking around, any conversations, the weather (likely bright and sunny like the recent visit), or any kind of a feeling about the place. A doorway here, a shadow there, nothing that added up to an actual memory of somewhere I know I had loved visiting. I had gone back to New Mexico expecting a rush of familiarity, the kind you get when a place you’ve loved once meets you again like no time passed at all. Instead I got something closer to static.

We parked in the dusty lot, paid our admission, and went through the weathered gate. Standing there under one of New Mexico’s trademark electric-blue skies, in the sun and the heat, I remembered almost nothing. It was confusing to know I’d stood in that exact spot before and feel like I’d never seen it in my life.

Santa Fe had changed enough that I expected not to recognize it. It was no longer the slightly scruffy town way out West, and featured new restaurants, new development, and a more upscale feel than I remembered. Change explains itself there. But the Pueblo hasn’t changed in centuries, with the same adobe walls, the same ladders leaning against the same doorways I stood in front of decades ago. The place held still, but my memory of it had faded like an old photograph.

That’s the part that got me. I didn’t lose that memory because the place moved on and changed without me around to see it. I lost it because I moved through it the first time without ever truly fixing it in my mind. Thirty years of a full, busy, well-lived life had passed, and somewhere in the middle of all that living, an entire trip I know I enjoyed had worn down to a shadow of an experience.

It bothered me more than I expected. I’ve spent a long time in a business where the whole point is capturing a moment so precisely that other people feel it years later. Turns out I hadn’t been doing that for myself.

Subscribe now

While I was standing in the disorientation of that gap, another memory came back whole and bright, sharp enough to surprise me. It was Denver, Colorado, 1990, visiting a friend on the first trip I ever took completely on my own.

I was young enough that most car rental counters wouldn’t even talk to me. I don’t remember thinking twice about it at the time. I remember working my way down the counter until somebody finally said yes. I’d come all the way from Lancaster, Pennsylvania to Stapleton Airport, back when it was still Stapleton, years before Denver International existed out on the prairie.

I remember that one day better than I remember the entire previous trip to New Mexico thirty years later, and I think I finally understand why. Nothing about it was familiar enough to coast through. I had no autopilot to fall back on, so I had to figure everything out as I went.

The week that followed was one new thing after another. Surprising my friend, who I found up in Greeley. Driving into the Rockies in a brand-new 4x4 I’d rented myself. Breaking in a pair of hiking boots on trails at 12,000 feet I hadn’t planned on climbing. Marveling at the beauty of Many Parks Curve. Four-wheeling up Gold Camp Road.

Most of what fades from a life are the moments we let ourselves drift through, telling ourselves there’ll be time to pay closer attention later. I remember that week so clearly because it was visceral and new, something I could only get by going.

Chasing novelty forever isn’t a sustainable answer, forcing every trip into an unrepeatable first experience only so the memory sticks. I’d simply been assuming the good moments would stay with me on their own, without my doing anything to keep them. Now I know otherwise.

About ten years ago I found a journal that finally worked for the way my brain works. It’s a five-year journal built around Gretchen Rubin’s 2009 book The Happiness Project, and I didn’t go looking for it. I found it on a shelf at the gift shop in the New York Public Library, one of those small, accidental discoveries that ends up building a habit for good.

Each page covers one calendar date stretched across five years, with only a few lines of room per entry, not enough space to ramble, only enough to force me to decide what mattered about the day before I write it down.

By year three or four, I’m writing below earlier versions of myself, all on the same date, all still right there on the page. It’s a real mix of feelings, reading a version of yourself from years ago sitting a few lines above who you are now. The format doesn’t leave room for a full account of the day. It leaves room for the few details that really mattered, focusing memories and impressions for future recall.

I already had a good life, only I wasn’t holding onto enough of it. That’s the whole discovery: the fix that finally worked wasn’t an elaborate system or an hour of reflection every night. It’s easy, and it happens every day, and that’s exactly why it stuck when other attempts didn’t.

The memories stick better too, now that I have a frame of reference to look back on.

And the next time I go to New Mexico to shoot pictures, I expect to remember my recent visit more clearly.

What are some ways you’ve found to make sure you hold onto the memories in life you actually want to keep? Feel free to tell me in the comments!

I learned something new this week, and I want to tell you about it while it’s still fresh.

It started with an experiment, directly from a weekly content calendar I recently built: one weekly theme across three posts, a story to open, a reframe in the middle, and practical tools to close it out on Friday. LinkedIn™ was my platform, and I built a simple analytics tool in AI to help understand how it would unfold.

This week’s theme was “Networking!,” a word (and exclamation!) I chose deliberately because I know this topic carries … a certain weight; baggage, even. It’s a professional skill I developed well into mid-career, and I wanted to use that story as the entry point for something bigger: a real conversation about why so many capable, accomplished professionals dread something we know we can’t afford to avoid.

Monday’s post was personal. I wrote about the parking spot at work I used for nearly three decades, the building that held my entire professional world, and the day the door closed behind me for the last time. I described my imaginings about group mixers with bad coffee and hollow business card exchanges and anxiety, and the way a coach who cared helped me understand what “networking” is (relationship building) and isn’t (transactional).

The response was immediate. Comments came in from people who recognized themselves in the story. The “I didn’t realize how small my professional world had gotten until it suddenly had to get bigger” part resonated, and engagement on that post was among the highest I’ve seen on anything I’ve posted. This reinforced for me that the personal story, told with specific detail and without a tidy resolution, helps people feel something. The analytics were clear, and I started taking notes.

On Wednesday I went more conceptual, writing about the difference between networking as transaction and networking as navigation, and using a story from my recent trip to Sweden. The response was solid, respectful, and thoughtful, without setting the algorithm on fire. This is, I’m learning, predictable. The second themed post won’t always catch fire, and the lesson isn’t that you can’t expect every post to outperform the previous.

And then Friday arrived and I wasn’t feeling the last planned post one bit, in fact I almost didn’t do one at all.

The original plan for Friday was a practical how-to about networking events, built around the idea that two real conversations is a more useful goal than working a room. Good material, and I might do something about it in the future. But by Wednesday afternoon, it wasn’t the right post for Friday, given what was actually unfolding in my comments section. I had to pivot.

I pictured the comments section like a room reacting in a way I recognized from years of coaching workshops on change and personal development. When you ask a room a genuine question and then listen carefully to the answers, the room tells you where to go next. What my LinkedIn community told me, in the most specific and honest language, was that the word “networking” itself is a problem. “Phony.” “Saccharine.” “Makes me cringe.” One person told me they can speak in front of a thousand people without blinking, but the idea of “working a room” is anxiety-making.

Same here, friend.

Several folks were clear that all the effort you put in to a “networking event” gives too little back.

Subscribe now

In one workshop session I facilitate, we show a group a line drawing of a specific concept or tool and ask for reactions. The overwhelming majority respond, with great conviction and specific detail, on exactly why the object pictured won’t work and what’s wrong with it. A few will be neutral. Almost none will be immediately enthusiastic. In that moment, it’s not for me to argue with the skeptics. It’s to acknowledge what’s real in what they’re saying, and then, without forcing it, see if there’s another way to look at the thing.

So, Friday became that post. A thank you, and a data point that validated what people were already feeling (research puts networking anxiety north of 60% among professionals, with nearly half avoiding events altogether even when they know better). Finally, the start of a reframe where I ended it on a question to keep the conversation going: what would you call it instead, if “networking” didn’t exist?

The word cloud I paired with the post, all the “dread” words large and loud in the foreground, community and connection and human quietly whispering at the bottom, seemed to say everything the post didn’t need to say out loud.

LinkedIn is evolving faster than I realized, and this week gave me a useful window into what that actually looks like in practice. The platform is actively suppressing AI slop, prioritizing posts that generate genuine conversation over posts that generate passive likes, and rewarding accounts that show up with content that sounds like a human actually wrote it. All good stuff.

Tell me in the comments what you’ve learned lately about professional relationship building, or how you’re adjusting your approach to social media.

I’ve been adjusting content and watching engagement move — sometimes dramatically — when the approach connects. Monday connected, and Friday is performing pretty well considering it’s still new. Wednesday did the work it needed to do and may matter more as a “long tail” than the numbers suggested in the moment.

That’s how a lot of good work goes, actually: the pieces that feel like they didn’t really connect in the moment sometimes turn out to be what holds everything together later.

We shall see.

What’s one word you’d use to describe your own relationship with networking, right now, today, as you’re reading this?

How are you adjusting your content approaches to the shifting social/interest platforms’ algorithms?

I’ve never believed that creativity arrives only when some mysterious force decides we’re worthy of it, or that the Muse keeps office hours but occasionally forgets to come in. Those ideas make for romantic stories, but they don’t explain much. They certainly don’t explain the thousands of projects I and others have finished over the years under deadlines that cared very little about inspiration.

That doesn’t mean we don’t get stuck, in fact, I’ve been there recently myself.

Some mornings I sit down fully intending to write, record a podcast, build a new coaching program, or move an important project forward. A quick glance at the news becomes twenty minutes as one interesting article leads to another. A podcast recommendation appears. My phone lights up. Before long I’ve consumed an impressive amount of information while producing almost nothing.

I felt busy. But motion and progress are not the same thing.

Why This Keeps Happening

The world has become remarkably efficient at hijacking our attention. Every platform wants another minute. Every headline promises urgency, insisting that whatever someone else is doing deserves our consideration more than our own work.

Creative work needs us to stay mentally in one place long enough for ideas to deepen. That’s easy for some people; I have to work at it. When I feel creatively flat, the problem usually isn’t a shortage of ideas, it’s that I’ve allowed too many competing inputs to crowd my “mental airspace.” My mind is busy, but not clear.

The good news is that once you understand the cause, you can start designing the solution.

Getting Back on Track

As a pilot, I’m trained to focus under pressure. Checklists keep both the airplane and the pilot several steps ahead of what’s coming next. That discipline that builds focus and routine to create a safe flight translates well beyond the cockpit. So, I built my own version for the days when the creative engine won’t turn over.

When I lose focus, I step away from my desk for a few minutes and breathe deeply, filling my lungs until I can feel my thinking slow down. It’s remarkable how quickly that changes the conversation inside my own head. Then I deliberately bring to mind the people I love, the opportunities already in front of me, and the fact that I get to build something that genuinely matters. Gratitude is a powerful emotion: it helps crowd out the fear and noise that were blocking things in the first place.

Only then do I refocus on the work: What absolutely needs to happen today? What would create real momentum this week? If this month ended successfully, what would I be glad I finished? Who could I help? Questions like these create intention, and intention is usually enough to get me moving again.

Understanding pressure helps too, because not all of it works the same way.

Deadline pressure is clarifying. In broadcast TV, I was responsible for a finished piece hitting the air every night just after midnight. No project meant no gig. That kind of pressure doesn’t block creativity; it organizes it. It burns away everything that isn’t the work.

Internal pressure operates differently and has to be managed differently. It’s mostly hypothetical — an inner voice asking whether the work will be good enough before you’ve written a single word. That pressure isn’t motivating, it’s just angsty noise.

Engagement is the desired option: once I’m genuinely interested in what I’m building and curious about who it might help, rather than anxious about how it will land, the work flows. Sometimes a real deadline gets me there. Sometimes gratitude and a quick walk do it. Either way, the destination is the same: presence with the work in front of me, rather than judgment of work I haven’t made yet.

Action builds confidence, not the other way around. Waiting to feel ready before you begin is a reliable way to wait forever. Understanding that has probably saved me more hours than any productivity system I’ve ever tried.

Subscribe now

Treating Yourself Like a Client

Sometimes we become our own toughest critics before we’ve produced anything worthy of criticism. The internal commentary starts early: You should be farther along. Other people are producing more. You’re wasting time. None of those thoughts produce better work. They just consume energy that could have gone toward the work itself.

If one of my coaching clients came to me discouraged after a difficult week, I would never pile on. We’d look at the facts together, make a few adjustments, and get back to work. We deserve that same conversation with ourselves.

Creativity also needs recovery as much as it needs effort. Some of my best ideas have arrived while hiking, flying, traveling, photographing a landscape, or sitting with a notebook and no agenda beyond paying attention. Observation is a wonderful creative exercise — pick an ordinary place, a coffee shop, a park bench, an airport gate, and just watch and listen. Notice the details others walk past. Before long, your brain starts reconnecting with curiosity instead of urgency. Curiosity, in my experience, builds better work than pressure ever will.

The goal isn’t constant output. Machines that run without rest eventually break down. Human beings operate on a different rhythm, and some creative seasons naturally produce more than others. The important question isn’t whether you’ve had a slow week. It’s whether you’re willing to gently guide yourself back before that week becomes a month.

Momentum rarely announces itself. Some of the most productive days I can remember were ordinary ones — days when I simply returned to the work before I felt fully ready, trusting that clarity would follow motion. It almost always does.

If you’ve been stuck lately, give yourself a little more patience than your inner critic naturally allows. There’s a good chance you’re not lacking creativity at all. Your mind may just be temporarily clogged with noise rather than signal.

Clear a little space. Take a breath. Remember what matters. Then sit back down and make something.

What would you start — or finish — this week, if you trusted that clarity was on the other side of beginning?

There’s a co-worker in every workplace who seems to wait for you to come back from vacation just to deliver the line: “Welcome back to reality.” Usually with a thin smile that suggests they consider their suffering a virtue and your time off an inconvenience.

Here’s what I’ve learned about that version of reality: it’s optional. Not the work itself — the chaos. The fire-drill re-entry, the inbox archaeology, the first week back spent excavating issues that mostly sorted themselves out while you were gone. That part is largely a design problem, and design problems have solutions.

It took me years to design my own system, and the results have been worth the effort: A 75% reduction in inbox volume on my return. A team that didn’t need me to hover from afar. And the psychological freedom — which is really the whole point — to actually be away when I’m away.

Here’s how I do it.

Before You Go: Set the Conditions for Absence

The work of a good vacation begins two weeks before you leave. Not because you need to double your output in advance, but because clarity now prevents chaos later.

Start with a hard handoff. Every open item on your desk needs a decision: close it before you go, delegate it with explicit authority, or consciously let it wait. That last category is smaller than you think. Most things that feel urgent are really just loud.

Give your team actual decision-making power while you’re gone — not just task lists. People rise to the level of trust you extend to them, and nothing erodes team confidence faster than a manager who delegates the work but keeps all the real authority. When I left for extended travel, I made it explicit: you have what you need, and I trust you to use it. It always went fine.

Your out-of-office message is also worth more than you think. The standard “I’m away but checking in daily” approach is a trap — for you and for the people emailing you. It signals that you’re reachable, which means people will reach. Instead, be specific about your return date, clear that you won’t be responding, and invite them to consider whether their message will even be relevant by the time you’re back. That last part sounds bold, but it works. People appreciate the honesty, and they clean up their own reply-all habits when given permission to.

For those of us with content-driven businesses, scheduling ahead is the ultimate gift to your future self. Queuing up articles, social posts, and email drops before you leave means your work continues building audience while you’re standing in line for the Métro. The business runs. You get to enjoy the croissant at a sidewalk cafe.

While You’re Away: Actually Be There

This is harder than it sounds for people who’ve built careers on staying connected and on top of things. The high-performer’s nervous system has been trained to monitor, respond, and anticipate. Switching that off is a skill, and it takes practice.

To review: time away isn’t a break from your work — it’s an input to your work. Different environments, unfamiliar challenges, genuine uncertainty about what comes next — all of it activates a quality of attention that desk-bound routine slowly drains away. You come back with new material, new angles, new energy. But only if you actually showed up for the trip.

That means protecting your attention and your time while you’re gone. Set a single daily window if you must check in on something genuinely critical — fifteen minutes, not a rolling availability. Tell your team the ground rules in advance, close the laptop, and get out there.

If you’ve done the pre-departure work properly, the emergencies are rare. In my experience, they’re nearly nonexistent. The things that feel like they couldn’t possibly proceed without you almost always can.

Share

The Return

The re-entry problem is real, and the worst thing you can do is treat your first day back like a catching-up sprint. You will exhaust yourself trying, and you’ll burn through your freshly charged energy for the rest of the week.

Instead, build a buffer. If you can manage it, don’t schedule your first day back as a meeting-heavy, full-contact workday. Give yourself a morning to triage, orient, and breathe. Know going in that the inbox will feel overwhelming and that it won’t actually take as long as it looks. Most of it will be threads that resolved without you. Skim fast, archive freely, and resist the pull to respond to things that no longer need a response.

I’ve also found a quick reconnect with your team — a short conversation, not a status report — helps more than any inbox strategy. What do they need from you now that you’re back? What moved while you were gone that they’re proud of? Acknowledge it and be sure they know how much you appreciate them for their hard work. It closes the loop on the trust you extended before you left.

Then ease back in. Protect the mental space you brought home from your time away. The clarity you found on that beach, in that museum, on that trail has a half-life, and the best thing you can do is use it before the routine closes back in.

The Bigger Point

When I started treating time off as a system to be designed rather than reacted to, the same way I’d design any other part of my work, everything changed. Instead of coming back in to work with “hair on fire,” my system, pre-work, and trusting my teams helped reduce chaos for me, and my colleagues.

You can be present on vacation without your business falling apart. You can return to work without spending three days excavating your inbox. You can skip the “welcome back to reality” moment entirely by building a reality that doesn’t require that kind of re-entry.

The time off isn’t the indulgence. The chaos of coming back is.

What’s one thing you could set up before your next trip that would change what the return looks like?

Airplanes are like magic carpets. Even when I’m not the one flying, the feeling of rolling down the runway, gaining speed and momentum, almost always means something fun and interesting is about to happen.

The runway falls away and the ordinary context drops with it, creating a quiet shift in thinking like a window opening in a room that’s been closed too long.

I felt it on an evening flight headed toward Paris, a city I had wanted to visit for decades and, for one reason or another, never quite made it happen. As the big Airbus lifted off, one word came to mind: Finally.

What followed over the next week turned out to be one of the most creatively energizing experiences of my life so far, and more than a year later, it’s still paying dividends.

Distance Creates the Clarity You Can’t Manufacture at Your Desk

When we’re inside our everyday work and life — our routines, our inboxes, our familiar spaces, we slowly lose the ability to see it clearly. Proximity can reduce perspective. We’re too close to the canvas.

Travel forces a different view. Not because the work changes while you’re gone, but because you do.

The morning approach into Charles de Gaulle airport, with the spring-green French countryside unrolling below in the early morning light, the smooth landing, the taxi to the gate, felt genuinely like a dream coming true in real time. The immigration process and the first moments of navigating a city where my French was, to put it charitably, rudimentary — all of it demanded a quality of attention beyond what you bring to a normal Tuesday walking in to work from the parking lot.

Full presence. Active problem-solving. Genuine uncertainty about what came next.

That quality of attention is exactly what creative work requires, and travel has a way of switching it back on. It’s like recess, and we need that.

New Inputs Produce Better Work

Every great piece of work is a reflection of who we are. The experiences we collect, the conversations with others, the problems we see other people solve in ways that would never occur to us alone — all of it becomes raw material, often in ways we can’t predict or plan.

By the end of that week in Paris, I had stood in front of the Mona Lisa and felt the electricity of finally seeing something in person that I’d only ever seen in pictures. I’d spent hours in the Impressionist wing of the Musée d’Orsay, where the light in those paintings stops being a metaphor and starts being a revelation. I’d wandered through Versailles and along the Seine and through neighborhoods that made me want to slow down and look at everything. And the trip up the Eiffel Tower at night was even more magical than I expected.

I also mastered the Métro — deciphering automated station callouts in a language I was still finding my footing in, and finding the quiet satisfaction by week’s end of zipping around and across the city without a second thought. That arc, from uncertain beginner to confident navigator, is one the brain finds deeply rewarding. And a rewarded brain is a creative brain.

None of this showed up immediately in my work; it settled in gradually. Months later, when I’m writing or producing or coaching, I notice my travel experiences surfacing in ways I couldn’t have planned — a phrase here, a metaphor there, and a broader comfort with the unfamiliar that comes from successfully navigating something new.

Share

The Permission Problem

Another important note about travel to all of us with full calendars and busy careers: many of us have been conditioned to feel guilty about taking that time off.

We equate presence with productivity. We tell ourselves that being away is a luxury we can’t afford right now, that the work needs us, that we’ll go when things slow down. We’ve all said some version of “when things slow down” enough times to know that things don’t slow down — they just keep rolling.

Being away isn’t lazy: it’s system maintenance. Work ethic is important but any machine that’s always running degrades over time. Same with humans, and the output reflects it: a narrowing of reference, a dulling of instinct, a growing inability to see the work freshly.

That week in Paris didn’t take me away from work. It fed it. The warmth of people in another country who were patient with my imperfect French, the beauty of a city that has been investing in art and architecture for centuries, the experience of being a genuine beginner in an unfamiliar place — all of it reminded me what it feels like to be curious, open, and alive to the world. That’s not a vacation from the work. That is the work.

Still Paying Dividends

The visit to Paris was over a year ago, and I’m still drawing on it.

Not in any way I could have predicted before I went — that’s exactly the point. The returns on travel don’t always show up on the flight home. Sometimes they surface months later, informing a piece of work you’d never consciously connect to a morning in the Orsay or a week of navigating an unfamiliar city in a language you were still learning.

Travel gives our brains new material to work with, making our days more colorful and our work better.

If there’s a trip you’ve been postponing — a place that’s been calling to you, a journey you keep moving to “when things settle down” — I’d ask you to reconsider the accounting. The cost of going is real. The cost of not going, to your creativity and your work, is just as real, but less visible.

Sometimes the most productive thing you can do is leave.

What’s one place you’ve been meaning to go — and what would it mean for your work, and your life, if you actually went this year? Please comment, like, and share.

Sometimes in a career or life, there’s a time when pivoting to something new or different stops feeling like a “maybe” and starts becoming a “definite.”

That doesn’t mean it’s easy, comfortable, or figured out, but it’s now practically an engraved invitation, arriving with an RSVP, and a question: What if this is the moment when anything becomes possible again — like when I was just starting out?

That reframe can be freeing, but getting there requires some honest work first.

In an earlier piece, I wrote about “that low rumble” — the barely perceptible vibration in the steering that tells an experienced driver something is coming out of alignment, long before it becomes a real problem. The career version of that is just as real, and just as easy to ignore until later.

It goes like this: the work that used to light you up starts to feel like obligation. Not that your coworkers or manager would notice, but privately you’re restless in a way you can’t quite name. You find yourself more energized by what’s next than by what’s sitting on your desk right now.

This feeling of restlessness is often a sign that growth is underway, and it rarely bursts flamboyantly through the door. (“Ta-daahhh!”) I’ve always admired colleagues who navigate change with grace rather than panic, because they’ve learned to hear the whisper of impending change early, while they still have room to respond proactively.

One gut check before we get really, really real: not every difficult stretch is a pivot signal. Sometimes it’s just a hard quarter, a difficult client, or a bad season. The difference is trajectory (up or down) and duration. A rough patch tends to smooth out down the road a bit (though I might debate that at the end of winter in Pennsylvania.)

A genuine pivot signal tends to persist — and point somewhere specific.

Not every pivot is chosen. Some arrive uninvited on a Tuesday morning in the form of a calendar invite from HR.

I’ve been there. I know exactly what it feels like to be the person sitting there afterward with a suddenly empty calendar, a stack of bills, and a head full of “What the ____ just happened?!” If you’re in that place right now, and you’re reading advice about navigating change with grace and thinking “Easy for you to say, pal” — I hear you. That reaction is completely fair.

Here’s something I learned: grace under pressure rarely looks the way people imagine it. It’s less serenity, more “ducks on a pond:” gliding along the surface while paddling furiously underneath. The calm exterior isn’t denial, it’s a decision. And it’s a skill, one built through experience, self-awareness, and what I’d call emotional intelligence under fire.

When my last corporate gig ended — the company hit financial trouble and downsized the department, through no fault of anyone on my team—I had seen it coming long enough to prepare. When the VP delivered the news, I looked at him and said only, “Thanks for the opportunity. It’s been nice working with you.” The surprise on his face was something I’ve never forgotten. He expected a reaction. He got a smile and a handshake.

That response didn’t come from indifference. It came from preparation, self-management, and deciding ahead of time that I wouldn’t let the circumstances control how I reacted.

Whether you chose the pivot or it chose you, the question is the same: How will I show up for this?

By the way: for a masterclass in unchosen pivots, look up Guy Goma. In May 2006, Goma arrived at BBC Television Centre to interview for an IT support position. Through a case of mistaken identity, he was pulled from the waiting room, miked up, and deposited in front of live cameras to be interviewed as a technology expert on the Apple Corps vs. Apple Computer lawsuit. The look on his face when he realized what was happening is one for the ages. And then — he just answered the questions, as calmly and thoughtfully as he could. He didn’t bolt or make a scene. He pivoted in real time, on live television, in front of a global audience. It went viral. Opportunities followed and this guy turned an accidental live broadcast into a career moment. Grace under pressure, in a most spectacular and unplanned form.

Share

The Honest Assessment Nobody Loves to Do

Here’s where some of us stall out — not because we lack courage, but because we skip this step and go straight to imagining the destination without honestly mapping the distance.

An intentional pivot starts with two parallel inventories: yourself, and the environment around you.

On the self-inventory side, the questions include: How am I using my time now? What have I genuinely mastered, and what can I still learn about it? What skills or experiences do I miss that I’m currently underusing? And the one I find most revealing: What would I do in a perfect world where I couldn’t fail? The answers may surprise and delight you.

On the external side, bring your honesty: Where is my industry really going, (separate from where you wish it were going)? What problems aren’t being solved that I’m genuinely equipped to help with? Am I with the right peer group? — and how can I expand my network?

The goal isn’t finding a perfect match between who you are and what the world needs; it’s to find the overlap where your expertise, interests, and a genuine market need converge — and then taking action to join those things.

The Reframe That Changes Everything

The cultural narrative around mid-career pivots misses the crucial idea that you are not starting from zero.

A mid-career professional at a pivot point — chosen or unchosen — carries decades of accumulated skill, hard-won judgment, real relationships, and self-knowledge that can only come from experience. That is not a do-over. That is a fully loaded ship entering a new harbor.

The pivot isn’t a departure from everything you’ve built. It’s the moment you get a chance to deploy it in new arenas where they will be lucky to have you.

How to Take Action

A few solid guideposts, not a “seven habits”-type system:

1. Just start. The perfect moment to pivot doesn’t exist — waiting for it is how years disappear.

2. Say it out loud to someone you trust and respect. Saying “I need a new challenge” to another person makes it real and sharpens your thinking faster than any amount of private deliberation.

3. Take one action right now that moves you forward. Make a call, have a conversation, sign up for a webinar.

4. Give yourself permission to be a beginner in some areas while remaining the expert you are in others. That combination is rarer and more valuable than either quality alone.

The Moment When Anything Is Possible

A pivot point — identified, then met with preparation and emotional intelligence — can give back something you may not have felt in a while: the sense that the horizon is wide open. Not despite everything you’ve been through. Because of it.

The low rumble was a signal worth hearing. Whether you acted on it early or the decision arrived uninvited on a Tuesday, what happens next is up to you. Your move.

What’s one step you could take this week — however small — to begin moving toward what’s next?

I love spending time on the water — sailing a classic wooden sloop across Penobscot Bay in Maine, standing exhilarated at the bow of a cruise ship crossing the Pacific in a fresh breeze, watching a cargo vessel navigate the harbor in Curaçao. Rowing a rubber kayak in Somes Sound, getting splashed by passing lobster boats and Hinckley “picnic boats.” Sometimes, these experiences make me think about the long arc of a life’s work. Why?

Because the water is wide and vast and if we do it right, so can a career be.

A decades-long career is less like a short paddle and more like an open-ocean voyage. There’s planning, yes, and there’s definitely a destination. There’s time in its constant, insistent passage. But between casting off and arrival back in port? Conditions change constantly. The forecast is often wrong. And the sailor who insists on sailing the same heading no matter what the weather is doing will eventually find themselves in serious trouble.

“Thoughts arrive like butterflies” — as Eddie Vedder once put it — when I’m at sea. Here are a few that I didn’t chase away.

You will sail in all kinds of weather — and that’s a given.

You know what I love? Drifting slowly in the calm of the Caribbean Sea on a sunlit, warm morning in January — maybe lying off Montserrat or Antigua — especially if I know it’s snowy and cold back home.

Early in my career, I thought success meant finding calm waters and staying there. I’ve since learned that isn’t how the ocean works, and it isn’t how a career works either. Being on the water means expecting constant change. Waves come in sets, and a weather eye on the clouds is mandatory. There are days when everything flows — the wind is up, the boat is on plane, and you feel like you could sail forever. And then there are stretches where the wind dies completely, and you’re sitting in the middle of a glassy sea wondering if you’ll ever make headway again.

Both are part of the same voyage.

The creative professionals and business leaders I’ve worked with tend to carry a common fear: that a rough patch means something is fundamentally wrong. It usually doesn’t. The fisherman leaving the harbor before dawn isn’t surprised by the afternoon squall — he prepared for it. He knows the sea doesn’t owe him calm water, or anything else. In fact, the sea doesn’t think about him at all. The question isn’t whether difficult stretches will come; it’s whether you’re equipped to navigate them when they do.

And when the wind rises and the clouds roll in, battening down the hatches isn’t failure. It’s basic seamanship, along with prudent risk management and a sense of self-preservation that’s as necessary in a long-haul career as it is on the water.

Subscribe now

The right vessel for the passage matters.

I love a good seafaring tale. I’m currently reading Ghost Ship: The Mysterious True Story of the Mary Celeste and Her Missing Crew by Brian Hicks. The Mary Celeste was a Canadian-built, American-registered merchant brigantine found adrift and deserted in the Atlantic off the Azores in December 1872 — cargo intact, six months of food and water aboard, lifeboat gone, and not a soul in sight. It remains one of maritime history’s most enduring unsolved mysteries. One wonders if a different vessel — or a different decision — might have changed the outcome.

Different boats work different waters. The lobster boat working Frenchman Bay off Bar Harbor is purpose-built for those waters — agile, sturdy, designed for that specific job. The container ship I watched navigate the harbor in Curaçao is built for something else entirely: distance, capacity, global reach. Neither is “better.” They’re designed for different missions.

This maps directly onto our life’s work. The tools, habits, and approaches that serve us brilliantly in one season of our professional lives may not be the right fit for the next. The skills that made you indispensable in your 30s may need to be augmented — or rethought — in your 50s. The freelance hustle that worked when you were starting out may not scale when you’re trying to build something larger… or may be exactly the moment to hark back to.

The most successful sailors aren’t the ones who are loyal to a particular boat. They’re the ones who honestly assess what the mission demands, and choose — or build — the right craft for it.

Ask yourself: Is the boat I’m sailing still right for where I’m trying to go? Am I with the right fleet?

Learn to read the water, not just the map.

I love maps and charts; not only are they beautiful, but they’re an essential part of situational awareness — where am I, and how does what’s around me compare to what I expected? But relying only on the chart and ignoring what the water is actually telling us is a sure path toward disaster, or at least discomfort. The sea communicates constantly — in the color of the water, the direction of the swell, the way the wind is shifting. The experienced mariner reads all of it.

I learned a mantra while sailing in the Florida Keys regarding the color of the water: “Blue, blue, sail on through! Green, green, nice and clean. White, white… you might. Brown, brown… run aground.”

There’s a version of this in every career. We plan outcomes. But the water — the actual conditions you’re sailing in — is what actually happens to that plan. Technology shifts. Markets change. Audiences flee to other platforms. Businesses either adjust, or they fail.

The most successful people and businesses I know have learned to adjust to what’s actually happening. Not to abandon True North, but to correct course continuously to safely reach port, and to pay attention, reading and reacting to the conditions as we go. In navigation, this is course correcting. It isn’t a sign that the original heading was wrong — it’s the normal, ongoing work of getting where we’re going.

The ocean is vast, and no two passages are exactly alike — same with careers. But the sea is a willing teacher, reminding us that the storms we didn’t choose are still navigable, that the right tools matter, and that the most important skill isn’t knowing where you’re going.

It is, ever and always, finding ways to keep going.

What’s the most important navigation lesson your career has taught you? Please tell me in the comments.

Just recently, four astronauts — Reid Wiseman, Victor Glover, Christina Koch, and Jeremy Hansen — circled the Moon and in the process, reframed our collective sense of what’s possible.

I was transfixed, and if you watched the mission, you already know it was something special. As I watched the launch footage, the orbital trajectory, and eventual splashdown, I found myself focusing on the crew. It’s the way those four people showed up to work: with composure, competence, extreme professionalism, and just as powerfully, unmistakable joy. That combination is rarer than it seems. And for anyone building a career or leading a team, it’s worth paying close attention to.

I’ve been a pilot for most of my adult life, and I first rode in a small plane at age six, sitting beside my grandfather in his Piper, looking out over a world that suddenly felt bigger. That first takeoff was easily the most intense thing I’d experienced up to then, and I understood that something important had just been handed to me — not just the experience, but the beginning of a lifelong fascination with flight. Watching Artemis II, I felt something similar. Here are some lessons I think are worth carrying into our own work.

We get rewarded in public for what we practice in private.

From the outside, a mission like Artemis II can feel almost surreal in its precision, with its smooth launch, clear communication, and calm execution. But nothing about that was accidental. Christina Koch spent nearly a full year aboard the International Space Station, not for the sake of a record, but as a byproduct of genuine commitment to the work. Every crew member brought years — in some cases, decades — of preparation to a moment that, when it finally arrived, appeared almost effortless.

Aviation teaches the same lesson. The best flights tend to be the least dramatic ones — happy landings happen not because of luck, but through risk management, preparation and training. The “launch moment,” whatever yours may be, is earned long before anyone’s watching. It’s built in simulators and briefings, in repetition and recovery, in the quiet, unglamorous work of training and practice.

Calm is a skill, not a personality trait.

If one quality defined this crew above all others, it was composure. Not the absence of pressure, but their mastery of it. Measured voices, clear decisions. No wasted motion, and the setting provided the theatrics.

In aviation, you learn that in the event things go sideways, you don’t “rise to the occasion.” You fall back on your training: checklists, procedures, and good habits built over time. What looks like natural composure is almost always earned composure — the kind that comes from doing the work, putting in the reps, and knowing you can trust yourself and the people around you.

That’s a direct challenge to the idea that some people are simply “cool under pressure” and others aren’t. Calm is practiced. It’s built through the same process as any other professional skill — which means it’s available to anyone willing to put in the work.

A great team multiplies individual strengths rather than averaging them out.

It’s easy to watch footage like this and focus on the four people in the capsule. But behind them are thousands more — engineers, flight controllers, technicians, trainers, support teams, families — entire careers woven together to make a single mission possible.

What makes that kind of team extraordinary isn’t just coordination; it’s the deliberate way each person’s specific expertise is drawn on when it matters most. In aviation, the same is true — every safe landing carries the invisible influence of instructors, mechanics, designers, and air traffic controllers whose names you’ll never know but whose work lives in every decision you make.

The implication for leaders and coaches is straightforward: excellence isn’t about getting everyone to perform the same tasks at a high level. It’s about building systems, crews, workflows, and processes that recognize and activate what each person does uniquely well — and then holding yourself accountable as a leader to champion the work of everyone who helped deliver the mission.

Subscribe now

Professionalism and humanity aren’t competing forces — they’re reinforcing ones.

Here’s the most powerful lesson I took away: the Artemis II crew didn’t just execute flawlessly. They let us see how much it meant to them. Moments of gratitude, of reflection, of genuine joy — these weren’t departures from professionalism.

They were expressions of it.

There’s a persistent myth that to reach the highest levels of performance, you have to become harder, more guarded, more impenetrable. But time and again, the opposite proves true. The people who sustain excellence over the long haul — the ones others look to, learn from, and trust — tend to be the ones who remain most grounded in why any of it matters.

Allowing yourself to be moved by what you’ve accomplished isn’t weakness. It’s what makes the work worth doing, and perhaps more importantly, it’s what makes other people want to do that work alongside you.

The shoulders we stand on.

Most of us will never orbit the Moon. But all of us will face moments that ask something more of us — to be steady when things feel uncertain, prepared when opportunity shows up, and self-aware enough to actually feel it when it does.

I still think about my grandfather and that first flight: the steady hand on the controls beside me, the quiet confidence, the unspoken understanding that this wasn’t just a moment, it was an introduction to something joyous. Watching Artemis II reminded me that all of us carry the lessons and standards of the people who taught and mentored us. And, if we do it right, we become part of that foundation for someone else.

That’s a pretty amazing mission, and you don’t need to go to space to start living it.

Today, I woke up feeling listless.

I wasn’t sick, I wasn’t depressed. Just... flat. It was the kind of flat mood that you can’t really explain, and you can’t just push past.

So I didn’t; instead, I sat with it for a few minutes, and ran through some deep breathing and gratitude exercises, recalling moments from my life that I’m genuinely grateful for: specific, vivid moments I could relive and really feel.

Then, I pictured several goals I’m working toward and pictured them as if they were already done. Feeling the excitement of accomplishment and gratitude helped me get clarity about what I want from my day, and days to come.

After that, I put on inspiring music, got up out of my chair and moved: stretching and jumping around to build energy.

By the time the coffee was ready, so was I.

That sequence, practiced, familiar, and intentional, is how I begin most mornings, but today it mattered more than usual. Because today, the energy I needed just wasn’t there when I arrived at work. I had to create it for myself.

Not All Work Costs the Same

I’ve spent decades in content production — live television, broadcasting, omnichannel content, film and video. These high energy environments are unforgiving for those who show up on set or in the field with a “low battery.”

In this world, you learn quickly that energy isn’t unlimited. Long days, a challenging client or product, last-minute revisions or balky equipment all have a cost. Miss a cue, lose the light, show up unprepared — in production, you can run out of do-overs pretty quickly.

“Bringing it” isn’t a soft skill on set. It’s the difference between a project that flows and one that grinds. Over time, you start to notice that not everything costs the same in terms of energy output.

For several years I worked on a video team that delivered up to twenty short form projects every week. These product videos were crucial revenue generators, and we developed ways to be efficient while still delivering the high level of quality we demanded of ourselves, and the business required.

But think about the cost of that many projects, all with similar scope and budget, same timeline, same level of importance. Two projects can look identical on paper—and cost you completely different amounts of energy. Twenty projects each week, each demanding the same high quality, the same care. The cumulative weight of that is real. You can sustain it — we did — but there’s a difference between a team that’s executing and a team that’s still crushing it creatively.

To keep our creative energy high, we’d pick at least one project a week where the brief gave us a little room to stretch. We protected that project, giving it extra time, extra thought, extra creative ambition. Everything else was still very high quality, as expected. But that one project was ours to stretch out with, and wild card ideas often got done.

Sometimes, it was as simple as finding a new angle or putting in extra time to try an innovative technique or camera move. This helped make the other work better, and even more enjoyable because we’d have new creative ideas to discuss and focus on during production.

This helped keep us curious and engaged and reminded us we weren’t just hitting deadlines for a business. We were still creatives making something rewarding that we thought would delight our customers.

Better yet, we maintained higher energy over the entire week. Over a long career, learning to create and manage energy becomes one of the most important skills we can develop, whatever our roles.

Subscribe now

It’s Like a Battery

Our mental and physical energy can be depleted and recharged like a battery. We hopefully wake up with a full charge, but as the day goes on that energy diminishes. If we never stop to check the charge level, or if we keep running at 10% and telling ourselves it’s fine, eventually something gives: the work suffers, or we do.

This lowering energy rarely announces itself; it seeps in. A little less curiosity about the work. A little more resistance before starting. Good execution, but without the spark that used to come with it.

These signals are easy to dismiss, especially when you’re still performing well. But they’re worth paying attention to. What depletes and recharges your energy? I bet you already know — even if you’ve never stopped to write it down.

Some of my energy discharges are predictable: work without any real purpose, low-energy environments, or doing great work that goes unnoticed and underappreciated. Any one of these is manageable. All of them together is a recipe for depletion.

The positive charges are equally consistent: building something an audience will love, creative collaboration with people who care, an hour in nature to recharge. I go out hiking every afternoon, and that time is non-negotiable: it clears my thinking and creates answers. But I didn’t just know all this, I figured it out over time.

The Energy Assessment: An Exercise

It doesn’t take a major crisis to figure it out, it’s just a matter of paying attention.

At the end of today — or this Friday — protect some time, like 15-20 minutes, and ask yourself two things:

What “charged my battery” this week?

What ran it down?

Write down specific moments, not categories. Not “meetings” — but that meeting, the one where the conversation inspired you and everyone left feeling excited. (Or the one that made you feel deflated, and why.)

Not “Marketing Project”, but “The client thanked me and told me why that idea I had mattered.”

If it was “admin work”, don’t write that, but get real about those metrics and what pissed you off. What could be done about that?

Patterns show up fast. And once we see them, now we have choices. A conversation about how you’re contributing. A deliberate shift toward the work that fuels you. Or simply describing what’s creating or depleting energy so we can do something about it.

Awareness gives us choices.

Energy Is Everything

Energy isn’t abstract, or “touchy-feely,” it’s a force to manage.

Paying attention tells you where you’re growing and where you’ve gotten too comfy; what’s inspiring you and what’s gotten routine.

And if you’re dealing with change (and who isn’t?) your energy is THE most important resource you have. Knowing what gets you into a higher mood and energy state gives you more options when the world demands more of you.

So with that: what part of your work consistently charges you — and what part quietly runs you down?

And what’s one small thing you could do this week to move, even slightly, toward what fuels you? How can you end the day with a higher charge than you started with?

I love to travel. Whether driving around my neighborhood or further afield, I always notice the surroundings, weather, scenery, and the road itself. I also appreciate the bridges: some soaring and majestic, others more functional and nondescript, all completely necessary. The most striking bridges do not just get me and my loved ones safely over valleys, canyons and water, they also evoke a feeling of beauty and an appreciation of great design that someone took care and pride in creating. A bridge that is aesthetically pleasing as well as functional lifts my mood. Great art is everywhere.

Content that connects is like a beautifully designed bridge. In marketing and creative production, our strategy for reaching our audience needs to ensure that the work not only meets our audience where they are, but also helps them make decisions and hopefully even makes their day brighter. To get from where we are to our customer, we need to build the right bridge.

With so much competition for eyeballs, missing the chance to go the distance for our audience or customer risks losing their attention permanently. Content that may tell the story but wasn’t thoughtfully designed is like a bridge that was never painted, or one so understated we may not even have realized we crossed it. Worse, content strategy that may have been created years ago can become as rickety as a bridge that was built decades before and never maintained, creating missed opportunities that costs companies engagement and sales..

Getting Real

Over the past few years, an undeniable shift has occurred. The priority for some businesses and clients has moved to aggressive cost management and reduced marketing investment. Budgets are tight, and return on investment is everyone’s responsibility. But, well-designed, thoughtful, artful content that stands out from the noise need not be a casualty.

Think of customer engagement like a broad, deep valley. You and your business strategy are over here, and you can see your audience over there. We need to build a bridge to them, but what kind? What materials should we use in building our content bridge, how should we design it? What should it look like, and why does it matter? Oh, and how much will that cost?

Why Quality Always Matters

1. It Defines Brand Perception

Within any budget, high-quality creative tells an audience how a company sees itself and its brand. A well-produced video signals professionalism, trustworthiness, and innovation, whereas a hastily assembled or underfunded production can undermine even the best strategic message, like laying rough wooden planks over a divide rather than taking the time and the right investment to build a proper bridge.

2. Audiences Expect It

Viewers are busier than ever, and more savvy. With high-end content available on every screen, from streaming platforms to social media to television, audiences instantly recognize the difference between professionally created and amateurish production. A lack of production quality can lose potential customers before they even get a chance to hear or see your message. In fact, with attention spans lower than ever, you need great design and creative just to counteract the urge to keep scrolling.

3. Smart Investments, Not Just Big Budgets

Resonance isn’t created by simply throwing more money at a project. It’s crafted through collaboration with trusted experts and using expertise, strategic choices, and creativity to maximize every dollar spent. Over the years, I’ve built relationships with top-tier artisans—cinematographers, designers, lighting and styling, editors and writers—who help create high-value results without high-end waste. We developed repeatable models to efficiently produce top-shelf look and feel without the waste and often deliver at or below industry standard rate cards.

How Creatives Can Advocate for Quality

So, how do we ensure that we continue to prioritize quality even in cost-conscious environments? Here are a few ideas:

1. Help Our Clients Understand ROI (Return on Investment)

Clients invest in creative marketing content because they have a business need, but may not fully understand the tactics, people and tools needed to create what they envision. From first contact, we need to communicate how the right investment creates connections with our audience, higher conversion rates, and greater brand loyalty. By having case studies and success stories at the ready, we can reframe the discussion from cost to the potential results the right investment can provide.

2. Optimize, Don’t Compromise

I tell my clients “I will spend every dollar of your money as if it was my own.” Cutting costs should never mean cutting corners. We must be proactive in finding efficiencies—trusted partners, modular, reusable set designs, bundling projects to maximize efficiencies on shoot days, and streamlining post-production workflows—without sacrificing the final product’s impact.

3. Bridge the Gap: Be the Audience’s Champion

Ultimately, our job as creative professionals is to craft experiences that tell the right story, to the right people, at the right place and time. If budget constraints force decisions that degrade that experience, we should advocate for solutions that best serve the business while maintaining high production standards. Better ROI is the key to repeat business and better client and customer satisfaction.

The Road Ahead

Wouldn’t we all like to build “content bridges” we’re proud of, that are of the best quality we can deliver, and the client and customer will love? The pressure to cut costs isn’t going away, but neither is the demand for exceptional creative.

As leaders in a rapidly evolving industry, it’s our responsibility to push for high quality content and find solutions within the available budgets, while helping clients and stakeholders understand that production quality isn’t an extravagance; it’s an investment in their brand’s success.

The best creatives I know are problem-solvers first and foremost: they’re partners who help manage cost without sacrificing quality. When we continue to innovate, elevate, and deliver outstanding creative work on budget, on time, that’s a sure way to generate better customer engagement and repeat business.

What strategies have you used to bridge the gap when cost is an issue? (Cost is always an issue.) Or, what bridges have you seen lately that caught your eye? Post a comment or a pic and let me know your thoughts!

Leave a comment

One of the most consistent traits I’ve noticed in colleagues I admire and respect – the ones I’ve worked with for years, sometimes decades – isn’t just talent.

It’s curiosity.

My go-to Director of Photography is always up for anything. No matter the project, large or small, glamorous or industrial, I know that if I get this guy on set, it’s always going to be a great day. And yes, he’s always cheerful. Yes, he’s always on time (in fact, always early.) And yes, the photography is always stunning. But here’s what else:

He always asks great questions, not just when we get on set, but early, over multiple conversations. Whether in a scheduled pre-production meeting or just because we’re excited about the project, it’s a constant curiosity and interest in whatever subject we happen to be getting into this time.

Constantly, reflexively and without trying to impress, the best creatives get really excited about bringing our expertise to whatever story we’re telling.

This reflex not only helps us create better work… it’s just more fun that way.

My list of go-to crew, cast, and business partners all ask similar questions that make me want to work with them again and again. Among other conversation starters:

-What’s the real story we’re trying to tell here?

-Why does this matter to the audience — and the client?

-What do we want customers to feel when they see this?

-How can we help them care about this story?

Over time, I’ve come to see curiosity not as a personality trait, but as a habit; one of the ways to turn our work from a “job” into a lifestyle.

And like any habit, curiosity can be practiced and strengthened, like building a muscle.

Curiosity as Fuel

In creative work and other fields, curiosity is essential.

A better question leads to discussion… ideas… camera tests… moving lights… shifting props. Rewrites. That process of experimenting, adjusting, trying new approaches… making each other laugh! —often leads to something new and amazing.

Without curiosity, it’s difficult to make that happen.

In the reality of production—tight timelines, full calendars, the constant push to deliver—we execute. We show up. We get it done.

But if we lose the curiosity, even great projects can start to feel familiar, predictable, and safe. After all, the work has to deliver on time and with the right messaging. It has to serve the client and the audience.

But we’re fortunate to be doing work that reaches people at all: I’ve always been grateful to be trusted with a business’s audience.

Curiosity as a Strategy

Staying curious and excited about the work, the story, and the audience at the end of the process – once it’s on the page, or the screen, right in front of them, is a moment I never get tired of imagining. I always imagine an actual human being reacting with delight, and do everything I can think of to help make that happen.

Curiosity throughout the process helps create that energy, pulling talent and crew forward, getting us engaged and excited. And if we can keep that mindset throughout the creative process, into production, into post and publishing, we can often create something worth remembering.

For example, one of my broadcasting producer roles had production teams and me delivering up to forty complex projects per week supporting a 24/7/365 broadcast. There was no missing those deadlines if you wanted to stay employed: the work supported a huge percentage of the business and was key to success. We loved the work and the pace, but if we weren’t careful, the grind threatened to dull our curiosity—the very skill that got us here in the first place.

Though we needed to be efficient, we still needed to bring fresh eyes to this important business. We found ways to infuse curiosity and fun to ensure all the work served our audience, and still served our own creative impulses, through on set collaboration, skill building, and sometimes just giddy, late-night, off-the-wall “Let’s try this!”

Better Questions, Better Work

One of the simplest ways to re-engage curiosity is to change the questions you ask.

Instead of:
Why are we doing this AGAIN?

Consider:
What’s interesting about this (product, person, subject) I haven’t noticed before?

Instead of:
Why don’t we just repeat what worked last time?

Consider:
What haven’t we tried yet that would surprise and delight my audience?

Instead of:
How do I just get this done?

Try:
How can we get this done on time but suggest something new?

These aren’t dramatic shifts, but they help fight burnout in the middle of a demanding production schedule. That’s how I stayed excited about my career to this day, and that mindset is where creativity thrives, whatever your field.

Consider team leadership, and how this shows up in how you talk to your team:

Direction that makes all your team’s decisions for them cuts off conversation and ideas, while open-ended questions give permission to your team to add their expertise. The wisdom is in the room, and you can get at it when you ask one of the most powerful questions I know of:

“What if?”

Leaders who ask this question invite true creative thinking, not just “getting it done.”

What’s one area of your work or life where asking a different, more expansive question, would inspire a new way of thinking about the day to day?

How can you stay curious?

In this episode, Wade Walton explores the crucial boundary between inspiration and execution. He breaks down how many ideas run aground at the rocky shoal of overthinking and offers practical insights on how momentum, intuition, and small steps can help you turn impulses into meaningful results.

Key topics:

• The natural tendency to delay action until everything feels clear

• How momentum accelerates decision-making and confidence

• The difference between impulse, intuition, and reactive behavior

• Why most impactful actions start with a feeling rather than certainty

• Practical strategies for overcoming procrastination and taking small, imperfect steps

• The importance of trusting your intuition and the map as you go

Timestamps:

00:00 - Introduction: Navigating the gap between impulse and action
00:15 - The mental gap: How overthinking stalls good ideas
00:45 - The calming power of nature and inspiration on Otter Cliffs
1:13 - Recognizing that many ideas come with initial hesitation
1:41 - The rocky shoal: Overcoming the paralysis of overthinking
2:08 - Why clarity often comes after movement, not before
2:37 - Momentum as a game changer: How physical and mental shifts accelerate results
3:06 - Procrastination as a barrier and the simple power of just starting
3:35 - Differentiating impulses from intuition and reactive urges
4:05 - The value of acting on gut feelings, illustrated by the Death Valley trip
4:37 - Starting without perfect certainty: The map reveals itself as you go
5:00 - Applying these ideas to your own goals: actionable steps for immediate progress
5:58 - Final thoughts: Moving from impulse to action to create change

Connect with Wade Walton:

• LinkedIn

• Facebook

• Substack

Remember, the key to transforming ideas into results is not waiting for perfect clarity, but taking that first small step. Trust your instincts, build momentum, and let the map of your journey unfold as you move forward.

One of the many valuable things photography and video production have taught me over the years is that the camera itself, with all its capabilities, is almost secondary: it’s the tool that captures what’s in front of you. But it takes a trained eye, and a curious mind to notice that something worth capturing is there in the first place.

What I’ve learned over time is that a great video scene or photograph is less about the technology, and mostly about what you pay attention to.

I’ve also learned a tremendous amount by studying the work of others.

Recently I visited the Philadelphia Museum of Art, which had a remarkable gallery devoted to black and white photography. Walking slowly, intentionally, from image to image, I found myself asking various questions: What did this photographer see that made them stop here? Why did they think to frame it this way? I wouldn’t have thought of that. Why do I love this so much, but am vaguely disturbed by this other image?

Sometimes the answer was light. Sometimes it was subject matter. Sometimes it was a small detail in a vast landscape that most people would have walked right past.

Seeing those photographs reminded me of something that first drew me to photography years ago — the surprise and delight of realizing that someone else could look at the same world I was drifting through and take away something I would never have thought of.

Two people can stand in exactly the same spot and see entirely different things. One person sees a beautiful long view. Someone else notices the way the light is hitting a ridge line, or the way a shadow cuts across the ground, or the way a big thundercloud is about to shift the entire mood. Yet another might notice the patterns made by sunlight and shadow.

Studying other artists’ work trains our eye in a powerful way. We begin to see how different artists frame a moment, what they choose to include, what they leave out. Over time, those observations sharpen our own sense of what we pay attention to — not to copy their work, but to be informed by it, so we can interpret our own surroundings more sharply and hone our observation and execution. When I was just starting out, and to this day, figuring out how to see and hear what was going on around me creatively while being inspired by others made traveling through my surroundings a more vivid way to live.

And… wow. Once I started really seeing, and hearing, and feeling what was around me, the world gave back, feeling more vibrant and colorful than I realized was possible.

The difference isn’t equipment or tech, it’s attention and where we direct it.

Intentional focus

Training active observation is like building and developing a muscle. The more we practice the art of noticing, the more the world reveals. We start to notice patterns where before we saw randomness. A fern shadow on a rock, sunlight glistening on waves. Letting the camera roll while talent is getting relaxed and warmed up can create some of the most heartwarming moments in a project. Art is everywhere.

In leadership, film, or other creative work, you might sense that a project, a team dynamic, or even your own energy is shifting before it becomes obvious, just by taking a few minutes of quiet observation… attention… before diving in. Taking a moment before calling “Action!”… to “make always sure you’re right… then go ahead.”*

One great paradox of today is that we have more information than ever—and less attention and time to spend on it.

The world moves fast, but our devices constantly compete for our attention: we skim, scroll, react, and move on. Training ourselves to focus helps us slow down long enough to actually look, process, and appreciate our surroundings.

This is one of the reasons I’m inspired by travel. When you arrive somewhere new, your senses clear, and the details sharpen. The unfamiliarity of new spaces, landscapes, food, sounds, brings the moment into sharp focus.

This is how observation becomes a creative superpower. Ideas come from what we pay attention to:

A conversation sparks a story.
A visual detail inspires a design.
A moment of frustration reveals a better way of doing something.

Creatives don’t just churn out work; we collect raw material constantly through the power of keen observation. I think that’s why some of the most interesting people I know are deeply curious. They notice small things that others overlook.

In a world of easy distraction, they’ve learned to focus.

I do walk through life at speed; it helps me think. Fast enough that people notice. One day, a colleague challenged me to spend an afternoon walking at half that speed, and I did it. I was surprised how it changed what I paid attention to. What different things I saw. How my focus changed.

So just for fun, try this exercise the next time you’re moving about your space:

Look for three things you’ve never noticed before.

Maybe it’s the way light hits a building at a certain time of day. Maybe it’s a pattern in the landscape. Maybe it’s the expression on someone’s face in a crowded place, colors, and sound. Capture them in a quick photo, or a note, to remember for later.

When I remember to do this, I tend to make some pretty interesting pictures. I decided to pay attention and I’m glad I did.

Footnote:

* “Be always sure you’re right—then go ahead!” is a motto attributed to the American frontiersman Davy Crockett (1786–1836). It signifies a philosophy of careful consideration followed by decisive action, often used to exemplify determination, integrity, and the pioneer spirit.

Much of my knowledge about Davy Crockett comes by way of the 1955 Disney movie “Davy Crockett: King of the Wild Frontier” starring Fess Parker, which I watched when I was a kid. I still have fond memories of listening to my parents’ vinyl record of the movie soundtrack. I was not born yet when this movie was created, but it seems as good a quote as any for a way to live a life.

There’s a moment in many careers that doesn’t look dramatic from the outside, in fact it might be invisible to all except you.

You have a good job, and you’re good at it. You have the routine down, and the yearly reviews are decent. It’s like driving a well-maintained car in cruise control, sailing down an open highway on a sunny day with the top down. Feels great.

And yet, somewhere in the background, there’s a quiet question:

Is this all there is?

I’ve felt the tug of change more than once in my own career.

The Hidden Cost of Staying Put

I spent many great years at one company. I had many different jobs: I grew, shifted roles, took on more responsibility and thrived. I learned new skills and as the organization evolved, so did I. Along the way, I got to work with incredibly talented people and in world class environments – how great is that!

I had what felt like stability, but it was actually constant change: evolution helped along by a successful business in growth mode. It felt expansive and rewarding.

Later, in another time, another place, I stayed in the same position, building a team and learning everything I could about a new business. I executed well. I delivered. But after a while something felt different: I wasn’t growing at the pace or scale I wanted.

Nothing was “wrong.”

But something felt off, as if I was driving a long, lonely stretch of highway and feeling a tire vibrating, slight but noticeable. My career goals seemed out of alignment with the work, creating a low but persistent rumble. Yep, something was definitely off.

And so here’s what I’ve learned: the cost of staying in that state too long isn’t always obvious. It shows up subtly, like the wheel that’s out of alignment, and gets more noticeable as the miles go by.

In that car, you can go for some time while that wheel gets louder, the vibration grows more insistent, the car starts pulling to one side, and the tires start to wear.

What’s the cost to a career that needs aligned? A career that could use some “preventive maintenance” might show these signs:

Less curiosity about the work.
Less excitement and innovation.
More “checking boxes.”
A faint whiff of cynicism.

Not because the job is bad, or because you or anyone around you failed. It might just be because growth stalled, and now the career needs to go into the shop for some alignment.

Stability (Comfort) vs. Alignment

Stability isn’t bad. In fact, it can be a gift, especially in demanding careers and workplaces, bringing comfort in results and in knowing your needs are met.

But comfort and alignment are not the same thing – they work together.

Comfort says: “I know how to do this, I’m good at it, and I like what I do and where I do it.”

Alignment would add: “This still fits who I’m becoming; I’m still learning and growing.”

When those two start to drift apart, it’s easy to ignore the low rumble, especially if you’re “high performing.” There are so many pluses to keeping a good thing going.

But like a well-maintained car, long careers need recalibration too, and what fit five years ago may not fit today. What challenged you once may now feel routine. And routine, left unchecked, can slowly throw a career out of alignment. That vibration in our work might appear when we start telling ourselves:

“I should be grateful… other people would love this job. And anyway, it’s tough out there.”

“This is fine.”

Self-talk is information, like a check light on a dashboard, inviting you to explore what’s ahead.

Ignoring subtle signs that it’s time for a change, large or small, just delays the conversation you’ll eventually need to have, because just like a long road trip, we are responsible for the direction we take our careers. These are great signals that it’s time to talk to a trusted mentor or friend, see if those “career check lights” are signaling something important. Maybe you’ve outgrown the role or need a new challenge.

Change as Preventive Maintenance

There’s a narrative in professional life that changing direction (“pivoting”) means something went wrong.

Not necessarily, especially in our own work. Sometimes we stay put not because we’re trapped, but because stability feels safer than change.

Even the best car won’t last for decades without adjusting alignment, rotating tires, or tuning the engine. Why would a career be any different?

Sometimes the adjustment is external — a new role or project, a new team, or, sometimes, a new environment.

But sometimes it’s internal — recommitting to mastery, learning new skills, and reframing your approach.

Asking “Is this all there is?” isn’t necessarily a call to change everything. Stability can be valuable, but if it begins to cost you curiosity, growth, and aliveness, your career might need some alignment. Like that check light on the dashboard, awareness gives you choices.

“Life is a Highway”

Like the old song, a long career is less like reaching a destination and more like a long road trip. If the alignment starts to drift, you don’t abandon the journey — you pull over, get it fixed, and get back on the road, choosing the next stretch of highway with intention.

Where in your work or life does “this is fine” quietly feel like “this is less than it used to be” and what are some ways to get that career into the shop for adjustment?

This week, I wanted to say it out loud.

In this episode of the Compass Rose podcast, I share an adaption of my recent article about a trip to Death Valley National Park, California that started as a kernel of an idea while I watched from the audience at a conference while some very talented photographers discussed their work out there. It wasn’t even on my radar, but afterwards, I couldn’t get it out of my head. I needed to go.

You’ll also see and hear moments from my own recent trip to Death Valley, featuring some of the pictures I took while I was out there experiencing the extremes of one of the most remote and captivation places in North America — a reminder that sometimes progress isn’t about having a perfect plan. It’s about moving.

If you prefer listening while walking, driving, or thinking, this is for you.

Press play — and let’s move from impulse to action.

Subscribe now

Up on the vertical granite headland of Otter Cliffs in Acadia National Park, Maine, you can listen to the waves rushing over the Spindle, a dangerous rock submerged just offshore, marked by a bell buoy. The bell’s gentle tolling and the shushing sound of the waves far below is calming, everlasting, and peaceful, belying the maritime danger of running aground on that rock.

But on a given day, sitting quietly far above and safely planted on a granite boulder, you might find me. I’ve spent many hours here gazing across Frenchman Bay, unwinding and getting inspired.

Certain ideas and impulses show up repeatedly in my life’s work, whether it’s creative, in my business, or broader life decisions.

I notice it after I’m inspired, but before I’ve actually done anything about it. Have you ever experienced this?

You get an idea and feel a tug at the edge of your mind; maybe a goal you’re after, or a promising business or creative idea.

And then almost immediately, another voice pipes up, like this:

Hold on, I need to think this through.
I need more clarity, I’d better take a class or a webinar.
I’m not ready yet; I’m not enough...
Let’s rework this a bit more.

That moment—that rocky shoal between impulse and action—is where a lot of good ideas run aground.

I’ve certainly experienced that moment where my chance of getting what I want hangs in the balance, through overthinking or just a lack of focus. So, let’s get into it:

Clarity first?

Over time we can get conditioned that we shouldn’t act until everything is clear; that we should have a plan, a timeline, a risk assessment, and ideally a sense of certainty before we move.

But if I’m honest, most of the meaningful things I’ve done in my life so far didn’t begin with total clarity, they began with a feeling.

A sense of curiosity, probably a frisson of excitement. Often, a quiet but persistent little voice saying “I want to do that. I need to do that.”

Clarity came after movement, when I found myself already in motion without thinking too hard about it. But other times, I caught myself in a cycle of procrastination and spinning.

Momentum Changes the Equation

Some of my best results didn’t come from thinking longer or doing more revisions, they came from momentum:

-Jumping myself into a higher, more expansive mood through gratitude, or exercise.
-Raising my mental and physical energy.
-Creating momentum by taking some kind of action.

When we’re in motion, execution speeds up and decisions get easier. Momentum inspires confidence, confidence creates more action. One “rocky shoal”, though, is procrastination. I’ve set goals I knew I wanted, but the task list felt overwhelming. So, I put it off. Procrastination even sometimes feels good in the moment, but it’s stealing your results.

Some of the best advice I’ve heard to beat procrastination is disarmingly simple. Ready? Here it is:

“Just start.”

The idea is to follow impulse with some small action leading to the next thing, and the next, without waiting for permission from a future version of myself who may never arrive.

Impulse vs. Intuition

Now, not every impulse should be acted on immediately. Getting back to sailing, for example, not studying the chart or launching into a gale can ruin your day.

Impulses can seem reactive, so let’s consider another angle: intuition. “Psychology Today” calls intuition “the ability to make decisions immediately without conscious reasoning, often described as a ‘gut feeling’ or rapid pattern recognition by the unconscious mind. It functions by analyzing past experiences and knowledge to guide behavior, serving as a valuable, fast decision-making tool in complex situations.”

The Death Valley trip from my last article is a perfect example.

The impulse came while sitting in an audience at a conference, seeing images that I wanted in my life, and that feeling didn’t dissipate when the lights came back on. It lingered, nudging at me, and intuition told me I had to go.

One thing led to another, and before long I was freezing my butt off, creating pictures on a mountain at night and having the time of my life; not because I had it all figured out—but because I just started.

I’ve learned that results that matter most didn’t always start with certainty,
they started with willingness to try, and to just get going; recognizing that we don’t always get a clear view of the destination before we move. Sometimes the map reveals itself as we go.

Even this article was an exercise in “Just start(ing)”, with the hope that its quick, headlong flight from idea to page may ring true for you. Feel free to tell me in the comments whether you’ve ever gotten stuck in that gap between ideas and action, and what you did about it.

So, question for you to ponder:

What is one thing you’ve been feeling pulled toward—but stuck because you’re waiting to “know” more—and what would it look like to take a small, imperfect step toward it right now?

How can you “Just start”?

Because sometimes, the most important thing you can do is to quickly move from impulse… or better yet intuition… to action.

Summary In this inaugural episode of the Compass Rose podcast, adapted from the Compass Rose New Year’s article, Wade Walton reflects on the significance of the new year as a time for optimism and uncertainty. He shares his own journey through the creative and business landscapes, emphasizing the importance of self-awareness, emotional intelligence, and adaptability in achieving success. Walton introduces the Compass Rose platform as a resource for business leaders and creatives navigating change, offering insights, tools, and reflections aimed at fostering intentional living and career longevity.

Takeaways

• The start of the year brings a mix of optimism and uncertainty.

• Navigating change is a fundamental part of any career.

• Self-awareness and emotional intelligence are key to success.

• Creative leadership requires adaptability and continuous learning.

• Compass Rose aims to support those in it for the long haul.

• It’s important to reflect on what you want to build or change.

• Hope and progress can coexist with uncertainty.

• The journey of personal growth is ongoing and requires intention.

• Building meaningful success involves understanding team dynamics.

• The podcast will feature insights from various leaders and creators.

Titles

• Navigating Change: The Compass Rose Journey

• Embracing Uncertainty: A New Year Reflection

Sound Bites

• “Talent and effort get you in the door. Staying takes growth and learning.”

• “What helps teams thrive?”

• “Hope doesn’t demand certainty.”

Chapters

00:00 Navigating the Unknown: A New Year Perspective

02:50 The Journey of a Creative Leader

05:39 Introducing Compass Rose: A Path Forward

Keywords Compass Rose, navigating change, creative leadership, career longevity, self-awareness, emotional intelligence, business filmmaking, success coaching, personal growth, intentional living

Subscribe now

I sat in the audience at the Javits Center in New York City at a content creators convention last summer, listening to fellow creatives talk about landscape photography in Death Valley National Park, in California. The images were striking: vast deserts, alien landscapes. Elemental, remote, and absolutely moving. I remember thinking, I must experience that place for myself.

Afterwards, I couldn’t get the place out of my head. I needed to go.

A few months later, in November, I found myself standing at Dante’s View, over 5,000 feet above sea level, with 50 mph wind gusts tearing across the ridge. Below me, the salt flats of Death Valley glowed faintly under the rising full moon, haze lifting from the basin like breath. It was cold. Really cold. And exhilarating in a way that’s hard to get anywhere else.

What struck me most in that moment wasn’t just the view—it was the quiet satisfaction of following a thread from inspiration to action:

Seeing something that moves you … deciding it matters … doing the work to make it real.

That arc—from the audience to the experience—is one we don’t always give ourselves enough credit for.

The Extremes Were the Point

Earlier that same day, I had been driving out of Las Vegas, surrounded by neon, spectacle, and excess. Within a couple of hours, I was in one of the most remote, barren, and humbling landscapes in North America.

The contrasts were immediate and sharp.

At Furnace Creek, 180 feet below sea level, it was 93 degrees and hot—an oven of reflected light and salt. By nightfall at Dante’s View, I was battling fierce winds and cold temperatures, thousands of feet higher, trying to keep my camera steady and my tripod upright while bracing myself against the gusts.

Life compressed into extremes, back-to-back.

It reminded me how often we experience similar swings without leaving home: pressure and calm, noise and silence, clarity and confusion. In work and in life, the transitions can be just as abrupt.

The trick isn’t avoiding the extremes. It’s learning how to navigate through them.

Preparation Is Not the Same as Control

I had prepared for the trip. I researched locations, timing, weather patterns. What I missed was how dramatically elevation and nightfall would change the conditions. Somewhere back in my Las Vegas hotel room sat my thermal layer, neatly folded and useless.

Standing there in the wind, I had a choice.

Cancel the shoot?
Head back early?
Tell myself, next time?

No way.

Part of the success of the experience was coping with the conditions, not pretending they didn’t exist. I adjusted. I layered what I had. I worked faster, more deliberately. I paid closer attention to detail.

That moment felt like a small but important metaphor: preparation matters, but adaptability is what carries us through when reality doesn’t match the plan.

In creative work, leadership, and life, the people who thrive aren’t the ones who never miscalculate. They’re the ones who don’t let imperfect conditions dictate whether they show up.

Why This Matters Beyond Travel

Travel has a way of clarifying things, but these lessons don’t belong only to the road.

In work, we often wait for ideal conditions:

• More time

• More budget

• More certainty

• Better weather

But fulfillment rarely arrives when everything is comfortable and aligned. It shows up when we decide something is worth doing anyway.

Standing at altitude, cold and exhilarated, taking my own photographs in a place I’d first encountered on a giant screen in a convention hall, felt like progress. Not progress in a résumé sense—but in a life sense.

The pure joy I experienced there reminded me that intention isn’t just about setting goals. It’s about honoring the impulse to explore, to grow, to move toward experiences that expand us, even when – especially when – they require effort, discomfort, or recalibration.

Not Letting Conditions Push Us Around

There’s a quiet confidence that comes from proving to yourself that you can handle more than you think.

This isn’t bravado, nor is it “grit” just to appear tough. It’s only the knowledge that conditions don’t get to make your decisions for you.

That’s as true in work as it is on a windswept ridge in Death Valley.

We don’t control every variable. We do control whether we stay present, adapt, and continue moving forward.

A Compass Rose Moment

Compass Rose, for me, is about navigation—not certainty. It’s about finding your way when the landscape changes, when the temperature swings, when the map turns out to be incomplete.

That night at Dante’s View felt like a quiet confirmation of that philosophy: inspiration followed by intention, preparation followed by adaptability, and experience followed by reflection.

Come to think of it, that’s not a bad way to move through a life…or a career.

If this resonates with you, I’d love for you to subscribe and continue the conversation.

A Question to Carry With You

As you move through the coming weeks, I’ll leave you with this:

What is one experience, idea, or change that has been calling to you—and what is one small step you could take this week to move toward it, even if conditions aren’t perfect?

Sometimes the cold wind is essential to success.

Subscribe now

Every New Year feels a little different to me.

There’s the familiar optimism, the hopes for continued joy and happiness ahead, a new, unspoiled calendar, and fresh momentum, coupled with a quiet awareness that none of us really knows what the year ahead will bring. New chapters are exciting, with plenty still unknown. And if you’ve spent any time building a career, leading teams, or navigating change, you already know that navigating uncertainty isn’t an abstract concept—it’s part of the gig.

There’s a line I’ve loved for years that captures this feeling perfectly for me:

“I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year,
‘Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.’”

The line comes from a poem by Minnie Louise Haskins, a British poet and sociologist. It became widely known after King George VI quoted it in his 1939 Christmas message, at the outset of World War II. The poem goes off in a different direction, but this opening image has always stayed with me.

So, this new year, I decided to sit down for a moment at the gate to reflect, and to ask not for certainty, but for enough light to take the next step.

That idea sits at the heart of why I’m launching Compass Rose here on Substack, and why I’m doing it now.

I feel so fortunate to be doing my life’s work in business creative and content—starting way back as a Production Assistant in network television, learning the rhythms and realities of live and post production on set and in the field. I spent hundreds of hours in TV production trucks and control rooms, directing, running graphics, doing replays or running audio for live sports, business and banking teleconferences, and high-stakes corporate results livestreams where there are no second takes.

From there, I moved into video producing, editorial, and directing, creating thousands of commercials, entertainment and travel pieces, product demonstrations; documentaries; usually on tight timelines, with budgets to manage, results to deliver, and expectations to meet. Throughout, I’ve produced and directed A-list celebrity talent, senior executives, and business leaders, traveling the world translating complex ideas and business strategies into stories that resonate with global audiences.

Eventually, my path led between “making the work” and leading the people—what they like to call a “player-coach”—building and guiding content and creative teams at Fortune 500 organizations like QVC and Avantor, where creative excellence has to align with strategy, brand, and measurable business outcomes. To be successful, I needed to adapt and learn and use completely different tools and skills, ones that definitely weren’t “pre-installed” for me early on.

I added roles as a business partner and success coach, developing and delivering mission, vision, and values courses for QVC that I facilitated across the organization, and adapted for the teams I led directly.

Through constant learning, successes I’m proud of (and a few spectacular failures), and adaptation, I learned something that I wish I’d known earlier in my career:

Talent and effort get you in the door.
Self-awareness, emotional intelligence, and adaptability determine how far—and how successfully—you go.

This has been everything for me as a creative, as a leader, and as a coach.

Compass Rose is for creatives, business leaders, and professionals who are in it for the long haul. People who want to do great work, build sustainable careers, and have fun doing it. People navigating change—chosen or unchosen—and looking for steadier footing without losing their edge, ambition, or humanity.

This Substack is a place for reflection, practical insight, tools and perspective earned over years, decades. I’ll be reflecting about creative leadership, navigating change, career longevity, focus, confidence, and momentum—especially in moments where the map isn’t obvious. Because I love to travel, maps and navigation metaphors show up all the time in my work.

Launching Compass Rose is a natural next step for me, and a longtime goal.

As I found myself increasingly drawn to the why behind creative work I leaned more heavily on the coaching and mentoring skills I learned so I could better help the people around me. What helps teams thrive? What quietly derails them? Why do some leaders inspire loyalty and trust, while others lose the room without realizing it?

I also saw how many talented people struggle, not because they lack skill, but because no one ever taught them how to navigate ambiguity, advocate for themselves, or lead without burning out. I’ve been that guy; I have also been lucky to have people who helped.

Success coaching, speaking, and facilitation grew organically out of my work so far. Compass Rose is where those threads come together along with my love for travel, photography, and business filmmaking.

It’s not about having all the answers.
It’s focused on helping people find their true North, and move forward with clarity, confidence, and purpose.

If you’re reading this at the start of a new year, there’s a good chance you’re carrying a mix of emotions.

Maybe you’re energized.
Maybe you’re a little exhausted from a busy year.
Maybe you’re proud of what you’ve built… and quietly questioning what comes next.

All of that is welcome here.

Moving forward with optimism doesn’t require pretending everything is perfect. Hope doesn’t demand certainty. Sometimes progress looks like naming what you don’t want anymore and taking one small, intentional step in a different direction.

Which brings me back to that image of standing at the gate of the year.

The poet asks for a light, but the wisdom in the line isn’t about illumination. It’s about guidance, moving forward, and trusting that I don’t need the whole path revealed to take the next step.

So, this page will be a mix of:

• Short reflections you can read with your morning coffee

• Practical tools and questions you can apply immediately

• Stories from creative leadership, production, travel, and designing a life

• Frameworks I use in my coaching and live workshops

Over time, I’ll also share more about the Compass Rose coaching program and speaking work, but for now, this is about starting the conversation and offering some thoughts and tactics that have been genuinely useful for me.

If the ideas resonate, I’d love for you to subscribe and join me here as the year unfolds.

A question for the year ahead

I’ll leave you with a question—one I’ll return to often in this space:

What is one thing you’re excited to build, change, or move toward in 2026—and what’s one action you could take this week to begin?

Not the whole plan.
Not the perfect move.
Just the next step.

If you’d like, share it with me in the comments or keep it close as you step into the year ahead.

I’m glad you’re here.
Let’s see where this path leads.

—

Welcome to Compass Rose.