Yesterday, as I was stuck on the massage table as Eric-the-wonder-PT tried to get my grouchy hip to stop barking so I could go for a pain-free run like the young athlete I believe myself to be, I realized something. We’re all players. Where, why, and how we play determines our finish line.

It seems that as you get further along in life, you are more inclined to pause the game to notice, reflect, and try to identify where you might have earned some wisdom you can share.

Also, you’re more inclined to need physical therapy.

Life happens in skips, slides, and stops. It’s got rules and boundaries, start lines, finish lines, and yard lines. Equipment and teammates. Every time you stop to orient yourself, you see where you’ve been and where you’re (still) trying to go. You might see balls you’ve dropped, uniforms you’ve outgrown, and team mascots you’ve abandoned. But you also get to delight in how far you’ve come, the team you’ve built around you, competitors you’ve bested, and points you’ve scored. The losses and wins add up, but until you opt out of the game or cross the finish line, you get to keep playing.

What makes the game challenging and fun is the not knowing. Not knowing where you’ll end up. Even as you aim for a destination, there’s no guarantee it’s the one you’ll reach. Not knowing how long you’ll be in the game, no matter how many seasons you plan to suit up.

That’s because you’re signed on as a player in a game you didn’t create. What’s more, someone else – not you – is running the plays. They may or may not know or care about you at all. It doesn’t matter. It’s up to you to convince them that you can compete, and then bring your best when you get the chance.

At a certain point, usually in our early 20s, most of us decide to suit up and get on the field. Some people (the innovators and entrepreneurs among us) build their own game in some dusty, abandoned field, but most of us choose to show up trained, suited up, and ready to play a game that’s already in process. To follow the rules set long ago and to be coached by someone who earned the right. We commit to contributing to our team and to competing as well as we can. Those are the costs and rewards of saying yes to the invitation to get off the sidelines.

Maybe it’s marriage. You step onto the court with a partner, only to be reminded that in a doubles game, every strategy and move is a joint effort. Your partner might have lousy hand-eye coordination. Or they might look immeasurably better in the uniform than you. Or, you might be so well-suited that you can predict one another’s moves. The partnership will humiliate and humble you, even as it makes you better positioned for love and success.

Maybe it’s parenting. You’ve been racing well. You’ve proven your worth as the lead-off runner on the relay team. It’s time to level up. Add some hurdles. Go from the 800 to the Steeplechase. You’re running along smoothly until you miss the barrier, flub the landing, and get yourself stuck momentarily in the water jump. And even after you pull yourself out to run again, you’re overtaken by another competitor (younger, faster, better looking in their shorty-shorts), who comes up from behind. Before you know it, your best relay teammate has gone to run with someone else.

Maybe it’s your career. You picked a game. Picked a team. Tried out. Brought them your best strategies, skills, and equipment. You made that team gear look fiiiiine. And then...they traded you. It’s their prerogative. But, damn. For a while, you sit on the sidelines a little perplexed, tired, hurt, and resentful of the ones who get to keep playing (they aren’t even as good as you). But that’s when you get to decide whether to play the same game for a different team or become a competitor. Or maybe you decide it’s time to take your ball and go home.

If you decide to stay in the mix, keep your eyes open.

You’ll get comfortable playing one game, only to discover you’re in the middle of another. Just as you’re moving forward smoothly toward the goal – blam. You get pelted out of nowhere. Somehow, you’re in the middle of a dodgeball game that’s in full swing, and you’re knocked out before you even know what’s happening. You don’t even like dodgeball. But here you are.

If you play long enough, you’ll get into games within games. Each one comes with its own rules. It’s up to you to decide what to do with them. They also demand a specific set of skills. Maybe you’re the fastest in the pack. Or you’re stronger than you look. Here’s the problem. Your competitors have skills too. In many cases, they’ll be faster or stronger than you are. Even worse, some people are willing to try harder.

Talented try-hards are lethal. When you come across one, you’d better level up or change games. Because even if you can’t see that you’re not fit to compete, the coaches and fans can.

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You’ve gotten from the start line to wherever you are by seeing the game you’re playing for what it is, accepting the rules, and deciding what you’re willing to do to compete. (Please, don’t cheat.) To get from where you are now to the final goal, you have to keep at it for however long it takes.

That’s where endurance comes in. You’re going to get knocked down. Your hips are going to hurt sometimes – from the playing and from the hits you take. It’s up to you to find the gumption to get back up and go again.

Look downfield. Spot the battered, muddy players (I’ll wave hi). We’re each running toward a goal for ourselves and the teams we’ve joined along the way. And we’re having a great time doing it. That’s how you win.

The people wandering by on their way to dinner couldn’t have cared less. Still, there’s something fragile and vulnerable about dragging your best stuff out for everyone to see. You think they’re definitely judging you.

This pile on the sidewalk was not made up of things. It was evidence of life and tethers to home.

There are times when everything becomes disorderly and fluid. The days before your wedding, when you are at your most stunning as you prepare to evolve from a “me” to a “we.” The moment you go into labor and begin the work of going from a “we” back to a “me.”

Life transitions, especially the big ones, are like that. You’re out of your element and not operating inside your comfortable regular schedule. Instead, you’re wandering around trying to get rooted in days and hours. It’s the worst when you’re in it.

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Miles and Hours and Miles

Early that morning, after an hour of rush-packing that felt four times as long, we had stuffed ourselves and the dog into the beat-up little Kia we’d rented for the 13-hour sojourn up the East Coast. As we got rolling, I was surprisingly on edge. After all, I’d signed up for this. I’d said yes before he even asked.

Right then, though, I was sad. A little scared. Oddly hollow. Every emotion was like a sharp pebble in my back pocket. Hidden from sight and useless. They dug in as I sat down and turned me into a pain in the ass.

Nonetheless, we passed the time. With each new state – eight in total – we’d test our states and capitals memory and learn a new set of random facts. We played “did you know” and “would you rather,” made big decisions and small talk, and calculated the miles. As the drive stretched out, the sharp edges of the pebbles wore down. By the time we crossed through the Lincoln Tunnel as the sun was setting, each one had become something to treasure about the home we left.

It seemed like moments between spotting the real-life postcard Manhattan skyline and realizing that it had morphed from a destination to our new home. In a stroke of what we interpreted as cosmic luck and hospitality, we found an open parking spot directly in front of the apartment doors. At least we wouldn’t have to schlep our valuables down the street like some kind of cosmopolitan Joad family. We parked, paused to share a look — we really were doing this — checked on the dog wedged among the bags, and got to work. The parking spot was a temporary gift, but the car was tiny, and so was the apartment, so we could be fast. Plus, the quicker we were, the less exposed we felt.

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Night Tag Base

It took no time to confirm what we already knew – New York is unlike anywhere else. It is everything all at once. Our maiden dog walk was like stepping onto a movie backlot. Clusters of people from everywhere, laughing, talking, and proving that surprise and joy sound the same in every language. A horny young couple engulfed in passion and wholly unconcerned about the rampant and obvious voyeurism. Two men, one young, the other old, one Black, the other Asian, connecting excitedly over something caught on camera.

It’s a gorgeous human cacophony. The kind that can make you feel insufficient and uninteresting. Too banal to belong.

How long does it take to make the transition from observer to participant? How do you evolve to fit in when ‘in’ is everything? Does the proximity to free-flowing creativity expand us? Unlock what makes us interesting? Or just turn up the volume on the dim, constant hum of insecurity?

Anyway. It’s a brilliant, fun experiment. Sometimes, you feel like a white shirt, twisted and rubber-banded for tie-dye. The outcome is a mystery. You just hope to end up with something interesting and beautiful you’re proud to wear in public.

After spending time soaking in all of this wonderful, noisy place, who will we be? More interesting? Or more of the same, just slightly, concentrically widened? (Here’s hoping for a vibrant evolution.)

Change and progress demand as much sanctuary as exposure. You go out, take it all in, then bring it home to soak and percolate. You might not even realize what’s happening because real maturation is sneaky and incremental. But it can only happen if you trust the process and give it space.

That makes me think about night tag. (Stay with me here.)

Night tag was one of the best things about being an ‘80’s kid in the summertime. The neighborhood parents – probably hoping for a few minutes to enjoy a daiquiri in peace – would conspire to kick us out of the house after dark. We’d run amok in the pitch-black evening, safely within the confines of the yards. One of the rules of success survival was having a hidden ‘home base’ where you could catch your breath and get ready for your next sprint, away from the chase.

Funny how something that seemed like playtime was actually valuable skill-building.

Our apartment is that hidden home base. It’s a serene spot to regroup before going out into the brilliant, exuberant, delightfully terrifying chaos again. It’s where the evolution has space to take effect. And it’s how every morning, we go back out sufficiently rested and ready to continue the chase. The new jobs, the new contacts, the new challenges, the new demands, and the new adventures. But this time, tougher, smarter, faster, and just a little more interesting than the day before.

Settling into our small, quiet sanctuary only took about eight hours. (If you ever wonder if you have a big house or a little house, clock how long it takes you to fill all the cabinets and hang the artwork.)​

As the first days passed, time regained a comfortable shape.

We’re not interesting (yet), but the laundry, groceries, subway, and dinners with friends indicate that we’re not visitors either. The treasures are off the sidewalk and securely in place. We’re collecting a new pocketful of pebbles and bringing them back to decorate the daring chapter as it unfolds.

By the way, if you want to know what's behind all of this life-adventure oversharing, Kenji explains it really well here. Accounting Today does a pretty good job too!

“Well, it’s about damn time.”

I stepped back a bit and smiled right into his face.

The kiss had been careful, gentlemanly, and purposeful. He had traced a finger down my cheek and leaned in timidly, but precisely, like he’d been planning it for a while. He might have been. This moment was months in the making. We’d been hanging out since January, and here it was, St. Patrick’s Day.

He looked back at me squarely. His eyes held a mix of pride, happiness, relief, and something else. A little defiance. This wasn’t just a first kiss. It was a first step. He knew it. Even though I’d made a glib joke, I knew it too.

“I take my time with things that matter.”

He might as well have proposed right then. I was a goner.

And then he leaned in again, kissing me confidently and meaningfully. Instead of touching his fingers gently to my face, he wrapped his arms around the full of me. We pressed together against the door outside my dorm room and sank into oneness.

He was right. This mattered.

My hallmates tried to pretend they weren’t gawking. We didn’t care if they did. And just a few years later, we invited them to witness our second first kiss.

At the front of the campus chapel, he wrapped his arms around the full of me and kissed me for the first time again – this time, as my husband.

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It’s 4:23 in the morning.

Normal sleeping creatures would register the storm deep down in their slumber state. For the early morning outside folk, the brief logistical consideration that they will have to reschedule their activities mixes with the content sigh of recognition that – on this morning – they will lie in for just a little longer. The commuters wonder how this will snarl their trip to the office and if, perhaps, they should just work from home to start the day.

Just as you settle your head a little deeper into the pillow, luxuriating in the promise of another hour or two of lucid dreaming, there’s a flash of lightning. It’s ever so brief, but instinctually you count as you’d been taught in school – one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. The storm is nearby but not quite on top of the house yet. You have time.

It’s 4:24 in the morning, and the dog is freaking out.

At the first sound of thunder, the panic begins. She’s become extremely high-strung. A smart, perceptive little creature, she’s aware that her mommy is in the house but her daddy is someplace else. And she doesn’t like it. The situation is temporary but dogs can’t tell time. They just know something is not as it should be.

Right now, that clingy concern is making it impossible to even consider going back to sleep.

It’s like someone rigged the king-sized bed up to one of those quarter-slot machines that you’ve only ever seen in cheap motel scenes in the movies, but must exist somewhere. (Who would make that up?) The whole bed is vibrating. She’s not that big; she’s just shaking that hard.

She’d been asleep at the opposite end of the bed, on her daddy’s vacant side. She had happily taken that spot in his absence because it smells like him. Plus, it offered ample space to spread out on her back – her funny, slightly slutty, cool belly preferred way to snooze.

She was not snoozing at the end of the bed now. In fact, she’s moved up to the pillows. I open my eyes to the sight of her open, panting mouth. She is drooling everywhere. If we don’t get up, I’ll be changing the sheets again. (It’s been a rainy week and her nerves are shot. How she’s not dehydrated is a wonder.)

It’s 4:25 in the morning, and it’s time for the protocol.

The upstairs thermostat is still set at menopausal-woman cold, so first things first, some pants and a sweatshirt. If she wasn’t sitting on my feet the moment I am upright, donning PJ pants would be easy…but here we are. The coaxing begins.

“You’re okay, baby. Scoot over now so I can pull on these pants.”

Shuffle, gentle nudging. “Okay, good girl.” Pants on. Off we go.

How we’re going to get down the stairs without tripping on one another remains to be seen, but you do what you have to do. Carefully, we make it to the kitchen where the peanut butter-trazodone treats live. Sometimes, they are cheeze-trazodone treats but at 4:26 in the morning, I don’t have it in me to create a little slit in a Baby Bell to slip in the drugs. We strap on the thunder shirt to get her across the bridge to Chemical Calmland, and move carefully back up the stairs to the office, trying not to trip on each other.

On the plus side, I have coffee.

Today may feel a little extra long but, right now, the found time offers that same feeling you get when you find a dollar in the pocket of last spring’s jacket. It’s really not that much. But time is a gift.

It’s not great that the dog is having a panic attack, but silver linings, right?

We add Yo-Yo Ma’s Bach Cello Suites to the rainy symphony outside. (Loud enough that maybe she’ll notice that, not the deluge.) The sun won’t rise for hours. The drugs and swaddling have worked their magic. And there’s always a little story to tell.

I hope you enjoyed it. Just in case, here’s Yo-Yo Ma and Bach to accompany you on your day.

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Being an entrepreneur means stepping into the unknown with a big idea and even bigger questions. The minute you sign on, you become a possibility wrangler.

When I started my entrepreneurial career, I was first and foremost a stay-at-home mom. I had traded a brutal-houred, fast-moving agency job for sticky highchairs and floor snuggles. It was the right thing to do and I was lucky to have the option. In many ways, it was challenging. But I was intellectually unstimulated and dejected by the lack of performance feedback (a drug for the Type A personality). Mostly, the sense that I had more to contribute was loud and persistent.

A promise is a promise. I’d had the benefit of growing up with an at-home mother. Most of my accomplishments could be directly tied to that ever-present oversight, chauffeuring, and parental support. After spending months doctoring to get pregnant, it only seemed right to put my focus on the outcome (who was pretty darn cute).

I was grateful to be the one getting all of the time with these funny little humans with fuzzy hair, tiny little pea-shaped toes, and the smell of eau de little kid (which features notes of graham crackers, milk, and sweat).

Still.

The cerebral buzzing would have driven me mad if I had allowed it to continue. Returning to an 80-hour-a-week agency job wasn’t an option. The problem was, I’d never done anything else and I really wanted to preserve my flexibility. It just so happened that two people I knew well wanted to build a shoe company.

I mean, how cool is that? Who doesn’t love shoes?

And so, we launched a portable, sustainable footwear company – a bit like Rothy’s is now.

It was a cool idea with clear market potential. But it was a super ugly shoe. We were a tiny, bootstrapped team. And the idea of sustainable apparel was before its time.

The shoe company became my “learning startup.” (The ‘bad pancake’ that comes out simultaneously burnt and gummy, before you have the heat right.)

What did I learn? How hard it would be, how exciting it would be, how exhausting it would be, sometimes how lonely it would be, and how much it would demand. Cerebral buzzing, gone. Total overwhelm in full effect.

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If you’ve ever run a startup with small children in the house, you know sleep stops being sleep. It becomes naps stolen (sitting upright) between conference calls and diaper changes. But I learned that brand building is tremendously fun (and I was actually good at it).

After a couple of years, I turned my share over to my partners and my attention to launching a nonprofit and then a branding agency. With what I had learned, I took steps to build organizations where I could delight in my chosen craft and work with other entrepreneurs. (Who can be as interesting and cool as shoes!)

I would get to do the things I liked the most...

When I wasn’t trying to sign clients, hire, manage bookkeeping, and build culture. I could present exceptional, even award-winning work. But I was working on the business, more than in it. Still, I was earning a positive reputation and access to fulfilling paid and probono work. My team members were happy and growing in their careers. And the client portfolio belied our small size.

These accomplishments led to an opportunity to go through an acquisition. I sold my agency and merged my team and clients into the larger entity. At times, stepping into that leadership team felt a bit like being the new kid in middle school and trying to assess whether you were actually welcome at the cool kids’ lunch table. But we made it work, we all learned and, together, we grew. I cherished the chance to be part of a group known for the caliber of its work and the strength of its purpose. Better yet, I was still working flexible hours that allowed me to prioritize my kids, who were generally thriving.

As many entrepreneurs know all too well, it’s possible to be simultaneously gratified and burnt out.

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The need to build kept knocking inside my brain. When I was offered a chance to build a brand and content practice for a venture capital firm and to provide counsel to its portfolio of technology entrepreneurs, the next loop in the career spiral was clear. The firm even had a strong mandate to support founders from groups typically shut out of traditional investing.

What a dream, to use my experience as an entrepreneur to help others with theirs.

I’m so grateful to have seen both sides of the startup journey, the dream, the grind, breakthroughs, the resilience, to build partnerships along the way, to help things along, and to build the muscle, the resilience that it takes to keep all of this going.

A Truth of Entrepreneurship

Entrepreneurship can be one of the most exciting and rewarding things you will ever do. But more than likely, it’s what else you’re doing with your day. It’s what occupies your late-night hours. While others are watching television, playing bar trivia, and sleeping, you’re managing the details that got pushed and pushed as the daytime hours flew by.

But you do it. And as isolated as you might sometimes feel, you don’t do it alone. Innovation is not a solo act. Entrepreneurship is a team sport. Support systems matter, collaboration matters, and your purpose matters.

Your idea, the reason why you’re grinding – it matters. That’s your purpose. And you have to keep it in your sights because building something real while managing life, health, family, work, and everything else takes incredible courage.

It’s why most people stop at the idea stage. They get excited about the thought of success, but they avoid the discomfort of action. Maybe they dip their toe in it, but when the work gets hard and the hours get long, they abort.

Entrepreneurs step forward despite the fear, despite the challenge, despite the exhaustion, despite being broke, and despite not knowing how it all might turn out. They have a purpose, a challenge, and a willingness to do the work.

Aptitude + Grit = Unstoppable

Writer James Clear1 says that exceptional results come from working hard in an area where you have some natural aptitude.

That means knowing and playing to your strengths, sharing your perspective, tapping into your lived experience, and confidently solving a problem in a way nobody else can. In other words, exceptional results come from tapping into what makes you distinct. That takes courage. Most of us never even get to the start line because humility or self-doubt clouds our vision.

In her book, Grit, Angela Duckworth2 digs into what it takes to do the hard work. She defines grit as the combination of passion and perseverance. Grit is the difference between the entrepreneur and the wantrepreneur. It’s what carries you through the long nights, the lost contracts, the instinct to sit back after a big win, and the insecurities about, well, everything.

Over the past two decades, I’ve gotten to work with countless entrepreneurs.3

A few persistent truths have emerged. Most of the time, society celebrates the tool, not the innovator. Every entrepreneur is different. We don’t think, imagine, or build the same way. We’re connected by the un-ignorable push to pursue an idea that somebody (or everybody) said was impossible. We share the grit to try, fail, learn, adapt, and persevere.

This is a path that very few – like 19% – have the courage to walk.4

You have the Courage

If you tell someone the idea you’re working on and they ask you, “Can you do this?” You get to say, I already do.

Never forget you have a purpose and a community. When things get hard, call on them, lean on them, look into their faces to see how deeply they believe in you. Remember that you are part of something bigger than yourself, stronger than you know, and imminently capable.

If you’re an innovator, thank you and congratulations. Your creative solutions make life better for so many others in the world. You’ve undertaken a brave, generous, and inspiring act. Keep going.

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I woke aware of two things.

His hand was resting centrally on my left butt cheek. And somewhere, an alarm was going off. Quietly, quickly, and insistently.

hey-hey-hey-hey
30 seconds.
hey-hey-hey-hey

The conundrum. It was 4am. The alarm wasn’t all that annoying. It didn’t seem to be coming from inside the apartment. The new bed and pillows, covered in fresh sheets, were sirens, luring me to stay put. And also, the big hand holding my butt cheek was attached to the rest of him, which was soundly asleep. (The booty grab wasn’t an invitation. His hand just needed somewhere to go, and like a homing beacon, it found a warm resting place. Still.)

hey-hey-hey-hey
30 seconds.
hey-hey-hey-hey

The alarm annoyed me into considering motion. If I disrupted him, it wouldn’t matter. Given what was happening outside, he could probably sleep in if he wanted. A blizzard of legend had us surrounded. The apartment was a literal snow globe, except we were warmly encased in the glass, which was plastered with thick snow on the outside. I sent up a short, sincere prayer that everyone was safely inside somewhere warm.

At the third round of the alarm, I begrudgingly exited the cocoon and wandered around looking for the source of the beeping. It wasn’t coming from inside the house. Maybe a wind alarm for the building? Who knows. But it definitely wasn’t our emergency.

It was, however, a call to attention. Wake up. Notice this. You changed everything. It’s the start of our daring chapter. Except, not as you expected.

Today, you wait.

Monday, Dinner.

Not since 2019 had the city of New York had a “real snow day.” No school, no offices open, nobody on the roads except a few essential, brave, extremely tough souls.

Have you ever been so ready to start that you’re over-prepared, and then made to wait? Ready for that baby to come, only to stay pregnant for an extra few days or weeks? Prepped hard for the test, only to have it postponed? It doesn’t matter how long the delay goes on; the extension feels rude.

You walked confidently up to the door, put your hand on the knob, took a deep breath, and...found it locked. When you’re in a state of forward motion, a forced pause is really uncomfortable.

Monday was meant to be the start of everything. Instead, it was spent inside our reverse-snow globe. Expecting that he’d be at work, I’d booked calls throughout the day. But the weather had closed the building’s co-working floor, forcing two ambitious people to create privacy in an intimate three-room space.

If you were born in the 1970s or 1980s, being sent to your bedroom was a punishment. It’s an ingrained dread for Gen X’ers. As I took meeting after meeting in the main room, he endured hours essentially grounded in the bedroom. The situation couldn’t have been further from his expectation for a day of invigorating new experiences, people, ideas, and challenges.

As for me, I was literally grounded. The Tuesday flight scheduled to wrap up details in Atlanta on Tuesday was already canceled. In effect, everything we’d planned for the start of this new chapter was paused and pushed back.

Here’s the thing. Sometimes you don’t get to decide how to move through the start line. It’s not comfortable. It’s not fair. But it is what it is. You can roll with it or get frustrated.

It’s times like these when you realize that progress and striving look a lot alike, but they couldn’t be more different. Progress is patient forward motion, while striving lunges toward the next thing. Progress is active contentment. Striving is untethered.

The blizzard was a gut check. We were not striving. This was a step in the progress.

As the long day ended, we sat together on the floor with the world’s best cold-weather dinner (soup and grilled cheese). The blizzard moved on quietly, belying the chaos it had wreaked. It left a city quieted and twinkling as the sun set.

Almost Tuesday.

The alarm that pulled me out of the warm, fresh blankets this morning was my own. The hey was a familiar nudge, pre-set and welcome. No emergencies today. No forced pauses.

Monday had offered an unexpected epilogue – an extra day of the ‘time before’ – and a thoughtful prologue to what would be. In the momentary forced holding room, our tightly braided stories were extracted and examined. His is rooted in decades of industry leadership, used to inform wise, careful innovation. Mine has always returned to words – in classrooms and boardrooms. Ours is filled with big versions of the past few days. Mutual support. Deep conversations. Planned starts. Unplanned stops.

The first page of the daring chapter held all of it in miniature, inside a single glass box. A chance to be thrilled and content all at once.

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Tomorrow morning would be (mostly) unlike any other. It would start before the sun. I would run as many miles as I could fit in before the start of a very big day. I would be at the side of my other training partner – but not in Atlanta. In Manhattan. She is visiting for work. I am settling in. This is a transitional gift. My hope is that an apple-colored sunrise will offer a perfect backdrop over my new Midtown.

Right now, though, from seat 12E, everything is liminal.

This hazy state of being is far from calm. Moments of excitement zap now and then, catching my breath with the grand opportunity of it all. A dull sadness moves quietly deep down, small but slightly uncomfortable, like the possibility of a headache that never quite shows up. And the adrenaline is familiar. It’s a companion the day before every race. The feeling I force myself to label as a source of speed and competitive confidence, not a reason to chicken out.

Could this be the great adventure of our lives? Maybe. The most daring chapter yet? Likely. The threshold of a new, long era? Hard to say. My in-laws relocated to Chicago from a small town in Illinois for a short stint that lasted two decades.

You don’t always know when the next chapter begins. But you can only capture life’s full charm by having the courage to face it.

December, just before Christmas.

It was the week before Christmas, and Manhattan was pure magic. I’d spent the day balancing board calls and touristy fun. He’d spent the day with a hot startup built by a team of brilliant founders. He was late to dinner (not entirely unlike the night that started this whole journey, just more than 20 years ago). As he sat down, it was obvious what was happening.

I had seen this face before. He was excited. Energized. Maybe a little scared. His brain was going at Mach speed. The realization of possibilities – ideas about a potential life he (we) had never before even thought to try to consider widened his smile. He was talking before he hit the chair. I handed him my wine to slow the pace a bit.

The technology company had solved a complex, pressing issue. He could see that they were the real deal. And now they needed him. The other details didn’t really matter. What mattered was that this opportunity would stretch him. It would be difficult and meaningful. This was what the whole past year had been about.

How often does life present intellectual electricity, real need, and perfect timing in the same breath? Anyone with a few years under their shoes knows that transformational opportunities don’t come often (sometimes ever).

No was not an option. Even before he asked, I was on board.

He calls me his adventure partner. I’m more ambitious than adventurous, but mostly, I trust him. Security is my launchpad. He’s been steady, capable, and brave since day one. If he said this would be good, it would probably be great.

When you feel secure, you can do almost anything.

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Tuesday, mid-February.

Once the decision was made, things moved fast.

The moment we stepped off the plane and onto the jetway, reality hit with the sharp smell of snow. We were here to set aside the formative and quotidian details that made us the Southerners we were.

Peaches to apples.
Atlanta slide to New Yorker speed.

In the late 1990s, Atlanta was our stopover on the way to someplace else – ideally, Colorado. We had planned for mountains and ended up with skylines. We had packed a whole lot of life into that 30-year ‘transition.’ Four lives, actually, seven if you include the three dogs.

Friends and family met the news exactly as expected. Surprise. Curiosity. Some admiration. Generosity (I’m sad for me!) Concern (who really does this kind of thing?)

The ones who know us barely blinked. Of course, we were picking up and making a ridiculous life shift in middle age. We’d had some practice by being the ones to escape the well-trodden suburbs for Midtown bustle just two years before. (Apparently, this is what we do.) It doesn’t really matter if our reasoning is clear. They simply knew that we are a team, and where one goes, the other goes.

For now, we were going from Newark to Chelsea. Outside, a grey, cold landscape filled the commuter train windows. Inside, I was swirling with unsettled feelings.

Trepidation.
Gratitude.
Wonder.
Excitement.
Confidence.

By Thursday, we would have an apartment and start planning.

Thursday, decision day.

The day began, as many do, laced up before dawn. Bundled up against the residue of a historic cold snap, I ran along the river to Central Park, listening to Haruki Murakami talk about those very streets in his memoir, “What I Talk About When I Talk About Running.”

New York is a runner’s city, which meant that I had a built-in community. I joined a friendly pack of mid-week runners and felt the click of something settling. Belonging doesn’t always take years. Membership can be easy. Momentum is built when your shoes hit the pavement.

As we looped the Park, the early-morning milers greeted one another by name. Who says New York is a big city? These people knew one another. It would only be a matter of time before they got to know me, too.

When you know, you know.

The space was tiny. The view expansive. It cut off our conversation mid-sentence and ended our hunt.

Our home in Atlanta is more than 110 years old. Its charm lies in its wobbly blown-glass windows, painted shut over time, and in its wood floors, softened and warped over a century of stocking-footed traffic. From the front door, the dog watched people meander by. From our bedroom, a picture window framed the most beautiful Midtown buildings.

The difference in scale here was exponential.

Despite the small square footage, this space was massive. One floor-to-ceiling window framed the Statue of Liberty. The other one showcased the Empire State Building. This was quintessential New York City. We had explored neighborhoods and boroughs and had our priorities solidly outlined, but we couldn’t have imagined this.

An enclave in the city. Sweeping sunrises. Morning sidewalks crowded with people walking kids to school and dogs to the park. Elderly people performing tai chi. And little restaurants hidden in plain sight, waiting to be discovered.

This place was a perfect metaphor. We’d condensed life to just the two of us and taken the frame off its scope.

Dinner and down.

The waitress brought a tray of small cut-crystal glasses to the table to close the meal, each with a shimmer of salt on the rim and a bright, fresh lime slice perched on top. (This was a solid improvement on the after-dinner mint.)

A first dinner with new friends was a perfect end to the day. These were mutual friends of one of my very best, and they had welcomed us with unbelievable warmth and generosity. (If someone you know and love offers to introduce you to someone they think you should know, always say yes.) These friends had shared invaluable New Yorker wisdom and provided even more reasons to be optimistic.

They would be our first friends, neighbors so close that we joked we could run across the street in slippers to borrow a cup of sugar. (Okay, in honesty, a glass of wine.) We got acquainted over exceptional guacamole and skinny spicy margaritas. This was great. This would be great.

We cheered, raised the shots, tipped back the icy tequila, and gave our limes a good, celebratory suck.

Back into the cold and wind, the tequila offered an internal heater against the cold wind whipping through the avenues. By the time we reached the hotel, I was done. The drinks, chill, miles of exploring, and enormity of our decision did me in. Each detail was like a clean cut on a tree being prepared to drop precisely. We entered the hotel room, and I simply tipped gratefully and resolutely onto the bed. Not since college had I gone to sleep in my clothes, mascara, and all. (Here’s where regular 3:00 a.m. wakeup cycles are handy. I was in my PJs by the time the sun rose.)

The day had been long, but it was just the beginning.

Thursday, at home.

So here I am. On the second flight to New York in as many weeks. This time, with bags filled to start our life.

There is nothing like putting your feet on the ground in a new place. Seeing it with fresh eyes. Nothing missed or taken for granted. You have to think about each turn of a corner and often double back because the corner wasn’t quite the right one. The novelty is exciting and assaulting. You hope it doesn’t wear off.

Who knows how long an adventure will last? All we know is that life’s charm exists outside its certainty. And the daring chapter begins when you say yes to the invitation.

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Maybe it is because, in silhouette, he looked like a tiny turtle. His little head only reached the taillights on the truck that had come to take him away.

Normally, the sight of a preschooler swallowed by a too-big backpack prompts a smile. You wonder what couldn’t be left behind – some beloved lovey, a favorite snack, a small comfort tucked away just in case.

This was not that.

It could have been cute if it hadn’t for the context. The blue hat over his ears and cheeks. His hands folded neatly in front of him as he stood facing the open vehicle sent to take him to…where? His face tipped slightly down, calm but creased with fear. And behind him, an adult holding the strap of his backpack – not to lift the burden, but to control his movement.

Little kids in big backpacks, tasselled bunny hats, and elf-sized snow pants usually epitomize cute. Perhaps it’s the contrast that made the image of five-year-old Liam Conejo Ramos break so many hearts and raise the hackles of protective parents everywhere.

Liam left home that morning with his bag filled with the possibility of lessons, friends, and playtime. He left in a stranger’s truck with only what was on his back. Five years old. Restrained by a big grown-up in heavy black boots.

Liam’s little form – this tiny human with his big superhero bag, surrounded by unreasonable aggression – undid me.

Face in hands. Waterworks. Swearing. Fuck. Oh fuck. (Don’t you find that big bad words offer a sense of control?) The desire to look away collided with the impossibility of not imagining how frightened this child and his caregivers must be.

Stoic or strong.

Tears and outrage are natural responses to the ruthless barrage of images seeping in through every crack and pore. There is simply too much hard news to avoid. As the saying goes, “if it bleeds, it leads.” Short of burying our heads under snowdrifts, we cannot escape the dark side of humanity that’s playing out in Minnesota.

As a stereotypical oldest daughter and mom, prioritizing others’ needs has always felt like part of the responsibility set. There’s some self-worth earned through holding it together long enough to manage logistics and act as a shock absorber for others. (How’s that for justifying being a chickenshit about facing my own human fragility?)

But this little guy, with his big Spider-Man backpack, brought me to my knees.

Partly because no matter how much you feel it, there are moments when you know you cannot meaningfully solve the problem in front of you. It’s too big. And while it feels personal, it’s far away.

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Building calluses.

When it comes to the world’s big challenges, most of us are impotently compassionate. We’re not callous. We’re lacking the calluses. We’re missing the thick skin earned through long, resolute dedication to hard work over time. Real calluses are built for endurance, by endurance.

Right now, most of us are unable to do much.

So we make signs. We protest. We post. We write essays (ahem). We knit hats. We donate. These efforts matter. They are constitutionally and incrementally valuable. They offer relief. They soothe heartbreak. But they are not front-line solutions. They are not the hardest work.

Those calluses are being earned by a brave few.

Blowing whistles.

Kitti Murray is the founder of Refuge Coffee, a nonprofit that has provided job training and opportunities for resettled refugees and immigrants for over a decade. In a recent post, Kitty observed the difference between doers and compassionate, active observers.

She described driving down the highway and seeing people blowing orange whistles and holding anti-ICE signs.

I felt a strange mixture of skepticism and gratitude. Skepticism because I had a hard time connecting their actions to the legitimate fears of my dear refugee friends who are called wholesale garbage, animals, or terrorists. Gratitude because it seems so much of my world is unaware of current affairs that don’t impact them.

Kitty didn’t dismiss the whistleblowing. It draws attention to problems. She simply concludes that the best thing to do is, “Strip the words away, and just do the irreducible minimum: Love.”

Sounds easy. Act with what you have, do what you know, endure what you can bear. Just do it out of love.

Compassion and callousness.

The quote that opened this essay came from a mother in Minneapolis. Long before Liam was placed in that ICE truck, she and her husband were already doing the hard work. He is a pro bono immigration attorney. She is a community nonprofit leader.

Each weekday morning, they bundle their two small boys into coats and hats, pack backpacks, and walk them into their bilingual preschool. On the day she describes, ICE agents raided the school.

When news becomes your reality, there is no need to debate its veracity.

My youngest son...goes to a Spanish immersion daycare. The day after the death of Renee Good, the parents came together and organized. Ever since, the teachers have gotten rides to and from school by parents. Parents sit at the front desk of the daycare all day, working remotely, letting parents into the building so staff, who are vulnerable, don’t have to.

Most of our teachers do not speak English. Parents buy groceries and deliver them to the school for teachers to take home, so they don’t need to go out to the grocery store. The parents who are attorneys have given private and group confidential counsel and training to staff. The majority, if not all of the parents, are working, hence the need for daycare, but we have agreed that we are now dedicated to this long group project that no one signed up for.

There are so many details behind the scenes that parents, neighbors, and the community do to support just this one daycare.

One of those things is patrolling at drop-off and pick-up times. Because the patrol and observer presence is there, there is a response plan in place for if and when ICE shows up. It helps deter further harm to our beloved community. When ICE came by a few weeks ago, they drove into the parking lot. A parent texted the license plate to a rapid response patrol group.

The agents mocked and taunted the parents as they passed. They pretended with a fake smile to be friendly and waved. As this was happening, the cascading effect of our response and safety plan was happening swiftly. One parent notified the neighborhood group, and more observers came that day. We were on high alert. We still are, every day.

Since then, the days have gotten longer. Before the morning routines, they deliver supplies and scout the neighborhood. They do their ‘day’ jobs from the preschool, serving as sentries — visible shields for the teachers and children.

Fear still shows up. They might be using big bad words to soothe their panic or capture a sense of control, but show up with action connected directly to the challenge and the people they love.

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Action is the antidote to anxiety.

Protesting, donating, knitting, posting — these are like cheering at a hundred-mile trail race. It’s generous. It’s appreciated. It can even be exhausting. But at the end of the day, your feet are fine. It’s different for the runners. They trained to compete, endured terrain and weather, and finished battered but tougher than when they started.

Everyone is at the same race, just not in the same ways.

Just like now. There are seasons when you are running. There are seasons when you are cheering. Both matter.

Most of us are spectators willing to do what we can for the few who are meeting the challenge head-on.

Hauling the heavy rocks.

When a challenge exceeds your capacity, it’s tempting to focus on the sand in the proverbial priority jar. Raking and sifting the grains, we fill time with small, doable tasks to create a sense of productivity and success.

Over time, those repetitions can form calluses, too. But there is a difference between calluses built by friction and calluses earned through endurance and heavy lifting.

One dulls feeling. The other makes us stronger.

Callused. Not callous.

They are not the same. They are the opposite.

The preschool parents who accepted a “long group project that no one signed up for” are carrying the heavy rocks. They may ugly cry in parked cars or hide in tiny preschool toilet stalls when the fear gets too big. But then they return to their sentry. Resolute. Callused. Strong.

Click the button to follow their story. Their needs continue to grow. You can contribute what you can from where you are, here.

Follow Their Story

Click to hear the essay.

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This is an imaginary exercise, of course. And it seems morbid, but every coin has two sides. That’s the point. Play along.

I’m going to assume that I’m lucky enough to go first. I thought, once, when I was a young wife, that I might lose my husband. Cancer came early for him. But he won. Together, we protected our kids from the big and little threats that characterize childhood. My universe is all here. Three of our parents are in attendance, still impressively stylish, wise, and vibrant. Our brothers are here with their wives, the sisters I was gifted through their good decisions and fortunes.

To be so rich with family is a gift beyond measure. I love them all. More than that, I like them all. More than that, they seem to feel the same way, despite all the years of wielding my oldest daughter status over them like a total, judgy snot.

On the other side of the aisle is a group of women so stunning that it’s hard to believe I’ve earned their presence. My chosen sisters.

The one sitting closest to the end is my childhood best friend. Her house was my house. It was the first place I had ‘refrigerator rights’ and learned that giving someone the freedom to eat all your hot dogs is the truest expression of belonging. Though the details of our adult lives diverged dramatically, the love we discovered as children has kept us bound. This is the friendship you can lay down for months at a time, then pick back up like not a moment or thousands of miles have passed.

You have a friend like this. How long has it been since their voice swelled your heart? They’d be happy to hear from you.

Next to her are the women (and their husbands) whose love I earned along with my college degree. We found one another during those formative years – friends turned to couples, turned to marriages, turned to ‘our people.’ Those are the names in your living will, ready to take the kids if (god forbid) something happens and your family can’t step in. These friends also hold the keys to the closet that hides your skeletons. They love you despite the questionable decisions you made before you got wise.

And then, there’s the village. Together, we learned how to be women, partners, mothers, professionals, and the kind of friends allowed to come over, even if your floors (and hair) are dirty. These are the friends who throw you a baby shower and, weeks later, show up at your door with food and open arms to take your screaming mimi because you’re so tired that you lost the good sense to ask for help. The ones who kept you company as your butt numbed over hours on the bleachers watching YMCA gymnastics, and they’re the ones who got up before dawn to run with you, day after day.

Whatever that village looks like for you, chances are, these are the people who have taught you to be a fully-formed person.

​This is not your inner circle.

The inner circle is a flawed model. Here’s why: it’s one-directional. You choose them. It’s flattering, but risky. (You went to middle school. Reciprocity isn’t assumed.) Consider who would show up for you without an invitation or assignment. The people who would vie for a front row seat at your funeral and show up with a folded piece of paper in their pocket, just in case they get the chance to narrate their connection to you.

These are your people. The ones who reflect your value. They don’t care what you do. They care who you are. Not what you’ve accomplished. But how you’ve behaved. These are the people who remind you of your capabilities and worth.

A helper, not the helped. They show up to care for you, even when you haven’t asked for it. Even when you’re so loath to humble yourself to accept help that it makes you rude. (Sorry, Mom.) These friends taught me that receiving is a form of grace. (And that pushing people away just makes you kind of an asshat.)

A new version of parent and child. They sit with you as you quietly freak out when the kids drive off to start their own lives, ready or not. They remind you that even if you’re empty-nesting, you’re still a parent. And as you roil against the end of life, they come alongside you to proclaim that your parents were the best ever.

A workaholic without a reason. This one, they can’t answer. That is the answer. When the corporate attaboys cease, none of your people will care. They were impressed but never declared you valuable, worthy, or relevant because of how you spent your working hours. In fact, they probably didn’t know. If they did, it was likely because it blocked what made you actually interesting and fun. (Nobody cares about your expense reports or Monday all-hands.)

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​Eulogy Virtues

Going into 2020, the shit was hitting the fan. As it flung everywhere, covering the great parts of our lives with crap we hadn’t planned for, my husband and I decided to do something about it. We had three things going for us: practiced entrepreneurial skills, a well-established relationship with a coach/therapist, and a holiday break.

At the time, we were both running small companies. We relied on the OKR (Objectives and Key Results) framework for annual, quarterly, and monthly strategies. The discipline worked. Pandemic issues notwithstanding, business was good.

Our marriage and family life were not.

Not willing to cross into a new year feeling like we had lost control of our marriage and parenting abilities, we leaned into what was working to find a solution for what wasn’t. Like good small business leaders, we designed a STRATEGIC OFFSITE.

The grandparents offered to keep the kids. This would work!

That was, until the asshole boyfriend decided to stop dating our daughter.

Shit, meet fan.

Armed with small notebooks, pens, and a sheet of questions, we found a picnic table outside a pickleball court in the park and got to work. The structure is deceptively simple. Across Professional, Marriage, Family, Financial, and Community/Faith, consider what went well last year and what didn’t. Set new priorities, making sure they’re active and measurable. Then zoom out. Use the details to set a word for the year. Last, list your resume virtues and eulogy virtues.

That last one is a doozy.

Resume virtues are actions you prioritize to reach your goal(s). For me, this section is simply a statement of intent and an “I will” and “I won’t” list that provides tactical decision-making governance.

On the other hand, eulogy virtues are the character traits, values, and moral qualities you want to be known for.

Put simply, resume virtues are about what and how. Eulogy virtues are about who and why. They are the notes jotted on the folded papers waiting quietly in the pockets of your front-row funeral guests.

Nobody is going to write things like, “I will accept help, but only begrudgingly,” or “I’ll go ahead and lose patience when my kids dump all their shoes by the door,” or “I love working on Sunday afternoons.” (And yet.) When life is cruising along, this section isn’t all that difficult. It’s easy to be your best self when everything is going well. Your eulogy virtues show up no matter what.

In 2020, I was not the person I wanted to be or knew I could be (if life would let up a little or if I just. did. better). Writing my notes, I realized that my front-row people would probably talk about my discipline, durability, and vague successes. Those aren’t bad things, but they’re not how I want to be known.

Putting your most aspirational values to paper commits you to control of how you show up in the world, no matter what. It’s humbling and intimidating. Being your real self can be surprisingly challenging.

The retreat and framework have evolved over the years, but the effort is sacrosanct. It’s how we set goals, make big decisions, (re)connect, and temp-check our self-awareness. The eulogy virtues have become easier to write. Once you have identified who you want to be in the world and put some practice behind it, the details iterate and concentrate.

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Endurance and Relevance

Life is punctuated by moments of transformation. The waymarkers keep the journey interesting. Leaving home for the first time. Becoming a spouse. Becoming single again. Becoming a parent. Losing a parent. Moving after decades of building a life somewhere to start fresh, someplace else. Changing your career.

We’re encouraged to be present during these times. To capture what’s gone well and not so well, and to use the learnings to build the crystallized intelligence that someday will infuse you with wiseguy vibes. In the meantime, the five minutes you’ll spend on this task will help you decide how you’ll respond to the sparkles and crap you didn’t plan for – before they show up.

Bonus for my fellow Type A monsters – you’ll be gifted with a comforting sense of control.

Every Sunday, I get to open my little spreadsheet and highlight my achievements in green (I booked coffee with a professional contact – go me! I took the dog to the vet – I am incredible. I FaceTimed with my elderly aunt – how sweet. I published another essay – gold star!

Of course, there will be lots of things you don’t get to and lots you decided were less important than you initially thought. That’s okay. It’s part of the refinement that gets you closer to being the person you intend to be.

This year’s annual process provided a kick in the pants to stop wallowing and reframe. When the role and title fell away, I assumed my value went with it.

This is the part where we panic.

When I stopped to assess, I saw that the reality of the situation: the shit hit the fan, and I got hit with somebody else’s crap. That’s all.

I hadn’t lost anything, really. I hadn’t waivered from my values, and the person who emerged is a stronger version of the person I want others to know. A woman who strives to be resolutely kind and conscientious. Someone who operates with conviction, keeps promises, and generously advocates for others. A connector who actively adores her community. And most importantly, a committed partner who can receive care as gracefully as I give it.

I’ve worked on these qualities since that first notebook session at the picnic table outside the pickleball court. After six years, they’re less aspirational. They have defined how I show up at work and at the kitchen table.

You know this. Your family and friends don’t care what’s on your resume. Most of them have never seen your resume (and for the love of all that’s good, don’t show them).

You’re relevant and worthy because of who you are and how you behave. You’re valued because of how you show up in the world.

Do the framework. Measure what matters. But if you can’t tolerate the idea of one more strategic planning exercise, do one thing. Consider who would vie for the front row at your funeral and what they would have written on the folded piece of paper in their pocket.

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I’m standing on the outside, hand on the knob. I’m about to go in. Or maybe not. Maybe I’ll just stay here a while longer. But if I do, maybe I’ll be late, look bad in front of others, or miss my chance. I know how to turn the handle. I don’t know what I’ll find on the other side.

The door is a metaphor, of course, even when it’s real – and so often, it is. It is frustrating because the door blocks my progress, but that’s also what makes it comforting. You get the choice. Turn the knob or accept self-granted permission to stand still for just a little longer.

So you stay where you are, not turning the handle, not pushing open the door. Not taking the step forward into the next place, even though you know that most doors swing two ways and the next room is usually bigger and more interesting than the last one you were in. But you have to decide.

The voice of fear is loud in my mind and quiet on my lips. I don’t know how to do this.

Maybe I’ll just stay put. Safely stuck. Or maybe I’ll close my eyes, glue on a smile, breathe deeply, remind myself that it won’t kill me, turn the knob, and step forward.

Once, it was the classroom of one of the most beloved writers in history. She would become my teacher and mentor. She would share her tragedies and victories, peel back the layers that painted her public image. The ones that formed the armor around hard-earned fragility and deep, sensitive faith. She would show me that great writing is an act of generosity.

More than once, it was a big job in a big place at a big time. A job that would force me to stand out front and speak out loud. It would satisfy my busy brain and frustrate me to the core. It would exhaust and exhilarate all at once. Ultimately, it would lead me to discover the next ‘what if’ for my polymath sensibilities.

Once, it was sitting in a glistening restaurant on the top floor of a Paris art museum, eating escargot and sipping bubbles with the person I loved most in the world. Newly married, we marveled at the magic of the moment and the life we were making. We watched the Eiffel Tower light up like a murmuration of fairies, taking shape at the bottom, then fluttering into the sky in a perfect contrast to the fear that had me plastered to my seat.

Once, it was a hospital bed in the maternity ward. Seconds before, I had returned to being the only human in my body. Now, a nurse urgently presented my brand new baby son, swaddled and blue, for a kiss before rushing him away to try to get him to breathe. I kissed him once. Maybe hello. Maybe hello and goodbye.

Once, it was watching unfamiliar, unsympathetic EMTs wheel my daughter to a waiting ambulance that would rush her to a ward for young suicide survivors. Gathering my strength and every shred of clear thinking I could salvage, I got my keys to follow and vowed to be the mother she needed from then on.

And once, I found myself in middle age, sitting outside without a door in front of me. No knob to turn. Hallways of doors on every side, but none of them mine. No rooms ready to welcome me or to extend an invitation. Unclear about who I could be, even as I was so very clear about who I had become. And questioning everything that I thought had made me a person of substance and value.

• A helper, not the helped.

• A writer unable to produce.

• A giver, not a graceful recipient.

• A strategist without a problem.

• A leader without a team.

• A mother without kids.

• A wife scared to be taken care of.

• A daughter unprepared to face the reality of aging.

• A workaholic without a reason.

I should know better. I should have done this ages ago. Maybe this is the door I’m meant to open.

Here’s the catch.

I don’t know how to do this.

Perhaps the knowledge will come in the doing. The only way to know is to close my eyes, glue on a smile, breathe deeply, remind myself that it won’t kill me, turn the knob, and step forward.

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Instead, this group of 19 monks plans to close their pilgrimage as they have conducted it, as a moving, non-political call for peace, compassion, and unity. They have set the expectations that when they finish the mission in February, they will simply invite people to walk with them, silently or in quiet conversation. As it began, the Walk for Peace will end as a living meditation with a quiet mission to “awaken the peace that already lives within each of us.”

Their mission is difficult, to say the least. The remarkable scale of their execution is daunting. Their brand is rooted in peacefulness and quiet, in an era where making noise is the prevailing way to capture attention.

And yet, this small group of monks and their tenacious street dog have become a juggernaut.

With a month left to go, the Walk for Peace has generated substantial (many organizations would say enviable) attention and engagement.

• Crowds ranging from dozens to thousands have lined the streets, offering support and care to the monks and Aloka, and clamoring to hear their mission and message.2

• Major national, state, and local media outlets, including Fast Company, the Washington Post, and the Associated Press, have covered their journey.​​​3

• Hundreds of thousands of people are following the Walk for Peace and Aloka the Peace Dog on social media. As of January 8th, 2026:

  • Facebook (@walkforpeaceusa) exceeds 800k followers.

  • Instagram (@walkforpeaceusa) has exceeded 750k, and Aloka the Peace Dog (@alokathepeacedog) has achieved viral status with over 150k followers and hundreds of thousands of Reels views as he keeps pace with the monks.

  • TikTok (@walkforpeaceusa) has over 660k followers engaging with their videos documenting the journey and Aloka’s role.

Sentiment analysis shows that the coverage is overwhelmingly ​positive. (Of course, trolls will always troll.) The tone is reverent. Quotes describe the monks, their mission, and the events as tranquil, unifying, and respectful. Stories are framed in gratitude and awe at the monks’ sacrifice and quiet presence, positioning them as a needed and welcome contrast to loud, polarized public discourse. And while the awareness pilgrimage is not a structured national fundraising drive, donations have rolled in. Local supporters have exceeded the monks’ requests for one daily meal, basic care, and lodging invitations – some reports of local, community-led donations are in the millions.

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Why The Walk for Peace is a Living Case Study for Effective Marketing Communications

Most marketing professionals will tell you that nothing attracts positive public attention like babies and dogs. But that’s not why the beautiful four-year-old Aloka is a central figure in this story. (He adopted this group of Theravada Buddhist monks, following them on a peace walk in India and refusing to leave their side, even after being hit by a car.) Aloka is not a mascot. He is a member of this company of peacemakers.4

What’s more, Aloka is not the (only) reason why the Walk for Peace and the Theravada Buddhist monks so quickly became a figure in the public discourse and zeitgeist. Something else is happening here that warrants attention from anyone who has ever tried to rally others around a mission.

Missions scale when narrative, trust, and governance come together.

Much of what most marketing professionals will tell you about building this level of public awareness, engagement, and support is practically antithetical to how the monks have become so publicly influential. This is not a structured campaign with organizational KPIs, tight audience segmentation, a go-to-market plan for each community, carefully scripted slogans, well-practiced messaging, a pre-built common response matrix, pre-determined governance, or even a recognizable visual identity. For most organizations, those are core elements of effective, strategic marketing communications. And indeed, they are necessary to the stability and scale of any organization with outcomes tied to public engagement (i.e., pretty much all of them).

This walk is an invitation, not a show. It is rooted in shared humanity, not segmentation. It is for the audience, not a way to get the audience to complete a target action. It is delivered via shared stories, and well wishes, not a spokesperson with an agenda and a bullhorn.

This traveling group of peace spreaders has captured hearts, souls, bodies, stories, commitment, coverage, devoted followers, and capital contributions in a rapid, stunning fashion because one thing lies at the center of their public presence: generosity.

“We walk not to change anyone’s faith or belief – we walk only to gently raise awareness of peace, mindfulness, compassion, loving‑kindness, and unity. These qualities are already there in each human heart, in all of us, quietly waiting to be recognized and nurtured. They have always been part of who we are.” (Bhikkhu Pannakara)5

This is not to say that strategic marketing communications is not in play – it’s just not their apparent guideline.

• If there is an organizational KPI, it’s to “awaken the peace that already lives within each of us.”

• The go-to-market plan for each community appears to be about as official as inviting people to join them respectfully and share their trek.

• Audience segmentation is unsophisticated and only constrained by those who have chosen to heed the invitation. Their social feeds show engagement with everyone from small babies to the elderly.

• While their messaging is consistent in content and tone, it is not overly scripted.

• Their visual identity is simple and inconsistent. A Walk for Peace logo graces some of their content. Some of it has a logo for the monk’s Buddhist temple home. Other communications simply show one of the monks or Aloka.

And yet.

The audacity of the journey makes the campaign compelling, to be sure. The boldness of a peace message in a climate of divisiveness and fear makes it a source of relief, even for those who are surprised to be in their audience. The humble durability of the monks inspires wide curiosity and admiration. And, of course, the presence of an adorable dog doesn’t hurt. None of these things, on their own, could be expected to accomplish what’s happening as these monks make their journey.

It’s in the mix of all of these things that we find a valuable lesson. Marketing and communications are absolutely vital functions for healthy, growing organizations. Thoughtfully crafted content, delivered to the right people (audience segmentation) in the right places at the right times (go-to-market and channel strategies) can capture minds and hearts and inspire action. Trust in a brand or mission is built on messaging consistency, recognition, understanding, and honesty. A visual identity can make a brand feel inclusive and even owned by the people who claim it as their own.

A mission divorced from a compelling narrative, communication governance structures, and a consistent presence has no strategy for reaching and inspiring people. Void of a mission, strategic narrative, communication governance structures, and a consistent presence merely add to the noise. Real outcomes happen when mission, narrative, governance, and consistency come together.

And if these things begin and end with generosity – not an intent to gain, but an intent to contribute – they evolve from communications to actual connections. They form movements and inspire real, sweeping, lasting transformations for the mission, its owner, and the community of people who care enough to follow along and contribute their support.​

You probably already expect this part – there’s a catch. While even quick, intentional efforts create progress over time, it’s not the duration that matters. It’s the discipline and consistency.

I’m not sure what flipped this light switch on for me this year, but it shaped everything. (It must have come from one of the books, articles, or podcasts that constantly chatter in my busy brainspace.)

The 60-second idea is attributed to many current thought leaders, including Gretchen Rubin (the One-Minute Rule for happiness)1, Daniel Pink (one-minute habits for motivation and productivity)2, and James Clear (the 1% Rule for incremental progress)3. I’d like to think I discovered it directly from my (attempts) to read and learn about Buddha, who said, “One moment can change a day, one day can change a life.”

In any case, this revelation came sometime mid-summer. My husband, Kenji, and I had been going full-tilt. For me, that meant many full-on hours at the office (hello, fellow Type A Gen Xers), many attentive free hours on volunteer pursuits, and many pre-dawn, sweaty hours of marathon training. For Kenji, it meant almost constant travel for advisory work, speaking gigs at one of the countless accounting conferences (seriously, there’s no end to that schedule), and using his hard-earned free time to be with his parents.

We were killing it – individually. But the go-mode was fraying the connection we’d been nurturing since 1993.

I think I was running the vacuum and listening to a podcast interview when I heard the question:

“What one thing, done every day for 60 seconds, could change your life?”

I’m not sure if I finished cleaning the rug, but I do know that the answer came immediately.

Another Idea from Someone Smarter

Drs. John and Julie Gottman are the foremost experts on relationships. Their extensive, science-backed research and methods – known as the “Gottman Knowledge Project” – have helped countless individuals and couples to nurture strong, lasting relationships. Part of what makes their work so useful and durable is its inherent simplicity. The other part is that it is research- and data-backed, making it more objectively reliable than most other ‘relationship’ literature.

Two Gottman concepts raised the amp on my lightbulb moment:

1. The 6-second kiss4

2. Creating a habit of daily reunion5

The answer to the question, “What one thing, done every day for 60 seconds, could change your life?” was obvious and almost laughably simple.

A hug.

For one minute, each day that we are in the same place, a one-minute hug. Sixty seconds to pause, bring our lives together, put our bodies firmly in the same place, tighten the knot on our relationship, deepen our security and trust in one another, and remember that we are the center of our universe.

Two things about the “revolutionary” proposal.

First, I’m not a natural hugger. If I do embrace someone, I’m much better at it if I’ve initiated it (otherwise, I’m a bit of a popsicle – it’s not you, it’s me). So this proposal was a full-on surprise and delight for Kenji.

Two, it was coming at a time when we were each standing on personal apexes. The problem was that they were not the same apex, and they seemed to be getting farther apart. He didn’t know what I did most days, and I pretty much only knew what he posted on his Instagram stories. We chatted when we could find a moment each day or every couple of days (don’t judge; we’ve been a couple for over 30 years and neither of us loves the phone). Most calls were made to make the call – the actual conversations were mostly rote and tactical. We’d gotten complacent.

(I’m a comms strategist. I know better than anyone that complacency is the cause of slow, pernicious relationship death. It’s destroyed before you even realize it.)

If 60 seconds each day, wrapped in the arms of this person whom I chose before the turn of this millennium, could put us both back on a firm footing – why wouldn’t we try it? So we did.

Here’s what we remembered.

• Durability and depth are secured through regular, intentional efforts, even if they’re seemingly small. It’s the desire and repetition that matter, because life is frenetic. Protecting little regular habits is a sign you’re not giving in to whatever swirl has you caught up each day. Instead, you’re prioritizing something/someone more important than anything else.

• Having someone hug you every day will make you feel secure. You are a person who is valued and cared for by someone incredible – your person. Nothing you achieve or earn is even part of the consideration. Life can happen however it will, but that hug is armor, and someone loves you enough to make sure there are no gaps in it. You’re protected.

• A hug can be anything depending on its context. Most days, it’s banal. Other days, it’s a source of comfort. Sometimes it’s celebratory. It might even be a prelude. (Enough on that.)

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Hindsight Reveals All the Good Stuff

Part One of this end-of-year overshare (“How was your 2025?”) tells the story of a year cut in two halves: one big and bright and beautiful, all accomplishment and celebration; the other deep and dark and painful, all loss and grief.

As I re-read it, I realized something important. The story is only mine because I’m part of a unit. The ritual hug, while real, is also a metaphor. It’s the spine that holds up a single, living thing. A “we.”

We started the year by marking a successful acquisition. That was Kenji’s business.6 I experienced it as his support system. Together, we reset our priorities.

We delighted in the south of France. That magical trip emerged from my friendship with a colleague. Kenji was technically my plus-one. Together, we microdosed a different way to balance life and work and reset our hopes for the future.

We lost BobBob. That was Kenji’s dad. I experienced it as the daughter-in-law. Together, we said goodbye to the real pater familias and tightened the family bond.

We are rethinking professional priorities. That was the result of my job change. Together, we are reprioritizing how we move from strength to strength.

The point is this. The story I shared isn’t mine because it is mine alone. It is mine because WE are mine. Because a one-minute hug each day is a bandaid, a vitamin, and a spine. It is the source of connection, relationship, security, trust, and foundation that allows us each to have even the greatest individual highs and lows, but experience them as ours.

I don’t often use the engagement trope of ending with a question, but I’m genuinely curious – what small thing(s) do you do to stay centered and grounded? Do you find it in yourself alone or in partnership with someone else?

But we were not eating yet. Just waiting.

My husband, normally true blue and reliable beyond belief, was late. (Just by a few minutes, mind you, but it was unlike him.) Being that we were in the Atlanta suburbs, we assumed traffic was the culprit, gave the toddler something to tide him over, and waited.

Sure enough, he blew in a few minutes later, apologetic but not blaming traffic. Instead, he announced that he “had news.” His tardiness was due to a meeting that had run long. He had an opportunity. Already, he was the (youngest in history) CFO of a profitable and quickly scaling tech company. But this wasn’t about a promotion. It was a chance to start his own company.

My father, a successful entrepreneur in his own right, asked serious questions but he was unable to hide his excitement. My mom tended to our son. And I quietly freaked out.

I leaned into my belief in him to calm my nerves. Ever the supportive partner, I offered to review and tighten our family budget so he could transition out of his (stable) role with a thicker financial cushion. Also, I figured this conversation was about a future-state situation. We’d have time to get situated.

I was wrong. This train was on the tracks. His departure and company launch were only weeks away. He promised security and had a well-conceived plan. He already had a small client portfolio and an interesting idea. He had intrigued my dad and hadn’t scared my mom. And he always had my belief in him.

So we walked hand-in-hand, holding a two-year-old, pregnant with another child, me a SAHM,1 to the edge of the proverbial cliff, and took the leap.

The 20-Year Time Warp

In June 2024, he was in the thick of negotiations. Over the course of two decades, he’d built one of the most recognized and revolutionary accounting firm models in the U.S. It was culturally strong, had an innovative technology backbone, was profitable, and had positioned him as one of the most forward-thinking professionals in the sector. He was in ‘the room’ – he saw the impact of AI coming for the industry, and he also knew that PE firms had finally put accounting on their radar. The time was right to sell.

Walking into 2025 Like…

We entered January 2025 feeling like hashtag-winners. He had closed a deal so successful that it was already generating invitations to speak to rooms filled with other accounting firm owners. The two-year-old had grown into a brilliant young man who had graduated from college in December and made his mom happy by returning to Atlanta to start his career. The ‘baby’ girl was also delighting us by returning after a year of bravely studying and working overseas. I had long ago traded my SAHM role to step back on the career path and was cruising as the SVP of Brand and Content for one of the top venture firms in the Southeast.

And so, we celebrated. In February, the family explored Japan, finding our cultural roots and eating all the good snacks. In April, he joined me in Boston for a marathon-Easter weekend of running, dining, culture, and worship at the spectacular Church of the Finish Line. Late June, we traveled to the South of France, donning gowns and tuxes to take our parts in a storybook wedding celebration. We crossed into July quietly, trading the opulence of Nice and Monaco for a small apartment in a quiet Provençal town, where we tried remote work and found it dreamy and doable.

And then the year began to turn.

I could propose that perhaps we flew too close to the sun. Or that we forgot ourselves and our Midwestern modesty. Or maybe not. Maybe we just allowed ourselves a moment to mark 20 years spent raising two (now thriving) kids, building and selling businesses, growing as leaders in our respective sectors, volunteering every spare moment to valuable causes – all the while deepening our marriage.

Whatever the explanation. We were reminded that life just takes many turns, and we don’t control most of them. The highs can be higher than we expect. So can the lows.

A Time for Every Season

In 2025, we experienced the ‘sandwich generation’ up close. We already knew what it was to struggle as parents. But this year taught us how hard it is to lose a parent. We attended funerals and supported too many of our closest friends as they buried a mother or father.

In September, we lost my father-in-law. Our precious BobBob died unexpectedly and too quickly for us to get to him.

Last-minute flights were booked from points across the U.S. and Europe. Goodbyes were said over FaceTime from airport waiting areas. The family gathered around shared grief, care for my mother-in-law (his college sweetheart and wife for more than 50 years), and the logistics of death.

We learned that our collective identity can tilt with the loss of a single shared love. My husband and his brothers became the ‘men of the family.’ Their already strong bonds were forged by shared loss and new responsibilities.

This was a long way from delighting in the wonders of Japan or playing in the French Riviera. Where those glories taught us how to exalt, this pain taught us how to be more present and connected.

We already knew that the achievements we brought into 2025 had given us wealth. We saw that we could use our hard work and good fortune to soak in mountaintop onsens in Japan, to drink champagne on boats in the Mediterranean, or indulge in expensive hobbies. But this year reminded us that those things aren’t true wealth. They are just indications of riches. Make no mistake, being flush can feel good. It can unlock fun experiences and opportunities. But it can also shift your focus from what matters.

True wealth exists regardless of where you can afford to go or what you can afford to wear or do when you get there.

Losing BobBob clarified that we have had true wealth all along. The achievements we earned over two decades of nurturing our marriage, children, and careers simply gave us more freedom to reprioritize one another, our families, and how we spend our working hours.

And thank goodness for that.

In November, I learned that I was not as indispensable as I believed. Award-winning work, above-benchmark KPI delivery, team leadership, and reliable contributions do not, in and of themselves, secure a role. Not when external economic factors are uncertain, internal strategies are shifting, and organizational structure is bloated.

Midday on a Monday, I was pulled into a meeting that wasn’t on my calendar, handed a large white envelope containing a reasonable but not overly generous severance package, and told I could stay at the office or go home to finish the week. By Wednesday, the CEO had texted to say how sorry he was about the situation and offer his support. By Friday, I had experienced my first bout of deep confusion, resentment, and self-loathing.

By December, I recognized the situation for what it is – another valuable building block in a year of transition and clarification. One more unexpected opportunity to earn useful wisdom. With space and time available, I gave in to my most natural aptitudes, dedicating hours each week to community service, writing, and mentoring. I’ve honed my AI skills and deepened my understanding of how race and economics have shaped Atlanta and what that means for its future. I’ve had dozens of conversations with interesting, inspiring people who have gladly shared their stories. I’ve wandered to the symphony, museum, and theater to revel in the talents of our resident artists. I’ve been a sounding board for my husband, who, once again, is looking over the edge of a big cliff and considering whether to take a leap.

This year of highest highs and lowest lows has cleared away the clutter around my heart and mind.

Here’s what I know:

• I can ‘do’ a job and rise to the top of the organization on the merits of my intellect and skill.

• I can wrap myself in fancy clothes and toast with my pinkie ‘up.’ I even enjoy it now and then.

• I will be an exceptional spouse, mother, daughter, friend, and servant leader.

• I will contribute my resources, experience, and skills in a career focused on helping to make real, positive change.

And so can you. (This might help.)

As 2025 comes to a close, I’m exhausted, inspired, and grateful. It’s been a roller coaster, and I’m ready to get off. But the high highs and low lows have sharpened my experience, durability, and focus. Who knows what will happen in 2026? The only thing I’m confident of is this: it’s time to clear away the clutter.

It’s time to proceed with patient intentionality, contributing all I’ve earned over this year and the decades leading up to it to help make the world better.

It’s time.

This end-of-year window is a perfect time to consciously and intentionally assess the makeup and depth of your skills, knowledge, and wisdom. It’s a chance to consider how to put your distinct mix of hard and soft skills, as well as your fluid and crystallized intelligences, to use.

This process begins with recognizing that skills, intelligence, and wisdom are three distinct legs of the same stool. If balanced, that stool becomes a place to pause and consider where to go and what to do next. It becomes a step to help you reach higher. And it becomes a resource you can use to prop up someone else who might not yet have found stability.

The Difference Between Skills and Intelligences

You’re probably familiar with hard and soft skills.

Hard Skills = Performance Abilities: Specific, teachable, and measurable abilities needed to perform particular tasks or jobs.

Soft Skills = Behavioral Attributes: Characteristics that shape how we work and interact with others across contexts.

Perhaps you’re less familiar with fluid and crystallized intelligences – as I was until reading Arthur Brooks’ phenomenal book, From Strength to Strength.1 Put simply, here’s how to think about them.

Fluid Intelligence = Raw Smarts: The ability to reason, think flexibly, and solve novel problems.

Crystallized Intelligence = Earned Wisdom: The ability to use a stock of knowledge learned in the past.

Like hard and soft skills, fluid and crystallized intelligence are necessary and best in combination. We each are endowed with more of some than others. We earn some through action and practice, while others are more innate.

Fluid intelligence, like hard skills, can be learned and deployed well at any age. While experience and practice can’t hurt, you’re as likely to find stellar raw smarts in a young person as you are in their older counterpart. Moreover, fluid intelligence is relatively easy to quantify – did you solve the problem, did you execute the project plan, etc. – making it possible to spot intelligence (or its lack) and strengthen it.

On the other hand, crystallized intelligence tends to be quieter, more intrinsic, and slower to develop. It’s more inherent and demands time and experience to develop. Once in place and in use, however, this earned wisdom (like well-developed soft skills) distinguishes people and positions them to make a deeper, more enduring impact with their work.

You are a Flexible, Growing Being

Of course, like everything in life, these ideas are not hard and fast, nor do they apply to everyone. You can’t plot someone on a perfect 4-way Eisenhower grid (if you could, I’d try to exist smack-dab in the middle), and it’s not necessarily true that age is a determinant.

I know plenty of college-aged and young professionals who have gone through some things and have more crystallized intelligence than might be expected for someone their age. Likewise, I know plenty of adults who are more like gurus than executives – over-indexed on soft skills and wisdom and not as concerned with executing tasks or solving novel problems. (And vice-versa, of course.)

Take a moment to consider yourself honestly (or ask someone you trust for feedback), then determine whether you’re engaging and nurturing your ideal balance of skills and intelligences. That might have everything to do with your achievements this year and what those things set you up to do next. It might have everything to do with your goals for the next year. It might relate to an unexpected opportunity or challenge.

Whatever your reason, now’s a good time to reflect and chart where you are, how you’re engaging your strengths, and how you’ll use them in the coming year.

My Story and Cicero’s Opinion

At the start of 2025, I committed to being the figurative maypole of my family. The stable center for a group of people, each facing major transitions. I was in my third year in a good job and well-established in my nonprofit, civic, and arts pursuits. No changes on the horizon. Just a plan to deepen existing skills, experiences, and contributions.

In January, my husband sold the business he’d spent 20 years building and moved into a new phase as an industry authority and advisor. Our son was graduating from college and embarking on his first professional role. Our daughter was starting a dream college career after taking time to discover her passion and aptitude.

As we close 2025, our little team has proven the reality of the adage, “Man plans, and God laughs.”

My husband’s next phase is like a fast-growing tree, well-planted, carefully tended, and bearing alluring fruit. Our son and daughter are thriving, with successes under their belts and stunning communities around them.

I am the one in flux.

Like millions of others, I received the unexpected and unasked-for gift of time. The role I thought was indispensable in the organization I thought was steady...was not. It doesn’t really matter that the situation wasn’t caused by performance issues on my end. What matters is that I was forced to stop doing what I was doing.

I am not sad about it. It’s a gift to take a moment to notice, consider, recognize, and recalibrate skills and intelligences to be even better in the next phase. Here’s where Cicero comes into the conversation.

Old Guidance, Present Relevance

Stay with me here. Cicero may have offered some of the best guidance for executives in mid- and later-career.

With this observation, he was saying that people who have had the time and experience necessary to build wisdom alongside smarts should dedicate it to service and counsel.

Let’s make no mistake, Cicero was a statesman, writer, and orator – among other things. He was in a position to focus more on service than survival. It’s a gift of good fortune to exist at the top peaks of the Maslowean Hierarchy, where your time can be spent in the pursuit of self-actualization because the rest of your foundation is solid.

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The Spiral Career Path

In his book, Brooks talks about Spiral Careers, which are “like a series of mini careers – people spend many years developing in a profession, then shift fields seeking not just novelty but work that builds on the skills of their previous mini careers.”2

I was *this many* years old when I learned the concept of Spiral Careers, and that, too, is a gift. It makes so much sense at this point in my life and career – in hindsight, I can see why a spiral is the best path to crystallized intelligence. It is continuous, dependent on what’s come before it, and has forward momentum.

I’d always thought of my career as having stepping stones, but there are gaps between stepping stones. This is the first time when there’s been even a small crack in the pavement. My progress has been continuous, though marked by distinctive roles, changes, and shifts.

While my career hasn’t been entirely linear, each stage has engaged, honed, and deepened the skills and intelligence I brought to the role, even as I spotted new opportunities to use them.

You’ve likely done the same thing. It’s why we have terms like “intellectual curiosity and growth mindset.” People rarely stagnate.

My unasked-for but valuable time for introspection has forced me to consider what I do, what skills I bring to the table, and why I have chosen the career spirals that have gotten me this far. Only by answering that can I consider my best and highest use as I go forward.

Here’s the TL;DR of what it looks like so far.

• Hard Skills: Communication, Branding, Content

• Soft Skills: Collaboration, Listening, Mentoring

• Fluid Intelligence: Strategy, Project Oversight, Trend-spotting

• Crystallized Intelligence: Behavioral Understanding, Empathy, Creative Breadth

Whether you were ‘given’ the gift of time or need to intentionally carve it out, I encourage you to take an hour or two to consider your skills and intelligence. Doing so is a great foundation for the next step: structuring how you’ll engage those assets and the gaps you’ll strive to fill in the coming year.

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A Resource for You

In “Let’s Start Fresh,” I promised to share the framework I use to track and plan every year. It’s based on Google’s OKRs and ideas from David Brooks’ book The Road to Character.

Click the image or right here to download a copy. Please let me know how it works for you.

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One month ago, I became one of them.

Today, I read that the currently unemployed have a 0.4% chance of finding a position anytime soon.

It would be easy to get worried, desperate, and even angry. Instead, I’m relying on a couple decades of earned wisdom. Every economic state is temporary. Every pendulum swings. The dust settles. Now is the time to do what we have to do to keep the lights on and use every extra moment to be ready for when the world gets back on its axis.

For context, here’s my story. (The TL;DR version.)

My role was “strategically reduced.” That’s a nice, clean, clinical phrase that makes sense on paper. It lands differently when you’re the one hearing it, doesn’t it? After twenty years of building brands, leading teams, earning awards as a business writer, and even selling an agency, I learned something important: experience doesn’t always shield you from economic shifts, post-pandemic corrections, or AI-driven restructuring.

Nobody is indispensable. No matter how good you are. No matter how much experience you have. It might not be you. Don’t assume it is.

I ate my piece of humble pie. Now, I’m starting fresh.

I’m treating myself like the business, setting my own OKRs, reconnecting with and expanding my network, and creating momentum in the places I can control. This moment, as hard as it is, has provided an excuse to get clear.

This video shares a bit of what this season is teaching me, some of the resources I’m finding helpful, and a space to encourage you to join me in choosing to rebuild with intention. (If you’re wondering what I’m trying to do next, you’ll just have to follow along.)

If you’re navigating your own unexpected transition, you’re not alone.

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In other words…are you one in a million?

I’m one in a million. This is not bragging. It’s commiserating.

I’m a brand and communications executive who has earned my 10,000 hours of experience. I’ve won awards for my work. Started and sold an agency. Hired and developed now-successful writers and marketing professionals. Published countless articles under my name and on behalf of others, and ghostwritten for notable executives and thinkers.

I hold a Masters Degree with a published thesis advised by Dr. Maya Angelou.

I’m up on (and damn good at) AI.

Okay. I’m giving you a little glimpse at some of my professional accomplishments. I’ve worked hard and it has paid off. But for our purposes here, it’s a framework for making the point that with a solid, two-decades-long resume and a recent accomplishment still heating up media hits, I became one in a million in 2025.

My role was eliminated. (By the way, isn’t that an elegant way of telling someone “it’s us, not you, but you’re going to be the one who loses, regardless”?)

(Dis)employment Statistics from 2025

October 20251

• U.S. employers announced more than 153,074 job cuts

• +175% YoY rise over October 2024

• More than double the number in September 2025

• The largest monthly reduction since 2003

2025 YTD

• U.S. employers announced 1,099,500

• +65% YoY rise from the same period in 2024

• The highest year-to-date total since the start of COVID

Companies are citing reasons including cost-cutting measures designed to mitigate reduced consumer/corporate spending, pandemic-era hiring corrections, and AI-driven transformation.2

When Professional Gets Personal

In my case, the “eliminated role” conversation included the phrase, “strategically reduced.” For anyone who has spent their career trying to be strategically additive, this inherently clinical and non-personal phrase hits deep.

I’m certain that the decision and HR script was extremely professional, well-reasoned, and strategic. The head of talent is a nice person. Really, everyone in the organization is. They are smart, thoughtful, generally nice people. I’m sure that any resources that make this awful task less horrible is useful and welcome.

And yet. Here’s how it feels to hear it.

The message: your team has been reduced in size.

The reception: you have been reduced in value.

Time and input from exceptional professional colleagues help to reduce the inflammation. This wound wasn’t caused by your mistake (or not entirely, anyway. Nobody is perfect.) A “strategic reduction” is more than a phrase. It’s a result of a company either in a state of change or challenge. As the data shows, companies are facing economic uncertainty, post-pandemic adjustments, and digital/AI transformation.

Chances are, you got caught in the crosshairs. It wasn’t your chronic shortcomings (or terrible sweater).

For my part, I absolutely understand the company’s decision. Our team was bloated and top-heavy. At this point in the company’s strategic planning, it mattered less that we consistently hit every organizational and team KPI and more that the marketing department is a cost center (particularly compared with other teams in an investment firm). Moreover, I had done my job well. The brand strategy and standards were built, tested, and scaling well. The agency relationship was strong and productive. The AI GPTs and projects were built, trained, and functioning smoothly.

Had I done my job? Absolutely. Was I creating measurable and relevant value? Most certainly. Was I indispensable? Nope. Not in the least. Nobody is.

How’s that for a slice of humble pie?

What now? What next?

I’m using the clarity, humility, and time that came with this experience as fuel. I’ve listed a few things I’m doing below, and I hope you’ll add some of your most productive tips in the comments.

• You are the business. Treat yourself that way. It’s December 1. If you were in an office right now (IRL or virtual), you’d probably be going into the thick of finalizing your 2026 strategy. Why not do that for yourself. Subscribe, join me on LinkedIn, and/or watch this space – I’ll share the framework that has worked for me for years. It’s based on Google’s OKRs and ideas from David Brooks’ book The Road to Character.

• Get out, talk, and listen. Your network is probably better than you even think. The Stanford Report has a great article on the Real Power of Weak Ties – give it a read and then go mine your LinkedIn network. Even if you don’t get leads from the conversations, you will get wisdom and maybe even a new friend.

• Go accomplish something else. I’m a marathon runner, so I was able to channel my (admittedly ridiculous) hobby into a fundraiser for Feeding America as SNAP benefits have been so drastically threatened, and a hard run that earned me a podium spot. Find your win.

• Fill your cup. It’s the holidays. If your cup is filled by quiet evenings with a fireplace and a book, take it. If it’s filled by parties and time with your people, book it. You have the gift of time. It may not have been one you asked for, but you have it right now – and my guess is that you won’t have it forever.

If you’re also one in a million, join me. Let’s go into 2026 reset, replenished, and ready.

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There is no AI here. Only real thoughts, feelings, and ideas. This isn’t a space for being sad or angry. Good vibes, great resources, and encouragement are welcome.