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Togetherness Is Easy...Until It Isn't

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I saw a shirt in a local coffee shop that said #BetterTogether across the back. And I believe that. I really do. Unity. Community. Togetherness. These are all better than isolation, division, or just going it alone. But, full disclosure, my circle is small. Not because I don’t care about people, but because trust is hard sometimes . I believe in community, but I don’t always fully embrace it. There are moments I hold back. Because being #BetterT ogether sounds nice… Until someone challenges our opinion, our politics, our preferences, or even our parenting. Then, suddenly, it’s #BetterApart, or #BetterQuiet , or #BetterGone . Because togetherness isn’t just about gathering. It’s about growing. And that requires humility. It means admitting we don’t have it all figured out. It means being open to change, not just in others, but in ourselves. And that’s a lot harder than wearing a shirt with a hashtag on the back. Too many times, we default to living more like #BetterIfYo...
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The Last Monday of Summer

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 There’s a strange tension in the air during the last week of summer break. Part of me is excited—ready to get back into the rhythm, see familiar faces, feel that buzz of a new school year. But there’s another part that quietly whispers, “Can’t we have just a little more time?” And I’ll admit— it feels weird to say that out loud . After all, people in “normal” jobs don’t get two months to reset. They don’t get to pause and recharge the same way we do in education. So who am I to complain? But here’s what I’m learning: Gratitude and weariness can exist at the same time. Joy for the work and a longing for rest are not enemies—they’re just both true. And that tug-of-war feeling? It’s not just about the end of summer. It’s what most people feel every Sunday night. Or Monday morning. Or every time we leave comfort for calling. Because, all too often, Monday is the real hurdle of the week. Tuesday is almost Wednesday. Wednesday is halfway home. Thursday is basically Friday. And Fri...
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The Meaning You Make

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 You’ve probably heard the seemingly ever-present phrase: “Everything happens for a reason.” It’s stitched into throw pillows. It's printed on wall décor. It's offered like a balm when plans unravel, relationships end, or life takes an unexpected detour. And part of me wants to believe it. Because it’s comforting. Because it gives chaos a storyline. Because if there’s a reason, maybe I don’t have to hold the weight of what’s happening. But here’s the thing I’ve been wrestling with lately: What if not everything happens for a reason— but we can find a reason within everything that happens? It might sound like semantics. Like two different ways to say the same thing. But I don’t think they are. One implies design before action. The other implies meaning through reflection. The first version offers relief. The second offers responsibility. One invites you to trust that it’s all being worked out behind the scenes. The other asks you to get involved in the process...
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The Hard Work of Getting it Wrong

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I got it wrong. Not in the dramatic, headline-making kind of way. But in the quiet, frustrating kind. The kind where you miss something you wish you’d caught. The kind where you replay the timeline in your head—trying to figure out how, when, why you didn’t see it. I care deeply about the things I commit to. I try to be prepared. Thorough. Attentive. But I missed something this time. And that miss had consequences. It was humbling. Embarrassing. Disappointing. And it meant having to step away from something I genuinely wanted. Not because I didn’t have the passion or the experience— but because I missed a step that mattered. And that part was on me. So I did what I’ve had to do before—what most of us will have to do at some point: I owned it. I apologized. And I reminded myself that doing the right thing doesn’t always feel good in the moment. But it’s still the right thing. Here’s the thing I’m learning: Messing up isn’t the end of your integrity. But hiding it—or pretending...
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Juneteenth and the Stories We Still Need to Tell

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I grew up in Illinois—the Land of Lincoln. I learned about the Emancipation Proclamation in school. We took field trips to Springfield. We walked past bronze statues and read plaques in the Capitol. We were taught that Abraham Lincoln freed the slaves. But no one told us the whole story. No one mentioned that it took more than two years after Lincoln’s proclamation of freedom to finally reach every corner of the country. No one told us about June 19, 1865 —when the last group of enslaved people in Galveston, Texas, were told they were free. No one said their freedom had already been signed into law, but it was withheld. Delayed. Denied. That day—Juneteenth—was missing from my textbooks. But it matters. Deeply. Juneteenth is a celebration of freedom, yes—but it’s also a call to honesty. A call to look again at the stories we were told and ask,  “What was left out?” "Who was left out?" It’s a day to amplify Black joy, history, culture, and resilience. And for those o...
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The Courage to be Boring

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There’s a kind of quiet courage that rarely gets noticed. It’s the courage to be boring . Not dull or uninspired—but steady. Dependable.  The kind of boring that shows up when it’s not glamorous. That keeps the rhythm when no one’s clapping. That stands in the same place—like a lighthouse—through storm and sun. I’ve been thinking about this ever since I rewatched an old episode of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood . Day after day, he opened the same door, sang the same song, changed into the same sweater—and somehow, it never felt small. It felt safe. Sacred, even. He once said, “ It’s not the honors and the prizes and the fancy outsides of life which ultimately nourish our souls. It’s the knowing that we can be trusted. ” That line has stuck with me. Because we live in a culture that celebrates the big moment, the viral clip, the dazzling change.  But most of what really matters—relationships, leadership, parenting, growth—isn’t built in the breakthrough. It’s built in the repetiti...
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When the Shift Happens

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It started raining as we pulled onto campus. Not the dramatic kind—just steady, quiet, and enough to make everything feel a little heavier. It was my son’s first overnight band camp. He had to audition right away, and I could tell he was nervous—not just in the way he carried his trumpet, but in his energy.  He was chatty, shifting from one thought to the next, trying to fill the space between comfort and the unknown. We made it to the warm-up room. Still nervous. Outside the audition door. Still nervous. He gave me a quick glance before he walked in—just enough to say, I hope I can do this. When it was over, we drove to the dorm: He filled me in on the feedback he was given. We unloaded the bags, and carried bedding three flights of stairs to his room. He met his roommate while I climbed up to make the top bunk. (Does anyone ever want to sleep in a loft bed?) And then—before I even stepped down—I could feel it. He was ready for me to go. He didn’t say it, but it was ther...
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