The Ordinary Impact

There’s a strange relief in realizing how much energy we’ve been spending trying to be something no one actually expects us to be. Perfect. Perfect responses. Perfect timing. Perfect choices. Perfect versions of ourselves that never quite show up when we need them most. John Steinbeck offers a gentler invitation: “And now that you don’t have to be perfect, you can be good.” At first glance, it sounds almost too simple. But the more you sit with it, the more it begins to untangle something deep. Perfection demands performance.  Goodness asks for presence. Perfection keeps score.  Goodness pays attention. Perfection is loud and anxious and exhausting.  Goodness is quieter. Steadier. More human. So much of our frustration comes from confusing the two. We hold ourselves to impossible standards, then feel shame when we can’t meet them. We delay starting until conditions are ideal. We withhold kindness from ourselves until we’ve “earned” it. But goodness was never meant to be e...

Blackbird is often misunderstood as a quiet song about birds and broken wings. It isn’t. Paul McCartney wrote it during the Civil Rights Movement, inspired by the courage of Black Americans pushing forward in a world that kept telling them to wait, to be patient, to stay small. The blackbird wasn’t fragile. It was resilient. It had been grounded, wounded, restrained — and still learning how to rise. That context matters. Because the song isn’t saying everything is fine now.  It’s saying you are ready now. That’s why the line lands the way it does: “You were only waiting for this moment to arise.” Not waiting because you lacked courage.  Not waiting because you were afraid.  Waiting because preparation doesn’t always look like motion. Sometimes preparation looks like endurance.  Like surviving seasons you didn’t choose.  Like learning how to stand when your wings feel broken. The moment doesn’t arrive because the world suddenly becomes welcoming.  ...

We’re taught early to value answers. Clear ones.  Efficient ones.  The kind that signals progress and makes us feel settled. Maybe it's because answers give us closure. Maybe it's because they help us move forward. Or maybe it's because they create the comforting sense that something is finished and understood. But real growth doesn’t always arrive that way. Sometimes it shows up as a question that won’t let go. A tension that lingers longer than we expected. A quiet sense that something important is still unfolding, even when we’d rather move on. And that space can feel uncomfortable. We tend to treat uncertainty as something to fix quickly. To explain away. To resolve as efficiently as possible. Not knowing feels like a gap we’re supposed to close, not a place we’re meant to stay. Somewhere along the way, many of us learned to see curiosity as a weakness. Questions became inefficiencies.  Pausing became procrastination.  Not knowing became something to hide...

“Wonder is the beginning of wisdom.” — Socrates Most of us were taught that wisdom comes from answers. From knowing more. From being certain. From having things figured out. But Socrates suggested something quieter, and far more unsettling. Wisdom doesn’t start with certainty.  It starts with wonder. Wonder. That  moment when you pause instead of rushing to explain.  When you notice instead of label.  When you admit you don’t fully understand, and you stay curious anyway. But somewhere along the way, many of us learned to treat wonder as childish. Questions became inefficiencies.  Curiosity became a distraction.  Not knowing became something to hide. So we replaced wonder with speed.  With opinions.  With conclusions that arrived before understanding ever had a chance. But wisdom doesn’t grow in crowded certainty.  It grows in open space. Wonder slows us down enough to listen.  It keeps us humble enough to learn.  It reminds us that...

Marcus Aurelius once wrote, “Waste no more time arguing about what a good man should be. Be one.” It is one of those sentences that sounds almost too simple, until you realize how often we do the opposite. We debate values. We outline standards. We talk about the kind of leader, parent, partner, or friend we want to become. And then the day arrives. Emails stack up. People disappoint us. We get tired, rushed, and distracted. The argument continues in our heads, but the practice disappears from our hands. What Aurelius offers is not pressure, but release. He is not asking us to solve morality. He is asking us to live it, quietly, imperfectly, without needing to narrate it. Most of life is not lived in declarations. It is lived in choices no one claps for. How we speak when we are tired. How we lead when no one is watching. How we love when it costs something. This is where character is built. Not in speeches. Not in standards posted on a wall. But in a hundred unnoticed moments t...

I heard a line on the show Brockmire that hasn't left me:  "You do whatever you can to do what you can when you can." At first, it sounds like a joke. A loop. Something clever but disposable. But it’s really about agency without illusion . It doesn't mean we can do everything. It means we’re responsible for something. Whatever resources we have. Whatever energy today allows. Whatever window is open right now. Not tomorrow’s perfect version of us. Not the us with more time, clarity, money, or courage. Just this us. It’s permission to stop waiting for ideal conditions and start acting inside real ones. To take the small step instead of obsessing over the big plan. To show up imperfectly but honestly. That’s why my focus this year isn’t perfection. It’s No Zero Days . Not every day moves every thread forward: work, health, relationships, creativity. But no day has to be empty. A small action still counts. A quiet effort still matters. Momentum is built in ordinary moment...