The Ordinary Impact

Somewhere between who we are and who we’re becoming, there’s a quiet question most of us wrestle with ... sometimes consciously, sometimes not: What am I actually here to do? We spend years collecting answers. Degrees. Titles. Milestones. Experiences. Along the way, we discover things we’re good at ... things that come naturally, things that light us up, things that feel strangely like home when we’re doing them. These aren’t accidents. They’re clues. Pablo Picasso once captured this idea with striking simplicity when he wrote that the meaning of life is to find your gift, and the purpose of life is to give it away. The line lands because it names something we sense but rarely articulate: discovery alone isn’t enough. Finding your gift can happen quietly. In reflection. In practice. In moments when time seems to disappear. But purpose begins when that gift leaves your hands. And that’s where things get harder. Because giving your gift away is public. It asks something of you. It req...

There’s a strange pressure we carry to get it right  and to do it quickly. We celebrate clean wins and polished outcomes, but we rarely talk about the messy middle: the missteps, the restarts, the moments when effort doesn’t lead to clarity. When progress feels clumsy instead of confident, many of us quietly decide it’s a sign we should stop. But what if that discomfort isn’t a warning at all? What if it’s evidence that you’re actually doing the work? That’s why I keep coming back to a line from Samuel Beckett ...  not because it’s comforting, but because it’s honest: “Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” At first, it sounds almost bleak. There’s no applause in it. No promise that the next attempt will finally be the one . And yet, beneath the bluntness is a quiet kind of hope. Beckett isn’t praising failure.  He’s normalizing it. If you’re trying anything meaningful, learning, leading, creating, loving, you are going to fail. O...

I am running a half-marathon coming in less than a week, and I don’t feel fully prepared. The miles haven’t stacked the way I hoped. Some runs felt strong. Others felt rushed, heavy, unfinished. There’s a quiet voice that keeps doing the math, replaying missed workouts and wondering if I should feel more ready by now. But running has taught me something that life keeps reinforcing: so much of this is mental. Belief doesn’t replace preparation. It never has. You can’t skip the work and wish your way through 13.1 miles. But belief does matter. More than we sometimes admit. Belief is what carries you when the plan cracks. Belief is what steadies your breath when doubt gets loud. Belief is what reminds you that imperfect preparation doesn’t equal failure, but it definitely signifies that you’re human. There’s a moment in every long run where your legs negotiate and your mind takes over. Where the question isn’t Can I run this? but What story am I telling myself right now? I’m learning th...

There’s something powerful about a room full of people saying the same words together. Maybe there's something even more powerful about a room full of people living out those words together. After games, the Chicago Bears head coach, Ben Johnson , leads his players through a simple mantra. He says a line. The team echoes it back. Good. Better. Best. Never let it rest. ’Til your good gets better. And your better gets best. It doesn’t sound complicated. But that’s the point. In a world obsessed with instant greatness, this mantra reminds us that excellence is usually built the unglamorous way. Not through one heroic moment, but through steady commitment. Through repetition. Through refusing to settle for “good enough” when growth is still possible. What makes this moment so striking isn’t just the words. It’s when they’re said. Not before the game, when hope is easy. Not in the offseason, when motivation speeches are cheap. But after the work is done. After the hits, the mis...

Hope rarely arrives the way we expect it to. It doesn’t usually burst through the door with answers or assurances. It doesn’t always feel bold or confident or even optimistic. More often, hope is subtle. It’s the smallest voice in the room. The thing that stays when everything loud has already left. Hope shows up when logic has reached its limit.  When plans unravel.  When certainty feels dishonest. It isn’t loud enough to argue. It doesn’t try to convince you. It simply remains. That’s what makes hope different from motivation or confidence. Motivation pushes. Confidence declares. Hope perches . It settles into you quietly, almost unnoticed, and waits. Not in your thoughts, where doubt loves to argue, but somewhere deeper. Somewhere steadier. Emily Dickinson captured this beautifully when she imagined hope as something light and living. Not armored. Not indestructible. But present. Persistent. Capable of surviving storms not because it’s strong, but because it knows how to s...

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...