The Ordinary Impact

 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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

My dad died in 2024.  And the more I look back, the easier it is to name the things I wish had been different:  The words I needed. The warmth I wanted. The ways I tell myself I’ll do better.  It’s something we do too often—not just with our parents, but with people in general.  We point out the things that weren’t:  The words we didn’t hear. The moments we didn’t get. The love that didn’t look how we hoped.  It’s easy to name the absence.  Harder—but more honest—is choosing to remember what was . Because what was —was his presence.  He came home from work. Every day. Dinner at the table. TV in the living room. Not always deep conversation. Not always praise or tenderness.  But he was there. And that presence—that rhythm of just being —formed something steady in me. I’ve come to believe that some of the most important things a father gives you are the things he never says out loud.  Not always through grand gestures—but in the ordinary...

 This past week, two giants of music left the stage— Sly Stone of Sly and the Family Stone and Brian Wilson of The Beach Boys . They came from very different corners of the musical world. Sly gave us rhythm that moved like rebellion—funk, soul, and psychedelic fusion that didn’t just break the mold, it lit it on fire. Brian gave us harmony that floated—soft yet searching, surf-pop soaked in longing and layered with genius.  But what they shared was something even more powerful: they changed how people felt. And they did it in ways that lasted. Sly made music that didn’t wait for permission. He mixed Black and white, funk and rock, gospel and groove—and he made it all work in one band, on one stage, in one sound. “Everyday People” wasn’t just a hit; it was a mirror. A reminder that the things that divide us don’t have to define us.  His music wasn’t afraid to sweat or shout. It was bold, messy, magnetic—and always human. He made you move and made you think. Sometimes ...

We live in a world that celebrates the big, the bold, the sensational.  The viral post. The once-in-a-lifetime achievement. The headline-worthy moment that grabs attention and holds it — for a little while.  And while those moments have their place, they’re not the ones most of us live in. Most of life is made up of smaller things.  The ordinary, everyday moments that rarely get a spotlight but somehow leave the deepest mark. A quiet check-in from a friend. A hard conversation handled with grace. A kid who finally takes a risk because you believed in them, again and again. These aren't the kinds of things people line up to applaud  —  but they're the moments that shape us. The ones that build trust, character, and connection over time. That will be the focus of my blog posts. I'm not trying to chase the splashy moments, but I want to honor the steady ones. The ones that often go unnoticed, but never go unfelt. The Ordinary Impact is a space for reflection — for those...