The Ordinary Impact

There’s a quiet moment that most people never see. It happens before the plan is perfect.  Before confidence shows up.  Before the fear quiets down. It’s the moment when you decide. Amelia Earhart captured it with remarkable clarity when she wrote,  “The most difficult thing is the decision to act; the rest is merely tenacity.” We tend to romanticize courage as something loud and dramatic. A bold leap. A fearless stride forward. But in real life, courage usually shows up much earlier, and much quieter, than we expect. It shows up when you choose to start. That’s the difficult part. Not because the path ahead is unknown (it always is), but because deciding to act removes the comfort of staying still. As long as we haven’t decided, we can rehearse. We can imagine. We can tell ourselves we’re “almost ready.” The decision changes everything. It moves the idea from possibility into responsibility. And once that decision is made, something interesting happens. The wo...

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...

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...

Aristotle is often quoted as saying, “We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.” I like that idea because it lowers the pressure. Excellence is not about nailing one perfect moment or suddenly getting everything right. Most days are ordinary. They are full of small choices, quick conversations, and unfinished to-do lists. And that is exactly where habits are formed. Excellence shows up when you follow through. When you listen a little longer. When you choose care over convenience. Not once, but often. So maybe today is not about being impressive. Maybe it is about being consistent. One small choice. Done well. Repeated tomorrow. That is usually how excellence grows.