The Ordinary Impact

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 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...

 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...

 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 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...

What is it about long drives that is so exhausting? Sitting in a car for a long period of time is extremely draining.  Running 3.5 miles makes me feel tired (and exhausted); but at the same time, I feel invigorated and energized. Stagnation is not a good thing. From birth, people want to go and do. Parents celebrate first steps and riding a bike for the first time. So many milestones have to do with activity. There are even times, as kids get older, that parents (and adults) want them to “get off the couch” or “stop being lazy.” However, the lives of many Americans are marked by stagnation: the lack of motivation to do something. I don’t want to get into the topic of laziness and obeseity, and I’m definitely not the guy who rants about fitness or tries to solicit people to pursue supplements that will give them good gut health or use various workout programs. (Note: I’m not against any of those things, but I’m definitely not a zealot.) What I know is that we fall into ...

In March 2014, I chose to give up food for Lent . Anything that I could chew and digest I did not consume from Monday to Saturday every week. (On Sunday, I would eat something light with a community of people as an opportunity to connect and refuel for the coming week.) I’m not Catholic, but I value self-discipline and I’m interested in what my body and mind can accomplish when focused on a goal. (I might add that there’s a fine line between being focused and being crazy, and I flirted with that line almost every day. Actually, I’m sure people who know me best think that I flirt with that line with every goal I strive to achieve.) When I set the goal, I was determined to go without eating for the entire period of Lent (March 5-April 17). It should be noted that merely ten days later, I chose to use Sunday as a time to lightly eat - to “ break bread ”, if you will - with friends and family in order to add an element of community to my journey (and to not end up in the hospital...