The Ordinary Impact

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...

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...

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.

 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...

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...

I remember sitting in the passenger seat, while my friend talked to me about performance and value. He eloquently explained that society helps us believe that our performance equals our value, but that thought is inherently wrong (and most definitely problematic). As I listened to him intently, his words clicked with me. I think I had believed this idea for a long time; but as he weaved his narrative around the idea, I passionately grasped onto his message. Performance does not equal value. That sounds crazy. It sounds backwards.  Businesses, organizations, churches, even friends seem to put a premium on performance. If a person’s performance isn’t up to the arbitrary line (set by whoever decides the arbitrary performance line), then the person/employee/friend ceases to be valuable. There’s a problem in believing that performance equals value: it doesn’t account for the fact that every human has value regardless of their performance. All too often people (and people g...

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...