The Ordinary Impact

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...

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...

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...