There was a point in my life when everything looked right on paper. I was a college basketball coach, building a career in something I had spent my entire life doing. I knew the game, understood the environment, and felt confident in my ability to succeed. It made sense for me to be there.

Still, a quiet tension began to grow.

Part of me wanted to be there, but a larger part of me was curious about something else. I wanted to know who I was outside of sports. There was no clear answer and no defined path forward, just a question that kept showing up. I ignored it for longer than I should have—about two years longer.

Looking back, the reason feels obvious.

Have you ever had one of those moments where you’re sitting at your desk, fully intending to be productive… and nothing is happening? You’re staring at the screen.
Trying to think.
Aware of everything you need to do. Yet the ideas aren’t coming. There’s no creativity. No clarity. Just… fog. Sometimes it follows a restless night of sleep. Other times it comes after days of non-stop effort. Occasionally, it shows up for no clear reason at all. I experience this too.

Have you ever had one of those moments where you’re sitting at your desk, fully intending to be productive… and nothing is happening?

You’re staring at the screen.
Trying to think.
Aware of everything you need to do.

Yet the ideas aren’t coming.

There’s no creativity. No clarity. Just… fog.

Sometimes it follows a restless night of sleep. Other times it comes after days of nonstop effort. Occasionally, it shows up for no clear reason at all.

Before habits appear in our lives, something else grows first—our thoughts. I came across an image recently that perfectly captured something I often talk about when working with athletes and professionals. It was a tree. But instead of leaves at the top and roots underground, the top of the tree looked like a brain. At first glance it was just a creative image. But the more I looked at it, the more it reminded me of something powerful about how our lives actually work. Because the way a tree grows is surprisingly similar to how our thoughts shape our behaviours and habits. The Roots: Our Thoughts: For a tree, the roots do far more than simply hold it in place. Roots provide stability and structural anchorage, allowing the tree to withstand storms. They absorb water and nutrients, store reserves for future growth, and support essential biological processes. In many ways, the life of the tree depends on what is happening underground. Our thoughts work the same way. Our thinking forms the foundation of how we experience the world. The thoughts we repeat become the beliefs that anchor us. They influence how we see ourselves, what we believe is possible, and how we respond to challenges.

Growth rarely happens where we feel comfortable. Sometimes the most powerful thing we can do is walk into rooms where we’re the least experienced person there. My mom sent me a text the other day that made me stop and smile. She wrote, “I just read a quote that I know you would love.” Then she sent it. “Run with the big dogs or stay chained to the porch.” She said she came across it in Hoda Kotb’s book Jump and Find Joy. We both HIGHLY recommend this book by the way.  So good! My mom has always done this. She sends quotes, poems, and articles she thinks I’ll appreciate—little reminders about mindset or courage or perspective. Somehow the timing is often perfect, almost like she knows exactly what I might need to hear that day, even though we live hours apart.

Transitions can make even the most accomplished people question themselves. Here’s what I learned when I stepped away from the only career I thought I knew. For most of my life, basketball defined me. I played it. I studied it. I coached it. So when my playing career ended, stepping into college coaching felt like the natural next step. Not just because I loved basketball—but because, if I’m honest, I believed it was the only thing I was truly good at. Playing and Coaching became my identity. For twelve years, I poured everything into that role. The long seasons, the travel, the recruiting, the practices, the constant pursuit of helping a team improve—it was a life I understood and one where I felt confident in my abilities. But life has a way of quietly shifting beneath you. I got married, and the reality of coaching life meant constant travel. My spouse and I were rarely in the same place at the same time. After many conversations, we realized something needed to change. And if I was really honest with myself, there had always been a quiet question in the back of my mind: What would life look like outside of basketball?

For years, I had a bad habit. Whenever someone complimented me, I would immediately deflect it. “You did such a great job.”

“Oh, thank you… but I could have done that part better.”

“That was such a powerful keynote.”

“Well, the audience was amazing.”

“Your business is growing so much.”

“I’ve just been lucky.”

I said “thank you,” but I would never just leave it at that. I would quickly redirect the credit. I would point to the team, the timing, the opportunity — anyone or anything but myself. And if I did acknowledge it, I followed it with what I should have done better.

There was a time when I believed that if I just worked harder, I would figure it out. That’s how I had always operated. Work ethic was my solution to everything. If something felt uncertain, I studied more. If I felt insecure, I trained more. If I felt stuck, I tried to out-discipline it. But there came a point in my life when more effort wasn’t the answer. When I left coaching basketball and started asking myself, “What’s next?” I felt disoriented. I questioned my value outside of sports. I questioned whether I had anything meaningful to offer beyond what I had always known. And the loudest voice in that season wasn’t encouragement. It was my inner critic. It told me I wasn’t ready.
That I didn’t know enough.
That other people were more qualified.
That I should wait.

For a long time, I didn’t think I was capable of building my own business. That belief didn’t come from a lack of ideas or work ethic. It came from a quiet story I had been carrying for years — the belief that I wasn’t smart enough to do it on my own. I had never built a business before, and I didn’t grow up around entrepreneurs. I come from a family of educators, so starting a business felt foreign. That belief lived in the background, shaping how I thought, what I attempted, and what I avoided. It kept me preparing instead of starting. I became a professional procrastinator. For nearly five years, I stayed stuck there.

When I was diagnosed with a rare autoimmune disease, everything changed. My body felt foreign to me.
Unpredictable. Untrustworthy.

I was scared — not just of the diagnosis, but of what it meant for my future. I wanted to do everything I could to support my healing, and alongside medical care and major dietary changes, I turned inward.

One of the most powerful tools I found was meditation.

That thought and that image stayed with me — because it applies so clearly to our lives.

Those passengers don’t personally know the captain, but they automatically trust that this person will lead them to their expected destination.  

This idea got me thinking about advice we seek from others.   How often do we simply trust the advice given to us without knowing much about the life, intentions or experiences of the person offering it?   So often, we easily trust that people will lead us down the right path, the path that will help us achieve our goals, our dreams, and get us to our destination.

A few weeks ago, I worked with the High Point University Women’s Lacrosse Team. (BTW - WHAT A BEAUTIFUL UNIVERSITY!!) 
Back in September, I delivered a workshop with them that I’ve given in different forms hundreds of times.

It’s material I trust.
It landed with athletes, leaders, and teams over and over again.

So when the coach called me in November and said,
“We want you back.  We want more. We want to go deeper,”

Over the years, I’ve learned something powerful about decision-making.

I don’t rely on motivation.
I don’t poll the room.

I don’t ask for others' opinions or what they might think.
And I don’t let fear be the loudest voice in the conversation.

I let my CORE VALUES decide.

When an opportunity shows up

• a keynote request,

• a workshop,

• a new project,

• a social event that pulls me away from my family 

• one-on-one or group coaching.

I don’t immediately ask, “Can I make this work?”

Over the past few months, I’ve been working through my ICF Coaching Certification — six intensive weekend courses, one per month, Friday through Sunday, 9–5, with barely a moment to breathe.  (By the time you read this, I will have completed all six courses and will have a short break before I start the next component of my certification which will begin in Febrary) 

Each weekend, we learn a new concept… and then we’re asked to coach on it immediately. No warm-up. No extra prep. No perfecting the tool first. Just: “Okay, your turn. Coach someone.”

“BLAHHHH”.....yes, that’s me nearly vomiting on the spot.  Do you know this feeling??

As 2024 came to a close, I made myself a promise:
In 2025, I will finish what I started.

Finish books I start.
A vision I have.
And the online course that had been sitting on my heart for over a year.

What most people don’t know is that I procrastinated launching my course for a long time. Not because I didn’t believe in the work, but because I wasn’t sure anyone would buy it… or if it would even make a difference. I questioned my own abilities. I doubted whether I was equipped to build something online. I worried about the technology, the platforms, the programs — all of it.

As we step into the heart of the holiday season, I’ve been reflecting on the moments that truly matter — not the ones wrapped in perfection, productivity, or performance… but the moments filled with connection. This time of year always brings me back to the power of relationships — the people who see us, support us, our RESILIENCE TEAMS and remind us who we are when our inner critic gets loud.

Last month, on my trip back from a week of keynotes in New York, everything seemed primed for disaster.
A government shutdown.
Snow and rain in Upstate NY.
Three-hour drive to the airport.
A 6 PM flight I assumed would be canceled.

My mind was fully forecasting chaos, delays, rerouting, stress… you name it.

But none of it happened.

The roads were clear.
My flight was only 30 minutes delayed.
And I got home right on schedule.

All that worrying and stressing… for nothing.

I’ll be honest: creating this very newsletter almost didn’t happen. I spiraled. I’ve never considered myself a strong writer. In college, I failed more papers than I passed. And that narrative followed me into adulthood: I can’t write. What if people judge me? What if I misspell something? What if they realize I’m not as smart as they thought?

Just a few weeks ago, I had a keynote in New York for more than 200 incredible professionals in the special education world — PTs, OTs, educators, and support staff. It was a new audience for me, and I felt the familiar tightening in my chest:

• What if what I share isn’t enough?

• What if I miss the mark? What if I don’t truly understand their world?

That story spiraled quickly. My anxiety raced. My confidence dipped.

Until I caught myself.

Years ago, long before I ever stepped onto a stage, I found myself sitting in an online course designed for professional athletes trying to step into a new chapter. I had just retired from college coaching, and I felt completely stuck — like the only thing I was ever good at was basketball.