I had to think about that advice. Did I agree? I’m not sure I agreed.

I’ve never really liked the idea of “being on.” To me, it felt fake. I don’t want to be fake. Authenticity is my currency, I’d like to think. I am who I am. If you don’t like it, maybe that’s a you problem. It can’t be a me problem . . . can it?

So when I was told that I had to “be on,” so to speak, I was tempted to recoil. Sometimes I’m on; sometimes I’m not. But what if being who I am is actually the limiter on my effectiveness? What if it can be the limiter on yours, too?

How’d this all come about?

Let’s take a look at personality profiles. I’m a high D high C on the DISC assessment. I’m an INTJ on Myers-Briggs. Though I am often in hours of meetings and 1:1 calls a week—where engagement is a must—I enjoy staying quiet in many environments. When Courtney and I take walks, it won’t be uncommon for little to be said for large chunks of it. I love sitting by empty seats on planes.

In seminary I sat at a specific table in the cafeteria—like furniture. Everyone knew where to find me. I worked from that table whenever I didn’t have class. Lunch would come and go, and I’d stay in that spot, typing away on the Dell laptop I bought with insurance money when my Ford Escort got totaled. I remember one moment so clearly. I was asked if folks could join me at the table (there was a large group in town visiting the campus). It’s a table for four, so I gladly agreed. I sat quietly at the keyboard working away while they ate their lunch. Thinking back, I go, “I bet they wanted me to talk to them.”

So take that temperament and put it in a church—where the expectation on pastor-types is that they are warm, fuzzy, chummy, or any other word that amounts to “approachable.”

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I can be all of those less-fuzzy traits—I have the temperament I have, and it’s gotten me this far—but I miscalculated the job itself and what it required. Pastoring didn’t require being 100% approachable all the time. It required knowing the context and responding based on the needs of the moment.

Everyone who’s employed at a church has at least one day where they are thrust into an environment regardless of their temperament: Sundays. By my math, that day comes every week. I’m not sure what your vocational equivalent is, but you have one. You have an environment that requires a different approach than what your temperament—your “normal”—prefers.

But that seminary habit—the one where I sat quietly and kept to myself—is what I thought I could be 100% of the time unless I was preaching. I wanted to be myself. I wanted the moment to bend to me. But the moment bending to me or people aligning their expectations to my own is not what the job was. Especially on Sundays, the work was the people.

So my boss (yes, churches have bosses), Kevin, sat me down and gave me advice more than a decade ago that I still think about.

“When you’re in the room, you have to be on.” But he didn’t stop there.

“When people see you sitting quietly, they wonder if something is wrong.” To add to that, they might wonder if it is their fault I am quiet. That makes sense. A lot of us have a “How is it my fault?” mindset when someone we know isn’t quite right—or at least not quite like we’d expect.

But he didn’t stop there. He made it okay that engaging in that capacity isn’t always my strength. He wasn’t asking me to change—he was asking for me to be aware and make the right adjustment.

“If you need a moment, go to your office or go backstage. If people don’t see you, they don’t think anything is wrong. They’ll think you’re busy.”

It’s simple advice, but simple often changes us more quickly than the complex.

I want to give you permission to be yourself—even knowing that, at times, “yourself” isn’t good enough. Certain moments require something else. And that’s fine. That’s you, too, even if it feels like a sweater that’s too big for the moment. You can grow into it.

It’s less about what you need or even what you think is right; it is what the person across from you needs.

I laugh because there’s this old story where an angel shows up to this guy named Gideon and calls him a “mighty man of valor.” At that moment Gideon was hiding from his enemies and didn’t believe he had an ounce of valor in him. I feel that way a lot. While there’s more to the story, at the right time, there was valor.

We leave a lot on the table when we write off a behavior as inauthentic. In our clamoring for being true to ourself, we lose out on what’s more important: showing up for the person (or people) who need us.

I bet there’s more to you than meets the eye. Maybe you, like I do, leave too much on the table with a, “Well, that’s just the way I am.” Sure, and that works a lot of the time. But what about when the people around you need more?

How would you suggest someone navigate a situation where one’s normal approach won’t cut it? How would you want to help them?

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BONUS: For subscribers, here are a few targets I have for myself to keep forward-facing engagement a part of my job(s).

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Today’s post: how do we be the right kind of honest in marriage?

Courtney and I weren’t great at being engaged. Our five-year age gap (in her direction) and our uncertainty of how to communicate as a unit created a lot of hesitancy. We both had our doubts that we were making the right decision. When our relationship began, I was barely 20. Engaged at barely 21 didn’t help. Who were we? We had no clue. We were trying to figure out what the first phase of marriage might look like. The best option appeared to be moving to Dallas for the next four years and me attending seminary.

“There’s no better way to go through seminary than married and broke.”

That was the advice given to Courtney and me as we considered our options. Seminary is sort of like law school in the sense that it is the place you go when you might not be sure what you want to to do, but you’ve been a leader in your church as a college student. You go to buy some time before making future decisions.

Broke was easy for me. I usually had a bank balance in the 100s of dollars. I worked at an ice cream shop—the owner telling me it was legal to pay me in cash and me not knowing better. I lived in a duplex with a friend and slept on a cot.

Married would be easy, too, because Courtney and I got engaged on my 21st birthday. We were married about six months later and immediately moved to Dallas. Classes began that next August so we got settled and then went hunting for our entry-level jobs.

So, this couple that struggled to even be engaged, is all of a sudden married and living in Dallas. Starting out on our own in a new place provided a great opportunity. Living in a city where almost nobody knew us gave us plenty of moments to create that “new marriage” identity. Courtney found temp work while pursuing an alternative teaching certification (big regrets on the latter part of that sentence). I was cranking out shifts at a nearby Starbucks, working at a school for neurodivergent learners in the afternoon, and filming weddings on the weekends. In our free time, we were meeting new friends and building our lives in our tiny Dallas apartment.

But, amidst all the fun, marriage was still difficult for us. You’re living with another person. You have their expectations. You have their way of life. You are, for better or worse, stuck with each other in your 600 square feet and shared bathroom. My youthfulness, her diabetes, our “I guess we’ll figure it out”—it led to us continuing to circle the same conversation.

“You should have married someone else.”

Communication—at least one-way—comes pretty easily to me. My life is communication—writing, speaking, coaching, and counseling. It’s all there, and it pre-dated adulthood. You’re currently reading Tomball Junior High School’s 1997 “Best Male Thespian” (there weren’t many of us). So I’ve always had a certain brazen capacity to say what was on my mind though I would, at times, be blunt. No better place to be blunt than in your new marriage.

Courtney isn’t as versed in communication, but she’d dive right in, too, and let me know she thought I made the same mistake.

I can’t say that this approach was the most effective for either of us.

What advice would Courtney and I give to our newlywed selves 20 years later? Subscribe for free and listen.

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But did you catch one of the problems? Sure, what we said felt honest, but was it actually honest? No. What did we do?

I made it Courtney’s fault. She made it mine.

“I think you made a mistake in choosing me.” It was an insecurity masked as an accusation. The accusation feels more forceful, more confident—and keeps us from having to deal with the underlying insecurity.

We might say “I think YOU . . .” but what we mean is far different. Pick one of any more true statements.

• I am overwhelmed by what this commitment means.

• I have doubts about how good I will be at this.

• I didn’t share my insecurity early enough and I regret that.

• I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into.

• This looked much easier than what I’m experiencing.

Even for someone who communicates a lot, I find it easy to accidentally mask my emotions more as accusations.

This is why I’m not the biggest fan of speaking “your truth.” How I say I’m feeling might not be true, even if the words feel authentic. In marriage, or any other important relationship for that matter, what we say and what we feel aren’t always aligned.

What we say is a reflection of what’s going on inside of us, but it might not be a 1:1 reflection. Often, it corresponds to reality but it gets distorted on the way out. “I’m overwhelmed” becomes “You made a mistake” and then you’re off to the races.

If we can pause for even sixty seconds and ask, “What am I actually feeling right now?” we save ourselves a lot of trouble. If we can’t figure it out, then let’s at least commit to what comes out of our mouth to be about us and not about the person across from us.

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I’ve been in too many hours of team meetings to count. Quick syncs, half-days, full days, multi-day retreats—it all comes with the territory of work, doesn’t it? I’ve noticed—as both a participant and facilitator—we often want one thing that’s hard to come by: we want more people to speak up. Give a challenge, give an encouragement, give something. Instead, people just stare off at their devices and wait for time to expire.

We hope that people will just magically begin chiming in. “This is important!” we think. “They should care about the conversation.” But what we might really be feeling is, “I care about this topic and think they should, too. Why do you guys hate me?”

I know you’ve been there. You don’t have to have a workplace to feel it. You could be leading a group at your church, or a book club, or a volunteer committee. We always want engagement, but it often feels underrepresented.

How do we bridge that gap between what we hope happens and what normally happens? How do we get people to speak up? We read a book or listen to a podcast that says we should mine for conflict, but that’s easier said than done. Conflict sucks. Teachers manage classrooms. How do we manage adults?

I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume that not everyone you work with is some sort of disengaged meeting ogre. (Stay with me, even if you think that’s a stretch.)

What I’ve found is that even the most well-versed meeting participants need reminders that speaking up is okay. What’s often lacking is permission.

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I noticed this trend years back. I’d sit in meetings—meetings with people who have led successful careers. I’d assume, “Successful career? Must be great in a meeting room.” Couldn’t be less true. Quiet, tired, often disengaged—not ideal traits.

But that doesn’t mean people don’t have good things to say. The problem is, the people in the room are holding onto their ideas, unsure if they can share them—or unsure when to share them.

So I started to make a game of it.

It started with playing cards. Everyone would get an even number of reds and blacks (the number depended on meeting length). Playing cards don’t really have colors broadly associated with positivity (unless you’re an accountant or a gambler) so I had to define the colors.

Red was the challenge card. You had to play it if you challenged, questioned, or just plain disagreed with what was being said. Black was the encouragement card. You played it when you liked an idea and wanted to build on it.

The rule: You had to play all your cards before the meeting was over. They were essentially your minimum meeting engagement budget.

I would be at a pause in a meeting and survey the room. If someone hadn’t played any cards, they’d be forced to. They could pick literally anything to challenge or encourage (“I didn’t like the way you pronounced ‘ogre’”), but they’d have to say something before the meeting continued.

I use Leader Care branded poker chips now (red and green like traffic lights—thanks, Etsy), but the point is the same: challenge and encourage.

And—almost magically—people shared more. Those cards (or chips) would sit in front of folks reminding them they had something to say. Some people would hold them like fidgets. Some just placed them in front of their seat and waited. Some stressfully hoped I’d ignore them because they hate challenging. It was pulling them into the conversation. Hard to have a phone in your hand when you’re holding poker chips.

Another dynamic that began to change? People in the room would look around at how much “budget” teammates had. It’d slow them down and make room for someone else who might not be as talkative. People began to make room for each other.

It’d also set our expectations, because sometimes not knowing what someone was going to say would cause anxiety. When someone threw down a red chip, we knew a challenge was coming. We didn’t have to guess. A green chip meant we were going to keep running with an idea.

If your meetings don’t require focused engagement, why have them?

In all, we began looking for helpful ways to speak up rather than waiting for a conversation to finish and moving on to the next item. In-meeting conflict goes up, relational safety goes up, and the meetings after the meeting go down.

And we did it by making conflict and encouragement a game and expectation.

But what about you? What has worked for you? Let us know.

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I’ve actually been doing this in a new way a couple of times a month all year. I’ve called them the “how can I improve” convos. I ask someone (in person or via text) to pick a sphere of life and tell me a way I can improve. The sphere can be any. Maybe some way you’ve seen me as a dad, as a pastor, as a friend. Maybe you noticed that I looked distracted in a recent conversation. Maybe you think I’m bad at grilling chicken. Of course, the more spheres in which you see me, the more likely the feedback is to include all of those spaces.

One guy said, “I like vinegar on my fries, so I’m good with you.” This, oddly, felt like a compliment. I’ve never been called vinegar on fries. Then he said, “But not everyone is ready for that, so you have to see what they might need.” Also helpful.

Another friend said, “Sometimes when I come to you for help, you give me a look like ‘this is annoying the hell out of me.’” (She spelled it out so as not to actually say “hell.”) Then she continued, “Just say, ‘I can’t handle this right now.’”

Yet another friend said, “Don’t let your focus on personal excellence and optimization unduly distract you in your pursuit of God and others.” This is someone I don’t talk to regularly but has an incredibly big heart and deep awareness of other people in the room.

One of my sons shared that he assumes bringing up certain conversations will result in me being angry. He also said I’m a good dad (thanks, son), but those handful of times talking about particular topics makes him nervous.

You might say, “Yeah, Hans, I could’ve told you that about you.” Sure. I could’ve told myself that, too. I’m middle-aged. I have a pretty healthy dose of self-awareness. I ask for feedback a lot and have done it for a long time (though not like I’m doing this year). I know my strengths and weaknesses.

But each interaction gives me an opportunity to engage with someone. It lets them share where they are and how they receive me. It provides me an opportunity to serve them because they’re choosing to be vulnerable with me—not knowing how I’ll respond. Honestly, the exchange is far less about my own growth and is more about the person I’m speaking with and them feeling more comfortable with me. It’s about our growth.

I know I can be short at times. But I might not’ve guessed that it makes someone feel like I’m annoyed by them to the point they spell out the word “hell” with two hockey sticks. I might not’ve thought that my son takes the same trait and assumes I’ll be angry when he has certain requests.

I know I enjoy improving and growing. But I wouldn’t have thought a friend might want to caution me into what that pursuit might develop into—and how I might accidentally neglect the very people I want to be better for.

That’s why I talk about changing at the margins. At my core, I’m who God made me and I’m good with that. It’s those personal areas I’m trying to change. I’m not in it for “be less introverted” or “maybe like throwing more parties” bromides. I don’t need that type of challenge—the type that says, “Be more like what I think you should be.” The personalized feedback I’m getting creates so much more depth than the general feedback—even though it’s harder to give.

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A couple of weeks ago I emailed you (my subscribers), asking how I could improve. I wanted to know what types of posts worked. Thanks for your feedback. Some emailed themes. Others sent specific posts that connected with them.

Up to that time, I had called this Substack “On Life and Leadership.” But that’s not really what it is, is it? Even my hours of coaching are far less about straight leadership and far more about navigating work relationships, setting the right goals, and keeping things healthy. My posts with Courtney or about the boys are about navigating marriage and family.

I’m not a leadership guru. I never have been. My goal here is to help people operate better in their most important relationships. Much of that is at work, and much of that is at home, sure. But it’s connecting with others that is the drive. Sometimes that needs tactics, sometimes that needs conviction, sometimes that needs tears.

There’s room for all of that here. Always has been.

So I want to welcome you to that change on the margins for my writing. A Substack name change and sharpening of focus.

I’ll keep the same storytelling and writing that aim to help you be better for others, but I’ll focus more on the reality we all feel but don’t always say: there really isn’t a manual for much of this.

So thanks for joining, and thanks for giving me feedback that helped me make one of those changes that better serves you.

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In my current season of life, I often talk to men and women who wish they were more consistent (which I’ve written about here). At work, maybe they want more accountability (written about here). At home, they want to get up earlier (check here). These desires appear regardless of their faith tradition. The atheist, the agnostic, and the Christian are all wanting more discipline or structure—or at least think more discipline will help them.

I see this theme so often I wonder how many of us are walking around most of the time feeling bad about ourselves for not being whatever version of success we think is most important.

And I’ve definitely been there.

As a college student, I remember one of the first times I was called out for noncompliance on memorizing Bible verses, of all things. I’d started to meet with a friend at the dining hall. Good guy who had a fire I found enviable, so of course I met. He suggested we memorize some verses. “Sure,” I said. And then we met a week later (Christian life hack: it has to be weekly if it is true spiritual growth).

I forgot to look at the verses. Kiss of death.

Nothing malicious. Just forgot. So I fumbled through what I could while my food got colder than my Bible memory heart. I thought little of it.

“Hey, we agreed to do the verses and if you said you’d do it, then you need to do it.”

“Oh. Okay.”

I’m not sure how much longer we continued to meet, but it wasn’t much longer.

I have several known allergies—sulfa drugs, certain penicillins, peanuts, and making people feel bad for not having enough structure and discipline. The first three I’ve had since birth. That fourth one got acquired early in life and was already active by college.

Jesus says the world will know people follow him because of the love they have for one another and . . . we show that love by telling people they didn’t do a good job at something? Feels off.

Now, you might be laughing. Some of my readers are people I actively coach (and weekly, at that!). We build coaching sessions on commitments—what needs to happen next to keep making progress. I have a whole way I build dashboards and session notes so that we don’t lose sight of those commitments. We report back on them. Structure of some type is required. Very often the people I’m sitting with did not finish everything and have to sit with me and tell me they didn’t finish everything. When that happens, I might say the following.

“Okay. Does that bother you?”

I ask that because maybe they just picked the wrong goal to hit. Maybe they got distracted. Maybe they truly were just lazy. I won’t know until I get their answer—and the answer will help pick the recovery strategy.

I might also ask, “Well, what do you want to do with that?” That is, do you want to try again? Do you want to abandon it? Do you want to modify it?

But, for me, that way of surfacing desire is the actual answer to the question of not viewing structure as the enemy of spirituality.

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When it comes to structure for your spiritual life (or really for any part of life), you often find yourself pulled in two directions: (1) what you want to do and (2) what you think you should do. Those appear to be in constant tension.

“Should” is a miserable master. “I should pray more” is often near the top of the list. “I should read more” is up there, too. “I should exercise more” is pretty universal. Christians can produce a lot of “should.” Sometimes you can combine them all and double, maybe even triple, the guilt. “I should get up 90 minutes earlier than I do to read, pray, and exercise.” That’s four (!) potential failures before you even start the rest of the day. Yikes. I guess if we are disciplined in anything, it is in making structures that produce guilt.

“More” will get you in trouble, too. It’s endless and exhausting. You’ll spend 45 years wishing you did more, or pursuing a structure you think is right because someone you admire is able to do it effortlessly.

So how do I not view structure as the opposite of spirituality? I don’t see it as a hard and fast demand. The structure serves the purpose: loving God and loving others. Nothing fancy. I have a whole lifetime to grow there.

A pastor I’ve admired for much of my adult life calls disciplines tools not rules. He speaks about that idea here (cued up his sermon from last year). He points out that introverted, big brain, big vocabulary, type-A personalities are the ones that often write about disciplines—and that’s not most people.

I’ll go back to this question I often ask: well, what do you want to grow in and what would you like to try?

Desire + experimentation is my equation for any of this.

There’s a base assumption I have that the people I know at my church, for example, have good desires put there by God (Phil 2:13). Thus, when I ask, “What do you want to grow in?” I am trusting they won’t say, “I want to learn how to murder people better.”

And whatever it is they have the desire to grow in, I’d say, “What do you want to do about that?” And then see what they say. I might have some thoughts on it, but I’d rather them pick what they want.

Then? Try it. Try it for a month. Try it for six weeks. Try it for a year. I’m not that concerned with how long you try it. You’re working on it the same way I am. When done, evaluate it and then (1) keep it, (2) adjust it, or (3) drop it.

That’s the point. There’s freedom here. Structure serves the goal, and the goal is unique to where you are right now. Without the goal, structure is the end in itself, and that’s exhausting.

How would you answer the question? Give your response in the comments.

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Years back, I’d sit as a young staffer explaining how I knew all the changes that needed to be made. I’d know people’s problems before I heard them. Minor frustrations might get treated like seismic obstacles. Then would come the common clichés.

“Nothing will ever change around here,” or, “I guess I’ll have to do it myself.”

It feels good to be bugged. Like you have a purpose in life. I might be prone to think that you’re either a sunshine pumper (🤢) or you are normal and bugged. I chose bugged. Bugged felt better.

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There’s a power in pessimism. As a disposition, pessimism travels quickly around others. It’s almost expected that high-performing leaders aren’t happy people because there’s always a way to change, a process to improve, or a person to fire.

There was an era where I talked a lot about wanting to quit my job and get a new one. It probably happened for years—across at least two stops. I sat in a performance eval one time and told the people leading it, “I’m not really sure you want me in this job.” I used to complain—to my boss—that “I don’t know what my job is.” I lived in a mild state of discontent. Not enough to be a huge problem, but enough that people noticed. And I liked living there because it helped me feel important.

Then I got called on it.

“I know you aren’t going to leave, but when you talk about leaving so much, it makes me less motivated to be here.”

The bugged guy in me would want to say, “Well that sounds like a you problem.” I mean, are you really going to let what I say impact how you do your job? Maybe you’re looking for an excuse to complain.

That co-worker (and friend) was right, though. The way I viewed the job, and talked about the job, had an unanticipated impact downstream from me. It created doubts in others and, thus, created drag on our team’s effectiveness.

So let’s get back to that coffee shop. I stood outside talking with someone further down the leadership road than I was, Steve. I was bugged (because that’s what leaders are supposed to be) and Steve chimed in—not as a rebuke but as an encouragement.

“If I could encourage you in any way, I’d say don’t lose your optimism.”

Up to that point optimists annoyed me. Sometimes clouds don’t have silver linings. Sometimes days are just bad. Sometimes people really are terrible. And so now I need to abandon my feelings and be the Good Cop from Lego Movie? No, thanks.

But that sentence from Steve shifted something in me, and it changed my take on optimism. I had previously viewed optimism as telling people everything would be fine even when it wouldn’t be—almost like a way of lying to yourself or others to make everyone feel better. (That version of optimism is what Jim Collins confronts in Good to Great while talking about the Stockdale Paradox. However, in that example, the optimists are the ones who essentially fabricate why everything will be okay. They don’t see the true picture, or at least won’t believe it.)

But optimism isn’t false hope or puffery. It isn’t sunshine pumping or being the Good Cop. I’ve changed my view—optimism is an unchanging confidence that the situation, as good or as bad as it might be, will be okay.

And it can change you and those around you.

Doesn’t sound very magical, does it? Anyone could throw a dart and get close to that definition. I could’ve, too. But I couldn’t make the switch to living that way. I was in too deep to my feelings. I needed Steve’s redirect to keep me moving.

As I settled into a different approach, I noticed some specific changes—both in how I spoke and how I acted. I’ll highlight three.

First, I had to quit complaining. I don’t like calling it complaining, but that’s what it was (a parent might call it “whining”). I complained about how “things will never change.” I complained about how I knew better ways. But that habit had to die.

Second, I had to increase encouragement. If you don’t complain, what do you replace it with? This means I’d have to purposefully highlight what’s going well, what I loved, or what I saw could happen. I would chime in during meetings and 1:1 convos on the improvements, rather than just talk about problems.

Third, I had to take ownership of my responsibilities. It wasn’t my job to complain. It wasn’t my job to point out other people’s problems. It wasn’t my job to sit around bugged. Never was. I’ve found that my job has enough to manage without me emotionally managing everything else.

I’m still growing here, and I doubt people would peg me as an eternal optimist or anything of the sort. However, I know I’ve grown and know there’s more to come. And I am grateful for brief conversations outside coffee shops with Steve that show me a better way.

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When we were younger we’d get the warnings. “Three boys, good luck!” People would want us to know things like, “They will eat so much when they become teenagers,” or, “You better start to keep the girls away now.” It was also common to hear, “When are you going to have a girl?!?!”

But nobody gave me a warning about the amount of butt holes that would be in the house.

The problem started a number of years back with a game or two. One game was called “Fight,” another was called “Extreme Mattress Funinator.” “Fight” goes a lot like you would expect—you fight (more wrestle). Two of the boys took to that game. When they played, it sounded like Jumanji upstairs.

“Extreme Mattress Funinator” had different rules. One boy would get into the corner of the room. Another would take a mattress and stand it upright in the corner—blocking his brother—and then lean with his back against the mattress to keep it upright—slightly bent at the hips for what comes next. The trapped brother would climb to the top of the mattress—using his brother on the free side as support. Then the free brother would run out from under the mattress as fast as he could so that the trapped brother could ride the mattress the 90 degrees from upright to horizontal.

But, over time, we’d get a kid coming downstairs.

“There’s a hole in the wall. I ran into it playing.”

“You what?”

“Well . . . we were playing and my butt went through the wall.”

Then again. And again. And again. Back, hips, butt. Lots of holes.

One bedroom—the funinator corner—currently has at least five holes of varying sizes. A couple were small enough to put tape over. One was so big I needed to cover it with foam board. Others are quite large and I’ve just left alone.

“You could fix these,” you might say. One day, but do it now and there’d just be more damage later. “Fight” isn’t played as much. Now there’s incessant jumping. When you’re a boy, jumping and touching the ceiling is a rite of passage. Your fingertips barely hitting the eight-foot ceiling is the gateway drug. Then you keep trying—one hand, whole palm, two hands, two palms. And as you jump, you hit things on the way down.

In our case, you hit the thermostat on one jump and your heel hits the bottom of the wall on another. For those last two I got a little suspicious.

“How the heck did you hit the thermostat that was against the wall when that’s not on your jumping path?”

“How did you swing your heel into the wall as you jumped in the bathroom?”

But it happened.

Children age houses at least at 5x the speed. Our house is 48 years old and we’ve lived in it about eight years, so you do the math (80 years?). When football was the front yard sport, at least 20% of our yard was missing grass from all the traffic back and forth. We’ve broken two of our garage window panes—one is still missing. During COVID the kids turned the backyard into a mini golf course complete with water hazards. It was a soggy, muddy, grassless mess. I’m not sure what it cost to re-sod, but it wasn’t a little.

And we’re fine with it.

I heard my grandfather had a phrase about the destruction his grandkids might bring to the house. It was his way of saying to his kids (my mom and uncles), “Don’t worry about what happens to the house.”

He served in the Marine Corps during WWII on the Pacific Front—being awarded two distinguished flying crosses. He had a display case—unlocked—upstairs with his prized medals and items from his career. At some point in time one of the grandkids (I promise it was not me, but I’m not sure who) lost or misplaced one of those items. I remember Grandpa wondering where it went but not expressing his frustration beyond that. I’m unsure if it got recovered.

In a world that asks, “What’s the return on investment?,” butt holes in houses fit into a unique category. What’s the return? We’re always counting the cost, aren’t we? If we invest in a company, what do we get back? If you pay for youth sports, will your kid get a scholarship (unlikely)? If I buy this house, can it appreciate and how quickly?

But what about butt holes? And what about the relational development that comes from them? They create a house that costs more money to fix. And what about football in the front yard that produces mud puddles when it rains? What will the neighbors think with one house that does not look like the others?

What costs are we willing to incur to create environments that are secure for those growing up in them?

I can’t answer that last question for you, but I can say that very often—be it parenting or leadership of any type—there are hard costs and there are intangible costs. If we only obsess about the financial returns, then we might prohibit some of the relational returns that are actually where the memories are made. We might forget that environments of safety and trust are more valuable than the list price.

Where might you need to redefine the cost?

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I love insider information.

I think the desire to feel unique is why so many of us want special messages—from God, from fortune cookies, or from strangers. It adds mystique. And if you can say, “God told me . . .” then you have a whole new type of gravitas.

“God told me I needed to break up with my boyfriend.”

“God told me it was time to change jobs.”

“God told me to talk to that stranger.”

I get the feeling and the desire to add a special authority to life decisions—even mundane ones. Such a stamp feels like unlocking a new level of maturity. There’s such amazement in feeling like you got a unique message.

I remember being in college and meeting a guy whose name I think was Daniel (not the Bible one). He told me about his dreams. If I recall, he told me about a time he heard a song in heaven and it was told to him in that dream that it was the best worship song to ever be written. (He did not mention whether it was Elevation Worship.)

I remember how I responded: This is amazing. What might he know about me?

So I asked Daniel what message he got for me. At that time he didn’t have one (I appreciated the honesty). However, a while later he came by with a piece of paper and some thoughts written down, which he read to me. I wish I still had them—they were kind words, and maybe even accurate.

But that was in college—almost 25 years ago. My approach has changed since then. I don’t think it has mellowed. I think it has deepened.

I’ve found saying “God told me . . . ” is an unnecessary statement. When used, it can make maturity out to be something it’s not—receiving and delivering special messages. It can also lose out on what maturity is—growing up in such a way that my daily actions reflect Jesus.

In fact, I think it takes more faith to simply act on what gets borne out over time reading Scripture, praying, and talking with those in my life who love me.

What do I mean? We walk by faith and not by sight (2 Cor 5:7). If I have to “God told me” my way into things, I’m adding sight where there should likely be none.

First, I have so much at my disposal already—an entire Bible to read, know, study, meditate on, and pray over. If it says, “Love your neighbor as yourself,” then I don’t need to tell you that “God told me to go talk to my neighbor last Tuesday.” If it says, “Love your wife as Christ loved the church,” I don’t need to say, “God told me I needed to stop playing video games so I can be more present with my wife.” I just apply what I’ve read—it’s already speaking.

Second, I have prayer. This is, for me, where the magic happens (“magic” is the wrong word to use here, but go with me). The dynamic of consistently praying for all kinds of things (from the hope of the eventual mortgage being paid off to the transformation of friends and family to the plans we have for Summer 2027) grows my faith. Prayer humbles me, creates watchfulness, and puts me in a position where I am both sifting and being sifted. When it is time to move, you move.

Third, I have my community. When declaring “God told me,” I can become unchallengeable—a law onto myself. What if we went to one another and said, “This is what I believe is important for me to handle next in life. What do you think?” Or, “I believe God wants me to ________. What am I missing?” That simple change puts the accountability where it belongs: with my God-given church family or community that loves me and wants the best for me.

But that isn’t to say I think one’s relationship with God should be static, robotic, or boring. For my readers who walk by faith and not sight, I hope that your relationship with God is thriving. And that comes through daily intimacy.

A time I screwed this up . . .

If you were to ask me what my wife, Courtney, liked, I would not need to tell you, “Well, she told me she liked . . . .” I would just say, “She likes cash.” She’d rather have $20 in her wallet than $100 more in her bank account. More importantly, I also know she likes to bake—especially for others. She likes to find ways to serve her friends and, when she can, watch their kids. She likes reading. She likes the Cabo Salad at Gringo’s. So do I. (It’s good.)

I was recently in the dining car on a train ride. I sent Courtney a photo of my booth. Having just spent five days in Philadelphia, two days at home, and then three days in Louisiana, my diet was a mess.

“My guess is you got the salad.”

I didn’t ask her to guess anything, but she likes to zoom in on photos people send her and make comments. Courtney and I talk daily. We pray daily. She knew I’d been feeling off and had been eating too much. So she guessed my order for me without ever asking.

You walk, you talk, you live, and—over time—you learn at a much deeper level what the other person cares about. You become that person’s advocate without realizing it. In a sense, when you enjoy all that relationship has for you, you don’t need as many words.

For the Christian today, our old roads of Scripture and prayer are well-worn and provide a powerful dynamic. You don’t need to declare. You need to abide.

What’s your next step?

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Courtney stocks the kitchen, figures out meals (though we’re happy to pivot to a restaurant), keeps up with the boys’ schedule, and makes sure the house runs. The boys find her when they want to be comforted.

Though for about nine of our 21 years Courtney had a full-time job, I think some modern influencers might call her a “trad wife.”

We are fine with this life—more than that, we welcome it. Every marriage needs clear expectations on more than just household duties. Our division need not be your division. Expectations that are stated, agreed to, and lived out are a special kindness.

But, I’m prone to ruin that kindness. Maybe you are, too.

Good Changes . . .

For over the past two years I’ve been on a bit of a marital reclamation journey. Though I’ve been grateful for every year of marriage, I’ve only over the last few seen how much I contributed to our problems. As newlyweds, Courtney would be depressed and asleep under her desk at the school where she taught and I’d say, “Just feel better.” Early in marriage we had a lot of fights—about expectations, about diabetes, about whether we were right for each other.

I could be through and through rude. Who can relate?

But 2024 is when some more decisive shifts were made. I began to take on a little more work. I had a specific goal: earn enough additional income that Courtney could reduce or remove the hours at her job if she wanted. She loved the job (working at the boys’ school) and the people. She still loves the people, but doesn’t miss some of the actual work as much.

However, by God’s grace, we were able to make the change. She just finished her first school year not working at the school. Her energy was higher and she was spending more time on things she was great at. The plan was working.

And yet there was a specific morning where I wanted to ruin it.

. . . Same Me

During the school year the alarm goes off about 5:30. Kids get up over the next 45 minutes—usually in birth order—and prepare for the day. One of those mornings after the boys left, I surveyed the kitchen. I noticed the dishes from the night prior hadn’t been done. I don’t know if it is a global thing or not, but waking up to dishes in the sink is less cool than waking up to no dishes in the sink.

So I sauntered over to Courtney, who was on the couch enjoying her morning.

“Hey, I am totally fine working more. I’m happy to do it. The one thing I ask is that the dishes get done.”

Imagine two doors—one door says “say that thing” and the other one says “don’t say that thing.” Given one million chances to walk through one of those doors and receive the outcome on the other side, there would be zero of those million where I should walk through the “say that thing” door.

“EXCUSE ME?!? When don’t the dishes get done? They always get done. If you don’t like when they get done you can do them.”

Whoops.

While I didn’t like being yelled at (who does?), I deserved the rebuke. Something I’ve learned about navigating depression in marriage is that a response like Courtney’s was quite healthy. When she’s depressed she’ll quietly go, “Okay” and move on. When she’s in a good place, she’ll tell me I’m being an idiot and stand her ground.

If You Don’t Like It, Do It

I’m not sure the motivation for my idiocy in the moment. I’m sure, at its core, there was pride. “I’m just working sooooooooo haarrrrdddddddd, can you at least do the dishes at night?” Like I somehow deserved it? I didn’t deserve it.

But I kept thinking about her callout: if you don’t like it, you can do it. This is the advice I give to almost any person who has a problem in a relationship. I just missed it for my own. Do the thing that bugs you. Nobody is stopping you.

So, as dumb as it might sound, I set a daily reminder to check the dishes (and do them if I needed to). I couldn’t be a squeaky wheel about it anymore. I can either do the dishes or not care about the dishes. What was no longer allowed was caring about someone else doing the dishes on my timeline.

After weeks (or months), I didn’t need the reminder anymore and deleted it from my phone. I could help out, the kids could help out, or we could leave the dishes piled high. It was no longer an issue because I realized that I was the problem. And once you realize you’re the problem, things can get better much more quickly.

But that’s me.

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A note to subscribers: This week I bring something different to your inboxes: a book review. While not my normal post, I know all of you are readers (or listeners). If I can serve you by giving you exposure to different ideas, I’m glad to. While a little longer than my normal posts (you can always listen to the voiceover), I hope you enjoy this review of To Live Well.

I’m not one for random Twitter/X challenges, but I just got back on the platform and needed to make some friends. So when author, English professor, and bearded man Alan Noble threw this out:

I felt like it was my responsibility to take on the challenge.

And I know what you’re thinking. “What the heck does the ‘O’ stand for?” Honestly, I didn’t try that hard to figure it out, so I don’t know. It could mean a lot of things—ornery, Oscar, Oliver, Owen. Pick one. What do you think fits a guy like this?

Luckily, you don’t need to know what the first initial stands for (I coached a kid named Oaklen one time), nor do you even need to know this guy is an ENGLISH PROFESSOR to know that he writes books.

He (or his publisher) titled his recent book To Live Well: Practical Wisdom for Moving Through Chaotic Times (IVP, 2026, 200pp). You can find it wherever good books are sold. There might be bad books mixed in but that isn’t Alan’s fault.

Get Ready for Virtue

Noble writes out of a concern—and it is one many share, regardless of faith tradition. “My fear,” he states, “is that modern society has conditioned us to be full of ‘morality’—albeit shifting and ambiguous morality—but lacking any virtues because it denies we have a telos [a defined end]. As a result, we are anxiously striving to do the right thing but never sure what the right thing is” (7). (Also, this fear certainly sounds a lot like a dad who is raising a family while simultaneously teaching young minds in a university setting. He has a front row seat to how things are going in an up-and-coming generation.)

Noble devotes seven chapters to seven virtues: prudence, justice, fortitude, temperance, faith, hope, and love. He uses Thomas Aquinas’ categories of cardinal virtues (the first four big words) along with the theological virtues (the last three easier words). And, no, he doesn’t directly address patience—which is the one virtue probably anyone can name. The reason for this is intentional because, for Noble, those Big 7 cover the rest.

For the Christian in the room, I can sense what you’re thinking, “Great, another book about slowing down, focusing on good things, being a better person, and feeling bad that I’m not enough of those things. Isn’t that what John Mark Comer is for? Or let’s just go to OG Dallas Willard. And can’t I Atomic Habits myself into a better person?”

I think we need to give Noble a fair shake here. While you’ll see overlap, those authors aren’t going after the same thing (or telos).

Unpacking the Virtues

Let’s start with the definition, so we don’t get lost in the shuffle of big words.

For the backbone of the book, Noble leans on noted Aquinas Scholar Josef Pieper (d. 1997). (This is not noted modern day pastor and scholar John Piper, who I am confident someone, somewhere assumed was who he was talking about.)

This is Josef Pieper:

What Noble wants to do is align a deeper desire for the virtue with specific ways to apply those virtues in the real world. Think of the book as accessible-yet-practical philosophy—a virtue primer. You’ll be introduced to ideas you are familiar with but said in ways you might feel are unfamiliar. Then, Noble brings it back down to earth with simple areas of life in which we can apply them.

The Cardinal Virtues

In looking at prudence (Chapter 1’s “Choosing Decisively”) Noble encourages “(1) seeing the reality of a situation, (2) recognizing and desiring what is good, (3) deliberating, (4) making a judgment, and (5) resolutely acting on that judgment” (18). Prudence is not just deciding, but deciding based upon the good of a situation. As he closes the chapter out, he urges us to remember there is not usually only one right decision (our career, our choice of spouse), but that what must happen is, after all is considered, to choose and remain resolved. (And I speak for many husbands, we are glad our wives are stuck with us.)

Prudence rolls into justice (Chapter 2’s “Acting Justly”), which is every man being given his due (46). He speaks of legal justice (our response to governing authorities), distributive justice (the government’s obligations to us), and commutative justice (what we owe to one another) (48-52). I found myself stuck more on this final version—between us and another. Noble speaks of our debt to our parents, and even to our city, for forming us. We cannot pay such debts, but our posture toward those people can be one of gratitude and charity. In other words, specifically as Christians, we have an obligation to give beyond what is due (grace) in personal and societal situations.

Fortitude comes next (Chapter 3’s “Suffering Steadfastly”) and is defined as “perseverance under suffering for the sake of a greater good” (68). There’s much to be said here, but you can see how the virtues necessarily interplay (thus, you can’t just pick one, you need to go all-in). Why would I suffer for something that isn’t good (needing prudence), and how could I endure if I were not thinking about how justice applies? And we all know what that sounds like, amiright?

Did you know you don’t have to pursue everything you want? Temperance is where we head next (Chapter 4’s “Living Moderately”). Quoting Pieper, we learn that temperance is how we “dispose various parts into one unified and ordered whole” (86). More than just moderation, temperance is a proper ordering of life to leave the capacity to serve others. “You owe it to God, others, and yourself to defend the inner order of your life through the practice of temperance, because it is through that inner order, through self-control, that you are able to have the base to move outward to help other people” (89).

The Theological Virtues

Noble ends with the theological virtues: faith, hope, and love (1 Cor 13:13). Using Hebrews 11 as a guide, Noble defines faith as both an assurance and conviction “about something which is not immediately evident” (Chapter 5’s “Believing Soundly”). Noble says “the virtue of faith allows us to know God and live more fully as human beings created by him” (112). This chapter had one of my favorite quotes.

The modern person can be into Roman Catholicism one year, MMA the next year, competitive fishing the next year, Islam the next, Taylor Swift, Pokémon, video games, ultramarathons, racial injustice, couponing, and so on. (116)

Many around us are doomsdayers. I myself am not, nor is Noble. I have great hope in what will be (Chapter 6’s “Hoping Resolutely”). As Noble states, “Hope believes that God is making all things new through the power of his resurrection” (127). This doesn’t mean things will continually get better, but their end is better. Despair can kill our attitudes about this world (132). “What matters is the decision of our wills, our intellect. What are we choosing to believe and act on?” (133). I appreciated Noble’s longer treatment of apathy (acedia) at the end—because such apathy can kill a home, family, church, or soul.

And, as expected, we end on love (Chapter 7’s “Loving Rightly”). “Love is an affirmation of the existence of someone or something that is willing to sacrifice for the goodness of that love” (146). Or, quoting Pieper again, love is saying to someone, “It’s good that you exist; it’s good that you are in the world!” (147). We choose this type of love; we do not first feel it. Its existence sits deeper within us. My favorite sentence in the book comes from this final chapter:

Final Thoughts: Nitpicking and a Recommendation

Well, reader, if you’ve made it this far, you might wonder what I think about this book. I’ll start with my nitpicks. I have two.

First, I struggled with some of the structure—and this is likely because I am a bit dense. The chapter titles were not the virtues he named, leaving me to always remind myself of what we were talking about. I am not a Pieper scholar and I’ve typed the word “prudence” more this week than ever in my life (I’m 43 years old). Perhaps an editorial decision before publishing, but I didn’t like that the chapter titles required me to translate what virtue we were on. I also didn’t like that there was a chapter called “Living Moderately” when Noble himself said “moderation is an inadequate definition” (86). But, I preach sermons and I often forget what they were titled; I just throw it in there for the spreadsheet, so I get it. And I also found that the definitions were, at times, buried in the sections where he’d set out to define them. Those aren’t catastrophic issues, but it will mean a reader not versed in the writing (i.e., most of us) needs to slow down and look for constant signposts.

My second nitpick is tied to that idea of most readers: I wasn’t sure who the book was for. Anyone? Any Christian? Younger? Older? I tried to answer the pastor question, “Where or how would I use this?” a lot. My hunch was that, as a college professor, he wrote it for those entering into a new world and establishing their lives, but I wasn’t sure of that until I read something he posted recently:

And that’s where I’d recommend it most strongly—to high school or college students or recent grads, but with a guide. I’ve been to seminary two times over. Maybe they failed me (you can take that up with them), but I had not read Pieper and had to catch myself up with the way he was talking about Aquinas. That’s not Noble’s fault, but shows what men like him are up against.

Here’s what I’d suggest: seven chapters, seven weeks, seven discussions, with enough age in the room to make the discussion good. The result could be transformative. The chapters are accessible, the writing flows, and the topics need to be worked out with others.

Because the virtues, ultimately, aren’t for me just virtuemaxxing. They’re for me to serve you. And to live them out, I need to be by your side and have you by mine.

Hear O Alan (still don’t know what the O stands for) talk about his book on the Outside Ourselves podcast:

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“Hey, you said you would do this but you weren’t here last week.”

I’d find myself as a 21-year-old college senior doing math on the ideal time to get up based on what I thought success looked like.

“I think 6AM works. Which means I need to go to bed at 10PM for the eight hours I’m told I need. Wait, I need to BE asleep by 10PM. So I probably need to get in bed by 9PM to give myself a shot.”

Basically never happened.

I did have some wins, though. For my second and third years of college, I was an RA at the now-defunct Kirby Smith Hall. I had mandatory front desk hours. I picked the 5-8AM shift three days a week so I could get some alone time before the overachievers started going to their 7:30AM classes. One year I had a terrible 4-7AM shift instead and I still haven’t recovered. No one should be up at 4AM.

But every time I’d get up later than I wanted, I’d get mad for not being disciplined enough.

Overzealous and Ambitious

This type of feeling plays on repeat for many. People will pick an area they feel defunct and spend the next six months feeling bad about not being able to live out their fever dream ideal. The problem with their ideal is that Superman couldn’t do it.

“I want to get up at 5am every day of the week, regardless of how I feel or what the prior day had, so that I can get a head start on the day. I will read, pray, go to the gym, have my protein shake, make the kids’ lunches, and then head to work. While I commute I will listen to the most recent industry podcast so I can stay relevant.”

“I need to eat healthier so I will never go to a restaurant ever again and only have celery as my snack.”

“I need to be more wide-read so I will read a book a week.”

By the end of thirty days, none of these habits are being kept consistently and we are right back where we started. We’re frustrated by what we aren’t getting done and mad at ourselves for failing.

If you had to choose between healthy and unhealthy, I hope you’d choose healthy. If you were an early riser or a late riser, I think it’d be better if you were an early riser. Reading or not reading? Pick reading if you have the capacity. But no one is demanding (other than you) that these changes take place.

Giants I Can’t Match

The biggest thief of establishing a baseline? Comparison. We look at someone we love and think, “That’s what I want,” so we try and start doing that. But we might not realize that there’s a whole web of commitments that builds the type of person we’d want to be.

I remember sitting—again, as a college student—in a group I was invited into for a year and a half. The leader was smart and put the meeting at night and not early at McDonald’s (thank you for being sane). He said, and I can still hear his voice, that he would get up “at 5:00 or a quarter of 5:00” depending on the day. I think we were sitting at a Chili’s when he said that.

It’s been about 23 years since I thought, “That’d be nice,” and I still don’t do it. But how cool would it be if I did, right?

“But arbitrarily making contracts with ourselves and others just feels right” is how my friend Mike would put it. And it’s true. We create a gigantic, inflated world of expectations that we won’t meet to try and be like people we aren’t. Every day we have to be firing on all cylinders to give our vision of “ideal” a fighting chance.

It doesn’t work.

Getting to Baseline

I’ve started using the phrase “Let’s get to baseline” or “Let’s establish the floor here” when I talk with people in this purgatorial frustration. Every day has its own troubles, so I want them to think about the types of structures (or even principles) that someone could execute every day regardless of what the day throws at them. What could you pull off on your worst day and your best day?

But how do you do it? Here’s a simple approach.

• What are you trying to address?

• What do you know you can accomplish every day in that area?

• Try to add a qualitative ten percent to it.

• Do that for at least several months, if not an entire year. (I’m not kidding.)

• Evaluate and add when you’re done.

Fitness is a common one. Here’s one I started last year with steps. I wasn’t active enough. So I did 7,000 steps a day for Q1, 8,000 for Q2, 9,000 for Q3 and 10,000 for Q4. But I didn’t need to do that forever. I’m at 8,500 a day for this year. I’ve missed it twice. But two misses out of ~530 days is okay by me.

You might go, “I can’t do that.”

Okay, what can you do? 2,000? Then do that. Baseline is baseline.

Want to pray more? Set a floor of dedicated time. Five minutes. Start with five minutes.

“But five is so few minutes. I should pray more than that.”

“Okay. Do thirty.”

“Maybe five is okay.”

It’s not magic. The work is in establishing the baseline and then not backing off. Over time (years), the foundation gets stronger and more can be added. But you don’t need my structure and I don’t need yours. You need to get to baseline.

Thanks for reading. One of the best ways you can support the work is by engaging. Do one: hit the like button, comment, or share with a friend. It’s a simple way to grow the community.

Now, I’ve intentionally turned that toward others.

Leader Care Network

About five years ago, as a way to more intentionally serve people inside and outside of the church, I started Leader Care Network. At that time, it was just a structure waiting for the right opportunity.

Two years ago, after praying about a way to better serve my family—especially my wife—I focused more specifically on growing the business so she could quit her job and focus on her health. Since then, it has grown into a practice that coaches leaders inside and outside of the church—from California to New York and as far south as Costa Rica.

I work with individuals and teams in areas of trust, team building, communication, and execution. Sometimes people just need a confidant, and I can be that, too. For those who are in church leadership, we can drill into specific areas of leadership unique to your context. Either way, we build a plan together.

There is nothing cookie-cutter about what I do. What I’ve found is that, if you’re willing, the partnership changes both of us. That’s what I want. Every client has made me better.

My approach to coaching is to enter into a meaningful partnership, and I want you to feel like I’m a trusted teammate from the very beginning.

A Little About Me

I am married to Courtney and we have three sons still in the home (though that will soon change). I still pastor as my day job, but coaching takes a lot of my time. I leverage everything I’ve learned through 17 years of pastoring, a four-year masters, and four-year PhD for you. I’m currently trying to get a memoir picked up by an agent—it’s about my failures as a husband over 20 years. (I think leadership books are fine, but they become tomorrow’s grab bag pretty quickly.)

Next Step?

Every coach will tell you they are great, and they probably are. We all have the same "I will help you not lose your soul” mantra (look up coaches and you’ll see it everywhere). I can’t promise you something I can’t deliver, and I can’t deliver “you won’t burn out” or “you won’t lose your soul.” I used to pretend I could, but I can’t. Leaders often do what’s unhealthy and unhelpful long-term.

What I do know is that people often need a trusted outsider to give them attention, honest feedback, and a perspective that isn’t beholden to the organization. They want someone who is for them, and I might be that for you.

I can give you testimonials if you want them, but so much of this is based on your needs and our fit. I can point you to pastors or VPs or managers or CEOs who could put a good word in, but what matters is if you think I can help you or your team.

So reach out. I have limited capacity to take on extra work, but I would always consider it. Let me know your situation. Responsiveness is a high value of mine, so you’ll hear back.

Message me here, DM me on Twitter (@HansGooger), or email me.

Email

Note: If you are reading this and are a ministry leader, don’t hesitate to reach out. My entire ministry life has been built on the generosity of others. When I can, I want to coach people regardless of means, and sometimes churches have the least to offer while simultaneously having the most at stake.

“I know that people are saying that I can be short in certain interactions, but I’ve really been working on that. I feel like I’ve changed.”

“I know you’ve been working on it.”

Depending on my relationship with the person, I might share my own experience to help make a point.

“I recently got told I would benefit from smiling more.” (Those who know me are probably smirking.)

“Really? I feel like you smile all the time.”

“You only see me on calls. I have a picture of myself the whole time so I get immediate feedback on how engaged I look.”

The Long Tail of Change

We can get discouraged when we are working specifically on ways to change and people in our lives don’t see it. Our flaws and failures stare us down all day—telling us where we fall short and how often.

I put it like this: change has a long tail. You start it on Tuesday, but people might not realize it for five years.

Why is this so hard? Because the people closest to us—the ones who benefit most from our change—are often the last ones to believe it happened. This isn’t a fault of theirs. Our track record is our track record. On the flip side, more recent relationships (like the people I meet with on screens) have no backlog of experiences that tell them any differently.

When I tell people I’ve met more recently that I’m thoroughly introverted and can be disengaged, they don’t believe me. When I talk to my neighbor at lunch, we laugh and tell stories and have a great time (part of this is because Courtney joins and she’s great at conversation). But the track record is still the track record.

So the discouragement rears its head because (1) we want those closest to us to see the change, but (2) they likely are still wondering if it’ll stick. The longer the track record, the more suspicion. This is part of change. Even Saul got side-eye when he tried to show up in Jerusalem (likely three years post-conversion) and be like, “I know I saw people executed and all but it’s been a while and I’m definitely different” (see Acts 9:26).

And we’re left to wonder, “Have I really changed?”

So What Can We Do?

If you’re reading this, you have one of three roles. You could be the one changing (like John Mayer—who is not done changing). You could be cautiously observing changes in someone you’ve known for a long time (parent, spouse, longtime friend, etc.). Or you could be new in the life of someone who doesn’t present like the person others say they’ve been. Very often we are all three of these people bound together at various stages of development.

And there’s something for each of these roles.

To the one changing: don’t lose heart. You got yourself into the situation and you have to live with it. Sad but true. When a spouse or a longtime friend doesn’t think the change has stuck, keep at it. You’re in the long tail. When people tell me that I can be short or dismissive, I have to say, “You’re right.” I don’t need to prove that I’m different. Time will tell. For some, the time is minutes; for others, it’s years.

To those who are suspicious of the change: Believe the best. You’ll have to continue extending trust and the “love believes all things” aspect of the relationship more often than you’d like. And you’ll have to keep reminding yourself to think differently about the person, because you have ways you’ve learned to treat the person. Where you can, offer encouragement, and admit some of the issue is your inability to believe differently.

To those new to the relationship and without the baggage: Fan to flame the change you’ve seen. We need people in our lives who can see we are different and say, “I’ve never received you that way.” Those are shots in the arm and remind us that change is happening, even if incremental.

Some related posts. One on offering honest feedback and another on beginning to operate differently and trusting the relationships truly have changed.

Maybe you’re at work and you get exasperated. For the third week in a row, Terry didn’t get his work done. “No one here wants to be accountable. It’s ridiculous.” (Whether or not you got your work done is conveniently redacted.)

Or you are at your church and you meet with someone who is struggling. “Accountability partner” is a common church phrase, so you pair up because you “need the accountability.” Accountable to what? To whom? What are the stakes? TBD. But you do it because it’s a good thing to do.

I ask the question, “So what do you need from me?” a lot when I’m meeting with people.

“I need you to hold me accountable.”

When I get that response, my answer is almost always the same: “I won’t do that.”

Sounds harsh, right? The pastor who won’t hold people accountable? The leadership coach who isn’t going to yell at you when you miss a commitment?

But I decline the request because of what accountability often becomes.

I Can’t Own Your Growth

The biggest reason I don’t outright accept the “Hold me accountable” request is because it moves responsibility where it doesn’t belong—outside of the person needing the accountability.

“Hey, on Thursday can you remind me that I need to talk to John?”

“No. Why don’t you just set a reminder to talk to John on Thursday. You know there are easy ways to remember that, right?”

But we often say “Yes” because it feels nicer. I’d argue it is harmful. We take on for people something that isn’t our responsibility. So now I have to take care of my own life, my family, and your inability to remember talking to John? No, thanks.

If you say “yes,” you might have to get an accountability partner to remind you to remind someone they need to talk to John. The cycle never ends, and the responsibility keeps moving from one person to another.

This type of “accountability” is everywhere. “Let’s make this issue someone else’s problem,” it says. That way, if we don’t do it (and no one follows up with us), we aren’t in trouble.

You Can Still Hide

That’s the other side of the accountability problem: you aren’t sure how honest someone is actually being. Perhaps Dr. House is a little overstated, but there’s a ring of truth to his “everybody lies” mantra. It’s self-protection at its finest.

Haven’t you seen it? You hold just a little back about how the week really went. Or the co-worker doesn’t say exactly how the meeting finished up and where the relationship with the new client is. How am I supposed to know the truth? Am I going to guess? Or walk around on an accountability witch hunt? I hope not. Living in suspicion of everyone and everything sounds miserable.

I’ve had people lie straight to me. People I love. People who would gladly promote the need to be accountable, to be honest, and always be vulnerable. Then you realize they’ve been lying to everyone for years.

My longtime mentor, Kevin, has a line that embedded itself deep within my mind.

I live by this. I don’t even know the depths of everything in my mind and heart, but I know them better than you do. So how are you going to hold me accountable? I know when I’m lying to you. I won’t always know when you’re lying to me.

A note for church folk: Don’t decry this idea just yet. One of the clearest areas Christians are supposed to be accountable is in the area of confession of sin. But the command isn’t to ask people to confess sin to you, it’s “confess your sins to one another . . . .” (Jas 5:16). At times, we have to get highly engaged in the process (Gal 6:1), but everyone must own what is going on in their hearts. We cannot do it for them.

The temptation to hide exists in every accountable relationship—at work, at home, at church, or on your baseball team.

And yet I’m still quite hopeful . . . .

Gently Deflect and Redirect

I think there’s a better way to enter into the “Will you hold me accountable” question: a gentle deflection and a redirect to what the person more honestly needs. Allow me to play it out.

“I need you to hold me accountable to leaving work at 5pm every day.”

“How so?”

“Maybe ask me when we meet when I’ve left the office.”

“Why is that what you want me to do? By that time you would’ve already done it or not done it.”

“But I need to leave by 5pm and I need the accountability.”

“Who are you doing this for?”

“My family. I need to be more helpful at home and if I’m not careful I can work all day.”

“Then why do I need to ask you about it? Sounds like you need to tell your wife what you commit to her to do for the sake of your marriage and family. She’s more important to you than I am. Put yourself on the hook in your marriage.”

*Person squirms*

“Yeah, but that’s harder.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

“I guess.”

“When are you going to have this conversation with your wife?”

“Ugh. Probably today.”

“Great. I can’t wait for you to text me tonight and tell me how it went.”

I believe many people want—and appreciate—accountability. What they struggle to find is the right way to live it out. The best approach I’ve found is to hand responsibility back to the person asking. Otherwise you start to take on tasks that weren’t yours in the first place.

The result? About half the team didn’t know what was expected of them. Not shockingly, about half the team didn’t know what was expected of their teammates. Less than ideal.

These aren’t fully scientific surveys, but that’s not the point. The idea is to surface just how common it is for people to be unaware—or feel unaware—of what matters most at work. I’d guess you have a situation in your own life that mirrors this idea—uncertainty on what to do, how to do it, what success even looks like.

Many of us spend the bulk of our waking hours at work. However, if we have feelings like people in the team above, we spend much of our day in a fog. Are we doing a good job? How do we know? Who defines it? And why the heck isn’t anyone doing their job?

As I’ve seen teams over the years, ambiguity doesn’t come about maliciously. A team grows too fast and multiplies roles without a plan. Leadership assumes others on the team have institutional knowledge that they do not. Scope creep adds responsibility without any formal communication. It exists in any system from one degree to another.

Don’t forget marriage. The impact of ambiguity isn’t just in the workplace. It happens all the time in family units, too. Husbands and wives enter into marriage with a large set of assumptions as to who should do what. These assumptions aren’t often based on what is right, but on what we experienced growing up. There is nothing inherently more noble about a wife preparing dinner than a husband, or a husband driving on trips more than his wife. Yet the expectations unconsciously determine our feelings of marital propriety.

Often, ambiguity in the team moves a person in one of two directions: expansion or contraction.

“Fine, I’ll Do It”

Some exploit ambiguity to take on more responsibility. This is when the confusion is used to expand a role. I’m bad at knowing motive, and there are many, but these folks are like black holes sucking up any undefined responsibility and taking it on themselves. “If no one will do it, I’ll do it,” is their mantra.

Positively, jobs get done and the person stays busy. Can’t complain about that (though someone will certainly try). Bosses usually appreciate the person who is going to stay busy on the job and accomplish overall goals. These folks are often incredibly eager, too. Win-win.

Negatively, teammates can loathe these people because they can come across as preening. While the behavior might not be performative, we often interpret it as such. Further, the folks who expand their roles in the face of ambiguity are often low-key frustrated all of the time. Nobody seems to ever do their job right and the only way it’ll get done is if they do it.

Just because a belt is loose does not mean you have to grow into it. In fact, that is often the opposite of helpful.

“That’s Not My Job”

The flip side, and often more common among teams, is contraction in the face of ambiguity. Rather than exploit the confusion to take on more, it gets exploited to hide. “Someone else is in charge of that,” is their mantra.

Positively, such a person never rocks the boat. They might not be busy, but they aren’t creating new problems and they likely aren’t frustrating teammates. There’s value there. Leaders need people who aren’t going to consistently cause new problems.

Negatively, this type of teammate plays it safe and comes across as blameshifting. They use the confusion to make the problem someone else. “If HR would do their job, this wouldn’t be an issue.” The problem is outside of them, never them.

Just because you’re uncertain doesn’t mean you can’t act. You don’t need to hide.

“This is the job”

While expansion says, “I’ll do your job,” and contraction says, “This isn’t my job,” the right next step is to confront what is needed for the job. However, everyone has a role to play—and none of it includes waiting around.

• If you have a tendency to expand your role, go to the people you’re low-key frustrated with and ask, “I think this is your responsibility. Am I seeing that right?” (It is likely you’re doing 120% of your job and stealing 20% from someone else.)

• If you like to hide in the ambiguity, ask the question, “Is this my role? It seems like something I should do.” Take your 20% back and fill the role you have. Don’t make an excuse because it’s easier than making a mistake.

• And if you’re observing the issue on a team you lead, bring the clarity that only you can bring. Say, “This is the job and this is who needs to do it.” It might feel easier to let it slide, but nobody grows that way.

You can’t escape ambiguity’s presence on your team—it will creep in one way or another. It’s what we do with it that matters. Regardless of your tendency, you need to confront it.

What’s your disposition and what do you need to do next?

So, as part of living out that desire, I will ask Courtney how I’m doing. I don’t do this daily or anything; I just ask when I think about it. Often when I’m feeling bugged.

When I ask depends on where we are and how intense the feeling of failure is, but walks are a good time. Walks are sort of like a date night.

So about three months ago I wanted to ask the question, although my motivation was not fully noble. We were finishing up a walk and I had several examples of Courtney communicating her frustration about a specific doorknob to me (and others).

Said doorknob is at the back of the house, on the door we use most often. I think it got damaged in the original renovation. A contractor locked up and had no keys, so we had to sort of break the door to get back in. That worked, but it created a lot of give in said knob. You’d often walk up to the back door and have to turn the knob 40% more than usual because of the slack in the turning mechanism. Doorknob people probably have a word for this.

After All I’ve Done for You . . .

So the walk was finishing up and I had some beef. Sure, the doorknob has been annoying for years but the door opened and closed and the lock mechanism worked. But we had a group of young leaders over to the house for dinner and we were talking about marriage and how we work together as a couple and she threw shade at my not fixing the doorknob. Outed in front of college students. Come on!

So on the walk I needed to know what her deal was.

“Okay, I need to know something.”

“Yeah?”

“I know you care about acts of service, but I need to know what you actually need to feel more loved, because what I’m doing appears to not be working. You’ve brought up the doorknob a lot.”

“I mean, I’d like it fixed, but it’s not THAT big a deal.”

Having been in a season of life where I’m redoubling efforts to be a less crappy husband, I felt the doorknob was a bridge too far.

“Is it not enough that I’ve completely adjusted my life to better support you? And we also just upgraded to a tankless water heater on a closed recirculation loop so the kitchen water won’t take four minutes to heat up.”

She stops and turns toward me. (When she stops on walks, I know I’m in trouble.) Her voice rises.

“Oh, I’m sorry, do I not say ‘Thank you’ enough for what you do? Do you think I’m not grateful? And when have I complained about the temperature of the kitchen water?”

Crap.

“No, you’re right. I’ll fix the doorknob.”

I Already Knew the Answer

Marriages are funny things. On the one hand, they’re the tightest earthly bond God has created. On the other hand, a request to fix a loose doorknob can make you think you’re on the razor’s edge of dismantling every decade you’ve been together.

I asked my question—how could I show you love in a way you’d better receive—with a mix of honesty and dishonesty. You can tell because I added a “Because what I’m doing isn’t enough” tagged onto the end.

Spouses should win Oscars for how they turn the knife—just a little—to try and get their way.

I already knew she wanted the doorknob replaced. I just wanted her to say something else. Actually, I wanted her to say that what I was doing was enough. (You should ask her about the slow drain in the upstairs bathroom that took months, maybe years, to fix, or the hot water handle that stopped working.)

But instead of doing the right thing—the loving thing—I try and make my current approach enough. I don’t want to have to change.

When I’m the Measure of “Acceptable”

I guess it’s sort of important to me that I’m not a crappy husband. The indictment I care about just depends on who is looking. If it’s Courtney, I’m okay being seen as substandard. If others are looking, I want to be seen as exceptional. And others don’t use the back door that often.

The reason I neglect these little home items is not because I can’t change a doorknob. I’m moderately handy. It’s because I didn’t care about the 40% extra turn. “If it isn’t a big deal to me, it shouldn’t be a big deal to you,” I think. I become the measure of the importance of the issue.

And that, as ironic as it is, is actually antithetical to my faith. “Husbands, love your wives, as Christ loved the church . . .” (Eph 5:25a). I pray for Courtney every day. I pray with her every day. I hand her cash when I find it (she does love cash). I make minimal fun of her when she wears the same black fleece (which I bought) every day from October until May. I just don’t want to change a doorknob.

And the doorknob is the actual indictment.

A simple act of service was beyond what I wanted to do.

So I changed the doorknob. Twice, actually.

I bought a fancier doorknob at first and texted a picture to friends we replayed the argument in front of. But I didn’t like the feel of it. I thought it’d annoy Courtney me over time because the way you gripped the knob put your hand too close to the door. So I went out again and bought as close to an exact match of the original I could find.

In June we sat at a dinner and asked each other how we were doing and how we could be better spouses. When it came time for Courtney she said, “You changed the doorknob. You’re great.”

Roughly fifty dollars (two trips) and forty minutes of time (after years of asking).

And I stood in the way of it because . . . I’m selfish.

To the husbands, specifically, what do you know you need to do that you’ve put off because you don’t care enough? And when will you stop putting it off?

Erica asks excellent questions.

Pablo has a wit that somehow communicates both “You can trust me” and “I love you.”

It’s like a superpower. I’ve started to call it a secret superpower.

It’s a secret not to the recipient but to the owner. It just feels like who they are, but it might’ve been developed over years. I’d venture that just about everyone has one. And I wanted to begin learning them.

Discovering Secret Superpowers

People who know me would say I’m structured. “Structured” feels like a bad word to me, so I don’t like when I hear it. It’s sterile and boring. Courtney has added “rigid” to the mix. I like that less, especially her reasoning.

As 2025 ended I began thinking about how I could grow personally in the coming year. So many of my habits don’t require other people. Reading, praying, walking, writing, managing a calendar, using a task manager—all pretty much structured DIY jobs unless you augment them.

I wondered what I could change. How could I introduce some sort of discipline (NOT rigidity) that required more engagement with others and was helpful for my own growth?

So I created the “Secret Superpower” question. Once a week I find someone and ask them what theirs is. For this exercise, I have to ask in person (or on a call). I keep the responses in a red Moleskine (because it is about being a superhero) that usually lives in my backpack.

These conversations don’t have to last long; I just want to see what people say. I’ll explain what a Secret Superpower is and then I’ll ask them theirs. I’ll wait, sometimes for a while, before I get a response.

• Erin likes thinking of creative and thoughtful ways to do things for people. She takes notes on the offhand comments someone might make (a favorite restaurant, a type of crockpot they want) and then, in time, gets that item for them. She loves to let people know she’s heard them in the small things.

• Dave mentors a lot of Chick-fil-A staff. He’s been told time and time again that he’s able to create safe environments for people to share. He pays attention to the tone of voice, to facial expressions, and even what is stirring in him as people talk.

• Caley, one of the counselors at camp last week, finds ways to bring other people joy and make them laugh. She loves looking for the topics people love talking about and then finding ways to get them to keep talking about it.

• Micah, a 5th grader at our church, writes notes. He likes to write to people what he appreciates about them—especially family.

And plenty more exist. Anna shared about her optimism. Armando shared about his ability to find specific ways to help people learn. Duncan is consistent—always doing what he says he will do.

The Discoveries

Each week, usually on Thursdays, my to-do list reminds me to ask the secret superpower question. Sometimes I ask that day, sometimes, I’ve already asked it, sometimes, I know I’ll be around a lot of people soon and push it to that day. But it sits there, gently reminding me I have work to do.

Whether the conversation takes 90 seconds or five minutes, I keep asking. And what I find is always a gift.

First, even if it takes time for the person I’m talking to, everyone comes up with something. There might be a few seconds of silence or some hesitation followed by “Not sure if this is what you’re asking for,” but everyone has something. I love that, with a little introspection, people of all ages have more capacity to bless others than they realize.

I also get to learn about how I can improve. I might ask, “If I wanted to get better at this, what would be my first step?” There’s a lot to be learned there. Even as simple as, “I should be sure I’m making better eye contact.” I never expect to just steal that person’s skill—God worked it out in them for a reason—I just want to know what I might be able to glean. Very often there’s some part of what is shared that graciously confronts an area of my own life. I think, “Yeah, I could be better at that.”

Finally, it builds a discipline in me that can’t be done alone. I get a number of jokes in a given month about being a robot—basically self-sustaining. I promise I am not.

The initial motivation as 2025 ended was that I needed a few disciplines that required others to be effective. So I do this both to learn and to get me across the table from someone so I can understand more about them.

At the beginning of the year I thought, “There is no way I’ll be able to have this many conversations.” But here we are at the halfway mark and the questions feel more natural and the conversations are always a joy.

I’d be curious . . .

I tried, with all the energy I had, to consider how what was happening was not actually happening. I called the doctor. I checked potential symptoms. I worried. I even admitted, “I can’t take this,” to my cousin.

You’ve probably been there, too. You feel something off in life—in yourself, in those around you, in a new environment—and you start to worry. It could be small but it quickly snowballs.

Imagine your life as three different gardens. They’re nested one inside another. Up against the edges, you find yourself anxious, not knowing what sits out over the boundary.

Garden One: The Life We Long For

The first garden is full of what we believe makes life meaningful.

We want to always have money in the bank, so we fight for the best jobs. We pursue great schooling opportunities in hopes that we can secure long-term employment and be able to afford any aspect of life that might come our way. It feels responsible and perhaps even necessary.

When we get married, we imagine great conversations, great sex, lots of laughter, and a deep connection to our spouse. We’ve heard other people talk about the importance of date nights so we preemptively block out every Thursday night ad infinitum for long, meaningful discussions and time together.

Our kids will be healthy and will always have a great relationship with us. Our faith is important so we spend eight months finding a great church with lots of people our age and all of the proper programming to support our family. We fight for friendships that will last a lifetime—for us and for our kids.

But we find that garden isn’t as comfortable as we would like it to be.

As we spend time tending to these aspects of life—and sometimes sowing those hopes and dreams quite early (anyone plan their perfect wedding when they were eight?)—we start to see signs of trouble.

That perfect job? The company might downsize. Your role looks redundant and you might lose it and, with it, your stability. The marriage? It’s “fine.” You’ve had a number of date nights, but the past few months have felt hollow. Your church? Several friends have left and the preaching is more boring than you recalled at first. Maybe a change of scenery would be good for you.

Garden Two: The Life We Avoid

Beyond the edge of that first garden are all of the “what ifs” that keep us up at night. What if you picked the wrong job? What if your spouse is unfaithful? What if you are unfaithful? What if your kid gets sick? What if your wife miscarries? What if you get sideways with your friends and they leave you?

Thus, we begin to put up warning signs and fences to avoid the danger on the outside.

They often show up as rules that we use to try to keep us firmly in the first garden.

“We only give our kids the healthiest foods so that they won’t get cancer.”

“I will deliver the best projects at work so that I have an inside track to keeping my job.”

“I will always talk with my husband about what he wants so that he won’t pursue other women.”

All of these rules seem good in a sense—eating healthy, working hard, loving a spouse—but the activity is rooted in trying to preserve something. The energy it takes to stay inside that first garden exhausts us, because we can’t guarantee its outcome.

But there’s even more out beyond that second garden—we can’t quite see it. We’ve spent so much energy trying to stay inside our first and avoid the second, that we don’t know what’s out beyond the far fences.

See below for how you can use this in a counseling situation:

Garden Three: The Life We Have

I call garden one the garden of fantasy. It’s a world that doesn’t actually exist. We just pretend it does.

I call garden two the garden of fear. All the life events we never want to see grow—the ones we pretend don’t exist—live there.

Then there’s that final garden, the garden of faith. This one includes everything you hope is true, everything you fear could come true, and everything you can’t imagine happening. It has higher highs than you thought, lower lows, and a million other plants you haven’t even seen yet.

You’ve probably heard, “We walk by faith not by sight,” (2 Cor 5:7). Yet so often we want to keep life to what we see. “It’s safer here,” we say. “It’s wise.” But really, it is fantasy or fear.

When I learned we’d be headed to surgery at a day old, I felt what might be growing out amongst the fear. I didn’t want that world. “I can’t take this,” I said. What I meant was, “This is not what I expected.”

That’s the fear talking.

What I could do is receive it. Receive what I wasn’t expecting. Know there was anxiety, but that God could meet me there. And he did.

Living by faith requires surrender. We surrender our plans, dreams, hopes, and outcomes. “What if my spouse dies?” She might. “What if I lose my income?” You might. “What if my son walks away from the faith?” He might.

Surrender the desire, receive what comes, walk by faith.

The most freeing aspect of the garden of faith is that it is there, and there only, we recognize we aren’t even the gardener.

“You’re dismissive.”

“You get impatient.”

“It feels like sometimes you are judging other people’s answers as you respond to what they say.”

“I don’t feel seen by you.”

All of these (and more) have been said about me—actually, they were said right to me. In fact, I asked for them.

And they were all said in the past four months.

Tell Me How You Really Feel

In February at our elder retreat and in May with our staff we ran the team effectiveness exercise. This is a tool put out by Pat Lencioni’s Table Group, but I just consider it the tool that makes groups of people be more honest with each other for the first time.

What is it? You essentially go around the room, one person at a time, and tell that person (1) their single biggest behavior that benefits the team and (2) their single biggest behavior that hinders the team.

You have to focus your responses on the team you’re on that is doing the exercise, not just random observations about that person’s life. So if you know that I always upgrade to a large fries and drink on my Chick-fil-A meal, you can’t just bring it up because you want to talk about my diet. If I show up with that meal before every meeting, never share my fries, smack my food and don’t pay attention to the agenda, that one fits as a “Hey, Hans, you’re holding us back here.”

When I lead these, I often start in reverse: tell them the hard one, let the leader seek feedback on what was shared, then tell them the good one.

Many leaders are self-aware enough to know what they’re going to hear, good and bad, but hearing how the team sees the behavior(s) impacting them becomes the surround sound we often need.

I’ve led four of these this year: on teams I’m on and teams I’m working with. Each time, they produce outsized impact. Sometimes it is the first time people hear real feedback on their behavior.

Compounding Behaviors

The reason for the impact is because the small things compound—and it is the small things we often fail to share.

Most teams aren’t full of day drinkers who scream in every meeting and rarely do their job. That behavior wouldn’t be something you’d wait to share in a team building exercise. That’s something you should fire someone for.

But lots of teams have people on them who don’t show up prepared for meetings, or their cameras are off for video calls and they rarely chime in, or they critique every idea and explain why it won’t work. These can feel more like more annoyances than hindrances.

On the flip side, the people you work with probably do things that you’ve grown fond of but you’ve never told them. They don’t seem like that big of a deal, but, then again, the small things compound.

I told a friend I work with that I think one of his biggest contributions to the team is he chooses to cook us lunch a few times a year and, when he makes a coffee run, asks the office what they want. He has tons of skills, but it’s that habit that makes us more cohesive. Without it, we’d be a much poorer team.

I’ve told another that her attitude to help anyone out is so genuine. I appreciate how a “yes” from her isn’t begrudging but enthusiastic. It’s an authentic desire to support.

Yet another I told that his demeanor when he enters a room for our meetings lifts everyone. He goes, person by person, and gives handshakes or hugs. Showing them utmost respect every time. It sets the tone.

I’ve seen a long-tenured employee begin to cry when her teammates told her they view her as a mentor. She had no idea.

Exercises like this give you an opportunity to hear from others, and share with others, those little things that often make or break the team.

Committing to One Another

So after it all ends, you’ve heard the good and the bad, you ask your clarifying questions (many people want examples), and then you consider how to commit to the people you work with.

Based upon everything that you’ve heard, what will you do? Don’t pick thirty things; pick one.

In the most recent one I was in, a lot of the less helpful behavior said about me came down to how I engage with people in meetings. So I took a little time and created a list of meeting rules for myself. I shared it with the team and they helped me shore up some of my own ideas for meetings.

• Slow Down: Not every meeting has something at stake to win. See the room and the people in it.

• Listen More: This one was originally “leave room,” but I felt slowing down and listening more was actually doing that. Focus on what’s being said, what’s nonverbal, and the words that are being used.

• Ask Questions: Don’t give answers—a bad habit of mine. Ensure I really hear how other people are feeling about a topic matters more than if they understand me.

• Confirm Clarity: Use time to ensure those in the room understand what is going on, what is expected, by when, etc.

• Know Yourself: I need to understand my temperament, that I can be prone to frustration, and that I’m usually ready to move along when others might not be.

Yes, it spells the word SLACK. I showed up to the meeting with SLAC and really wanted it to be an acronym, so someone threw in the “K” and I liked it.

You might say, “Yeah, Hans, but aren’t those behaviors that would be good for anyone?” Sure. But they came out of feedback given directly to me, said by people who work with me, and who need something more from me, and want something more for me.

And it came because we provided space.

Where do you need to provide space to hear the compounding little things?

One drives. We are three years from two high school graduates, five years from an empty nest. Much of the predictability of parenting young ones is behind us. Choices have been made—schooling, hobbies, free time, routines, discipline, etc.—and the impact of those choices will play themselves out over the coming decades.

A good friend of mine jokes that parenting is like cooking a really long meal. The only problem is, you can’t actually eat the meal until it is too late to change the ingredients. You are stuck with how you made it and have to live with the good and the bad.

Courtney and I are getting to the “this is how it’ll taste” phase with a side of “I wonder how it’ll play out for the rest of their lives.”

Some great things and some not-so-great things, I’m sure. (Perhaps we should prepay for some counseling.)

Lamest Vibe Ever

Some years back—long before any were driving and when the world was still ahead of us—I was talking with the kids. We were driving home from school and I said some normal dad saying.

“You have the lamest vibe ever,” one of the kids chimed from the backseat.

I had never been called lame by my kids but I’m sure my vibe is quite lame.

The moment is frozen in time for me because the phrase didn’t fit the one saying it. Like, was he practicing it for a while? Did he hear his friends say it and wanted to try it out? Was he like me when I was a kid and you lock in on a phrase you want to use with one of your parents and you are waiting for an opportunity to take it for a test drive?

I just remember laughing to myself and thinking, “Okay.”

I’m not parenting for a quick moment of correction. I’m parenting for a lifetime.

Lessons in Pride

For us, parenting is about trajectories over time, not reacting to every frustration or correctable moment. Some days are good, some days are bad, many days are forgettable.

But the commitment to not watch our kids like a hawk is easier said than done. One of the hardest aspects is not trying to fix every moment presented to us—but not for the kids’ sake, for our own.

Pride.

Many parents pursue a type of reactive parenting—seeing a situation and trying to correct it because of how it makes the parent feel. The kid has moved on and the dad is still wondering if he (the dad) looks bad because of how his kid is acting.

Pride.

I’ve come down hard on my kids at times—yelling after a practice, for example—because I felt a boy’s effort reflected poorly on me.

“It’s for your good,” we might say. But it’s a lie. It’s for our own vanity. A deep desire to not look bad in front of others.

What we are really doing is letting our own pride and self-image win out over the longer trajectory of a kid’s life.

Letting Many Moments Go

Long-game parenting is in it for what gets worked out over time, not in a moment.

It seeks to give grace, not just punishment. And our kids need lots of grace.

And such an approach can be hard, especially in the face of fierce resistance. (Those parents in my life who parent through many uphill battles are heroes to me.)

I remember when the boys started a new school and we pretty quickly got a note from one of the teachers. It had the usual pleasantries, “So glad to have Johnny in my class . . . ” and then moved toward behavior “ . . . but he doesn’t pay as much attention as I know he can.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” I thought. “He has liked to build things at his desk during class.”

It’s been years and we still get comments similar to that one, but the trajectory is solid. (At least we think it is.)

When the kids have gotten detention (for youthful indiscretions) we think, “Sounds good. Let us know when we need to pick them up.”

But, at the same time, ask any of our boys what the #1 immediately punishable offense is in our home and they can tell you: lying.

That’s been a mantra: Never lie. If we can’t believe each other then it will be hard to grow together as a family.

But we don’t have many other mantras.

The hardest part for me about the long game is the faith that it is better—for us and for the kids—than diving into every moment to try and find micro-improvement.

I have to keep asking myself: am I in it for their long-term good or for my short-term reputation?

Honestly, what I’m in it for depends on the day. But soon enough we’ll start seeing how the meal tastes.

What is your biggest struggle in parenting toward a trajectory vs. parenting for a specific moment?