Yesterday, my social media feed filled with graduation photos from Vanderbilt University. Caps up. Smiles wide. A moment that marks an ending—and something just beginning.I wasn’t there in Nashville. And in many ways, that felt fitting. My path through this program didn’t follow a straight line. Over six years, I had the rare privilege of learning alongside four different cohorts. Four groups of brilliant, curious, accomplished individuals. And yet, the Sweet 16 cohort holds

Today, my golden retriever Nashville—Nash—turned one. And when I thought about where to celebrate him, there was only one place that came to mind: Lowe's Companies, Inc. That might sound unusual—until you understand what’s been happening there for the past year. Since Nash was 8 weeks old, we’ve been bringing him to Lowe’s. At first, it was practical. A place to practice socialization. To learn how to walk on a leash. To meet people, navigate noise, build confidence. But it q

We talk a lot about recognition at work. Swag drops. Branded sweatshirts. Water bottles with company logos. And yet—people are still burned out. Still unseen. Because recognition isn’t about what you give. It’s about whether someone feels known. Years ago, I started a new job and had a simple conversation with my boss. We talked about basketball, my love for March Madness, and my admiration for Sister Jean. The next morning, I walked into my office and found a Sister Jean bob

I’ve been sitting with a question that feels simple on the surface, but says everything about leadership: Who gets credit? Early in my career, I remember saying, “I created a slide deck for a client.” My manager quickly corrected me: “We created that.” At the time, I didn’t understand. I had done the work—late nights, revisions, final polish. Why “we”? Her response stayed with me: you’ve been shaped by so many people—teachers, teammates, leaders—that none of your work is enti

The day I came home from Vanderbilt University with my doctorate, we welcomed an 8-week-old golden retriever into our home. We fittingly named him Nashville—Nash for short. Over the past year, Nash has grown from a wobbly puppy into a strong, curious, deeply loyal companion. And somewhere along the way, he’s become one of my most unexpected leadership teachers. Here’s what he’s shown me: 1. Lead with warmth—it builds trust faster than authority ever will. Nash assumes everyon

March Madness is here. For me, this time of year has always felt like Christmas. As a former college player, I still feel it—the energy, the pressure, the stakes. The small moments that become big ones. The teams that come together at exactly the right time. But what I find myself watching most now isn’t just the games. It’s the leadership. This year, I’ve been especially drawn to coaches like Shea Ralph and Kara Lawson. Two leaders. Two programs. Two philosophies that say so

Last weekend, I stepped away from my work and into something very different. I attended a three-day Grief Camp at Kripalu in Western Massachusetts. We gathered in a circle—strangers at first—and over time became a community. Through writing, movement, ritual, and clinical practice, we learned how to tend to grief, not fix it. We shared stories. We listened. We held space for one another. It was transformational. And it brought me back to a moment I haven’t been able to stop t

Welcome to the first post in a new Friday series: Pull Up a Chair. Each week, I’ll share short reflections from leadership practice, research, and lived experience—stories and questions about how leaders build stronger organizations and healthier cultures. Let’s start with a simple question. Have you ever sat in a meeting where a critical decision was being made… and quietly thought: The wrong people are at this table. Or maybe the issue wasn’t who was there. It was who wasn’

A year ago, I “lost” my job. Six weeks before that, I “lost” my dad. But jobs and parents aren’t socks or keys—you don’t misplace them, and they don’t turn up under the couch. These weren’t accidents of misplacement. They were ruptures. Endings. Closures. And yet, in loss there was also finding. Losing my father and my role stripped away the scaffolding I had leaned on for identity and stability. What remained was vulnerability—and the work of piecing together who I was when