Recent conversations and laughter in my house revolve around socks. Which are the latest trend? Can you guess someone's age by their socks? What does your sock tan line say about you?

As silly as this seems, it highlights how we often find countless reasons to judge what's the "right" way to be in the world, leaving others labeled as "wrong."

Have you ever broken up with a friend over socks—or perhaps for even lesser reasons?

Reflecting on the Stanford Prison Experiment and the dynamics of authority, it's unsettling to realize how easily we can fall into the trap of obeying toxic and abusive leaders. The experiment, which took place in 1971, revealed how quickly ordinary people could be conditioned to exercise cruelty or submit to it when placed in a hierarchical system that legitimized such behavior. It demonstrated that even good people could be corrupted when immersed in an environment that blurs the lines between right and wrong.

But why do we follow leaders and authority figures, even when we know they are causing harm?

I've worn “bleacher buns” for 25 years. I work out my quads springing up from sitting to standing with each whistle and play. I travel thousands of miles to watch the blood, sweat, and tears for football, basketball, volleyball, and lax.

I have heard my fair share of heckling from the other fans. It gets under my skin. I KNOW this about myself and every time I sit in the stands, I prep myself for the taunting messages; a flat, no lipped smile and focus on the game.

It's all part of the game. On and off the field, there is an aura where everything is sport-even the taunting.

In some external spaces, this act is forbidden, deemed unacceptable, and even regarded as an act of betrayal.

However, within our inner spaces, this is difficult work with the potential for profound transformation.

A few years ago, I started thinking of possibility. I began to dream of a different world. I dared to imagine life could be different. I was involved a system that taught certainty meant safety, yet in reality, it gave power for a select few and oppression for most.

I entered the system looking for safety after a life altering traumatic event.

In both life and work, mirrors are essential. Not the literal ones we glance at daily, but the metaphorical mirrors—the people in our lives who offer us reflections of ourselves. Often, we are so immersed in our own perspectives that we fail to see where our blind spots lie. This is where the mirror of someone else’s perspective becomes invaluable, helping us recognize not only our strengths but also areas where we have opportunities for growth.

Change doesn’t come without distress, or at least a moment of discomfort. This lesson hit me while visiting St. John the Evangelist Monastery in Cambridge. I had arrived expectant—eager for a transformative epiphany. I sat in the library, surrounded by books and a serene view of the Charles River, waiting for something profound.

Think of mental fitness as a workout you can do in sweatpants. Every day, you get a chance to cross train by managing your mental health as you practice healthy habits: sleep, nutritious food, boundaries, etc, and by listening a little more deeply, responding a little more mindfully, and extending a little more empathy.

And he said:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

Theodore Roosevelt’s iconic words from "The Man in the Arena" have inspired countless individuals to embrace the messy, unpredictable journey of putting themselves out there. This powerful quote from his 1910 speech, Citizenship in a Republic, reads:

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly…”

Ah, “adulting.” The very word often conjures up visions of endless bills, groan-worthy responsibilities, and a general sense of “Why didn’t anyone prepare me for this?” For many of us, growing up isn’t a process we choose so much as a set of decisions and responsibilities that seem to sneak up on us. Suddenly, we’re out of school, faced with a cascade of life decisions that only we can make, and no one is around to grade our efforts.

I am paying closer attention to people around me. I remember being in a grocery store, standing behind an elderly man with his cart full of produce. Normally, I would have been impatient, mentally running through my to-do list. But in that moment, I wondered about him — about the years that had brought him to this grocery aisle, his memories, and the life he’d lived. It felt like I could almost see the story etched in his face: moments of hardship, resilience, and love. It changed how I felt about that entire experience.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the concept of Ubuntu, thanks to my marketing guy in South Africa, George, who reminded me of this beautiful philosophy as we discussed some themes in my work and business. Ubuntu is an African philosophy that Archbishop Desmond Tutu described as “the essence of being human.” It’s often translated as “I am because we are” or “humanity towards others.” Ubuntu means recognizing that our lives are intricately connected, that we don’t exist in isolation but as part of a greater whole. It’s about community, compassion, and understanding that, on this journey of life, we truly need one another.

It’s easy to fall into the rhythm of doing. The checklist, the expectations, the roles we inhabit—they give us purpose, or at least the illusion of it. We move from one task to the next, robotically fulfilling what’s required. Day in, day out, it feels like enough. Or maybe it just feels necessary.

But somewhere beneath the surface, there’s a quiet unease. A tug you can’t quite name. A nagging feeling that something is missing—not in the world around you, but within you.

In our modern lives, it can feel like we’re living out a scene from the movie Twister—except instead of cows, cars, and houses swirling around, it’s grocery lists, emails, spreadsheets, coffee cups, holiday party outfits, Pelotons, and that endless to-do list. Every second counts, so we’re in a constant race to move from one activity to the next, trying to keep up as if each task holds the key to survival. While the storm of tasks can’t simply be paused, learning to slow down and reclaim time can bring relief and clarity. Here are three ways to manage time better, restore balance, and start treating time as a friend, not an enemy.

In our lives, there are certain truths or facts we’d rather not see. Maybe it’s the plight of the homeless in our own city or the reality of climate change, wealth inequality, or the dangers of addictive drugs. When we choose to ignore these issues, even if we know they’re important, we’re falling into a trap called scotosis—a kind of willful blindness or intellectual blockage. Scotosis can prevent us from making good decisions for ourselves and for society, and learning to recognize it can help us grow in wisdom, compassion, and accountability.

Scotosis is a term that emerged within the last century to describe the willful ignorance or selective blindness that we, individually or collectively, often display when facing inconvenient truths. It’s more than just not seeing something; it’s choosing not to see it, sometimes even unconsciously. Scotosis usually happens when a certain fact or idea challenges our beliefs, threatens our comfort, or disrupts systems that are profitable or convenient.

Why did my colleague snap at me? What did I do to them? I didn’t deserve that.

I found myself reeling after Brian (not his real name) laid into me about a suggestion I made on a project we were both working on. My thoughts alternated between offense and defense as I recalled the situation over and over. I started for the door to let him have it with a tongue thrashing and a finger waving, only to make myself sit down again feeling some weird sense of shame that maybe something was wrong and deficient with me, and my suggestion was really dumb.

A friend was telling a story about living overseas. She had reasonably nice accommodations, but occasionally while she was showering, the pilot light would go out on the hot water heater. She had a choice to make, either she would take her soaped-up self, wrapped in a towel to re-light the pilot light, or she would be miserable in a cold shower.

It’s no secret that social media algorithms are designed to keep us engaged, but there’s a hidden cost to that endless scroll. Many of us find ourselves bombarded by posts that touch on insecurities about our lives: spotless homes, perfect parenting, the latest eating and exercise trends, and the pressure to plan idyllic vacations. In this constant parade of “expert” opinions, it’s easy to feel like we’re never quite good enough. And these insecurities aren’t just random; they’re deeply human.

Our brains are wired to crave certainty. From a design perspective, seeking out definitive answers was crucial to survival. Knowing which berries were safe to eat or how to build a shelter could mean the difference between life and death. Today, our need for certainty extends to understanding ourselves and our place in the world. The brain’s constant question is, “Am I doing this right?”

Social media algorithms pick up on these vulnerabilities. When we pause on a post about perfect organization, strict parenting advice, or the latest diet trend, it sends a signal to the algorithm that we’re interested. The algorithm then supplies more of the same, amplifying these themes in our feed until we’re steeped in a narrow view of “perfection.” This cycle plays to our insecurities and reinforces our belief that there’s one “right” way to do things.

I remember the moment of clarity vividly: I was driving on the Mass Pike, grappling with the tension between my lived reality and the truths I was told to accept. The facts in front of me—the harm to myself, the strain on my children, the disconnect between my beliefs and my experience—were undeniable. For the first time, I allowed myself to pause and truly see. And in seeing, I understood: I could choose differently.

“Resilience is the capacity to face reality, and to act according to the data that you see in front of you.”
— Bessel van der Kolk

"Burnout is an expectation to plan for instead of being seen as failure." -Jessi Gold