Finding Your North Star

The North Star doesn’t move, even when everything else does.”

Unknown

What is your north star?

Not where you want to go, or what you want to achieve. But what guides you when everything else is chaos? What keeps you grounded when the world around you is shifting? What helps you choose what to pursue and what to avoid?

In 2009, when I became a manager for the first time, I asked myself that question.

It was the first time I realized that I, in at least a small way, but maybe a big way, was going to change another person's career. That's a privilege. An honor. And it comes with real responsibility. I needed to find my own path before I felt it was appropriate to show someone else a path. So I dug deep.

I wanted something consistent I could return to, no matter how much everything else changed. A life strategy, not just career goals.

After a lot of reflection, I landed on three words: passion, beauty, and hope.

Passion is deep care. It's the things that stir my soul, not just interest me. It's what I can't help but lean into, even when it's hard.

Beauty is about seeing the world differently. There's beauty in almost everything if you look for it. I wanted to always be able to see it, appreciate it, be inspired by it, be in awe of it. Not just in art or nature, but in hidden moments: in the way people show up, in what struggle teaches you, in the silver linings that are easy to miss.

Hope is the light that keeps everything going. It's not just optimism or thinking positive. It's not just seeing the glass as half full. It's knowing that no matter how much water is in the glass, it will become the rain that can feed a whole forest. It's regenerative. It's the knowledge that even if things aren't great right now, we're going to be okay. More than that, it's hope for the extraordinary.

These three words became my framework. Not rules, but choices. A way to navigate when I didn't know what else to do.

And here's what I've learned: they're connected. When I lose one, the others help me find it back. They work together, not separately.

Almost twenty years later, these words still guide me. But they've evolved. They've deepened. I can see beauty in so much more around me now. My passion is more focused, more keyed in on what truly matters. And hope? I've realized how essential it actually is.

Here's how I saw them work together just recently:

I saw passion in someone I work with: a leader who genuinely cares about helping others, about being a force for good, about doing things the right way. I saw beauty in that. And seeing that beauty gave me hope. Hope that the path I was on wasn't just viable, but could be the reason for success. That caring wasn't weakness. That my principles could actually work.

One helped me find the others. That's how they're meant to work.

I'm telling you this, Lyla, not because I think these have to be your three words. They're my words because they're what I came up with, what resonated with me. They can be your words too, if they speak to you. But what I really want is for your north star to be what you believe in most, what pushes and pulls you toward what you want to be. Not just what you stumbled upon or were given.

I want you to know how valuable it is to have a north star. Something that grounds you when everything else is shifting. A framework for making choices, not just about what to do, but about who you want to be.

Your words might be courage, curiosity, and kindness. Or truth, growth, and connection. Or something I've never thought of. That's the point. They need to be yours in the way mine are mine: chosen, not inherited.

And they can evolve. People change. Your understanding deepens. What passion meant to me at 25 isn't quite what it means now. But the core is still there, just richer, more textured.

What matters is that you have something to return to. Principles that aren't constraints, but choices. A way of seeing the world that's distinctly yours.

Because there will be times you feel lost. Times when everything is chaos and you don't know what to do next. And in those moments, you'll need something consistent to hold onto. Not someone else's path, but your own.

Find your words. Write them down. Let them guide you. Let them evolve as you do.

And when one of them fades, let the others help you find it again.

That's what a north star does. It doesn't just keep you from getting lost. It helps you find your way back.

Being Without Struggle

“We’re human beings, not human doings.”

Unknown

It's Sunday afternoon. Nothing is wrong. No deadlines looming. No fires to put out. The house is quiet, the day is open, and I should feel good about that.

Instead, I reach for my phone. YouTube. A game. Something to fill the space.

And then the guilt: empty calories. Wasted time. I could have done something meaningful. But what? And why does "meaningful" always feel like it requires a problem to solve?

I read a book once where the author realized he was creating problems within his family just so he had something to fix. I don't remember the title, but I remember the jolt of recognition. I've done that. Not consciously, maybe, but I've done it. And even now, knowing it, I still do.

When you're a hammer, everything looks like a nail.

I've built a career on solving problems. That's the engine. I seek out the broken thing, the stubborn knot, the puzzle with missing pieces, and I make it work. It's satisfying. It's identity. It's also, apparently, a trap.

I see problems other people don't. That's useful. But here's where it gets tricky: sometimes I can see a problem and choose not to chase it. It's not the right time, not worth the cost, or just not fixable. But when I name that problem out loud, I give it to someone else. And they might not have my ability to let it go.

Last month, I told a coworker we weren't ready to take on a certain kind of business. I listed the gaps I saw. Now she sees them too. And because of that, we have real momentum to upgrade the whole agency. That's good. But there are still some things we can't change. And unfortunately, that will probably gnaw at her more than it does me.

I spread the pattern without meaning to.

With you, Lyla, I see it too. Our best time together is when we're solving problems. Cooking a new recipe. Organizing a space. Exploring a game that needs to be figured out. Creating a new design for the house. We do best with activity-based play, with something that needs to be done.

We've tried just being bored together. We both get restless.

Sometimes I wish we could just be. No problem to solve. No project to finish. Just sit in the quiet and be okay with that.

But I don't know how.

When there's no problem, I drift. My hours worked drop. My focus scatters. I reach for distractions, and then I feel guilty about it. Like I'm wasting time. Like I should be doing something productive.

But here's the trap: I'm avoiding the discomfort of not feeling productive. And that discomfort? That's where rest lives. Where thought lives. Where boredom lives. And there's real value in those things.

I shouldn't have to put my back against the wall to push forward. I shouldn't have to give myself no other option to reach the next gear. I shouldn't have to become a victim or create something to overcome. I could just show up. Because not all of life is struggle, despite there being plenty of it.

Marcus Aurelius, the Roman emperor and Stoic philosopher, believed that virtue should come from internal choice, not external circumstance. That who you are shouldn't depend on what's happening to you. That you shouldn't need an enemy to know your worth.

So who am I when there's nothing to overcome?

I'm still figuring that out.

But I have learned something. This year, we reimagined and rebranded the agency. It was a beautiful process. We articulated what makes us different, what we want to stand for, what impact we want to have. We let that process take the time it needed. And we landed on something I think the whole group was proud of.

That was building, not fixing. That was running toward something, not from something. And it felt different. Better.

And then there was Zion. (I've written about this trip before, but it matters here too.)

We took a trip to Zion National Park. We planned nothing, other than seeing the park. We found a hotel within walking distance, with a stream our balcony looked out onto. Every day, we visited the park in the morning, swam at the hotel in the afternoon, and just talked and hung out on the balcony through the evening. Very few screens, intentionally. We weren't there to accomplish anything other than just being there.

It felt different. It felt bigger.

Part of that was the nature surrounding us. Part of it was that it was my first national park. Part of it was vacation. But there was also a big part that was us intentionally creating that space to do nothing. A pause button that allowed us to catch up. I guess sometimes the best way to catch up is to slow down.

In some moments we didn't talk at all. Just looked at the shimmering water of the pool, the depth and height of the red rock, listened to the gentle rush of the stream passing by. And in that moment, where we created space to be bored with ourselves, I was anything but bored.

That's what I'm trying to learn. That's what I want for you.

Maybe the work isn't to eliminate the part of me that loves solving problems. Maybe it's to reassign it. To turn problem-solving into building, not just fixing. To find friction in craft, not catastrophe. To practice the discipline of naming a clear purpose when there's no emergency forcing it. And to know when to just stop. To just be.

I don't have this figured out yet. But here's what I want you to know, Lyla:

Your value isn't in what you overcome. It's not in how many problems you solve or how much you produce. It's in who you choose to be when nothing is forcing the choice.

I want you to find internal motivation. The kind that doesn't depend on struggle or deadlines or someone else's expectations. The kind that lets you sit in the in-between without reaching for distractions. The kind that's comfortable, not stress-free but not stressful either. That pushes you in a good way.

I want you to be able to just be. To know your worth without needing to prove it. To rest without guilt. To choose purpose without requiring a crisis.

I'm still learning how to do that. But I'm trying. And I wanted you to know that it matters. That learning to thrive without struggle is just as important as learning to overcome it.

Maybe more important.

Because courage isn't only for the hard days. It's for the quiet ones, where you have to choose to show up, to care, to be present, without anything forcing you to.

That's the work I'm still doing. And I hope, by the time you read this, you're better at it than I am. I hope you can sit on a Sunday afternoon with nothing to do and feel peace, not guilt. That you can be with the people you love without needing a project. That you know your worth without needing to prove it every day.

That would be something worth building toward.

Find Your Hour

“I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world.”

E. B. White

There's a bike path near our house that winds through a park, along a pond and a creek, surrounded by trees. In the early morning, the path is empty, the dew still glistening on the grass. There are a couple of small wooden bridges that make just enough sound as my tires roll over them—a brief disruption to the quietness before everything goes smooth and silent again.

I remember the first time I just kept riding. Thirteen miles without thinking about turning back. The sun was peeking over the horizon, casting everything in that golden light that only exists for a few minutes each day. The world felt like it was standing still while I was in motion. And in that moment, everything made sense.

Not in a way I could explain or write down. Just clarity. Everything and nothing at the same time.

The everything is how important those moments can feel—bigger than the small tasks that surround me, the ones that sometimes seem massive. It puts life in perspective. The nothing is the fact that sometimes it takes nothing happening, that morning stillness, for me to see how big the world actually is.

I'm a sucker for sunrises. Everything just seems to make sense when I see them. And I can see them most clearly, sometimes the only time I can see them clearly, during those magical morning hours.

I didn't always wake up this early for myself. It started as necessity. I used to leave the house by 6:30 a.m. to get to work and beat rush hour traffic, which meant waking around 5. Getting to the office early gave me time to catch up on emails, do focused work with no distractions, get things done before meetings started piling up.

When hybrid work started, I just kept waking up at 5. But instead of immediately diving into work, I used the time for me. It started with meditation. Catching a sunrise. Or just enjoying a cup of tea while looking out the window.

Then I started working out. That was hard at first—making it a habit, pushing myself when I'd rather stay in bed. But over time, something shifted. My body started craving it. It became a needed part of feeling like I'd achieved something before most people were even awake.

There's something rational about it too. Working out clears my head for the day ahead. Gets the dopamine and endorphins going. And catching that sunrise? Vitamin D straight from the source. It's not just emotional, it's biological. My body and mind both need it.

Last Tuesday, I woke up at 5 a.m. Took my time drinking a protein shake, taking my multivitamins, putting on my knee brace and workout clothes. Went to the gym. Came home and iced my knee while listening to music and playing fetch and tug with Max and Domino. Took a shower. And when I walked into the living room, you were there, Lyla, greeting me with that big hug, just like the dogs had greeted me with all their excitement.

I was able to do so many things that I would have never made or had time for later in the evening.

Here's what I've learned: without that morning hour, I feel like I'm running to catch up with the day. Like I'm playing a game from behind. And typically, I never catch up. There's just a feeling that I can't get everything I want to get done, so everything feels rushed. Nothing feels like enough.

But when I start the day having already done something for myself—worked out, caught a sunrise, listened to music, just thought or wrote—I feel like I'm starting from ahead. I've already taken care of me. Now I can take care of us.

It took me a long time to understand why that matters so much.

There are so many hats you have to wear as you go deeper into adulthood, Lyla. Parent, partner, employee, friend, sibling. The hat that usually gets deprioritized or completely eliminated? "Me." The person you are when no one else is watching or needing something.

And honestly, I'm happy—truly happy—to deprioritize "me" for "us" after 7 a.m. and until I go to sleep. Our family is that important to me. But I need those morning hours first. Even if it's just an hour or two, the incremental gains that come from continuously doing, building, and making time for myself compound exponentially when it's done day after day.

You know I wake up early. And I love you to death, but I hope you never join me. Not because I don't want to spend time with you, but because if you do wake up early someday, I hope you make it YOUR time instead of "our" time. That time is too valuable to share, even with people you love.

Here's the reality though: even if you try to carve out time for yourself, things pop up. Many times things pop up. That's why first thing in the morning is so valuable. Rarely are things popping up before people wake up. You have to accept that there are certain times you "control" more because there are fewer opportunities for disruption. My morning routine is heavily influenced by that. It's not just about choosing mornings—it's about choosing a time when the world isn't asking anything of me yet.

Maybe you'll be someone who needs this hour. Maybe you won't. But if you ever feel like you're losing yourself in all the roles you play, in all the people who need you, remember: it's okay to carve out time to remember who you are.

It doesn't have to be mornings. It doesn't have to be exercise or sunrises or bike rides. It just has to be yours. And it has to be a time when the world is less likely to interrupt.

I can give everything else away—my time, my energy, my focus—as long as I've had those morning hours first. As long as I've seen the sunrise, felt the world stand still, remembered what clarity feels like.

Find your hour. Protect it. Make it yours.