Building and Finishing

“Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can.”

Arthur Ashe

Last year, my dad brought over a router he'd had for years but never used. We were building a cabinet together—me, him, and you, Lyla—and we needed it to cut grooves for the shelves.

Neither of us had ever turned on a router before. So when I picked it up, my dad stood next to me with his hand on the plug, ready to yank it out if things went sideways. I flipped the switch, and the thing roared to life—this incredible surge of power vibrating through my hands, sawdust exploding everywhere. When I turned it off (didn't need the emergency unplug), we both just looked at each other, grinning like idiots, covered in sawdust, amazed by what we'd just done.

That cabinet is one of my favorite things we've ever made. It's also kind of a disaster.

It weighs a ton because we built it with 2x4s instead of lighter wood. The joinery is already cracking after less than a year. There's a gap between the doors that won't close properly. By any objective measure, it's flawed.

But I love it. Because we made it together. Because we figured it out as we went. Because it exists in our space, custom-built for our needs, and it works. The imperfections don't diminish it—they're part of the story.

There's a Japanese concept called Wabi-Sabi: finding beauty in imperfection, in things that are handmade and flawed and human. That cabinet is Wabi-Sabi. And there's real wisdom in that—in valuing the process over perfection, in building for joy instead of mastery.

But I've spent most of my life hiding behind that wisdom.

I'm a builder, Lyla. Always have been. Games, art, music, websites, processes, half-finished songs. If there's a through-line in my life, it's this: I like making things.

But I rarely build to mastery. I build to "good." Maybe "good enough." And if I'm honest, there's a reason for that: fear.

If I never give 100%, I never have to face the possibility that my best isn't good enough. I can always say, "Look how good this is, and I wasn't even trying my hardest." It's a built-in excuse, a shield against disappointment.

I know this about myself. And I wish I could change it.

When I was in Chicago, I went to an orientation at the Art Institute for an MFA program. I wanted it. I could picture the whole thing—the studio space, the late nights working on projects, the community of other artists pushing each other. I wanted to make art my work, not just my hobby.

But I never applied.

I told myself it was because I'd have to create a whole portfolio, which felt like too much work. Because I was already successful in my field. Because I didn't want to take on debt. Because I might not finish.

All true. All excuses.

The real reason? I was afraid to start something that would require 100% of me. Because what if I gave everything I had, and it still wasn't enough?

So I didn't start. And I wonder sometimes about the sliding doors version of my life—the one where I said yes to that fear, where we lived smaller materially but bigger creatively. I don't regret the life I have. I wouldn't trade you or your mom for anything. But I do think about it.

Here's the thing, though: I have given 100%. At least once.

It was during the pandemic. We were spending so much time in our living room, and I realized I hated being in there. The fireplace in the middle of the room made everything feel closed off and dark. People told us not to remove it. But I had a vision—what the room could be if we opened it up, if we let the light pour in.

So we did it. We went all in. Ripped out the fireplace, remodeled the whole space, ignored the advice that said we were making a mistake.

And it transformed everything. Not just the room—the whole house. The way we live in it, the way it feels. I can't believe we actually did it. We almost never do anything that big.

But we did. And I love being in that room now. I love the light. I love the space for our whole family.

That's what happens when you commit. When you stop hedging, stop holding back, stop giving yourself an out. You transform things.

You published a book this year, Lyla. You became the first published author in our family.

I watched you go from excited to struggling to almost giving up. And then something shifted. You had a deadline with your teacher, and you just decided. You put your mind to it and got it done.

I've seen you do this with other things too. You have this ability—once you really decide, you just do it. No excuses, no hedging. You commit and you finish.

I don't know if I'm more proud of what you created or that you actually did it. Both, I think.

But here's what I want you to know: when you were struggling, you still had an "out." You could have stopped. And part of you hadn't fully decided yet, even though you'd started.

The moment you decided—really decided—everything changed. That's the difference between meddling and finishing.

There's a time and place for discovery and meddling. For building imperfect cabinets with people you love. For trying new things without needing to master them. For finding joy in the process, even when the result is flawed.

But there's also a time for pursuit of excellence. For giving 100%. For committing to finishing something hard, even when you have an out.

The tragedy isn't imperfection. The cabinet can be cracked and heavy and still be beautiful.

The tragedy is letting fear keep you from finishing the things that matter.

Don't let the easy path—the discovery, the meddling, the "good enough"—steal your ability to commit when something deserves your 100%. You already know how to do this. You've already done it.

I just don't want you to lose that as responsibilities mount later in life. I think that's what happened to me. The excuses got easier. The outs got more reasonable. And somewhere along the way, I stopped finishing the hard things.

But you? You decided to finish your book. And you did.

Hold onto that. Know when to play and when to commit. And when something matters—really matters—give it everything.

Because the things you finish by giving 100%? Those are the ones that transform everything.

Just like your book. Just like our living room.

Just like the person you're becoming.

When the Thread Doesn’t Unravel

“A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you.”

Elbert Hubbard

I have a friend named Tracy. I met her in elementary school, which means I've known her for thirty years.

We met on bus 316. Same neighborhood, same schools, the kind of friendship that started because we were in the same place at the same time. I was about your age now, Lyla. It’s wild to think that the friendships you're making right now could last into your 40s and probably far beyond.

That proximity lasted through elementary, middle, and high school. Then I left for college, and the proximity ended. But the friendship didn't.

Most of my friendships have been proximity-based. The people I saw in class, at work, in the same city at the same time. When I moved from Garland to Austin, then to Chicago, and now Dallas, those friendships mostly faded. Not out of malice or neglect, but because life fills in the gaps with new routines and new faces. If you don't intentionally make time, the thread just unravels.

But Tracy is different. We never went to the same college. Despite her living all over the country, we never lived in the same place again. She never lived in Chicago. She doesn't live in Dallas now. We don't even talk on the phone anymore—just text a handful of times throughout the year. Our friendship needs have changed. We both have our own families now. We've both found our own ways to belong in our own worlds.

And yet, she's still here, or at least there. Still choosing to stay connected despite not needing to. Because that's the thing: normally, this is when friendships fade completely. Not because anything happened, but because our lives aren't connected enough to force us to stay in touch. But we're still making the effort. That's the choice part. That's what makes it rare.

I remember one night early on in Chicago. I'd gone to a work event in Wrigleyville, trying to do the thing you're supposed to do when you move somewhere new, where you show up and network and act like you belong. But I didn't belong yet. I didn't even know the streets or the intersections. I was walking back alone, slightly drunk in that way where your guard drops and the reality hits harder than you'd like—the loneliness of being in a new city with no real friends yet. So I called Tracy.

I don't remember what we talked about. I wish I could. But I remember what it felt like after I hung up: despite actually being alone on that street, I wasn't alone. Despite having no friends in Chicago, I had really great friends. She was a thousand miles away, but calling her was like calling comfort. Not just someone I knew, but someone who made me feel like I belonged, even when I didn't belong anywhere yet.

Tracy knows my humor. The humor you know now, Lyla, but that I let so few people see. The kind that goes too far, that lingers too long, that draws rejection. The kind that can push people away.

But she never got pushed away.

Once, years ago, she called me out. "Sometimes you act like you're slow, but I know you're not. What’s the deal?"

It was the kind of thing that could've stung. But the way she said it (direct, curious, not mean) made me realize she wasn't annoyed. She was seeing me and simultaneously teaching me about myself.

She's one of the first people who wasn’t a family member who saw exactly who I was.

Tracy has seen me at my most awkward. The teenage years when I didn't know how to be a person yet. The drunk calls from Chicago. The humor that goes too far. When I was young, one April Fools, I "pranked" her by saying I'd been in a bad car accident. She was genuinely concerned, as good friends are, and I let her stay concerned for just a bit too long before telling her the truth. It was harmless in the long run, but completely unnecessary and emotionally distressing when it didn't need to be. But she forgave me, and now we laugh about it. More importantly, she just kept showing up.

And here's what I've learned: someone almost always gives more in a friendship. Tracy has given more. She's the one who kept reaching out when I got caught up in new places and new people. She's the one who made the effort when it would've been easier to let the thread unravel.

I'm grateful for it.

It's been amazing to watch you interact with Tracy's kids, Lyla. You want to join when she’s in town, and we meet up. Her kids have no reason to show interest in you—they only see you every few years—but they do. They ask you questions. They engage like they know you well. There's something natural there, something comforting that her kids seem to have inherited from her.

The fact that the care we have for each other has grown to include care for each other's families? That's beautiful to me. That's what happens when a friendship lasts long enough: it multiplies.

Tracy has this way of making people feel safe. Her kids have it too. And watching you experience that same comfort I felt on that Chicago street reminds me why friendships like this matter.

Friendships like this are rare, Lyla. The kind where someone chooses you when they don't have to. Where distance doesn't matter because the connection does. Where you can be fully yourself (the weird, too-much, slightly embarrassing parts) and still feel safe.

Don't be afraid or angry if you need to give more in a friendship. And be incredibly grateful if the other person is giving more.

If you find someone like that, someone who chooses you when they don't have to, who sees all of you and doesn't leave, hold on to them. That's the rare thing. That's the gift.

And if you can be that person for someone else? Be that person.

Because I think about that walk in Chicago sometimes. How alone I felt, and how not-alone I felt at the same time. How Tracy picked up the phone even though she was a thousand miles away. How she's been picking up the phone, in one way or another, for thirty years.

Even now, when we only text a few times a year, she's still choosing to stay. And I'm still grateful.

The Quiet Work of Noticing

“To acquire knowledge, one must study;
but to acquire wisdom, one must observe.”

Marilyn vos Savant

The best leaders I know aren't the ones with all the answers. They're the ones asking better questions.

This past week, I sat at a leadership conference listening to the keynote speaker talk about "observational leadership": the practice of choosing curiosity over certainty. Of really looking outward. Of noticing the unspoken things that quietly shape everything. It's a deceptively simple idea. But it landed hard.

Because a year ago, I unintentionally decided to test this on myself. Not in a meeting or a strategy session, but in the most vulnerable place I could think of: a blank page.

I started writing. Every single week. Not for an audience, not for a deadline. Just to see what I'd notice if I actually made space to observe.

Here's what I learned: Most of what I notice, someone else has noticed too. That used to bother me. I wanted to be original, to say something that would shift perspectives or change minds. I know I'm not the smartest or most creative, so why try to write what is probably already better said by someone else?

But over this past year, I realized: the point isn't to be the first or the best. The point is to be honest. To trust that if something makes sense to me, it might make sense to someone else who's been waiting to hear it in just this way.

There's a kind of quiet leadership in that. Not the kind that announces itself, but the kind that listens, notices, and gives voice to what's been overlooked.

Some days I write things I'll never show anyone. Some days it's just a way to clear my mind so I can see what's actually happening around me: on my team, with clients, in the patterns I'd otherwise miss.

This morning I wrote about "limitless support." The idea that we all need support, but that support looks different for different people, and individual needs change. Not just what they need to feel supported, but how they need to be supported. What one person experiences as care, another might experience as suffocation. Here's what writing it helped me see: when you help someone understand what support looks like for them, they start to understand what support looks like for those around them. That's how support becomes limitless. It can't be through scale or systems alone, but also through people learning to truly see each other. It's a reminder that systems and efficiency can't solve everything. Some things require attention. Observation. Care.

I wouldn't have noticed that without making space to write. Without choosing to observe instead of just reacting. And that's been the pattern all year: small noticings that add up. They become a record of what I've learned and who I'm becoming as a leader.

Observational leadership starts with observing yourself. With making space even when you're not sure what will fill it. With choosing curiosity over certainty.

And trusting that in the act of noticing—really noticing—you're doing something that matters.

Even if it's just for you.

Especially if it's just for you.