Stories, essays, and the truth about everyday leadership.
This is where I sort through the truth of it all with a little grace and a lot of humor in leadership, in technology, and in life. Sometimes that looks like a short essay on presence. Sometimes it’s a glimpse into my books-in-progress. Sometimes it’s just me sharing what it took today to keep moving forward.
I don’t write on a schedule; I write when there’s something worth saying. Sign up below to read the latest, or start with a few favorites below.
Essays on Presence — Reflections on clarity, boundaries, and showing up fully — even when the world is loud.
Book Updates — Behind-the-scenes notes on my memoir and nonfiction work. Drafting, revising, celebrating, and sometimes wrestling with words.
Personal Reflections — Stories and snapshots from everyday life — coffee on the deck, scary movies, bourbon nights. The moments that remind me why presence matters.
The Day I Realized I Was Performing, Not Living
A quiet reflection on the moment you realize you’re performing instead of living. Discover how awareness begins with discomfort, truth feels like freedom, and life starts when you stop pretending and start becoming yourself.
There was a time in my life when I could walk into any room and become whoever I thought was expected.
At work, I was competent. At home, accommodating. In friendships, endlessly agreeable.
I didn’t even notice the shape-shifting at first. It just felt like survival.
But one night, sitting at my kitchen table after everyone else had gone to bed, I caught my own reflection in the dark window and realized I didn’t recognize her. Not because she had changed, but because she had disappeared.
That was the night I understood something quietly devastating. I had built a life that looked right from the outside but didn’t feel like mine on the inside.
I was performing. Not living.
For years, I believed being “good” meant being easy. Easy to work with, easy to love, easy to rely on.
I said yes when I wanted to say no. I smiled through exhaustion. I apologized for wanting space.
I told myself it was maturity. That this is what adults do.
But what it really was, if I’m honest, was fear.
Fear of disappointing people. Fear of being misunderstood. Fear of being seen as selfish or ungrateful.
I had mistaken acceptance for belonging.
And it worked, for a while. Until the pretending became heavier than the truth I was hiding from.
Awareness rarely arrives with fireworks. It creeps in softly, disguised as discomfort.
You start noticing that certain conversations drain you.
You start feeling like a guest in your own life.
You start resenting the very things you once called “blessings.”
That’s when you know a script is cracking.
Mine began to crumble the day I realized I couldn’t remember what I actually wanted anymore.
Every decision and every reaction was filtered through someone else’s expectation.
And somewhere along the way, I stopped consulting myself.
The hardest part wasn’t admitting that I had been performing.
It was deciding what to do with that truth.
Because once you see it, you can’t unsee it.
You can’t go back to playing a role that no longer fits.
You start to recognize that all the versions of you that people love are only half-truths.
And you start to grieve the life you built for applause.
But underneath the grief is something fierce and alive. A whisper that says, you were never meant to keep pretending.
That whisper becomes the first act of courage.
Today, I don’t perform as much. I still catch myself sometimes, slipping into old habits of pleasing or performing, but I notice faster.
I pause. I ask, “Is this me, or is this who I think I should be?”
That one question has changed everything.
It’s uncomfortable, yes. People notice the difference when you stop editing yourself.
But the relief of being real outweighs the risk of being misunderstood.
Because the truth is, you can’t live fully and perform at the same time.
One will always suffocate the other.
Reflection Prompt:
Where in your life do you still feel like you’re performing?
What might happen if you stopped?
The quiet voice inside you never rushes. It doesn’t compete for attention or demand certainty. It waits for you to stop performing calm long enough to hear it. When you do, it becomes your compass—steadier, wiser, and far more accurate than the noise around you.