​It was October 5, 1996. College GameDay was in Columbus, Ohio for the Ohio State vs. Penn State game. At that time, GameDay was relatively new to the "on campus" format. It was near the end of the broadcast that day when it came time for predictions

That's when Lee Corso decided to spice things up.

Instead of saying, "Ohio State will win," he pulled out a Brutus Buckeye mascot head and put it on. In Corso's words, putting on the headgear was his way of entertaining the fans as much as analyzing the game.

That single spur of the moment decision turned into one of the most beloved rituals in college football. Maybe in all of sports. It gave College GameDay a signature moment, it made Corso a cultural icon.

It's important to see, this wasn't some clever ESPN marketing idea. It was just Corso being Corso - playful, unscripted, authentic. I think that's what made it magic.

Yesterday, I watched with millions of college football fans as Corso, now 90 years-old, completed his full circle moment. On the final Saturday of his career, in Columbus Ohio, he used his final prediction to once again put on the Brutus Buckeye mascot head.

And hey, for good measure, he went out with a correct pick!

As I watched college football yesterday, I reflected a lot on Corso. He was exactly my age when he made that spontaneous first headgear pick. And yet, at 61 years old, he didn't add just a little twist to a Saturday morning sports show, he unknowingly launched the tradition that would define his life's work and bring joy to millions.

Corso's final moment reminded me, and maybe it can remind you too; it’s never too late for a new chapter to begin.

Sometimes the moments that define our lives come not when we’re chasing them, but when we’re simply being ourselves. Corso didn’t plan a legacy. He just lived one into existence.

I’ve spent too much of my life believing joy, happiness, and contentment required me to be someone other than me. I’ve hidden my headgear instead of putting it on. Thanks for the reminder, Coach Corso. You’ve shown us that the best parts of our stories may still be waiting to unfold, if only we’ll step into them as ourselves.

​In 2017, David Byrne (of Talking Heads fame) wrote an article, "Eliminating the Human." In the article, Byrne said, "I have a theory that much recent tech development and innovation over the last decade or so has had an unspoken overarching agenda - it has been about facilitating the need for LESS human interaction. It’s not a bug - it’s a feature."

Byrne suggested most technological advances were aimed at eliminating the friction many people feel interacting with one another.

The friction of bumping into other humans at the grocery store - let's just have our groceries dropped off at our front door.

The friction of having to get together in a neighborhood lot to throw the ball - let's just sit alone in our rooms and play games with one another virtually.

The friction of reading our child a bedtime story - "Alexa, will you read Keith a bedtime story, please."

The friction of getting up on Sunday morning and going to church - thankfully no need these days; it's all online.

The examples are endless. And growing.

Dr. Laurie Santos says, "The two things that predict whether you're happy or not are how much time you spend with friends and family members, and how much time you’re physically around other people. The more of that you do, the happier you’re going to be."

Earlier this week, I had just finished leading a session on the human brain. After the session, we took a break.

I was standing on the front porch getting some air when a participant (and new friend) approached me and said he'd like to share something with me. He proceeded to play a YouTube video of him singing a song about the brain to young children.

The video was magical.

I felt happy.

Yes, the video was uplifting. But my friend shared this with me because we had a shared interest. I loved seeing the joy and pride on his face as he boldly allowed his gift to fuel and inform our shared humanity.

The next day I played the video for our entire group. And suddenly, we were all sharing in my porch moment with my friend. Suddenly, there was shared happiness.

It occurred to me that I was in a moment that could have never happened if the training was being conducted virtually. Oh, I suppose some form of it could have, but not that "in real life in real time" form.

Virtual trainings do eliminate some of the friction of having to travel to be together. They eliminate some of the coordination and prep that goes into preparing a meeting space. They eliminate some of the discomforts that come with gathering in a room with strangers and some of the 'forced' getting to know one another that comes with spending three days together.

But what if true happiness is found on the other side of getting to know one another - forced or not.

A baby's first smile comes in response to the smile of another human.

A baby's first sense of peace comes in response to the peaceful interaction it finds within the peace of another human.

A baby grows to depend on human connection.

I suppose it is a pain at times to have to depend on one another. To need one another. There is friction there. But there's a lot of research that suggests humanity has never been in greater pain. Is it because humanity has never had to depend on one another less?

We've come a long way in eliminating many of the frictions that come with human interaction. Is it possible that in doing so we are slowly but surely eliminating happiness?

Maybe there is some friction when we use our much needed break time to watch a friend's video. But maybe much more than we know, or crave, that friction is the foundation of our happiness.

(If you'd like to share in my porch experience, check my friend's brain video out in the comments.)

​Sister Peg Dolan once said, “Each of us is a word of God spoken only once. We have a word to speak with our lives, and if we do not speak it, it may never be heard.”

That is a scary line - but maybe in a good way. It makes me ask myself: what word is God trying to speak through me?

And maybe the scariest question, am I speaking it?

I don’t think the question is whether we’re speaking a word with our lives. We all are. Every day, through choices, through presence, through silence, we’re saying something. The question is whether it’s the word God intended for us to speak, or just the one we’ve pieced together from fear, from comparison, from survival.

I find myself circling back to that question: am I speaking the word God wants to speak through me? My life has been a mix of trying to fit into words others expected of me, trying to erase words I wished I could take back, and now - slowly - trying to listen for the one word that was planted in me from the beginning.

It’s a terrifyingly freeing thought. Terrifying, because it means I can’t just coast. Freeing, because it means God isn’t asking me to be someone else’s word. He’s asking me to be mine.

I wonder what the world would look like if everyone truly spoke their word - the one God whispered into them at creation.

Would there be less striving? Less comparison? Less noise?

I imagine a world less crowded by followers and repetition and more alive with original voices. A world where instead of competing with one another, we would be completing one another. Every word joining together, forming sentences of compassion, paragraphs of justice, whole books of love.

It makes me think of Paul’s image of the body in the bible, many parts, each with a role, each essential. If even one part refuses to speak its word, the whole body feels the silence.

But here’s the harder curiosity: how much of the world’s suffering comes from people chasing the wrong word?

We chase the word of self-importance, and we end up with greed.

We chase the word of control, and we end up with war.

We chase the word of image, and we end up with emptiness.

I don’t think most people are maliciously trying to speak against God. I think they are, like me, desperately trying to find their word. But somewhere along the way they confuse their own word with God’s word spoken through them. And that subtle difference becomes the gap where suffering grows.

I don’t know that I’ll ever fully answer the question of whether I am speaking the word God wants to speak through me. But I do know this: when I pause long enough to be curious about God's word in my life and not forcing out the word I want it to be, I usually find myself living more gently, more honestly, more attentively.

And maybe that’s the beginning. Maybe speaking the word God has for us doesn’t start with certainty but with curiosity. Not with a loud declaration but with a quiet willingness.

Each of us is a word of God spoken only once. The world needs your word. It needs mine. And if we don’t speak them, the silence will be louder than we can bear. 

​I watched Tommy Fleetwood win his first PGA golf tour event yesterday. On the surface that might not seem like a big deal. But trust me, this was not a surface win.

Fleetwood had played 163 tour events without a victory. That, in spite of often being so close. In fact, Fleetwood had been in the top five 30 times before winning yesterday - the most by any non-winner in PGA Tour history.

Even more, twice in the last six weeks, Fleetwood had squandered a lead on the last few holes when it looked certain he was about to capture his first win. In the online world, there were whispers of Fleetwood choking in big moments.

Well yesterday, here we go again. Fleetwood had the lead going into the final day. And then, going into the final hole. On top of that, this wasn’t just another PGA Tour stop. This was the Tour Championship -the season finale, golf’s Super Bowl.

Could Fleetwood's breakthrough really come in golf's season ending championship?

In his sermon this weekend, Steven Furtick talked about thoughts that sink us. Thoughts we refuse to drop that ultimately derail us. He said, "Drop it so you don't drown. Drop it so you don't keep sinking. Drop it so it doesn't weigh you down. Drop it so you don't miss the last next season that God wants to give you."

That hit home. It hit home right to the negative thoughts I've too often refused to drop; the bitterness, the resentment, the shame, the guilt, and the anger. All the emotions and thoughts I've held onto while unknowingly refusing to see new seasons.

Those two near misses Fleetwood had recently, the tournaments he let slip away, he could have refused to let go of the deflating thoughts that naturally came with those collapses. But he didn't. He dropped them. And as a result, yesterday Fleetwood won golf's Superbowl.

After the victory Fleetwood said:

“I’ve had to be resilient in terms of putting myself back up there, getting myself back in that position, no matter how many times it doesn’t go my way, no matter how many doubts might creep in, think the right things, say the right things to yourself, say the right things outwardly, and I am really pleased that I can be proof that if you do all the right things and you just keep going, that it can happen.”

Think the right things....

The thing is, it's impossible to think the right things when we are refusing to drop the thoughts keeping us prisoners in the wrong spaces. It's impossible to swim to victory when we continue to drown ourselves in our defeats.

We miss a lot of new seasons in life not because the seasons don't show up, but because we're too busy having toxic thoughts about a season long gone when they do.

We're too busy wrestling with all that went wrong to embrace the chances to make everything alright.

Well - thank you Tommy Fleetwood. Thank you for being proof. Proof that if we can find a way to drop it we won't drown. Thank you for reminding us that if we'll just keep swimming, there are some beautiful shores up ahead.

Thank you for reminding us that what can often look like choking is simply preparation.

Maybe today you feel like you're choking in some area of your life?

Well, drop that thought. Don’t drown. Because there’s a new season waiting, and you won’t see it until you let go of the last one.

​I helped lead a training at Hungry Mother State Park this week. One of the joys of these trainings is I often get to connect with old friends, and I get to meet a lot of precious new ones.

One of the new friends I met this week was the kind of guy you notice right away - partly because he wears hats. And for him they’re not just an accessory; they’re part of his personality, part of what makes him… him.

He told us he started wearing hats because of an eye problem - cataracts that make light hard on his eyes. But as I watched him throughout the week, and saw the way he smiled when people commented on his hats, I realized he wears them for more than practical reasons.

He wears them because they bring him joy. And in turn, they bring joy to others.

One of the women in the training crochets hats while she watches Netflix movies. She came in one morning with several of her hats, and my new friend naturally latched on to one that was bright purple, playful, almost cartoonish.

He put it on without hesitation. The room filled with laughter, but it wasn’t the kind of laughter that makes fun of someone. It was the kind that celebrates them. The kind of laughter that affirms, “We see you. We like you. We accept you just the way you are.”

On the drive home from the training yesterday, I thought, isn’t that what we’re here for? To feed each other’s personalities, not defeat them. To water the parts of people that make them unique instead of trying to prune them into something safer, smaller, or more manageable.

We live in a world that’s quick to reject. Quick to criticize. Quick to point out flaws. Too often, our personalities get treated like weeds, something to control or cut back rather than something to nurture. But when we reject what makes people unique, we don’t just silence them, we slowly deaden their spirit.

Acceptance, on the other hand, brings life. It breathes oxygen into someone’s lungs. It says, you belong here - not in spite of who you are, but because of who you are.

I saw it in that moment with the purple hat. A man whose eyes have made life a little harder found himself celebrated because of the very thing that set him apart. A woman who spends her evenings crocheting turned her quiet hobby into a gift that created connection. And a room full of people who could have ignored both of them instead chose to laugh, to smile, and to join in the moment.

That’s life-giving. That’s what community looks like at its best.

If I’m honest, I’ve spent plenty of my life hiding parts of my personality because I feared rejection. I've had my life quieted by people who have thought my thoughts or my ideas or my insights are crazy and not, well - me.

Maybe you have too. But what if instead of hiding, we risked being seen? And what if instead of judging, we risked embracing what makes someone different?

Because when we accept, we bring life. When we reject, we bring death. And every day, with every interaction, we hold that choice in our hands.

This week reminded me: we all wear different hats. The more we see that as a good thing, the more beautiful life becomes.

​Andy Stanley once said, “Leaders who don’t listen will eventually be surrounded by people who have nothing to say.”

That idea doesn’t stop at leadership. It applies to people. People who don’t listen will eventually find themselves surrounded by silence. Not the peaceful kind, but the kind that grows heavy, born out of voices that gave up trying to be heard.

But what about the relationships where neither side listens? Those relationships become shells - empty of words, empty of connection, filled only with the hum of silence.

To speak and not be heard is frustrating. It’s a dream killer. A hope stealer. And, eventually, a relationship ender.

Silence spreads.

We talk about laughter being contagious. And it is. But silence? Silence can spread faster.

At first, silence fills the gap left by nothing to say. Over time, though, it becomes a kind of comfort zone. A shield. It trains us not to try anymore. It convinces us the effort of speaking isn’t worth the risk of not being heard.

That’s the danger of silence, it doesn’t just live in the space between us. It grows inside of us, too.

This week, I am helping to lead a CHATS training - Connecting Humans and Telling Stories. Yesterday, one of our exercises asked participants to choose a photo that spoke to a loss in their lives.

Here’s what astonished me: in a room full of relative strangers, people who had only known each other for about ten hours, there was more vulnerability than many of us have experienced with those we’ve known our whole lives. There were tears. There was honesty. There were stories that had been waiting a long time to be told.

I found myself sharing layers of loss from my divorce with people I had only just met, more layers than I'd been able to share with many people I've spent thousands upon thousands of hours of my life with. And I was reminded how much easier it is to share with people who clearly have a mission to hear and to listen.

Sharing often isn't something we force ourselves to do, but something we quite naturally do in response to a safe and beautiful invitation to share. That’s the power of listening. It draws out the words we didn’t think we could say.

The contrast is stark. Where listening is absent, silence spreads like a virus. But where listening shows up, words multiply. Trust builds. Openness grows.

It’s not just that listening makes others feel included, it makes them feel safe. And when people feel safe, they speak. They share. They confide.

The exercise at CHATS reminded me of this truth: people who long to listen will always be surrounded by people who long to talk.

And that’s what makes listening not just an act of kindness, but an act of connection. It’s how relationships stay alive. It’s how stories are carried forward. It’s how healing begins.

Every relationship we’re in - whether at work, at home, or in the quiet places of friendship - offers us a choice. We can choose silence by failing to listen, or we can choose connection by leaning in, hearing, and holding space.

One choice breeds emptiness. The other ensures that words - and life itself - keep flowing.

Because listening doesn’t just fill a void. It keeps the void from ever arriving at all. Which maybe makes listening the most healthy virus of all.

​He goes off to college today.

In the earliest seconds of his life, when they were fighting to SAVE his life, college seemed so far away.

As I changed the first diaper of my life, good Lord did college seem so far away!!

When he took his first steps and said his first words, college seemed so far away.

When we were playing ball in the yard and then when he caught his first pass on the field, college seemed so far away.

When he started high school, when he was suddenly holding a driver's license, college seemed so far away.

Shoot, even as I sat and Facetimed him in a McDonald's parking lot yesterday, college seemed so far away.

But it is not far away.

Today college is here.

I have joked with Elliott a lot this past year: "don't do it dude - don't grow up - I am telling you this whole adult thing is not all it's cracked up to be."

I have said that with such mixed emotions.

I know in that joke (or maybe not a joke) is the voice of a dad who has not treated the whole adult thing well, and nor has the whole adult thing always been a devoted friend to him. But yet, I also say it with great joy and great hope and great pride, for this kid - my kid - enters this adult world from an entirely different starting point than I entered it from.

He does not take with him many things from his childhood that I took from mine, things, it turns out, that will always want to make a war of adulthood.

As thankful as I am for things he will take to college, I am equally thankful for that which will not go with him.

I am also thankful that one of the greatest declarations of peace upon my adulthood was hearing the words: "your baby is going to be just fine." If I were to know I'd have to experience every moment of my adulthood war all over again just to experience that one precious moment of peace, I would do it.

I would do it without anything near a second thought.

For that little baby goes off to college today. And I don't need him for even a moment to redeem my adulthood - that mission has long been accomplished.

No, all I need is the chance to say thank you.

Thank you, God.

For as far away as college has always felt to me, you've always known this day was right here and now. You have guarded so many of his steps along the way. You have guarded so many of MY steps along the way.

In your quiet way, you have always encouraged me to treasure every moment, and I have. So that today I don't sit here wondering where the time went, I simply say thank you for that time.

What a gift. Every second.

For sure there have been moments along the way when I have not been there - and today will be another one of them - but you will be, God.

That is not just 'a' comfort, it is THE comfort.

My comfort.

For I know it will be true of his adulthood what has been true of mine, that no matter what, you never walk away. There is never an adulthood war too big for you. In the midst of all darkness, you remain a light.

A light pointing to college.

To adulthood.

To eternal life with you.

It all seems so far away, until it's not. And in that I find great joy and great hope.

Go get em baby Elliott.....

Welcome to adulthood, and don't say I didn't warn you 😊❤️

​Yesterday, I led a training for preschool teachers in Stanardsville, Va. I told them they’re my favorite audience. Not because their work is cute or simple, but because so much of what I teach about trauma, resilience, and connection starts where they spend their days: with our pre-kindergarten (pre-k) little ones.

In those years, the brain is building at a pace we never see again - more than a million new neural connections fire every second in the early years, wiring how we feel safety, how we reach for people, and how we recover when life knocks us down. The architecture gets built “from the bottom up,” and the quality of our earliest relationships helps determine whether we go through life with a foundation that is sturdy or fragile.

I told them I have a kid heading off to college this week, and yet I remain most grateful for his preschool teachers. They didn’t just teach letters; they taught him how to be with other humans. They practiced the tiny, everyday rituals that keep our nervous systems from learning the world is a place to fear. When I speak about healing today, I’m really tracing lines back to rooms filled with blocks, picture books, songs, and adults who knelt to meet a child’s eyes.

Sadly, before I started my presentation, the director of the program acknowledged a shrinking number of young people served. Cuts in state and federal funding, low wages for staff, and unreasonable poverty guidelines that are used to determine eligibility have all contributed.

This is sad to me, given my own personal history with pre-k and the endless data that supports the 'head start' quality pre-k participation offers children, families and our culture in general.

So often the children who most need relationally rich preschool experiences are too often the last to get them. That’s not a moral failing of individual parents or teachers; it’s a systems problem we continue to seem unwilling to solve.

At the end of our training yesterday, I led the team through various scenarios they might encounter with their little people. They used a relational framework I provided them to guide small group discussions about how they might go about solving the challenges outlined in the scenarios.

After we finished our discussions about their resolutions, I reminded them that when they help repair a conflict stemming from a shove at the block table, they are helping young people rehearse future apologies that will save friendships and marriages.

I told them I hope they get applauded for that half as much as they applaud their 3 year-olds.

My son is packing and ready to head off to Virginia Tech tomorrow. But when I trace the through-line of his life, I find it in the preschool years: a teacher who noticed when he went quiet, a class that sang the cleanup song until belonging felt normal, a director who sent home a note celebrating who he was becoming.

Not every child gets that experience.

That’s the sentence I can’t shake.

If we want to change the trajectory of a generation, if we want fewer adolescents swallowed whole by anxiety, fewer young men chasing belonging in the wrong places, fewer families crushed under the weight of “going it alone” - we can start where the brain starts. We can make sure every child has a safe, steady place to practice being human, and every grown-up in those rooms has what they need to stay and do the work.

As a culture, we are too prone to responding to the crisis at the end - when a crisis becomes too big to ignore. Yesterday, I was reminded that the best place to respond to the crisis is going back to the beginning. And, in becoming a culture that truly believes every child DESERVES that beginning - not understanding that is the REAL too big to ignore crisis.

To all the beautiful people at Kiddie Kingdom, Inc. - thank you. He goes off prepared to tackle the many challenges ahead. I will never forget where the heart of that preparation began.

Thank you.

​Taylor Swift recently said:

“Think of your energy as if it's expensive, as if it's like a luxury item. Not everyone can afford it. Not everyone has invested in you in order to be able to have the capital for you to care about this. Because what you spend your energy on, that's the day.”

I just spent three long days in Virginia Beach presenting to school social workers and resource officers about the impacts of childhood trauma. We talked about the ways early experiences shape how kids see the world, how they regulate emotions, and how they learn to protect themselves. I am always aware these trainings apply to adults, too - especially when it comes to how we spend our energy.

Because here’s the hard truth: if you grew up in an environment where survival was the priority, you may have never learned that your energy is valuable. You may not know it’s something to protect. You may be prone to pouring it into people, situations, and causes that drain you, not because you want to, but because your nervous system is convinced that’s what safety looks like.

You may be prone to saying yes to requests you don't have the bandwidth for because saying no feels threatening to your wellbeing.

You may be prone to staying in draining conversations or relationships because leaving them feels like failure.

You may be prone to jumping into online arguments that leave you exhausted, because walking away feels like giving up.

You may feel more comfortable in chaos than in calm, so you unconsciously seek it out.

Taylor Swift sums up the ultimate consequence of all this: "What you spend your energy on, that's the day."

If trauma keeps you overspending on fear, conflict, or over-pleasing, those aren’t just moments lost, they’re entire days - and over time - entire seasons of your life. Seasons redirected away from the people and places that could restore you.

A lot of people don't treat their energy as a luxury item because they've spent too much of their lives pouring energy into surviving and not thriving. The good news is, it's never too late to make healthier investments with your energy.

It's never too late to stop and ask, is this conversation, meeting or favor the best use of my day? Believe me, the answer is not always yes, no matter how much it feels like it is.

It's never too late to notice who and what leaves you feeling drained, even if draining you isn't their intention.

It's never too late to insist on relationships that give back the kind of energy that you pour in. It's never too late for reciprocity!

And it is surely never too late to learn to say a word as simple to pronounce as the word NO.

None of this is about hoarding your energy, it's about learning to invest it where the returns give you life, not steal it.

Trauma often teaches us to survive by overspending our emotional capital. Healing helps us discover the path to thriving is found in protecting it.

So, maybe today, we start treating our energy like the rare, priceless thing it is. Not everyone can afford it. Not everyone has invested in us enough to earn it. And maybe, just maybe, that’s not selfish.

Maybe it’s just finally making some of our wisest investments ever.