Some seasons ask us to trust before we understand, to begin before we feel ready, and to grow in ways we never expected.

This is one of those seasons.

I almost titled this first post Packing Up and Leaving.

Because that's exactly what I've been doing.

Packing boxes.

Selling furniture.

Cleaning out closets.

Preparing to leave Memphis for Boston.

But the more I sat with it, the more I realized this story isn't really about moving.

It's about becoming.

When the idea for this series first came to me, I thought We've Never Been Here Before was about Boston, graduate school, or starting this next chapter at 50.

Then I caught myself.

The truth is... I have done this before.

I've moved before.

I've started over before.

I've had to begin again more than once.

So why does this feel so different?

Because life has been lifing.

The last few months have been full. Family responsibilities. Packing. Preparing for graduate school. Leaving a city that has shaped me. Saying goodbye to people I love while trying to make space for what's ahead.

Some days I was excited.

Some days I was overwhelmed.

Some days I just sat in the middle of my apartment surrounded by boxes wondering how everything was going to get done.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I slipped into a role I've played for years.

The strong friend.

The one who figures it out.

The one who carries the load.

The one who tells everyone else, "I've got it."

Then God stepped in.

Not with fireworks.

Not with some dramatic miracle.

He simply slowed everything down.

My flight changed from Wednesday to Friday, giving me time I didn't even know I needed.

Friends started buying me lunch.

People offered to help me sell furniture.

Others showed up to help me pack, clean out my apartment, move boxes, check on me, or simply ask, "What do you need?"

At first, I wanted to say, "I'm good."

Then I realized...

Maybe I wasn't.

Maybe I really did need help.

And in the moments when I felt the loneliest, I discovered something I almost missed.

I wasn't alone.

Maybe We've Never Been Here Before isn't about Boston after all.

Maybe it's about learning how to receive.

Learning to ask,

"Could you help me?"

"Would you mind?"

"I need you."

Those words haven't always come naturally.

I've spent so much of my life helping others that I forgot allowing people to help me is a gift, too.

This season is teaching me that strength isn't measured by how much I can carry by myself.

Sometimes strength is letting someone else carry a box.

Buy lunch.

Help clean.

Offer a ride.

Say a prayer.

Or simply remind you that you're loved.

So maybe We've Never Been Here Before isn't about a place.

Maybe it's about becoming someone I've never been before.

Someone who trusts a little deeper.

Someone who receives with gratitude instead of guilt.

Someone who understands that community isn't built only by showing up for others.

It's also built by allowing others to show up for you.

If you're reading this, thank you for joining me on this journey.

Over the coming months, I'll share lessons from Boston, Harvard, travel, faith, friendship, family, purpose, and the unexpected moments that remind us we're all learning as we go.

Because no matter our age, life has a way of introducing us to seasons we've never experienced before.

And that's okay.

We'll learn together.

💭 Reflection

What season of your life feels unfamiliar right now?

What is it asking you to learn?

📝 Homework

This week, ask for help.

Not because you can't do it yourself.

Because you were never meant to do everything by yourself.

And when someone offers to help...

Pause before saying, "I'm fine."

Instead, simply say,

"Thank you."

💬 Share Out

I'd love to hear from you.

When was the last time you asked for help?

Was it easy, or did it stretch you?

Share your story in the comments. You never know who needs to hear that they aren't alone.

If this lesson made you think about someone who is always the "strong one," share this post with them. It might be the permission they need to let someone show up for them.

Until next time, keep learning, keep growing, and remember... we've never been here before.

— Benita

As I prepare to leave MMDC, a coworker said something that stopped me in my tracks.

"It doesn't matter how long you've been in a position. It matters what you did while you were there."

I sat with those words.

Did you make it better?

Did you push the mission forward?

Did you create new avenues, new partnerships, and new collaborations?

Did you strengthen the relationships that were already there?

How did you treat your colleagues? Your students? Your community?

Were you truly about the mission... even while building your own brand?

Those questions don't just apply to a job. They apply to a life.

When I walked through the doors of MMDC as a Workforce Training Specialist, I thought I knew what the work would be. Like many of us, I came in with ideas, strategies, and a vision of what I believed success looked like.

But something beautiful happened.

The work shifted.

It molded itself around what the community needed.

What our students needed.

What our Fellows and Scholars needed.

What the future demanded.

That's the thing about purpose. If you listen closely enough, it will ask you to adjust. It will ask you to let go of your own agenda long enough to serve something bigger than yourself.

Looking back, I don't measure this chapter by the number of months I was there.

I measure it by the students who discovered they belonged in healthcare.

The partnerships that were formed.

The conversations that sparked new ideas.

The colleagues who became friends.

The moments when we all believed that education and workforce development could change someone's trajectory.

That's the legacy I hope I leave behind.

Not perfection.

Not titles.

Not tenure.

Just evidence that I cared, that I served well, and that I left the space a little stronger than I found it.

As I sway into this next season, I'm reminded that every ending is also an invitation.

An invitation to carry forward the lessons, the relationships, and the purpose.

Because in the end, it was never about how long I stayed.

It was always about how I showed up.

Keep swaying.

Sometimes the measure of your life isn't found in the years you spent somewhere. It's found in the people who are better because you were there.

As I close this chapter at MMDC, I realize this isn't just the end of a job. It's the end of a season that stretched me, challenged me, and reminded me that impact is measured by lives touched, not time served.

As I pack boxes, say goodbye, and prepare for what's next, I can feel another chapter beginning.

One with unfamiliar streets, new faces, new classrooms, and new opportunities.

A chapter where I won't have all the answers.

A chapter where I'll once again be the learner.

And maybe that's exactly the point.

The sway brought me here.

Now it's time to step into what's next.

Because the truth is...

We've never been here before.

And for the first time in a long time, that doesn't scare me.

It excites me.

See you in the next chapter.

Not sleepy.

Not "I need a vacation" tired.

I'm soul tired.

I'm tired of turning on the news and seeing another family grieving.

I'm tired of another black body.

Another unsolved murder.

Another child whose life ended before it really began.

I'm tired of ICE arrests happening in the middle of American streets while people watch in fear.

I'm tired of violence becoming normal.

I'm tired of exploitation.

I'm tired of people being used instead of loved.

I'm tired of watching social media reward outrage more than kindness.

I'm tired of watching people choose division over community.

I'm tired of the constant noise.

And if I'm honest...

I'm tired of carrying so much.

My family.

My friends.

My work.

My students.

My dreams.

My grief.

My hope.

Some days I wonder if everyone else feels this too.

Then I remember...

Maybe they do.

Maybe that's why people seem shorter with each other.

Maybe that's why patience is disappearing.

Maybe that's why compassion feels so rare.

Because so many of us are carrying things no one else can see.

But here's what I know.

I refuse to let my tiredness become my identity.

I refuse to let hopelessness have the final word.

I refuse to believe that darkness is winning simply because it feels louder.

The sway is teaching me that I don't have to carry the weight of the whole world.

I can pray.

I can vote.

I can serve.

I can love.

I can mentor.

I can speak.

I can rest.

And tomorrow...

I can get up and do it again.

Maybe that's enough.

Maybe faith isn't pretending we're not tired.

Maybe faith is whispering,

"Lord, I'm tired... but I'm still here."

And today...

That's enough.

Trust the Sway.

Not just the boxes.

Me.

It took almost a year to decorate, hang pictures, arrange furniture, and finally make this apartment feel like someone actually lived here. I couldn't understand why it took me so long.

Now, almost a year later, I'm doing the exact opposite.

I'm purging.

Selling.

Donating.

Packing.

Preparing to leave the Mid-South for New England as I begin my journey at Harvard Graduate School of Education.

What's funny is that this move doesn't feel different because I only have a couple of weeks to pack. That's actually pretty normal for me. God has always had me moving with less than 30 days' notice.

This feels different because I'm different.

I'm not twenty-five.

I'm not thirty-five.

I'm a middle-aged woman leaving a full-time job, caring for aging parents, saying goodbye to a city that stretched me, and stepping into a future that isn't completely clear.

Then I laughed.

Have any of my moves ever been completely clear?

No.

Every major chapter of my life started with faith before certainty.

So why would this one be any different?

This season carries guilt and excitement.

Joy and nervousness.

Celebration and fear.

Hope and the quiet whisper in the back of my mind saying,

"Don't mess this up."

But maybe that's exactly what faith looks like.

Packing before you know exactly what's waiting.

Letting go before you've fully arrived.

Trusting that making room isn't losing something...

It's creating space for what comes next.

Maybe the purge isn't about getting rid of things.

Maybe it's God's way of making sure there's room for the woman you're becoming.

That's the sway.

Not the rain. I loved the rain.

I loved splashing in puddles, walking in it, smelling it, listening to it fall. But when the thunder started rolling and the lightning cracked across the sky, I was running.

I'd grab my pillow, my sleeping bag, or crawl right into my parents' bed. I knew one thing: if I was with them, I was safe. They couldn't stop the storm, but they made me believe I could make it through.

As I've gotten older, I still don't like storms.

But I've developed a different respect for them.

Life has taught me that there are storms outside our windows, and there are storms inside our lives. Some arrive with warning. Others appear out of nowhere. Some last a few hours. Others last years.

I've learned that surviving a storm isn't about pretending you're not afraid.

It's about knowing where to go when fear shows up.

I've learned to pay attention to the forecast. Sometimes you can see the clouds gathering in a relationship, a workplace, your finances, or even your own spirit. Wisdom isn't panic. Wisdom is preparation.

I've learned that during the storm, you don't waste energy asking, "Why is this happening?" You focus on what you can control. You anchor yourself. You protect your peace. You trust that the storm won't last forever.

And after the storm?

That's where the real work begins.

You assess the damage. You rebuild what matters. You let go of what didn't survive. You thank God for carrying you through. And somewhere in the process, you realize you're stronger than the person who entered the storm.

Maybe that's why the song Can You Stand the Rain hits differently now.

The question isn't whether storms will come.

They will.

The question is: Who have you become because you survived them?

Today, I still don't enjoy thunderstorms.

But I no longer believe storms only bring destruction.

Sometimes they clear the air.

Sometimes they water the ground for what's about to grow.

And sometimes...

they remind you that you've been protected all along.

The Sway Lesson #3:

You don't have to love the storm to learn from it.

You just have to keep moving until the sun finds you again.

More thoughts:

And then there's another song that sounds different now.

"It's Over Now."

When I was younger, I heard relief.

Now I hear gratitude.

Because when you've survived enough storms, you stop celebrating that the rain stopped.

You celebrate that you made it through.

"It's over now" isn't pretending the storm didn't happen.

It's honoring everything it took to survive it.

It's the tears.

The waiting.

The uncertainty.

The prayers.

The people who held you together when you couldn't hold yourself together.

The faith you didn't know you had until all you could do was trust.

Maybe that's why I don't fear storms the way I used to.

I respect them.

Storms have taught me discernment.

Storms have taught me preparation.

Storms have taught me resilience.

Storms have taught me that sometimes the safest place isn't avoiding the storm.

It's knowing Who walks with you through it.

As a little girl, I ran to my parents' room.

Today, I still run.

Only now I run to peace.

I run to prayer.

I run to purpose.

I run to the One who has never left me in the storm.

Because eventually...

The thunder stops.

The clouds part.

The sun returns.

And one day you'll look around, take a deep breath, smile, and whisper,

"It's over now."

That's the sway.

The moment my feet find the sand, hear the waves, and feel the breeze, something in me settles. My shoulders relax. My breathing slows. My soul remembers.

I know my ancestors came from Trinidad, Sierra Leone, and Cameroon. Here in America, my family's story has always been connected to lakes, rivers, streams, and shorelines. Maybe that's why I've always been a water baby. Maybe that's why the children I've helped raise—my nieces and nephews—are drawn to the water too.

Growing up in the church, we sang, "Take me to the water." Back then, I knew it as a baptism song. Today, it means so much more.

I go to the water to grieve.

I go to the water to reset.

I go to the water to renew.

I go to the water to cry.

I go to the water to think.

I go to the water to remember who I am.

We celebrate life at the water. We say goodbye to life at the water. It has always been a place of transition.

I've already told my family that when it's my time to join the ancestors, I want to be cremated and have my ashes returned to the sea.

Even when I choose where to live, the water matters. I don't have to live on the beach, but I need to be close enough to visit it often. I need to see it. Hear it. Feel it.

The water reminds me that movement is natural. Waves don't apologize for changing direction. They don't fight the tide. They trust it.

Maybe that's why this season has become The Sway for me.

The sway isn't about standing still. It's about moving with purpose, trusting the current God has prepared, and knowing that every wave carries me closer to where I'm supposed to be.

The water isn't just where I find peace.

It's where I find myself.

One story has always stayed with me.

A cousin was determined to attend Florida A&M University. But his parents had already decided. Bethune-Cookman University had been good enough for his older siblings, so it would be good enough for him. They packed one suitcase—the same suitcase an older sibling had used to come home after graduation—made him some food, handed him his paperwork, and dropped him off at the bus station in Georgia.

When he looked at his ticket, the destination read: Daytona Beach.

His tuition had already been paid. His room had already been assigned. His future had already been set in motion.

Years later, he still laughs and says it was the best decision he never made.

As I prepare to leave for the Harvard Graduate School of Education to pursue my master's degree in Educational Leadership, Organizations, and Entrepreneurship, I can't help but think about that story.

The details have changed. Instead of one suitcase, I have three suitcases, six boxes already mailed, and a few dollars to make the journey.

But the mission hasn't changed.

Like my ancestors and the generations before me, I am leaving home because education has always been our pathway to opportunity, service, and impact.

Before Harvard, there was Hampton.

Attending Hampton University was one of the greatest decisions of my life. It gave me confidence, character, leadership, lifelong friendships, and the belief that I belonged in every room I entered.

As our alma mater reminds us:

"O Hampton, we never can make thee a song,

Except as our lives do the singing..."

Now my life carries that song from Hampton to Harvard.

As I transition from full-time employment to becoming a full-time graduate student, I welcome your prayers, encouragement, and support.

If you feel led to invest in this next chapter of my journey, you can do so by reaching out to me: gordonglobalec@gmail.com

Thank you for believing in me, cheering me on, and walking alongside me. I promise to carry every lesson, every sacrifice, and every opportunity forward as I continue learning how to change the world.

My first thought wasn't, "That was rude."

My first thought was...

"Who in the hell is that guy?"

Seriously.

Why did he interrupt her?

Then I noticed Keke. She didn't chase the microphone. She didn't interrupt him back. She simply closed her eyes, fanned herself, and stayed composed.

Then the camera caught Will.i.am's face.

It said everything.

And then another thought hit me...

Is anyone going to say, "Thanks... now Keke, what were you saying?"

Because that's what leadership looks like.

Not pretending the interruption didn't happen.

Not rewarding the person who stole the moment.

But intentionally returning the floor to the person whose voice was interrupted.

That moment stayed with me because I've experienced versions of it in my own career.

Not someone grabbing a microphone—but people cutting off ideas, changing the subject, taking credit, or redirecting the conversation before a thought has time to breathe.

In those moments, it's easy to wonder if you should fight harder to be heard.

Maybe.

Or maybe the lesson is different.

Maybe the people who matter already noticed.

Maybe, like Will.i.am, someone else in the room saw exactly what happened.

And maybe your composure says more than your reaction ever could.

The sway is teaching me that every interruption doesn't require a response.

But every leader should know how to return the mic.

Sometimes the most powerful words in the room are:

"Keke... what were you saying?"

Juneteenth is our Fourth of July.

And then, just two weeks later, the country celebrates Independence Day.

Lately, freedom has been everywhere around me. In conversations. In books. In sermons. In quiet moments. In the sway.

Years ago, my dad told me that when I turned 55, I would finally settle into my full Benita. I still don't completely know what he meant, but he has never steered me wrong. So I find myself thinking about freedom and asking a simple question:

What does freedom look like for me?

Does it look like financial peace? A healthy relationship? Marriage again? Living abroad? A hybrid career? More travel? More impact? More joy?

Maybe.

But in this season, I am learning what I often tell my nieces and nephews: control what you can control.

So I am starting from the inside and working my way out.

Freedom is releasing the weight that no longer serves my body.

Freedom is listening to my locs as they whisper that their season may be ending.

Freedom is no longer shrinking, apologizing, or making myself smaller so others can be comfortable.

Freedom is speaking up, speaking more, speaking for, and speaking against.

Freedom is choosing rest without guilt.

Freedom is touching the sand, swimming in the water, and answering the call to travel.

Freedom is hugging longer, loving deeper, and being fully present.

Freedom is understanding that impact does not always require speed.

Sometimes impact requires slowing down.

As I prepare for this next chapter—from Memphis to Boston, from one season to another—I am giving myself permission to redefine freedom on my own terms.

Not the world's definition.

Not someone else's timeline.

Mine.

So consider this your invitation to watch what happens over the next year.

I am choosing freedom.

And I suspect she has been waiting on me all along.

Trust the Sway.

One of the greatest gifts a healthy organization can give you is the opportunity to learn as you grow.

To reflect.

To make mistakes.

To evaluate.

To adjust.

And then try again.

This week reminded me of that.

As leaders, founders, educators, and organizers, we often start by doing everything.

Teaching the class.

Creating the curriculum.

Sending the emails.

Making the copies.

Answering the questions.

Solving the problems.

Running the program.

And if we're honest, many of us become really good at doing it all.

In fact, we pride ourselves on it.

But growth has a funny way of exposing what got you here versus what will get you there.

This week it hit me.

I forgot to make sure I had enough help.

The help came when I asked for it, but the lesson had already arrived.

I realized something:

I cannot effectively run the program and teach the class at the same time.

At least not at the level I want both done.

I need to be available to support staff.

I need to observe.

I need to troubleshoot.

I need to visit sites.

I need to make sure operations are running smoothly.

I need to think ahead.

And sometimes that means I cannot be the person leading worship, teaching the lesson, facilitating the meeting, or standing in front of the room.

Not because I can't.

Because I can.

That's actually the problem.

Most leaders can do every job.

But growth teaches you that just because you can do something doesn't mean you should.

Whew.

That one got me.

Because there is comfort in being needed.

There is comfort in being the person who can jump in and save the day.

But there is also limitation.

Real leadership requires space.

Space to see.

Space to think.

Space to develop others.

Space to lead.

The first week taught me that I need to be administrative before I can be instructional.

I need to build the runway before takeoff.

I need to plan for support before I need support.

And that's not weakness.

That's wisdom.

Three things I'm holding onto:

1. Growth changes your assignment.

The skills that made you successful at one level may not be the skills you need at the next.

2. Delegation is not failure.

It is preparation for sustainability.

3. Leaders are not supposed to carry everything alone.

Sometimes the next level begins with asking for help before you need it.

The beautiful part is that I work in an environment where reflection is encouraged.

Where growth is expected.

Where learning is part of the process.

And that's a gift.

Because every week I learn a little more about leadership.

And every week I understand a little more clearly that my job is not to do all the work.

My job is to make sure the work gets done.

That's the sway.

Learning.

Adjusting.

Planning.

Then proceeding.

What's something you've learned in your profession that completely changed the way you lead or work?

"Do not despise these small beginnings." — Zechariah 4:10

To me, it has always meant this:

Be proud of where you come from.

A small-town country girl.

A Black girl.

A girl small in stature but never small in purpose.

Never forget your roots, your ancestors, your foundation, your community, or the dreams that first took shape long before the world knew your name.

Today, I am humbled and honored to share that this journey has led me to the Harvard Graduate School of Education, where I will pursue a Master's degree in Educational Leadership, Organizations, and Entrepreneurship.

I am beyond proud of myself and deeply grateful for the family, friends, colleagues, mentors, and community who have supported me along the way.

As I begin this next chapter and transition from Memphis to Boston this summer, I welcome your prayers, encouragement, love, and support.

From Brunswick to Hampton to Harvard.

I will proudly wear my 20 pearls, share Hampton hugs, and continue answering the call to "Learn to Change the World."

The sway continues. ❤️

#HarvardHGSE #HamptonUniversity #LearnToChangeTheWorld #TrustTheSway #EducationalLeadership #BrunswickToBoston #20Pearls #LifelongLearner

"It's not you, it's me."

Most of us roll our eyes when we hear it in a breakup, friendship ending, or situationship gone sideways.

But lately, I've been wondering...

What if sometimes it really isn't you?

What if the relationship, job, friendship, partnership, or season has simply reached its natural conclusion?

The hard part is nobody teaches us what to do next.

Nobody teaches us how to leave.

How to release.

How to trust.

How to let people go in a different direction without making them villains or making ourselves failures.

Then I was watching a nature documentary.

An eagle was preparing her baby to fly.

And do you know what she did?

She pushed it out of the nest.

I literally sat there thinking:

"Wait. What?"

As a daughter, I felt fear.

As an educator, I felt fear.

As a leader, I felt fear.

As a person in a job, I felt fear.

Because my first thought was:

How could you do that?

But then I realized something.

The mother eagle wasn't rejecting the baby.

She wasn't abandoning it.

She wasn't tired of it.

She knew something the baby eagle didn't know.

It was time.

The nest that once protected it was now limiting it.

The place that helped it grow could no longer help it become.

Whew.

Read that again.

The place that helped it grow could no longer help it become.

Sometimes the friendship isn't bad.

Sometimes the job isn't bad.

Sometimes the organization isn't bad.

Sometimes the relationship isn't bad.

Sometimes you've simply outgrown the nest.

And because we're human, we spend months—sometimes years—trying to make the nest fit.

Trying to stay comfortable.

Trying to avoid the fall.

Trying to convince ourselves we aren't ready.

Meanwhile, God, life, purpose, and growth are standing at the edge saying:

"Fly."

That's the sway.

Not knowing exactly what's next.

Not having all the answers.

Not feeling completely ready.

But understanding that staying where you are may now be more dangerous than leaving.

Three things I'm learning:

1. Not every ending is rejection.

Sometimes it's redirection.

2. The nest is for preparation, not permanence.

Its purpose was to build you, not hold you forever.

3. Faith often feels like falling before it feels like flying.

Trust comes before certainty.

Maybe that's why Isaiah said:

"Here am I. Send me."

Not because he knew every detail.

Not because he was comfortable.

Not because he had guarantees.

But because he trusted the One doing the sending.

And maybe that's where I am.

Standing at the edge.

Feeling the wind.

Trusting the sway.

And learning that sometimes when it's not you...

It's simply time to fly.

And honestly?

That may be one of the greatest lessons of this season.

The sway into 50 years old.

Fifty years of lessons.

Fifty years of wisdom.

Fifty years of becoming.

And maybe for the first time, I am truly stepping into my era.

Not perfect.

Not finished.

Still learning.

But fully becoming.

A fearless woman learning to let her soul live in both strength and softness.

That part matters.

Because for years, strength looked like fixing everything. Holding everything. Carrying everyone. Solving problems before people even knew they existed.

The fixer in me is learning something now:

Everything is not mine to fix.

Some things are mine to support.

Some things are mine to guide.

Some things are mine to lead.

And some things… I simply need to walk away from.

That is growth too.

Learning my bandwidth.

Learning my limits.

Learning that every invitation does not require my engagement.

And honestly?

What a joy it is to remember that I do not have to adjust myself for every room.

Sometimes others need to adjust to me.

That took years to understand.

I am also learning that discomfort is not always danger. Sometimes the rub, the tension, the push from leadership colleagues and people around me is sharpening me. Stretching me. Expanding me.

And yes, sometimes it still irritates me.

But I can admit now that growth does not always feel gentle while it is happening.

What I know for sure is this:

I am not trapped.

I learned that lesson a long time ago.

I can walk away.

I can pivot.

I can rebuild.

I can begin again.

That’s the sway.

Maybe that’s what people see when they look at me. A woman moving with the wind instead of fighting against it.

And guess what?

I’m finally okay with that.

There’s a scripture that keeps sitting with me:

“Here am I. Send me.” — Isaiah 6:8

And maybe that explains my whole life.

Go forth.

Build.

Lead.

Pour in.

Shift atmospheres.

Help establish something meaningful.

And then move when it is time to move.

Not because I am unstable.

But because I am called.

Maybe I really am an apostle-minded builder.

A woman willing to go where vision, purpose, and people need her most.

And at 50, I am finally learning that I do not need to explain that calling to everyone.

I just need to trust the sway.

Bricks everywhere.

Walls missing.

Floors exposed.

Pieces scattered across the ground that once held weight, purpose, history, and movement.

And honestly?

It stopped me.

Because sometimes life looks exactly like this before it becomes something new.

We love polished success stories. We love the ribbon cutting, the “after” photo, the finished vision. But we rarely talk about the middle—the demolition. The dust. The uncertainty of watching something familiar come apart while trying to trust what’s being rebuilt.

Standing there, I thought about how many of us are in a season where parts of our lives are being stripped down to the framework.

Relationships.

Careers.

Plans.

Identities.

Old versions of ourselves.

And if we are honest, demolition is uncomfortable.

It is loud. Messy. Public sometimes.

People drive by your life and only see rubble, without understanding there is still structure standing underneath it all.

That building reminded me of something important:

Not everything falling apart is failure.

Some things are clearing space.

Some things have to be exposed before they can be restored.

Some things are not being destroyed—they are being reimagined.

And maybe that’s where many of us are right now.

Standing in the middle of the dust trying to trust that there is still vision beyond what we currently see.

That’s the sway.

Not pretending things are easy.

Not forcing certainty.

But learning how to remain grounded while life is under construction.

Three things I’m holding onto:

1. Foundations matter more than appearances.

When the walls come down, what remains tells the real story.

2. Demolition and growth can exist at the same time.

Something ending does not automatically mean something bad is happening.

3. You can trust yourself through the rebuilding.

Even when life looks unfinished, exposed, or unfamiliar.

So maybe the question is not: “Why is this happening?”

Maybe the question is: “What is being rebuilt in me while this comes down?”

Because sometimes the most beautiful transformations begin with a space that no longer looks recognizable.

And still…

Brick by brick.

Lesson by lesson.

Pause by pause.

We trust the sway.

A long week of uncertainty, but family is healing. That part matters.

I get to the airport early. TSA is a mess.

I already know… I’m going to miss this flight.

And I do.

Four of us standing there while they close the doors—eight minutes before we arrive.

Frustration.

Okay. Breathe. Sit down. Rebook.

Done.

Now I have three hours to just be in this terminal… except the terminals don’t connect.

So now it’s not just waiting—it’s inconvenience layered on top of frustration.

I sit for about two hours, and then it hits me:

This is throwing my entire day off.

So I do what we do.

I try to fix it.

I start searching for another flight. Find one. Start walking. Start booking. Moving fast, trying to regain control.

Then I ask the question I should have asked first:

“How do I get to that terminal?”

I have to exit. Go back through TSA. Start all over again.

I won’t make that flight either.

Cancel.

Back to the original plan.

Now I’m not just frustrated—I’m tired.

So I sit.

And somewhere in that moment… I shift.

Because the truth is, I’ve done everything I can do.

And it’s still not moving the way I want it to.

Another notification comes through: delayed again due to storms.

And right there, I said it out loud:

“Delayed… but not denied.”

And that’s when it clicked.

Not everything that feels like a setback is something you’re supposed to fix.

Some things are meant to slow you down.

To sit you down.

To remind you—you are not in control of everything.

But you are in control of how you move through it.

So what do you do when you’re stuck?

When you want to move, pivot, relocate—and nothing is flowing the way you planned?

You don’t force it.

You don’t fight it.

You trust the sway.

Three things I’m choosing in this moment:

1. Be still.

Not everything requires action. Some moments require acceptance.

2. Be present.

This delay is part of the day too—not just the destination.

3. Be quiet.

Not every frustration needs a reaction. Sometimes it needs reflection.

So here I sit.

Waiting.

Not stuck.

Not defeated.

Just… in it.

Because sometimes the lesson isn’t in the movement.

It’s in the pause.

And then I noticed a squirrel.

He was in a tree, reaching for a small nut at the very edge of a thin branch. Not the thick, sturdy part of the tree—but the part swaying in the wind. That’s what caught my attention. I paused and thought, what is he doing?

But he didn’t hesitate.

He moved steadily, almost instinctively, out to the edge. Balanced in a way only he could. He grabbed what he needed, paused for a moment, then made his way back—first to a slightly stronger branch, then back to the solid part of the tree.

And I just sat there thinking… this is it.

This is exactly what we’re doing in life.

We are constantly reaching for something just beyond our comfort zone. Standing on branches that sway with uncertainty, change, and growth. In education. In leadership. In life.

And if we’re honest, we don’t like the sway.

We want stability. Control. Guarantees.

But growth doesn’t live there.

Like that squirrel, we have to trust what we’ve learned. Trust our instincts. Trust our ability to move, even when things feel unsteady.

We lean out.

We gather what we need.

We pause.

And then we return to something solid.

Our values.

Our experience.

Our people.

Ourselves.

That’s the rhythm.

Not constant control—but confident movement between risk and grounding.

Three things I’m holding onto:

1. You don’t need full control to move forward.

You need enough trust to take the next step.

2. The edge is part of the process.

That’s where growth happens—but it’s not where you stay.

3. Your foundation matters more than your fear.

What grounds you will always carry you back.

So maybe the question isn’t how to control everything around us.

Maybe it’s this:

Can you trust yourself enough to move… even when it sways?

But this wasn’t about food—it was about life. I don’t believe in imposter syndrome, but sometimes I wonder: Who let me on stage? And yet, I was reminded: I have everything I need.

First, looking in the “cabinets” means taking stock of what skills and resources you already have—in teaching and in life.

Second, opening the “refrigerator” is seeing what’s fresh—what’s right in front of you, whether it’s your students’ needs or your own.

Third, creating from those ingredients is the act of teaching—mixing what you have to sustain and inspire.

As an educator, we don’t always get the perfect lesson, the perfect class size, or the perfect day. But we have what we need. So, what’s in your “cabinets”?

What strengths have you overlooked? Stop seeking outside validation. You’ve got what you need to build, sustain, and inspire—right at home.

Now, what will you create with what’s already yours?

I’ve worn many titles in education. I’ve been a dean. I’ve been a teacher—social studies, English, middle school. I’ve been a department chair in a whole new country. I’ve been a military spouse overseas. I’ve even been in between roles—where no title fits neatly.

Each title came with a map. A sense of direction. A clear role to st…

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We had the team.
We had the setup.
We had the partners.
We had the excitement.

And we had an expectation.

A large group of students.
A full room.
Everything running just the way we mapped it out.

And then…

A smaller group showed up.

At first, I’ll be honest—

I noticed who wasn’t there.

I felt it.
I questioned it.
I had that moment of… really?

But then I paused.

And I looked again.

Who was there?

Present.
Engaged.
Curious.

Asking questions.
Leaning in.
Not on their phones.
Not distracted.

Just… there.

And in that moment, the map changed.

But the mission didn’t.

Here’s what I learned—really learned—today:

Impact is not about numbers.
It’s about presence.

You can have a full room and no engagement.
Or a smaller group and real transformation.

Today was transformation.

A strong team and committed partners will always hold the mission steady.

I was proud.

Of my team.
Of our partners.
Of the way everything still came together.

Because when the “who” is right—
the “how many” matters less.

There is power in helping students see what’s right in front of them.

Yes, it’s okay to leave your city.
I did.

But there is something powerful about discovering:

The opportunities.
The pathways.
The possibilities.

Right where you are.

Our job isn’t just to push students out.

It’s to expose them to what’s possible—near and far—
and let them decide.

And by the end?

We stayed longer than planned.
We laughed.
We talked.
We connected.

And I realized something I’ve been learning over and over again in this season:

I thought I had a map.

But the real map?

It’s always being drawn
by the people in front of me
and the purpose behind the work.

So here’s my question for you:

Where in your life are you focused on what didn’t show up…
Instead of what did?

And what would shift if you leaned into that instead?

If this resonates, share it with someone who needs the reminder.

And if you’re walking this journey too—

stay with me.