Not because it rules the sky, but because it refuses to live beneath its potential. Eagles don’t waste energy fighting every crow that chirps at them. They rise higher until the noise disappears.
That’s a lesson I’ve had to learn in leadership and in life. You don’t answer every critic. You don’t chase every distraction. You keep climbing.
Sometimes growth isn’t about becoming stronger it’s about gaining enough perspective to know what deserves your attention and what doesn’t.
The Climb isn’t about reaching the top. It’s about becoming the kind of person who belongs there.
It was one of those hot Los Angeles Thursdays where the sun reminds you who’s in charge.
I sat in the back seat of a black Lexus SUV, headed toward Servicon Headquarters to pick up my new laptop. After that, I’d catch the train and continue on to Los Angeles General Medical Center for another evening leading my Environmental Services team.
To most people, it probably looked like an ordinary day.
To me, it wasn’t.
Years ago, I couldn’t decide where I would wake up tomorrow. Every decision had already been made for me. Steel doors, prison counts, and concrete walls dictated my movements. Freedom wasn’t something I possessed; it was something I imagined.
Today, I’m carrying a laptop instead of prison property.
That isn’t just a change of scenery.
That’s a change of life.
It’s funny how we celebrate promotions, new jobs, and big accomplishments, yet rarely stop to appreciate the miles between them. We celebrate the destination while overlooking the commute that made the destination possible.
I’ve learned that the commute matters.
It teaches patience when traffic refuses to move.
It teaches humility when you’re standing on a crowded train beside people carrying burdens you’ll never know.
It teaches gratitude because every stop reminds you that you’re still moving forward.
Every mile represents another decision to keep climbing.
People often assume leadership happens in conference rooms, behind polished desks, or during important meetings.
They’re wrong.
Leadership begins long before any of that.
It begins when you decide to prepare before anyone is watching.
It begins when you show up consistently, even when the excitement has worn off.
It begins when you choose purpose over comfort.
That laptop I’m picking up today isn’t just another piece of technology. It’s another tool entrusted to me. Another opportunity to solve problems, develop leaders, communicate better, and leave every place I touch a little stronger than I found it.
Tools don’t build legacies.
People do.
The tools simply allow us to do the work more effectively.
By the time you read this, my train ride will be over. I’ll be walking the halls of a hospital where patients, families, doctors, nurses, and staff may never know my name. They may never realize the amount of planning, coaching, accountability, and stewardship that goes into creating a clean, safe environment.
And that’s okay.
Not every contribution requires recognition.
Some of the most important work is done quietly.
As I looked out the window today, watching Los Angeles pass by, I realized something.
I’m still commuting.
Not just across the city.
Across life.
I’m still traveling from who I was toward who God is still shaping me to become.
The destination hasn’t arrived yet.
The journey continues.
So today, don’t despise the ordinary.
Don’t overlook the hot Thursday.
Don’t underestimate the train ride.
Don’t think the small assignments don’t matter.
Legacy is rarely built during extraordinary moments.
It’s built on ordinary days, faithful decisions, long shifts, crowded commutes, and the quiet determination to keep climbing, even when no one is watching.
“A good tomorrow starts with a good night’s sleep.”
We spend our days chasing deadlines, caring for our families, leading teams, and trying to build something that matters. Yet one of the most overlooked parts of success isn’t another hour of work it’s another hour of quality sleep. I’ve learned that sleep isn’t a luxury. It’s maintenance. When I don’t sleep well, I notice it everywhere. My patience gets shorter. My focus slips. Decisions take longer. Even my attitude changes. But when I protect my sleep, I show up as a better husband, leader, father, and friend. Here are a few things that have made a difference for me and countless others: Stick to a routine. Going to bed and waking up at roughly the same time helps your body know when it’s time to rest. Put the phone away. Scrolling through social media right before bed keeps your brain active when it should be winding down. Keep the room cool, dark, and quiet. Your environment matters more than most people realize. Avoid heavy meals and caffeine late in the evening. Your body needs time to settle. Clear your mind. Prayer, gratitude, journaling, or reading a few pages of a good book can help replace stress with peace. I also take magnesium before bed. I’ve found it helps me relax and become part of my nightly routine. While everyone’s body is different, it’s something that has worked well for me. One thing I’ve come to appreciate is that sleep is an investment, not lost time. The work will still be there tomorrow. The emails can wait. But your health, your relationships, and your ability to lead depend on how well you take care of yourself today. So here’s today’s question: What do you do to improve your sleep? I’d love to hear what works for you. Your tip might be exactly what someone else in this community needs.
The Leaders Everyone Likes Are Often the Ones Organizations Should Fear
There is a dangerous myth in leadership that has quietly worked its way into organizations across every industry.
It sounds harmless.
“If everyone likes their leader, they must be doing something right.”
Not necessarily.
Some of the most admired leaders are also the ones allowing standards to erode, accountability to disappear, and cultures to slowly decay.
Popularity has never been a leadership metric.
Stewardship is.
A steward understands something that many managers forget: the mission does not belong to the leader. It has merely been entrusted to them. Their responsibility is not to be admired. Their responsibility is to protect what has been placed in their care.
That responsibility often requires uncomfortable conversations.
It requires correcting behavior before it becomes culture.
It requires saying “no” when “yes” would be easier.
It requires making decisions that may cost applause today but preserve excellence tomorrow.
People naturally enjoy leaders who remove friction from their lives. They appreciate supervisors who overlook mistakes, extend endless grace without correction, avoid confrontation, and let small problems slide in the name of keeping everyone happy.
At first, it feels like good leadership.
Then the cracks begin to appear.
Standards become suggestions.
Deadlines become optional.
Accountability becomes selective.
Soon, high performers begin asking themselves a difficult question:
“Why am I carrying the same standards as everyone else when no one else is expected to?”
That question is often the beginning of disengagement.
Contrary to popular belief, exceptional employees are rarely driven away by high expectations. They are driven away by inconsistent expectations.
People don’t lose trust because leaders demand excellence.
They lose trust because leaders demand excellence from some while excusing mediocrity from others.
Leadership is not measured by how comfortable people feel around you.
It is measured by how healthy the organization becomes because of you.
Real stewardship demands courage.
The courage to interrupt declining performance before it becomes accepted behavior.
The courage to confront problems while they are still small.
The courage to protect the mission, even when protecting it makes you temporarily unpopular.
The irony is that the leaders who spend their careers trying to be liked often discover they lose both respect and influence.
Meanwhile, the leaders who consistently protect the mission, even though difficult conversations often earn something far more valuable than popularity.
They earn trust.
Not the shallow trust that comes from being agreeable.
The deeper trust that comes from consistency.
People know where they stand.
They know what excellence looks like.
They know standards will be applied fairly.
They know the leader’s decisions are guided by principle rather than personality.
That kind of trust becomes the foundation of extraordinary cultures.
Stewardship has never been about control.
It has always been about protection.
Protecting people from unclear expectations.
Protecting teams from declining standards.
Protecting organizations from slow cultural erosion.
Protecting the mission from becoming secondary to personal comfort.
The greatest leaders understand something that many never will:
Your responsibility is not to make everyone comfortable.
Your responsibility is to leave the organization healthier than you found it.
That is stewardship.
And stewardship will sometimes cost you popularity.
It should never cost you your principles.
The Steward’s Reflection
Before your next leadership decision, ask yourself one question:
Am I protecting the mission, or am I protecting my image?
The answer will tell you whether you are leading as a manager…
…or serving as a steward.
The Steward’s Code
Leadership is stewardship, not popularity.
What you tolerate becomes culture.
Standards are acts of protection.
Accountability is respect.
The mission is never yours to own. It is yours to protect.
Today’s Code:
The leaders everyone likes are often the ones organizations should fear.
It’s been a minute. Life has a way of doing that. One day you’re writing, reflecting, pouring your heart onto the page. The next day you’re knee-deep in responsibilities, meetings, phone calls, deadlines, and trying to keep everything moving. That’s where I’ve been. The past several weeks haven’t been glamorous. They’ve been necessary. I’ve spent time sitting across the table from attorneys. Working through my bankruptcy. Looking over paperwork that forces you to take an honest look at every decision you’ve made. I’ve been rebuilding my financial foundation one step at a time, making sure my bills are handled, my creditors are addressed, and my future is built on something stronger than my past. None of that is exciting. But all of it is part of the climb. One thing I’ve learned is that leadership doesn’t stop when life gets hard. If anything, that’s when leadership matters the most. Not because people are watching, but because the person in the mirror is. There comes a point where you stop asking, “Why is this happening to me?” and start asking, “What is this teaching me?” For me, it’s teaching patience. It’s teaching discipline. It’s teaching peace. And then, right in the middle of all those responsibilities, God reminded me of something I almost forgot. Breathe. My sister came all the way from Virginia to spend a week with us before celebrating her seventy-first birthday. We laughed. We explored. We made memories that no bank account can measure and no courtroom can take away. For a little while, I wasn’t thinking about legal documents. I wasn’t thinking about financial obligations. I wasn’t thinking about work. I was simply a brother. A husband. A son grateful for the family God has allowed me to love while we’re still here together. Those moments reminded me that success isn’t measured only by promotions, investments, or accomplishments. Sometimes success is sitting around a table with the people you love, sharing a meal, telling old stories, and thanking God for another day. As leaders, we carry a lot. People depend on us. Families depend on us. Our teams depend on us. Sometimes we become so focused on carrying everyone else that we forget to set the weight down for a moment. Not to quit. Not to escape. Just long enough to breathe. The climb isn’t going anywhere. The work will still be waiting tomorrow. The emails will still be there. The meetings will still be scheduled. But today’s laughter… Today’s conversation… Today’s hug from someone you love… Those are moments you don’t get back. So if you’ve been grinding, rebuilding, fighting battles no one else knows about, let me encourage you. Keep climbing. Keep growing. Keep honoring your responsibilities. But don’t forget to live while you’re building the life you’re praying for. Even leaders need to breathe. And sometimes, taking a deep breath isn’t stepping away from the climb. It’s part of it.
I think I’ve been drowning quietly. Not the kind of drowning where people rush to save you. The kind where you still go to work. Still answer texts. Still smile. Still lead. Still handle responsibilities. Still tell people, “I’m good.” While internally you feel yourself slipping further underwater. Since May 4th, life has felt heavy in a way I can’t fully explain. Not dramatic. Not theatrical. Just heavy. Like every thought weighs something. Like every responsibility comes with another invisible responsibility attached to it. And the truth is… I’m tired. Not lazy tired. Not sleepy tired. Soul tired. The kind of tired that comes from carrying too much for too long while pretending it doesn’t hurt. People see strength and think strength means you don’t break. That’s bullshit. Strong people break all the time. We just break privately. I’ve sat on my balcony these past few weeks staring out at Los Angeles wondering how so many people around me keep moving so normally while I’m over here trying to rebuild myself from the inside out. Coffee in one hand. Blunt smoke floating into the sky. Birds singing like the world isn’t on fire. Plants growing around me while I’m trying to figure out if I’m growing or falling apart. Sometimes I honestly don’t even know which one it is. There’s pressure coming from every direction. Financial pressure. Leadership pressure. Family pressure. Personal pressure. Creative pressure. Internal pressure. And nobody really teaches men what to do when they become emotionally exhausted but still have mouths to feed and people depending on them. You just keep going. Even when your mind is loud. Even when your chest feels tight. Even when disappointment starts stacking on top of disappointment. And what makes it worse is that people only celebrate the finished product. Nobody celebrates the ugly middle. Nobody applauds confusion. Nobody congratulates uncertainty. Nobody hands out awards for surviving mentally. But surviving mentally may be the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I’ve had moments recently where I felt angry at everything. Angry at systems. Angry at people. Angry at circumstances. Angry at myself for mistakes I can’t undo. Angry that I keep trying so hard while life keeps testing me anyway. And then I feel guilty for being angry because somewhere deep inside me I know there are people who have it worse. But pain doesn’t disappear just because somebody else is hurting too. Mine is still mine. And I’ve been carrying it quietly. Then May 15th came. Five years married to my wife. Five years with the woman who has seen versions of me the world never will. The ambitious version. The exhausted version. The frustrated version. The hopeful version. The financially stressed version. The dreaming version. The broken version. And she stayed. That hits me deeply. Because loyalty is rare now. People leave when life stops feeling convenient. People disappear when the glamour fades. People love comfort more than commitment. But she stayed through storms she never deserved to stand in. That woman has seen me sit in silence trying to mentally calculate bills. Seen me frustrated. Seen me emotionally drained. Seen me trying to hold everything together while quietly falling apart. And somehow she still looks at me with love. I don’t think people understand how healing that is for a man. This month also forced me to confront another truth: I cannot keep living only for survival. I’ve spent so much time trying to survive that I forgot what peace even feels like. That realization hurt. Because I’m beginning to understand that some of the things I chased weren’t really making me happy. Some of the pressure I carried wasn’t even mine to carry. Some of the expectations I placed on myself were slowly destroying me. So now I’m learning how to release things. Release debt. Release fear. Release shame. Release ego. Release old versions of myself that no longer fit who I’m becoming. And honestly? That process feels violent internally. Growth is not always beautiful. Sometimes growth feels like grieving yourself while still being alive. Sometimes it feels like standing in the middle of burned ruins trying to convince yourself you can rebuild. And maybe that’s where I am right now. Not healed. Not finished. Not fully okay. Just rebuilding. Quietly. Honestly. Emotionally. One breath at a time. And for once in my life… I’m no longer apologizing for admitting that this shit hurts.
What’s a simple pleasure in life that brings you joy?
It’s funny that this question is being asked right now, because at this very moment in my life, I’m learning what simple pleasures truly mean.
Life has a way of humbling you.
Sometimes not through tragedy. Sometimes not through failure. But through transition.
A reshifting. A downsizing. A quiet season where you begin separating what you truly need from what you merely collected along the way.
And if I’m being honest, I’ve always been a person who enjoyed having things. Nice things. Big ideas. Big dreams. Big visions. I still do. There’s nothing wrong with ambition. There’s nothing wrong with wanting more out of life.
But lately, I’ve started understanding something deeper:
Peace is expensive. And simplicity protects it.
This morning, I sat on my balcony with a cup of coffee in my hand while the breeze moved through the air. My birds were singing nearby. The city was waking up. I lit my morning blunt and just sat there thinking.
No chaos. No pressure. No pretending.
Just me. Breathing. Thinking. Existing.
And for a moment, life slowed down enough for me to hear myself again.
That simple moment brought me joy.
Not because everything in life is perfect. Not because I suddenly have all the answers. But because I’m beginning to understand that happiness does not always arrive in grand moments.
Sometimes it arrives quietly.
In the morning sunlight. In the sound of birds. In laughter from another room. In your wife sitting beside you. In a deep breath after surviving a difficult season.
Minimalism is teaching me that life is not about owning less simply for the sake of less. It is about making room for what matters more.
More peace. More clarity. More purpose. More presence.
And maybe that is the real climb in life.
Not climbing toward more stuff. But climbing toward a better understanding of yourself.
Maybe joy was never as far away as we thought.
Maybe it was waiting for us in the quiet all along.
What are the biggest benefits of minimalist living?
It’s funny that this prompt is being asked right now, because at this exact moment in my life, I’m going through a personal reshifting.
Not just financially. Not just physically. But mentally.
A realignment of everything I have been taught.
A stripping away of things I once thought defined stability, success, and comfort.
And the truth is… I’ve always been the type of person who enjoys having things. Nice things. Collecting things. Building things. Creating an environment that feels full, alive, earned. So minimalism never really sounded appealing to me.
Until life forced me to slow down long enough to understand what it was actually trying to teach.
Minimalism is not about punishment. It is not about living empty. It is about removing what is heavy.
Heavy debt. Heavy expectations. Heavy noise. Heavy pressure. Heavy versions of yourself you no longer need to carry.
People think minimalism is about getting rid of possessions, but sometimes it is really about getting rid of survival habits.
The hardest part is realizing how much of your identity became attached to what you owned, what you displayed, or what you were trying to prove. Maybe that’s why this season of my life feels so important.
Because for the first time in a long time, I’m beginning to understand the difference between having things… and having peace.
Sometimes life downsizes you before it rebuilds you.
Sometimes it clears the table because the next version of you requires more focus, more discipline, more clarity, and less distraction. Maybe that is the hidden beauty of minimalism.
What’s a moment you wish you could freeze and live in forever?
If I could freeze one moment and live inside it forever, it wouldn’t be loud. It wouldn’t be a celebration. It would be quiet… intentional. It would be one of those nights on the balcony. The city humming in the distance. The Hollywood Hills stretched out like a painting that never gets old. The observatory standing there, steady, like it’s been watching over us this whole time. My wife next to me, comfortable, not performing, just being. Burgundy somewhere in her world, because that color always finds its way to her. A drink in one hand, a blunt in the other, conversation flowing with no destination. No pressure to fix anything. No need to prove anything. Just us. In that moment, I’m not thinking about money, pressure, responsibility, or the next move. I’m not carrying the weight of being a provider, a leader, a man trying to rebuild and get it right. I’m just present. And that’s rare. Because truth is those moments don’t come from success. They don’t come from status. They come from alignment. From surviving enough together to finally exhale at the same time. If I could live anywhere forever, it wouldn’t be a place. It would be that feeling. Because in that moment, everything that matters is already there.
I don’t drive. Not because I can’t, but because I choose to walk. I choose to see the city. I choose to move through it, not hide from it. And when the distance stretches too far, I step onto the Metro.
But there’s a different Los Angeles that lives after 11:30 PM.
That’s the one I deal with.
Last night, I got on the train like I always do. Same rhythm. Same movement. Same seat I aim for, back against the wall, eyes forward, control of the environment.
Another man moved toward it at the same time. I stepped back.
“Go ahead, my brotha.”
Simple. Respectful. Done.
But it didn’t end there.
“I’m not your brother.”
Not just words. Tone. Edge. Energy. The kind that’s looking for something.
Right there, that’s the moment most men fail.
Not because they’re weak. Because they’re wired wrong in that moment.
See, anger doesn’t ask for permission. It shows up ready. And if you’ve been carrying pressure, real pressure, work, money, responsibility, rebuilding your life… it doesn’t take much to give that anger a target.
And for a second… I wanted it.
Not the seat. The moment.
I wanted him to say one more thing. Make one wrong move. Give me a reason.
Because I already made the decision in my head what I would do to him.
That’s the truth nobody likes to say out loud.
But here’s the part that matters:
I didn’t move.
I sat down. Hands in my pockets. Mind racing. Body ready.
And instead of reacting…
I prayed.
Not some clean, polished prayer. Not something you’d say in church.
No.
I prayed that he would keep his mouth shut… and get off that train.
Because I knew something he didn’t:
This wasn’t about him.
This was about everything I’m building right now.
My family. My reset. My future.
One bad decision in a moment like that and everything I’m trying to fix gets set on fire.
A record. A charge. A headline nobody reads past. A story that doesn’t care about context.
All over a man who doesn’t even know me.
That’s when it hit me:
The seat was never the test.
I was.
And that’s the difference between a man who reacts… and a man who leads his life.
Because leadership isn’t just what you do at work. It’s what you do when nobody’s watching… when everything in you is telling you to go the other way.
I see these situations every day.
Different faces. Same energy. Broken men looking for somewhere to land their chaos.
And the truth is they’re dangerous.
But not in the way people think.
They’re dangerous because if you’re not disciplined, they can pull you out of your purpose in seconds.
That’s the trap.
You don’t lose your life in one big decision. You lose it in one small, emotional one.
So I made mine.
I chose to go home.
Because that’s the mission.
Not to prove a point. Not to win a moment. Not to show who’s tougher.
Just to walk through my door… and be there for the people who actually matter.
