Nobody likes admitting they’ve been duped.

As leaders, we like to believe experience gives us an edge. We learn to trust our instincts, read situations, and identify problems before they become crises. After enough years in business, we assume we’re less susceptible to being misled.

One of the hardest lessons in leadership is accepting that appearances and reality are not always the same thing.

The Stoic philosopher Epictetus observed that some things are exactly as they appear, some are not, and wisdom lies in knowing the difference.

But experience can create its own blind spots.

The longer we know someone, the more likely we are to give them the benefit of the doubt. The longer a process exists, the more likely we are to accept it as effective. The more familiar a relationship becomes, the less likely we are to question it. Over time, what appears to be true slowly becomes what we believe to be true.

Experience teaches us that setbacks are inevitable, mistakes are part of the journey, and not every investment of time, money, or energy will produce the return we hoped for.

What we’re often less prepared for is the moment when the greatest mistake isn’t what happened. It’s what we failed to see happening. And when that realization comes, it can be both humbling and painful.

Then something happens that reminds us otherwise.

Recently, I found myself in a situation where a partner failed to deliver what was promised. The sales process was polished. The demonstrations were compelling. The contract appeared clear. Smart people reviewed it. Smart people approved it.

And yet, as the engagement unfolded, it became painfully obvious that what I thought I had signed up for was not what I was actually receiving. The more questions I asked, the more confusion I uncovered. So, I sought additional perspective. I talked to experienced executives, trusted advisors, and people who had no emotional investment in the outcome.

What happened next surprised me. Almost universally, they saw things I hadn’t seen. They pointed out inconsistencies I had overlooked. They questioned assumptions I had accepted. They challenged conclusions I had considered settled. That’s when the realization hit me:

I’ve been duped.

Not just by the partner. By my own assumptions. And perhaps most importantly, by my proximity to the situation.

The outside perspective didn’t reveal a new reality. It simply removed the filters through which we had been viewing the existing one.

When you’re close to something for a long period of time, it becomes difficult to see it objectively. You explain away concerns. You rationalize inconsistencies. You extend grace where accountability might be more appropriate. What should be viewed as a pattern gets dismissed as an isolated event.

Over time, assumptions begin to feel like facts simply because they’ve gone unchallenged. That realization caused me to reflect on more than just a vendor relationship. I’ve seen this same dynamic play out inside my own organization.

Strong performers earn trust. They should. The challenge for leaders is to ensure that trust remains connected to current reality. Over time, experience, history, and goodwill can create a lens through which we interpret new information more generously than we otherwise would. We explain away concerns. We grant the benefit of the doubt. We focus on what someone has accomplished rather than what is happening now.

Here’s the part that’s harder to admit: my team wasn’t missing it either.

In fact, many of them had been experiencing the same things I was experiencing. They’d raised concerns. We’d had conversations. The signals were there. The problem wasn’t a lack of awareness.

It was that all of us, myself included, found reasonable explanations for what we were seeing. We gave the benefit of the doubt. We assumed things would improve. We focused on the history rather than the current reality.

None of this happens with bad intent. In fact, it often stems from loyalty. Sometimes we’re so close to the situation that we stop seeing what’s actually there and continue seeing what we’ve always believed to be there.

The same is true of teams, partnerships, and even entire organizations. We become attached to the story we’ve been telling ourselves. We continue operating under assumptions that may have once been true but no longer reflect reality. We trust tenure instead of performance. Confidence instead of competence. Activity instead of outcomes. History instead of present-day results.

Because the change is gradual, it’s difficult to notice. Until someone with fresh eyes enters the picture and asks the questions everyone else has stopped asking. That was the lesson for me.

It wasn’t just one observation from one person. It was a collective group of respected executives looking at the same situation and seeing what I did not see. Their perspective didn’t create a new reality. It simply exposed the one that had been there all along. And if I’m being honest, I sensed it all along.

And like most meaningful leadership lessons, this one wasn’t free. There is a cost to unwinding a partnership that isn’t delivering on its promises. There is a cost to correcting decisions made on incomplete information. There is a cost when expectations and reality drift too far apart before anyone is willing to confront the gap.

The lesson is humbling. It’s also expensive. Not simply because of the dollars attached to a contract, a decision, or a course correction. Those costs are measurable. The greater costs are often the ones that don’t appear on a balance sheet: the time lost, the opportunities missed, the energy spent managing problems that should have been addressed much earlier, and the assumptions we continue carrying long after they’ve stopped serving us.

There is also the realization that someone from the outside was able to see what I had been unable to see from the inside. That’s the part that stings.

Not because the perspective was wrong, but because it revealed how easily proximity can cloud judgment. How often we explain away what should be examined more closely. How readily we substitute trust, history, or optimism for evidence.

The uncomfortable truth is that avoiding difficult questions doesn’t eliminate the cost.

It usually increases it.

The reality is that problems rarely appear overnight. They develop quietly beneath the surface while leaders, teams, and organizations continue operating under a narrative they’ve questioned before but ultimately explained away. Until reality refuses to cooperate. Until results reveal what assumptions have been hiding.

Until someone from the outside sees in five minutes what we’ve failed to see for five years.

I’ve come to believe that one of the most important responsibilities of leadership is not having all the answers. It’s maintaining enough humility to recognize when we’re too close to a situation to see it clearly.

Trust is important. But trust without verification is not leadership. Curiosity is not skepticism. Accountability is not distrust. And asking difficult questions is not disloyalty. In fact, those disciplines are often what prevent us from being blindsided.

So yes, I’ve been duped.

But not solely by someone else’s promises. I’ve been duped by assumptions I didn’t challenge, conclusions I didn’t test, and narratives I allowed to continue for too long.

And then there’s the sadness that comes with it.

It’s disappointing to discover that something you believed in wasn’t what you thought it was. It’s painful to realize that trust, history, and goodwill may have clouded your judgment. And it’s difficult to reconcile the gap between the story you’ve been telling yourself and the reality that eventually emerges.

Those moments can feel personal because they are personal. Whether it’s a partnership, a decision, or a long-standing relationship, you’ve invested more than money. You’ve invested confidence, belief, and often a piece of yourself. That’s what makes these lessons hurt. But it’s also what makes them valuable.

Because once the disappointment fades, you’re left with something far more useful: clarity.

Thankfully, that’s also where value lives.

This experience reinforced for me that leadership isn’t about being right all the time. It’s about being willing to confront evidence when you’re wrong. It’s about inviting perspectives that challenge your thinking. And it’s about having the humility to recognize when trust, loyalty, or history have clouded your judgment.

Because the most costly deceptions are rarely the ones others create. They’re the ones we unknowingly help sustain.

Recently, I found myself standing in a hometown crowd watching my dear friend Wes Dearth do what he’s spent a lifetime pursuing. Wes, better known professionally as John Wesley, is a guitarist, songwriter, and one of rock’s most respected touring musicians. For the past several years, he has served as lead guitarist for Vertical Horizon, the popular 90s band known for hits such as Everything You Want, You’re a God, and Best I Ever Had.

Over the course of his career, Wes has released several solo albums, toured internationally with Porcupine Tree, opened hundreds of shows for Marillion, and shared the stage with artists including Sister Hazel. Yet as long as I’ve known him, he’s remained remarkably humble about his success. I’ll admit I’ve always been a bit of a fan girl, getting excited whenever he tells a story about a performer I’ve followed for years. Still, what struck me that evening wasn’t his résumé or the impressive career that led him there. It was the joy. Seeing him glance toward family and friends in the crowd, I saw someone fully present in a moment he had spent years working toward.

It got me thinking about pursuing our dreams, refusing to give up on them, and even more fundamentally, what are our dreams in the first place?

As a professional guitarist, it might be easy to assume that touring with a successful band is the pinnacle of a career. Yet in speaking with Wes over the years, I’m certain there is much more to it than that. And I’ve learned that touring is not nearly as glamorous as we might think!  Success is rarely one destination. More often, it’s a collection of meaningful experiences along the way.

But what about the rest of us? Those of us who aren’t standing under stage lights or performing in front of thousands of people. What are our dreams?

Is it happiness and health? Raising children who become kind, capable adults? Building a successful business? Creating financial security? Contributing to our communities? Leaving things a little better than we found them?

Deep stuff.

Do we have to know exactly what our dreams are? Do they need to be lofty or life changing?

Can we pivot?

According to Angela Duckworth in her book, Grit, we absolutely should. In fact, she argues that perseverance is not about rigidly holding onto one specific goal forever. It’s about remaining committed to a larger purpose while being flexible about the path we take to get there. Sometimes the dream evolves because we evolve.

When I think about my own life, I realize that I never grew up dreaming of becoming an entrepreneur. Starting a business was never on my vision board. In fact, if you had asked me years ago what I wanted to be, “CEO” would not have made the list.

Yet somehow, that’s exactly where the journey led.

What I did dream about, though I may not have had the words for it at the time, was making a difference. I wanted meaningful work. I wanted to build something worthwhile. I wanted to surround myself with people who could grow, thrive, and become more than they thought possible.

Over the past twenty-plus years of building ReEmployAbility, I’ve discovered that entrepreneurship was not the dream itself. It was the vehicle that allowed me to pursue a larger vision.

A vision for myself. A vision for the people who choose to spend a significant portion of their lives working alongside me. A vision for an industry that serves people during some of the most vulnerable moments of their lives.

Workers’ compensation is often viewed as a business process, a claim, a transaction, or a cost. But behind every claim number is a person. Someone whose life was unexpectedly interrupted. Someone worried about their health, their family, their livelihood, and what comes next. Our industry’s responsibility extends far beyond managing claims. We have the opportunity to help people regain confidence, purpose, and a pathway forward.

That vision is what gets me excited.

Not because we’ve arrived, but because there is still so much opportunity to improve the experience of injured workers. To challenge conventional thinking. To create workplaces where employees feel valued and empowered. To leave our corner of the world better than we found it.

Looking back, I can see that my dream wasn’t a title, a company, or even a career. It was impact. The business simply became the platform through which that impact could happen.

And perhaps that’s true for many of us. Sometimes we spend so much time looking for a specific dream that we miss the larger purpose unfolding right in front of us. The destination may surprise us, but the values guiding us there often remain remarkably consistent.

This thought led me back to a book I was given years ago, Mother Teresa’s Prescription, where she talks about doing one small thing to make a difference.

One small thing.

Not changing the world overnight.

Not becoming famous.

Not accomplishing some grand achievement that earns applause.

Just one small thing.

I love that concept because it takes the pressure off. Sometimes we look at our dreams and think they have to be monumental. We think we need a five-year plan, a vision board, and a perfectly mapped-out strategy. Yet some of the most meaningful accomplishments in our lives begin with a conversation, a decision, a risk, or a simple act of kindness.

Perhaps our dreams are not always destinations. Perhaps they are directions.

A dream might start as becoming a musician and evolve into inspiring others through music. It might start as building a career and evolve into mentoring future leaders. It might start as wanting success and end up being about significance.

Looking back on my own life, many of the things that have brought me the greatest fulfillment were never part of a master plan. They emerged from opportunities I couldn’t have predicted and lessons I never would have chosen. Some dreams came true exactly as imagined. Others transformed into something entirely different, and better.

What I’ve learned is that dreams don’t have expiration dates. They don’t disappear because we reach a certain age, change careers, experience setbacks, or discover new passions. They simply adapt along with us.

Maybe the question isn’t, “Am I following my dream?”

Maybe the better question is, “Am I moving toward what matters most to me?”

Am I growing?

Am I contributing?

Am I becoming the person I want to be?

When I stood in that crowd and watched Wes on stage that evening, I wasn’t inspired solely by his success because I wasn’t witnessing a single successful moment. I was witnessing thousands of ordinary moments that came before it. I was inspired by the evidence of that long journey. Years of practice. Faith. Sacrifice. Persistence. Countless small decisions that led to that stage.

The same is true for each of us. Most dreams aren’t achieved in dramatic leaps. They’re built in ordinary days through consistent effort and small acts of courage.

Soif you’re not entirely sure what your dream is today, that’s okay.

If your dream has changed, that’s okay too.

And if you’re still figuring it out, perhaps start with Mother Teresa’s advice. Do one small thing. Take one step. Help one person. Learn one new skill. Say yes to one opportunity.

Those small things have a way of leading us exactly where we’re meant to go.

And who knows? One day you may look back and realize that what seemed like a series of small steps was actually your dream unfolding all along.

Midway through the session, the conversation shifted.

Someone began sharing a decision they were struggling with. One of those defining leadership moments where there isn’t a clear right answer, only consequences. As they spoke, I found myself leaning in, not just out of interest, but recognition.

I had faced that exact situation.  And then someone else added their perspective. And another. Different industries. Different contexts. The same underlying challenge.

I remember sitting there, listening, and feeling an almost immediate sense of disbelief. Not because their situation was unfamiliar, but because it sounded exactly like mine. The same kinds of decisions. The same weight behind them. The same quiet questions that don’t often get asked out loud in leadership roles.

But what struck me even more was what came next.  It wasn’t just recognition. It was contribution. I could share my perspective. I could talk about how I had handled a similar situation, what worked, and what I might have done differently. At the same time, I was learning from how they approached it, seeing angles I hadn’t considered.

In some moments, I was able to help guide someone toward a resolution based on my experience. In others, they were doing the same for me.

It wasn’t one-sided. It was an exchange.

And if I’m being completely honest, there was another layer to all of this. For a long time, even being in the room came with its own set of questions.

Do I really belong here? Am I accomplished enough? Have I done enough to earn a seat at this table?

It’s only recently that I’ve started to feel more confident in that answer. And even now, there are moments when I look around the room and feel intimidated. The depth of experience. The size of the businesses. The revenue. The number of ventures some have built over time.  It can be easy to compare. Easy to question.

But what I’m learning is that those thoughts are just that…thoughts. Head trash that can quietly undermine the very reason you’re there.  Because in the same conversations where I’ve felt that intimidation, I’ve also found myself helping another executive navigate something that is new to them but familiar to me. Offering perspective. Sharing lessons learned. Guiding, just as I’ve been guided.  And in those moments, the answer becomes very clear. I do belong.

One conversation in particular stayed with me. We talked about the long-term employee who has been with you for years, someone loyal, someone who helped build the organization, someone you genuinely care about. And yet, you begin to realize they may not be the person who can take you or the company to the next level. It’s one of the hardest decisions you face as a leader. Not because it’s unclear, but because it’s deeply human. There’s history. There’s gratitude. There’s a relationship. And alongside all of that sits the responsibility to the organization’s future. As we talked through it, what became clear was that this weight wasn’t mine alone to carry. Everyone in the room had either faced it, was facing it, or knew it was coming. We shared how we approached it. What we learned. Where we struggled. Where we waited too long. Where we found clarity. And in that conversation, something shifted.  The decision didn’t become easier, but it became clearer. And more importantly, it became shared.

In another moment, the conversation turned to something much smaller on the surface, but just as impactful. We talked about the employee who feels slighted because you walked by them without saying hello. From your perspective, you were simply focused, deep in thought, or moving quickly to the next thing. But from theirs, it became something entirely different. It became a story. A story that you don’t like them. A story that they’re undervalued. A story they may even share with others.

As leaders, it’s easy to underestimate those moments. But in that discussion, it was clear how universal that experience is and how much we’ve all learned from it.

We talked about being more intentional. About lifting our heads, even in the busiest moments. About recognizing that every interaction, no matter how brief, carries weight. It wasn’t about judgment. It was about awareness.

And again, it wasn’t one person teaching, it was all of us learning from each other’s experiences, mistakes, and adjustments.

For years, I had assumed these kinds of moments were uniquely mine to carry. In those conversations, I realized they weren’t. There’s a quiet truth that comes with being an executive or entrepreneur: much of the journey is experienced alone.

From the outside, leadership appears collaborative, and to some degree it is. I’m fortunate to have a team that I can talk candidly with about a variety of decisions. But in the end, the weight of decisions, the ambiguity, the responsibility, and often the doubt sit squarely on your shoulders. You carry questions you can’t always ask internally. You navigate challenges that don’t have obvious answers. Over time, it becomes easy to believe that what you’re facing is yours alone.

That’s what makes this recent experience so different.  What I’m discovering now is that when executive groups are thoughtfully curated and paired with the right moderator, they become far more than a professional forum. They become a space for real dialogue, honest reflection, and meaningful insight.  The difference isn’t subtle. It’s transformational.

One of the most surprising and grounding realizations has been how common our struggles are.  In these conversations, I’ve heard leaders navigating complex people decisions that are both strategic and deeply personal. Executives wrestling with uncertainty during periods of change. Entrepreneurs balancing growth ambitions with the realities of scaling. Individuals questioning whether they are making the right call when there is no clear answer.

For so long, many of these experiences felt isolating.  But in the right room, they are normalized.  And more than that, they become actionable.

There is something incredibly powerful about hearing someone articulate a challenge you thought was yours alone and then working through it together. It doesn’t just remove isolation. It creates clarity and momentum. You leave not only understood, but better equipped.

Not all executive groups create this kind of impact. The difference lies in intentionality. Who is in the room. Their willingness to be open and honest. The level of trust that is built. And critically, how the conversation is facilitated.

I’ve participated in executive groups before. They were valuable in the way many professional gatherings are, good conversations, new connections, and interesting ideas. But when I left, I rarely felt fulfilled.  And I’ve also experienced another side of it.  Groups that simply don’t work.

When that happens, it’s more than just disappointing. It’s costly. It’s time you don’t get back. And instead of leaving more connected or supported, you can walk away feeling just as alone. For me, it sometimes reinforced the belief that everyone else belonged there more than I did.

A skilled moderator doesn’t simply guide discussion. They create space for depth. They ask the questions that push beyond surface-level thinking. They ensure every voice is heard while maintaining focus and meaning.  These are not networking groups.  They are spaces for vulnerability without judgment, perspective without ego, and insight without competition. And that changes everything.

As leaders, we’re often conditioned to rely on our own judgment. While that’s essential, it can also be limiting.  What I’ve experienced in my most recent group is the power of collective thought.

When you bring together diverse perspectives and real-world experiences, something shifts. You begin to see new ways to approach familiar challenges. Patterns across industries and leadership styles. Lessons learned without having to experience every misstep yourself.

Collective insight doesn’t replace leadership. It strengthens it.  It allows you to return to your role with greater clarity, broader perspective, and a deeper sense of confidence.

Participating in both women-only and mixed-gender groups has also been a meaningful part of this journey.  Women-only spaces often create a unique sense of shared understanding, an ability to relate quickly and deeply on certain leadership experiences. There’s an openness that can accelerate trust and connection.  At the same time, mixed groups bring diversity of thought that is equally important. Different perspectives challenge assumptions and expand how you see both problems and possibilities.  Neither is better. Both are essential.  Together, they offer a more complete and balanced leadership lens.

If there’s one lesson that continues to stay with me, it’s this: you are not alone. Not in the challenges. Not in the doubts. Not in the difficult decisions or the small, everyday moments that shape how others experience you as a leader. There is a community of leaders navigating remarkably similar experiences, each bringing their own insights, questions, and lessons learned. And when that experience becomes an exchange, when you both give and receive, it becomes even more powerful.

The right executive group doesn’t just provide answers. It provides perspective. It creates connection. It reminds you that even in the most isolating moments of leadership, you are part of something larger.

And in that shared experience, there is both clarity and strength.

In my previous article on the Spectacle of Racing, I wrote about the beauty, precision, and sheer intensity of motorsports—how everything builds toward a single defining moment. What I didn’t explore then is what happens when that moment doesn’t go your way.

And I mean, really doesn’t go your way!

Because in racing, just as in leadership, many moments don’t.

Few examples capture this better than David Malukas’ heartbreaking finish at the 110th Indianapolis 500.

Malukus didn’t just lose.  This was his second year with a second-place finish.  And this loss?  It was a loss by 0.0233 seconds, the closest finish in Indy 500 history. In Indy history!

With eight laps to go, a caution erased what had been a hard-earned gap. Suddenly, everything came down to a one-lap shootout. It was executed nearly flawlessly:

• A decisive pass on Lap 199 to take the lead
• Full composure on the restart under extreme pressure
• A drive at what was described as “150%”

And yet, it wasn’t enough.

Coming down the final straightaway, the aerodynamic draft did what it always does. In racing terms, everything was done right.  And, it still ended in a loss.

That’s the kind of loss that cuts deeper than failure born from mistakes.  It’s the kind that tests who you are as a person and as a leader.

John Maxwell talks about “failing forward”—the idea that failure isn’t the opposite of success, but a necessary step toward it. But here’s the reality we don’t talk about enough: Failure doesn’t feel like growth in the moment.  It feels like loss.

You could see it in Malukas after the race.  Physically exhausted, emotionally spent, crying under his helmet.  He wasn’t analyzing growth opportunities. He was grieving something that felt like it belonged to him and his team.

And if you’ve led long enough, you know that feeling:

• The deal you worked for months to close… gone
• The employee you believed in… doesn’t work out
• The strategy you executed well… still misses

You can do everything right and still lose. That’s the part of leadership most people aren’t prepared for.

At ReEmployAbility, we’ve lived this.

We had a long-standing client—over 10 years. We grew together. We navigated organizational changes on both sides. There was trust, mutual respect, and a shared commitment to doing the right thing. We championed for each other, and we always had each other’s back.

And then something shifted.

Their team began asking for more customization, more control, and less of our involvement in a program we had built and designed. Over time, we learned that elements of our approach were being shared externally.  Ultimately helping create a broader process that could be used across multiple service providers, including our competitors.

The relationship changed. It became strained, more transactional, and harder to manage. Trust eroded—even within the boundaries of a contract.

We were faced with a hard decision.

When the RFP came, we chose not to respond. Not because we couldn’t compete.  Because we no longer trusted how our information, our thinking, or our investment would be used.

It was a loss.

And just like in racing, there’s a hard truth in how it happened.

We had created something strong.  Something worth following. But in doing that, we also created an advantage for others. The very thing that made us successful became something others could leverage.

When you lose as a leader, you don’t just lose for yourself. You lose for your team, your company, your partners, your clients. That’s what gives it weight. That’s what makes it personal.

Losses ripple. Leaders carry that.

There’s also an important truth in how this kind of loss happens. When you’re leading, you create exposure.

In racing, you become vulnerable. You punch a hole in the air, and everyone behind you benefits from it. The very act of being in front creates exposure. Leadership is no different.

• When you’re out front, expectations rise
• When you’re winning, people study you and some may even want to take you down
• When you lead, pressure intensifies

Success doesn’t remove risk. It amplifies it.

That’s why failing forward isn’t automatic. It sounds good in theory.  Learn from it, grow from it, and use it as fuel. But in practice, there’s a choice you make after every loss.

You can fail backward: “We should have…” “I blew it…”“That was our chance…”

And if you stay there too long, it erodes confidence, clarity, and ultimately your effectiveness as a leader.

Or you can fail forward.

That’s the turning point. Not pretending it didn’t hurt. Not rushing to a lesson. But choosing to do something with it.

Failing forward requires discipline:

• Owning reality without tearing yourself down
• Pulling the lesson without rewriting the truth
• Converting emotion into forward movement

That’s the work. Because there are a few things leaders have to get right after a loss:

You have to acknowledge it. If it hurts, it mattered. Don’t minimize it or brush past it.

You have to separate effort from outcome. Sometimes the performance is exactly what it needed to be, even if the result isn’t there. If you don’t make that distinction, you’ll start reinforcing the wrong behaviors.

You have to understand the system you’re operating in. External forces such as timing, competition, and context matter. Not every loss is a personal failure.

And you have to decide what to do with the emotion. Because emotion will show up whether you want it to or not. The question is whether it becomes weight that slows you down or fuel that pushes you forward.

Then you recommit.

That’s the part that defines leadership.  Not the win. The response to the loss.

Because leadership isn’t built on highlight moments. It’s built in the narrow gaps, the near misses, the “almost’s”, the moments that didn’t go your way.

The deals that almost closed (or you chose to let go of)  The goals that were within reach.  The opportunities that slipped in the final stretch.

Those are the moments that shape how you lead next.

The leaders who grow aren’t the ones who avoid loss. They’re the ones who refuse to let it define them.

Because in the end, leadership, just like racing, isn’t about one moment. It’s about what you do after it.

You’re always one lap away from your next opportunity.

Leadership Lessons We Didn’t Learn in Business School (Some of Us May Have Learned Them at the Bar)

I didn’t set out to build a career in workers’ compensation.

Like many people in this industry, I landed here almost by accident. I took a claims adjuster role at Aetna Property & Casualty because I wanted a stable, business‑focused job. At the time, workers’ compensation wasn’t the coveted path—property and casualty was where the “good” jobs were. I remember telling my manager I’d handle comp claims if it meant I could stay in Tampa.

What I didn’t realize then was that workers’ compensation—and more importantly, the people in it—would shape my entire career.

Here I am now, years later, moderating a conversation for a webinar with WCC with three extraordinary leaders: Sarah Meyer, COO of Bardavon; Heather Sanderson, CEO and Founder of Sanderson Firm LLC; and Artemis Emslie, CEO of CadenceRX. As we were talking, I had a realization that felt both unexpected and oddly validating.

Workers’ compensation has a very unofficial, but extremely effective, career pipeline. And maybe it can even start behind a bar.

As each of us shared how we found our way into the industry, a pattern emerged that we hadn’t planned and couldn’t ignore. Sarah bartended. Artemis bartended. Heather waited tables at Cheesecake Factory—after passing the bar exam, no less. At one point, Artemis joked that bartending might be the common denominator, and honestly, she wasn’t wrong.

There’s something about working in food service that prepares you exceptionally well for workers’ compensation. You learn how to manage impossible expectations. How to stay calm when everything is on fire. How to read people quickly and solve problems in real time—often while someone is actively upset and convinced the situation is entirely your fault.

Sound familiar?

I’ve said for years that when I see bartending or food service on a résumé, it goes straight to the top of the pile. Those jobs teach grit, resilience, emotional intelligence, and the ability to keep moving in the middle of the rush, when nothing is going as planned.

Turns out, that’s excellent leadership training.

What struck me most in listening to each story wasn’t just how we got here, but why we stayed.

Sarah talked about moving across state lines without a clear plan, taking a job she didn’t fully understand, and discovering an industry that’s constantly evolving—and one where you can make a real human impact.

Heather shared how graduating law school into a recession forced her to take whatever work she could find, eventually leading her into Medicare compliance. It’s something no one teaches you in law school, but something she found endlessly interesting because it changed every day.

Artemis entered an industry that openly told her it didn’t hire women—which, if there’s a faster way to motivate someone, I haven’t found it. She stayed because she believed workers’ compensation could be more patient‑centric than healthcare at large, and because the people made it worth fighting for.

None of these paths were linear. All of them were meaningful.

Those stories naturally led me to reflect on my own leadership journey.

At one point in the conversation, I shared something that often surprises people: I had never managed anyone until I started my own company. I didn’t step into leadership feeling fully prepared. I learned by watching others—taking the good, leaving the bad, and promising myself to do better where I could. I leaned heavily on mentors and peers, not because I had all the answers, but because I knew leadership wasn’t something you figured out alone.

Sarah spoke candidly about imposter syndrome and how often women feel the need to be fully qualified before raising their hand. That resonated deeply. Some of the most growth‑defining moments of my career came when I felt unprepared but chose to move forward anyway. Readiness, I’ve learned, usually shows up after the leap, not before it.

The conversation took a turn that made many of us laugh—and nod—when Sarah talked about being told throughout her career that she was “too nice.” At one point, she even found herself reading books about how to be less nice. Eventually, another leader reframed that feedback in a way that stuck: kindness and accountability can coexist.

Empathy doesn’t weaken leadership, it strengthens it.

In workers’ compensation, we’re dealing with injured employees, stressed employers, and systems that are already complex and frustrating. Leadership without humanity creates distance. Leadership grounded in empathy builds trust.

Nice doesn’t mean ineffective. It means human.

That theme kept resurfacing as we talked about entrepreneurship and the reality of building something from scratch. When I started ReEmployAbility, I thought my job would be to deliver a service. Instead, I found myself learning about phone systems, payroll, accounting, technology infrastructure, calendars—things I’d never once thought about before. I didn’t know what I didn’t know, and sometimes I think that ignorance was the only thing that gave me the courage to take the leap.

It reminds me of the quote by Jack Canfield that I’ve often repeated over the years, “Jump then grow wings on the way down”.  To some degree, we’ve all done that—and in some ways, we continue to.

Heather’s story felt especially familiar as she described being the lawyer, accountant, marketer, sales team, and invoicing department all at once. She talked openly about panic attacks over payroll and the fear that comes with realizing other people’s livelihoods depend on your decisions. I remember Fridays spent standing at the post office box, silently hoping enough checks had arrived to cover payroll on Monday.

Those moments don’t show up in your success stories. But they shape you in ways you could never have imagined.

As the discussion shifted to mentorship, I found myself reflecting on how much the culture has changed over the years. Early in my career, the people who advocated for me were almost all men. Women supporting women wasn’t the norm, and there was often an undercurrent of competition that made trust difficult.

That’s why today’s shift feels so important.

Sarah drew an important distinction between mentorship and advocacy. Mentors offer guidance, but advocates create opportunity. They speak your name when you’re not in the room. They pull you into conversations you didn’t even know were happening. Organizations like the Alliance of Women in Workers’ Compensation, which began as a conversation and grew into a national network, exist because someone asked, “Why doesn’t this exist?”—and then did something about it.

No conversation about leadership would be complete without addressing work and life, especially for women. I’ve always been honest about this: there is no such thing as work–life balance in senior leadership. What does exist is prioritization, partnership, and the willingness to let some things go. I was fortunate to have an incredibly supportive husband, but I still missed school events, traveled constantly, and felt guilt more times than I can count.

Years later, when I asked my daughter whether she felt I’d missed too much, her answer stopped me in my tracks.

“You were there for the important things, Mom.”

Sometimes, that’s the measure that matters most.

We also spent time talking about the future—particularly innovation and AI—and how important it is that technology enhances, rather than replaces, the human side of our industry. Workers’ compensation is transactional by nature, but it doesn’t have to be impersonal. If technology allows us to spend less time on process and more time on connection, then it’s doing exactly what it should.

Toward the end of the conversation, we touched on what it feels like to be the only woman in the room. For much of my career, it didn’t even register—until one day, it did. Progress is happening, though slowly. Until true parity exists, my advice remains simple: use it to your advantage. Bring your perspective. Ask the questions others aren’t asking.

Representation changes rooms, even before the numbers catch up.

Leadership in workers’ compensation rarely follows a straight line. It’s built through unfamiliar paths, uncomfortable leaps, and lessons learned along the way—sometimes at a desk, sometimes on a whiteboard, and sometimes behind a bar. You don’t need a perfectly mapped plan. You don’t need to be flawless. You just need to be willing to show up, work hard, and say yes before you feel ready.

And if you happened to learn those skills while bartending, you’re probably more prepared than you think.

To hear directly from the women shaping the future of Workers’ Compensation, watch our on-demand webinar→ Breaking Barriers: Women Leading the Way in Workers’ Compensation

Grit is often described as a powerful driver of long-term success, yet the real question for most leaders is how to cultivate it in practical, sustainable ways. In the earlier articles of this series, I explored what grit truly means and clarified what it is not, helping distinguish genuine perseverance from unproductive burnout or rigid persistence. This final piece shifts the focus from definition to application.

The Four Pillars Leaders Can Build On

Drawing on Angela Duckworth’s research and the lessons we’ve learned at ReEmployAbility, this article outlines the four pillars that allow grit to grow within individuals and teams. These pillars offer leaders a clear path forward, whether they’re strengthening their own resilience or creating an environment where others can thrive.

1. Interest: Discovery → Development → Deepening

Grit starts with interest — not instant passion. Discovery begins with trying new things, following curiosity, and working in pencil. Development happens as you receive feedback, experience small wins, and gain encouragement. Over time, interest deepens as knowledge and confidence grow.

At ReEmployAbility, learning is part of who we are. We celebrate progress and never rush someone who is just starting out.

2. Practice: Deliberate, Focused, and Purposeful

Real growth doesn’t come from autopilot repetition. At ReEmployAbility, we believe real growth happens in the “sweet spot”—that zone of structured discomfort where you’re stretching just beyond your comfort level. This is something I learned by reading The Little Book of Talent, by Daniel Coyle.

Deliberate practice means setting a clear goal, staying fully focused, getting quick feedback, and repeating with reflection and refinement—and that’s exactly how you know it’s working.

3. Purpose (Beyond Self): Connecting Work to Something Larger

Purpose connects your work to the well-being of others. It transforms effort into service and helps keep you motivated even through setbacks.

To make that connection, at ReEmployAbility, we spotlight clients, injured workers, employees, and partners who benefit from our program. By highlighting real stories and real impact, we emphasize that our goals will be reached based on the impact we’re making in the community.

4. Hope: Growth Mindset + Optimism in Action

Hope is not wishful thinking; it’s the expectation that effort today can improve tomorrow. Growth-minded teams interpret setbacks as information, not identity.

At ReEmployAbility, we don’t think in terms of failures; we think in terms of what’s working and what’s not. Our annual Start, Stop and Continue exercise, which is part of our strategic planning, is re-evaluated each quarter so we do not lose sight of continuous improvement.

Together, these four pillars show that grit grows through steady, intentional development rather than dramatic effort. When leaders help their teams stay curious, practice with purpose, connect to meaningful work, and keep a growth-minded sense of hope, they create an environment where grit can thrive. With the right support and expectations, progress becomes both sustainable and shared.

Why Grit Matters in Leadership

Grit shows up in what we do, not what we plan.

Over the years, I’ve learned that strategy is the easy part — it’s sticking with it that truly tests you. I still remember the early days of ReEmployAbility when we were introducing the Transition2Work program. It wasn’t polished yet, and many people didn’t immediately understand exactly how it would work. Heck, we probably weren’t sure either! But we kept (and keep) refining, calling, listening, and adjusting. That persistence—the choice to show up again the next morning—is what moved the idea from an experiment to a national program. Grit made the strategy real.

Consistency builds capability.

Some of the strongest leaders on our team didn’t start out with the loudest voices or the most polished skills. They were the ones who kept showing up. I think of team members who began in entry-level roles, learning one process at a time, improving week by week. Over the years, they became experts people rely on. Their growth has had a compounding effect: as their skills grew, so did the quality and confidence of the teams around them. That’s grit turning into capability.

Grit is contagious.

Culture forms around what people see. One example that always sticks with me is the period when our organization was growing rapidly and processes were strained. Stress was high. Yet in the middle of all that pressure, I watched individuals on the team stay calm, step into challenges, and look for solutions instead of assigning blame. Their steadiness changed the tone of entire meetings.

When someone demonstrates grit, not the loud, heroic kind, but the humble “let’s figure this out” kind it gives everyone else permission to rise to the moment too.

And perhaps most importantly: people want their effort to matter.

One of the most energizing parts of leadership for me has been watching employees connect the dots between their role and the real people we help. I’ve seen team members light up when they hear stories of injured workers who regain purpose and confidence through their assignments.

When people see that their day-to-day work truly changes lives, grit stops feeling like endurance and starts feeling like commitment. Engagement and purpose rise together.

My Commitment

Grit grows through steady, intentional development—not dramatic effort. When leaders encourage curiosity, deliberate practice, meaningful purpose, and a hopeful mindset, they create the conditions where grit can thrive. With the right support, progress becomes both sustainable and shared.

Grit has shaped how I now define leadership success. It’s not the flash of a launch or the applause of a big win. It’s the quiet, repeated choice to keep learning, to keep serving, and to keep moving forward with my team toward outcomes that genuinely matter.

I’m excited to share more about GRIT throughout the year. How it’s shaped me personally and how it will continue to influence our culture, our people, and the way we lead at ReEmployAbility.

Grit is a powerful idea in leadership, often celebrated as the force that drives people to push forward through challenges. Yet its growing popularity has created just as much confusion as clarity. The word is used to describe everything from extreme perseverance to sheer stubbornness, and leaders are often encouraged to “be gritty” without a true understanding of what that means in practice. In my own leadership journey at ReEmployAbility, I’ve seen how misinterpreting grit can lead to burnout, rigidity, or even poor decision-making.

In my Part 1 article, I explored the meaning of grit. But before we can develop and use grit effectively — in life or leadership — we also need to be clear about what it is not.

What Grit Is Not

As Angela Duckworth’s research reminds us, understanding grit also requires clarity about what it is not, so we can avoid the misconceptions that often lead leaders off course.

Grit is not:

• Ignoring data or clinging to a failing tactic.
• Grinding yourself or your team into burnout.
• A “hustle at all costs” badge of honor.

At ReEmployAbility, we’ve had to make many pivots over the years. At times, we’ve been criticized for the shifts and changes we’ve made (by our internal staff). But if something isn’t working, one of our greatest assets has been the ability to change and change quickly! We’ve never seen this as a weakness; we see it as a critical strength that sums up our entrepreneurial mindset. Grit, to us, means staying fiercely loyal to the higher purpose while remaining flexible with the lower-level strategies. That higher purpose puts our injured workers, clients and employees at the forefront of every decision.

Grit is adaptive persistence. You hold tight to the higher-level goal and stay flexible about the lower-level strategies. As Duckworth puts it: “Giving up on lower-level goals is not only forgivable—it’s sometimes absolutely necessary.” Detours are part of long journeys.

Common Misconceptions About Grit

You may have heard variations of these myths:

1. “Grit means never quitting.“ Not quite. Grit means staying loyal to the long-term aim while cutting back on strategies that aren’t working. Quit the wrong approach; keep the right ambition.
2. “If you’re gritty, you love every part of the work.” No one does. Gritty people enjoy enough of the work to stay in the game and accept the boring and hard parts as the price of mastery.
3. “Grit is something you either have or don’t.” Grit grows. With experience, feedback, mentors, and meaningful goals, it grows. It’s influenced by who you are and what’s going on around you. But the good news is, it can change.
4. “Grit is solo heroism.” Grit grows in the right environment: high standards and strong support from those around you.

These misconceptions can make grit seem rigid or exhausting, but in reality, it is a flexible, learnable way to pursue meaningful goals. When we release the myths, we can focus on what grit truly requires: staying committed to a higher purpose while adapting our strategies and learning from setbacks.

Refocusing on What Grit Truly Requires

When we strip away the myths and misconceptions, grit becomes far less about rigid endurance and far more about adaptive persistence. It lives in the commitment to a long-term purpose while staying flexible enough to change strategies, learn from feedback, and grow through setbacks. By releasing the pressure to “power through” and instead embracing a mindset of clarity, curiosity, and intention, we reclaim grit as a sustainable and empowering approach to leadership. The invitation now is to lead with purpose, remain open to change, and choose the next best step that keeps you aligned with what matters most.

Tampa Bay offered a vivid illustration during the January 31 weekend of how communities and organizations thrive when they honor the traditions that ground them while actively driving the innovations that can propel them forward.

On one side of the city, we celebrated Gasparilla. This is a tradition dating back to 1904 that now draws hundreds of thousands with its iconic pirate “invasion” and parade. On the other side, Tampa hosted the first outdoor NHL Stadium Series game ever held in a Florida football stadium, transforming Raymond James Stadium into a remarkable open-air hockey venue, complete with ice.

Together, the events showcased Tampa’s unique ability to celebrate where it came from while boldly imagining what comes next.

As always, Gasparilla didn’t disappoint—despite the weather’s best attempt to steal the spotlight.

Tampa decided to feel nothing like Tampa with cold temperatures (and I’m not talking about “Florida cold”), steady rain, and even whispers of a possible snow flurry — about as rare as it gets here.

Weather aside (and to the weather “gods” out there, we’d like our Florida back!), watching the city come together was a powerful reminder of why traditions matter. They tether us. They energize us. They reinforce who we are and what we stand for. For a city fueled by energy and community, Gasparilla is a reflection of everything Tampa stands for — connection, celebration, and collective participation.

The weather couldn’t keep Tampa away! We showed up for Gasparilla, and again for the Stadium Series.

Just as Tampa balances a beloved tradition with bold new experiences, these two events mirror the cultural dynamics that have helped ReEmployAbility grow, evolve, and stay anchored to its purpose for more than 20 years.

Gasparilla began as a creative idea intended to energize Tampa, eventually becoming a beloved fixture woven into the city’s identity. Each year, the community doesn’t just watch Gasparilla, it participates. Krewes prepare all year long. Families return generation after generation. The city embraces the story as its own. For a day, we ALL become pirates!

That same sense of continuity has always resonated with me because it mirrors our journey at ReEmployAbility.

I still remember when we first started the business and our team was small. Every new referral required hands-on coordination. But it wasn’t until we started hearing feedback from injured workers— “I just needed to feel useful again.”—that our true “WHY” came into focus.

Behind every referral is a person searching for dignity, purpose, structure, and belonging.   Much like Gasparilla, our culture grew from moments like these, when we consistently showed up for the purpose we set out to serve. That purpose is now ingrained in everything we do.

In sharp contrast to its century-old counterpart, Tampa’s NHL Stadium Series game showcased innovation at scale. Hosting the first outdoor hockey game in a Florida football stadium required vision, creativity, and trust.

To pull this off, the NHL built a climate-controlled tent for ice preparation, engineered thicker than standard outdoor ice, and designed an experience infused with Tampa’s personality. Even nature participated — temperatures dropped into the 30s, creating “straight-up hockey weather.”  (Did I mention, I’d like my Florida weather back!?)

Even better, the game brought big energy! The Lightning weren’t content with just a comeback win! Oh no — they gave us a full-on goalie fight, featuring Vasy’s first-ever scrap, a sight about as common as snow in Tampa.

At ReEmployAbility, we know that same spirit.

Many people are surprised to learn that when we started ReEmployAbility 22 years ago, we didn’t begin with the Transition2Work® program. Five years into our business, a client asked a question that would change everything: “Could you help place an injured worker in modified duty at a nonprofit organization?”

There was no roadmap. No industry model. Just an idea and the grit and determination to fulfill the request.

One request became two. Two became a dozen. And that spark grew into Transition2Work, now the largest and most widely adopted transitional duty placement program in the country.

We didn’t grow by following a script. We grew through entrepreneurial courage, innovative thinking, and a willingness to stretch, just like Tampa did with its Stadium Series debut.

Neither Gasparilla nor the Stadium Series succeeded because people stood on the sidelines.

Gasparilla thrives because of its krewes, organizers, families, volunteers and the generations of people who come out year after year longing for that beloved pirate tradition.

The Stadium Series came to life through coordination across the NHL, city planners, event crews, and tens of thousands of fans whose energy elevated the experience.

For both, participation isn’t optional — it’s essential.

And just like in Tampa, our success at ReEmployAbility isn’t built on spectators. It’s built on people who show up.

Our culture has been built by people who trusted the vision, carried the mission, embraced change, and learned through experiences. We’ve had missteps, failures, and hard lessons—and each one has pushed us to improve. Tribal knowledge has value, but innovation is what keeps us moving forward. Growth demands both.

A few years ago, we supported a worker recovering from a serious injury who feared he might never return to employment. We placed him at a local nonprofit thrift store sorting and organizing donations. He was hesitant and unsure, but willing to give it a chance.

Weeks later, he shared that the routine rekindled his sense of purpose. He regained confidence. He regained structure. He regained himself.

Eventually, he returned to his full-time job.

Stories like his move through our organization like a spark. They remind us why our work matters, and they reinforce the compassion, accountability, and commitment that define our culture.

Blending tradition and innovation matters because it allows us to preserve what is essential while still moving boldly into the future and staying relevant. Gasparilla thrives year after year because Tampa protects its roots, just as great organizations safeguard their core values. At the same time, bold ideas that align with purpose — like the Stadium Series — show what becomes possible when vision meets execution, reminding us that innovation is what keeps organizations alive.

True culture grows when people contribute rather than simply comply, whether they’re part of a krewe, a fan base, or a team improving a process. And, through it all, telling the story is still essential. Stories create meaning, momentum, and memory. Tampa tells its story every Gasparilla season, and we tell ours every time we celebrate another injured worker’s successful return to work.

Gasparilla roots Tampa Bay in its past. The NHL Stadium Series stretched Tampa into its future.

Together, they remind us that thriving cultures blend the familiarity with the visionary.

ReEmployAbility does the same.

We honor what made us who we are.   We welcome what helps us grow.   And we keep writing this story together.

As we continue this journey, each of us plays a part in shaping a future that honors our roots while embracing what comes next.

Why Grit, Why Now

During our strategic planning late last year, our leadership team selected “grit” as our word of the year. Each team member approached the whiteboard and wrote down words that resonated with them and would help define the year ahead. Words like resilience, perseverance, and adaptability all pointed us toward a single theme: grit.

For several years, we’ve used the One Word approach inspired by bestselling author Jon Gordon. The exercise is simple: choose one word that creates clarity and sharpens focus to guide your decisions and actions for the year. It aligns your team around a shared vision and simplifies decision-making. So, when the team chose grit, I wasn’t surprised — the word had been showing up everywhere for me lately.

I first learned about grit from a Mel Robbins podcast featuring Angela Duckworth, author of Grit: The Power of Passion and Perseverance. That one episode inspired me so much that I shared it with our leadership team, the entire company, and even friends and family members. And when grit became our guiding word for the year, I committed to reading the book over the holidays. That decision sparked a deeper reflection: How have I been gritty? Is grit something I was born with or learned? How can I lead in a way that develops grit in others?

This article series explores those questions: what grit truly is, how it shapes leadership and culture, and how it can fuel personal growth.

As I dug deeper into what grit really means for me, for our team, and for the way we lead, I began to realize that grit isn’t just an inspiring theme — it’s a practical framework for how progress actually happens. Choosing grit as our word of the year pushed me to look beyond the surface of motivation and examine the mechanics of sustained growth. That reflection led me to Angela Duckworth’s research, which offers a clearer understanding of why some people continue to advance while others stall: it comes down to how effort shapes both our skills and our results.

Talent Matters — But Effort Counts Twice

Angela Duckworth offers a simple but powerful framework:

• Skill = Talent × Effort
• Achievement = Skill × Effort

Talent helps you learn faster. Effort helps you learn and turn what you’ve learned into results. In other words, effort develops both skill and achievement. For leaders, this formula reframes the question from “Who’s the most talented?” to “Who will keep showing up, practicing hard things, and getting better? Especially when it’s not easy.”

I’ve never considered myself the smartest person in the room. In fact, when I started ReEmployAbility, I had no idea what I was doing! I think that’s true for most of us who start a business. You never truly realize how much you don’t know until you’re right in the thick of it! But I am a learner. I have a growth mindset, and I’m willing to work hard at the things I especially do not know or understand. I’m awful at math and had to learn how to figure out financial reporting. What was a P&L and what does a Balance Sheet tell me? I had to ask for help, and I was not afraid to admit what I did not know, to seek out mentors, and surround myself with people who are much smarter than me.

That willingness to learn and persist has been the single biggest driver of my success. Not raw talent or intellect, but consistent effort and curiosity. And that’s the real message of grit: the small, deliberate choices you make everyday matter more than any natural ability.

The Real Definition: Passion + Perseverance

In Duckworth’s research, passion isn’t fireworks or intensity. It’s a connection to a meaningful target that keeps you focused over years, not just weeks. Perseverance is the daily discipline for improvement. Every day gets a little better than yesterday. Together, this produces progress that multiplies.

• Passion anchors your “why” when results are slow (and you become impatient!).
• Perseverance is what bridges the gap between what you set out to do and what you achieve (week after week).

My original driving force wasn’t a calling. In all honesty, I saw others starting businesses and thought, “Well, if they can do it, I certainly can.” Although return to work was something that I felt strongly about, and focused on in my early career, I didn’t set out thinking deeply about helping injured workers. And I imagined many injured workers wouldn’t embrace our Transition2Work® program. That it might feel more like a stick than a carrot. But things changed as real stories began to reach me. The positive notes from injured workers, participation rates that started to skyrocket, and genuine gratitude from people whose lives we touched through our Transition2Work program.

The moment my purpose truly crystallized wasn’t from a spreadsheet or even from an injured worker testimonial; it came from within our own walls. One of my employees, a single mom, was struggling to make ends meet. She couldn’t get to work because her car had a bad set of tires. I remember asking myself: How can I help give this young woman a break? How can I lighten the burden of being a single mom trying to balance career and family? In that moment, my purpose was defined. Our work is about building pathways for injured workers, yes, but also for the people who show up every day to make the mission real. That purpose became the fuel that currently sustains my perseverance. Grit isn’t about dramatic passion or extreme pushing. It is about choosing a meaningful direction and committing to steady, sustained progress. When your purpose is clear and you show up day after day, even in the quiet and unglamorous moments, the combination of passion and perseverance begins to compound. This is the point where real momentum and genuine mastery start to appear.

Bringing Grit Into Focus

Grit is not rooted in intensity or dramatic effort. It grows from choosing a meaningful direction and committing to steady, intentional progress. Leadership development unfolds through curiosity, learning, and consistent practice rather than talent alone. When passion aligns with purpose and perseverance shapes daily habits, momentum builds in a way that creates long-lasting growth. Over time, these quiet, repeated choices transform effort into meaningful achievement and set the foundation for how we lead ourselves and others.

As we move forward, the invitation is simple: choose one meaningful step, take it consistently, and trust that each deliberate effort brings you closer to the leader you are becoming.

Music has been a constant thread woven through the fabric of my life. From my earliest memories, it has always been there.  Sometimes in the background, sometimes taking center stage, but always present.

On Sundays after Mass, while the Sunday Gravy was simmering on the stove (if you’re Italian, you know exactly what I mean), my dad would play recordings of the great operas—Tosca, Madame Butterfly, La Traviata. At the time, I didn’t appreciate it. In fact, as a kid, I remember rolling my eyes and wishing for silence or something I thought was “cooler.” But those soaring voices seeped into me anyway, forming a quiet foundation for my love of music.

Then came Broadway. Our home was filled with the sounds of Pippin, Phantom of the Opera, Fiddler on the Roof, and Jesus Christ Superstar—just to name a few.  Those shows taught me that music could tell stories—grand, tragic, joyful, and everything in between.

And then there was rock. Pink Floyd, Chicago, Kansas—my dad’s musical taste was vast and generous. He never limited himself to one genre. He listened with reverence, appreciating every style for its artistry and soul. Through him, I learned to do the same. That openness shaped me—not just as a listener, but as a person.

Recently, as I was writing this article, a colleague posted something that stopped me in my tracks. He wrote: “Feeling the music isn’t just about rhythm or movement. It’s about finding joy in the process, staying present in the moment, and leading with heart rather than just mechanics.” That resonated deeply. It made me think about the legacy I’m leaving—not just through my work, but through music.—with my family, my friends, and those I lead.

It’s no secret to those closest to me that I have a theme song: “Dancing Queen” by ABBA. People will message me out of the blue when they hear it. My kids know the minute it comes on, we erupt in dance and song. It’s pure joy — unfiltered, unapologetic. And I’m proud of that. Proud to leave them with a legacy of joy, of presence, of celebrating life in the moment. It’s the same legacy my father left me: an appreciation for music in all its forms and the way it connects us to something bigger than ourselves.

That truth came alive for me recently during a weekend of concerts. It started with Lainey Wilson—a rising star in country music whose songs are rooted in storytelling and authenticity. My dad never really listened to country, but his love of different genres is in my DNA. Sitting in that crowd, hearing Lainey’s soulful voice, I realized how much I’ve inherited my Dad’s curiosity and appreciation for music in all its forms.

The next night, I went with my husband, brother, and sister-in-law to see Pat Benatar and Bryan Adams. As the music filled the arena, my brother and I had the same thought: Dad would have loved this. Pat Benatar’s voice was fierce and commanding—anthems of strength and independence. I remember feeling empowered and strong listening to her songs. Bryan Adams brought pure nostalgia—those gravelly vocals and heartfelt lyrics that speak of love, longing, and the passage of time. When he sang Summer of ’69, the entire crowd was transported back to their own summers, their own stories.

For me, that song unlocked a vivid memory of a high school graduation event at Adventure Island, where Bryan Adams performed. My brother remembered it too—but through a different lens. Same event, different experiences, yet both of us traveled back in time to the exact place. That’s the power of music.

The four of us shared memories of when we first heard these artists. Music connected us not only to our past but to each other in that moment.

It’s funny how music works on the mind. I can hear a song from fifty years ago and remember every word, every note, every feeling it once evoked. Yet I sometimes can’t remember what I had for breakfast yesterday. That’s the mysterious power of music—it imprints on our souls in ways nothing else can.

So as the year winds down and holiday music fills our office at ReEmployAbility, I’m reminded of what matters most: connection, joy, and the stories we carry in song. May this season bring you the same harmony and heart that music has always brought to me.