If there is a change in cabin pressure, oxygen masks will drop in front of you. Remove the mask and pull it firmly toward you to start the flow of oxygen. Place the mask over your nose and mouth. Pull the elastic band around your head and tighten. Even though the bag may not inflate, oxygen will be flowing. Be sure to put your mask on first before helping others.

Liz: Of everyone I think of when I think of this expression, you’re at the top of the list. What does it mean in your life right now to put your own oxygen mask on first?

Brean: See, I can’t start speechless. I guess it’s the advice I should be following, which isn’t to say that I’m succeeding on any given day. But I do realize more than I used to, and maybe I haven’t come around to just quite yet, the positive side, I think I realized more in the, “We can’t have me to go down. So whatever that takes and whatever that looks like.”  And sometimes that looks like things that are called self care that I never used to do. I have to do that.

As Brean Vaske and I talked, we were walking through Logan Airport, so the actual preflight safety instructions were imminent. Just like on an airplane, if we’re oxygen-deprived, we can’t show up fully for the people who matter to us. The oxygen mask is a powerful metaphor for self-care. It isn’t selfish – it’s practical. You can’t pour from an empty cup.

Liz: What does the oxygen mask really look like?

Brean: Maybe it looks like going to Boston for a weekend and not crying until you are at the airport on the way home.

Liz: That’s a win.

Brean: I don’t know, because when people talk in terms of self-care, I always think that’s a great phrase. But what does it actually mean? And I never really could figure it out because it’s not like I’m going to go spend weekends at spas. 

Liz: I took you to your spa. I took you to a Celtics game.

Brean: Exactly. 

Our conversation begins with our take on the metaphorical “oxygen mask” — the notion that to be effective caregivers and leaders, we must first take care of ourselves. This theme is particularly significant in this story, as her husband’s unexpected illness thrust their family into a whirlwind of medical and emotional challenges. What follows is an inexplicable story of multi-system failure and recovery.

Brean: I found him in the bathroom throwing up. And I said, “Are you all right?” And he said, “I don’t feel good”. And I said, “Oh, okay.” And the next morning (Friday), I went up and he was still in bed. I think in the 30 years we’ve been together, he’s not gone to work, maybe twice. And I said, “What are you doing?” And he said, “I was up all night. I can’t do it. I called off,’ and I said, “Okay.” And I closed the door, and I brought him all the liquids and went about my business.

Saturday morning, he came downstairs and he tried. He said, “I’m going to go to Lacrosse with you guys.” And I said, “You don’t even look like you can keep your head up. You’re going to stay home.” I got a text about noon that said, “I’m going to go to the hospital and get a bag of fluids. I don’t feel good. I’ll be home by dinner.” And 30 minutes later, I got a text from the neighbor that said, Why is there an ambulance in your yard? 

I got to the hospital that night, and they seemed to have it under control. And they said, “We’re just going to watch him overnight.” And I went home. They called 2 hours later, and just kept saying, You need to come. They started saying all of these medical terms because at this point, he was in multisystems failure and it was way above my head, and I didn’t understand what they were saying. So I called Dr. Matt Metz and said, “Matt, what are they saying?” And he said, “They’re saying Kelly will be there, and I’m going to your house.” And I said, Oh, And then I called Dr. Mary Hammond, and those two women came, and they both have medical knowledge that I don’t have. The looks on their faces were like, “Okay, this isn’t good. We’re done.” Apparently, Brian had asked to be intubated. So he had said, “It’s time.”

And then he told them “no ECMO.”  I didn’t know what ECMO was. The doctor comes over to me and says, “We need to fly him to Ruby right now.” I said, “Okay, why are we having this conversation? Then fly him to Ruby.” He said, “Well, Ruby won’t take him unless you agree to ECMO.” I said, “Okay, do that.” And he said, “But he said, No.” I said, “Well, he can’t talk now.  Do you see the little boy in the corner? He’s going home to that boy.”

There is not much commentary I can offer on the unexpected upheaval surrounding the Vaskes. There’s something surreal about those moments when everything hangs in the balance. One second, life is moving along its predictable path. The next, you’re thrust into a whirlwind of chaos where nothing feels certain—especially not tomorrow.

I’ve been there. That space where time both freezes and accelerates. Where your mind races through a thousand scenarios while your body seems trapped in molasses. These life-or-death moments don’t just challenge our survival instincts; they fundamentally alter how we see everything that follows. We are left shaken with only our faith in what we believe.

Brean: To be honest, at that point, if he was going to die, it mattered more to go see Miles’ science experiment than to stand in Brian’s room. Miles and I talked Monday on the way to school, and I said, “You know how we can believe in things we can’t see?” And he said, “Yeah.” And he quickly corrected me, “But dad doesn’t. Dad believes in science.” I said, “He does. But the two of us are going to believe in the things we can’t see. And dad’s going to believe in science, and dad’s going to come home.” And at that point, Miles and I, I think, we were the only two people in the world who believed that. We knew he was going to come home.

Liz: You know, I’m a really big believer in generational trauma and generational continuation. And the woman whose father died when she was eight was facing her son’s father dying. And you didn’t let that happen.

Brean: I told them, I don’t know anything about this, but I know how to make decisions. So if the question is something that gets him closer to home, the answer is yes. And at one point, they wanted to cut him open and see if he had a perforated wall, and I knew we would never get him closed. And that’s a rabbit hole we’re not going to go down. That’s farther from coming home. So that’s a no. And that’s how we made all decisions. And you’re right. Part of it was my father actually died of multi-systems failure, and that’s what Brian was in. And I said, “We’re not doing this again.”

He spent two and a half weeks on full life support. They fully believed when they pulled that, he would die. They pulled it. He spent another month and a half, I think, at Ruby, followed by three weeks in Weirton and three weeks in Sewickley. I decided that I was going to take Miles on our annual trip. We go to the same beach with anywhere from 50 to 100 of my family members, all of those family members who had kept us afloat for all of those months. And I decided we were going to go. Brian was no longer going to die. He just needed to get stronger. 

They called while we were at the beach and said, We want to send him home. And I said, “Well, there’s no one there.”

Liz: This is my favorite part of the story. The woman who had one goal, which was to get him home and made every decision accordingly, when it was time to get him home, said, “No, I’m at the beach. Give me a sec.”

The aftermath is where the real work begins. Brian survived, yes, but survival and returning home to the life they once knew are different creatures entirely. Brian is blind as a result of his harrowing experience. The ground beneath them feels unstable, as if the earth itself has forgotten how gravity works. Routines that once provided structure now seem impossible. 

Liz: But the pain lasts. And in your case, you still need your oxygen mask. But now they brought him home and you got nothing. There were no services for your now-blind husband who could no longer do his job as a pediatrician.

Brean: Correct.

Liz: I’m not saying the services don’t exist, but you don’t know what you don’t know.

Brean: On my days of some energy… which I’m going to get back to full strength, but I’m not there yet… I wonder, because I like to fix problems, what I could do to change that – the things we still don’t know. We are still waiting to hear from the Department of Whoever to chase down the paperwork alone and apply for the things and deal with the…

Liz: What I hear and what you just said is you like to fix things. You like to be in control. You’re used to making all the decisions. And so when you don’t know about something, do you beat yourself up that you didn’t know?

Brean: Not that I didn’t know, but occasionally that I don’t have the hours or the energy to do the research that he deserves. But my kids fed. The homework is done. So that’s the part I struggle with. I wish I could fix it and dive into it the way he deserves.

Liz: Maybe this month’s oxygen mask is just getting to the end of the day and saying, what I did today was enough. That would be a good oxygen mask for you right now.

Brean: I had to tell myself very early on because I was making dumb mistakes that I don’t usually make. And not in terms of serious things, in terms of, Miles needed that last Tuesday, not this one. Dumb mistakes. And I had to remind myself that I’m actually not dropping any more balls percentage-wise, it’s just the number of balls in the air has increased.

I love that the former college basketball coach still uses the lens of her shooting percentage to gauge her success. Getting back on your feet isn’t a linear process. Some days you’ll feel almost normal,  but your nervous system remembers even when your conscious mind tries to move forward. What nobody tells you is that it’s okay to wobble. It’s okay to take tentative steps. It’s okay to rest when the weight of it all becomes too much. Finding your footing after brushing against mortality isn’t about “getting over it” but about learning to carry it differently. You will drop balls. Lots of them. Children inherently know this, so Miles gravitates to the practical silver lining.

Brean: He spent weeks and weekends and did all of these things that I know that 21-year-old Miles will be better for, 25-year-old Miles will be better for, husband Miles will be better for, because he went and stayed with my aunt, who’s a retired children’s librarian, and she took him to things that it wouldn’t dawn on me to take him to. And he has asked this summer to go back. She is, I don’t know, close to 70 years old, and he wants to go back and hang with her and do some things. So he has realized the benefits of the very large family.

Liz: But that’s a beautiful gift of reframing, because at one point, you were framing it that he’s being shuttled off to all these people. And what you are realizing is that that’s not the way he saw it. These were great opportunities. That he actually wants to repeat.

Brean: He feels a part of a community that helped us. So I know he will be better for it.

No Mud, No Lotus. 

I was given the book by that title years ago. Thich Nhat Hanh subtitled it, The Art of Transforming Suffering.  He writes, “Most people are afraid of suffering. But suffering is a kind of mud to help the lotus flower of happiness grow. There can be no lotus flower without the mud.” It requires us to reframe the storyline we write in our minds like Miles and his mom are doing.

Miles and I have been connected for nine years. He was a student, who at age four referred to  me as “Lunch Lady.” It makes perfect sense since he saw me most often during lunch. I was important in his orbit only because I opened things in his lunch box for him, not because I was the Head of School. Brean and I bonded over the humor.  Ironically, he interrupted by saying “You should probably go to the beach and have a break – a day off because you’ve been working so hard.” At four, Miles knew about the oxygen mask before the two of us did.

Miles’ mom and I have been connected since that night last May in 2024 when she called to talk about the possible regret of not taking Miles to see his dad… just in case. I listened. I offered advice, but mostly, I listened. In the weeks that followed Brian from being the sickest man in the hospital to his return home, we texted. We invoked attorney-client privilege that wasn’t actually the case …although she is a lawyer. We said aloud to each other the things you are sorry you are even thinking by invoking “Oklahoma” from the likes of Ted Lasso’s honesty.  Our conversations can still be raw. We made a pact to show up honestly even when it is unfamiliar or uncomfortable. I needed it as much as she did.

When Ashley Battle offered me a second ticket to the Celtics game that followed our walk, I called the former basketball player and coach who would see this trip as a pilgrimage to her Mecca.

Brean: Going to Boston for a weekend and not crying until you are at the airport on the way home was a big step. And to be honest, you did it in a way that it had to be done in. There wasn’t a lot of time to think it through. There wasn’t a lot of time to talk myself out of it. You dangled the appropriate carrot, with the appropriate time – not very long, two days. It was a Sunday to Monday. Sunday, if everybody sits on the couch and watches a movie and they eat pizza, it’s whatever. Monday, Brian goes to Seeing Hands all day, and somebody will play with Miles. Everybody has been great.

They say a caregiver holds your hand through the darkness. Brean did that literally.  She learned medical terms she never wanted to know. She advocated and made decisions when Brian had no voice. We need to do better by the caregivers: resources that extend beyond the patient to embrace those doing the daily work of supporting recovery. Spaces where they can speak their truths without fear of their seeming disloyal or ungrateful.

Because here’s what I’ve learned: no one recovers from any amount of suffering alone. The hands that help lift us back on our feet need support to get back on theirs too. 

I am confident Brean will get her footing. So is she.

Brean: I think the way that you build confidence is demonstrated performance. And for better or for worse, I have a lifetime of things that didn’t go as planned but we figured them out. So I do have a lot of faith in my ability to figure it out, even though I don’t know what it looks like yet. Give me some time. I mean, it’s the story of my life, but it was taught to me. When my dad died when we were little, my mother said, “We’ll figure it out, and we did.” It didn’t always look pretty, and it didn’t always follow the game plan, but we figured it out. And so I guess that’s a skill, maybe. A skill? Can I call it that, that we learned from her. And like I said, it didn’t always look like we were figuring it out, but we were.

Brean, you are more than figuring it out. And you are not alone. You know that now. Look to your side. See those walking with you. Recovery doesn’t happen in isolation—it happens in community, in the recognition that life’s most profound challenges are meant to be shared. We just need to remember to put our own oxygen mask on before helping others.

—

Upon finishing the piece, Brean texted, “As I read it, you make me sound like a superhero.” 

I responded, “I see your cape.”  

That is the thing about facing an unexpected challenge in life… it becomes our reality and we are just doing the very best that we can…sometimes barely breathing. To the outsider it seems you are performing feats only a superhero could …because we cannot imagine that same fate in our own lives. We cannot dream that we would have the same strength to face it. But we do. 

We may never see ourselves as the hero, so we need to walk with someone who sees us – even at our messy, authentic best.

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Years ago when I first started writing, I had an audience of one. As I finished every poem, personal essay, or assigned paper, I dialed my dad to read it aloud. He always picked up the phone. I knew I was calling him at work. I might have interrupted him when he was seeing a patient, or later when he was sitting behind the CEO’s desk at Wheeling Hospital, but he always took my call. He didn’t just answer. He made the time to listen to me read. I know I could have just read it aloud to myself. Walking around the room while reading to an imaginary audience, my ears might have caught what my eyes missed. It was different when I read it to my dad. Awkward phrasing, repetitive words, and convoluted sentences suddenly became obvious and unacceptable. Dad’s request for me to “repeat that last paragraph” would always reveal a confusing tangle of ideas ripe for an edit.

Reading to my dad forced me to slow down. Each word must be processed and pronounced, creating a more thorough examination of my work and revealing its natural rhythm and flow. Good writing has a cadence that feels right when spoken. My voice was my most powerful editing tool and my father my most ardent audience. I highly recommend it.

My writing and I were a little lost after Dad died… until I started writing these walks and reading them to Rick Paolina. 

I am blessed that he wants to hear each one. I guess you could say he gets the audio version before anyone else does. While he is easily moved to emotion, he tends to be brought to tears by the transcription of these walks. “It gets windy” as he puts it. If he doesn’t chuckle and cry, the piece isn’t ready yet. The thing we could all learn from him is that he doesn’t just hear me, he listens. He stops everything he is doing. He sits down and listens. He gives me his undivided attention. Sometimes he asks questions for clarity. Sometimes he asks, how can I help that person or that situation?

If you know Rick, you know how big his heart is. He has more stories of coaching a young man, helping a stranger or making someone’s day than you can imagine. One day a friend of his son’s stopped us. Now an adult, he said “Look Coach Paolina, my shoes are tied.” They laughed, shook hands and caught up on the years that had passed since Rick influenced his life as a soccer coach, who insisted on taking care of the details like a well-tied shoe. Just yesterday, he jumped out of the car as if ejected when he saw an elderly man stumble in the parking lot. He calmed him, made sure there was help and then directed parking traffic. When Luke produces the audio for this walk, he will hear more tangential greetings of “Hi. How is your day going?” than on any other walk. No matter how that passerby acknowledges him, Rick responds, “Just fine, thanks” as if everyone asks in return – expecting the best from others no matter what. Rick Paolina knows that this life is made up of the little moments, small gestures, and genuine kindnesses. If you ask him about it, he will shrug and tell you that he might be the only person who smiles or says a kind word to someone each day. He takes that responsibility seriously. If not him, who?

Rick: I’ve been in a few situations where I’ve said to myself that, jeez, I may be the only person this individual talks to today.

Liz: Can you remember a specific instance of that? Because you do say that to me a lot.

Rick: Yeah. The one that comes to my mind that I usually end up getting choked up a little bit about is when I volunteered with Bruno at Catholic Charities for Thanksgiving one year. In addition to serving the community at their establishment, they also deliver meals on wheels every day, seven days a week. Somehow, something got mixed up in one route that people didn’t show up. There were folks who were not going to get their food unless they could figure out a backup plan. We decided that we would take the meals and deliver them to those folks. I don’t know, we had probably 40 or 50 meals. A lot of them went to housing developments. Then we pulled to a really nice house. I took the meal, went up, knocked on the door, and this beautiful lady came to the door dressed like she was going to a ball.

She had her makeup on and her hair was done. She opened the door and I said, “Hi, I have your Thanksgiving meal.” She goes, “Oh, man, I’ve never seen you before.” I said, “No, there was a mix-up and we’re new.” She couldn’t thank me enough. I said,  “You have no idea how much it means to me to be able to do this for you.” I got in the car and I was teared up. Bruno asked me what was wrong, and I said, “That lady, I don’t know what her situation is, but she could not have been kinder. I just feel like I may be the only person that she sees today or talks to today.” And probably that’s my most memorable experience with that.

That story always reminds me of my mother. When she could no longer go out as easily as she once did, she welcomed the plumber, HVAC engineer or food delivery person well dressed and with open arms. She would text me and tell me about how nice the young man or woman was. She would also share some part of their life story as if she had had a visitor over for tea. I can just picture her sitting there, perfectly dressed for the cable guy, making him feel like the most important person of the day. I know he left there a little happier than when he arrived. She was always like that. While in practice with my father, my mom would barely see half of the patients in a day that my dad would. He paid attention to their symptoms and respected their schedules and his. She asked a myriad of questions and paid attention to all the details of a life, respecting their heart and spirit as well as her own. She practiced medicine with her whole heart, seeing each patient as a complete person with a story worth knowing. The healing probably started the moment they sat down with her. 

It is no wonder that my mom’s summary judgement on Rick was simply, “Now that’s a good man.”

When I said, “That story always reminds me of my mother” it also tells you that I hear Rick’s stories more than once – all of them – with the exception of a few, I am sure. I never tire of them. Not just because they are good tales, but because you can hear his heart in the lilt of his voice. He doesn’t take credit for his own generous spirit. He is grateful to his family for that.

Rick: I’ve been fortunate  to live the life that I’ve had, most of it due to my grandparents, my mom, and my brother and sister and I. But we were given an opportunity and I always feel like giving back, being kind is just a little small gesture to say thanks to people, even people you don’t know. Again, you never know what the other person’s circumstance is, and I just always like to feel like they deserve a touch of kindness.

Rick: I’m trying to do the right things, especially when it comes to the people around me. I’m trying to treat people the way I want to be treated. If there’s something that they have going that ‘s causing them to look differently on me, then that’s their issue or problem.

Liz: That’s damn healthy.

Rick: Yeah, it’s a little tougher to do from time to time, but again, at the end of the day I really do try to live every day and treat people kindly, try to make them feel a little better than maybe before they met me or saw me or talked to me. If I can do that, treat the people around me that I love and care about, you being the top of that list, all four of my sons, I’m going to sleep well at night.

Very much like Theresa Kowcheck, whom you met earlier, Rick Paolina never met a stranger. They can chat with anyone, anywhere, as if they’ve known them forever. There’s something magical about these two. They carry a spirit that transforms awkward Uber rides into meaningful connections and turns checkout lines into opportunities for genuine human contact.

What’s their secret? I’m not sure, but I believe it’s a combination of authentic curiosity, the absence of judgment, and a fundamental belief that everyone has something valuable to share. Every story matters.

Also like her, he has an army he is fighting in his mind at times. There is a voice that undermines his very nature. He refers to his army as the Big Fat Liar. 

Rick: The Big Fat Liar. I’ve had a lot of mental and emotional challenges throughout my years. Some were brought on my own. Some of them were a little bit deeper than that. A lot of the things that I feel I struggle with comes from the fact that I didn’t have a dad. My grandfather stepped in taking that place a little bit. Dad left when I was five and never tried to contact us as far as I know. I think I’ve had some abandonment issues that are buried deep down inside.

That said …a lot of the things that I think about my appearance, being overweight, maybe thinking people are judging me or whatever, it is comes from a place in my brain that I had a therapist call the Big Fat Liar.

I don’t know. The Big Fat Liar is a big problem for me because I let these negative thoughts, whether it’s about my dad or about maybe things that I’m doing in my life that I wish I could change, start to snowball. So I’m trying to do better with that.

That critical inner voice that whispers (or sometimes shouts) that we’re frauds, that we don’t belong, that it’s only a matter of time before everyone figures out we don’t deserve to be where we are. The imposter syndrome seems better identified with the more visceral label: The Big Fat Liar. The real danger, as Rick points out, is how quickly these thoughts compound. One negative thought leads to another. Soon, a single mistake becomes evidence of your entire unworthiness. A moment of uncertainty spirals into questioning every decision you’ve ever made. Who among us hasn’t been there? 

The very fact that you worry about not being good enough suggests you care deeply about your impact, your contribution, and your relationships – precisely the qualities that make a person like Rick authentic and worthy. Its universality doesn’t change the weight or the velocity of the snowball once it starts to form.

Before it becomes an avalanche, mindfulness teacher Tara Brach offers a powerful framework called RAIN that can help us accept our negative emotions.

• R – Recognize what’s happening. Simply notice when the “Big Fat Liar” has arrived. “Ah, there’s that feeling of being not enough again.”
• A – Allow the experience to be there. Instead of immediately pushing away the uncomfortable feelings, give them permission to exist. This doesn’t mean you agree with them—just that you’re creating space to see them more clearly.
• I – Investigate them with kindness. Be curious but give yourself grace. What emotion is this? Did something really happen? What is the story I’m telling myself about what’s happening?
• N – Nurture with self-compassion. Offer yourself the understanding, kindness, and reassurance you would give a dear friend or a child struggling with these same feelings. You could simply put your hand on your own heart or whisper, “It’s OK” aloud.

The final step, though not part of the acronym, is to Notice that you are not your thoughts or feelings. You are so much more than this temporary experience of inadequacy. You also share this emotion with all of humanity. As Rick concludes in his reflection, “I’m trying to do better with that.” Aren’t we all? And maybe that continuous effort to grow, to improve, to become more authentic and compassionate – even toward ourselves, especially toward ourselves – is exactly what makes us genuinely “enough” after all. 

After 53 years in his family-owned beer distributorship, Rick has some hard-earned wisdom about life, hard work and the way we treat each other.

Rick: I started working when I was probably 10. My grandfather had my brother and I sweeping floors, mopping floors and cleaning toilets. Jesus, we did everything that you could possibly imagine. But then you work through the next 10, 15, 20 years, and now you’re out selling, and then you’re in management and you’re going to meetings.

Liz: But you don’t forget what it’s like to push a broom.

Rick often says, “Never forget where you came from.” For him, home is Bellaire, Ohio, but the expression means more about humility than geography. Rick urges others to stay grounded, be grateful and to lead with kindness. Never think you are more than someone else. 

Rick: I used to be in my office back at Muxie’s, and somebody would come in and they’d just start like, Hey, did you know that… I’m like, Hold on a second. Take a minute. Take a breath. Good morning. How are you doing? How’s your day going? For me, it worked in a lot of good ways, whether it was dealing with customers or if it was dealing with my kids or just people in general. Again, be kind, be aware of who you’re working with and who you’re talking to. I think it slows things down. Be a good listener.

Liz: Well, it’s supposed to all come back around, right? Isn’t that what my whole project is turning out to be that it’s actually pretty simple. We make it so complicated, but it’s pretty simple.

In our hyper-connected world where everyone’s talking, posting, and sharing opinions, the simple act of listening has become something of a lost art. Real listening happens when we quiet our inner voice, so it has the value of silencing The Big Fat Liar too. The irony is that listening requires nothing but our attention—no special skills, no training, no equipment. And I have found time and again that true listening leaves both parties feeling better than we did at the start.  

Rick sits down across from me and lets me read these blogs aloud. If we are a thousand miles apart, he sets the phone in front of him, grabs his signature rolled-up paper towel in case “it gets windy” and listens. One couldn’t ask for more in this world. It’s that simple.

Liz: Thanks for walking with me. Wasn’t as bad as you expected, was it?

Rick: No, it was not. I’m very proud of you and what you’re doing. I’m just lucky that I’m along with you for the ride…the walk.

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The moment is etched in her mother’s memory with painful clarity – the squeak of sneakers on polished hardwood, the thud of two defenders and Lala hitting the floor and the collective gasp that seemed to pull the oxygen from the gymnasium.

Cari: Well…. I remember she had been playing really well that day…and was genuinely having fun. The team we were playing was very aggressive… Lala had the ball and decided to drive it… two defenders ran up to stop her and all three kids hit the floor… the other girls jumped right up and La didn’t. It didn’t take a background in PT to know it was not good.  She had never waved me over in all the years she’s played. 

There was collective hope that it wasn’t an ACL tear. It was. It was a full ACL tear. She had gone down in the fourth quarter of a summer rec league game. It was a routine play at the top of the key, a drive she’d executed thousands of times before. But basketball, like life, sometimes pivots without warning.

This walk is not about the injury that sidelined Ashlyne “Lala” Woods for her senior year before heading to the University of Maine. This walk is about the way she is reacting to that pivot…it is not about the injury, it is about her unassuming courage and her penchant for optimism.

At 18, Lala moves with a quiet confidence and grace. If you had asked me 13 years ago, I would never have thought I would describe the vivacious child who found mischief easily alongside Ella in such a way, but it certainly rings true today. As the youngest of three outstanding athletes, Lala doesn’t say much. She doesn’t have to. She observes… and she performs. No, she outpaces others. 

Lala: I definitely started basketball because my sister played. If she was a cheerleader, then I would probably be a cheerleader. So I think just watching her do it made me want to do it more. I don’t know. Maybe I wanted to be better than her.

To achieve that sibling rivalry, she works hard everyday, and always has, but by being the youngest, she has also put in years watching and learning the game. When she plays, she is fun to watch. She moves down the court with a measured pace. Each dribble is purposeful as she scans the court with a brewing intensity. You can see a gleam in her eye that something is about to unfold. Her confidence isn’t born from arrogance, but from countless hours in empty gyms, practicing a pass or a shot when no one was watching. Isn’t that what they say? …character is defined by the decisions you make when no one is watching.  

Imagine then, the heartbreaking transformation of this active starter into a bench strategist – one of the most profound challenges an athlete can face.  Unable to play, Lala has become an unofficial assistant coach, seeing the game with a precision she’d never had the perspective or the time for as a player. 

Liz: You’re used to being the one that can make a difference. What’s it like to have to sit on the sidelines?

Lala: It’s not something I wish on anyone else, that’s for sure. But I feel like I have to look at it differently. Obviously, I am sad and I’m mad that I can’t be out there to help my team and my coaches and everyone who looks up to me and wants to come to the games. I can’t give them the entertainment they expect. But I think I’m just trying to look at it as I’m learning the game from a different perspective by watching every play, watching what my team could do better… picking up cues and learning from just watching. I think it’ll help me in the end when I’m back on the court.

I’ll tell coach “Hey, I think we need to guard this girl more. She’s on the back door every time we need to sit on that.” I’m picking up things that I probably wouldn’t normally pick up if I was actually in the moment playing.

That ability to reframe her thinking – the realization that there is still a lot to learn even though she is a Division 1 recruit – that defines Lala’s character.  Choosing a college is a pivotal moment in Lala’s narrative, akin to any of us selecting a path in life. Her decision to join the University of Maine basketball program was not just about the sport, but about the connections and the sense of belonging she felt with the team and coaches. The emphasis on relationships over basketball prowess highlights the multidimensional nature of her character and sets a meaningful example for others to follow. She knows what is important to her – the best shot – and what she values – relationships and trust. We should all be so wise.

Lala: Every team, every coach has a different way they like to run things. Maine really runs the ball to get the best shot. And that’s what you want in basketball. You want the best shot. You don’t want just a quick shot. You don’t want a rush shot.  You want the very best shot you can get for that possession. 

I love that she added “for that possession.” It allows some grace. It doesn’t have to be the perfect shot – that’s unattainable every time. Just the best shot for that possession… it might not be as good as the last one or as the next one will be… but the best one at the moment. It also implies there will be other chances – the miss doesn’t define you any more than the swoosh of the ball finding the net.

Liz: So choosing what college to go play division one sports has a lot of the same basic requirements as choosing a career or even identifying leadership skills. You were basically choosing what leader you wanted to follow. How did you make the choice?

Lala: The first time I visited, I was nervous, not as talkative, and I just let them do the talking. As I kept going back for more visits, I talked more, asked more questions. I liked the conversations with them. They’re supportive through what I’m going through right now as well.  I liked the connection we had. We stayed in touch, and they, I don’t know, showed interest in me more than any other school that I was talking to did. 

Liz: How did they show interest in you?

Lala: They told me that they don’t really recruit point guards. They are very picky about who they want and who’s going to fit in. I feel like if they’re telling me that, they must really like me then since they’re picky. I just want to be a part of that family of the girls and the coaches. 

Liz: You realize you have not said much about basketball at all. No. It’s all been about the relationships and the trust and the validation.

As a high school senior, Lala can sense that relationships and trust matter. She doesn’t talk about their record, their basketball stats, or their offer. She talks about the people. This is a pattern I see recurring: seeing the value in a person and taking the time to express that. This walk is by no means a treatise on how to recruit athletes, but a coach could learn a thing or two by taking a walk with a standout recruit and listening to them. Let’s not kid ourselves though, Lala Woods also wants the thrill – the hype of the big game.

Lala: The girls get a really good crowd. I went to the American East championship game: Maine versus Vermont. It was a very hyped-up game, and there was not a seat empty. It was filled; it was loud. They had the band in there. They had the whole football team in there. They had a huge student section. Every play, it was so loud you couldn’t hear yourself. It was so loud. That was what set it for me. I was like, yeah, this is what I want to be. This is where I want to play.

Liz: You could feel it. Literally, you could feel the noise.

Lala: There’s so much love and support in that building that it was just like, Why wouldn’t I want to be here?

When talking to La, you get the impression that she made the right choice. This decision, she believes, will not only shape her as an athlete but also as a person, ready to learn and grow and ultimately to face the world equipped with the skills learned both on and off the court. 

Since a coach can have such a profound influence on an athlete, I asked Lala who impacted her journey so far. I’ll be honest, I started to answer the question in my head before I had fully formed the words. In the hierarchy of influences in a young athlete’s life, we often look to the visible figures—coaches, parents, teammates, trainers, or physical therapists in La’s case. Her answer caught me off guard. The most transformative instruction had come not from anyone who understood basketball, but from a woman who understood something far more fundamental—the necessity of finding joy that transcends any circumstance.

Lala: Martha. You know Martha? She passed away. I think when I was little, I would always be with her. I’d always hang out with her. I’d hang out with her probably more than friends. She just always brought positivity. If she was having a bad day, you wouldn’t know it. She wouldn’t take it out on you or anything. She’s just a beautiful person in general. I just wish she could see me now, what I’m doing, which I know she’s looking down at me, but- It would be nice.

Liz: She’d be so proud. She wouldn’t miss a game.

Lala: Yeah. I’m just glad I got to have a time in my life to be with her. She always brought a positive, happiness side to me.  If I could go back, I would go back for sure.

Liz: It’s interesting because you just said the opposite of what you said the first time. The first time, you said she was always positive and happy, but then you said she brought that out in you, too. I love the recognition that somebody who shows up positively, even though she was going through her own stuff… makes you feel better about yourself.

Lala: Yeah. We need more people like that. With her, I didn’t even think about basketball. It was everything else. One day we went and picked up all the litter and trash. We would always play American Girl dolls. She would make peanut butter and butter sandwiches, which that’s not healthy at all, I know. But they were so fire at the time. They were so good. And now that I look back, I’m like, wow, I have had too many of those probably. But, oh, well. She always made me happy. If I was having a bad day, I’d be fine after being with her.

Liz: La, I love that when I asked you about who’s had an influence on your life, your thought was Martha. That speaks volumes.

Lala: I do have a story. I think it was our second game this year of the season. We played in Columbus, and that’s not usually somewhere we go. We lost. After the game, we just sat out in front of the school waiting for the driver to pull the bus around and all of a sudden, I heard someone yelling my name.  “Lala? Wheeling Park? Lala, is that you?” I was just like, Who is this? Looking around. I didn’t know who it was.

I see a car to my left, but I can’t see anything because the sun was directly in my eyes. I look over and all I see is the car and the person kept saying “Lala, Lala.” I walked that way, and all of a sudden, I see Martha’s face with the sun almost like a halo. All I see is her face because she has a twin sister. After I saw her face, I just stopped. She was talking to me. I couldn’t tell you to this day what she was telling me. I just kept staring at her. She kept talking to me. I did answer her, but I don’t even know what I was saying.

I remember and I just hugged her and I couldn’t stop hugging her. She was coming away from the hug to end it, but I just kept hugging her. So she obviously kept hugging me. When I went home, I told my mom the story, and she started crying. My dad even started crying because she just not only helped me, she helped everyone in our family, everyone. Anyone she was around, she would just help them. I don’t know. She was just such a great person. 

Amidst this reflection, Martha’s spirit serves as a reminder of the impact individuals can have on our lives. She had always offered Lala a safe space to belong, a smile, a comfort meal. Lala yearned for one more moment in that love – maybe more than she realized until she had the chance to stand in Martha’s light one more time. She is following Martha’s example in her life. When Lala works with younger players, she teaches them life lessons, not just basketball skills. She instills confidence. 

Lala: You got to think you’re making the shot… You got to almost be cocky that every shot is going in. That every time I shoot it, Oh, yeah, it’s going in. I’m not encouraging them to be cocky, but I’m just encouraging them to be mentally tough and mentally strong.

I just have to look at it like, I don’t know. I’m the Martha in someone else’s life.

Liz: To she who much is given, much is expected. And you have a Martha that you can hope to aspire to be. 

Lala: And it’s funny because normally when someone asks me, who do you look up to in this? Who’s encouraged you? Who’s impacted you? I would probably say something alluding to basketball. But today, I said Martha, and I think that’s what I’ve been wanting to say. But I just always just say a basketball coach or a trainer, someone I’ve met through basketball. I don’t know.

Liz: I like an authentic answer.

Lala: Yeah. I want something because anyone would be thinking like, Oh, yeah, she’s probably going to say a basketball person. No. But I don’t know.

Liz: I get that. When you have somebody that special in your life, the impact is pretty far reaching.

Lala: Yes, definitely.

Those of us in education know the unrelenting power of “one caring adult,” the lifeline toward fulfilling one’s potential.  Science confirms what our hearts have observed: when a child has that one person who consistently shows up, who creates a sacred space of belonging, something profound shifts at their core. Their nervous system settles. Their capacity for trust expands outward like ripples in still water. Their belief in their own potential inflates.

This isn’t about perfection. The adults who change children’s lives aren’t superheroes with unlimited resources or unshakable patience. They’re beautifully, authentically human – they get tired, they make mistakes, they sometimes struggle to find the right words. But they return. They apologize. They try again. They bring consistency, and in doing so teach the child resilience and acceptance.

When we talk about development – those clinical terms like “attachment” and “emotional regulation” – we’re really talking about the quiet miracles that unfold when someone holds space for a child’s becoming. When someone says, through both words and presence: I see you. I believe in you. You matter to me.

Martha offered Lala the unwavering belief that she is worthy of our attention, our effort, our heart. In that relationship lies the seed of everything Lala will become. As she looks toward the future, there’s a sense of anticipation and readiness to embrace whatever challenge or celebration comes next, both in basketball and in life. 

Liz: I’m sorry that the path this year took you from a rec game that maybe you shouldn’t even have played in to losing out on your senior season. But I’m so proud of you for seeing that there’s a positive side to it.

Lala: Yeah. Well, I have my days, but everyone has those, but I think there’s more good than bad for right now.

Liz: I like the idea of your being hungry when you get to Maine.

Lala: Yeah.  I look at things like everything’s meant to be almost. I feel like eventually I was bound to get here. Not to say I wanted this, but I feel like this is the perfect timing for this.  I’ll be ready for what’s actually important…my dream. Right now, I feel like I’m missing out just because I know what I’m missing by watching from the sidelines. But when I get to Maine, I don’t know what I’d be missing otherwise. If that makes any sense.

Liz: It makes perfect sense. 

I’m going to make it to a game, La. I’m going to lend my voice to that deafening Maine crowd. I don’t think they even know yet how lucky they are to have you take the floor in their jersey. Martha would be so damn proud. 

Don’t lose your instincts – and I don’t mean the way you pull up for a shot – I mean the way you value people and relationships and optimism – and to keep looking for leaders who do the same. You have proven yourself to be one of those leaders, Lala Woods.

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“I had no guidance at my old school. They just told you what to do and then yelled at you. It felt like I never did anything right.” 

That was the first time Gus Gilbert used his voice to share what school was like. He was 10 years old. We had just recently met.  I’ve lost the context, but we were filming something in the office and I clearly remember asking him if he would like to say anything. With pursed lips, he shook his head no, but he stayed in the room. He listened to other students talk and then leaned closer to me and whispered, “I want to say something.” I could see the courage he was mustering. When he spoke the above lines, we could all feel his sadness wash over us. How had he made it to 5th grade feeling so hopeless and beat down by learning? Until you and Ms. Kowcheck, I never opened up to anyone. I was someone x would hold it all in until I would just explode. 

It is not ok for a ten-year-old to feel this way about learning.

I have said it before, I am not in the business of surviving school. I did not choose to go into education in 1989 to be part of a system that could do very little for children with learning differences other than help them limp through until high school graduation. I don’t know any teacher who would want that. Neither does Gus. He doesn’t blame his teachers. He sees that they were not given the materials or the training to know how to help him – even if they wanted to. Once you listen with empathy to a child say, “I can’t read this” or “I don’t get it,” you drop the filters of expectations or due dates, and your life in education changes. Your perception of potential shifts. You see the child, not the behavior. And soon you begin to see all children differently. 

Gus: I did not like school before you and I met.

I was getting in trouble and stuff a lot in fourth grade, looking for attention. My teacher that I had at the time didn’t understand me. She didn’t think I was trying, and I was trying my hardest. She would make me do a lot of things that I did not want to do – not because I was just not wanting to participate, but because I couldn’t do them like the other kids. And it damaged my self-esteem a lot. It made me act out and find other ways to get approval from people that I was not always proud of.

It’s easier to have kids laugh at you for something that eight-year-olds find funny than it is to have them laugh at you because you can’t read or do the same math problem as them. For me, when I knew that I was going to have to do something that I could take a chance on getting laughed at for the reason that I couldn’t do it, I would act out and get myself in trouble before I had to do that.

I was not exactly the nicest kid that year… because if they didn’t get close to me, then I couldn’t get hurt. 

While it is heartbreaking to hear The Gus Gilbert Story, as I often call it, it is a gift for all of us in education that he is able to use his voice to inspire us to action. At 19 now, Gus can articulate how the pressure to conform to conventional methods of learning created a cycle of low self-esteem and behavioral issues. His fear of public humiliation and the inability to keep up with classmates were his constant companions.  They kept everything joyful at arms length. How dark and lonely school was for him. He never opened up to anyone – never talked about his fear, his pain or his loneliness.  He was never asked either. At 10, he entered our orbit. He met Theresa Kowcheck, the woman of joy. By the end of his very first day at Wheeling Country Day School, the children and a group of adults made Gus feel like he was safe. He once said, “There is a different kind of love.” In his version of the story, we saved him. In my version, he changed us. Once you listen to Gus talk about school, you want to make school a more inclusive and supportive place for all learners. Conformity becomes taboo.

Liz: So we were together for two short years. But in two years, you inspired me more than you’ll ever understand. You helped me look at kids more completely, You helped me understand how wrong adults can be if they judge a child by assessments or scores. The heartbreaking part for me is I feel like we did a lot of great work together for you and then for a lot of kids that followed you. But when you left us and went to middle school, things went back downhill really fast.

Gus: When you’re eight years old, yeah, that stuff bothers you, but it only bothers you to a certain extent. When you start getting older and you start to understand stuff a little more, then you’re really able to tell that you are set off to the side from other kids and stuff. I just wanted to fit in.

What I should have done, and now that I’m older, I’ve realized it and I’ve been getting better with it, but I should have just embraced who I was and let people, if they want to make fun of me or whatever, then I know that those aren’t the people that I need. Then the people that were still good to me, then those are the people I should have kept.

Liz: What would you say to 13-year-old Gus right now, if you could? 

Gus: Be yourself. Your guilt and everything. I had a lot of guilt with myself because I wasn’t true with people, and I couldn’t feel that I could be true with people. That played into some of my anger, and I was angry that I couldn’t feel that I could be true with people. That’s probably what I would tell him was just be yourself and let the haters hate, I guess.

Liz: Were you true with yourself?

Gus: Oh, no. Gosh, no. I have been, still am struggling with it, my worst enemy. I beat on myself pretty bad, and that’s something that I still got to fix. Definitely not as bad as I was back then, but that’s probably one of my biggest problems is myself, be myself.

Gus candidly shares the internal conflicts he faced during adolescence and still battles today. He speaks of the guilt and anger that stemmed from not being true to himself. I see the story so differently. We stacked the cards against him. He tried to be true to himself, but our educational system wasn’t true to him. He knows that. He was judged and labeled by his weakness.

Gus: Either you were in regular Ed classes or you were in the special Ed classes. It’s hard to say without… I don’t want to sound rude, But I wasn’t that far off from the regular class. I just was not able to keep up in reading. In math, I didn’t struggle, really. But it was just English. Then they put me in those classes where I was completely away from all my friends. I’ll never forget I came home actually mad at my mom. It was because I was in math class my eighth grade year, and they had me on this Excel website, and I had to match shapes in that box, like babies play with, a triangle through a triangle and a star through a star. I’m like, “How is this helping me? I just dropped back five years from where I was at last year.” 

I feel bad for all the time I got on her because she was in the same hard spot I was in. Honestly harder. Granted, thank God, I’ve had two great parents who have put up with, surely enough. But you never want to see your kid sad and angry, especially at that age… the amount of anger I was carrying around. Now that I look back on stuff, I know it hurt my mom, and not in the sense that she was truly upset with me, but she just wanted to see me happy. Then there was no real way that she could help because it’s really hard for one voice to do something with something that big.

Liz: Your mom went through a lot. I remember very clearly her sitting down with me and saying, You’ve got to start a middle school. You can’t let other kids go back into the system like Gus did. That’s a courageous voice.

You did tell me once your mom was your hero.

Gus: Oh, for sure. Still is. Still getting me out of …keeping me… trying to keep me on the right track. And I’ve been doing well. Everyone slips through the crack every once in a while.

My mom always tells me when I’m in hard places or whatever to… How did she word that? Because I was feeling sorry for myself one day, and we were just talking and everything. She told me that God has a plan with everyone. Even though you haven’t seen it yet or been happy with it yet, everything’s going to turn out for you… and you’re going to be able to look back and see what challenges you had to help other people. I’ve really been trying to use that. Bad stuff that does happen, just learn from it and come out better from it and hope that other people see it and not have to go through it. That’s what I took from that. That’s a huge gift. My mom is my rock. 

We all acknowledge Gus’s mother, Julie, as the enduring hero. Despite his occasional slips and struggles, her steadfast presence serves as a beacon, keeping him on the right path. Every time Julie’s heart broke for her son, her determination grew stronger. She wouldn’t let him disappear behind a wall of shame. Theirs is a testament to the power of unconditional love and the significant impact parents can have as their children’s first and strongest advocates in the educational system. She never gave up. No matter what curveball Gus threw, she was there for it.  After struggling through school and barely surviving senior year, Gus had fantastic choices for the years ahead of him. He was offered an apprenticeship but was also accepted at Rosedale Technical College. He chose to go back to school.

Gus: I really just wanted to prove that there was a schooling that I was good at. I’ve been doing great there, too. I wanted to do that. I could tell, even with that great job coming up, my mom still wanted me to go to diesel college. Honestly, I just wanted to prove to myself that I could do it.

Liz: Your mom says you have a 3.6. Is that right?

Gus: Yeah, that was my last report card. That’s the highest report card I have had since kindergarten. I don’t even think that we had grades in kindergarten.

Liz: And grades don’t matter, but given what schools have done to you, it certainly is nice to win at their game.

Gus: Yeah, I’ve really enjoyed that. Like I said, I got pretty good motivation to do this, and I just want to prove that I can do it. 

Gus has more than proven himself. He had proved himself to me when he was 10. He was brave, humble, grateful and brilliant …especially with his hands. We could read hundreds of articles on the need to support students with learning differences or listen to dozens of workshops espouse the importance of including all children, but when you hear Gus’ story, you cannot sit on the sidelines any longer. I call it The Gus Gilbert Story because he broke the dam – never again could I stand by and watch a child struggle and not do everything in my power to support the learning.  Gus’ biggest obstacle was never his dyslexia – it was the way other people saw him or at least labeled him. It led to his feeling like he was somehow less than everyone else. The day someone at a school finally saw him as capable instead of broken, everything changed. 

Gus: It was definitely you and Ms. Kowcheck. Then obviously, the guys, Mr. Michael and Mr. K and Coach Joe. Tell Coach Joe that he still isn’t as good as me in football. Mr. Hladek, too. 

I think he is calling for a rematch, gentlemen. 

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Life changes on a dime. We are never prepared for it. Thursday, December 19, one week after we took this walk, Theresa Kowcheck’s husband, Mark, was killed in a tragic accident at work. It still seems unreal to say those words. The world turns differently on its axis without Mark. In his quiet, unassuming way he changed lives throughout the 56 years he walked this earth. He made you feel safe, loved. This was true for anyone who crossed his path, but none so much as Theresa and his daughters.

With Mark, Theresa makes you want to be a better person just by being in their orbit. The outpouring of love surprised her after Mark died. I wish it wouldn’t have. I wish we were all better about sharing our feelings of gratitude, inspiration, support, and regret.

I couldn’t write this blog at first. And then it became clear to me I needed Theresa to know that her joy, her service, her leadership and her friendship has meant the world to me and to so many others. We tell ourselves there is nothing I can do to curb her pain. Maybe there is. Maybe we need to tell each other how we feel … how great their impact has been… offer ourselves as our most genuine and authentic selves.  And so I will.

–

Theresa Kowcheck was born March 14, 1967 in Wheeling Hospital. Why does that matter to this walk? I was born March 13, 1967 in Wheeling Hospital. We have joked we were separated at birth and then spent over 40 years trying to find each other again…a joke my father never found very funny. 

We embody the complementary forces of yin and yang in our shared mission to transform children’s lives who have learning differences. Neither of us could have been as effective alone as we were together. We were two vital forces working as one at Wheeling Country Day School until the spring of 2024 when we both separately decided to follow a new path.

On December 11, 2024, we found ourselves in Scottsdale, AZ to attend a Community of Action to Educate All Learners. I asked her to walk with me.  As we climbed Camelback Mountain, we came to a very steep section. The vertical path seemed overwhelming. It is the perfect metaphor for where we find ourselves at this point in time.

Liz: It’s killing me right now to not tackle this challenge that’s in front of us.

Theresa: Oh, are you serious?

Liz: But I think I have to say no.

Theresa: I would probably say no for you because I don’t think that would be in your best interest. You got two days ahead of you and meeting a lot of people, and networking. And I don’t want you sick in bed.  

Liz: Well, I’m saying no… I don’t know… I’m struggling… I think we have to start it at least. Taking no step forward is not good. Taking some steps is good. So I think we have to at least start it and see how we do.

Theresa: You want to start it? Okay. See what it feels like? Are you sure?

Liz: Yeah. Some steps, right?

Theresa: So small steps? 

There we are. At the base of an unexpected, difficult path, we had to summon the courage to take the next step. We questioned it. We wanted to turn back. Even though we were alone on that hike, we felt like the children were watching. We have to walk the walk – if we are going to ask them to do hard things, we have to do hard things. We had to take the first step up the mountain even if it scared us – especially so. Keep moving forward…take small steps, but don’t give up on the task or on yourself. 

Theresa does that with utter joy like no one else whom I have met. Her spirit is contagious and knows no strangers.

Liz: We got out of the Uber and I think you made a new best friend.

Theresa: Oh, yeah. Love that guy.

Liz: How do you have the spirit for everybody in every moment?

Theresa: What a fascinating question. It’s funny that you actually just asked that question because I was in church Monday for the Feast Day of the Immaculate Conception. For some reason, there was a peace that came over me that I had not experienced for a long, long time. 

I literally said to myself, and I never thought this in my 57 years, but “Thank you for my gift. You have graced me with the gift of joy.”

The fact that you just asked me that question truly blows me away because I can walk in a room, and I’m so excited, but I can also gauge that room and know when people are like, “What’s she on?” But I just get this excitement when I’m around people.

I had one of my daughter’s friends say to me one day, “You know what I like about you? You always make people feel good.”

I don’t think I recognized it throughout my life. I always just want people to feel happy and to feel good. 

Liz: Does it give you energy to be that way? It doesn’t drain you.

Theresa: Oh, no. No. It feeds my energy.  I think that’s been my success as a teacher with the kids. I always found something in them that was special. I don’t know. I don’t think they realize they excite me. 

In the process of these walks, I’ve observed how deeply people appreciate being truly seen. The gratitude radiates when someone feels authentically acknowledged – when their presence, struggles, and humanity are truly recognized. This recognition becomes transformative – it validates not just what someone can do, but who they fundamentally are.  Once you get a taste for it, you are both changed for the better. This is exactly what Theresa has been doing as she works with young people.

Watching Theresa tutor students with dyslexia is something special. She steps into their world with this quiet knowing, seeing both their battles and their brilliance. You can feel how she lights up when they arrive and how she celebrates their success – like she can already see the greatness unfolding in them. I’ve been watching her work this magic for years now, though she’d probably just shrug it off as doing her job. But there’s nothing ordinary about how she spots that spark in each kid and fans it into a flame.

Theresa: I have a gift of looking into the eyes of an individual and knowing, seeing their potential, and seeing how great they are. And I get excited to see that person. 

Liz: So your excitement brings them back because they want to see the person that wants to see them. It doesn’t seem like that hard of an equation.

Theresa: That’s a good point.

Liz: What was the Maya Angelou quote? Do your eyes light up when you see your child?

Theresa: I wish someone would have looked at me and believed that when I struggled.

Liz: They didn’t?

Theresa: They didn’t.

Liz: Who did? Somebody had to have.

Theresa: Yeah, but it wasn’t until my adult life. It wasn’t until I met Keely Baronak. She was the first person, and I was 32 years old. I kept failing and failing and couldn’t get certified as a teacher. 

Liz: Failing the Praxis?

Theresa: Yes. I used to not be able to say that, but I do now.  I tell people that it’s actually the greatest thing that ever happened to me, that I failed that Praxis over and over and over. Because now that I’m into the research and reading as to why, I understand why. I didn’t know how to crack the code. I could read, but I didn’t understand how to gyet the meaning. Now I know why I failed. But it wasn’t until I met her – she’s the first person that looked at me and said, “You have let for too long that one test define you as a person.” She said, ”The praxis is your definition of who you think you are.” I was embarrassed. In my mind, I built my own army of the people that thought I was a failure, that thought I was stupid. But I wasn’t.

Liz: And they were in your head?

Theresa: Oh, yeah. It was all in my head.

As I’ve become older, I always try to really sit and think. If there’s a situation, I try not to create battlefields, creating my own scenarios.

I did it a lot. I might have felt an emotion. Oh, man. If I didn’t have the proof of it, I created a battlefield. Well, guess what? It became one battle after another.

I like her metaphor of creating an army against her in her mind. It manifests how overpowering doubt can be. It wasn’t just a voice in her head, it was so overwhelming that it felt like an army mounting evidence against her. Joy wasn’t enough to silence the cacophony. Her story is so similar to others who struggle with traditional learning and assessments.  The actual barriers to learning further develop into thought patterns of failure – a mindset ripe for a battle that silences your voice. You don’t have the words to ask for help, to self-advocate, to speak your truth. You become blind to your potential, unable to see the depth of your own worth. 

Theresa: Leadership was never something that I saw on my radar. I didn’t see leadership for me. I am a person of “tell me what to do, and I will do it, and I will do it to the best of my ability to meet your expectation.” That’s who I am. But leadership was hard for me because I never liked the sound of my voice …and I don’t mean just tone and pitch and intonation. I mean I never felt that what I said really could move the school or move whatever it is we’re trying to do. I just didn’t think my opinion mattered.

Until I felt part of a team. The people that I was on leadership with, I trusted. I knew they weren’t going to… They valued what I said. If I got a nod from you or an affirmation from Julie or Brenda or Stephanie or somebody, whatever. If I got an affirmation, it actually just raised my voice.

These walks keep teaching me  – every single person’s story hits differently, carries its own weight.  Every story matters. Every voice needs to be heard. Leadership and wisdom show up in unexpected moments. But here’s the thing – you’ve got to really be there. As my sister told me, “Your mind needs to be where your feet are.” Not just nodding along, but genuinely listening. Learning who they are, what makes them tick. The second we start rushing, thinking about what we’re going to say or ask next instead of really listening… that’s when all the good stuff slips right through our fingers.

When you actually slow down and tune in and ask, “Tell me more,” that’s when you catch those golden moments of truth that you would’ve missed. She never told me how she felt about leadership even though we worked side by side. I never asked. I wish I would have.

I did know how hard it was for her at first to bring teachers on board when we first started the Center for Multisensory Learning. The woman of joy was brought to tears.

Theresa: Teaching teachers. That’s not easy. You get a lot of opinions and a lot of people that think, who do you think you are? 

Liz: Did people say that to you or was that in your head?

Theresa: Over the years, I’ve had my experience of teachers that did not buy into the Science of Reading because it was going to require them to change their teaching practices. And for those that didn’t buy in, that was okay. I did my best, but I can definitely tell you, those that bought in outweighed those that did not buy in.

Liz: But did someone actually say, who do you think you are? 

Theresa: No. No one ever actually said those words. That was probably an army I built in my head again. When teachers dropped the class, that was the story I started in my own mind.

Then she walked the walk. She started listening to their truths and not considering what she would say or imaging their judgment of her.

Theresa: You have to be careful when people get defensive, sometimes they’re scared. So I like to look at it like that… that person is scared because they don’t know. They didn’t learn this in college. Those teachers that fought back, they weren’t taught. Just like a child who starts to be aggressive in a classroom… or throw a chair… or be the class clown, they’re fighting back because they don’t know. Because they are scared.

Fear. So fear. 

We are back at the refrain. We are back to fear when the path ahead, the task in front of us, seems too hard. It is overwhelming, but you have to start and you need someone who believes in your potential but listens to your fears. You have to climb the unexpected path in front of you even if it scares you – especially if it scares you. Keep moving forward… with small steps. 

Liz: Yeah. Some steps, right? Yeah.

Theresa: So small steps? Small steps. That’s how I got into leadership. Small steps.

Liz: Isn’t that what we teach people?  Incremental change.

Theresa: Relating it to a child who’s sitting in a first-grade classroom learning how to read… Why are you making me do all this? Or math. Now, how many times have we heard an older kid say, Why are you teaching me this? I’ll never use it again.

Liz: Right. So if we don’t walk the walk, no matter how hard the climb, then it’s not fair to ask the kids to.

Theresa: Absolutely. You have to walk the walk, we have to feel it. We have to feel what they feel.

Fear is overcome by compassion. Courage is rooted in affirmation. The woman of joy who didn’t like the sound of her own voice learned to amplify her voice because there was a team who valued her and children who needed her radical empathy. It started with small steps. One student, Gus, who you will meet in the next walk, remembers:

Liz: What do you remember about those hours with Mrs. Kowcheck?

Gus: Angry at first. And really, the whole time I was there, I always loved Mrs. Kowcheck. She was just the one person there that made me do what I didn’t want to do. She just had to be that person. But no, she helped me out tremendously. And once I did start, because towards the end of my sixth grade year, I actually really started picking up reading better. Before I got where, man, I couldn’t hardly read it all. Actually, she was good about turning stuff into a game for someone like me. We would do the flash cards and stuff and then see how quick we could them and stuff, and I started to get into it. I still got all my books and stuff from when I did all that stuff with her. I love her and I can’t thank her enough for what she did for me and had to put up with me when I was grumpy about it.

Her joy changed him. He reached back to her faith in his potential often. He never wanted to let her down. At the funeral home, Gus said, “I am trying to hold it together for her. I have never seen her without a smile.” His ache was palpable. She had touched his heart and he wanted to carry hers through this grief. Like others he wanted to do something. Mark and Theresa Kowcheck might suggest something like this: 

• Feed a hot meal to someone who needs to feel the love that comes from the nourishment. 
• Read to a child. 
• Act in a way that shows compassion to another. 
• Make someone’s day with a sincere compliment and authentic conversation.

Now more than ever we need to share our humanity. You never know if the person you are passing on the trail is channeling every bit of courage and grace to climb an unexpected path in front of them. 

Small steps.

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Angi Evans draws you in. Even on a zoom call. Her unassuming curiosity elicits serious deeper thought. Her humility levels the playing field. Without ego, she leaves her fingerprints on your mind and your heart.

I met Angi through the Elementary School Heads Association (ESHA). The only national organization of Heads of School focused on PreK-8 independent education. That narrow filter makes for professional connections that I hope will translate into lifelong friendships. We support each other through the ebb and flow of an academic year.

Each fall we gather as a group to discuss the trials and triumphs of school leadership. Dozens of heads of school collaborating in one room. Except this year I wasn’t. As a former head, I am an associate member – a title usually reserved for retired heads. I am not retired. I assume everyone uses that expression for one reason – why would you leave such an incredible position unless you were ready to focus on your golf game?

While she is still the Head at Harbor Day School in Newport Beach, CA, she is the first person who understands why I stepped aside. She was spot on when she said,

“It’s becoming my school rather than the school. And I want it to be the school, not my school.” That’s the essence of my decision to step aside after 15 years as Head of School. 

We are walking near Lady Bird Lake in Austin, TX reflecting on the wisdom bestowed on us by Evan Smith. After decades of interviewing leaders for The Texas Tribune and PBS’ Overheard with Evan Smith, he had a thing or two to say about leadership. Actually, he had a top ten list. 

Number 7 was “You got next.” He encouraged all leaders to build a pipeline for leadership succession from the very day they take the job.

Moving through the first six items on the list, Angi was nodding with that knowing agreement a speaker leans into. Then came 7. Evan encouraged, “From day one think about who comes next.”  Nine out of ten of his points. I was like, nailing it. That’s. I’m so good. And that was the one where I was like, crap.

Angi: Well, I say that to board presidents every time, but it’s not our job., but in the end, it’s not our job. Even if you would say to your board chair, “I think Joe Long, who is here at our school, is the greatest next head, they’re still going to close the door and make the decision.”

As we discuss the polarity between confidentiality and transparency in the search process, we identify the tension that adds to the inherent difficulty of change. The transparent communication found in many PreK-8 schools builds trust. It is the foundation for the family-like atmosphere of our communities. In the absence of communication, the false narratives will write themselves. Trust breaks down. This tension is common. As an industry, we need to name it and further examine this polarity of leadership change.

Angi: Not like we’re identifying the next pope – waiting for the white smoke or something.

That’s Angi. She doesn’t take herself too seriously. Her humor pokes at an illusion of superiority, but we’re talking about the need for continued authentic leadership. 

I ask her what makes her a good leader. She names optimism, and curiosity quickly. I add humility and then we agree on a note of competition.

Angi: When they induced me to have my son, they induced another woman simultaneously in the room next door. I was compelled. I wanted to beat her to having the baby. And the doctor’s saying, ‘It’s too early. There’s nothing you can do.’ Sure there was. I’d ask, ‘How’s she doing?’

I don’t need to tell you that Angi’s son was born first.  That was a given. Would I be hearing the story if she hadn’t? Such a competitive spirit keeps us on our toes and drives us toward greater and greater school improvement. However, head of school leadership has a different lens than other positions. Sure there is the business side – “like a superintendent in the public school district,” but there is also a spiritual side… untouched by competition.

Angi: People will come to us when they are in crisis. They’re wanting us to provide some support or wisdom or assurance that it’s going to be okay that we don’t have. But they’re hoping. We can say, ‘I’m sorry you’re going through this hard time, and we will do all that we can to make sure that when your child is here at school.’ They feel this is an oasis from whatever troubles they have going on elsewhere.

We validate the emotion, not the position nor the experience. 

Angi: I think we all became a little bit of crisis addicts.  Crisis crystallizes your priorities. 

And it is the crises – large and small – that leaves others in our organizations musing that they wouldn’t want our jobs with the variety of responsibilities for culture, curriculum, curiosity, balanced budgets, fundraising, governance …and leading through crisis. 

Still, it’s a position we have both treasured for many reasons.  I encouraged Angi to distill it to the top five.

Angi: 

1. I matter. In a certain segment of the world. I matter. People notice if I’m not there. I think I will miss that. I’ve become very used to mattering out in the world. (“That’s super lame, but that’s one of those.”)
2. I have a story every single day.
3. I’ll just miss all the humans.
4. I have things that make me curious, that are engaging and interesting and not only matter to me, but I think matter to society as a whole. I think education is such a noble profession. So when we’re thinking about education, I think we can be proud of ourselves that we’re thinking about something like that. 
5. Every day I interact with 5 year old, every day I interact with a 72 year old and every day I interact with everything in between. And I think there are few roles where you have this almost 70 year span of ages and generations, you know. So if I could say I went and became a consultant or this or that, you’re never going to again have that wide range. And so I feel like I can tell people what 5 year olds care about. I know I can see what a 70 year old is thinking about. Not all of them but you know.

We are both very pleased we dedicated our leadership to the Pre K- 8 arena. In our schools there is room for learning from failure. Indeed, we encourage it. At WCDS a former student suggested a new tagline for the school, “We fail here.” Not one we publicized, but valid nonetheless.

Angi: There’s room for trial and error in K8. I feel so bad for parents who don’t think that there’s room for trial and error …and faculty too. I’m always saying, we don’t have to get it right every time. We just have to keep trying. And so many people are afraid of what I call these very low stakes failures. And so I really talk to our parents about low stakes failures and trying another way and making space for that to not work because they don’t think that there’s room for error.

The most important learning from failure is learning that failure doesn’t kill you. You go forward. 

For instance,  we have 416 students, and I know all their names – including the twins. And people say, how do you do it? And I say, I’m willing to screw up. I’m willing to say Connor to Tyler and have him say, oh, no, it’s Tyler. And then that shame prevents me from ever doing it again. I will never. And so I try to tell people that you have to be willing to make the mistake. It’s totally low stakes. But people aren’t willing to do that.

Again, a perk and a responsibility of the PreK – 8 head – you need to know every child’s name…and their dog’s… and what they call a grandparent. Every child matters and what matters in their lives matters too – it makes them feel seen. We have the privilege of being the beginning of their educational journey and the gift of their being part of our lives. That was the hard part for me. Waking up on the first day of school and realizing the preschool class wasn’t going to be down the stairs. I wasn’t going to sit in on story time or hula hoop badly or pick apart a buckeye as my daily routine.

Angi: Nobody asked me what I thought, and that was it. And he said, I’m just like a potted plant. I have nothing to do here.

She shares that wisdom from a colleague who just retired.

The position of Head of School requires us to maintain that thread of mentorship from beginning to end.  Your first year feels like a launch and you can benefit so much from the hard-won wisdom of those who have sat at the desk for a while. Angi offered some advice to her younger self beginning the life as Head of School: “You’re probably going to do a pretty good job and you’re going to love this. Do a better job journaling. I can’t believe the number of things I’ve forgotten.” 

I continue to think about the final year of headship and all the polarities that exist in that year. If the first year is a launch, shouldn’t that final year be a landing? A descent slowed by parachutes? And don’t we need mentors through this transition just as much as we need them when we are just getting started? 

Who’s got next, indeed, but in the process let us not forget the value of the potted plant.

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