Walk With Me

“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. 

---

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.

---

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.

---

Stacy Blain was born to be a scientist.

Stacy: I loved science from a very early age. I can remember my kindergarten science teacher, things like that. Crazy. So I always knew this was what I liked…and someone’s tried to destroy something that I’ve wanted since kindergarten.

Let me explain.  This is my college roommate who found a cure for a specific breast cancer. I have said those words often. They stop people in their tracks. It humbles me when I do. The voice in my head uses it against me sometimes. Who do you think you are? What have you accomplished? I mean… I’m just running a school. Good Lord. My roommate cured breast cancer…

But the university where she worked was not always a supportive mentor. In fact they accused her of terrible things and removed her from an NIH grant that would have allowed the drug she was working on to go into clinical trials much sooner.

Stacy: They basically took everything away in January of 2022, and I didn’t leave until December 23. I stayed there… part of me thought they would wake up and realize they were wrong and they’d give me everything back and I’d just go back to work. I know that’s completely ridiculous, but that’s what I think people that are abused think. Right? I think, oh, this is going to end, and they are going to be better to me, or my employer is going to be better. That’s the psychology you fall into. I wasn’t quitting because I felt like this is what I was supposed to do. This is my whole life. 

It is hard for me to tell this story. The arrogance, gaslighting, and intimidation seems unreal and yet all so familiar to me.   Stacy is suing her former employer for gender discrimination and harassment. This is a recurring pattern. I have seen it play out in the lives of too many women with whom I’ve crossed paths. Yet somehow as something so unfathomable happens, it begins to feel only like a story and not part of one’s reality. Maybe it is a coping mechanism.

Stacy: This wasn’t just a job for me. This was, like, my entire definition of self.  I am a mother, a wife, a friend, a scientist. That’s how I describe myself.

I think she lists them in that order purposely. Motherhood wins the day, but not in any stereotypical way.

Stacy: I’ve often said to my kids, all I want is for you to find something that makes you inspired. I left you kids every day to do something that was a part of who I was. And I hope that I didn’t damage you by not being there every minute. But I said, also, for me, I was such a better mother because I wasn’t there every minute. I wasn’t great at showing up to school with a snack every day.

God, sorry. Seriously, we need a snack? We can’t make it 20 minutes home?

Her list of who she is also includes one other title: CEO. She took that cure and formed Concarlo Therapeutics, a preclinical-stage precision oncology company whose mission it is to dramatically improve outcomes for patients with drug-resistant cancers by creating transformative therapies that control the p27 target. (Yep, I had to look all of that up.) The name of her company is the confluence of her children’s names. I loved that so much, I borrowed the idea. When I stepped away from headship to impact EDucation more broadly, I wanted to remember that my priority is always Grace, Ella and Nicolas, thus GEN-Ed was so named. 

Stacy has always inspired me, but once we took this walk, I found myself enchanted in new ways. We talked about our responsibilities to the women who came before us and the women to follow. We blended the idea of “Princeton in the nation’s service” to dedicating our lives to make something better for this generation and the ones to come. We talked about closing chapters in our lives that had included hundreds if not thousands of students between us. We talked about pivoting from academic worlds to leading new concerns, the necessary period of grief that accompanies the transition and the unexpected joy of longer fingernails. We have both taken the time to reflect on how we want things to be different going forward, so I asked her to define a good leader?

Stacy: Well, I think there are multiple aspects of it. First and foremost, you have to be able to sell your product to other people. And whether that’s you’re physically selling products or you’re doing what I’m doing, which is selling this vision to raise money, that’s what it all comes down to. Can I convince people that this is a good question, that this is a good path to reach the answer to that question, and that will then transform human health?

The second is actually building the team and then making sure the team is seen and validated. Everyone is respected. I have the saying… I do not want to be the smartest person in the room. I want to be in a room with all these brilliant people, and I’ll just help facilitate all those conversations so that we can be the sum which is so much greater than our parts. 

Apparently that’s an unusual mindset. I’ve been told this, like, a lot of people want to be the most powerful person.

Maybe this is the undoing of the imposter voice that lives in our heads – choose to be in rooms with brilliant people. Listen as if you might be wrong to broaden your thinking. Learn something new.

Stacy: I think one of my scientific strengths is being able to listen to different arguments and sort of parse down like, okay, this is actually the question we’re asking, and can we design the experiment for that question? And if we’re right, great. And if we’re wrong, great. Because now we know we need a different question. 

Curiosity, then, is a weapon against imposter syndrome. We can find those places where we feel lesser than or wrong and know we only need to reframe the thought. Ask a different question. Get curious in the moment. Learn from the room rather than worry in false comparisons or long for someone to validate your thinking or your actions.

Stacy: You know, funny you’re saying this, I was about to say, I don’t need to be seen and validated all the time. Although I now think, what if I had been more mentored and more seen and validated for 20 years? Where would I have been? So maybe my ability to do this now as the CEO is a reaction to what I didn’t have for 20 years. I was a lone wolf. I was doing my thing, and I remember thinking, if I just dig in, it doesn’t really matter. I don’t need to have validation, and I don’t need to have mentorship, I can just do my stuff. But now that I’m running a gig, I want it to be different.

I lived for 20 years in the if – when. That’s the way I describe it, If I get this grant, when I win this teaching award, then I’m going to be “in the boys club.” But then you realize you’re never going to be in that. You should be able to say these are the things that I’m doing and working hard for and I should be valued and seen for the place that I am in. 

I was in the room, but I wasn’t seen, right? I have this saying, do I have my invisible shirt on? Like my invisibility cloak? Like, can no one actually see me?

What does such invisibility do? It makes us see ourselves differently. It breeds imposter syndrome.

Stacy: I recognize that I have it. My university ignored me and then was trying to destroy me and said I did all these terrible things, and it’s hard not to take that personally. But one has to look for the motivation that others have to ignore you, or to hurt you, and frequently, and in my case, that was more about how I didn’t fit into someone else’s definition, how I was making people nervous because I wasn’t subservient to their opinions, especially when I started my company and really believed that we could cure breast cancer. That really annoyed people, because they were saying, who the hell does she think she is? So I definitely have imposter syndrome. But I think you have to recognize it’s there and you have to fight it and say, tomorrow’s another day. And then also fight the people trying to bring you down. 

Even Stacy has imposter syndrome. If she does, what hope is there for the rest of us? She is different. Not only is she standing up for herself in a lawsuit, but she also recognizes imposter syndrome for what it is and embraces it as a way to make the most out of each day. Like Barb Buchwach, Stacy understands the value of time. We only get so much time, so we need to make the very best of it.

Stacy: I think what it comes down to for me is life is a zero sum game. Every minute that you’re not doing something, having fun, making a difference is a wasted minute. There’s only so much time.

She has a very scientific way of thinking about things – even how she spends her time. There is a constant analysis happening in her mind. Does this conversation have value? Is this mission aligned with mine? 

Stacy: I ask, is this going to be valuable? And that’s exactly the metric I do in my head. I’m going to go to this thing because I think it’s going to be valuable to me. But networking is sometimes difficult for me. Because it is not initially obvious how this conversation might align with my mission. But in my new CEO role I’ve had to put myself out there more. And a lot of times now I’m completely pleasantly surprised because I’m learning about different industries and different things that I didn’t know about.

Liz: And so you are not the smartest person in the room.

Stacy: I’m not the smartest person in the room and I’m totally comfortable with that. The last five years have been a mind blowing transformation for me. I’m definitely putting myself out there. And I think a lot of it is that the metric of my time value is different. 

Her former bosses may have tried to bring this fierce yet petite woman to her knees these past few years, but she stands tall in her gratitude. Not because the path was easy, but because she never had to walk it alone. By her side, unwavering and steady, walks Jason, her husband, another dear college friend of mine.

Stacy: He’s had my back. We’ve had a lot of angst over the last few years, but we’ve been able to have a lot of joy because we have each other’s back, and we’re so supportive. And I think that it is really a beautiful thing to realize I married the right guy. 

In all the time Stacy felt invisible at work, Jason saw her. When others wouldn’t, Jason validated her. I have a hypothesis that it comes down to this simple truth: one person who truly sees you can give you the strength, the support, and the courage to keep rising, no matter what life deals you. 

When I was walking with Stacy, I had the sense that two small towhead girls…maybe kindergarten-aged… dressed in the finest 70’s style… were continuously darting awaying from us with arms swinging wide and feet barely touching the ground only to return with faces beaming wide from some brief but grand adventure before facing the next. We are all still our younger selves finding joy in our scariest adventures and comfort in our deepest connections.

---

In the early 1970s, a love affair with Wheeling, West Virginia began for Jim Denova. As a Pittsburgh, PA native, Denova was introduced to Wheeling by his future wife, whom he met while she was attending Bethany College. He wasn’t just captivated by her, but by the charm and character of this small city that rivaled artist colonies in big cities, historical preservation, great architecture, but also the most interesting people that are very approachable and friendly. 

Fast forward to the year 2000, when Jim Denova began his work at the Claude Worthington Benedum Foundation, a private foundation operating across West Virginia and Pennsylvania. The true essence of Jim’s work was not in the grants themselves, but in the relationships he cultivated. He is a connector. He brought together people from different sectors to cross-pollinate ideas and collaborate on meaningful projects. He expanded my thinking on philanthropy. For him grant making was an investment in a person’s idea that aligned with the mission of the foundation.

Jim: You fund a person and an actual body of work. So if you don’t think your idea needs the money, in some ways you’re denying an investor the opportunity to invest in what they really think is important. And that’s why I use the word investment rather than grant making. Because grants make it sound like charity. It sounds like they’re dolling out to the most sympathetic story. That’s charity. Philanthropy doesn’t work that way. Philanthropy is really about a foundation, meaning an endowment that has a mission. And my job as a staff person, was to find the best projects that match the mission of the organization. 

I’d say “Let’s have a meeting. Let’s throw it against the wall. Let me tell you who else, if you’re willing, should be there. Let’s put the ideas together. Let’s shape the program. And I’ll tell you what, the last thing we’ll do is write it up as a proposal.” You don’t start with a proposal. You generate an idea through conversations. 

This is how I met Jim. We had a conversation about learning differences. We talked about a project. He could sense that my focus on children with learning differences was worthy of an investment, but I do not think I fully understood that the “person” was as much of the focus as the idea until we walked together. While I had written a worthy proposal, it was my ability to tell the story, to listen and to connect ideas that led to successful funding.  

This is also a template for good leadership in Jim’s estimation.

Jim: If I had to define the best leadership, I’d call it collegial leadership, a team sport. And not the singular commander in chief, a head of the army, but the best, most manageable cohort of associates that each represents something different. And that group, that collegium becomes the leadership structure. 

My idea of leadership and how I operate, you can call it leadership, is to convene those people who are all smarter than me. Never convene someone that isn’t smarter than you. Make sure they’re all different and then hit the go button. So that is my leadership tactic.

That servant leadership, deferential leadership, collegial leadership, whatever the Harvard text folks call it, it’s just about having an idea, but then bringing really smart people together to figure out where it leads.

Jim: I put Gregg Behr in that category. Since I’ve known Gregg, we have had “throw it against the wall” breakfasts. He was the first foundation, in my estimation, in Pittsburgh, that convened a cabinet of folks who were doing real work in the streets. He had something called an advisory committee, and they were all heads of school, frontline teachers, community organizers. To be able to say, “What should Grable be funding?” and “Are we doing the right thing?” And he would be told, “No, we’re not doing the right thing.”

Liz: That’s the idea that you create with, not create for. If you’re creating something for someone, you’re not really doing it right.

Jim: Exactly. Too often, especially in philanthropy, because you’re dolling out money, you’re seen as elitist, or you see yourself as elitist. And pretty soon, you have an inbred thought culture. And I said, That’s a little incestuous. Why don’t we convene foundations and the mayor and the commissioner and a couple of hard-boiled nonprofits who won’t just kow-tow? Then we’ll see what we can do. It’s inclusion.

Jim makes it seem so easy. Have an idea. Assemble great minds which must be inclusive of all varieties of people – especially people in the trenches. Press go. You have to listen in that meeting, however. You have to be willing to be told that you are getting it wrong. Failing forward. Be bold rather than safe. That exudes the true courage of leadership.

Jim: Yeah, that’s exactly what I would say. I’ve heard some people talk about learning in the sense that we encourage kids to fail. Yes. But every time they do, make sure they fail better, meaning they make new mistakes. I like that phrase. I like that. Fail better. Keep failing, but fail better. Don’t just fail the old way. Yeah.

Liz: You can’t keep making the same mistakes.

Jim: There was another foundation that in their performance evaluations, if they didn’t have a certain percentage of funded projects that crapped out, my word for failure, they got a lower performance review because the assumption was, if everything you do succeeds, you’re not bold enough.

Liz: I love that. Isn’t that? So you’re not taking big enough risks. Exactly. Or as Luke Hladek would say, your swings aren’t big enough. Wow.

Jim: Isn’t that interesting? And they put it into practice. If you’re out there taking the most cautious grants and so that everything works out, then that’s the fast track to mediocrity.

Playing it safe means choosing the well-trodden path, following prescribed scripts, and never daring to color outside the lines—a strategy that guarantees predictability but absolutely ensures that extraordinary achievements will remain perpetually out of reach. Each time we choose caution over courage, we trade the thrilling potential of breakthrough for the numbing consistency of mediocrity, slowly eroding our capacity for innovation, passion, and genuine growth. True excellence demands vulnerability, requires us to step into uncertainty, and necessitates that we become comfortable with being uncomfortable—something that those who perpetually play it safe will never understand.

As Jim reflects on his bold moves throughout his career, we discuss the transitions that come with retirement, he emphasizes the unknown he experienced.

Jim: I went through a grief process, but it had to do with what… Now that I’m retired, who am I? What do I do? Because I defined myself by my work. So there’s that loss of what meaningful role do I play? Am I the has been? What am I? The thing that- 

Liz: Potted plant. 

Jim: The plotted plant. And I’ll tell you, the thing that smoothed out that process was twofold: the best part of being in a foundation were the relationships that I built over time. When people used to say, it must be great to be in a foundation, you get to give away money. I said, nobody cares about giving away the money, it’s an annoyance. The best part is getting to know interesting people and getting them connected to one another, particularly interesting people who wouldn’t otherwise connect through the nature of a siloed society.

Liz: And you don’t need to work at a foundation to do that.

Jim: You don’t. But you raise a good point. Part of that loss of identity is, do people still want me to introduce them if I don’t have a grant at the end of the conversation? I’m worried about that because I will tell you, having made those relationships, once I retired, people have asked me to work on projects, which took me by surprise because other colleagues and philanthropy said, “Jim, the day after retirement, you’re going to be Jim Who” just so you know. 

Liz: No, but I think it was not you because you were focused on the people and not the grant making.

Jim: Correct. I think that’s accurate.

People. That’s the focus. Children, colleagues, leaders, grant makers, foundation trustees…at the heart we are people. When we turn our focus to profit, policy, procedure and forget to look at the people being affected, we have lost our focus. 

I learned this in a very real way 21 years ago. As an infant, Grace left the hospital on a heart monitor. Add to the baby carrier, the diaper bag, a 2004 heart monitor and you get the image that I was more sherpa than mother. Over the course of the first six weeks we had almost 100 alarms. That means the alarm went off at any hour of the day or night to alert me that something was wrong. If you ever wonder where my anxiety comes from, that might give you a hint. One day my mom happened to be in town and saw me jump up at the alert. She walked over to me and put her hand on top of mine as I silenced the alarm. She said, “Look at her.” I did. My pink-faced daughter was still sound asleep. “She is fine.” She taught me to look at Grace first when the alarm sounded. Grace mattered not the machine. When we returned to Children’s Hospital for the pediatrician to read the reports, he looked at me in disbelief. We had had almost 100 FALSE READINGS. We had a faulty heart monitor. Grace was fine. Look at the child. That may have been her very best advice of all.

I have to give myself some grace…again. There is an equanimity that grandparents have born from their lived experience. I was less than six months into this parenting gig. I was bound to make mistakes. We all are. Even Jim.

Jim: Well, I’ve made more mistakes in parenting that I care to count, and I’m not sure all of them were failing better. And the humility, you never do anything right. Yes. Contrast, with the people that think they should bow at the knee because I work at a foundation, not because I’m Jimmy, because I work at a foundation. You make sure you’re really grounded in all your frailties. I’m sure that’s not what Mr. Rogers would say is the overriding characteristic of parenthood.

Liz: I have to tell you, you just nailed exactly how I’ve been talking about it with my own children…My oldest has said, time and again, you were used to going someplace where your ideas mattered and people put them into action, and we don’t.

In fact, if I speak an idea, my kids are more than likely going to say it’s wrong.

Jim: Now that I’m a grandfather, and so you try to correct those mistakes with your grandkids or what I’ve learned, I’ve tried to fail better.

After this walk through an art gallery in Center Market in Wheeling, I knew Jim better than I had before. I saw differently the work of foundations. I walked away with more confidence in myself. I felt more connected. That is what Jim does.

There’s something powerfully grounding about someone sharing real observations and insights gathered while moving through physical spaces. The movement helps process complex thoughts – the steady rhythm of footsteps seems to unlock deeper layers of reflection and candor. I am so grateful that this is my current path.

Liz: Well, thanks, Jim. Uncle Jimmy.

Jim: Was this?

Liz: This was wonderful.

---

They say you should never bury the lead. I don’t know if I follow that wisdom on these blogs. Some of the wisest, most meaningful advice comes at the end. I let you get to know the person I walk with. Let them find their way into your heart and then allow their wisdom to land in a way that might stay with you.

I’m breaking that mold this time. Actually, this walk breaks many molds. It is my first walk with a child. Allow me to introduce 10-year-old Parker. He has this to say at the end of our walk.

Parker: That’s one thing adults are terrible at, is leaving room for wonder.

They are a lot more worried about getting stuff done.

But wonder, there’s just… Yeah.

You can hear the exasperation. He is in a state of disbelief that we have lost it. It felt like we were disappointing him. He admits we are still creative – especially his mom – but wonder, that’s another story altogether… another level deeper than creativity or curiosity. And we’ve left it behind.

For you to understand, I need to start at the beginning. The thing is when is the beginning? Should I start chronologically with the day six years ago that Parker sidled up next to me while I was preparing to shoot a Headspace for Wheeling Country Day School? We wanted him to attend to the camera. He wanted to investigate a buckeye. So we did. We wondered about its layers, its outer skin. I’ll be honest I remember well how terribly hard it was to slow my world down to his speed. I had a schedule. Luke and I had to get this video recorded. Had Parker known that, he would have been disappointed in me.

Perhaps the story starts in November 2020 when I sat by my friend and mentor, Bill Hogan, as he transitioned from this life. He had asked me to come see him. He had some wisdom to leave me with. Truthfully, it was the first seed of these walks, but I didn’t know it yet. That is the way it was with Bill. He suggested something and then let it germinate with you until you were/are ready to embrace it. I guess I was a slow learner. In addition to a few other personal guideposts, Bill told me, “Keep doing it for the children. Yes, you’re smart but that’s not what your gift is. You are doing the work God intends for you to do when you do it for the children. Love them, that’s really all there is.” I kept that as my north star in my final years as Head of School and certainly in the best work we did to scale the CML. The children were the driving mission.

When I started these walks, I focused on leaders… I lost my way a little bit until I found myself sitting on the same bed in the same room with Bill’s wife, Susan. I was holding her hand wondering … no not wondering, considering… wonder has a different meaning in this walk… considering what stories I should share. As I talked about Ella and Grace, she rolled and hugged my arm tighter. Her action stopped me. I could hear Bill’s voice telling me “Keep doing it for the children.” I told Susan all about Bill’s wisdom charting the course for my life.  As I got in the car that night, I was resolute about one thing, I needed to start walking with children too. They have something to say and too often no one is listening.

Later that week I asked Parker’s parents if he could be my first. I chose him not just because of the buckeye he introduced me to, but because his eyes light up when he sees me almost as much as mine do. As you can tell by his sage warning, he is wise beyond his years. Perhaps all children are wise until the years begin to silence them. Regardless, this was a voice I needed to amplify.

Ironically, the microphone wouldn’t pick up his voice. You could hear mine but it was as if I was alone. We traded mics and traded back. No luck. I observed the synchronicity of wanting to amplify a voice that the microphone could not pick up. I had to be persistent and patient and curious to find a solution. No schedule this time. We walked for almost an hour and I could sense our conversation had taken its full course, but I knew to keep listening. I have to exude patience. I could have easily ended our walk, but I didn’t. I kept recording… that’s a lesson that I’ve learned in over 20 walks, I cannot be in a rush to push stop. Some of the best nuggets of wisdom come at the end when you think you’re already past the end. That’s one thing adults are terrible at, is leaving room for wonder.

I totally botched the beginning of our walk. I picked Parker up at school and made the typical, yet fatal error.

Liz: I asked you, How was school today? And you said-

Parker: Good.

Right. Then I immediately was like, Wow, that is the wrong question.

Liz: What did you learn at school today that you now know that you didn’t know when you woke up this morning?

Parker: I learned that a division problem is the exact same thing as a fraction. The first number, just say we were doing 37 divided by 2. The 37 would be on the top. It would be the numerator, 2 would be the denominator. That would be called an improper fraction because the top The total number is bigger than the bottom number.

Parents, take heed. How was you day? is such a throw away question that we should do just that. Throw it away.

Liz: Does something start out hard, like learning fractions in third grade, and then get easier later?

Parker: Yes.

Liz: Can you give me an example?

Parker: It’s like… At the start, you’ve never heard of this, so you’re like, How am I going to figure this out? Then as you start doing it, it starts making sense. Then it gets into a habit of, Oh, this is what I have to do when this comes up or this comes up. So yes, it’s hard when you start, but when you get the hang of it, it’s a lot easier.

We talk about the fact that you have to make a lot of mistakes in the process of getting the habit of it. You don’t need to feel foolish when you make a mistake. It is part of the learning process.

Liz: What’s it like to make a mistake?

Parker: For me, I like being on point, but now that I’m older, I realize that making mistakes help you a lot more because you think more. If I got this wrong, what’s another way I can do it. It just helps you think a lot more, and that’s what gets you smarter. Because when you’re a kid, or if I was in third grade, I thought multiplication. I had no clue what it was. But then when I started getting taught about it, it was just so much easier. If I got it wrong, I would wonder, how do I fix it? That just made me learn a lot harder and think about a lot more stuff, and that’s what got me that smart.

Liz: What’s it like when you raise your hand and you get it wrong? Can you talk to me about that? I assume when you say that, you mean you raise your hand to answer a question?

Parker: Yeah. Okay. What’s it like to get it wrong? In second grade or fifth grade. Anytime. Anytime. When I was a kid, I would have thought like, Oh, my gosh, these kids are going to make fun of me if I get it wrong. But now that I’m older, they won’t do that. Even if I’m wrong, it’s not like it’s the end of the world because Like I said, when I get it wrong, I always find a new way to get a different answer and hopefully get it right. I learned that even if I get it wrong, my brain will help me find a different solution to get the right problem.

Liz: Did you see kids make fun of you, or did you just worry that they would?

Parker: I worried.

Liz: Do you see kids making fun of other kids?

Parker: No, I don’t. That’s how I realized that even if I get the problem wrong, I won’t get made fun of.

He is ten. He already has a voice in his head telling him that people will make fun of him if he gets it wrong. He is working on it. I can imagine that voice rearing up and Parker telling it to take a seat. What is allowing that to happen? What is giving him the muscle memory to push out that voice? I think it’s sports. Not sports alone, but sports with a coach who cares more about development than winning.

Liz: So what do you do when you make an error on the baseball field?

Parker: My coaches and my dad say, move on to the next play. If you miss a ground ball, move on to the next play. They say, if you hit a home run, move on to the next play. Be happy, but I just stay neutral.

Liz: I like that. It’s the same thing, whether it’s a home run or an error.

Parker: Just move on to the next play because now that I’m just eager I want this next play to make up for my error. But younger me, I’d probably pout the whole game. But yeah, if I make an error, I would want to make up for that play and say, in my head, I want this next ball. I want this next ball, just so I can make up for the next play.

Liz: That mental narrative of I want this next play is probably what’s going to make you a better player than the kid next to you.

Parker: Yeah.

He has a refrain that he repeats like a mantra while he waits for the next play. Maybe that tempers any negative voice in his head. The mantra alone won’t make him better though. He makes it clear to me that it will also take a lot of dedication to be the best he can be – maybe even make it to the major league.

Parker: [Dad] makes me work as well as my mom. Actually, no. Let me rephrase that. They don’t tell me to go work outside, go hit off the tee. They want me to go do that by myself. My dad wants me to ask him if he can come out and help me and fix some stuff. It’s really up to me on whether or not I want to be the best I can.

He unlocks the magic to his mindset – you need to know you are loved and then you can build on that. As Bill said, “Love them, that’s really all there is.”

Parker: It all starts as a kid. Your parents love you. They want you to be the best you can. That just makes you want to be more of a leader. My coaches said, be a leader. Being a leader isn’t just telling people what to do. It’s giving them a high five or telling them they’re good at something. And then that just makes them want to hang around you more. So like my dad says, “Don’t change who you are. Just be yourself.”

Because other people might just walk out on the field, right? And they see you hustling. Coaches are telling. You want to lead them, to listen to their coaches. You want to help your friends. If they end up being better than me, that’ll make me even more happy because that just proves that me being a good leader brought them there.

Liz: I love that.

In the eyes of this 10 year old there are two goals: be happy and be your best. It doesn’t have to be THE best, just be YOUR best. He is willing to put himself out there as a role model, a leader. He will hit off the tee when he needs to – that’s not beneath him. He will hustle on to the field every time. He will listen to his coaches. He will focus on the next play rather than pout about the last one. His favorite game was one he lost. The championship in a baseball tournament that left them holding the runner up trophy. They had lost the very first game and had to prove themselves in every other game to reach the top of the bracket. They also had lots of time at the beach. I dare say that was his favorite game because he got to be a kid and do his best on baseball diamond.

As we walked, I was sure there were enduring lessons he learned from baseball. When I asked what he would want adults to know about life – what wisdom would he share, he returned to the simplicity of having a catch with your dad.

Parker: As a kid, my dad, as a kid, he promised that if I ever have a son, even if it’s winter, I’ll go out and have a catch him. He told me that even if he didn’t want to have a catch, he still came out. He said he wants to make this sport fun for me. If you’re a parent that coaches, that’s just it, you want to make the sport fun for them, make them want to keep playing.

Playing catch with your dad is a cultural touchstone of love and connection, transcending a simple game of throwing and catching. The rhythmic exchange of a ball becomes a ritual of connection, symbolizing patience, trust, and the transmission of love across generations. Beyond the physical act, having a catch embodies a moment of pure, uninterrupted relationship where presence is everything.

I would love one more catch with my dad. I remember our last one well. I was an adult. I was coaching varsity softball. I didn’t think I was throwing well enough. I met my 72-year-old father at Linsly and we had a catch.  I was transported to my childhood. I didn’t have lesson plans to review, or laundry, or grocery shopping or any other badge of adult life. He didn’t have a hospital to run. We were simply present with one another. I think there was wonder in that moment.

Parker would have been proud.

On that November night, Bill had also said, “I didn’t paint to make something beautiful. I created art to let my soul speak to all the other right people. You’ll know when you meet the people you connect with, trust them.” So I will walk with children and amplify their voices for “all the other right people.” 

I am walking with leaders after all. I am walking with “right people,” those who lead with their heart. Thanks Parker… and Susan… for walking me back to Bill. He saw me. It is what drew me to him time and again…especially that last night when he said, “Think with your heart.”

Bill would have loved getting to know Parker.

---