Walk With Me

Chad Barnett has changed… for good. While we have talked on the phone at times, we haven’t seen each other for many years since I last visited him at St Edmund’s Academy in Pittsburgh, PA. Instead of meeting on the playground of this independent school, he met me out front. I didn’t recognize him. Gone was the independent school uniform of a blue blazer and khaki pants.  As my steps quickened toward this friend and former English department colleague, I was taken aback by his appearance.

No blue blazer? I asked.

“Nope.”

In its place: a tweed waistcoat, fitted and purposeful. His collar was open, the thin cotton tie loosened—not as a statement, but as a practical outcome of a day spent in a school where movement and play are part of the work. His shaved head, humble and purposeful, spoke to a quiet rejection of pretense—a clarity shaped by walking beside others, not ahead of them. The hiking boots beneath it all were built for steady footing, a reminder that leadership isn’t about standing apart, but about grounding yourself in the work and the community that carries it forward.

It’s a look that might catch the students we know in common from our days at The Linsly School off guard. But to them, I’d say: it fits. It reflects a kind of leadership that contains multitudes—high standards paired with humility, strength balanced with openness, resilience shaped by a respect for differences and an appreciation for growth.

It’s not a look worn for appearances, but for movement. Not to stand above, but to walk with—lifting, supporting, and steadying what matters most. Leadership, here, is an ongoing practice—grounded, enduring, and fully present.

By ditching the blue blazer, the identity and uniform of an idealized “school man,” Chad was becoming more himself. His presence, his energy and the cadence of his words were all more authentic. He spoke of the ways he tried to live up to expectations – seeking approval from paternal role models. He spoke of the long road that led to his marriage to Alice. He spoke of failures from which he had learned. Still, I venture to say what most inspired such change … Hugo.

I met the inquisitive and loving five-year-old on his birthday. It was rest time. If you are a PreK – 8 Head of School, you know this is a sacred time not to be interrupted, yet we walked through the contorted bodies of preschoolers sprawled on mats on the floor. We Heads of School tend to disrupt like that. When Chad finally folded himself into a chair much too small for his frame, I met Hugo. His eyes lit up when he saw his dad. The two collapsed into a hug. The intimacy of the moment in the midst of the school day was a gift for this birthday boy and his father.

Chad: There’s nothing like it.

Liz: Does the world go into slow motion?

Chad: For sure. And it’s never lost on me that the journey to that was long and winding and tricky.

Liz: So is that partially why you can be present in that moment? Because it was long and tricky?

Chad: Yeah, you know, because it’s just never lost on me that I waited a long time for it. And, you know, along the way there was always something missing. And you don’t quite know what that is. And I don’t know that it’s completely solved now, but I know that that little boy takes me a lot farther than where I was.

I fully understand. I waited a long time for it. I often say that my world was changed as soon as they placed Grace in my arms -but that’s nothing but flowery language. It is not accurate. I didn’t get to hold Grace for days after she was born. I first laid eyes on her the day after she was born – not minutes. She was in an incubator and I was wheeled next to her in a hospital bed. I reached my IV-laden hand past her tubes and wires and touched her skin gently at first – as if I needed to make sure she was real. Unbelievably, she was mine. From that moment on I had one job and one title in this world – mother. Every successful element of school leadership was born from a selfish impulse to make things the best I could or the best I wished they could have been for Grace and later Ella.

Chad understands this. Fatherhood changed him …for good. 

Chad: In ways that are maybe even bigger than I would have wanted to admit, because I always felt like, even though I wasn’t a parent, because I’d been a dorm parent and because I felt like I really knew kids, that I understood what parents were going through. But I can look back now and say I knew it conceptually, but I didn’t know it at all emotionally. And I think that led to a head of school that was a little bit more clinical, a little bit more objective. I led with the head and not with the heart. 

By leading with the heart, we transform organizational cultures from mechanistic systems into living, breathing communities of mutual growth. This leadership approach demands continuous personal work—a willingness to confront one’s own emotional landscapes and to heal personal wounds that might unconsciously color interactions. This personal work cultivates a radical empathy that sees beyond surface-level behaviors to the underlying human needs and vulnerabilities. 

In watching Chad work with a group of students, I witnessed the profound difference between protocol and presence. His approach transcended a traditional disciplinary playbook. As students voiced their concerns, Chad created a space where time seemed to expand. Rather than rushing to solutions, he guided them through layers of comprehension – from the visible behaviors that troubled them to the hidden struggles that might spark any unwanted actions. Each question he posed served as a bridge, helping students cross from judgment to understanding. Chad’s leadership was so much more profound than the reflexive reach for the metaphorical blue blazer of authority and compliance.

Liz: Now, did the blue blazer stop at the same time as becoming a dad?

Chad: The blue blazer stopped when I allowed myself to be myself.

Liz: And was that associated with becoming a dad?

Chad: I think it was probably a bit after that because I think the first part of the experience of becoming a dad was like, oh, crap, I can’t screw this up, because if I screw it up this time, it’s more than just me. So I probably buttoned the blue blazer just a little tighter initially just to make sure I was getting it right.

And then I finally came to peace … probably a couple of years into fatherhood … there was a voice that I’d been working on and a sense of myself that I valued that came to light. At a school that emphasizes as a core value and understanding and appreciation of differences among people, we shouldn’t all look the same. And there are lots of ways to lead and there are lots of voices that can lead. You know, we come in all shapes and sizes. And the Navy blazer is not evidence of credibility.

As Chad grew to admire and appreciate who he was and what he had to offer, he didn’t need the blue blazer. He literally shed the trappings and entanglements of the role of Head of School. At his heart, he was enough. His first son had been the “Living Proof” he needed.

Oh in a world so hard and dirty

So fouled and confused

Searching for a little bit of god’s mercy

I found living proof

Well, I put my heart and soul baby

I put ‘em high on a shelf

Right next to that faith

Faith that I’d lost in myself

Forgive me, but I cannot write about Chad Barnett or his son Hugo without a nod to The Boss. Chad is an avid Bruce Springsteen fan, therefore Hugo is too.  At a recent concert Bruce knelt down to give a young boy his harmonica – it was Hugo. This brush with fame adorns the headmaster’s office walls. I imagine it must be somewhat shocking for a student to sit in Chad’s office and know how cool Hugo and his dad are.

Unlike other items on his office shelves, one book sits with its cover facing forward. I was drawn to it as soon as I walked in, for it was illustrated by Peter Reynolds – a man whose art touches my heart as it manifests the power of children. The title reads I am Human. It affirms that we can make good choices by acting with compassion and having empathy for others and ourselves. Seems so fitting that Chad should look up at it everyday. What makes it even better – it was a gift from a child.

As Chad mentioned, his school values diversity. That mission was challenged and strengthened in 2018 when 11 congregants were killed at The Tree of Life synagogue – mere blocks from school and visible from Chad’s home. As a community leader, Chad felt the responsibility to respond with compassion and education. St Edmund’s made a calculated effort to teach and value the respect and kindness necessary in a school with great diversity drawing students from nearly 50 zip codes. In the midst of this work a young girl had the courage to ask Mr. Barnett to borrow some money. She had come to school without any book fair money and there was a book she wanted. As a fellow English teacher, Chad is not one to turn down a request to read, so he handed her the folded $20 bill he had in his pocket.

Moments later she arrived back in his office and presented him with I Am Human. Maybe she knew he was on the precipice of transforming into a school man who led from the heart and not the head. Perhaps she was aware that even a Head of School deserves to know that he is seen and valued for being just who he is. Children know. They are our wisest teachers.

Chad: The voice inside my head speaks up and says “he” doesn’t value your authority. He doesn’t think you’re smart. He doesn’t think you’re good enough. And I now am very familiar with that voice. And I know how to acknowledge it and how to let it go. And that, I think, has allowed me to have a lot of calm confidence.

Liz: What are the words that you use either internally or actually speak when you acknowledge that little liar in your head.

Chad: Sometimes I just sort of laugh or I’ll say, hey, I hear you. You’re back. And I do treat it as a bit of an old friend but not one who’s ever in the driver’s seat anymore.

There is a frame of four men on his desk – Frank Boyden, Jack Pidgeon, Reno DiOrio and himself, Chad Barnett. Alice made it for him. It is a point of pride that she sees him in the lineage of the school men whose authority and leadership Chad admires. I see the value that he is continuing a tradition of excellence in school leadership differently. Chad is different – he has all the best qualities of the long tenured heads who came before him, but now he marches (in his hiking boots without his blue blazer) to his own drummer. Dare I say it is Max Weinberg of Bruce Springsteen’s E Street band?

I know we are a better independent school community when our heads of school know themselves and show up with an authentic presence within their schools. Chad is living proof.

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Like many of my friends whose children excel in sports, Carrie and Geno Ochap travel all the time. It is a rare weekend that their foursome is in one place. Normally, Carrie and Geno are playing man-to-man defense – divide and conquer… it’s better stated divide and support. In fact, the only time she was available to walk was during soccer practice. While Lincoln was at the top of the hill, Carrie stole away to walk with me. 

Time. It rears its control of our lives in yet another conversation.

Naturally, I have the harbinger of Barb’s walk echoing in my mind. “Don’t let yourself run out of time,” so I ask when Carrie puts herself first to take care of her life and her marriage. It is not surprising that she chooses to respond to the latter. 

Carrie: We have what we call “date nights” but it’s like 5:45 in the morning when we’re both awake and can’t sleep. We watch the news and have coffee and catch up on the world. But it’s really our time. 5:45 to 6:30 a.m.

Being there in the quiet morning together may very well have started when Geno was sleeping in the hospital chair for three weeks while Carrie was on bed rest with their first son. The heightened mix of worry and joy never leaves you. At least it never left me. Carrie did what I could not – she carried a second child and found herself on eight weeks of bedrest with this pregnancy…with a two-year-old. This is certainly the proving ground for life’s journey to divide and conquer.

Carrie: Jokingly, I always say you guys caused me stress before you even were born.

There is truth behind that humor, and it swirls with regret and guilt. She feels like she screwed up. She didn’t do exactly what they needed her to do. “It’s real.” Maybe that stems from a hard pregnancy. Maybe it comes with a learning difference.

There is a hint of anxiety in Carrie’s tone as she talks about her son struggling with reading comprehension. She remembers asking herself, “Did I miss something?” She saw them with their lives in front of them and worried, “What if…” 

Carrie: I always question myself when one of my kids is struggling. It’s hard to see him struggle. With Maddox we unlocked the problem by listening to books on tape. When he was able to finally navigate that situation and learn how to do it on his own after that, I could see that little spark of confidence.

She tries to remember that spark and focus there, but the worry is top of mind. As we talk, I want Carrie to lighten up on herself. I want her to put herself first and see what I see in her. She will. It’s not my timeline. It’s hers. These walks are not intended to fix anything…just to walk with what comes up.

I have to remind myself that her experience with anxiety is exactly why our paths crossed in the first place. She was Grace’s Cross-country coach. I cajoled Grace into the sport because of Carrie. I believe the best we can do as parents is choose to put the right people in our child’s windshield. Ask yourself, who has influence over my child? What values is she influenced by? Whose heart encourages hers? For me, the answer was Carrie Ochap.

Carrie made Grace a better runner and a better person. My daughter surprised me with her speed and effortless grace (no pun intended) on the course. In middle school, she regularly finished in the top ten. Admittedly, I assumed high school would be more challenging since the course was longer. Grace still found herself at the front of the pack. As the season wore on, Grace became worried she would let people down if she didn’t finish well. Carrie knew that pit in her stomach. She could recognize it in my daughter because she had lived it herself. Sometimes, she could coach her through those butterflies and then position herself at various turns on the course – arriving as if from nowhere to offer Grace the push she needed.

Even as I type this, tears roll down my face. How do you articulate gratitude for another mother who sees your child and loves them …appearing as if magically right when they are giving up on themselves?

There was one race that Carrie texted me… “Grace needs you. Come to the starting line.” Standing on the line with that pack of runners behind her, Grace was becoming breathless. She was positioned with her toes on the line because her previous times suggested she would be one of the fastest. The crowd was literally and physically pushing her forward. I couldn’t get to her, but I locked eyes with her and kept my words limited, “Just run your race.” She said nothing, but her face told me that she worried that wouldn’t be enough. “Run your race,” I repeated with a brave smile hoping to mask all of my worries and joys that started during bedrest. 

Carrie squeezed her shoulder, “You got this.” There I stood separated from my child who was hurting. I could see she was creating a narrative in her own mind that was paralyzing. It was Carrie’s eyes she looked into for strength. It was Carrie who responded and repeated, “You got this,” like the beat of a heart until the starter’s pistol fired.

Grace finished in the top five that race. 

I can’t remember if I hired Carrie that year or the one before, but that was the moment I think of when I reflect on how we formed our leadership team. I have seen her bring comfort to so many parents, teachers and children as she did for my daughter. She galvanizes the best from others with her empathy and her passion. Yes, I want to lessen Carrie’s burden, but how do we encourage someone to do that without losing their very essence? The essence that gives every parent the peace of mind when dropping off a child in the morning. 

We aren’t all morning people after all. 

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If wisdom comes from experience, and experience comes from making mistakes, then 2024 has been a masterclass. Between career pivots, unexpected joys, and moments of startling clarity that arrived without warning, I’ve collected a handful of truths that feel too valuable to keep to myself.

So before we raise our glasses to 2025, let me share what this year has taught me – not as someone who has it all figured out, but as a fellow traveler walking through life. Some of these lessons came gently, others arrived with the subtlety of a freight train. All of them have left their mark.

24 lessons of 2024 in no particular order.

1. Every story matters.
2. Let your face light up – children need to know you love them just as they are – so do adults.
3. Challenges faced as a parent make us better school leaders.
4. Be present to build a better future.
5. LISTEN
6. …like you might be wrong.
7. Be explicit.
8. No one parents any two children the same.
9. The best two lines of parenting, “That sucks” and “I get it.” Memorize them.
10. Show up.
11. Listen to your gut and use your voice until someone listens to you.
12. What a waste to want to be the smartest person in the room.
13. Be authentic.
14. If kids like you, you are doing something right.
15. Take advantage of the time you are given.
16. Pause and use curiosity in moments that take you out at your knees.
17. Park the snowplow – get out of our children’s way for their own growth.
18. Offer GRACE…first to yourself …then others.
19. You are building an interconnected network every day. You will need it someday.
20. Create WITH not FOR others.
21. Laugh. Make it fun.
22. Look up.
23. Tell them*
24. Take the next step.

Of all 2024’s unexpected joys, one stands brightest: Tell them. Let me explain why.

Walking, listening, transcribing – this has become my ritual of witnessing lives beyond my own. As I write, my audience remains intentionally small: the storyteller and my daughters. As I have learned, every story matters. 

Each time I hand these stories back to their owners for approval, their gratitude catches me off guard. What started as my personal exploration has crystallized into something more profound: each piece becomes a mirror, reflecting back the light and worth I see in them. I tell them.

These walking companions have given me an invaluable gift: their friendship and their trust. They’ve opened their lives, allowing me to share these blogs with you. In return, I offer them the gift of being truly seen. That exchange has brought me immeasurable joy and it seems to have done the same for them. arvind called it “a shot of B12”.

As 2025 approaches, I will venture on a slightly different path – still walking beside leaders shaping our future, but also walking with children who instinctively understand what our world needs, and unsung heroes like Mark Kowcheck, whose quiet acts of kindness create ripples he will never witness.

Happy New Year.

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In a fireproof drawer under my will and our passports lies an unassuming folded piece of paper. I unfold it and study the typed font from time to time. It reads in part…

Dear Grace and Ella

You are already more than I could have ever dreamed of being. You are brave, curious, creative and imperfect. You bring me rapturous joy every time you lean in close to say I love you or kiss me goodnight.

Girls, you are not alone. Every woman feels alone and has for generations. We look in the windows of other homes and think, ‘she got it right.’ We sit silently with our thoughts of inadequacy. Their houses are full of the same thoughts. They too feel inadequate – their plates are too full, the days are too short and their hips are too wide.

I no longer remember the exact circumstances that motivated me to articulate this to my five and nine year old daughters, but in 2013 I had a sense that life was getting the best of me. That’s a funny expression, isn’t it? Life was getting the best of me… and as far as I could tell, everyone wanted more. 

I didn’t want my daughters to feel this way. Ever. As if writing them a letter could change it…

These walks touch a similar nerve for everyone. I have heard the same line time and again – “I’m not sure what I have to add to the conversation…” or one of two questions have been posed, “Who am I to offer advice?” …”Was that good?” …

I am beginning to think the sense of being an imposter or inadequate is ubiquitous – who we know we are doesn’t match with the ways we are seen … we are doing the best we can while trying to live up to false expectations without shared definitions of roles. What makes a good leader? A good doctor? A good communicator? A good mother? A good walk? 

I won’t pretend to have the definition for any of them but I have found one through line… be present in the moment to truly listen. If you can do that, you can let the person in front of you be seen more authentically. The greatest challenge to that was choosing to walk with my daughters: the two individuals who have inspired me to be my best and who I worry I am failing the most. The narrative journal of Grace and Ella has been so much more difficult than expected. Their authenticity requires me to shed all judgment, all expectation, all worry, all regret …not to mention it is rooted in my own feeling of not being a good enough mother.

Liz: My own imposter syndrome is at its worst when it comes to parenthood. It is the single most trigger for where I believe I failed.

Grace: How do you think you fail?

Liz: There’s no manual to parenting, but there are expectations for the word mother that I’m not sure ever get agreed upon either. I mean, clearly not between parents and children, but even among parents. What does it mean to be a mother? Nobody even has that conversation. But what we have is almost unrealistic expectations of what “good mother” means. 

Grace: There’s no one size fits all way to parenting because every relationship is different and every experience is different. Just like it’s your kid’s first time doing everything while you’re parenting them, it’s your first time being a parent – you work to learn from your mistakes. And I don’t think you of all people should consider that failure if you’re able to learn from the mistakes that you make. You’ve never been expected to be perfect the first time you do anything.

Grace: And in the same way that you don’t know the perfect way to be a mother, we don’t know the perfect way for you to be a mother either.

Liz: Right.

Grace: If I say something that you do that I don’t like, that doesn’t mean that it’s wrong.

Liz: You just don’t like it.

Grace: Yeah. That doesn’t mean, like, my expectations for motherhood and your expectations for motherhood. There’s no black and white. There’s no right or wrong. 

You can hear the wise counsel from my oldest daughter as she walks with me. There is no black and white, no right or wrong. Just mother and daughters doing the best they can. On all of my walks, the other person has teared up. On the walks with my daughters, I cried.

Grace: You’re so emotionally attached to motherhood that it’s hard to hear that you’re doing things wrong because it’s not just a business decision that you have to fix. It’s a relationship. And that’s so much harder when it’s two of the most important people in your life.

They are…the two most important people in my life. I am… emotionally attached. They have no idea how hard it was for me to become a mother. And they shouldn’t.  I could not have children naturally. If it weren’t for the gentle guidance of Dr. Fernando Giustini I don’t think I would have had the stamina to make it through failed rounds of IVF. One morning while visiting my own mother in Ocean City, MD, I surrendered. I went for a sunrise walk on the beach and started telling God how ready I was to usher children into and through this world. I talked out loud to the curious looks of passers by – about teaching them to walk, to whistle, to bike, to bunt, to dive, and so on. I talked about braiding their hair and holding their forehead. I talked about holding their hands to cross the street and letting them go to run ahead. I was pregnant two months later and I have done all of those things in almost twenty-one years.

In that time I have learned to be their safe landing. I am the one place they get to try on their very worst parts of themselves. With me they can be dismissive, sloppy, rebellious, disrespectful..oh wait…I shouldn’t keep adding to the list. You get what I mean and it is just as it should be. I love them unconditionally – foibles and all, so I need to see and love all the foibles, and I don’t need to comment on them. “Everything doesn’t have to be a teaching moment, Mom.” Ella reminds me.

There is an analogy that good parenting of adolescents is like being the side of the swimming pool. There to hitch an arm over to rest and feel safe and there to push off to live her intended life independent of me. I watch Ella swim as often as twice a week. I love the long reach of her arms. She makes it look effortless as she moves through the water. Then as she nears the end of each 25 meter length, I look forward to the push off the wall – the way it will propel her into the next lap. That’s me – I’m the wall. 

What I didn’t know that day on the beach was that finally being pregnant was not the end of the battle to be a mom. It was only the beginning. There was a lot of heartache ahead on this journey – mine and theirs. Our lived experiences are very different and we carry it quietly in our daily lives. 

On Christmas we acknowledge it all. There are two special ornaments we hang. One is a picture of a baby we adopted whose mother changed her mind ten days later just before Christmas. The other is the only picture we have of Nicolas, Grace’s twin brother. While I am not raising those two children, I am their mother – no matter how briefly. And without those babies we would not have the life we do. We hang those red frames to remember we are blessed.

This Christmas I thought I would also tell a little bit about our stories so others who silently carry similar stories might find solace in the company of strangers.

Liz: Do you ever think about our relationship because you’re adopted?

Ella: I do. I have before. Sometimes I still do. I haven’t in a while. Sometimes I do.

Liz: Care to share?

Ella: Sometimes I feel that. Not that our relationship is less, but sometimes I just feel like there’s more of a connection sometimes between you and Grace. But sometimes I also feel like that’s because she’s older. 

I also feel like sometimes I feel a bit of, like, emptiness because, I don’t know. I mean, what of me is out there?

I mean, I wouldn’t change it. Like, I love our family, and I love my life, and I appreciate everything that I’ve been given. And I don’t think I would be the same person that I am if I was stuck in the awful situation that I was as a baby. But, you know, sometimes I still think about it.

Can you hear how often she says “sometimes?” can you hear her hesitations? She doesn’t want to hurt my feelings. She chooses words and stammers to temper the way the words may land on me. Do you hear her empathy and her ache? There is something she wants to say but to not to me and not at my expense.

Liz: What was it like to going back to Texas (where she was born)? Did it have any impact?

Ella: It was weird. It wasn’t like I didn’t get emotional, but it was weird because, like, I knew that that’s where I would have been if you didn’t come find me. And I would have… I wouldn’t have been living like, our trip. I would have probably been in an awful situation or in a foster home somewhere.

Liz: You know, you stopped me and thanked me for things on that trip more than you typically do on a trip.

Ella: Because I was thinking about it. I was thinking about my life if you never adopted me. I was thinking of my life if my birth mom never gave me up. And I wouldn’t have had the same life. I think I’m very fortunate, and I wouldn’t have been the same if I wasn’t adopted.

Ella has always known she was adopted – born of my heart we like to say. We had a choice and we chose each other. She was worth the wait. I cannot change…fix…control the ache she feels, but I will be by her side when she wants explore it. 

Liz: How often do you think about your brother?

Grace: Very often.

Liz: What’s it like?

Grace: I think throughout my life, I’ve slowly gone through the seven stages of grief. Is it seven? Or is it nine? Seven stages of grief? In the sense that for a while, thinking about it, all I could do was cry because. And part of it was survivors’ guilt.

Liz: Yeah.

Grace: And part of it was also just mourning the loss.

Liz: Yeah.

Grace: And then I think for a while, especially before you and dad got divorced, there was a little bit of anger in the sense that I just kept wondering what it would have been like to have someone to go through those things with. I had Ella, obviously, but it would have been a little bit different because we would have had all the same. Not all the same experience, but more of the same experiences. And, I mean, there’s always, always been a part of me that wonders, like, what life would have been like. 

And I think now I’m more at a point where I am grateful to have that kind… To feel that kind of bond so strongly with something that I don’t even really know. And I’m grateful to have, like, feel like I have almost a guardian angel watching over me. And in a lot of ways, I think subconsciously, no consciously, a lot of what I’ve done has been almost. I see it as, like, a mix of myself and what could have been Nicolas, especially with my interest in athletics.

Liz: It doesn’t have to be, you know. You don’t owe him anything.

Grace: I know. And I think, especially since mom-mom died, I’ve really started to appreciate the guardian angel aspect of it, because I see them both as such influential people in my life.

For twenty years, I get in the car and hear two other doors shut and feel like we are missing someone. We are. The girls sometimes wonder what their lives would have been like if … but I don’t. I can’t let myself think about living this life without them. At some point on Christmas morning I will touch those other two ornaments and send up a prayer of gratitude – an annual epilogue to that 2003 walk on the beach.

Liz: Is there anything else you want the world to know about motherhood or leadership or learning differences?

Ella: It’s okay to learn differently. I mean, just because you learn differently doesn’t make you stupid or slow or anything. It just means differently, not simply.

Liz: Do you have any memories of your time with Theresa?

Ella: I hated it, but, I mean, it worked.

Grace: Don’t be afraid to let people in. Not everybody is supposed to be a main character in your life. Sometimes people are there for a lesson and not a lifetime. And as much as it hurts and as much as it sucks in the moment, you’ll become a better person because of it. And you can’t let one shitty person stop you from needing a bunch of wonderful people in your life.

This is Grace and Ella… brave, curious, creative and imperfect…my heart walking around outside my body. 

Dear Grace and Ella, You bring me rapturous joy every time you lean in close to say I love you or kiss me goodnight. And that is enough. You are enough… just as you are. As am I.   If the ache is ever too much to bear on your own, I’ll be here. Come hitch your arm and rest until you are ready to push off again. You are already more than I could have ever dreamed of. 

Merry Christmas.

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Do you know Luke Hladek? Have you heard his FDR voice? Have you received a 10:00 p.m. text to go outside and see the northern lights or a meteor shower? Have you seen the way he looks at his wife and children? He will tell you how much he adores “my Liz” and is equally adored by her …to say nothing of how they cherish their clever and curious children, but he doesn’t want to jinx it. 

Luke: [Liz and I] worked together for 10 years, and a lot of people would comment, “My God, how do you do that?” Meanwhile, we’re texting each other all day long, “Hey, I’m above ground, or, Hey, I’m over here. Just come out and say what’s up.”

And if you passed by them in one of those moments, you would witness the bliss of their marriage. They respect each other. Indeed, they make each other better people and quite frankly they can’t get enough of each other. 

Luke: Yeah, I wish we were awake more.

While I wasn’t around when he was teaching her to drive a car when they were students at Bethany College or aware of the bird mites that drove them from their New York City apartment back to the Ohio Valley, I have heard the stories. I feel like I lived through it with them because Luke knows how to pull you in with his words.

I was around when he proposed. Luke was my colleague at Wheeling Country Day School at the time. Being in that ecosystem also meant he was in my mother’s orbit. Ginny Dulany volunteered for lunch and came to truly admire Luke. That’s not accurate. She held court in the Dulany kitchen at WCDS – telling stories, listening, cracking jokes, offering advice all while (wo)manning the dishwasher. I venture to say she barely saw her granddaughters and rarely stopped to see me, but she loved joking around with Luke. In fact, she created an elaborate tale that she moved back to Wheeling for him and was giddy when she heard he was getting engaged – her prince charming had arrived – only to have her heart broken that he had proposed to Liz. It was all in good fun. 

People are drawn to Luke. He offers a safe space to be yourself and brings out the fun in every person and situation. He doesn’t take himself too seriously in the best and worst of ways. He elevates an experience with his creative vision yet keeps you grounded with his moral code. Trust him with the space and time and he will curate an inclusive mission-driven experience building community, deepening culture and amplifying your brand. He is a genuine leader although he would never define himself that way.

Luke: I honestly think what I probably brought most to that position was one, a willingness to laugh at ourselves, to recognize I’m trying to take myself super seriously when I recognize that 90% of the most serious problems are not at my doorstep. You know what I mean? So let’s have some fun. If we have an opportunity to have some fun, let’s laugh. We’re teaching kids, we’re in an elementary school, which means we’re all basically a bunch of big kids. So let’s embrace that part of it. And really encouraging, not following a set anything, just allow yourself to try and not succeed or fail. I know we talked about failure a lot. But, yeah, just to try cool things because they’re cool things. Who cares? Do events because they’re fun and they can be something and do this weird part of the event because it sounds funny. 

That instinct made us a better school and a stronger community. He lives and breathes school and personal advancement. He personifies, “What if we…”

Luke: Even that second year of my internship, I think you were like, hey, I can see that you want to do this, this, and this. What I want you to do is improve any project you’re a part of. And so it would be. Instead of presenting a book report and passing the mic, let’s create an interactive, you know, walkthrough of something. And then you can still have that small presentation piece, but it’s not as rote, … It’s not something you did 10 years ago. 

We did not have the finances for me to hire Luke when his graduate internship ended, so he took a job with the local county and worked at the high school where he had been a smart ass student himself.

I missed him. I missed his spark. I missed the way he made a project or event better while simultaneously respecting the teachers involved. I missed the way he elevated other people. 

Luke: I like being a person that people can come up to and say, I know I should know how to plug this in, but can you help me out? Even if I’m stressed and I’m like, done. I’ll drop whatever, for better or worse, sometimes, but I’ll drop it and come do it because that means something to me. 

His absence taught me that people were more important than profit or policy. I never courted anyone like I did Luke. The guy who sweats through his suit during our first summer interview was now the force I knew I wanted on faculty. I reminded him how strong our work family was by having him play Santa (Ginger Claus) for the faculty Christmas party… give him a costume and he is smitten. Later, we met for coffee and he made it clear, “I don’t want to be in the same place for 40 years.” He wasn’t “a school man” as they say. I persisted and in time he was sitting in that same office – dressed much more casually under much cooler temperature and he told me he was coming back. I asked two colleagues, Bridget Rutherford and IJ Kalcum, to come join us. The four of us in the room could feel the energy – it was one of those electric moments when you are aware that something extraordinary is about to unfold—a convergence of individual potential and collective purpose so genuine that it bordered on lightning in a bottle.

Luke: Thankfully you were like, come talk to me if you have an idea. And I don’t know how many people do that, but I was like, I got 10.

I trusted him and those ideas. Luke rose quickly from intern to administrator. How did he do it?

Luke: I was given an opportunity to. I wasn’t annoying. I don’t try to be “knock on your door” annoying, but if you say, hey, I really want you to come and talk to me, I’m probably going to show up.

Liz: I just want you to know, in all the years we worked together, I never thought you were knock on the door annoying. It was much more like, does anybody know where the hell Luke is? Because you were always somewhere taking a picture, helping somebody…doing a video, setting something up.

Luke: I don’t know, I’m sure it’s some kind of ego, you know? But I like to be the guy that people come to. You know what I mean? Because I like to be. Not to be important. I don’t mean it like that. I mean it more that I like knowing that someone else knows they can come up to me without concern that I’m going to sh!# on them for asking a question, you know?

Add that quality to the list that makes him an effective albeit humble leader. People seek him out. He asks, “How are you?” and he means it …and he listens. At his core he understands your story, empathizes with your pain and offers that safe arena to be authentic with him and with yourself. I cannot count the hours we spent in the office after hours talking through personal or professional challenges. I would try to push him out the door to get home to his beautiful family, but he wouldn’t leave until he knew I was ok. They say being a Head of School is a lonely position. I never felt that way. I had Luke. 

The man who masterfully weaves narratives in text, audio and video that are captivating and fun has very few words when I ask him about being a dad. He doesn’t want to jinx it. He worries that they have been too lucky. It’s the hardest part of being a dad for him. He doesn’t want his worry to affect them. When he isn’t feeling at his best, he knows they don’t deserve for him to be struggling in their presence.

Like all good polarities in life, within that very worry is what he sees as the best part of being a dad.

Luke: When I feel my worst, I recognize that I have a responsibility to not just dump that on somebody else, and especially not on somebody else that just wants me to pick them up and hug them.

Liz: And pretty soon you don’t feel your worst anymore.

Luke: Yeah. You know, you trick yourself into maybe being your best, you know? And again, I don’t love saying that because it’s… It just feels like the best part of being a dad is my kids can mask my, you know, unhappiness sometimes, but it, you know, it’s a beautiful thing. It helps. And it’s not me hiding it necessarily. I mean, sometimes it could be, but most of the time it’s me forcing a new perspective on myself, you know?

Liz: They give you that?

Luke: Yeah, they give me that. 

His children bring him back into the present. They get him out of his worry and land him in the middle of the moment at hand. He loves it. He is in it to win it. 

A fan of Modern Family, he reminds me, “You never know when it is the last time you are going to pick up your kid.”

So he picks them up and as he throws them into the air, he looks up at them. Luke looks up. That is his trademark. For over a decade through the death of a student, a pandemic and a passion for space, he has made us all turn our faces to the skies. He lifts us individually and collectively.

If Barb Buchwach suggested I make more Liz Hofreuters, I have to ask, How do we make more Luke Hladeks? How do we develop leaders who share their vision with a compelling story, who support your potential as well as your failures, who balance family and work, and who do it with a sense of humor that builds community and culture? 

I would venture to say it started with his grandmother who truly “saw” Luke. It is thanks to Mimi, Ginnie Benedett. 

Luke: My grandma thought I was smart when no one did.

Liz: Really?

Luke: Not that nobody did. My parents do. My parents are great. But she was like, “you’re different about stuff.” And not just in a… Maybe it was… And maybe I just bought into it. Maybe it was a standard. You’re special, you know, and can do no wrong and stuff. But it wasn’t, it was very much like, “No, I want you to help me with this, because I like how you talk to me, and I like how you think” …and so as I kind of came into my own, she was the one who I felt actively saw me the way that I was hoping, you know, or at least in the way…maybe not the way I was hoping. That’s probably not the way I want to say it…

Liz: For who you are.

Luke: Yeah. Or the best that I could be.

I left his words just as he spoke them with his humility tripping over his ideas and his self-effacing bias downplaying his genius.  As someone who has worked by his side in good times and in bad, I can tell you Luke has a spectacular gift. He makes you a better person. There is simply no one else I would have as my creative partner. Like Mimi, I want Luke to help me with this, because I like how he talks to me, and I like how he thinks. I also like that there is nothing about this walking project that has to be perfect. There is always a 2.0 version we can work toward. Then a 3.0 and so on. With that mentality, we are both dropping pieces of our imposter syndrome – and focusing on incremental steps of growth and improvement.

I like to think that Mimi and my mom, the two Ginnies who were neighbors in the final years of their lives, are damn pleased by the partnership Luke and I have and the work we have done. I am sure they inspired this platform for people to know that they are actively seen as the best that they are… and are compelled to be the best that they could be… but I don’t want to jinx it.

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I chose very well for my first virtual walk. Actually, I didn’t choose. It was written in the stars that arvind grover and I should walk together while in two different states. While I strolled through my neighborhood on a gray day in West Virginia, he stepped out into the sunshine in Massachusetts. Each time I looked at my phone during our video chat, I was looking at sunshine – literally and metaphorically. I have found arvind to be a source of energy and joy in every encounter we have had.

We are K-8 colleagues by profession, and friends by choice. Like others whom I have met through ESHA, arvind is an extraordinary leader – even among our committee of leaders. He exudes a sense of serenity as he dissects data and determines a way forward. I would love to observe him in action among his team on the 35 acre campus of The Meadowbrook School. I got a glimpse of its grandeur and immediately felt the weight of the responsibility of such a sprawling Pre-K – 8 campus. “We have an amazing team to oversee it, but we operate on a lean budget. We invest all of our money into teaching and learning.” And once again we are centered where we should be – the focus is learning and the adults who facilitate it. As an independent school leader we wear many hats. It is easy to be distracted by the numerous “crises” of the business of doing school, but our very mission is learning. It is our core. As school leaders, we must be steadfast: learning above all else… for everyone on our campuses…especially ourselves.

Our walk begins in the realm of parenthood. “Let’s start there,” arvind chose, “I talk about leadership all the time,” but I knew full well we would wind our way to leadership in no time. The two are intricately connected. 

I learn quickly that arvind has twin nine-year-old boys. Being their father has offered him a rare glimpse into the “secret society of twins” whose members curl into one another to watch television almost intertwined. “Even at nine. It’s unbelievable,” he muses. I can visualize the entangled body parts on the couch as if it were a living sculpture. The twins are simultaneously individual and collective. Their first relationship was with each other, a bond so basic that it predates any external connection and continues in the family room on any given Saturday morning.

These walks plant seeds and trigger responses for me – as they are intended to – so I wonder if Grace’s body and nervous system naturally search for Nicolas, her twin brother.  I wonder if that is the reason she still often leans her weight against me or curls up on my lap even at age 20 and standing at least three inches taller than I. How does a surviving twin find that home base? Has his heartbeat echoed for her throughout these years? Have I given her the grace she deserves as she navigates life without her kindred spirit? 

For arvind, the anticipation of finding a heap of entwined arms and legs the next morning brings a smile to his face as bright as the sunshine behind him. He talks of the gift of having his boys with him at school and sees the benefits far outweighing the challenges of playing dad and Head of School simultaneously. “It’s my wife that’s left out. I get to eat lunch with them, see them in class, be present for all performances. She sometimes worries that we’re vulnerable all being at one place.” Per usual, the glass is half full for arvind. 

Per usual. Usually… defined as “under normal conditions.” The thing we know about parenting is there are too often NOT normal conditions. At nine months, one of his twins was diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis (CF). This was a difficult diagnosis to obtain. It gives light to the institutional bias living in the medical field – no one is at fault – no one purposely overlooked anything, but the normal conditions were not at play here. 

arvind: Close minded thinking left my son undiagnosed for many, many months unnecessarily. Actually, he was flagged on a traditional newborn screen that every child takes as a potential carrier for CF. There were no symptoms of that originally. They just kept saying he can’t possibly have it because his father’s Indian and because during our attempt to get pregnant, they had done a screening on both Carolyn and me, they knew she was a carrier and they “knew” I was not. Working through months and months and months and months and months of testing, they couldn’t rule it out, even though they kept assuring us there’s no way he has it.

So they finally did a genetic workup for him, for me and for my wife. And that’s where they could conclusively map the genome and see that he had cystic fibrosis. 

Until you go through all these hurdles, insurance won’t pay to do the testing. 

It’s too expensive to be approved. That’s the bottom line. There is a script or a flowchart that must be followed. We know life doesn’t follow flowcharts. As is the case with so many families. Carolyn knew. Yes her son “just had reflux,” but her mother’s heart knew something else was happening. Her intuition drove them to keep after a diagnosis. 

As a mother, I have so many times trusted my gut… and encouraged other mother’s to do the same. It can be maddening as you meet opposition. You begin to second guess yourself, but I urge other parents to hold on to your resolve. Keep asking questions. Find someone who will listen.

arvind: Imagine, I have a biology degree in undergrad. My father is a pulmonologist – literally the people who specialize in CF. My wife is a school counselor. We couldn’t be more educated on such things … we speak English … we have access to money … we have insurance and even we couldn’t navigate this system effectively. I can only imagine what it’s like if you don’t have any of those factors working on your behalf.

No matter who we are or what our experiences, at a base we parents want our children to be healthy and happy. “For one of my sons, that’s not possible.” Before age one, healthy was off the table. The gray cloud rolled in. 

There is a point after the acceptance of a diagnosis that you pull yourself up. It is not resignation, but fortitude that teaches you, “Now it is like this.” You embrace the moment in front of you. His wife became an expert in the disease: curating various treatments, reacting to missteps in his care, identifying possible studies, fundraising for a cure, and designing daily routines. In the midst of such a challenge, you find and seize the opportunity to learn. 

arvind’s son needs good food and exercise as all children do, but for him it is a non-negotiable. While arvind can doubt himself asking if he’s doing enough, his son’s twin brother instinctively understands and champions his brother’s medical journey. He anticipates medical and nutritional needs revealing yet again the most profound dimension of human connection.  If we are watching and listening, our children will impress us. We find ourselves doubting if our actions are enough and then look to our children, especially in their innocence, and see them focused on positive action not doubt, grief or regret. How then do they learn to worry like an adult? How can we temper that? In them? In us?

arvind seems to be mastering it. What I see as serenity in him, he calls equanimity. Indeed, a colleague asked him recently how he shows up so calmly to a meeting no matter what the height of the emotions of others. It’s hard to get too worked up about what math class a student should be in when you are facing the challenges he has in his personal life. It doesn’t mean the concerns of others aren’t important to him. It is just the opposite. It means he has a lens of the bigger picture in the life of a family. This hard-earned wisdom creates an effective leadership approach. arvind has an intuitive capacity to hold space for complexity, to sit with discomfort without becoming overwhelmed, and to guide others through challenging terrains with a steady, understanding presence. He knows full well the strength of human resilience. He gets to witness it in his sons every day.

While I would beg to differ, he doesn’t claim to have mastered such calmness, but identifies as practicing equanimity. Practicing as in actively working on it… every day. In fact, he has an acronym for it, STEM: Sleep, Train, Eat, Meditate.

arvind: The S is for sleep. I need seven plus hours a day. The T is for train. I need to train my body. Right now it’s largely weight training. I need to eat properly. Healthy nutrition is a big part of my life and the M is for meditate as a more formal practice, or a less formal practice.

This is how he stays grounded and shows up with equanimity. He is connected to the present. Life has taught him to be at peace with whatever is going on. The beauty of the blue sky as we discussed the gray cloud of the months it took to obtain his son’s diagnosis remains poignant for me. This optimism – the focus on today as it leads toward a better future even with its bad diagnoses is becoming a pattern in my conversations with Heads of Schools. It is more than hope. It is a presence …and a mission to learn. It lifts us individually and collectively and we all rise.

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For the first time, a walk needs a footnote. arvind and I had no more than 30 minutes for our walk. As one would expect, I had zoom issues. I could not log in on my phone and I could not imagine walking laps in my house with my laptop in hand. With the “get it done” mentality that often plagues me, we opted to FaceTime one another. While I fumbled to record our conversation, I was losing valuable time. In a panic, I turned on closed captioning thinking I could copy and paste our dialogue as we finished. Nope.

As arvind hung up, our entire walk vanished. Poof. I threw my head back in disgust and looked up at the gray sky that reflected the dank feeling in my core. We had such a rich conversation and I lost it. And I’m old. And my memory isn’t what it once was. Gone.

In my mind, I could hear Luke telling me to rely less on the recording and focus on what resonated with me. Nothing was resonating. No echo of our conversation… only the other voice in my head, “Figures, you blew it.”

Resigned, I started walking back toward my house. Luke’s voice grew louder in my mind. “What bubbles up?” Instead of turning back, I thought I’d retrace my steps on the path I had taken. As I once again lapped my neighbor walking his dog, the conversation flooded back. As it poured forth, I found myself running home. The world tried to intervene – a package was delivered… the dryer signalled … Grace called (and my father taught me to always pick up that call). I was not to be thwarted… I picked up my pencil and scribbled thoughts so I wouldn’t lose them.

Clearly, you know how the story ends. The blog was written. I had some gaps that required clarification. Unsolicited, arvind sent me back an audio file.  You deserved to hear the serenity and presence in his voice and so you can. We should all be so lucky to have a Luke Hladek or an arvind grover as the voice in our heads. 

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