Author: dc0th1ll

  • Leadership should NOT be lonely…

    I’ve always heard this saying, “It’s lonely at the top” or “leadership is lonely…”. But surely it doesn’t have to be that way… Loneliness is haunting. Jesus talks more about friendship than he does loveliness. He talks more about friendship than he does what we wanna try and understand as “leadership”… Jesus said, follow me, let’s hang out, let’s be friends… Lemme GUIDE you (More on leadership as GUIDANCE coming soon)

    I recently read a book about the dangers of loneliness in leadership, and my response was something like “Duh!” Loneliness is one of the most dangerous things to happen to any leader. But what does it mean for a leader to be lonely?

    How a leader’s loneliness can affect the whole church

    The impacts of loneliness on you as a leader are not just personal. As the head of your organization, the way you feel and act can affect the whole church. Lonely leaders can be more susceptible to depression, anxiety, burnout, substance abuse, and even suicide. These things can affect the entire vision and direction of a ministry or organization. The Bible says in Proverbs 14:12 that “there is a way that seems right to a man but its end is death” (emphasis mine). This verse reminds us that there are consequences for sinning—including breaking God’s principles for leading well—which can lead to terrible consequences for those who follow along with those sins against God.

    How do you know if a leader is lonely or just aloof?

    You’ve probably seen aloof leaders before. They’re the ones who don’t listen, aren’t engaged and have a hard time collaborating with others. While this type of leader may seem like a total jerk, they can actually be lonely.

    Lonely leaders are more likely to behave in this way because they are disengaged from their team and have poor relationships with them. According to Lisa DeMarinis, author of “Lonely at the Top: The High Cost of Leading Teams,” loneliness is “the sense that you don’t matter or count in the world.” These feelings can make people feel insecure about themselves, which leads them to act in ways that make others think they aren’t capable of leading effectively (like being aloof).

    How do you know if your own leadership style is lonely? It’s important to understand that loneliness can be both a cause and an effect of poor relationships. DeMarinis said that “being aloof isn’t the only way to lead, but it’s certainly one of them.”

    Where does a leader find a real friend?

    Church leaders should be friends with other church leaders.

    The loneliness of leadership will sometimes seep into your life, and you need someone to talk to that understands the unique stressors of being in ministry. You can’t expect your spouse or family to understand all that goes into leading people’s lives and having them respond positively or negatively because they don’t know what it’s like for you—they’ve never worked in ministry. Your best bet may be other pastors who are facing similar struggles and who know exactly what you’re going through because they’re experiencing it themselves!

    A real friend is one who knows your struggles, but doesn’t let them define you. We all have things in our past that we regret or wish we could change—things that may have happened years ago and are now just a memory. But for some reason, those memories tend to take on a life of their own and become more important than they should be.

    Lonely leaders can cause ripple effects throughout their team.

    Lonely leaders can cause ripple effects throughout their team. Lonely leaders are more likely to be stressed and anxious than their non-lonely counterparts, who in turn are more prone to depression, burnout and other forms of disengagement. The effect can go both ways: when you’re feeling isolated yourself, you may find it harder to relate to your employees.

    But being lonely doesn’t just affect your mood, it can also hurt your ability to make good decisions. According to studies by psychologists at the University of California, Berkeley, loneliness increases bias and makes people more likely to rely on stereotypes when making judgments about others.

    Conclusion

    So, how do we fix this? First, we need to admit that it’s a problem—not just for individual leaders but for the church as a whole. I’m not saying that every pastor needs to have a best friend or that every church leader should be married (although those are good things!). But everyone needs someone they can truly count on and trust with their deepest fears and joys. Second, we need Christians who aren’t afraid of vulnerability themselves because they have experienced God’s love in such radical ways that they can pour out their hearts freely without worrying about being rejected or abandoned by others.

  • The role of storytelling in effective copywriting

    Storytelling is a powerful tool in the world of marketing and advertising, and it can be especially effective when used in copywriting. Storytelling is the art of using words to create a narrative that engages the reader and helps to convey a message or idea.

    So, why is storytelling so effective in copywriting? Here are a few key reasons:

    1. Engagement: People love a good story, and incorporating elements of storytelling into your copy can help to engage the reader and make your message more memorable. By using storytelling techniques, you can create a sense of anticipation and build momentum, drawing the reader in and keeping them interested.
    2. Emotional appeal: Good storytelling can tap into the reader’s emotions and create a strong emotional connection. This can be especially powerful in marketing and advertising, as it can help to create a sense of connection and resonance with the reader.
    3. Persuasion: Storytelling can be a powerful tool for persuasion, as it allows you to present your message in a way that is both engaging and persuasive. By using storytelling techniques, you can create a compelling argument for why the reader should take a specific action or make a purchase.
    4. Brand building: Storytelling can also be a useful tool for building your brand’s identity and creating a consistent brand narrative. By crafting a compelling brand story and incorporating it into your marketing and advertising efforts, you can help to create a strong and consistent brand identity.

    So, how can you incorporate storytelling into your copywriting? Here are a few tips:

    1. Identify your story: What is the story you want to tell? What message do you want to convey? Identifying the core story you want to tell will help to guide your writing and ensure that your copy is consistent and aligned with your overall brand message.
    2. Use descriptive language: Good storytelling involves using descriptive language to create vivid imagery and engage the reader’s senses. Experiment with different words and phrases to create a vivid and compelling narrative. Think about the best story tellers in your group of friends, the way they hold everyones attention. 

    Check a post I wrote here about a story, about Jack and Jill.

  • What gifts has God given us?

    What gifts has God given us?

    Hello friends, welcome to todays daily bible verse and story. On the Daily with Dean is a short inspirational devotional that I hope inspires you and sparks something in your soul. 

    So over the weekend I went to the shop with the kids and to the new Continental Butchery down in Main Road and it’s really really beautiful and picked up one or two pieces of meat for for Braai Day (Heritage Day here in South Africa) and right at the end of the till uh all the sweets in the world that you can imagine. I mean it’s like a parent’s trap, I mean it’s a nightmare to try and convince the kids not to take the biggest sweet and candy that they can see, so I had to know jump in there and kind of try and see what I can get for the kids and really try and see what’s going to work best for them and we landed on candy canes you know those classic Christmas candy canes and the the little upside you know

    in and I give both of them their candy

    canes and the joy is a massive these

    kids are off the chain and like can’t

    contain the amount of excitement and joy

    that these kids are sitting with right

    now but if you’ve seen those candy canes

    they’re actually a little bit like the

    there’s a very hard plastic that is

    around the the candy cane that kind of

    almost holds and protects and it’s the

    packaging of the candy cane

    and Daniel kind of bites into it and

    quite easily rips through it and he get

    going and eventually peels the whole

    thing off and tears the whole thing off

    for now he’s enjoying this uh this candy

    cane there was a a passion that kind of

    pushed him through that thing but

    Elizabeth you know her hands are a

    little bit softer and her hands are a

    little bit smaller and she couldn’t

    get through it the way that she had

    wanted to or as quickly as she could in

    kind of looking at her brother who was

    now enjoying his candy cane

    um already

    and she got a little bit teary and she

    got a little bit upset and Daddy Daddy

    help help help and so I got involved and

    helped her and helped her unwrap it a

    little bit and then gave it back to her

    and then she teared a little bit and

    then I helped her a little bit and

    eventually she pulled this whole thing

    out and she could enjoy the candy cane

    this gift that I had given her

    if we read verse 3 again it says

    consider him who endured such opposition

    from Sinners so that you will not grow

    weary and not lose heart the kids uh

    slowly kind of started to lose heart and

    slowly got a little bit weary but I ha

    to step in and remind them and say this

    gift that I have given you is yours

    but as we go through the process of what

    it means to unwrap it a little bit there

    is the enjoyment of what it means to

    enjoy that candy cane

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  • How do I “self-care” while trying to take care of my kids…

    For every person, self-care might appear different. Exercise, meditation, counseling, or simply setting aside a little period of time each day to read a book or relax with a cup of tea can all be part of it. It is crucial that we carve out time in our hectic schedules for self-care, no matter what form it takes.

    To sum up, taking care of yourself is not a luxury; it’s a need. To be able to care for our children, we must first take care of ourselves. We must never forget that our children are at their best when we are. “Self-care is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation,” Brené Brown explains.

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  • “I Didn’t Do Anything Wrong.”

    “I Didn’t Do Anything Wrong.”

     A reflection on kids, culture, narcissism, and the collapse of accountability

    A Father Watches

    There’s a moment—sitting there, late at night—where I stopped watching the film as a critic and started watching it as a father.

    Yes they did a great job on the one shot, a real genius move to make you feel like you’re in it. Your heart and mind can’t blink, and take a breathe between scenes. This is really great drama and you do really feel everything. I think they missed a few episodes to be honest, probably needed episode 1 and 2 to be season 1 and episode 3 and 4 to be season 2. I just struggled to see the boy who peed his pants shout at the psychologist like that.

    I thought about my son. About my daughter. About the million things they’re walking into as they grow: screens, shame, identity, violence, silence. I thought about how little room the world makes for them to be soft. To be safe. To say I don’t know who I am without being punished for it.

    And somewhere in the mess of that film, between the wasted scenes, the broken threads, the posturing and noise, one line pulled me under.

    “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

    Not “I didn’t kill her.”
    Just… I take no responsibility.
    And I felt it in my gut.

    I didn’t just watch the boy.
    I watched the dad.
    And I broke a little.

    Because maybe he tried. Maybe he didn’t. (We see more of that as the series continues)
    But there’s a pain in watching your child become someone you can’t reach anymore.
    Someone who won’t even say sorry.
    Someone who still thinks he’s done nothing wrong.


    There’s a line—quiet, almost forgettable if you’re not really listening—but it’s the most haunting moment of all.

    A boy looks at his dad and says:

    “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

    He doesn’t say, “I didn’t kill her.”
    He doesn’t even try to argue context, or intention, or consequence.
    Just a blanket denial.
    A clinical erasure of personal responsibility.

    And right there is the whole sickness exposed.
    This isn’t a claim of innocence. It’s the mantra of the modern narcissist.

    It’s the way ego eats truth.
    The way performance replaces presence.
    The way boys are taught to survive through detachment—
    not to understand what they’ve done,
    but to convince the world they’ve done nothing wrong.


    The film itself seems like it’s reaching for something meaningful—British knife culture, lost boys, violence, grooming, shame, online bullying, warped sexuality, digital detachment… even hints of incel ideology and male fragility.

    But it never lands.

    Instead, it spreads itself too thin.
    Like a first-time filmmaker flexing all their muscles at once,
    shouting “Look what I can do!” without ever asking,
    “What am I really trying to say?”

    There’s this haze of almosts everywhere.

    Almost a comment on porn addiction and male shame.
    Almost an exploration of how young men become emotionally numb.
    Almost a critique of systems that fail boys until blood is drawn.

    But the threads unravel.

    Like his two friends. One of them gives him the knife.
    That’s a pivotal moment. Or… it should be.
    But who is he? Why is he carrying? What does that say about their lives, their fears, their boundaries?
    He appears, disappears, leaves no mark.

    The cop and his son at the school? Wasted.
    They set up a tension—a possibility for redemption, or collapse, or even just a moment of clarity.
    But it all leads… nowhere.
    Another scene that means nothing.

    And then, for an entire episode, the van gets spray-painted with “NONCE.”
    No context. No payoff.
    That word carries so much weight in the UK.
    Violence. Misunderstanding. Public execution via shame.

    But in this film?
    It’s just… there.
    Another discarded thread in a pile of unfinished ideas.


    This isn’t storytelling.
    This is trauma-porn dressed up in aesthetic.
    It’s mood over meaning.
    Vibe over voice.

    But still—still—that line:

    “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

    It sticks.
    It sits with you long after the credits roll.
    Because it’s the only real moment of reflection in a sea of noise.

    And maybe that’s what this film accidentally revealed:

    That the most dangerous thing isn’t the knife.
    It’s the boy who uses it,
    and feels nothing.


    A generation of young men, hardened by screens,
    bored of empathy,
    numb to the damage they cause.
    They don’t apologise.
    They don’t name what they did.
    They just say—

    “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

    If that’s not the true tragedy of adolescence today,
    I don’t know what is.


    What Stays With Us

    In the end, the film tries to be about so much, but forgets to be for anyone.

    It fails the boys.
    It fails the fathers.
    It fails the audience.

    It forgets that stories are meant to hold us.
    To help us feel less alone.
    Not just to impress, or provoke, or perform.

    There’s a moment I can’t shake, when the dad in the film tries to defend his son playing goalkeeper, and the other dads mock him. You see a flicker of pain, of pride, of powerlessness. And I thought: Never me. I commit, again and again and again, to stand with my children in whatever they choose. To cheer for them from the sidelines, to support their art, to sing a song with them if they ask. I will be unashamed, with tears in my eyes if I have to, as I love them through everything. Let the world laugh—I’ll be there, heart wide open.

    Because if we don’t stand with our children,
    the world will teach them to stand against themselves.

    But still, somewhere in that noise, one truth came through:

    The most terrifying thing about this world we’re raising kids in
    isn’t just the violence.
    It’s the emptiness that follows.
    The emotional deadness.
    The absence of remorse.
    The performance of innocence without any of the weight.

    “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

    That’s what stays with me.
    That’s what I’m afraid of.

    And that’s why we tell better stories.

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  • Stormsriver: Where the Stars Call Us Home

    Stormsriver: Where the Stars Call Us Home

    “Look at the stars
    Look how they shine for you…”

    — Coldplay, Yellow

    I must say, I have spent many nights under stars, from Sutherland here in South Africa, to Vik and The Faroe Islands, but I have never seen the night sky like I did this weekend. Brighter, darker and deeper than I’ve ever seen before…

    Storms River breathes in a way that feels ancient, like the trees and the ocean are whispering secrets only the wind can understand. There is something timeless here, something untouched by the noise of modern life. The forest hums with a language older than words, spoken in the rustling of leaves, the rhythm of waves, the deep inhale of the earth after rain. To stand here is to feel that language seep into your bones, to remember that before we measured time in hours and minutes, it was counted in the slow turn of seasons, in the ebb and flow of tides, in the rise and fall of breath.

    Last night, wrapped in the silence of the forest, I woke up at 4 a.m., pulled from my sleep, uncomfortable blow up mattresses and everything that goes with it… But in this moment, not a dream, not a sound—just a presence, a feeling that the night itself had called my name. A real love affair with the Universe. There was a hush in the air, the kind that isn’t empty but full, waiting. As I stepped outside, I felt it settle around me like a second skin. The world, so often restless and crowded, had drawn still. And above me, the sky had split wide open—a million stars staring back, scattered across the dark like embers still burning from some forgotten fire. Their quiet radiance stretched beyond thought, beyond time, as if to remind me that even the vastness of space is not empty, but alive with light.

    The Language of the Forest, The Language of the Sky

    There are places in this world where time bends, where the past and the present blur, where you can feel something older than yourself moving through the land. Storms River is one of them. It is in the way the trees lean into each other like old companions sharing a secret. It is in the way the river carves its path through stone, unhurried and relentless. It is in the way the ocean rises and falls, breathing with the pulse of the earth.

    And at night, it is in the way the stars stand watch.

    Some places are sacred not because they were built to be, but because they simply are. You feel it in your chest the moment you arrive. Maybe it’s the way the air tastes—cleaner, saltier, richer with the scent of damp earth. Maybe it’s the way your footsteps soften on the forest floor, the way your voice lowers instinctively, as if speaking too loudly would break some fragile spell. Here, silence isn’t absence. It is presence.

    And when the night stretches over this place, something deep within you stretches too. Something opens.

    The Stars as Witnesses

    “I came along
    I wrote a song for you
    And all the things you do
    And it was called ‘Yellow’”

    I have spent too long wrestling with the weight of my own thoughts, turning them over and over, looking for answers that never come. I have let regret shape me, let the past tether me to its ghost. But standing under this sky, something shifts. The burden does not disappear, but it loosens, as if the universe is whispering:

    “It was never yours to carry alone.”

    I can feel my grip loosening, but have always felt like I was the only one who could carry some of this stuff. There is something humbling about standing beneath the stars. It is not the humbling that diminishes you, that makes you feel small in a way that aches. No. It is the kind that expands you. The kind that reminds you that you are part of something too vast to be contained, too intricate to be an accident.

    The stars burn, unbothered by entropy or pain, watching as we move through our small and fragile lives. And yet, they are not distant. They are not indifferent.

    It is easy to believe that the universe is cold, that it spins on without care, that we are insignificant against its vastness. But looking up, I do not feel abandoned.

    I feel held.

    The stars are not watchers—they are witnesses. They are not distant; they are near, written into our very being, the same stardust that formed them resting in our bones. In their endless glow, I see something that feels like home. Not a place, not a destination, but a knowing. A reminder that existence is not about control, not about fixing every broken piece, but about surrendering to something larger.

    Not in defeat, but in trust.

    The Ache of Being Human

    I have been thinking about everyone. About how we drift past each other in grocery aisles and crowded streets, how we sit beside strangers on buses, in waiting rooms, never knowing the battles they carry.

    How loneliness does not always announce itself—it hides in polite smiles, in the spaces between words. How we are all, in some way, searching for the same thing: connection, understanding, a place where we can lay down our burdens and be seen.

    The world aches, not just in the places where war rages or where disaster strikes, but in the quiet corners of bedrooms, in the silence after a phone call that never came, in the spaces where love once lived.

    And yet, when I look at the stars—when I really look—I see someone else.

    I see the quiet presence that has always been there, waiting.

    I see the hand that has never let go, even when I thought I was alone.

    I see a reflection of something truer than my fear, truer than my doubt.

    I see myself, not as the questions I have been asking, but as the stillness between them.

    A Light That Calls Us Home

    “Your skin
    Oh yeah, your skin and bones
    Turn into something beautiful
    And you know
    You know I love you so”

    So, I stand in the deep of the night, under the Storms River sky, and let the stars name me again.

    Not lost. Not alone.

    Just here. Just light. Just part of it all.

    And maybe, in this vast and waiting universe, you are standing somewhere, looking up too. Maybe, in this moment, neither of us are alone.

    Maybe we never were.

    Because no matter where we are, the same stars watch over us. They have seen empires rise and fall, seen lovers carve their names into tree trunks, seen children wish on them before they even understood what a wish was. They have watched over the lost and the found, the searching and the settled. They have burned through history, through war and peace, through the rise and fall of lifetimes. And yet, they remain.

    A map of light across the sky. A quiet promise written.

    Tonight, I take a breath and let it all go—the questions, the doubt, the need to have everything figured out. I listen to the hush of the forest, the whisper of the wind, the endless rhythm of the ocean. I let the night name me again. And maybe, somewhere under this same sky, you are doing the same.

    Maybe, for a moment, we are both looking up.

    And maybe, for a moment, that is enough.

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  • Feeling Our Feelings: Raising Emotionally Aware Kids in a World That Says ‘Fine’

    Feeling Our Feelings: Raising Emotionally Aware Kids in a World That Says ‘Fine’

    Every day when I fetch my kids from school, I ask them the same questions: How was your day? What did you guys do?And every day, I hear the same vague, distant replies: I don’t know. I can’t remember. I don’t want to tell you.

    At first, I thought maybe they were just tired. Maybe they genuinely didn’t remember. Maybe it wasn’t worth prying. But then I realized something—something that struck deep in my heart as an INFP, as an Enneagram 4, as a father who wants his children to grow up with full access to their emotions.

    In a world that tells boys to be strong and hide their tears, and tells girls to smile and keep the peace, my kids are already learning to shrink their feelings into the smallest, most acceptable answers. Fine. Okay. Normal.

    And I can’t let that happen.

    The Language of Emotion

    I want my children to feel their feelings—to know that every sensation, every thought, every spark of joy or pang of sadness is worth acknowledging. That feelings are what feelings are, and that it’s totally OK to feel them, for what they are. But I also realize that maybe I’m asking the wrong questions. Maybe How was your day? is too big. Maybe Was it good or bad? is too binary. So I’ve started experimenting with a new way of uncovering their emotions—one that invites them to reflect without forcing them to expose more than they’re ready for. Cause maybe our feelings are way more colourful than simple yes or no answers give them credit for. Maybe our feelings require a song, or a painting, or a walk.

    Instead of asking if their day was good or bad, I ask:

    • Was your teacher laughing today or shouting today?
    • Was your day fast or slow?
    • Was today full of laughter with your friends or full of tears?
    • Did your heart beat faster or slower today?
    • Did today feel like a sunny day or a cloudy day, even if the sun was shining?
    • If your day was a color, what color would it be?
    • Was there a moment today that made you feel big, or a moment that made you feel small?

    And something beautiful has been happening.

    Finding the Truth Beneath the Surface

    When I ask my kids if their teacher was laughing or shouting, I don’t just learn about their teacher—I learn about their classroom environment, their comfort level, their sense of belonging.

    When I ask if their day was fast or slow, I can usually guess whether they felt engaged or bored, excited or restless. I’ve learned that for my son, fast usually means good—it means soccer at break, a fun art project, or a new game with his friends. For my daughter, fast sometimes means overwhelming—too much stimulation, too many changes, too many people.

    When I ask if their heart beat faster or slower, I start to see where excitement and anxiety blur together. My heart beat fast when we had a surprise test, my son once told me. My heart beat fast when I ran with my friends, my daughter said another day. Same sensation, different emotions.

    And when I ask about colors, I glimpse their inner world in ways words sometimes fail to capture. It was a green day, my son once said. And when I asked what that meant, he shrugged, I don’t know. Just green.

    I let that be enough. Because naming a feeling—even in color—is still naming it.

    Teaching My Kids (And Myself) That Feelings Matter

    One of the hardest things about being an Enneagram 4 is feeling so deeply in a world that often dismisses deep feelings. I see it already in my kids. My son, who is full of energy, has already been told that boys should be tough, that showing emotions makes him weak. My daughter, who is sensitive and observant, has already learned that girls should be sweet, that being too expressive might be seen as dramatic or overwhelming. But emotions are not burdens; they are bridges—ways we connect deeply with ourselves and others.

    Empathy begins with allowing ourselves and those around us to feel without judgment. When we create space for emotions, we cultivate an understanding that stretches beyond words. True connection comes from being seen and heard in our most vulnerable moments, and I want my children to know that their emotions—whether joy, sadness, frustration, or fear—are valid. I want them to learn that deep feeling is not just a part of life but a strength, one that allows them to love, to create, to stand up for what matters, and to build relationships rooted in authenticity and compassion.

    But I want them to know this: Your feelings matter. All of them.

    I want them to know that feeling sad is as important as feeling happy. That excitement and fear can coexist. That emotions don’t have to be justified to be real.

    As Brené Brown says, “We cannot selectively numb emotions. When we numb the painful emotions, we also numb the positive emotions.” If I teach my kids to ignore their sadness, they will also lose touch with their joy. If I teach them to brush off anger, they will struggle to feel true passion.

    Susan Cain, in her book Bittersweet, writes, “The secret that our poets and philosophers have been trying to tell us for centuries, is that our longing and our sorrow are not only necessary but also the gateway to joy and love.” I want my children to understand that feeling deeply is not a flaw, but a gift—a path toward richer connections, toward a world that feels alive and meaningful. Cain also says, “If we could honor sadness a little more, maybe we could transform it into something beautiful.” I want my children to know that sadness is not something to escape, but something to honor, because it, too, shapes who we are and how we love.

    So, I tell them: Feel everything. The good, the bad, the confusing, the weird. Feel it all. And when you’re ready, tell me about it.

    Creating a Safe Space for Emotion

    Of course, even with all these new questions and insights, some days my kids still answer, I don’t know. And that’s okay.

    Because my job isn’t to force them to talk. My job is to make sure they know they can talk when they’re ready.

    So I create space.

    Sometimes, instead of asking questions in the car right after school, I wait until bedtime, when the lights are low and their guards are down. Or Daniel will just randomly start talking while we’re playing cricket outside, answering a question I asked him 2 hours ago…

    Sometimes, instead of words, we use other ways of expressing emotions. We draw. We play. We listen to music and talk about how it makes us feel.

    And sometimes, when words feel impossible, we just sit together in silence. Because even silence, when it’s safe and understood, can be its own kind of conversation.

    The World Will Try to Silence Them—But I Won’t

    I know that as they grow, the world will keep trying to flatten their emotions into fine and okay.

    The world will tell my son that boys don’t cry. The world will tell my daughter that anger isn’t pretty.

    But in our home, in our car rides, in our bedtime talks, on the cricket filed, in the dance studio, they will always have a place where their emotions—every messy, vibrant, complex emotion—are welcome.

    I will keep asking new questions. I will keep giving them space. I will keep teaching them, every single day, that their hearts and minds are worth knowing.

    And maybe, just maybe, when they grow up, they won’t need to unlearn the things the world tried to erase.

    Because they will already know: Their feelings were always meant to be felt.

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  • You Have All You Need, Right Here, Right Now

    You Have All You Need, Right Here, Right Now

    We wait. We prepare. We gather all the right things, check our lists twice, pack our bags with the perfect tools, and tell ourselves— Just a little more time. Just one more thing. And then I’ll be ready.

    We do this with everything.

    Before we begin the journey, we convince ourselves we need the perfect backpack, the best shoes, the right map, the assurance of a clear and certain path. Before we create, we tell ourselves we need the best equipment, the right degree, the validation from someone wiser, older, more experienced. Before we speak, we believe we need the right words, the right audience, the confidence that no one will misunderstand or reject us. Before we live, we wait—thinking we need just one more thing before we can begin.

    But the great secret, the quiet whisper hidden behind all our worries, is this:

    You don’t need all the things you think you need to do all the things you feel called to do.

    Read that again.

    You don’t need permission. You don’t need perfection. You don’t need every answer before you start.

    You are not a project waiting for completion. You are not an empty vessel waiting to be filled. You are not behind, and you are not lacking.

    You are already in motion. The road is beneath your feet, and the breath in your lungs is proof you are meant to move, meant to create, meant to step into this moment, exactly as you are.

    The degrees, the certificates, the gear, the green lights—those are extras, not requirements. They may make the path smoother, but they are not what make the path possible.

    You don’t need every answer. You don’t need certainty. You don’t need a fully packed bag.

    You have all you need. Right here. Right now.

    So go.

    Write the book. Start the business. Sing the song. Take the trip. Speak the words. Walk the road.

    Stop waiting for an invitation. Stop waiting for proof. Stop waiting for something outside of yourself to tell you it’s okay to begin.

    You are enough. And life is waiting.

    Go make it beautiful.

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  • Killing Time vs. Embracing Sacred Time: Finding the Burning Bush in Everyday Moments

    Killing Time vs. Embracing Sacred Time: Finding the Burning Bush in Everyday Moments

    The Illusion of Killing Time

    We often talk about killing time—waiting for the next thing, the real thing, the moment that actually matters. We scroll through our phones, rush through tasks, fill space with distractions just to get through the day. But in doing so, we are not just passing time—we are wasting something sacred.

    What if, instead, we saw all time as sacred? What if, rather than moving from one moment to the next, we learned to fully inhabit each moment as it unfolds? What if, instead of killing time, we let time live in us?

    Moses and the Burning Bush: An Ordinary Moment Turned Sacred

    Moses was not in a temple. He was not praying or seeking revelation. He was simply doing his daily work, working for his father-in-law actually—tending sheep—when he saw a bush on fire, yet not consumed. And in that moment, something shifted. The ground he stood on was declared holy.

    God spoke, not in some distant, ethereal realm, but in the middle of Moses’ ordinary routine. This was a burning bush moment—one that had always been there, waiting to be noticed. The grass didn’t change all of a sudden. It was rather that Moses started to pay attention, this moment elevates his attention. So the question rather maybe, what changes the quality of my attention?

    How many burning bushes do we walk past every day, too caught up in our rush to the next thing to see them? How many holy moments do we ignore because we are too busy killing time?

    The Sacred in the Ordinary

    A house is not just walls and a roof—it is a home, a place where laughter echoes, where love is exchanged, where small, seemingly mundane moments shape us.

    A meal is not just food on a plate—it is nourishment, not just for the body but for the soul, a time to slow down, connect, and be present.

    A conversation is not just words—it is the meeting of two lives, a sacred exchange of stories, thoughts, and emotions.

    What if we saw every moment through this lens? What if, instead of rushing through life, we looked for the burning bushes?

    How to Find the Burning Bush in Your Own Life

    The Mishkan, the sacred dwelling place of God in the desert, was not just an assembly of gold, silver, and wood. It was built with commitment, generosity, and intention. It transformed the ordinary into something transcendent.

    Likewise, your life is filled with sacred spaces—if only you learn to see them.

    Here’s how:

    1. Be Present – Stop looking at your watch, your phone, the next task. Engage fully in what is happening now.
    2. Infuse Intention – Whether you are making dinner, answering emails, or tucking your kids into bed, bring presence and meaning into each action.
    3. Look for the Unexpected – Moses didn’t expect a burning bush. He was just doing his job. Be open to the divine interruptions in your life.
    4. Elevate the Ordinary – Turn simple tasks into acts of connection, gratitude, and joy. A routine grocery trip can become an opportunity to appreciate life.
    5. Practice Sacred Time – Instead of rushing, slow down. Notice the beauty in a moment, the laughter of a child, the rhythm of your own breath. This is time well spent.

    Tikkun Olam: Repairing the World One Moment at a Time

    The Jewish mystical tradition of tikkun olam teaches that divine sparks are scattered throughout the world, embedded in ordinary, physical things. Our task is to gather them through mindful, intentional living.

    Every time we recognize a burning bush moment, we participate in this sacred work. Every time we see time as holy rather than something to kill, we restore the world a little more to its divine wholeness.

    Stop Killing Time—Start Living It

    Instead of waiting for the real moments, the big moments, the life-changing moments, what if we embraced each moment as holy?

    What if we treated the act of driving our kids to school, having coffee with a friend, cooking dinner, or even answering an email as a burning bush opportunity?

    Because the truth is, sacred moments are not rare. They are everywhere.

    The question is: Are you paying attention?

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