Christmas Isn’t Wrapped in Paper

Pokémon cards, cousins, and choosing memories over stuff

Every other year, our family flips the holiday script.

On odd years, we head north to Wisconsin for Thanksgiving and stay put in Austin for Christmas. On even years, we do the reverse. This year is an “odd year,” which means we’re settling into a slow Texas Christmas. No snow. No winter boots. Just Texas December days warm enough for shorts and flip flops.

It’s a different rhythm than the Christmases I grew up with, but it’s one I’ve come to appreciate. A little quieter. A little slower. Less rushing. A bit more room to think and notice things.

One of the things I can’t help being reminded of this holiday season is how much my kids want stuff.

My six-year-old son is laser-focused on Pokémon cards. Not toys. Not games. Just cards. Shiny ones, specifically. He’s deep into collecting, trading, organizing, and proudly announcing when he has a “better card” than his sister. And while Pokémon cards do bring him joy, there’s something about spending most of a Christmas budget on a few dozen small rectangles of cardboard that feels… fleeting.

Especially when I watch what actually happens after the excitement fades.

Walking Santa thru the Pokémon Collection - 2025 

Most of the cards get sorted, compared, and then set aside. One or two special ones get slipped carefully into a binder. And then he moves on.

My daughter, at eight, has a slightly longer list. A few things that feel more substantial. But even with her, I can sense that tug toward more. More gifts. More boxes. More stuff to open. It’s hard not to feel that pull as a parent, too. We want to give our kids everything. We want to create magic.

But lately, I’ve been trying to slow myself down and ask a different question: What actually lasts? What do we really need?

A few mornings ago, over breakfast, I asked my daughter what she really wanted to do during Christmas break. Without hesitation, she said she wanted to see her cousins. Her Wisconsin cousins. The ones she doesn’t get to see nearly enough. She said she wished they could come to Austin for Christmas.

What she didn’t know was that, perhaps subliminally, I’d been planting that idea for weeks. That one of my sisters had already decided to plan their winter break trip down to Texas. So just a couple of days after Christmas, my daughter’s wish is coming true. Four cousins will be piling into our house, filling it with noise, laughter, and chaos. My kids and the cousins won’t find this out until Christmas morning, until they unwrap the gift from one another letting them know they’ll be seeing one another in two days <3.

My daughter had been working a full itinerary in her head since the last time her cousins visited, one that can’t be fit into five days. Zilker Park. Downtown adventures. Maybe the Hill Country. Enchanted Rock if we can swing it. And then, to top it off, a few nights near Fork Lake east of Dallas for New Year’s Eve, where the kids will run around, fish, play games, and stay up later than they should.

It’s a smaller version of what I experienced growing up. Christmas Eve at the farmhouse. Forty-plus relatives crammed into one place. Loud conversations. Kids everywhere. The kind of gatherings where you don’t remember who gave what gift, well other than those couple of years when stuffed pantyhose dolls were the craze and my grandma gifted one where you could very clearly see Santa’s butt crack.

But what did stick were the moments. The people. The feeling of being together and not the stuff. The thoughtfulness of the gifts. And definitely not which gifts were the most expensive or luxurious.

Thinking about the tension of kids wanting things, parents trying to balance joy with budgets, it reminds me of some of the work we’ve been doing this year with the Texas Forward Party around affordability in some of our campaigns. Polling from the University of Texas / Texas Politics Project has consistently shown that affordability is one of the top concerns on Texans’ minds right now (66% are very concerned about food and consumer prices). Not abstract policy debates, but everyday questions: groceries, rent, childcare, gas, and whether the math still works at the end of the month.

Standing there thinking about Pokémon cards and Christmas morning, it hit me that this isn’t just a parenting moment. It reminded me that it’s something families all across Texas are quietly navigating, trying to create meaningful moments without letting the pressure of “more stuff” crowd out what actually matters.

Little elf Christmas card assembly line of 2025

So on a hopeful holiday note, the most meaningful parts of the holidays aren’t the expensive ones. It’s time together. Shared meals. Being outside. Playing games. Making memories that don’t require a receipt.

As parents, it’s easy to get caught up in giving our kids everything they ask for. It’s harder, and more important, to help them see that Christmas is about more than what shows up under the tree. It’s about how it feels to be together. The memories you collect along the way.

Because years from now, I don’t think my kids will remember how many gifts they opened. But I’m sure they remember the time with family and friends, the days spent together, and the feeling that the holidays are something you experience. That it’s the memories collected, not the Pokémon cards, that really last.

Family first. Neighbors first. Humanity first.
Rooted in Wisconsin. Growing forward in Texas.

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What a Holiday Bully Reminded Me About Kindness

On bullies, boundaries, and the quiet strength our families and communities need right now.

Friday nights in our house are pizza and a movie night. And since we’re officially in holiday season mode, this week’s movie was Christmas… Again?!  A Groundhog Day style Christmas story where the main character keeps reliving the holiday until she finally figures out the true meaning of Christmas. Nestled inside the repetitive plotline are several scenes where a neighborhood bully named Gretchen steals the donation jar from two younger kids. At first, the main character, Rowena, is too wrapped up in her own world to step in. But as she re-lives the day over and over, she starts thinking about others. Eventually she decides she’s going to stop the bully… and repeatedly gets tossed around by this big meanie herself.

Then she tries kindness. She hands Gretchen a Christmas present. Gretchen’s face softens. Her eyes brighten. For a split second you think, Ah, this is the moment. Kindness breaks through. The heart grows three sizes. 

And then?

Gretchen shoves her to the ground, grabs the gift and the donation money, and sprints off.

I actually laughed out loud. One of those surprised, “Okay, you got me” laughs. Not because bullying is funny, but because the moment captured something painfully realistic: sometimes kindness doesn’t melt a bully; sometimes the bully just… stays the bully. At least at first.

Rowena even tries to out bully the bully, learning Judo so she can overpower Gretchen, but that still does not work.

I then found myself explaining to the kids why being mean isn’t funny, and why I laughed anyway. My son asked if I ever had a bully when I was a kid. So we ended up having one of those unexpected parenting conversations about boundaries, courage, kindness, and what it really means to stand up for yourself and for others; and how to do that in the kind, right, human way.

It also connected back to last week’s Thanksgiving post, where I wondered whether some of the harshest public figures might soften around their own family tables, whether the versions of them we see on the news are often their worst and not their whole selves. I still want to believe that. People are more layered and more decent than the clips suggest. But believing that doesn’t mean giving anyone a free pass. 

The truth is, we have far too many leaders across politics, media, and business who seem comfortable behaving like bullies. People who punch down. People who stoke division instead of easing it. People who act like cruelty shows strength, when in reality it shrinks the world they lead.

And what troubles me most is this, kids see it. Kids copy it. Kids normalize it. If we don’t challenge bullying at the societal level, we silently teach the next generation to assume this is how power behaves: loud, aggressive, unkind, uninterested in understanding.

Fast forward to the day after pizza and a movie, and we’re standing outside the Texas Capitol, the workplace of some of those very same public figures whose rhetoric often sounds like Gretchen with a microphone. But we weren’t there for politics. We joined thousands of Austinites for the annual Christmas tree lighting and holiday sing-along. A tradition that started decades ago in the Capitol rotunda and has grown into a packed downtown celebration. Warm lights, warm voices, warm energy. It reminded me again that when you get real people together in a real place, shoulder to shoulder, we’re almost always better than the headlines suggest. Kinder. More patient. More human.

Capitol tree lighting and sing along - 2025

That’s what I tried to explain to my kids: kindness is important, but standing up to a bully doesn’t require becoming one. True strength, the kind I hope they carry forward, is a combination of compassion, understanding, empathy, courage, humility, and just the right amount of toughness.

And this is also why I’ve spent so much of this year volunteering with the Texas Forward Party. Of many things, I’m really proud of our Kindness campaign. A reminder that kindness isn’t just a nicety, it’s a strategy. A way to rebuild trust in a time that desperately needs it. A way to elevate leaders who don’t rely on fear or fury to get attention. A way to show that communities can move forward when we choose connection over combat.  And to add a little bit of Texas flair, I got to create a “Fixin’ to Fix It… with Kindness” t-shirt, because I genuinely believe we can fix the future by how we choose to show up now.

The holiday season has a way of nudging us toward our better selves. Maybe it’s the lights downtown, maybe it’s the familiar songs, or maybe it’s that people finally slow down long enough to actually see one another. When I look around in real life, I see far more kindness than cruelty, far more cooperation than division. That gives me hope.

The movie we watched may have been silly (one step from a Hallmark classic) but by the end, Rowena realizes she isn’t the only one dealing with change. Her family, her neighbors, even her bully, are all navigating something. She stops focusing on herself long enough to understand the people around her. And strangely enough, she wins the bully over not by force or by flattery, but by getting her to laugh by setting up a joke booth.

And maybe that’s the lesson the holidays always seem to give us… kindness and a bit of jolly (levity) are powerful things.

Family first. Neighbors first. Humanity first.
Rooted in Wisconsin. Growing forward in Texas.

The How Matters as Much as the What

Reflecting on Thanksgiving, communication, and cornbread stuffing

Being back in Wisconsin for Thanksgiving reminded me of something simple but meaningful: the food matters, sure, but the gathering, the intention behind it is what carries the real weight. The anticipation of getting together. Whether it was the long drive up through the cold, the cousins racing through my parents’ house, or the familiar sound of my mom orchestrating a dozen dishes at once, Thanksgiving has always been less about what’s served and more about how we show up to be together.

And that same idea kept resurfacing all week: in family conversations, in shared meals, and even in the small moments of chaos that come with kids and crowded kitchens. The how matters as much as the what. Wisconsin has a way of reminding me of that.

Growing up, my Thanksgiving favorite: stuffing. Bread cubes, butter, sage, onion; I’d even chow down Stovetop stuffing. So the first time I heard mention of cornbread stuffing when we moved South… It felt wrong, and I knew it wasn’t worth my time.

But then came a Thanksgiving volunteer shift at Whole Foods, in the prep kitchen where I spent hours cutting and drying pans of cornbread cubes. Everyone around me talking about how cornbread stuffing is their favorite.  It’s the best. With sausage. With jalapenos. With Bacon. I defended “real stuffing”, but my curiosity was piqued, and doing more listening then defending I decided I’d make cornbread stuffing that year.

And of course, I was hooked. Traditions evolve. Point goes to cornbread.

As for traditions, fifteen years ago, my family created a rather special tradition: Turkey Dice. It started with leftover Halloween Jell-O shots, and us asking “What if we turned this into a drinking game”, which spiraled into a full-fledged Thanksgiving dice game with an “Offical Rulebook” (misspelling courtesy of my cousin, Cassie). Back then, the adults played like their lives depended on avoiding the final Jell-O shot. But now the kids gather around the table, fighting for the “kid version Jello-O shots” and this year amended an additional tradition singing Hamilton’s “I’m not throwing away my shot!”.

Turkey Dice & Jell-O "shots" with the cousins - 2025

The what of the game changed. The how we come together, and that we always do it… hasn’t changed.

Thanksgiving get-togethers can be a house crammed full, conversations stopping and restarting, kids running in every direction, and something inevitably not going as planned. Joyful for some. Stressful for others. Conversations can be heartfelt, some can be a real snooze-fest, and others can be uncomfortable. I felt blessed this year, since other than the kids having their moments, the only friction I experienced was my niece (Estelle) telling me I looked like Dick Van Dyke’s “Chairman of the Bank” character in Mary Poppins, because he’s old (and I’m sporting a beard these days that has more white in it than any other color).

So on the long drive back to Texas, I found myself thinking about communicating with others, and drawn to a podcast on communication and conversations. Mel Robbins was interviewing Dr. Alison Wood Brooks, a Harvard professor who studies the science of communication. She talked about why conversations feel harder than they should, why we replay them in our heads afterward, and what really makes communication work.

The part that stuck with me most was her TALK model: Topics, Asking, Levity, Kindness.

Not complicated. Just a reminder of what makes conversations feel human.

Topics, when deliberate and thoughtful, set the tone. Thanksgiving starts with “How was the drive?” and ends with stories we couldn’t script if we tried. Good conversations move naturally from light to meaningful when we let them.

Asking, real asking, is about curiosity. Not rapid-fire questions, but the thoughtful follow-up that says, “I’m listening. Keep going.” It’s always a treat to be around someone who does this instinctively, the person who opens the whole room with one question after another.

Levity is the secret ingredient. Not jokes, necessarily, but just ease and lightness. The small laugh after a slip of the tongue that softens the moment.

Kindness is the backbone. The generosity and patience required to assume the best of someone sitting across from you, even when you disagree. Kindness changes the whole conversation, and can strengthen a connection.

Unfortunately, if you turn on the news lately, it can feel like the opposite of all that is going on. The loudest voices dominate. Tribalism wins the airtime. The clip of the day is almost always someone at their worst, never their best.

And I couldn’t help but wonder, when those same people sit at their own Thanksgiving tables, do they soften? Do they listen longer? Do they laugh more easily? Do they show kindness in ways the cameras never capture?

I want to believe they do. When in-person, with family, or with friends. Because what I saw this Thanksgiving is what I see again and again: when we’re gathered in person, around a table, a game, or a kitchen counter we’re softer. We’re better listeners. We laugh more. We give each other more room. And somehow, we find more common ground than we ever do online.

Maybe the world really is divided. But maybe the division shrinks when we choose to show up with Topics worth sharing, Asking in a manner that shows we care, Levity that keeps us human, and Kindness that holds it all together.

The what will always matter. But the how; how we talk, how we show up, how we treat one another is what moves us forward.

Family first. Neighbors first. Humanity first. 

Rooted in Wisconsin. Growing Forward in Texas.

Grace and Tolerance on the Road to Wisconsin

Grace, Tolerance, and Showing Up

I have to go potty!

No, you don’t. We just stopped fifteen minutes ago.

I do. I have to go! I’ll go in my pants!!!”

We’re not stopping again. If you really have to go, we’ll pull over and you can nature pee on the side of the road!

... Fine. Ok. I don’t have to go!

A road trip with the family is a whirlwind of memories with moments you’ll remember forever, and those you’d sooner forget. And as I was having this exchange with my six-year-old son, I sat in the passenger seat with a terrible head cold and a raging headache. My patience was tested, but in the back of my head a very quiet voice reminded me to show grace and tolerance. It was something I had been thinking about in the week leading up to our trip to Wisconsin.

Earlier in the week, we had our annual parents’ Thanksgiving meal at the school cafeteria. You squeeze yourself into tiny chairs at tiny tables and suddenly remember just how small elementary school furniture really is. First came the wave of Kindergarteners, all energy and excitement. Then thirty minutes later came round two with the third graders.

The teachers and administration always do an amazing job, and the lunchroom staff and PTA make it feel like a real holiday moment. Someone from the neighborhood played guitar this year, giving everything a warm, homey feel. The mashed potatoes were even on point (I would have gone back for seconds if allowed). Kids whose parents couldn’t make it were pulled into other families’ tables, and within minutes these little “extended Thanksgiving families” formed in the middle of twenty-five minutes of pure chaos.

Parents also get a front-row seat to what lunchtime actually looks and sounds like with a room full of little humans. It’s loud, messy, unpredictable, and watching the teachers and staff navigate it all with calm voices, patience, smiles, and genuine kindness was a real reminder of grace and tolerance. I honestly don’t know how they do it so gracefully. It gave us parents yet another thing to be grateful for heading into Thanksgiving.

Jump to the next day. It was the morning of our road trip to Wisconsin, and the kids had been waiting for this day for weeks. Nothing bursts an eight-year-old’s bubble faster than being told she has to go to school first. Teeny, our daughter, spent all week trying to convince us school was cancelled. Then at breakfast she revised her story: “The school said we could all leave early.”

We had a quick talk about why showing up matters: how if you listen, teachers pretty much tell you all the answers to the tests, and how the school only gets paid if you actually go. (More on that in a minute.)

So off to school they went, slightly defeated but still buzzing about the trip.

As I pulled up to drop the kids off, I saw a bunch of parents gathered on the front lawn. “Oh yeah… PTA meeting.” Even though I had a million things to pack before we left town, after lecturing my kids about showing up, it felt only right to park the Jeep and join the meeting.

We’re blessed with an incredibly well-run and well-supported PTA. The meeting started with great news: we exceeded our Fun Run fundraising goal, which meant extra budget for student programs. Then I learned something I never knew, our school garden grows the tarragon used in a signature drink at Odd Duck, a cherished Austin farm-to-table restaurant that actually has some of its origin story starting in Wisconsin.

There were the usual program updates, and then we got to the heavier topic weighing on schools across Austin and across Texas: funding cuts, closures, and consolidations.

I wasn’t exaggerating when I told my kids that schools only get paid when students show up. Texas schools receive their budgets based on enrollment, but a portion of funding is tied to daily attendance. And the rules for accessing school funding have grown more restrictive, with more hoops and hurdles introduced over time.

Next year, our school will take in a handful of students from a school that will be shuttered. A parent shared insights from a recent conference on Texas’s new school voucher program. Regardless of where anyone stands politically, vouchers almost always lead to fewer dollars flowing into public schools as districts scramble to adjust.

My kids are lucky to be in this specific school, in a neighborhood that is affluent, engaged, and able to fundraise to fill gaps the district and state cannot. Not every school has that cushion. In many classrooms across the state, compassionate teachers are the ones who shoulder those gaps on their own.

Standing on the front lawn, listening to our Zilker PTA leaders and teachers talk through challenges calmly, creatively, and without playing the victim, I felt inspired. This community doesn’t retreat into frustration. They adapt, collaborate, and keep showing up for the kids. It was grace and tolerance in action.

Fast-forward to later that night. A good six hours into the drive north, somewhere just past Dallas, I was reminded again just how big and diverse Texas really is. Every time we pass through Dallas, I’m taken back to my first trip to Texas in 2001 when I was working with JCPenney up in Plano. Back then, North Dallas felt big but quiet and sprawling. Now it stretches endlessly, with miles of growth, development, and expansion in every direction.

Somewhere along that stretch, my head cold hit full force, and the drive became a blur of headlights. Through all of it, my wife showed more grace and tolerance toward me than I probably managed toward her and the kids. I was running on fumes, and all out of grace and tolerance.

The last mile on a trip up to Slinger, WI

As we head into Thanksgiving, I’ve been thinking about how many people around us might be running on fumes too. How many are carrying heavy loads: financial strain, job uncertainty, loneliness, rising food prices, or simply the exhaustion of a long year. Teachers stretched thin. Parents doing their best. Friends navigating change. People who don’t yet have the words for what they’re going through.

Maybe it’s not a cure-all, but there is something we can all give.

A little more grace.

A little more tolerance.

A softer response in a hard moment (or a Thanksgiving table debate).

So whether it’s your son in the backseat, a teacher in a crowded cafeteria, a spouse on a long highway, a volunteer holding a school together, or someone at your Thanksgiving table trying to hold it all together, a single moment of grace or empathy can make all the difference.

This year, that’s what I’m trying to practice more of: presence over perfection, patience over frustration, compassion over convenience. Supporting causes, movements, and groups that lift up communities and kindness.

And in case you’re wondering, and due to a kind reminder of my travel partner, I made my best attempt of presence, patience, and compassion. We did take the next exit to make an emergency stop at the closest gas station for what my son proudly announced would be “a quick pee.”  It was.

Family first. Neighbors first. Humanity first. 

Rooted in Wisconsin. Growing Forward in Texas.

Wisconsin Strong. Texas Tough. Girl Dad "Soft".

What parenting reminds me about real strength.

Nothing has stretched, softened, challenged, or humbled me more than raising two little humans. Parenthood arrives with plenty of advice and manuals, but almost no real preparation for what actually matters. You discover quickly that parenting is one long journey of learning, unlearning, adjusting, apologizing, and trying again.

My kids, two little Texans with Wisconsin roots, are full of curiosity, humor, stubbornness, and kindness. And energy, a lot of energy. They remind me every day that parenting isn’t just about teaching; it’s about being taught. They bring out both the parts of me I’m proud of and the parts I still need to work on. And somehow, they keep helping me grow into the person I want to be for them.

This weekend, I hosted a close friend from Wisconsin and her gaggle of gal pals in Austin. All of them were accomplished, driven, and unmistakably Wisconsin. There’s something grounding about seeing your “old life” overlap with your current one, especially when you’re trying to relive some of the fun from Milwaukee twenty years ago. I brought them to a handful of Austin favorites: Terry Black’s, Matt’s El Rancho, Loro, Halcyon, the Moody Theater, the Golden Goose, and my personal fav’ -> Donn’s Depot. Watching them experience Austin with fresh eyes reminded me how much meaning lives in the places we share with the people we care about.

I didn’t get to join every adventure (like the all-day Hill Country winery tour) because I had the usual mix of work and kid activities. But somewhere in the moments when I did join them, my mind drifted to parenting and leadership - and “gal powered leadership”. I found myself thinking again about John Mackey’s writing on conscious leadership. His book Conscious Leadership had a profound impact on me during my time at Whole Foods Market. Back then, I thought I was studying organizational culture. But standing in those Austin dives, thinking about getting up the next morning to make breakfast for the kids, I realized I was also learning how to be a better father.

Mackey writes about leadership as a balance of traits traditionally labeled masculine: assertiveness, competitiveness, decisiveness; and traits traditionally labeled feminine: empathy, compassion, authenticity, and love. His point is simple: real leadership isn’t about choosing one over the other. It’s about balance. It’s about being fully human. It’s understanding that emotional intelligence, compassion, and authenticity aren’t signs of weakness; they’re essential to being a strong leader.

Growing up in Wisconsin, we had our own version of toughness. Call it “Wisconsin Strong”. The kind of strength shaped by long winters, hard work, and a sense of duty to family and community. After moving to Texas, I quickly learned the phrase “Texas Tough,” a mix of grit, resilience, pride, and independence.

But becoming a parent taught me that real strength doesn’t live exclusively in either one. Real strength lives in the space where grit meets grace. Where confidence meets compassion. Where firmness meets softness. My kids have shown me that the strongest thing I can offer them isn’t control. It’s presence (and a whole lot of patience).

This past week was also Veterans Day, and with it came a wave of memories. I grew up surrounded by a small circle of “extra” aunts and uncles; not related to us by blood, but woven deeply into the fabric of our family. One of which was Uncle Dale (to our kids Papa Dale), a veteran and a quiet hero in the ways that matter most. He passed away last year, and these last two Veterans Days have felt different without him.

He was the father of three daughters and the gold standard of what is now referred to as a “girl dad.” He was always building something, always helping someone, always showing up, and always giving more than asking for in return. His strength had nothing to do with bravado. His strength lived in service, humility, compassion, and love.

Some of the lessons he taught me still echo through my life today. Small things that carry big meaning. I still think of him every time I wind up an extension cord the correct way, or label a tool so it doesn’t “grow legs,” or square and cope a piece of trim. Some lessons I’ve forgotten, but the feeling of being taught with patience, care, and pride is something I will never forget. His woodworking tips, his attention to detail, his insistence on safety and craftsmanship; they were life lessons disguised as jobsite lessons. He showed me what it means to live with both strength and heart.

Parenting today feels very different from the world I grew up in back in Wisconsin. My childhood was spent outside, helping family and neighbors, riding bikes, and being surrounded by community. Today my kids grow up in a world filled with screens, schedules, competition, and rapid change, and often less built-in community. Some days, that weighs on me quietly. It makes me wonder if I’m giving my kids the right mix of freedom, guidance, and connection.

I want my kids to succeed, yes, but more importantly, I want them to be kind. I want them to be curious. I want them to know how to sit with someone who’s hurting, how to apologize sincerely, how to show compassion even when it’s difficult. I want them to grow up knowing that strength without empathy is hollow, and empathy without boundaries is directionless.

And this hope for their future is one of the main reasons I decided to volunteer more of my time earlier this year with the Texas Forward Party I want to do my part to help shape a future that my kids will inherit; where neighbors talk to each other, where disagreement doesn’t automatically mean division, and where kindness is not the exception but the expectation. I want them to see public servants with heart and compassion elevated by their communities, people they can look up to.

Because one day, when they’re grown, I hope they remember how they felt in our home, in our neighborhood, and in our city. I hope they remember feeling loved, safe, heard, and understood. Remembering the small rituals: breakfast together, bedtime books, exploring Zilker Park, discovering hidden corners of downtown Austin, and slowing down in Wisconsin with extended family.

Full load of kids, when you insist to go for a "walk" - Sept 2021

Parenting is messy. It’s loud, humbling, and full of second chances. And maybe that’s the real lesson I’m learning as a parent: that strength isn’t just found in grit, toughness, or pushing through. The deeper strength, the lasting, human kind, lives in the qualities we too often label as soft. The empathy. The patience. The compassion. The presence.

The very traits John challenged us to also honor as leaders and my uncle demonstrated in action, are the same traits my kids are reminding me to honor as a parent. 

Family first. Neighbors first. Humanity first. 

A Bar on every corner... and why gathering still matters

 A reflection on gathering, connection, and the power of showing up

One of Wisconsin’s claims to fame is that you can find a bar on nearly every corner. In Milwaukee and the small towns surrounding it, that was once almost true. In a place where winters last almost half the year, the local bar was never just about beer. It was about gathering.

In the late 1800s and early 1900s, many of these neighborhood bars were built into the first floors of homes. The family lived upstairs; the community gathered downstairs. German and Polish immigrants brought that model from Europe, blending the public house with the private home. People came not just to drink but to exchange news, share a meal, find work, or lend an ear. They were warm places in a cold world, extensions of the living room, I suppose precursors to the modern man cave.

Even out in the country, when I was growing up, this held true. Down the road from the family farm (a short tractor ride), there were two taverns. Luckily for us, one of those bars, "Some Place Cheap", was in the family, owned by my aunt and uncle. Along with having their living space above the bar, it sat across the street from my uncle’s auto body shop. On special occasions, my sister and I would get to play upstairs with our cousins while our parents were downstairs playing dice, sipping brandy Old Fashioneds, or having a beer. And because kids are allowed in bars in Wisconsin with their parents, it wasn’t uncommon to stop by during the day. It was also pretty sweet when your grandpa had an endless pocket of quarters for the jukebox, pool table, or games.

Those bars were community in its purest form. You didn’t need a password or a profile picture. There wasn’t a discussion-board moderator deciding what could or couldn’t be said. You just showed up.

Fast-forward a few decades and a thousand miles south. I now live in Austin, Texas, a city that prides itself on being weird, creative, and connected. And yet, like most modern cities, we’ve slowly traded gathering in person for gathering online.

Ironically, my grandfather’s favorite watering hole back home was called The Shady Grove — which shared a name with a favorite Austin hangout on Barton Springs Road that was right around the corner from us. Sadly, like so many gathering spots in Austin, it too has shuttered.

But every once in a while, something pulls you back to the real world.

This past weekend, my son and I went to a neighborhood event called Save Fairy Alley — a community rally to preserve a whimsical two-block walkway covered in paintings of koi fish, lily pads, flowers, and splashes of color in our little Zilker neighborhood. Fairy Alley became a beloved symbol of local art and expression, but new state highway guidelines now threaten to erase it under the banner of “uniformity” and cost savings.

We went mostly out of curiosity and sentiment — especially after reading the heartfelt words shared by neighbors through the Zilker Neighborhood Association. I knew people would show up, but I didn’t expect how alive it would feel.

As kids filled the faded pavement art with chalk, parents chatted (and chalked), neighbors met for the first time, and the whole alley buzzed with laughter and connection. My son was completely absorbed tracing koi fish and tracing blue splashes. The sounds of kids’ chatter and laughter mixed with the hum of conversation as we adults connected made the whole experience even more precious and memorable. In that short time, I met more neighbors and had more real conversations than a typical meetup.

Miles coloring in a Koi at Fairy Alley

It struck me how powerful these small, local gatherings can be. Fairy Alley isn’t just about paint or art. It’s about place, about having somewhere that belongs to everyone, where creativity and community overlap. Something special to the neighborhood.

Zilker neighborhood gathering for Save Fairy Alley Rally

Losing spaces like that, whether it’s a local bar, a public mural, or a small park doesn’t just change the landscape. It changes the way we relate to each other.

As a parent, I worry about what that means for our kids. When art and music disappear from schools, or when play and imagination get replaced by screens, we lose more than culture, we lose connection.

That theme popped up again this week while listening to a podcast with Arthur C. Brooks, author of From Strength to Strength, which has shaped how I think about the second half of life. In his conversation with Andrew Yang, “The Simple Rules for a Healthier Relationship with Technology”, he talks about reclaiming focus and relationships through habits like tech-free mornings and digital fasts. Something from this episode really stuck with me:

“Every moment you spend on a screen is a moment you’re not spending with a person.”

It’s simple, but true. Connection takes intention.

I’ve started trying to stay unplugged in the morning, keeping my phone away while I get ready and make breakfast for the kids just so I can have time with my thoughts before the day starts. Once I drop them off, I plug back in. But that quiet hour has made a big difference in how I show up for the rest of the day.

And plugging back into people and community is why I found myself thinking about those Wisconsin taverns. What stands out isn’t the drinking, it’s the socializing. People carved out time to check in on one another. They didn’t have to schedule it or scroll for it; it was built into daily life. You just showed up and took a seat around the bar (a unique version of a community table); played shake of the day, caught up on gossip, and crossed paths with neighbors.

Austin had its own version of those corner bars. Hole-in-the-wall spots, dance halls, and local restaurants where people gathered. But you have to make the time to find them; and to show up.

Today, it’s easier than ever to build your own bar; the man cave downstairs or the private media room. But chances are those doors aren’t open to everyone in the neighborhood from 11 a.m. to 2 a.m., six or seven days a week. And when it’s just as easy to hop into an online group chat to debate, vent, or disconnect from reality, it becomes even easier to stay home.

So maybe we can’t turn every living room into a tavern. But I’ve seen creative ways people are bringing that same spirit back. From turning a garage into a neighborhood gathering space, to hosting potlucks and chili cook-offs, to impromptu block parties.

One of the news podcast anchors I listen to recently said her favorite holiday is Halloween because it’s a community holiday. One of the few times of year that’s truly about getting out, meeting neighbors, and spending time in your community. Having more moments and holidays like that, ones that bring us together face-to-face, is something I could get behind.

Because when we stop showing up, the world gets colder. And no algorithm, playlist, or digital feed can replace the warmth of laughter and connection. As the world moves forward, as familiar gathering places close, traditions change, or paintings on pavement fade, it’s comforting to remember that it doesn’t take much; just a few people, neighbors, or family members to bring back the color and warmth.

That’s the kind of community I want to help build, where people show up, listen, and get to care a little bit more again.

Family first. Humanity first. Neighbors first.

It Takes a Village: lessons from Austin on change, purpose, and connection

Rooted in Wisconsin. Growing Forward in Texas.

When I first came to Austin, it felt like a small-town city with heart. It was a blend of the quaintness I felt in Milwaukee, mixed with the vibe you get in Madison, where university life and state government collide. The energy, the nightlight, the music and the Texan friendliness combined with tough love and grit — it all felt oddly like home. Austin had a lot of the parts of Wisconsin that I’d grown to love.

My first few experiences in Austin were nothing short of awesome. My very first visit was back in 2010 for a wedding along Lady Bird Lake for a close friend of mine, a true-hearted Texan I’d worked with at Accenture. It was one of the most elegant weddings I’d ever attended, and somehow it ended with late-night stacks of Popeye’s sandwiches.

A few years later, I came back for the full SXSW experience, and I was hooked. The music, the energy, the way Austin merged technology, progress, music, and art. Cowboys and coders. Barbecue smoke and innovation. It all somehow worked. I remember my first run around Lady Bird Lake, a perfect blend of an expanse of nature in the city. A bit of zen and presence, a feeling that has stuck with me through a thousand runs since.

Around that same time, I was courting Whole Foods Market. At first, it was through my role in a start-up trying to partner with them. But as I dug in to understand the company, something clicked. After years in consulting, I’d grown skeptical that you could “do good” in the corporate world and actually mean it. Then I read John Mackey’s Conscious Capitalism and started meeting the people who lived that philosophy every day.

Whole Foods embodied the idea that business could be a force for good: for community, for people, for the planet. The more I got to know the company, the more I saw how Whole Foods and Austin reflected one another: authentic, entrepreneurial, idealistic, and human.

A lot has changed since I joined in 2014. I left two years ago, and while I’m grateful for everything I learned,  especially Whole Foods’ Conscious Leadership Principles. I also really value the lived application I got through the “Amazon ways of working,” which sharpened how I lead and deliver. Still, the Austin-based culture of those early years feels different now. The vibe has shifted. It’s not bad… just new.

And the same could be said for Austin itself.

In the last decade, growth and change have reshaped this city in ways few could have imagined. Progress, development, the steady flow of people moving here from every corner of the country (myself included) have all left their mark. Long-time residents have stories to tell, and I get it. The small-city charm, the music scene, the weird quirkiness; it’s still here, but you have to look a little harder to find it.

You find it in the neighborhoods, the mom-and-pop restaurants, and the local artists still doing their thing. Austin hasn’t lost its soul…  it’s just buried a little deeper under the cranes and condos.

The Austin "Hi How Are You" wall left standing - after first UT tailgate '25. 

But here’s where my dilemma as a parent comes in. Austin is still an incredible city, full of heart, diversity, opportunity, and creativity. But raising kids here feels more complicated than I expected.

I want my kids to have some of the same experiences like I had in Slinger, Wisconsin.  A small-town life where you could play every sport, join the band, explore the arts, and stay active. A place where you learned teamwork, accountability, and compassion from community leaders and neighbors who looked out for one another.

Big-city schools are different. And in Texas, everything really is bigger. When my kids reach high school, their public-school experience in Austin will look more like college than the community classrooms I grew up in.

Texas currently ranks near the bottom in both education quality (42nd) and school funding (41st). Numbers don’t tell the whole story, but they do make me pause, and hope we can start trending in a better direction.

For my friends back home in Wisconsin, it’s hard to describe just how big Texas really is. Travis County, where Austin sits, has roughly 1.3 million people; about the same as Milwaukee County. My home county in Wisconsin (Washington County) has 1/10th of that population (140,000).

And that’s just one example of a handful of cities in Texas. Harris County (Houston) alone has more than 5 million residents. That’s a population larger than 38 other U.S. states. Bigger isn’t always better, especially when it comes to raising kids.

That scale in size is what inspired a project I’m helping with at the Texas Forward Party spotlighting all 254 counties across the state of Texas, to show how different, and yet connected, our communities really are. Here’s the very first write-up we did:  Harris County vs. Loving County.  Check it out and let me know what you think! One size definitely doesn’t fit all — and that’s what makes Texas both incredible and challenging.

But it is what also reminds me that it takes a village.

Good schools are important, but what truly shapes a child’s life are the adults who show up: parents, mentors, coaches, volunteers, and neighbors who invest their time and care.

Growing up, my mom was that person. She poured herself into our family and well being. It was a full-time job, unpaid, at times unseen, but essential. In 2019, someone who has had a big impact on me (more on that in the future) described mothers as “the most underpaid workers in our economy,” and it stuck with me. Because the time, love, and teaching that parents (especially mothers) invest shape not just their kids, but the future we all share.

It’s given me a deeper appreciation for my mom, my wife, all the mothers I know, and for every teacher, coach, and volunteer who keeps showing up for the next generation.

And in that spirit of parent leaders, I was talking with another Scout leader after church last week, who said he came to the realization that the best way he could contribute, to make the world better, was by investing his time to teach his boys and other scouts along the way. He felt the pull to put in extra time and late nights. It was his way to make an impact, instill values, share skills and help our future generations.

And if my kids are going to thrive in a big city, in a big state, I now realize I need to help build more of a small-town community around them.

And as a related aside finding/resetting purpose, this was a tough week for a lot of my friends and colleagues at Whole Foods, Amazon, and other companies across the U.S. My heart goes out to those impacted; and also to those left behind that are asked to step up and carry even more of the load.

Change is never easy. And in the few conversations I’ve had, the uncertainty of where things are headed, here in the U.S. and around the world, makes it even harder. Some feel like everything’s unraveling; others feel like change can’t come soon enough. Either way, when you’re facing job loss or tough choices about your career, it’s hard to see the path forward.

In moments like this, when our communities and our kids need love and support more than ever, I want to share one more thought, something I’ve tried to internalize myself.

Not everyone fits neatly into gender profiles, but studies have shown a clear pattern. When women find themselves between jobs or with unexpected free time, they’re more likely to fill that time staying busy: volunteering, helping friends, supporting schools, getting involved in church or community.

Men (i.e. my cohort), on the other hand, tend to pour their energy into job hunting, screens, and solitary tasks. And when that search stretches on, isolation often creeps in. We become more likely to disconnect: to retreat into TV, video games, or other habits (gambling, drinking, etc.) that fill time but not the heart.

I’ve been there. After leaving my role, it took me a couple of months to plug back into the real world, and nearly a year to find my rhythm again. What made the difference was people. Being around others. It also helped working with a client that takes volunteering and activism to a whole new level.  

So if you’re reading this and going a little stir-crazy staring at job boards and devices, give yourself permission to step away. Go outside. Call a friend. Find a place to serve. Because connection, real human connection, is the first step to rebuilding purpose. And if you're around Austin, in need of some in real life (IRL) connection, hit me up and we'll grab a coffee.

In closing, yes, Austin is still home. I still love its energy, its creativity, its heart. But the Austin I fell in love with a decade ago isn’t the same city I’m raising my kids in today. Maybe that’s okay. Places evolve, expectations and needs evolve. It definitely takes a village, and I look forward to leaning more into my community now that I've had more time to appreciate the things my family values most.

Family first. Humanity first. Neighbors first.

Raising little Texans and the legacy I leave behind

A reflection on time, memories, and what we pass along.

I was catching up with my sister earlier in the week and asked if she’d read my last post about the farm. She had, said it brought back a lot of memories, and then asked something that sat with me. 

“Do you think our kids will have something as special as that? Something they’ll remember that will leave such an impact?”

A few days later, I was having coffee with a colleague I’d worked with while at Whole Foods. A lifelong Texan from a multi-generational Texas family. She shared a story about a place her grandparents had when she was growing up and how those memories moved her and her husband to buy a small spot along the Guadalupe. A place for their kids to grow up and make memories.

Two conversations, just days apart, both circling around the same idea: legacy. Not in the financial or estate-planning sense, but the quieter, more personal kind. The legacy of memories, stories, and shared experiences that last long after we’re gone.

Those conversations come at a time when I’ve been thinking a lot about what kind of legacy I’ll leave behind. They reminded me of my journey down this path a couple years ago when I first caught the episode with author Bill Perkins on Andrew Yang’s podcast. The timing of this episode, Getting More Out of Life couldn’t have been more perfect. I’d been pondering what the “second half of my life” should be focused on and how to find more happiness, purpose, and meaning in the years ahead.

In the episode, Bill talked about his book Die With Zero. He makes the case that time, energy, and health are finite currencies; and that if we wait too long to “start living”, we risk saving up experiences for a future version of ourselves that may never arrive.

It hit me hard. Like most people, I grew up thinking about legacy in the practical sense: saving, planning, preparing... squirreling away acorns... building a "nest egg". And while there’s wisdom in that, Die With Zero reminded me that the most meaningful thing we can leave behind isn’t money or property; it’s stories, laughter, lessons, and memories. It's those lived-experiences we are likely to value the most as we near our final breadth.

I know that’s not easy to focus on when affordability and uncertainty are front of mind for most. When bills, mortgages, and responsibilities weigh heavy; “investing in experiences” can sound out of reach or even indulgent. But what Perkins was really saying is that our most precious resource isn’t money,  it’s time. The vitality we have right now won’t last forever. We should enjoy the time we have now, with the ones we love. Our loved ones will cherish the time with us, and when taking stock of one's life it will be those memories we cherish and not the money we'll gift to our loved ones.

That message reframed how I think about parenting, about raising two little Texans who are growing up far from where my own story started, and giving my kids lived experiences with friends and family.

My kids were both born in Austin, TX. They’ll say “y’all” without irony. They’ll think “cold” means 55 degrees. And yet, they’ll grow up knowing all about Wisconsin; cheering for the Packers, eating cheese curds, and hearing stories about my wife’s and my childhoods up north.

I want them to feel connected to where my roots come from, but even more, I want them to have stories of their own: campouts, road trips, backyard projects, and everyday adventures that become the raw material for their memories. The kind of things they’ll talk about decades from now when they tell their own kids their most cherished moments.

And now that I’ve been in Texas for more than a decade, I’ve come to appreciate some of its own traditions around legacy and family. This weekend is Día de los Muertos (the Day of the Dead), a tradition deeply rooted in Mexican culture, where families build ofrendas to honor loved ones who’ve passed - and this only deepens my reflections of last week and the week ahead.

I remember the first time I saw an ofrenda that really moved me... up close at Chuy’s Tex-Mex, of all places. They had (and still have) an altar set up for Elvis. It was bright and joyful and oddly touching. It made me smile, but it also hit me on a deeper level because it reminded me of my dad. And to this day, every time we’re at Chuy’s I think of my Dad... more than the King. Sorry Elvis ;).

Elvis ofrenda at Chuy's Tex-Mex on William Cannon

My dad, in his “before-children” days, was a lead singer in a Country Western band... and he is an Elvis superfan. At every wedding you can count on him to grab the mic at some point and sing “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” It’s a moment everyone waits for, not because he’s a master Elvis impersonator (though he does a pretty darn good job), but because it’s pure joy. It’s his tradition and it’s something that his children, grandchildren, and friends cherish and have had the joy to share with him over many years.

So on the drive down to Chuy’s today to snap a photo of Elvis (the one above), explaining to my kids why we're making a special trip to take a picture of an ofrenda of Elvis, it made me realize that traditions like Día de los Muertos aren’t just about remembering the dead; they’re about making sure we cherish the time we have together, either making memories or keeping the spirit and legacy of those who are important to us alive through song, story, action, and laughter.

It reminded me that maybe the best way to build a legacy is to spend more of my time making it, while I still can.

That’s part of what inspired me to get more involved this year, to help make a difference here in Texas. I want to leave a legacy for my kids that sets them up for a brighter future: a community, a state, and a country they can be proud of. What really matters: family, community, and connection can’t be easily passed down through a will. It’s passed down through action, love, time, and the examples we set.

So as we head into Día de los Muertos this weekend, I’ll be thinking about legacy not as something written on paper, but as something lived in the hearts and minds of others. I'll also be watching the Disney movie Coco, like we do each year around Halloween. A beautiful story centered around Día de los Muertos and how music and tradition connect families. If you haven’t seen it, make sure to check it out.

For my sister, maybe the memories from our family farm were always more about the family (the how) than the farm (the where). As long as we have a place and a reason to gather, and we make the most of that time together, there will always be a legacy of memories to pass along.

And finally, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I won’t have 18 number-one billboard hits, thousands of acres of land, or a billion dollars to pass down. And that’s okay. Maybe my place on my descendants’ ofrenda will be earned not through wealth or fame, but through love, laughter, impact, and the stories left behind.

Family first. Humanity first. 

Inspired by Bill Perkins’ “Die With Zero,” Día de los Muertos, and two little Texans.

Moving on from the Family Farm

What I learned on the farm — and what I’m still trying to pass along.

Last week, I had an amazing conversation with someone from Brownsville who’s been working to make a difference in her community. At one point, she shared a bit about her family’s multi-generational homestead, a place that had been in her family for a very long time. Listening to her talk about her family's land took me back to our family farm in Wisconsin.

Our farm had spanned the family for +five generations. My grandfather lived there all his life, and my mom lived there up until she got married. When I was a kid, we’d be there most weekends. There were maybe four or five other farms spread out along that mile stretch of Rockfield Road, but somehow, it never felt lonely.

People stopped by to visit almost every day. A neighbor checking in, sharing the latest news, dropping off something they borrowed (or hoping to borrow something from “the shed”), or showing up with something tasty from their own kitchen/garden. My grandparents would sit on the porch, and before long, the sound of tires on gravel meant company arrived.

Some of my fondest memories are Sunday afternoons after church, sitting on the unnaturally-green astroturf covered porch, eating peas picked from the garden (at the end of summer), and waiting to see who might swing by. We’d wait for my grandfather to come back with the hot ham and rolls (after taking the “scenic route”), then gather around the farmhouse table, debating which was the better mayo to use and the appropriate application of horseradish.

Hoelz Barn - Painted Memories by Delores Bruss (Aunt Dee)

At some point, my grandfather made what I assume was a tough decision to stop milking cows. He began renting out parts of the land to other farmers while taking a steady job at the local paper cup factory in town. To this day, I still remember the stacks of slightly off-center and misprinted paper cups he’d bring home. Every family gathering featured a random assortment of them; and my mom is still trying to get the last few boxes out of her attic.

By the time I was running around the farm, it had become a poultry operation. Each spring, my grandfather would bring home hundreds of chicks to raise through the summer, eventually processing them in the fall. I remember late nights helping round up the chickens, the glow of the barn light, the excitement of staying up past bedtime, then sitting in the bench seat of the pickup truck between my dad and grandfather, the cab filled with heavy cigar smoke. Those moments are forever etched in my memory. My brief but vivid taste of “farm life”.

My grandparents, Willie and Marion, were known for having the biggest, best chickens around. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest work when they retired (and for everyone in the family that chipped in). It taught me that even when circumstances change, the values stay the same: pride in what you do, care for what you raise, and gratitude for the people who share it with you.

Even as a kid doing part-time stints on the farm, those experiences shaped what I thought the American Dream was going to be for me. I didn’t have the words for it then, but in my mind, owning a BIG piece of land; with woods, a pond, maybe a big yard, a place where you could spread out, do your own thing, and feel a little freedom was the way to go. Even though we lived a few miles away in Slinger, "a couple towns over", the farm always felt like our second home.

Later, when I went to college and got my first place in downtown Milwaukee, my view started to change. I realized I also loved being around people. The energy of the city, the sense of community, the constant movement and conversation. I could still get my fix of open space by heading out for a long run or driving back home, but I was beginning to understand that belonging also came from people just as much as from place. Still, I missed the farmstead, especially after my grandfather passed and we had to sell.

When I moved to Texas, most of our time was spent inside the Austin bubble: downtown life, work, city routines, bars, restaurants, social affairs...  But over the past couple of years, with family life, that’s changed. We’ve been getting out more, seeing more of Texas, and rediscovering a bit more on what it means to be outdoors and closer to the land.

A few years ago, we joined our local Cub Scout pack, and through those campouts, I’ve had the chance to experience some of the incredible terrain around Central Texas. This past weekend was especially meaningful;  the first time Miles (my six-year-old) came along with Teeny and me to camp with the Scouts. This was our first time visiting Enchanted Rock and exploring the area north of Fredericksburg (including a few photos below).

view from mid-summit of Enchanted Rock

back of Scout campsite at Enchanted Rock

On the drive out there, watching the Hill Country roll by,  the wide skies, the pastures stretching toward the horizon, the rows of fences ;I couldn’t help but feel a little nostalgic. The landscape looked different, sure: drier, tougher, dotted with live oaks instead of evergreens. But there was something familiar in the rhythm of it, those quiet stretches of road, the sense of space, the way the light hit the land. For a moment, it reminded me of Wisconsin; of my grandfather’s fields and that same deep connection between land, family, and work.

The Hill Country is beautiful: rolling rock hills, scattered oaks, and for Texas, surprisingly lush. But it’s different from the soft green farmlands of Wisconsin, the thick fields and evergreens, the cool air, the quiet hum of summer. Texas feels tougher, more rugged, a little wilder and maybe a little more frontier.

As I’ve learned more about Texas history, its farms, ranches, and homesteads; I’ve started to see the connection. Generations working the land. Families adapting to change. The constant balance between progress and preservation. The work here might be harsher, the climate less forgiving, but the values run deep, hard work, resilience, and pride in what you build with your own hands.

And just like the farms I grew up around in Wisconsin, Texas homesteads and ranches are steeped in history, tradition, and pride; the kind that’s passed down from generation to generation. Whether it’s dairy barns or cattle pastures, cornfields or mesquite, that same spirit of stewardship ties both places together.

That spirit of showing up for your neighbors, of lending a hand before asking which side they’re on, is something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. It’s one of the core values that’s kept me inspired by some of the work and messaging at the Texas Forward Party. Having grace and tolerance. Starting with your community. Or what I affectionately now internalized as “Love Your Neighbor.”

I still believe, regardless of the type of plot you own or rent, that most people want the same thing: strong communities, honest leaders, and neighbors who look out for one another. Our future depends on how well we work together, even when we don’t agree. It’s not about left or right. It’s about fixing what’s broken by rebuilding trust, one community, one neighbor, one fence line at a time.

These days, I live about a mile from downtown Austin. It’s a far cry from the open fields around the family farm, but this past spring, I found myself trying to bring a little of that life back home. My daughter, who’s completely obsessed with birds,  inspired me to build a small backyard garden and what we affectionately call our “fargen” (part farm, part garden - named by an eight year old).

backyard "farm garden"

It’s our little backyard oasis, with plants, flowers, and room for about twenty quail. It's not the kind of farm that could hold hundreds of chickens and turkeys, but it’s enough to remind me of where I came from and to give my kids a taste of that same connection to "farm life", I find myself still cherishing.

And when I’m out there watering plants, checking the quail, or just watching my kids muck around, it's starting to feel a little more like my childhood days on the farm.

Hard work. Shared purpose. Love your neighbor.

We Say Please and Thank You

In our house, we say please and thank you.

It might sound simple, but those six words are household rules even when we’re talking to Alexa. And since Alexa lives everywhere in our home: the kitchen, the bedrooms, the entry; that means she’s part of our daily rhythm.

Honestly, it’s kind of amazing, impressive, and frightening. My kids are highly verbal because they learned early on how to ask Alexa for what they need: music, stories, games, fart songs, you name it. They understand how to communicate with technology better than I was able to talk to most adults at the same age.

But in our house, there are two non-negotiables when it comes to technology: 1) People before tech and 2) Have good manners.

If you want something, even from Alexa, you ask nicely for it. You say please and thank you.

Because it doesn’t matter if you’re talking to family, a neighbor, a stranger, or a digital assistant, manners matter. I don’t want my kids growing up thinking that just because something isn’t human, basic decency doesn’t apply. Asking nicely is about more than being polite, it’s about remembering that how we interact with the world says something about who we are.

lil robots interfacing w/ Alexa - 2025

That idea of staying grounded as a human and being humanity first is what keeps me centered. And honestly, it’s what reconnected me to politics a few years back. In 2019, I found myself frustrated with how cold, transactional and hopeless everything felt, like people had become secondary to systems. That’s what drew me into the movement that gave us Humanity First (those who know, know). It wasn’t about labels or sides; it was about putting people, their well-being, health, and future back at the center of everything. Not blaming people who don’t look or speak like you, but instead assessing the impact that technology and automation are having on the hollowing out of America.

And from that first Humanity First movement, I rode the wave to the Texas Forward Party, which still embodies that same value, putting people first. It’s not about fighting against the left or right. It’s about building something better, together.  Putting people (and communities) first.

If we want a better world, we can’t forget our manners. Whether it’s online, at work, in our neighborhoods, or yes, even when talking to our AI assistants, showing a little grace and tolerance never hurts.

And who knows, maybe one day, when our future digital overlords are deciding who to keep around, they’ll remember the households that said please and thank you.

Humanity first. Manners included.