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.