The people closest to AI technology are the most concerned about it. Our job as leaders is to do what we know is needed in this moment: to set the standards that the giants have yet to set for us, and to decide how we'll use AI and on whose terms.

The people closest to AI technology are the most concerned about it. Our job as leaders is to do what we know is needed in this moment: to set the standards that the giants have yet to set for us, and to decide how we'll use AI and on whose terms.

Every now and then, I come across a relic — some flash of a time gone by that brings me right back to who I was in that earlier moment. Just like that, and I'm the clumsy middle school kid again. Or the young and struggling professional, the new mom, the budding business owner… 

Usually, the feeling emerges when I rediscover a photo on my iPhone. Memories from this day, in some long-ago year. Sometimes it's not a photo at all, but a smell, or a place, or the sound of a voice. 

The next time a day leaves you feeling empty, resist reaching for a longer to-do list, and ask a better question instead; from "What did I get done today?" to "What did I/we move forward?"
 
You may not be able to check off as many items on your list, but I guarantee you will have made incremental progress on something much more meaningful.

Organizations that break through are rarely the loudest or the quietest. They're the ones brave enough to find the balance: to say what's true, make it matter now, and say it in a way that's worth repeating, and acting on.

Ah, the best-kept secret. It's a phrase I've repeatedly heard from nonprofit organizations, often as a point of pride and a call for marketing help. If ‘best-kept secret’ is a phrase you’ve used to describe your nonprofit, I’m going to suggest you retire it. Because the term may be limiting your organization's ability to become more well-known. 

Her questions are different by design because they invite an actual answer. Some might say Dianne’s approach is just a warmer way to start a conversation, but the longer I've gotten to know her, the more I've come to believe it's something bigger.

In times like these, with all their distraction and division, asking a real question and sticking around for the real answer is a radical act of communication.

In my office hangs a framed quote from the writer and activist Audre Lorde: "It's not our differences that divide us. It's our inability to recognize, accept, and celebrate those differences."
 
I put that quote on my wall years ago and read it daily. First spoken in September 1979 while Lorde was at a conference in New York, the words remain relevant and thought-provoking for me today.
 
Our differences don't divide us.
Or do they?

You don't build a conscious culture by announcing it. You build it by living it, in the small moments, until the standard becomes contagious. Win, lose, or draw, we can all choose to leave it better than we found it.

Truth is: it's never really about your five minutes. It's about whether your audience will want to keep listening after your five minutes are up. So, go in prepared to make the most of those few minutes, and your audience will soon stop watching their time, and they'll start asking for more of yours.

Which brings the question back to us, here today. The pressures we're navigating may not look like a heated 60 Minutes staff meeting. But the question beneath our tension is the same: when truth is tested, and independence is challenged, will you sit idly by, or will you tell people what they do not want to hear?

This moment is a call to action for all of us: leaders, communicators, educators, designers, and technologists alike. Leo's words are a reminder for us all, regardless of religious beliefs or background, that every choice we make about how we build, deploy, and talk about AI is a values statement. How we care for the margins — the people most likely to be left out, left behind, or actively harmed — is the truest test of whether we are using these tools wisely.

We don't just want to do well. We want to do it perfectly. And when we don't, we judge ourselves harshly for it. For many of us, the voices of judgment can be paralyzing, limiting us from taking risks or showing too much vulnerability. Perfectionism can limit our ability to be fully present.

In honor of this Mental Health Awareness Month, I invite you to join Mission Partners in taking one or more of these actions before the end of the month, for your own well-being and the well-being of the people and communities you love. We all have a part in contributing to mental well-being, and in further normalizing the idea that mental health is health.

If you're in a season where progress feels slower than you'd hoped, I want to offer you this: there are many ways to measure growth, and even more ways to make an impact. Progress is not always obvious, and it is not always off the charts.
But it is always possible.

Nearly 20 years ago, early into owning my first company, a young employee on my team began struggling. We noticed it first through missed deadlines, followed by increased difficulty connecting with colleagues. There was a visible discomfort she wasn't ready to name, but others were picking up on.

If you're in a space between — where you are and where you want to be — I encourage you to reflect on the mountains you've already covered, and acknowledge your progress with generosity. Consider what you've learned since your last big challenge, and how much more equipped you are — even if it doesn't feel that way — for what's ahead.

I've been thinking a lot lately about what it takes to truly communicate well — not just to deliver a message, but to make it land. To communicate in a way that changes how someone thinks, feels, or acts, and deepens trust in the process. It's on my mind this week because of a challenge recently posed by a new executive — someone who stepped into a role where trust had been damaged and now needs to earn his team's trust while rebuilding what was previously lost.

I was in my early 20s, navigating the first years of my professional career, when I remember thinking to myself: I have no idea what I’m doing here. The pace was fast. The expectations were high. I was being asked to do work I had never done before, surrounded by colleagues who seemed far more fluent in it than I was. And I wasn’t about to admit how lost I felt. 

You don't need to dominate a room to command it. Instead, the next time you step up to speak, remember to prepare so well that you can be present, connect so deeply that others feel seen, and share your passion so openly that it moves people to action. Do those things, and you won't just command a room—you'll change it.