This concept is not new to me. My own philanthropic habits began roughly thirty years ago when I was early in my professional career. My resources were limited, my enthusiasm was not. I committed to contributing twenty dollars from every two week pay period. The amount was modest, but the discipline mattered. That single decision created a pattern of giving that never required reconsideration. It simply became part of how I managed my finances and how I expressed my values.

Over time my income changed, my responsibilities changed, but the mechanism of giving did not. Today I still maintain recurring contributions to a small number of organizations that remain personally meaningful. The delivery system is now my credit card rather than payroll deduction, yet the behavior is identical. The gift occurs automatically. There is no repeated decision point, no friction, no emotional debate about timing. The support continues.

From the organizational perspective, recurring donors represent something more durable than transactional generosity. They provide revenue continuity. They reduce forecasting volatility. They allow leadership teams to plan programs with greater confidence. Acquisition costs are amortized across a longer relationship. Stewardship becomes more relational and less event driven. Retention patterns typically exceed those of one-time donors. These are operational advantages, not merely philosophical preferences.

The relevance of recurring giving becomes even more pronounced during inflationary periods. Economic pressure alters donor psychology. Households grow cautious. Large commitments may feel risky. Yet smaller automated contributions often remain acceptable because they integrate smoothly into monthly cash flow. For many donors, adjusting a recurring amount upward or downward feels manageable compared with evaluating a new standalone gift. The structure supports continuity even when financial conditions tighten.

Recurring programs also create constructive engagement opportunities. Organizations can communicate impact through regular updates rather than periodic solicitations. Donors receive reinforcement that their steady participation produces steady outcomes. The relationship is sustained by evidence of progress rather than urgency alone. This dynamic tends to deepen trust and extend lifetime value.

None of this eliminates the need for major gifts or campaign strategy. Instead, recurring giving functions as an essential layer within a diversified revenue model. It stabilizes baseline income while other fundraising efforts pursue growth and transformation. In uncertain economic climates, stability itself becomes a strategic asset.

The Chronicle of Philanthropy article correctly framed recurring donors as a form of fundraising infrastructure. That description aligns with both data and lived experience. Small, repeated commitments accumulate into something financially significant and behaviorally resilient. My own history as a donor reflects that trajectory. A simple recurring decision made decades ago continues to produce philanthropic results today.

As we get older, taking care of ourselves becomes both more necessary and more complex. Aging brings changes in cell function, immune response, tissue repair, and regulation of inflammation. The immune system loses efficiency over time, reducing its ability to respond to threats and recover from stressors. This process, called immunosenescence, alters how the body reacts to surgery, illness, and even minor insults like allergens. As a result, something as simple as hives can be a sign of a deeper imbalance rather than a passing irritation.

When I first noticed the hives 10 weeks after surgery, I assumed I was overreacting. I assumed it would pass on its own. But data on recovery in older adults offers a cautionary note. Functional recovery after surgery in people over 60 can take months. And even though I was walking well, not taking medicine, my body needed more support and rest. For basic daily activities it may take three months or more to return to baseline. For more complex tasks the recovery period can extend longer. These timelines are a reminder that the body needs time and thoughtful care to rebuild strength.

This episode of hives were my body’s way of saying I was in a state of chronic stress. Inflammation was heightened and my immune system was already working hard to heal the surgical site. Rather than pushing through workouts and social commitments at full speed, I needed to adjust. I needed more sleep, more deliberate rest, and closer monitoring of my diet and hydration. And be more healthy overall.

Data from aging research supports this shift in approach. Chronic health conditions become more common with age, and the risk of overlapping issues increases. Roughly one in four older adults experiences falls each year. More falls, more chronic conditions, reduced functional capacity, all reflect the underlying shift in body resilience as we age.

Listening to your body at any age makes sense. As you get older, it becomes a practical necessity. The alerts are real. Pain after activity that used to feel easy. Fatigue that lingers. Rashes that show up out of nowhere. They are signals, not nuisances.

If there is a lesson in my episodes of hives it is this: treat symptoms as data, not distractions. Your body is giving you information about what it needs. Respect recovery timelines. Make adjustments when signals change. As age advances, self awareness becomes not just helpful but central to staying healthy.

That observation feels highly relevant in my household.

Technology entered our family life gradually and then all at once. Devices became study aids, entertainment systems, and portals to infinite information. The advantages are undeniable. Research is immediate. Communication is effortless. Educational resources are abundant. Yet the lived experience of parenting inside this environment has complicated the narrative of uninterrupted benefit.

My sixth grader navigates schoolwork with speed and fluency, often accompanied by a constant backdrop of searches, notifications, and digital multitasking. My third grader exhibits the same comfort with screens, moving seamlessly between games, videos, and assignments. Neither behavior is unusual. Both are entirely consistent with the design of modern technology. The issue is not capability. It is cognitive posture.

As parents, we have increasingly concluded that limits are not restrictive. They are protective.

In our home, homework now begins at the kitchen table. Devices may still play a role, but the physical setting matters. Sitting together creates visibility. We can observe attention drift, confusion emerge, and problem solving unfold in real time. More importantly, our children experience sustained focus without the constant option to disengage. The table becomes more than furniture. It becomes a boundary around concentration.

We have also adopted a simple evening ritual. Technology checks in at night.

Phones, tablets, and other devices have a designated resting place outside bedrooms. This practice is not framed as punishment or distrust. It reflects recognition of how powerfully screens compete with sleep, reflection, and mental recovery. Even adults struggle to disengage from digital stimulation. Expecting children to regulate this independently is unrealistic. Structure substitutes for willpower.

These adjustments arise from observation rather than theory. When screens are limited, attention lengthens. When attention lengthens, frustration occasionally increases, followed by problem solving that is more deliberate and durable. The learning process becomes more visible. So does the development of patience and persistence.

Technology remains central to our lives. It will remain central to our children’s futures. The objective is not elimination. It is balance. Tools should extend thinking, not replace it.

Convenience should not erase the productive struggle through which understanding is formed.
The professors returning to pencil and paper are not rejecting innovation. They are prioritizing attention. The same logic applies at home. Learning depends on engagement that cannot be fully outsourced. No application or algorithm can replicate the developmental value of sitting with a problem, working through uncertainty, and arriving at clarity through one’s own effort.

The idea stayed with me because it applies directly to the nonprofit sector.

Across healthcare, higher education, and many charitable organizations, the financial pressure is real. Inflation continues to push expenses higher. Some hospitals are closing service lines. Universities are consolidating programs that no longer attract enough students. Nonprofits are being asked to do more with fewer resources.

When organizations face pressure like this, difficult decisions follow. Positions change. Responsibilities shift. In some cases roles disappear altogether.

One practical response is upskilling.

Upskilling means intentionally learning new capabilities that make you more valuable in your current role and more adaptable if circumstances change. It is not necessarily about earning another degree. In many cases it involves practical learning that improves how you work.

There are several benefits.

First is career growth. The more skills you have, the more options you create for yourself over time. Second is job security. Individuals who can contribute in multiple ways tend to remain valuable when organizations need flexibility. Third is productivity. Learning better tools and approaches allows both the employee and the institution to operate more efficiently.

There is also a personal dimension. The psychologist Abraham Maslow described the concept of self-actualization. At its core it means understanding who you are and continuing to improve. Upskilling contributes to that sense of professional confidence.

In the nonprofit world there are many accessible ways to do this.

Infrastructure teams can strengthen their expertise in areas such as data analytics, cybersecurity awareness, or cloud systems. Tools like Power BI or Tableau are increasingly important for translating database information into insights that leaders can actually use.

Gift officers can develop new competencies in planned giving, financial literacy, or communication. Programs like Toastmasters remain a simple way to improve presentation skills. Visual storytelling tools such as Canva can also strengthen stewardship with donors.

Leadership roles often require another layer of development. Governance training, nonprofit finance courses, and executive leadership programs are widely available and often more accessible than many people assume.

The point is simple.

Upskilling does not require enormous expense. Many opportunities are free or relatively low cost. What it does require is intention.

As our sector becomes more complex and technology continues to reshape how work gets done, professionals who continue to learn will have an advantage. The only real downside is ignoring the opportunity.

Choose one or two areas to develop this year. Invest a little time. Build new capabilities.

In the long run, the person who benefits most may be you.

Gift officers gather to talk about activity:

• Who did you meet with?

• How many visits did you have?

• What gifts are likely to close?

• What is the next step with a donor?

These meetings have value. They create accountability. When people know they will report on their work, activity tends to increase. They also allow leaders to monitor progress toward goals and identify where someone might need support. Teams hear patterns in the community. They share tactics that worked. They help each other think through difficult donor situations.

All of that matters.

But recently in a conversation with a client, a different idea emerged about how these meetings could be more useful. Most moves management meetings focus on transactions. What gift are we asking for next. What proposal is coming. What is the dollar amount.

That conversation misses something more important: Do we actually understand what the donor wants to accomplish?

I suggested a small but meaningful change. In a moves management meeting, a gift officer should not be allowed to talk about asking for money until they can clearly explain the donor’s passion.

In other words, before discussing a solicitation strategy, the officer should be able to answer a simple question.

• What does this donor most want their philanthropy to accomplish?

When gift officers know that question will be asked in front of their colleagues, behavior changes. They start asking different questions during donor visits.

• What causes matter most to you?

• Where have you seen philanthropy make a real difference?

• What would you most like your giving to accomplish?

Those questions uncover motivations that rarely appear in traditional cultivation conversations.

In one example, a client shared a gift officer met with someone who already supported another organization. Rather than ending the conversation there, the officer leaned into curiosity. They asked what the donor hoped their philanthropy would achieve. The donor responded that no one had ever asked them that question before.

That conversation reopened the relationship.

This is where moves management meetings can become far more productive. Instead of simply reporting activity, gift officers return and explain what they have learned about the people they are working with. What motivates them. What they care about. What impact they hope to have.

The conversation shifts from transaction to alignment.

And when you understand passion, larger opportunities often follow. Donors who are clear about what they want to accomplish begin thinking beyond annual gifts. They consider multi-year commitments. They consider legacy giving. They consider how their assets might support the work they care about long after they are gone.

The structure of the meeting does not need to change dramatically. Metrics still matter. Portfolio management still matters. But the central conversation becomes different.

Instead of asking what the next gift will be, the team asks a better question: What matters most to the donor, and how can we help them accomplish it.

The glue guy does not always lead the team in scoring. He may not have the smoothest shot or the fastest first step. What he consistently brings is effort that quietly holds everything together. He fights for rebounds. He plays defense with persistence. He dives for loose balls. He sets screens. He does the work that is physically demanding and often goes unnoticed. He outworks everyone, while seeking absolutely no attention. These actions do not usually produce dramatic reactions, but they change games.

Every successful team depends on someone willing to embrace that role. Talent matters. Strategy matters. Coaching matters. Still, none of those elements function at full strength without players committed to the little things. Possessions are extended through effort. Opponents are disrupted through discipline. Momentum shifts through hustle. The glue guy influences outcomes in ways that are subtle but decisive.

Watching this unfold has led me to think about environments far removed from a gymnasium. Offices and organizations operate under remarkably similar dynamics. Results are celebrated. Recognition often gravitates toward visible achievements. Yet behind nearly every high performing team stands an individual who stabilizes, supports, and strengthens everyone else.

Who is that person in your office?

Who takes on the tasks others avoid? Who steps in when something simply needs to get done? Who offers encouragement without calculation? Who celebrates the success of colleagues without redirecting attention? Who seeks satisfaction in collective accomplishment rather than personal visibility?

These individuals are invaluable. They enhance culture. They increase trust. They elevate performance. When leaders are perceptive and thoughtful, they recognize the disproportionate impact of such contributors. When leaders are not, these same people may remain invisible despite shaping team success every day.

Finding people who naturally operate this way is difficult. The traits involved are demanding. Consistency, humility, resilience, and discipline are not easily taught. They are even harder to sustain. They have to be comfortable with themself in their own skin, confident but not cocky, and almost leaning into what Maslow called “self-actualized.” Yet when a glue guy is part of the effort, they become foundational to organizational effectiveness.

As a father and his coach, observing my son embrace this identity fills me with great hope. Not because of athletic outcomes alone, but because of what the behavior signals about his character and his depth of self-understanding. And he knows the value of this contribution. A willingness to work hard. A comfort with shared credit. A commitment to team success. And he revels in the role. These patterns extend well beyond sports and will serve him well---and the teams he is on throughout his professional career.

Life offers countless arenas where the little things determine long term results. Habits of effort, reliability, and generosity tend to compound over time. If being the glue guy becomes part of how my son approaches challenges, relationships, and responsibilities, the implications are significant.

That prospect makes me excited for what might be possible in his life…and very, very proud.

For decades, the NCAA’s stance was clear: student-athletes could not bet on any sport—college or professional. The reasoning was simple and sound: protect the integrity of competition, insulate athletes from outside influence, and reduce temptation in an environment already filled with pressure, fame, and money. Now, in an era where sports betting is legal in most states and accessible with one tap on a phone, the NCAA’s decision represents a dangerous retreat.

It’s fair to acknowledge the counterpoint: college athletes are citizens too. They are adults, entitled to the same rights as anyone else to engage in legal activities, including betting on professional sports. In a system where athletes now earn money through name, image, and likeness (NIL) deals and where universities profit enormously from their efforts, it’s understandable that some bristle at being told what they can or cannot do in their personal lives. The tension between individual rights and institutional integrity is real—and that’s what makes this so complicated.

But acknowledging athletes’ rights doesn’t make this decision wise. Just because something is legal doesn’t mean it’s healthy, prudent, or free of consequence. Already, the results are showing. In the past few weeks, the NCAA confirmed that it is investigating around 30 new cases of college athletes suspected of betting on themselves, their teams, or their own games. This comes on top of a string of scandals over the past year involving athletes at Iowa, Iowa State, and Alabama, where gambling behavior crossed clear ethical—and sometimes legal—lines.

Technology has only poured gasoline on this fire. What used to require a shady bookmaker and cash in an envelope now happens through slick, legal apps with push notifications, bonus bets, and social media influencers urging participation. The accessibility is total; the guardrails are not. Combine that with the massive sums of money now circulating in college athletics—from NIL deals to media rights—and the potential for corruption skyrockets.

So no, no one should be surprised. When the NCAA allowed betting on pro sports, they didn’t “update” their policies—they invited chaos. The slope isn’t slippery; it’s a cliff. And as investigations mount, and more athletes get caught in the web of gambling’s allure, the organization may finally realize that once you let the wolf in the hen house, there’s no such thing as controlling the feast.

We seldom talk about what it costs when key people leave because the language of budgets tends to frame compensation as a cost rather than a strategic investment. But leaders departing is expensive, often far more expensive than paying competitive wages would have been.

Cost of turnover varies by role, but research makes one thing clear. Replacing a staff member can cost between thirty and two hundred percent of the employee’s annual salary when you account for recruitment, onboarding, lost productivity, and indirect impacts on culture and morale. For leadership roles the numbers rise steeply. Boards and consultants estimate that replacing an executive director or senior leader often costs between one and a half times and three times the annual salary.

There is also research specific to fundraising professionals. One widely referenced estimate suggests that replacing a fundraiser can cost more than $160,000, and if they exit in the middle of a major campaign the organization may miss out on millions in donor revenue tied to that individual’s relationships. That is not an abstract number. That is real donor trust, community commitments, and program impact left unfinished.

With figures like this in view it is worth asking a simple question. What is the comparative cost of improving compensation so a leader stays? An extra $10k to $15k dollars in salary or total compensation for a nonprofit executive or senior fundraiser typically amounts to a fraction of one percent of total expense for even a modestly sized nonprofit. Yet that level of incremental compensation can meaningfully narrow the gap between a job that feels like survival work and one that feels professionally and personally sustainable.

Investor logic looks at retention as return on investment. In contrast, traditional nonprofit budget thinking treats compensation as an overhead line to be suppressed. That inversion of logic works against mission. When you lose someone, you lose more than salary dollars. You lose relationships with donors who trusted that leader, you lose community partners who valued continuity, and you lose organizational memory that is hard or impossible to rebuild.

The Philanthropy.com article is a corrective to the narrative that low nonprofit pay is a virtue. It invites donors, boards, and leaders to see fair pay as central to mission success.

We walked into the game well prepared. The kids knew their roles. They understood the offense and the defensive principles. The bench was engaged. The rotations were clear. From the opening minutes it was obvious that the gap between the two teams was significant. Not just in shooting or ball handling, but in experience, pace, and confidence. The score began to stretch early and then kept stretching… by half we were up 30 points.

As coaches, we started making adjustments meant to slow things down. We took the press off. We played kids out of position. We emphasized ball movement over scoring. We pulled back on sets that usually generate easy points. None of it mattered. The scope gap kept widening. The score climbed into the fifties and there was no lever left to pull that did not feel artificial or disrespectful. 

That is the part people do not always talk about. Sometimes doing the right things still does not change the outcome. Sometimes restraint does not restore balance. Sometimes effort and intention are simply overtaken by reality.

By the second half, it was clear that everyone was losing something. We were cheering for them to score as we built a lead up to 50 or more points (we asked them to stop counting our points on the scoreboard). The other team looked deflated. You could see it in their body language. Missed shots lingered longer. Substitutions felt heavier. On our side, the kids were not celebrating. They were bored. Disconnected. Unsatisfied. Winning without resistance has a hollow quality. There is no tension to manage and no problem to solve.

At that point, the only real work left was internal. We talked about playing against ourselves rather than the other team or the scoreboard. About spacing. About communication. About making the extra pass even when no one is guarding you closely. About staying locked in when the game no longer demands it.

That frequency creates a dangerous illusion. Because breaches are everywhere, many people have become numb to them. Studies consistently show that consumers expect their data to be exposed at some point. Password reuse is common. Monitoring alerts are ignored. The mindset becomes resigned rather than vigilant. If it is going to happen anyway, why worry too much about it.

For nonprofits, that thinking is especially risky.

Philanthropy runs on trust. Donors share personal information because they believe in the mission and the people behind it. They trust that their data will be handled with care and discretion. When that trust is broken, even unintentionally, the impact goes far beyond the technical issue. A data breach is not just an operational failure. It is a relationship rupture.

Unlike commercial transactions, charitable giving is deeply personal. It reflects values, beliefs, and identity. When a nonprofit mishandles donor information, donors do not evaluate it the same way they would a credit card company or online retailer. The emotional response is stronger because the relationship was different to begin with. Many donors pause their giving. Some stop entirely. Others remain but with a quiet sense of hesitation that changes the tone of the relationship.

At the same time, donor fatigue around breaches does not mean donors are indifferent. It means expectations have shifted. Donors now watch how organizations respond. Silence erodes confidence. Deflection damages credibility. Overly legal language creates distance. What restores trust is clarity, accountability, and follow-through.

Nonprofits must treat data stewardship as a core component of relationship management, not a back office function. That starts with taking security seriously through training, systems, and policies. It also requires preparing for communication before a crisis occurs. Donors want to know what happened, what information was affected, and what steps are being taken to prevent it from happening again. They want to hear it directly and in plain language.

Beyond the immediate response, rebuilding trust requires consistency. Regular updates matter. Demonstrated improvements matter. So does a return to mission focused engagement that reminds donors why they cared in the first place. Trust is rebuilt through behavior over time, not a single apology.

In an era where data breaches are common, trust becomes a differentiator. Nonprofits that acknowledge their responsibility, communicate openly, and reinforce relationships with intention will emerge stronger. Those that minimize the issue or treat it as purely technical will find that lost trust is far harder to recover than lost data.

I paused. Then I did something I had never done before. I gave.

To be honest, I don’t really know how crowdfunding works behind the scenes. I didn’t study the platform, compare fee structures, or read the fine print. What struck me was the simplicity. A few clicks. A short message. A confirmation. In less than a minute, I had done something tangible to help people I care about in a moment that mattered.

That experience stayed with me, which is why a recent article from The Chronicle of Philanthropy caught my attention. It explored how Americans feel about crowdsourcing and crowdfunding, and the data closely matched what I felt instinctively in that moment.

According to a new AP-NORC poll cited in the article, about two in ten U.S. adults donated to a crowdfunding campaign in the past year. Medical expenses were, by far, the most common reason people gave. That alone says a great deal about both the gaps in our systems and the role that these platforms are now playing.

The size of the gifts is also telling. Roughly 60 percent of donors gave $50 or less to their most recent crowdfunding effort. This isn’t about major philanthropy or long-term giving strategies. It’s about immediacy — responding to a need right in front of us.

Trust, however, is where things become more complicated. The poll found that just over half of Americans feel at least somewhat confident that people raising money through crowdfunding genuinely need it, and about half feel somewhat confident that the money will be used responsibly. Only about one in ten respondents expressed very high confidence on either point.

Fees are another source of skepticism. Fewer than half of adults said they were confident that crowdfunding platforms charge reasonable fees, even when those fees largely support payment processing and infrastructure.

What this tells me is that crowdfunding sits in a unique space. It is fast, personal, and accessible — especially in moments of crisis. But it also operates with thinner trust margins than traditional nonprofit giving.

For nonprofits and fundraisers, this is not a threat; it’s a signal. Crowdfunding isn’t replacing institutional philanthropy. It’s filling emotional and temporal gaps. The opportunity lies in learning from its strengths — speed, clarity, and ease — while continuing to offer what crowdfunding often lacks: transparency, accountability, and long-term impact.

For me, it started with one small gift and a simple act. Sometimes, that’s exactly where generosity begins.

Learning rarely happens when someone is yelling at you. And I am nearly 100% sure you can’t learn if you are yelling at someone.  When voices rise, curiosity falls. When the goal becomes winning an argument, the opportunity to understand disappears. Speaking “at” someone turns conversation into performance. Speaking “with” someone turns it into exchange. Exchange is where learning lives.

Two-way communication requires restraint. It requires listening not to reload your next point but to understand what the other person actually believes and why. Listening is not agreement. It is respect. Respect is the baseline condition for any meaningful discussion, especially when there is disagreement.

When we speak with someone, we acknowledge that they bring lived experience, values, and context that we do not share. That does not make them right. It makes them human. If we enter a conversation assuming we have nothing to learn, we have already decided the outcome. At that point, the discussion is not a discussion at all.

This is not about left or right. It is not about politics or ideology. It is about the basic mechanics of communication and learning. Every meaningful advance in understanding begins with the assumption that the other person may see something we do not. That assumption creates space for empathy. Empathy does not require endorsement. It requires attention.

Respecting someone else’s views does not weaken your own. In fact, it often sharpens them. When you truly listen, you are forced to clarify what you believe and why. You may find gaps. You may find nuance. You may even find common ground that was invisible when the conversation began.

Civility is often dismissed as softness. It is anything but. It takes discipline to stay engaged when you disagree. It takes confidence to allow someone else to speak without interruption or dismissal. It takes maturity to say I hear you even when you remain unconvinced.

If our goal is learning, progress, or even coexistence, yelling at one another is a poor strategy. Talking with one another is slower and less satisfying in the moment, but far more productive over time. With implies shared responsibility for the conversation. It implies that both people matter.

We do not need to agree more. We need to listen better. We need to replace volume with curiosity and certainty with humility. When we do, we create the conditions where learning is possible and where disagreement does not have to become division.

This came to mind as I read recent commentary about universities pausing Ph.D. admissions in certain fields, particularly the humanities. Much of the public discussion focuses on the job market—how many graduates get faculty positions, how many don’t, and whether the degrees are “worth it.” While those are valid concerns, we sometimes mistake the purpose of education for its outcome. The value of learning isn’t always transactional, and reducing it to employment metrics diminishes what higher education can truly offer.

My law degree taught me to think differently. The rigor of legal reasoning—dissecting arguments, examining assumptions, understanding systems of accountability—has shaped how I approach organizational leadership, philanthropy, and consulting. I may not have argued cases in a courtroom, but I’ve used those same analytical tools to negotiate complex partnerships, interpret policy, and help institutions make better, more ethical decisions.

My doctoral work deepened that perspective. Studying educational leadership wasn’t about earning another credential; it was about understanding how people learn, how organizations grow, and how change takes root. The experience reshaped how I mentor others, design strategy, and even see my role in helping institutions evolve. The Ed.D. didn’t make me a professor—it made me a better learner, and, by extension, a better leader.

That said, education is not free—financially, emotionally, or in time. Every degree requires investment, and making wise decisions about value is essential. Understanding why you are pursuing a degree—what you hope to gain and how it fits your broader goals—matters as much as the pursuit itself. For me, both degrees were purposeful choices grounded in curiosity and long-term value, not short-term return. That distinction has made all the difference.

So when I hear that universities are rethinking graduate education, I see both the caution and the opportunity. Yes, programs should be honest about career outcomes and the realities of today’s job market. But we also need to protect the idea that education itself—the pursuit of knowledge, critical thinking, and self-awareness—has enduring value beyond a paycheck.

Not every degree needs to lead directly to a “job.” Sometimes, it leads to better judgment, broader perspective, and deeper curiosity. Those outcomes don’t appear on a résumé, but they often make the difference between success that’s superficial and success that’s sustainable.

If education only prepares us to do, we miss half the point. The best education also prepares us to be—to think clearly, act ethically, and contribute meaningfully. By that measure, my law degree and doctorate have paid dividends that no employment statistic could ever capture.

The case highlights the challenges university leaders face when public scrutiny intersects with internal governance.

Leadership often succeeds or fails based on sequencing—what decisions are made, in what order, and how clearly those decisions are communicated. The Texas A&M situation reminds us that process discipline, not just principle, determines whether leaders maintain credibility when the spotlight turns harsh.

• The first lesson is about protecting integrity. In this case, when a course’s advertised description, number, or core designation doesn’t align with what is actually taught, leadership loses its footing. Correcting a misalignment early through established review procedures—departmental oversight, provost approval, and curriculum committees—prevents last-minute decisions that appear arbitrary or politically driven. Governance begins with accuracy, and any public promise.

• The second lesson is to use governance levers before personnel levers. Organizations should have procedural tools available long before termination or public controversy become options. Here, leaders could have reclassify a course, adjust prerequisites, or move it out of the core curriculum if alignment issues arise. These actions demonstrate sound process management and signal that leadership values systems over personalities. They also provide space to de-escalate conflict while maintaining institutional integrity.

• Third, leaders must communicate in one voice. Stakeholders can accept difficult decisions if they believe those decisions were made consistently and transparently. Conflicting messages—private assurances followed by sudden reversals—undermine trust and amplify frustration. A clear communication chain from president to provost to dean to department chair ensures consistency and prevents individual administrators from being left to interpret leadership’s intent on their own.

• Fourth, documentation matters. Leaders should “write the memo they’ll need later,” capturing agreements, rationale, and next steps in real time. When events go public, contemporaneous documentation becomes essential evidence that procedures were followed and decisions were made responsibly. In the absence of written clarity, narratives fill the void—and usually not in leadership’s favor.

• Finally, leaders must plan for virality. In the digital age, an internal disagreement can become a national headline within hours. Institutions should have ready, policy-based statements that explain what happened, cite the governing rules, and outline next steps without personalizing the issue. Clear, calm responses grounded in policy minimize reputational damage and help redirect attention toward governance rather than controversy.

In the end, effective leadership depends on visible adherence to process. The best leaders align the institution’s mechanics with its mission, choose policy tools before personnel actions, and communicate in a unified, transparent way. Doing so won’t prevent disagreement, but it ensures decisions are defensible and credible. Leadership, in these moments, isn’t about being loudest or fastest—it’s about being orderly, consistent, and grounded in the structures that sustain trust.

As a parent I was proud before the competition even started. He was surrounded by students six years older than him. Kids who have taken far more advanced math. Kids who have done this before. Just being willing to sit down at the table mattered. Watching him take it seriously mattered. Watching him ask questions afterward mattered. That part was easy pride.

What surprised me was where my attention went once things got underway. I found myself less focused on my son and more focused on the room. On the students themselves. They were extraordinary. Not just smart but curious. Not just fast but thoughtful. You could see creativity at work as they tried different approaches. You could see collaboration as teammates quietly checked assumptions. You could see resilience when a problem did not yield easily.

This was not rote learning on display. This was thinking. Real thinking. The kind that requires patience and humility and confidence all at the same time. These students were not showing off. They were working. They were stretching. They were enjoying the challenge even when it was hard.

We spend a lot of time talking about the future of our country in dark tones. We talk about what is broken. About what we fear. About what we might lose. Those conversations are not without merit. We do have real challenges. But sitting in that gym I was reminded that the future is also being shaped quietly by rooms like this one. By students who care deeply about learning. By young people who are willing to struggle with complex problems rather than look for easy answers.

If the future is left to individuals like these students we are in much better shape than we often allow ourselves to believe. They are thoughtful. They are disciplined. They are creative. They are not afraid of complexity. That matters more than almost anything else.

I left proud of my son for taking his first step into that world. But I left even more encouraged by the world itself. Sometimes hope does not arrive with fanfare. Sometimes it shows up with pencils and scratch paper and a quiet determination to figure things out.

Yet even people like me have to adjust, because the world around us has changed and philanthropy has not always kept pace.

For profit companies figured this out years ago. Buying something today is almost effortless. You can see an ad, tap your phone, confirm your payment, and be done in seconds. The process is intuitive, fast, and designed around how people actually live. Every barrier has been examined and stripped away. Fewer clicks. Less friction. Clear choices. That did not happen by accident. It happened because companies understood that if buying felt hard, people would simply move on.

Philanthropic giving is not immune from that same reality. Younger generations have grown up in a world where ease is expected. They bank on their phones. They order food on their phones. They manage their lives on their phones. When they are inspired to give and the process feels confusing, slow, or outdated, the moment passes. Interest does not always convert into action, not because they do not care, but because we made caring too complicated.

Making giving easy does not mean making it shallow. It means respecting the donor’s time and habits. Mobile based webpages are a starting point, not a nice extra. Most younger donors interact with the web almost entirely through their phones. If your giving page is hard to read, slow to load, or clunky on a mobile device, you are quietly telling them they are not your priority.

QR codes are another simple tool. They allow instant connection from a printed piece, an event sign, or a conversation directly to a giving opportunity. No typing long web addresses. No searching. Just scan and act. That mirrors how people already move through the world.

There are other practical steps as well. Simplify forms so donors are not answering unnecessary questions. Offer digital wallets that allow giving without pulling out a credit card. Provide clear confirmation and immediate thanks so donors know their gift mattered. None of this is revolutionary. It is basic customer experience thinking applied to generosity.

If we want young donors to give, we have to meet them where they are. That means adapting our systems, our expectations, and sometimes our own comfort levels. Even Mr. non techie can see that making philanthropy easy is not about chasing trends. It is about removing obstacles so generosity has room to show up.

As I got older, the names stuck with me. Brian Banks. Carl McPipe. Brian Carr. Moe Iba.  Jamar Johnson.  Beau Reed.  Those players represented effort and loyalty, and for fans like me they represented belief. But belief was often disconnected from results. Nebraska did not win much. We showed up anyway. That became part of the culture. You cheer because it is who you are, not because you expect a payoff.

There were moments when it felt like things might change. The early 1990s gave us a couple of seasons that hinted at something more. Those teams competed. They mattered. And then, slowly and steadily, the familiar pattern returned. Decades of futility followed. Different coaches. Different players. Same outcome. Losses piled up quietly, year after year, until Nebraska basketball became shorthand for frustration. In totality, it has been more than a century of trying to matter on the national stage and coming up short.

One fact hangs over all of it. Nebraska is the only program to have never won an NCAA tournament game. That stat is not just trivia. It is weight. For those of us who have been in the stands for decades, it feels personal. It sits in the background of every good start and every promising roster.

This year feels different.

That sentence alone is dangerous for long time fans, because we have said it before. But this season has a different tone. The team plays with confidence. They handle pressure better. They do not look surprised when they are in close games or when expectations show up. There is a sense that winning is not accidental. It is intentional.

And winning for the first time is different than just winning.

A first NCAA tournament win would not simply advance a bracket. It would rewrite a story. It would validate generations of fans who kept showing up. It would tell the kid in red sitting next to his parents that hope was not misplaced. For Nebraska, that first win would mean arrival, not perfection, but legitimacy.

For those of us who have waited a lifetime, that kind of winning matters more than the score.

I have been fascinated by Washington for as long as I can remember. Over the years, I have read multiple biographies and watched more historical and biographical programs than I can count. Each time, I come away with a deeper appreciation for the same core truth. What made Washington extraordinary was not simply that he led.

It was that he knew when to stop leading.

We often talk about Washington as the father of our country, and rightly so. But we tend to focus on what he achieved rather than what he refused to take. After winning the Revolutionary War, Washington was a national hero. He commanded the loyalty of an army and the admiration of a fragile new nation. In many places and times in history, that is the moment when power hardens. Instead, he resigned his commission and returned to private life. He walked away when he could have claimed almost anything.

That decision alone would place him in rare company. But he did it again.

When Washington became president, there was no roadmap. He was not just holding an office. He was defining it. After two terms, his popularity remained strong. He could have easily continued. Many expected him to. Instead, he stepped aside voluntarily, reinforcing the idea that leadership is temporary and that institutions matter more than individuals.

That choice shaped the presidency as much as any policy decision. It established a norm of restraint that would guide the country for generations. Washington understood something that is still difficult for leaders today. Power is most dangerous when it becomes personal. His greatness came not from how much authority he accumulated, but from how intentionally he released it.

This is why Washington remains one of my heroes. Not because he was perfect, or without contradiction, but because he consistently chose the long view. He understood that the future of the nation depended on leaders who knew when enough was enough.

We do not talk about that aspect of leadership nearly enough. We celebrate ambition, scale, and dominance. We spend far less time honoring restraint, humility, and the courage to walk away.

Presidents’ Day gives us a chance to remember that the strength of our democracy was shaped not just by those who sought power, but by at least one leader who repeatedly chose to give it up.

That lesson remains as relevant today as it was more than two centuries ago.

When I got married more than 25 years ago, I thought I understood love. I was sincere, committed, and optimistic. But if I am honest, I mostly understood love as a feeling and a promise. I did not yet understand love as endurance. I did not understand it as quiet sacrifice. I did not understand it as choosing someone again and again when the day is long, the news is hard, or the future feels uncertain.

I understand more now.

In the last year, I have had two knee surgeries. Recovery has a way of shrinking your world. Your calendar changes. Your energy changes. Your patience gets tested. And the smallest things become a lot harder than you expect. What I remember most is not the inconvenience. It is my wife showing up, again and again, without keeping score. She has been generous with her time, her attention, and her care. She noticed what I needed before I said it out loud, and she almost always put me first.

The same was true when my dad passed. Grief is not efficient. It does not follow a schedule. It comes in waves, sometimes when you think you are doing just fine. In that season, my wife was steady. Not dramatic. Not performative. Just present. She created space for me to be sad, to remember, to be quiet, and to be fully human.  And she was more there when I needed a hug or just someone to sit with, quietly.

And then there are the small things. The things that will never make it into a Valentine’s Day card. As stupid as it sounds, as an example, it is a haircut. Every three weeks, my wife cuts my hair. It is not something she enjoys. My hair grows fast, I do not want to pay for haircuts, and she knows that. So she does it. Carefully. Patiently. Without complaining. That simple act says more to me about love than almost anything else. It is practical. It is repetitive. It is inconvenient. And it is done entirely because she loves me.  And there are a million more examples of that level of “insignificant” that are small gifts to me that I sometimes do, and need to more, appreciate.

If Valentine’s Day grew into a day for romance over time, that makes sense. The best love does not usually announce itself with one big moment. It becomes clear through repetition. Through ordinary days. Through the unglamorous work of partnership.

So yes, I will celebrate my wife on Valentine’s Day. But the real lesson, after more than 25 years, is this. The greatest gift is not the card or the dinner. It is the person who keeps choosing you. All year long.

For years, part of that ritual has been my role as dad. I stop on the way home and bring food for the family. Tacos. Burgers. Something easy. Something that says the weekend has arrived. It was never about the food itself. It was about the signal. Friday night is different. We are together. We are not rushing. We are present.

Over the last year, though, something has changed. The cost of that simple food has climbed in a way that is hard to ignore. What used to feel like a reasonable stop now feels like a small financial decision that requires a pause. A family of four ordering nothing complicated can easily spend fifty to seventy dollars. No extras. No indulgence. Just dinner.

We are incredibly blessed. We can absorb that increase. Still, we have begun to change our habits. More often, we cook at home. We pull something together before settling onto the couch. The tradition remains, but the shape of it has shifted. And that shift has made me wonder about the future of restaurants, both traditional and fast food.

If a family like ours hesitates, what does that mean at scale. If convenience comes with a price that feels out of step with everyday budgets, how often will people choose it. Restaurants depend on regular habits. Families picking up dinner because it fits both their schedule and their finances. When that balance breaks, something else has to give.

What weighs on me most is not our adjustment, but the reality for families who do not have the same margin. When a basic meal out becomes a luxury, the impact is not just economic. It affects stress, time, and choice. It means more pressure on parents who are already stretched. It means fewer small moments of relief.

Friday movie night continues in our basement. The couch is the same. The laughter is the same. The togetherness is the same. What has changed is my awareness. Traditions endure, but the world around them shifts. And sometimes, a simple dinner on a Friday night reveals more about where we are headed than we expect.