Many of you subscribed to this space during our journey to adopt our first child. That season shaped me deeply, but it isn’t the only story I’m living anymore. I’m returning here to keep writing—still honestly, still thoughtfully—but from a wider season that includes leadership, faith, and the quiet work of becoming.
The first (and only) time I shot a gun, I cried.
This is significant for a few reasons. Least of all is the fact that I’m not one to cry in public. It would take a lot for me to break down in tears in front of other people, but I couldn’t hold them back that day.
I was twenty years old and still had a lot of growing to do when it came to advocating for myself. I didn’t want to participate in that afternoon at the gun range. I was perfectly happy to spectate. But the group I was with strongly encouraged me to give it a try, and before I knew it, I was handed a rifle I had no business shooting.
They warned me about the recoil. They told me it might bruise my shoulder. They assured me I would be fine.
My reaction was almost instantaneous. I pulled the trigger, and tears streamed down my face. What overwhelmed me wasn’t the noise or the kickback—it was the sudden, embodied realization that what I was holding had the power to end someone’s life.
It was too much. I wasn’t ready for that responsibility.
I remember being grateful that I was wearing sunglasses. At least I could save a little face.
I handed the gun back and made it clear I was done for the day. I’ve never picked one up since.
That memory came flooding back to me recently—not because I was thinking about guns, but because I was thinking about power.
That day, I was moved to tears by the weight of holding something that could cause catastrophic harm with a single action. And yet, I carry a different kind of power every day—one that rarely triggers the same physical response. The power of holding and shaping a narrative.
As a leader inside an institution, narrative power is familiar to me. Decisions about when to speak, how much to say, who should say it, and what should remain unspoken are part of the work. Tone matters. Framing matters. Timing matters.
A gun is one pull, one outcome.
A narrative is thousands of small decisions, layered over time.
Over the years, I’ve become more aware of how casually that power can be carried. Not because of one explosive moment, but because of how ordinary these decisions often are.
There were seasons when our organization was building something new—progress was real, but timelines were constantly shifting, and costs were rising. Part of my role was helping communicate that progress in a way that kept people encouraged and hopeful, rather than anxious or cynical. That meant choosing tone carefully. Emphasizing momentum. Protecting morale. Not letting frustration spiral outward.
None of that felt dishonest. But it did require constant judgment calls about what to highlight, what to downplay, and how much uncertainty to name at any given moment.
There were other moments—especially during highly polarized seasons—when I felt the weight of narrative power more acutely. Times when proposed messaging leaned toward fear or exaggeration, and I had to decide whether to speak up, knowing I was one small voice in a room full of strong opinions. Choosing truth over volume felt risky. Staying quiet would have been easier.
And then there are the quieter decisions—the ones no one writes about. Moments when leadership choices are made that I wouldn’t have made myself, and I have to decide how I’ll carry that publicly. Whether I’ll fuel frustration in private conversations, or exercise restraint. Whether I’ll add heat or help hold stability.
None of these moments are dramatic on their own. That’s what makes them dangerous.
This is the part that has been haunting me.
When we look back at institutional failures—moral, ethical, or relational—it’s easy to ask, How did no one stop this?
But the harder question is this:
How often do things become clear only after they’ve been stacking up for a long time?
When you’re in the middle of something, your gut might feel uneasy—but you also want to give people the benefit of the doubt. You tell yourself this is temporary. Or more complicated than it looks. Or not your place. And slowly, without realizing it, the small decisions accumulate before you’ve named them as compromises at all.
That’s where I find myself returning to a few anchors—not as answers, but as guardrails.
Integrity matters.
Not as a buzzword or a branding exercise, but as alignment—being the same person in small, unseen moments as I am when the stakes are high. I’ve learned that integrity is formed long before a crisis ever shows up. It’s shaped quietly, in the ordinary decisions no one applauds and no one audits.
I’ve also learned that integrity rarely erodes in moments of crisis. It erodes in moments of convenience. When it feels easier to go along than to pause. When something feels slightly off, but not off enough to address. When I stop checking my own motives because the decision is familiar, expected, or socially reinforced.
One of the clearest warning signs for me isn’t temptation—it’s numbness. When I no longer feel that internal hesitation or discomfort, not because the situation has resolved, but because I’ve grown used to it. That’s usually when alignment has already begun to drift.
The smallest compromises don’t stay small. They train us. They shape what we’re willing to excuse the next time around. There’s a line in the Bible that says, “Whoever can be trusted with very little can also be trusted with much, and whoever is dishonest with very little will also be dishonest with much.” (Luke 16:10). I don’t hear that as a threat. I hear it as a reminder to stay awake to myself—to keep paying attention before the stakes grow large enough that the cost of clarity feels unbearable.
Telling the truth matters.
This one feels deceptively simple. “Don’t lie” is one of the first moral rules most of us learn. But the older I get, the more I realize how rarely life presents us with clear choices between truth and falsehood.
More often, the real danger is self-deception.
In my experience, most people who soften the truth aren’t acting maliciously. They’re acting protectively. Loyally. From what feels like a good place. They’re trying to defend someone they care about, or preserve something they believe is worth protecting.
It often sounds like this:
They didn’t really mean it.
They were just venting.
They’d never actually act on that.
They were just frustrated.
They were drunk.
They weren’t trying to hurt anyone.
Each explanation feels reasonable on its own. Sometimes, it might even be true.
The danger is how easily these explanations become a pattern.
Before long, we stop asking whether something should be excused and start assuming that it must be. We reframe actions in the most charitable light—not because we’ve examined them carefully, but because the alternative feels too disruptive. Too costly. Too destabilizing.
As the stakes rise—when reputations, relationships, or institutions feel fragile—we convince ourselves it’s better to hold the line than risk naming something that might make things worse.
That’s how self-deception takes root. Not in dramatic leaps, but in small, repeated compromises that feel necessary in the moment. Over time, we stop noticing how much effort it takes to keep the story intact. The narrative becomes familiar. Comfortable. And eventually, it feels too delicate to challenge at all.
As a Christian, this is why I return often to Jesus’ words recorded in the Bible: “I am the way and the truth and the life”(John 14:6). Not truth as a weapon or a talking point, but truth as clarity. As a refusal to look away. As the courage to name reality even when it complicates the story we’ve been telling.
Truth, I’m learning, isn’t just about accuracy. It’s about stopping long enough to ask whether the story we’re protecting is actually faithful—or simply familiar.
And finally, I’ve become convinced that the ends do not justify the means. How we get somewhere matters just as much as where we’re trying to go. Decisions made for the sake of speed, protection, or efficiency don’t disappear once the outcome is achieved. Even when something “works,” the cost often shows up later—in trust, in relationships, or in our own sense of peace.
None of this removes the weight of narrative power. But it helps me hold it with more care.
I cried that day at the gun range because I wasn’t ready to hold something that could destroy a life with one action.
What sobers me now is how easily we grow accustomed to holding power that shapes lives more quietly—through words, framing, and silence—without ever feeling the recoil.
Growing A to Z 
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