The morning breeze carries the scent of salt and sea oats through my screened porch, mingling with the rich aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. A brown pelican glides past, wings spread wide, barely skimming the waves. The rhythmic sound of surf provides a gentle backbeat to the cheerful chaos of shore birds arguing over their breakfast finds. Just another Sunday morning on Florida’s East Coast, where nature’s theater plays out against a backdrop of cotton-candy clouds and cerulean skies.

The neighborhoodʼs starting to wake up. I can see the neighbor next door is already tending to her hibiscus, their bright red blooms a stark contrast to the sandy soil. Her grandson zips past on his bike, the playing cards in his spokes creating that familiar rat-a-tat-tat that takes me back to my own childhood in Indiana. I feel blessed that I had a great childhood, but it’s probably not as good for a lot of kids today.

A Trip to Chicago

When I was 11, my buddy and I hopped a three-hour train to Chicago from our small town in Indiana. Just two kids with some Christmas-shopping money and a crude map of the city. We walked miles from the train station into the Chicago Loop, wandered through Marshall Field and Company, and made it home with our Christmas presents intact. No phones. No hovering parents. Our parents weren’t worried sick — it was just another adventure in a time when kids could be kids.

These days, that story makes people gasp. “You did what?” they’ll ask, eyes wide with disbelief. And I get it. I was the same way with my own children — hovering at the end of the driveway until the school bus disappeared around the corner, living in constant fear of seeing their faces on milk cartons. We traded freedom for safety, adventure for security.

Strangers Among Us

So many of us have become so transient that we don’t know our neighbors. We moved to one place where the neighbors never introduced themselves for over a year. Yet when we moved to Texas, we had three casseroles and plates of cookies on the day we moved in. These gestures make such a difference.

But sitting here, watching local kids zip around the street on their bikes, I’m reminded that pockets of that old way of life still exist. In small towns across America, in tight-knit neighborhoods like this one, where people still bring casseroles to new neighbors and check on each other when they’re under the weather.

The pelican makes another pass, this time successfully snagging a fish from the waves. Nature’s reminder that some things don’t change — community, connection, the need to look out for one another. Whether it’s sharing fish with your flock or sharing cookies with your neighbors, we’re all in this together.

Staying Connected

A couple of weeks ago, during a brief cold snap (yes, we get those in Florida), a neighbor brought us soup. Not because we were sick, but because “it’s soup weather, and I made extra.” That’s the kind of community my father talked about during the Great Depression — people helping people, just because that’s what good people do. If you needed something, you knew you could rely on your neighbors. Though these days asking to borrow an egg is like asking for a gold bar, it’s important to find excuses to stay connected.

Is Social Media Social?

It’s easy to get discouraged by the endless stream of negativity on our screens. Social media shows us the worst of humanity on repeat, making us forget about the best parts. But here’s the thing — we can choose to live differently. We can choose to be the neighbor who brings the soup, who watches the kids ride their bikes, who creates the community we crave. It starts by putting yourself out there, getting to know your neighbors and local shop owners. 

Deep Investment

What if we were all more generous, thinking less about ourselves and thinking more about others? Not because we want something, but because we just want to be neighborly. What if we got out more, interacted more, and were the first to make an effort to get to know the neighbors? What if we spent less time doom scrolling and more time invested with our community?

Feeling Grateful

This morning, as I sip my coffee and watch the sun climb higher over the water, I’m grateful for this little pocket of the world where children still play freely and neighbors still hold block parties. It’s not perfect — nothing is — but it’s real. It’s a community, and it renews my faith in humanity.

While chatting across the fence, our neighbor invited us to a birthday party for her husband next week, and on the other side, I wandered through the gate into my neighbor’s garage to see his progress on his 1960s muscle car — which he has taken apart — and he’s beaming with the joy of his project. Sometimes it feels good just to stand around and shoot the breeze. It helps us feel connected.

Carly Simon Was Right

And just like that, I’m reminded that the good old days aren’t gone — they’re happening right now, if we choose to create them. These are the good old days. All it takes is opening our doors, sharing what we have, and remembering that we’re all in this together, one cup of coffee, or soup, one neighbor at a time.

As the local kids ride by, playing cards in their spokes are louder now, a chorus of childhood joy. The pelican soars overhead, heading home to its own community. And me? I’m right where I need to be, in this moment, in this place, building the kind of world I want to live in — one neighbor at a time.

Eric Rhoads

The steam rises from my coffee in lazy spirals this morning, dancing with the Florida sunlight streaming through my hotel window. The ceramic mug feels extra heavy today, weighted perhaps by the words that have been living rent-free in my head all weekend. The bitter aroma of my dark roast mingles with the lingering scent of a bitter feeling, and somewhere outside, a blue jay is having what sounds like an existential crisis. Welcome to the club.

The Knot in My Chest

I take a sip and let the warmth spread through my chest, hoping it might dissolve the knot that’s been sitting there since Friday. You see, I just witnessed something that would make even Machiavelli wince — a masterclass in how to turn a big gain into a much bigger loss.

The Dating Game Gone Wrong

Picture this: You’re dating someone for a year. You’ve met the parents, picked out curtains together, and are about to sign a lease. Then suddenly, they call someone else, not you, to have them tell you that they’ve found someone richer and prettier. Oh, and good luck with those curtains! That’s essentially what happened in my business world this week, and let me tell you, it’s just as classy as it sounds.

A Dance of Trust and Betrayal

Without getting into uncomfortable details or mentioning names, my team and I have been dancing with some professionals for over a year who were going to do a big project for us. Late last year they did a remarkable project for us that made a game-changing difference in our business. Unlike so many others in their field, these people were different — they were ultra-high-ethics, they played no games, they didn’t even act overly eager. They even told us no on previous projects when they felt they couldn’t deliver excellence. We appreciated that, because usually someone in their position would be telling us what we wanted to hear just to get our business. 

Finally, a Plan!

Soon after, they made a proposal and got us excited about what they could do for us, something they were sure would revolutionize part of our business. We had been working toward this goal all year, and because of that, we had not spoken with or even considered others offering similar services. I met with my executive team, we burned dozens of hours carefully considering their proposal, and, deciding to do it, we shifted budget dollars elsewhere to move forward. We only suggested a slight change that would give them more income. 

Hello, You’ve Been Dumped

Then came Thursday. The head of this company called one of my colleagues to announce they’d landed a $2 million client and decided not to go forward with the project they had bid on. Suddenly our substantial project and the year we had invested meant nothing. They didn’t even have the decency to tell me personally, though I had approached them after a friend’s recommendation. Worse, we lost a year of preparation for this moment, and another year of getting someone else hired and up to speed. 

The Sourdough Theory of Business

Here’s the thing about business relationships — they’re like sourdough starter. You can’t just whip them up overnight with some instant yeast and hope for the best. They need time, attention, and consistent feeding. When you throw away a year of careful cultivation for a quick buck, you’re not just losing one relationship — you’re sending ripples through the entire business community.

The Real Mathematics of Loss

Let’s break down the real cost of their $2 million “win”:

1. Reputational damage that will echo through professional networks faster than gossip at a small-town diner
2. A burned bridge that could’ve led to multiple future opportunities exceeding that amount
3. The complete erosion of trust that took a year to build
4. A lesson in “what not to do” that will likely be shared in countless business school case studies
5. Loss of friendships and future years doing business together
6. Having to live with themselves knowing they’ve officially crossed the line

The Million-Dollar Sandwich

The irony here is richer than my coffee with MCT oil – in chasing $2 million, they’ve potentially cost themselves multiples of that in future opportunities and reputational damage. It’s like selling your soul for a sandwich, only to realize you could’ve had a lifetime supply of gourmet meals if you’d just waited a bit longer. I had already recommended them to a CEO friend with more than $2 million to spend. I’ll be rescinding my recommendation. 

Dad’s Wisdom

My father gave me solid advice as a young man: You need to know your limitations and what lines you’re not willing to cross, way before you ever face those decisions, because when the time comes, emotion clouds your clarity. He always said integrity is all you have, and once it’s lost, you start pushing the limits a little more, and then a little more, and before long you end up in jail. It’s about setting the line and never crossing it.

The Trust Equation

And here’s the real kicker — the mathematics of trust. Trust is built in drops and lost in buckets. Each positive interaction adds a tiny drop to the reservoir of goodwill. But one significant breach? That’s a firehose of damage that can destroy years of relationship-building in minutes. If they came back today with a change of heart, I wouldn’t do business with them ever again.

Your Integrity Score

When you’re building a business — or any relationship, for that matter — remember that your reputation is like a credit score. Every action either builds it up or tears it down. And just like with credit scores, it takes years to build a good one but only one bad decision to tank it. No amount of business is worth the loss of your reputation.

The View from the Top

Next time you’re tempted by a shiny new opportunity that requires stepping on existing relationships, remember: The view from the top is spectacular, but the climb is a lot harder when you’ve cut down all your ropes. We spent a year building trust and a moment tearing it down.

Old School Thinking

Maybe I’m old school in a brave new world where integrity no longer matters. I too was once a younger, more aggressive businessperson who would have been excited about a big new customer. But even then I knew the right way to handle my commitments. Someone’s mother did not teach these kids the Golden Rule.

Ouch!

Sadly, I feel like a man kicked in the gut, with the air knocked from me. Of all the people I’ve done business with, I never would have expected it from these people. I’ll chalk this up to their inexperience, and hopefully they’ll learn from their ethical lapse and never do it again, because one day that big client will leave them. Lord knows I’ve made stupid mistakes that ended up biting me in the butt long-term. All I can do is forgive them, forget them, pick myself up, dust off, and move forward. After all, part of my job is dealing with problems. Hopefully I’m not creating them.

Stay caffeinated, my friends.

Eric Rhoads

The raptors are putting on quite a show this morning, diving from the Australian pines into the water with surgical precision. Nature’s own fishing exhibition, complete with squeaking commentary from above. As I sit here watching this display of survival (and breakfast), I can’t help but think about today being Groundhog Day — that peculiar tradition where we let a rodent meteorologist in Pennsylvania determine our seasonal fate.

Politicizing Groundhogs

You know, some folks are now protesting the whole Groundhog Day ceremony as animal cruelty. Soon we’ll be trying to protect the small fish from the big fish, and the big fish from the whales. (I spotted two white whales off our coast this week — talk about a reminder of nature’s magnificent food chain!) Sometimes I wonder if we’re overthinking things that “just are.”

Groundhog Day, the Movie

Speaking of Groundhog Day, I’ve been feeling a bit like Bill Murray lately — minus the charm and comic timing. Wake up, work, meetings, same dinner rotation, same TV shows, same bed. Rinse, repeat, yawn. It’s what I call the “comfortable rut syndrome.” I both love and hate routine. It’s like that old friend who’s great to have around but sometimes you wish would go home already.

Wild Adventure

My wife and I once made this grand pact to move every 10 years to keep life fresh. “We’ll be adventurers!” we declared. Well, wouldn’t you know it, we’ve now stayed put longer than we swore we would. The irony isn’t lost on me — we’ve become comfortable in our discomfort with staying still. With kids graduating college and the prospect of grandchildren on the horizon (no pressure, kids!), maybe stability isn’t such a bad thing. Though I suspect we’ll still be those slightly crazy grandparents who pop up on FaceTime from random corners of the globe.

Gypsy Me

I blame my “gypsy spirit” on my dad. He once told me, “I stayed in one place too long. Don’t make that mistake.” But here’s the thing — I want it all. The stability of deep-rooted friendships AND the thrill of constant adventure. In my perfect world, I’d have a different house for every month. A villa in Italy, a cabin in New Zealand, maybe one of those luxury cruise liner condos. (Is it obvious I’ve spent too much time browsing real estate listings?) But I’d rather not pay for the upkeep and taxes. I’m guessing even Bill Gates and his 300 houses are regretting some of that upkeep. At least I can scratch this itch with my annual behind-the-scenes art and plein air trips.

The Paradox

Just yesterday, I was commiserating with a friend who’s six years my senior. We’re both still pulling 60-hour weeks, making 20-year plans, and inventing new things. We’re relevant and vibrant! And … occasionally bored out of our minds. It’s that strange paradox of loving what you do while simultaneously feeling like you could do it in your sleep.

The Speed of Time

Time is playing tricks on me lately. I’ll occasionally think something happened three years ago, only to realize two decades have passed. (Who keeps accelerating the calendar when I’m not looking?) Looking forward, I realize the next 20 years could bring monumental changes. The question is: Are we going to let life happen to us, or are we going to grab the steering wheel?

Here’s what I’m asking myself, and maybe you should too:

What can I do to reinvent myself?

What can I do to reignite my passion?

What have I always wanted to do but never got around to?

What sacrifices am I willing to make to reach new heights?

What would be fun, but I’m afraid to try?

In what ways am I allowing people to “should on me” telling me “you should or shouldn’t do this at your age.”

If I’m sending confusing signals, imagine what it’s like inside my head, knowing I love what I do, love the people I do it with, and yet knowing there’s more I can do if I only push myself.

Maya Angelou once said, “You can’t use up creativity. The more you use, the more you have.” But I’d add that boredom is creativity’s kryptonite — it sneaks up when we’re not paying attention, making even the extraordinary feel routine.

“The great enemy of creativity is the comfort of the familiar,” said Frank Herbert. He was on to something there. Every time we choose the known over the unknown, we’re letting another adventure slip away. Comfort is a friend and an enemy.

But my favorite perspective comes from Theodore Roosevelt: “It is not the critic who counts… The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena.” So here I am, choosing to step into the arena every day, refusing to let routine be my master. It’s tempting to settle into life’s comfortable recliner, remote in hand, watching our days drift by on cruise control, and allowing social media to methodically suck our brain from our skull. And while there’s nothing wrong with finding peace in stillness, I wonder if sometimes we mistake comfort for contentment. Life is like a vast ocean — we can either drift with the currents, letting them carry us wherever they may, or we can hoist our sails, chart our course, and steer toward new horizons. I’m choosing to be the captain of my ship.

I don’t want to just wake up one day wishing I had lived more deeply. I want to be challenged and uncomfortable so I can feel the sting of life reminding me that I’m truly alive. I want to step out, explore new challenges, and push myself out of my comfort zone, pushing my limits physically and mentally because from what I can tell, this thing we call life has an expiration date, and I intend to make the most of it.

What about you?

Eric Rhoads