The howling wind tore at the ropes like invisible hands, stretching them to their breaking point as they strained against the weight of our vessel. 

Vibrant whitecaps exploded across the churning surface — a violent ballet of foam and spray against the deep blue water below.

The sharp, briny scent of salt filled our lungs with each labored breath as we maneuvered the boat backward, our knuckles white from gripping rain-slick ropes against the blood-red pylons.

The icy droplets stung our faces like tiny needles while the thunderous roar of the gale swallowed our desperate shouts, transforming them into whispers against nature’s deafening orchestra.

As we cleared the false sanctuary of the marina’s windbreaks, heading home, the true power of the storm ambushed us — the wind’s howl rising to a banshee’s wail as we fought to control our craft through the choppy, angry cauldron that had once been calm waters.

Stubbornness Meets Impossibility

As we approached our narrow covered boat slip, the horizontal force of the wind transformed our vessel into an uncontrollable missile, sending us skidding past our target with alarming speed. Twelve times we circled back, twelve times we failed, 40 minutes of battling against nature’s unbending will. 

The realization sank in like the cold salty water that had penetrated our clothes — trying to get into the slip was a fool’s errand. With desperation mounting, we shifted to our last-ditch strategy: securing a single rope to a lone pylon and pulling our way to the side. The four of us became warriors in an epic tug-of-war — myself at the helm, my three companions straining against the furious onslaught that threatened to tear the rope from their bleeding hands. When one valiant soul finally made it onto the dock, we celebrated the small victory, only to face 15 more grueling minutes fighting to secure a second lifeline against the storm’s relentless assault.

Will We Survive Until Dawn?

Four ropes now tethered our jumping, thrashing boat to the dock as waves crashed over its sides. We scrambled off the vessel, exhausted but alive, facing a new anxiety — would our knots hold through the night? Would our beloved boat be smashed to splinters against the unforgiving dock?

Sleep came in restless bursts between frantic checks, each trip to the window revealing the silhouette of our boat still fighting for survival against the elements. When dawn finally broke, the wind had relented to a gentle 9 mph breeze — as if the previous night’s fury had been nothing but a terrifying dream. Only then could I navigate the boat easily into its slip and elevate it to safety, the morning calm making a mockery of our nighttime ordeal.

The Moment We Feared Death: Confronting Our Mortality

Looking into the eyes of my guests as they contemplated climbing onto a tall dock in howling winds, I saw something I’ll never forget — the raw, primal fear that comes when humans realize their mortality is at stake. We were no longer pleasure-seekers but survivors, pushed to our physical limits by forces beyond our control. Every straining muscle, every gasping breath, every precarious step represented a desperate battle to cheat the dangers that circled us like hungry predators. In those moments, the thin veneer of civilization washes away with the spray, revealing the most fundamental imperative — to survive at all costs.

Life’s Deceptive Calm Before the Storm

This harrowing experience, just seven days ago, mirrors the unpredictable rhythm of existence itself. We drift through extended periods of tranquility, lulled into a false sense of permanence, until without warning, catastrophe descends like a hammer blow. These storms — financial collapse, a health crisis, a relationship imploding — demand everything we have to survive. They arrive not as gentle transitions but as violent intrusions that threaten to capsize our carefully constructed lives, forcing us to fight with primal intensity simply to remain afloat.

Red Flags Ignored

Had I been more attentive, more rational, the entire crisis could have been averted. The forecast had whispered its warning — winds would arrive early that day — but I checked only for rain, not for the invisible force that would nearly claim us. Even as we finished lunch at the marina, the warning signs screamed for attention; the winds had already reached dangerous levels. My rational mind should have abandoned the boat there, hailed a taxi, and returned when nature’s fury had subsided. Instead, pride and past successes blinded me — I’d navigated high winds before, surely I could do it again. This arrogance nearly cost us everything.

When Emotion Overrides Safety

My pilot friend Tom’s haunting story echoes in my mind, about a fellow aviator who allowed an executive to override his professional judgment about unsafe flying conditions. Both perished when emotion trumped reason, when the pressure to please overrode the imperative to survive. I recognize now that I made the same nearly fatal error, allowing the emotional desire to fulfill our planned adventure to silence the rational voice urging caution. In moments where life hangs in the balance, emotion becomes not just a poor counselor but potentially a lethal one.

Clues We Refuse to Acknowledge

Most life storms announce themselves before they strike, sending signals we either miss or willfully ignore. I see the warning signs but convince myself I can change the outcome, giving second chances when decisive action is required. Perhaps it’s conflict avoidance, perhaps simple laziness, perhaps magical thinking — regardless, the storms still come, more destructive for the delay.

What catastrophes hover on your horizon right now, their warning lights flashing, while you pretend all is well? 

What financial collapse, health crisis, or relationship rupture gathers strength while you look away?

The High Cost of Willful Blindness

Financial ruin rarely arrives without warning — missed payments, mounting debt, and impulsive spending all wave red flags before the bankruptcy filing. Legal calamities typically follow a trail of small ethical compromises, each one making the next easier to justify. Even family fractures send tremors before the earthquake — communication breakdown, increasing distance, unaddressed resentments. Yet we convince ourselves these indicators mean nothing, until the disaster we could have prevented consumes everything we value.

Survival Mode Activated

Once engulfed by the storm, my priorities instantly transformed — no longer concerned with creating an enjoyable excursion but fixated solely on keeping everyone alive. After a dozen failed docking attempts, continued stubborn persistence became not determination but dangerous delusion. Had we failed to secure ourselves to the dockside, returning to the marina or seeking calmer waters miles away would have been our only rational options. Clinging to original plans in the face of changed conditions is not persistence — it’s potentially fatal folly.

When Normal Becomes Impossible

Survival mode isn’t limited to physical dangers. Two years ago, my business faced its own perfect storm, forcing me to abandon standard operations to address an existential threat. For months, growth plans and new initiatives gathered dust while all resources focused on weathering the crisis. Had I maintained “business as usual,” pretending we could simply power through, the company would have been damaged. Sometimes we must set aside our preferred agenda to address the emergency that threatens everything.

Finding Your Safe Harbor

As we journey through life’s unpredictable seas, we all need designated safe harbors — people, places, and practices that offer sanctuary when gales threaten to overwhelm us. These refuges look different for each of us — perhaps a morning ritual of contemplation, prayer, or exercise, perhaps the unwavering support of loyal friends or wise counsel from mentors, perhaps spiritual practices that ground us when chaos swirls. When we find ourselves fighting for survival against life’s fiercest storms, these harbors become not luxury but necessity — the difference between destruction and endurance.

The Ultimate Lesson

Perhaps the most profound wisdom any storm can teach is humility — the recognition that despite our planning, technology, and skill, forces exist that can overwhelm us in an instant. We cannot control the wind; we can only adjust our sails and sometimes seek shelter. This humility isn’t weakness but wisdom, allowing us to respect forces beyond our control rather than arrogantly believing we can overpower them. This respect leads to better decisions, keeping ourselves and those we care about safer when the inevitable storms arrive.

Questions That Could Save Your Life

As you move through your own journey, consider these potentially life-saving questions: 

What personal harbors have you established for times of crisis? 

Who stands ready to help secure your ropes when fierce winds threaten to carry you away? 

Most critically, what warning signals are you currently dismissing, pretending the horizon remains clear while the barometer plummets and dark clouds gather? 

The courage to answer these questions honestly might make the difference between weathering the coming storm or being destroyed by it.

The Beauty in Chaos

Though storms bring danger, they also carry strange gifts, like a fish that jumps into the boat when a crashing wave hits — revealing our true resilience, the depth of our courage, the strength of our bonds with others. When we survive what we thought would destroy us, we emerge transformed, with a deeper appreciation for life’s fragility and wonder. 

Sometimes, in the wildest moments of wind and wave, we glimpse a terrible beauty — the raw power of existence that both threatens and invigorates us. The storms will surely come. With wisdom, preparation, and the courage to change course when necessary, we can not only survive them but discover unexpected strength in their aftermath.

What storms are you going through now?
I have confidence you can get through them.

Eric Rhoads

The sunlight dapples through the palm fronds outside my Florida window, casting intricate shadows across the deck in the back yard where I sit with my coffee this morning. A gentle breeze carries the scent of jasmine and salt air, while a pair of sandhill cranes strut purposefully across my boat dock. The distant rumble of thunder promises an afternoon shower, but for now, the sky remains a brilliant blue, unmarred by clouds. The beauty of this tropical morning truly awakens my senses. And soon our winter here will be over and we’ll return to a new adventure.

Haircut Wisdom

The recent passing of a world-famous celebrity was met with “I don’t know who that is” by the 30-year-old who was cutting my hair. “He was a huge star, he did all these amazing movies.” Yet the response was, “Never seen him, never heard of him.” My realization from that moment is that legacy may not matter. No matter how famous, there is no guarantee you’ll be remembered. Sure, there will be film buffs who remember him for a generation, and his IMDb profile or Wikipedia page will live on forever. But as I think about all the moments in this man’s impressive life, where he must have been striving to get discovered, to get film roles, and to get fame, it has all gone up in smoke because he outlived most of his contemporaries, and the next generation who knows him — my generation — is the next to fade into oblivion. And the one interview I did see about him said, “He was grumpy on set because he demanded perfection.” Some legacy.

So why bother? I did not know Gene Hackman, but lots of my friends knew him because he was an artist. Many people I know painted or took classes with him. It’s hard to know if acting in films was “just a job” or was an obsession. Did he do it to become famous, or did he become famous because he was so good at it?

The Great Seduction

Fame is a seductive beast. I’ve never experienced much of it, other than a few fleeting moments in my career. I define fame as “You can’t go anywhere in the world without someone recognizing you.” My acquaintance Pete Rose, the baseball player, was addicted to it. He could not get enough. One day at lunch for a business meeting, we were interrupted at least 50 times for autographs and photos. He loved it. But when he asked for another meeting because we couldn’t get our meeting done and time ran out, I insisted on a private room. It seemed like a good idea, but then we were interrupted at least 10 times by his employees asking him to sign baseballs. He needed constant attention. Isn’t that what drives the desire for fame?

Becoming a Somebody

I once went to a radio broadcast industry conference and felt like a nobody. No one knew me, no one paid attention to me, I had nothing to offer anyone. So, I told myself, next year at this time, I’ll be well known and be a somebody. By implanting that into my subconscious, I found myself buying a failing radio industry trade magazine, writing weekly editorials, and grabbing attention with my controversial thoughts. A year later, everyone knew who I was, wanted my attention, spent time with me, and invited me to the best parties.

A Confession

If I’m being honest here, and a little vulnerable, I think some form of attention or fame is what drives me. I don’t understand why; I got lots of attention from a loving family as a child. But I built my first career as a radio DJ, and one of my life goals has been to act in a major motion picture. The only acting I’ve done was high school theater and a student film in San Francisco. On radio, people knew my voice and my name in the towns I worked in for short periods of time. And it was a lot of fun to hang out and meet lots of famous musicians (though most of them at the time were drug addicts, and I didn’t do drugs).

A New Spotlight 

Almost five years ago, when I started my daily YouTube show, Art School Live, it was like going back to my DJ days. Only this time, I was on camera. And because of high viewership during COVID, I had a couple of moments where I got unexpected attention. (Now at 17.5 million views!) Once in Mexico, walking down the street, a stranger approached and said they watched me daily; once in a restaurant in Austin, someone interrupted my dinner for a photo and autograph. Maybe a couple of other times, one a few weeks ago, during my Winter Art Escape artists’ retreat. It’s hardly fame. It’s just a couple of people who like what I do in a very small playground.

My Happy Place

I have to admit that I love going to an event and being acknowledged on stage or being asked to speak. My favorite thing is to be on stage at the Plein Air Convention, or anywhere, pulling stunts and having fun. In fact, I might like it a little too much, and I don’t understand why I have this need to be noticed. Am I a narcissist? Insane perhaps?

Am I Crazy?

I recently asked an AI about these feelings, wondering if there was something wrong with me. The response suggested a mix of normal human traits — a desire for recognition, some mild narcissistic tendencies (not pathological), and existential questioning about the meaning of effort and legacy. The AI pointed out that these traits might be amplified by career choices and cultural influences rather than representing any deep-seated flaw.

Inner Conflict?

There is a tug of war going on with my life. This goes back to my desire to live with humility and not centered on my ego. But the conflict I face is whether or not legacy matters. Should I do things to be remembered? It’s unlikely, so it may not be worth the effort. Even my books won’t be noticed in 50 years. 

Deeper Truth

Perhaps what matters isn’t being remembered forever, but rather the impact we have in the present moment. Gene Hackman may not be known to every young hairstylist, but his work touched countless lives during its time. The joy, insight, or entertainment he provided was real, even if temporary. Maybe our obsession with leaving a permanent mark is missing the point entirely.

Being Authentic No Matter What

What if instead of chasing fame as a form of immortality, we focused on creating authentic work that matters now? What if the measure of success isn’t being remembered by strangers a century from now, but how deeply and meaningfully we connect with those around us today? Perhaps the greatest legacy isn’t a name etched in stone, but the ripples of positive influence that continue long after we’re gone, even if no one remembers where they began. Investing in raising great kids is probably the highest form of legacy. 

Advice for Fame Junkies

If you find yourself drawn to the need for recognition, here’s what I’ve learned: Examine your motives honestly. Ask yourself if you’re seeking attention to fill a void or because you genuinely have something valuable to share. Channel your desire for recognition into creating work that serves others, not just your ego. Enjoy the spotlight when it comes, but don’t let it define your worth. Cultivate sources of internal validation that don’t depend on applause. And remember that even the most famous people are eventually forgotten — so focus on living meaningfully today rather than being remembered tomorrow.

There is no doubt that ego has driven a lot of my decisions throughout my life. And because of it, I’ll be able to look back at some accomplishments that perhaps changed the lives of others. The influence on others is more meaningful than stroking one’s own ego.

Is Pride OK?

I think we all want to be proud of what we accomplish. Many of us live for those moments when others share how much they value us. While others, including some of my family members, never want to be in the spotlight, because they’ve been with me when dinner was interrupted by a well-meaning follower. Yet pride can take you down if you let it. Manage it carefully.

The Right Purpose

There isn’t a right or wrong, yet I felt the need to understand my motivation and what causes it. And we would have no monumental buildings or bridges, technology, or great sports teams if people were not driven by recognition. There is nothing wrong with it — unless it turns you into a narcissist who cares about no one else and has no empathy. I’ve met “stars” I would not want to spend an hour with because they are so self-focused or so unpleasant, and there are others I’d love to spend a few days painting with. Two days painting with Tony Bennett were delightful. He was humble, and interested. On the other hand, an encounter with a world famous actor (sorry, no names) revealed this supposed nice guy to be a nasty person. 

Perhaps there’s wisdom in that — creating not for legacy or fame, but because it’s what we’re called to do. The beauty we create and the lives we touch — that matters now, in this moment. And maybe that’s enough.

Eric Rhoads

There’s something about Sunday mornings that invites introspection. Perhaps it’s the gentle pace, the absence of workday pressures, or maybe it’s just the coffee — this Ethiopian blend that somehow tastes even better when paired with the soft light of dawn breaking over the water.

The pelican has returned today. He’s perched high up on the weathered piling at the end of the dock, looking somewhat prehistoric against the modern boats. I’ve been watching him for the better part of an hour now, his patient vigilance occasionally interrupted by hilariously ungraceful dives. For all his awkwardness in the air, he emerges successful more often than not. There’s a lesson there, I think.

The water is calm, and a mirror to the sunlit morning sky above. A few early fishermen have trolled by, raising their hands in the universal greeting of those who rise before the world demands it. There’s a fellowship among early risers that transcends background and circumstance — a quiet acknowledgment that we’ve chosen to witness the day’s beginning rather than merely catch it in progress.

I’m Honored

Several of you commented on last week’s post about finding peace in small moments. Sandra wrote about how she’s started taking her morning coffee on her front porch instead of scrolling through news. I applaud that. Michael shared that he’s teaching his grandson to identify birdsongs. His grandson will remember that when he’s an old man. These seemingly minor shifts create spaces where wisdom can find us.

Clothe Yourself

This morning, I’ve been reflecting on something that’s been circling my thoughts for weeks now — the transformative power of humility and losing oneself. In my morning quiet time I found myself revisiting 1 Peter 5, where the apostle writes: “Clothe yourselves, all of you, with humility toward one another, for ’God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble.’ Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God so that at the proper time he may exalt you.”

These words pierce me because they expose the younger man I once was.

The Old Me

I wasn’t always the person who sits quietly with morning coffee, finding wisdom in pelicans and dawn light. For too many years, I was someone else entirely — someone convinced of his own importance, someone who entered rooms expecting to be the smartest voice with all eyes upon me, someone who confused confidence with arrogance.

Full of Myself

When I owned my first radio station, at age 25, the Salt Lake Tribune called me “the Steven Spielberg of radio.” I started believing my own press clippings, letting that early acclaim become the foundation of an inflated self-image rather than a challenge to earn such praise daily through humility and hard work.

Tense Moments

I remember a particularly tense budget meeting where I steamrolled over our finance director’s concerns. David had carefully analyzed our budgets and warned of cash flow issues, but I dismissed his expertise with a wave of my hand. Six months later, he told me we were three weeks away from bankruptcy and we were scrambling for emergency financing at terrible terms. I had mistaken his caution for lack of vision, when in reality, he simply saw what I refused to see. I fired him and ended up with a “yes man,” which was much worse.

A Minefield

That wasn’t an isolated incident. My professional life became a minefield of my own creation. I remember the day we were in a staff meeting when one of my employees threw a fit, started screaming at everyone, then went into his office and started throwing things. I walked into his office, told him he was being inappropriate, and fired him on the spot. In hindsight, decades later, I should have suggested he take a walk and cool down, then have a conversation to hear his side of things, but also firmly let him know this behavior wasn’t acceptable. I had cut my own throat and had to find a replacement, which took time and cost me money. My immaturity encouraged the swift exercise of power, just because I could.

Power Over Practical

I think about the first radio station I purchased. On my very first day, I instituted policies that made no practical sense, designed for no purpose other than to demonstrate who was in charge. The confusion and resentment were immediate, but I was blind to it, mistaking compliance for respect. I ended up dropping those rules later.

Deep Sadness

Perhaps most painfully, I recall when one of our team members passed away unexpectedly. It was sad, but we had work to do. While the staff grieved, I lacked the empathy to give them space and time. I pushed forward with deadlines and expectations as if nothing had happened. I looked cold and heartless, though I, too, was hurting. Within a day, most of the team resigned. I stood in an empty office, bewildered by what I saw as disloyalty rather than recognizing my profound failure of leadership. A little space and empathy could have changed everything.

Fired from My Own Company

In San Francisco, when my tech company began struggling after the World Trade Center was hit, my board hired an adviser — without talking to me about it — specifically to help right the ship. I was offended that I was not consulted, and that the adviser was coming out of my budget. I refused his guidance at every turn. “I’m the CEO,” I’d remind him, as if my title granted me superior wisdom rather than superior responsibility. My relationships with the board suffered, and ultimately I was fired from my own company because I was too full of myself to listen.

Arrogance got in my way. My marriage suffered under the weight of my overconfidence. Friends and employees gradually drifted away. I couldn’t understand why people wouldn’t simply recognize my obvious brilliance and follow my lead.

Gradual Change

The change didn’t come as a thunderbolt revelation. It was more erosion than earthquake — a gradual wearing away of my pride through accumulated failures and missed connections. It was standing alone in that office after my team walked out, the silence finally loud enough to hear. It was the former employee who, years later, told me he’d never felt so dehumanized as in that moment I fired him without discussion. It was the adviser I ignored sending me a kind note when my company finally folded, saying simply, “When you’re ready to rebuild, I’m still willing to help.” It was the dinner party where I realized nobody was engaging with my clever observations. It was the look on my son’s face when I dismissed his opinion without consideration; I realized at that moment that’s what my own father had done to me. Now I was repeating his behavior.

The most painful realization wasn’t that I had been wrong so often — it was that I had missed so much wisdom by being unwilling to listen.

There’s no doubt that leadership in business or parenting requires a certain amount of confidence. Often a leader or parent can see things others can’t see and needs to ask people to implement ideas that may not be immediately clear to them. But as Proverbs explicitly states, “in the multitude of counselors there is safety.” The Bible doesn’t tell us to avoid seeking wisdom from those around us — quite the opposite.

Surrounded by Stars

I’ve learned, painfully and gradually, that the people I’ve hired are usually better than me in their areas of expertise, frequently smarter than me in ways I need, and listening to them is invariably safer and wiser than simply telling them what to do. It’s hard — ego doesn’t die easily — but I’ve trained myself to listen first, to ask, “What would you do?” and “How would you solve this problem?” before offering my own solution.

50-50

Though committees can sometimes dilute speed and effectiveness, I now try to genuinely hear my team, and when possible, I ask my executives to vote on certain solutions. There have been times I’ve overridden those votes and been right, leading to success. But truthfully, at least half the time when I’ve ignored collective wisdom, I’ve been wrong.

Hiding Out

Humility manifests in unexpected ways. For 22 years, I drove the same small Honda Element, well past the point when I could afford something more luxurious. Though I often daydreamed about a sporty upgrade, I resisted because I didn’t want my employees to feel I was showing off wealth or setting myself apart. And I did not want my kids to think we were even slightly wealthy, because I wanted them to be grounded in humility. When I finally did purchase a new car, I found myself hiding it in the garage whenever team members visited my home office. It seems like such a small thing, but these daily choices reflect our deeper values and how we position ourselves in relation to others.

Community

I often wonder what insights, what connections, what growth I sacrificed on the altar of my own ego. Peter writes that we should clothe ourselves with humility “toward one another.” This suggests humility isn’t just an internal state but a way of positioning ourselves in relation to others. It’s an orientation that says, “You might see something I don’t. You might know something I need.”

True humility isn’t self-deprecation or false modesty. It’s the honest recognition of our limitations alongside our strengths. It’s understanding that wisdom accumulates in community, not in isolation. It’s knowing that even pelicans — ungainly as they appear — have mastered skills we can only observe in wonder.

Let me share what I’ve learned about what humility is and isn’t, in case it helps your own journey:

What Humility Is:

• Being confident enough to say “I don’t know” or “I need help”
• Acknowledging others’ contributions before your own
• Listening fully before responding
• Being willing to change your mind when presented with new information
• Admitting mistakes quickly and completely
• Celebrating others’ successes as enthusiastically as your own
• Making decisions that benefit the team, even at personal cost
• Seeking feedback, especially from those who report to you

What Humility Is Not:

• Downplaying your strengths or accomplishments
• Avoiding necessary leadership decisions
• Refusing to share your expertise when it’s needed
• Letting others treat you poorly
• Being indecisive out of fear
• Speaking negatively about yourself
• Avoiding healthy competition
• Surrendering your convictions when they truly matter

The balance isn’t always easy to find. Some days I still catch myself slipping into old patterns — interrupting someone’s insight with my “better” idea or dismissing a concern that feels inconvenient. But awareness is the first step toward change, and each Sunday morning reflection helps me recalibrate.

Humility in Parenting

One of the hardest transitions I’ve experienced is going from dad of small children who need constant guidance to father of adult children who don’t want to be told what to do. I’m resisting the impulse to offer unsolicited advice and trying to listen more and guide them with questions. It’s so hard.

These Sunday Coffee sessions have become, for me, a practice in humility. I share not because I have all the answers, but because in articulating questions, I often find others walking similar paths. I try to force myself to be vulnerable, to bare all, though it’s often an embarrassment. It’s part of my strategy to remain humble. Your comments each week remind me that wisdom emerges in conversation, not monologue.

When have you recognized arrogance operating in your life? 

What were the costs? And how did you find your way to a humbler approach to the world and others? 

When have you had to balance the necessary confidence of leadership with the essential wisdom of listening to your team?

As you sip your coffee this morning, consider these questions:

1. What is one area of your life where practicing more humility might heal a relationship or improve a situation?
2. Who in your life demonstrates true humility in a way you admire, and what specific qualities can you learn from them?
3. What’s one step you could take this week to “clothe yourself with humility” in your interactions with others?

Perhaps that’s the truest humility — the willingness to be exactly what we are, neither more nor less, and to trust that it’s enough for the work we’re meant to do.

Humbly,

Eric Rhoads