The Texas spring arrives not like a whisper but a symphony — a crescendo of scents and colors that assault your senses with joyful abandon. Bluebonnets stretch across fields like nature’s own Impressionist canvas, their sweet honey-vanilla fragrance carried on breezes that rustle through new grass. Stand among them and close your eyes: Hear the drone of industrious bees, the distant lowing of cattle, the soft percussion of petals brushing against each other in the wind. Open your eyes and witness the miracle — blue so intense it borders on supernatural, the scene kissed by morning dew that transforms ordinary fields into galaxies of sparkle. Touch a petal and marvel at its velvet strength, simultaneously delicate and resilient, like all the best things in life. This is Texas in the spring — not just a sight, but an immersion, a baptism in sensory wonder.

Tradition, Texas Style

I love tradition with the fervor of someone who’s collected far too many vinyl records and still writes thank you notes by hand. One tradition I’ve adopted since moving to Texas about 15 years ago is the annual bluebonnet painting pilgrimage — a ritual as sacred to Texas artists as barbecue is to the state’s collective waistline. If I’m lucky, these floral celebrities last a couple of weekends before fading away like one-hit wonder bands from the ’80s. There’s no predicting where to find them; Mother Nature is notoriously bad at returning texts about her planting schedule. Though I have my favorite spots, some years they don’t appear there at all, while other years they fill fields like someone spilled the world’s largest bucket of blue paint, then walked innocently away from the scene, whistling.

Kidnapping a Friend

This year, I indoctrinated — I mean, warmly introduced — one of my friends who recently moved to Texas into our state-flower painting obsession. The poor soul had no idea what he was in for when I kidnapped him at dawn for what I called a “quick painting excursion.” Six hours and 147 miles of back roads later, I’d shown him all my favorite spots, driving past rickety windmills that creak philosophical musings to the cattle, crumbling barns with rusty tin roofs that somehow still keep out rain through sheer Texan stubbornness, and old tractors that stopped working sometime during the Carter administration but remain standing as monuments to rural stoicism.

Once we found the perfect spot — after I rejected 17 “almost perfect but the light is 0.3% wrong” locations — we set up by a river, looking down upon a scene so picturesque it made my cynical heart grow three sizes. We immortalized it in paint, each brushstroke a tiny rebellion against time’s relentless march. I never sell my bluebonnet paintings because they are too valuable to sell, like trying to put a price tag on laughter or the perfect sunset. They spark memories of years past, painting with friends — some who are still around to compare brushstrokes, others who now paint celestial landscapes in whatever comes after this life. These canvases are my personal time machines, worth more than any figure an auctioneer could imagine.

Capturing Memories

Building memories is such a gift — a gift we often squander in our rush to document rather than experience. I feel profound sympathy for those who lose their memory, not just because of the medical tragedy, but because I get such rich gratification thinking about my past. It’s like having a private theater in my mind where I can replay the director’s cut of my life, complete with behind-the-scenes commentary.

This week I spent a lot of time in my studio, which is my version of a man cave, except instead of sports memorabilia and a mini-fridge full of beer it’s packed wall-to-wall with paintings that chronicle my existence better than any diary could. Photos don’t give me the same effect — they’re too instantaneous, too factual, too literal. They capture a millisecond without context, like reading only the punchline of a joke.

Painting, however — now that’s where the magic happens. Probably because when painting, I stand in one place, not just observing but interpreting the scenery or the people, taking signals received through my eyes (already an interpretation of wavelengths of light, if we want to get philosophical about it), processing them through the unique filter of my consciousness, sending signals down my arms, orchestrating a complex dance of muscles, tendons, and nerves to move my hands to wield my brush. It’s less documentation and more translation — reality filtered through the imperfect but beautiful sieve of human perception.

There is something transcendent about standing in a place, staring at it for two or three hours. When I look at these paintings later, the entire experience floods back — the sights, sounds, and special moments, like a deer leaping across the scene with balletic grace, or curious strangers approaching me and chatting about their own artistic aspirations or their uncle who “also paints, you two should talk.” These experiences are permanently embedded in the canvas through some alchemy of memory, pigment, and time that science has yet to adequately explain. Paintings don’t just capture light — they capture time, emotion, and the peculiar magic of being conscious and alive in a particular moment.

Big Time Memory Making 

I feel as though my life has been rich, especially these last years since I’ve made a deliberate effort to create memories — the kind that appreciate in value, unlike that questionable timeshare investment I made in 1985 and can’t get out of. In spite of the hassles involved in creating most of them (the flat tires on remote roads, the sunburns in uncomfortable places, the mosquito bites in even more uncomfortable places, the endless flights stuck in coach with a screaming baby), the memories are rich rewards that no tax authority can touch.

This intentionality is the secret — not passively waiting for special moments to happen while scrolling through other people’s curated lives on social media, but actively making them happen through conscious decisions and sometimes-uncomfortable effort. The best memories often lie just beyond the boundary of your comfort zone, in that territory marked “Here Be Dragons” on the map of your life — except the dragons usually turn out to be friendly, if somewhat prone to singeing your eyebrows.

The philosopher Seneca observed, “Life is long, if you know how to use it.” Most of us complain about not having enough time while simultaneously binge-watching entire seasons of shows we don’t even particularly enjoy. The paradox of modern existence is that we have more free time than any humans in history, yet feel more time-starved than ever. Perhaps the answer lies not in having more time, but in living more fully in the time we have — in choosing experiences over possessions, creation over consumption, and presence over distraction.

Frozen by Fear 

Last week in one of my coaching groups, a woman told me she wanted to come to the Plein Air Convention and then visit family, but, living in Canada, she feared the possibility of arrest if she did not have her papers with her. The news media was circulating fear with the enthusiasm of a toddler distributing cookie crumbs on a freshly vacuumed carpet. This fear narrative impacted her so much, it made her decide not to come. After I outlined that one of my friends in Canada had visited three times in the last four months, without any such hassle or fear — and in fact, the only danger he faced was excessive politeness and an addiction to maple syrup and buffalo check shirts — I convinced her to give it a shot.

Though the world is filled with wonder as technology changes at a pace that would make our grandparents suspect witchcraft, it’s also filled with narratives that social media algorithms have fine-tuned to promote fear or anger — emotions that keep us scrolling, clicking, and consuming content like digital addicts. Maybe I should not have said this, but I said, “Don’t let the fear mongers win. They’re selling you a product you don’t need to buy. Don’t assume what you’re being told is true without verifying it yourself. And if there is actual doubt, do your homework and find out the truth.”

Anxiety has been called “the dizziness of freedom” — that feeling we get when facing the boundless possibilities of choice. But what if our greatest anxiety should be not about what might happen if we venture into the unknown, but what will certainly happen if we don’t? The slow atrophy of possibility, the gradual narrowing of experience, until our lives become as small as our fears are large.

The Lie of Danger

Recently I was invited to travel to China, and I asked one of my friends if they wanted to come along. The response I received was, “It’s not safe, the food isn’t clean, and it’s dangerous for Americans.” Having done my homework and talked with numerous people who have actually been there — radical concept, I know — I said, “That’s simply not true; it’s a media-driven lie. Why let fear stop you from experiencing one of the oldest civilizations on Earth?”

How many extraordinary experiences have we all missed because of stories we’ve been told — or worse, stories we tell ourselves? The most dangerous place in the world is inside the prison of unfounded fears, where the walls are built of headlines designed to terrify rather than inform, reinforced by our own reluctance to question narratives that confirm our biases. Mark Twain supposedly said, “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness,” though I suspect if he were alive today, he’d add, “but only if you actually go, rather than reading terrifying clickbait about why you shouldn’t.”

When offered a chance to fly on an international trip, one of my kids actually said, “No, thanks, I can see it on Instagram.” I’m sorry, I love Instagram, but you can’t experience life through the photos of others. 

Digging for Courage

Where is fear stopping you? Not just the obvious fears — spiders, public speaking, that weird noise your refrigerator makes at 3 a.m. — but the subtle ones that whisper rather than shout?

What stories are you telling yourself that may not actually be true? How many of your limitations are self-imposed sentences beginning with “I can’t” or “I shouldn’t” or “People like me don’t”?

What evidence do you actually have for these limitations? Would it stand up in the court of rational inquiry, or would it be dismissed as hearsay and conjecture?

How many of your perceived boundaries are just that — perceptions? Imaginary lines drawn in imaginary sand?

What adventures await just beyond the artificial horizon of your comfort zone?

My goal is to see as much of the world as possible, even the toughest parts and the most difficult trips, because my feet still hold me upright and my brain still functions well enough to navigate Google Maps (mostly). If that ever changes and those opportunities are no longer possible, I don’t want to have regrets heavier than the souvenirs I never bought, memories more bitter than the foreign foods I never tasted.

The Simplicity of Living Fully

The intent of life is to live. Not to observe from a safe distance, not to hesitate until conditions are perfect, not to wait for better circumstances or more appropriate timing or the planets to align. To live — fully, immediately, and without the need for a user manual or five-star reviews.

As Thoreau put it more eloquently than I could: “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.” Replace “woods” with whatever calls to your soul — mountains, cities, oceans, or yes, fields of bluebonnets — and you have a philosophy worth painting.

What can you do to enrich your time on earth? Not just pass the hours, but actually enrich them, like adding texture to a canvas or depth to a painting?

How much are you telling yourself all the reasons you can’t do things? And what if, just for a day, you decided those reasons were simply stories you’ve been telling yourself for so long you mistook them for reality?

What extraordinary experience is waiting for you just beyond your excuses? What masterpiece remains unpainted because your brushes stay dry?

Be intentional. Be bold. Don’t ever give up or give in. Life is short, but it’s wide enough to contain whatever adventures you’re brave enough to pursue. And if you’re very lucky, those adventures might include standing in a field of Texas bluebonnets, paintbrush in hand, capturing not just a landscape, but a moment in time that will never come again in exactly the same way.

Eric Rhoads

The mist hangs low over the water, dancing in the first rays of sunrise. The gentle sway of the tides rocks me as I take in the first sip of my coffee, rich and aromatic, bringing warmth to the cool morning air. The distant calls of seabirds punctuate the rhythmic lapping of waves against the shore. My fingertips trace the weathered wood of the small table beside me, worn smooth by salt and time. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, tasting the briny sweetness that only comes from being near the ocean. Am I in a dream? Or did I awaken to a window, a balcony, and water for miles as far as I can see?

Exactly one week ago at this time, we awoke at six, ran quickly to grab some breakfast in the massive buffet, came back to our room, grabbed our bags, departed the ship, got a ride home, then rushed to the Orlando airport to drop off our daughter, then drove home … exhausted, I took a nap and awoke in a different paradise.

The Floating City

My daughter was on her last spring break, with her college graduation coming this spring, and one of her dreams was to experience life on a giant cruise ship. We picked The Wonder of the Seas from Royal Caribbean, which a year ago was the world’s largest — now it’s the third largest. It houses up to 7,000 guests and 3,000 crew and is like a floating 20-story building. It was an incredible experience, with an onboard central park, multiple theaters, art galleries, and a shopping mall. I enjoyed ziplining, ice skating, waterslides, and some amazing music. Yet those things don’t matter much to me. The best part for me was time with family and a complete internet-phone blackout. It was a perfect opportunity to escape the news, social media, texts and phone calls, and work. (Though I did spend two and a half days at sea finalizing the new second edition of my marketing book.)

The Value of Disconnection

This wasn’t my first internet blackout. I’ve done it once before, for a week, but I had forgotten how wonderfully valuable it was. Think about your typical day online. For me it’s an eight- or 10-hour day of screentime, staring at my computer, writing, doing about five hours a day in meetings on video, hosting five YouTube one-hour shows a week in the studio, doing a one-hour Plein Air Podcast each week, writing several columns and blogs and marketing pieces, managing a large team of people, dealing with financial reports, marketing reports, and employee needs, and then going home, having dinner, and using the three to four hours in the evenings to catch up on a dozen different social media accounts, which includes posting, commenting, responding, and messaging others. It’s also when I catch up on texts, which I don’t typically have a chance to check during the day. Frankly, it’s all very addictive. It’s a high-speed merry-go-round, which is a lot of fun, fairly exhausting, and yet fulfilling because I tell myself my work is changing the world in some way. And it’s all a part of doing business and staying in contact with friends and family these days.

The Resistance to Return

What I discovered during the blackout was much like what I found with the inability to travel during COVID. When it was over, I did not want to return to the high volume of business travel, days on airplanes and nights in lonely hotel rooms. Once my vacation ended last week, I resisted going back into the full social media routine. In fact, a full week has gone by and I’ve opened Facebook only one time, briefly, to message someone. I know I can’t stay away forever, but I’m trying to give myself a mental break for as long as possible, even though all the meetings and broadcasts have resumed.

I highly recommend forcing a break from social media.

The Weight of Responsibility

Upon my return, I picked up the phone to hear from a friend and client, who was calling to let me know his company was going to go out of business. He felt the right thing to do was to let me know before the rumor mill caught up to me.

I sank deeply in my chair, my eyes welled up, and I found myself devastated by the news. In fact, so much so that I could not sleep that night. I spent most of the wee hours of the morning tossing and turning, processing his news and trying to come up with solutions to help save his business. Plus, his news came soon after another client had laid off half of their staff for survival. Could I be next?

When I think about my whirlwind of activity, after hearing this news I’m happy I have the opportunity to be busy, to be blessed with a thriving business. As I tell my staff, “We never take lightly the demise of anyone, because it could be us next time.”

The Familiar Ache of Failure

With no words to express how I felt, all I could do was kindly tell my friend, “Been there, done that.” I could actually remember the sinking feeling I experienced as I flashed back to 2002, when my internet radio company, RadioCentral, had to be closed, my dreams shattered, and my family of team members had to lose their jobs. Then having to experience the humiliation of bankruptcy and a bankruptcy auction, seeing millions of dollars in equipment that we fought to be able to buy selling for pennies on the dollar. Years of effort and innovation down the drain. Worse was seeing the dream of revolutionizing radio and audio disappear.

If there was good news in any of this, it’s that my friend said, “It’s been coming for a few years. We’ve been fighting the battles to try and prevent it, but the inevitable cannot be ignored.” And he said, “I’m at peace with it.”

How can he say that? His world was just ripped apart.

Identity Beyond Business

It’s important as I relay this unfortunate story to point out that this man’s identity is not tied up in his business; his identity is in his faith and his family. No one is sick or dying. He knows that failure wasn’t his management, it was his market, the economy, and the conditions he faced. Nothing he did could have saved this business, and in spite of my decades of experience, I could not come up with a solution he had not explored over the years. His company was too small to be big and too big to be small.

Lessons in Resilience

Since I write this each week in hopes my young adult children will eventually embrace the result, I’ll say this here: There are forces beyond our control, and though we feel we can control everything, we can control very little in actuality.

My dad used to tell me his stories of pacing the floors trying to find ways to survive, and I too have experienced failure multiple times. Moments when this company I now have almost closed its doors in multiple recessions. In fact, when interviewing potential employees, I look at their failure as a positive, not a negative, because once someone has had their teeth kicked in, they know what it feels like and will fight like mad to never let it happen again.

One of my best friends, now deceased, who was a CEO, told me it never gets easier, it just changes. I concur. 

The Hidden Struggles

It’s easy for outsiders to place blame, to make companies out to be big bad corporations, but few ever know of the sleepless nights, the weight of responsibility of massive debt, or knowing the lives of your employees and their kids will change for the worse if you screw up. Sadly, I have screwed up. Sadly, I have disrupted lives. No matter how good a business owner you are, sometimes you can’t survive.

The Courage to Begin Again

What I’ve learned through my own failures and witnessing the failures of others is that resilience isn’t about avoiding the fall — it’s about how quickly you get back up. My friend’s sense of peace comes from understanding that this business was a chapter, not the entire story of his life, and that God has a plan that’s probably better.

There is a unique wisdom that comes only from standing in the ashes of something you built and asking, “What next?” It’s the wisdom of knowing that your worth isn’t measured by what you own or what title is engraved on your business card. It’s measured by the courage it takes to begin again. It takes a special breed to dust off and restart.

I think about the crew members on our cruise ship, many from developing countries, working six months straight without a vacation, then returning home for just two months before starting again. They do this to provide for families they rarely see. That’s true resilience — finding joy in the work despite the sacrifice, finding purpose in providing despite the separation.

The Balance We All Seek

Perhaps the real lesson in all of this — from my friend’s business closure to my own social media blackout to the cruise ship workers separated from their families — is that we’re all seeking the same thing: balance. Balance between work and rest. Between digital connection and real presence. Between success and failure. Between identifying with what we do and remembering who we are. Between us and our Maker.

So as I sit here, looking at the seductive blue glow of my phone and the dozens of notifications waiting to pull me back into the whirlwind, I’m making a commitment to maintain some of that precious balance I found on the water. Not to abandon my responsibilities, but to hold them in proper perspective. To remember that even if everything I’ve built were to disappear tomorrow, the most important parts of me would remain intact.

And isn’t that the greatest freedom of all?

Eric Rhoads

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