Church bells are ringing from every corner of this ancient city as the sun comes up over the distant purple mountains. Glancing out the window of my apartment, other than modern appliances and plumbing (thank goodness for the plumbing — have you read about Renaissance sanitation?), it’s easy to feel like I could be living at a time when these same bells inspired people to create some of the finest artwork ever known to man.

The funny thing? Back then, they didn’t call it the Renaissance. That term was invented 200 years later by a French historian who looked back and said, “Wow, something amazing happened there.” Which makes you wonder: What are we calling our current moment? The Age of Anxiety? The Era of Endless Scrolling? The Age of AI?

 Medici Money

Here’s what actually sparked the Renaissance, and it’s not what your high school art teacher told you. Sure, there was a “rebirth” of classical learning after monks spent centuries copying Greek and Roman texts by candlelight. But you know what really made it happen?

Money. Lots of it.

The Medici family — basically the venture capitalists of the 1400s — decided that commissioning art was better than buying another villa. They turned patronage into a competitive sport. Cosimo de’ Medici would commission Donatello, then his rival would have to one-up him with Brunelleschi. It was like an arms race, except with marble and frescoes instead of missiles. And here’s the kicker: These artists weren’t creating in some romantic, peaceful, inspired bubble. They were stressed, underpaid (usually), and constantly competing for the next commission. Michelangelo once said he saw the angel in the marble and carved until he set it free. What he didn’t mention was that Pope Julius II was breathing down his neck about deadlines the entire time.

Did They Know?

So did the people of Florence know they were changing the world? Almost certainly not. Vasari — who wrote Lives of the Artists in 1550 and basically invented art history as we know it — had to explain to people that something extraordinary had happened. Imagine that. The greatest artistic movement in Western civilization needed a publicist to tell people it had occurred.

This is the part that keeps me up at night: 

We only know about the Renaissance because someone bothered to write it down. Vasari chronicled who painted what, who slept with whom, and which artist insulted which patron. Without him, half of what we “know” about this era would be lost. Today, we’re documenting our every breakfast burrito on Instagram — but are we actually capturing anything worth remembering?

Renaissance in Hindsight

I think about this because there have been some recent Renaissance activities in the art world — for instance the plein air movement, which over the last 20 years has exploded from nothing to hundreds of events and thousands of painters creating landscape work that rivals anything in history. But here’s the question that haunts me: Will there be a Vasari for this movement? Will someone in 2245 look back and say, “That’s when landscape painting was reborn”? Or will it all get lost in the digital noise?

The Renaissance happened because of constraints, not despite them. No photographs or AI-generated images meant you had to paint reality. No power tools meant moving marble required ingenious engineering. No internet meant if you wanted to see a master’s work, you walked to their studio or to view a collection. Today, we have infinite access and zero constraints. We can see every painting ever made on our phones. We can learn any technique from YouTube or PaintTube. We can connect with artists worldwide instantly and view their latest paintings on Instagram.

So why aren’t we all creating masterpieces?

The Paradox 

Maybe because the Renaissance taught us the wrong lesson. We think it was about genius — Leonardo, Michelangelo, Raphael, Donatello (yes, the Ninja Turtles are named after them, which tells you something about our cultural priorities). But it wasn’t about individual genius. It was about a city-state that created conditions where genius could emerge: competition, patronage, masters teaching apprentices, and most importantly, people showing up.

Leonardo da Vinci said, “The noblest pleasure is the joy of understanding.” Not the joy of scrolling. Not the joy of having an opinion about something you read in a headline. Understanding. Which requires time, curiosity, and actually leaving your house.

I can’t claim to know how to start a movement or a Renaissance, even though I’ve been involved in a couple of them in my own small way. But what I do know is that we can stimulate our own personal Renaissance through exposure to new things, to new ideas.

Through First-Time Eyes

Having spent the last couple of weeks in Europe, seeing and painting parts of Switzerland and Italy, I’ve been able to see it through the eyes of a few of my guests who were experiencing it for the first time. Their eyes were wide, their imaginations were stimulated, and their curiosity was piqued. “How could they possibly have done all of this? How could they possibly have built these cathedrals before heavy equipment?”

And that question — that genuine bewilderment — is where Renaissance begins. Because here’s what most people don’t realize: Medieval builders didn’t know they lacked heavy equipment. They just solved problems with what they had. They used counterweights, pulleys, and thousands of workers who spent their entire lives on a single cathedral they’d never see completed. Imagine dedicating your life to something you’ll never see finished. Now imagine telling that to someone who gets anxious when their Amazon delivery takes three days instead of two.

The Duomo in Florence took 140 years to complete. Brunelleschi’s dome — that impossible feat of engineering — was built without scaffolding, using techniques he invented on the spot and refused to share with anyone because he was paranoid about competition. The whole thing could have collapsed and killed hundreds. It didn’t, and now it’s been standing for 600 years.

Meanwhile, we abandon projects after three weeks because our Instagram engagement isn’t what we hoped.

A Deliberate Journey

I’m reminded of a trip my wife and I created very deliberately to take our then-12-year-old children to Europe, starting in England and then moving to France on a spring break. Our goal was to help them see a world they had not seen before, to help them realize that the world they live in is small and narrow, and that the world out there is broad and different and interesting and worth exploring. There’s nothing quite as satisfying as seeing a first-timer hit Europe, particularly when it’s a child staring at the domes and the castles and the cathedrals, and seeing how life is different for people in these places — watching as people walk everywhere or take trains, things we don’t do in the suburbs we live in.

Curiosity Drives Growth

Personal Renaissance comes through stimulation driven by curiosity, and if we wait for it to happen, it rarely will. We have to step out. We have to take action. We have to get away from the ways we’re used to doing things and try new things. 

Here’s what I’ve learned from studying the Renaissance and trying to create my own: The Renaissance wasn’t about having unlimited resources or perfect conditions. It was about working within impossible constraints and finding creative solutions. Those artists mixed their own paints, built their own scaffolding, and solved problems that had never been solved before — not because they were superhuman, but because they had no other choice. It was all about relentless passion, believing in something so deeply that you do whatever it takes for however long it takes, and never give up.

You want your own Renaissance? Stop waiting for perfect conditions. Stop waiting until you have more time, more money, more security. The Renaissance happened during political turmoil, economic uncertainty, and literal plague. Your excuses are looking pretty thin.

Breaking the Filter

So many of us are seeing the world through the filter of the news media, hearing stories that may not be entirely balanced — something that’s only realized by getting out there yourself. I’m reminded of my trip to China, when probably 30 people told me not to go, that it was dangerous, that my organs would be harvested, that it was a Third World country, that I’d be walking through human excrement, that the food is inedible.

I’ve noticed something fascinating: the people most certain about how dangerous or terrible a place is are usually the people who’ve never been there. They’re experts in a geography of fear, a cartography drawn entirely by cable news and social media algorithms designed to keep them scared and watching.

Those things people warned me about may have been true at one time, probably were, but I didn’t see that. Yet if I had listened to the media, I would’ve continued to believe it. I had to find out for myself.

The Renaissance happened partly because the Black Death killed 30 to 50 percent of Europe’s population, which sounds horrific (and was), but it also meant survivors had social mobility for the first time. Peasants could become merchants. Merchants could become patrons. The old order broke down, and in that chaos, new possibilities emerged.

Today, we’re not facing a plague (well, we recently did, but that’s another story), but we are facing a different kind of death — the slow suffocation of curiosity. And unlike the Black Death, this one is voluntary. We’re choosing the comfort of our echo chambers over the discomfort of discovery.

Regular People Everywhere

I don’t particularly feel extra brave for going to China, but a lot of people thought I was crazy. I can’t wait to go back. I can’t wait to see more. I can’t wait to take groups of people there to let them experience it on their own. It’s hard to believe that a place like that is “the enemy” when you’re dealing with regular people on a day-to-day basis who put their socks on the same way that you and I do. I think that we’re all fed what people want us to believe, for some reason that perplexes me.

The Travel Conversation

It seems like every time I go somewhere interesting, I want to have this discussion. I want to tell people to get out of their armchairs, to get off their social media, and to get out and see the world — to see the results of the Renaissance, to see the beauty of the people in other countries, to see cultures coexisting peacefully in spite of what the media tells us. Yet so many are operating from fear because they’re getting their information from a screen.

Your Personal Renaissance

So if you want to create your own personal Renaissance, here are some thoughts:

One: Have curiosity. Question everything. Ask yourself why. Look into the reasons behind the reasons.

Two: Get out of your box and out of your comfort zone. Comfort is the enemy of progress. Comfort may provide stability, yet stability may cause mental bedsores.

Three: Travel. See the world. Open your eyes to new possibilities.

Four: Put yourself in a position to interact with people you never would otherwise.

Painting With Strangers

Every day during this trip, when I was painting in public places, young kids or teenagers would be curious to see a painter working on a painting outdoors. I would engage them, invite them to paint with me (with parental permission, of course), and most of them would do it. I’d teach them and give them a couple of lessons to get them engaged, and might even have them paint on my painting — not worrying about whether they were going to ruin it. They’d get excited, and that led me into conversations with the people around. The past couple of weeks, I’ve met people from Germany, Yugoslavia, the Netherlands, Russia, and many other countries, and had an opportunity to see the world through their eyes, to get their opinions.

This is pure Renaissance thinking. You know why? Because that’s exactly how the masters worked. Apprentices would paint backgrounds, grind pigments, even paint entire sections of “the master’s” work. Collaboration wasn’t a buzzword; it was how things got done. Raphael had an entire workshop of apprentices painting from his designs. Was it still “his” work? The Renaissance said yes. Our modern obsession with individual authorship would have confused them.

When I let those kids paint on my canvas, I wasn’t risking ruining it. I was enacting a centuries-old tradition. And more importantly, I was doing what those Renaissance masters did: passing it on. Because here’s the secret they knew and we’ve forgotten — art isn’t about the final product. It’s about the transformation that happens in the making.

The Hotel Trap

If I came to these foreign countries on my own, staying in a hotel and using a tour guide, I’d never meet any of these people. But I talk to everybody. I introduce myself to people in restaurants. I talk to anybody and everybody I can. I talk to waiters. I’m curious. I have rabid curiosity, and that’s what informs my own Renaissance. Because if I’m not reinventing myself every couple of years, I’m gonna get stale. And so will you.

The Challenge Awaits

Vasari tells a story about the proto-Renaissance painter Giotto. The Pope sent a messenger asking for samples of his work. Giotto took a canvas, dipped his brush in red paint, and in one perfect motion, drew a circle freehand — so perfect it looked drawn with a compass. He sent only that. The messenger thought he was being mocked. The Pope recognized genius.

The point isn’t that Giotto could draw a perfect circle (though, seriously, try it — you can’t). The point is that mastery looks simple. From the outside, we see effortlessness. We don’t see the thousands of circles drawn before, the failures, the persistence.

So here’s my question: What’s your circle? What’s the thing you’re willing to practice thousands of times, fail at repeatedly, and still show up for tomorrow? Because that’s where your Renaissance begins — not in Florence, not in some magical moment of inspiration, but in the daily showing up, the consistent practice, the willingness to look foolish while you learn.

What will you do to create your Renaissance? Or will you sit comfortably watching the news, hour after hour, or scrolling social media day after day? Yes, you can grow from watching social media, but you can also get a lot of indoctrination. Get out of your box. It’s narrow. There are walls. And life is so much richer when you do.

Questions for You

What if the greatest artistic movement of your lifetime is happening right now, and you’re missing it because you’re watching Netflix? 

What constraints in your life could actually be gifts if you stopped seeing them as obstacles? 

When was the last time you spent 140 hours on anything? 

What if comfort isn’t just the enemy of progress — what if it’s the enemy of being fully alive? 

And here’s the one that scares me most: What if 500 years from now, someone looks back at our era and wonders how we had access to all of human knowledge in our pockets and did absolutely nothing interesting with it?

The bells are still ringing. The sun is still rising over purple mountains. An angel is still trapped in that marble, waiting for you to set her free.

Are you going to pick up the chisel, or just take a selfie with the statue?​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Eric Rhoads

Deep blue waters stretch endlessly before me, framed by snow-capped Alps that pierce the October sky. From my window at Hotel Barchetta on Lake Como, I watch the morning light dance across waters that have inspired artists for centuries. Fall has painted the mountainsides in muted browns, oranges, and reds, while ornamental estates dot the shoreline like elaborate birthday cakes.

The busy summer lake season has quieted now. An occasional classic wooden speedboat cuts through the mirror-like surface, and a few tour boats ferry the last visitors of the season to distant shores. Churchill, who painted these very waters, called Como “the most beautiful lake in the world.” Even Mark Twain, initially partial to Lake Tahoe, eventually confessed that Como deserved “the eternal comparison.”

This week, I’m painting both Como and Lake Garda as I lead a group of people through Switzerland and Italy on my annual international painting trip. Last May, at the Plein Air Convention, it was Tahoe. Three of the world’s most stunning lakes have graced my canvases this year, and somehow, instead of exhaustion, I feel invigorated — not just by the beauty, but by the stories unfolding around me.

Voice at Dawn

Over breakfast, Joyce — a vibrant woman in her 80s with eyes that sparkle with purpose — shared something remarkable. 

“One day, I was awakened at four in the morning,” she began. “A voice, as clear as we’re talking right now, said: ‘Joyce, you need to build a park.’”

She admitted it made no sense. Of all things, why a park? But Joyce has learned something most of us struggle with our entire lives: When heaven whispers, you listen. And more importantly, you act.

Seeds Become Gardens

What unfolded next reads like a modern-day parable. A hurricane and fire had devastated an economically disadvantaged neighborhood in Northern Florida. A vacant lot appeared. Joyce’s lifetime of relationships and contacts mobilized — donating time, discounted materials, volunteers, and, yes, some of her own resources. The park rose from the ashes.

But God’s whispers rarely stop at our first obedience. They unfold like seeds becoming gardens, revealing purposes we couldn’t initially have imagined.

Beyond the Playground

Visiting the park, Joyce noticed a little girl struggling to play, hampered by dirty, ill-fitting clothes. A trip to the dollar store led to meeting the girl’s father — a man drowning while trying to keep four children afloat. Soon, Joyce was clothing all four kids, becoming “Mama Joyce” in their lives, exposing them to possibilities they’d never imagined.

One daughter’s speech impediment revealed itself as an uncorrected cleft palate. Joyce arranged for and funded the surgery. The transformation was profound — the girl went from struggling in school to becoming a cheerleader, popular and confident.

The park had become more than a playground. It became the catalyst for an entire community’s revitalization.

When Everything Changes

Then came the phone call that would test everything. The sheriff’s voice was gentle but urgent: The children’s father had been arrested, and their mother had long been lost to addiction. Could Joyce take the girls for a few nights?

“A few nights” has become four years. Joyce is raising two of the girls — ages 6 and 8 when they arrived. The younger two, a newborn and toddler, were too much for an 80-year-old woman to foster, so they found homes with relatives. But their sisters found a home with a woman who had simply said yes to building a park.

Pennies and Providence

Joyce’s story stirred something deep within me. I’ve only heard God’s audible voice once — during a desperate prayer to save my business from bankruptcy. An employee had advised me to be specific, so I prayed for the exact amount needed to meet payroll, down to the penny.

The next morning, an advertiser called with leftover budget he wanted to prepay. I agreed without asking the amount. The check that arrived? The exact figure I’d prayed for. To the penny.

Dreams and Dinner Tables

More often, God’s voice comes through dreams and persistent thoughts that don’t seem to originate from my own mind. Years ago, I had a vivid dream about hosting a dinner, the table filled with history’s greatest artists. That dream became the Plein Air Convention — a gathering that has birthed countless miracles.

One such miracle, among many stories, concerns a woman who approached me at the convention with three months to live, wanting to experience the convention once before dying. We prayed together right there in the exhibit hall. She’s alive today, a decade later, her cancer in remission, her doctors unable to explain what happened.

Competing Voices Within

Here’s what Joyce’s story reminded me of: We all hear voices. The question isn’t whether we hear them, but which ones we choose to follow. Evil whispers too, encouraging choices that would destroy us and those we love, just for brief moments of pleasure. The apostle Paul wrote about this very battle in Romans 7:15: “I don’t really understand myself, for I want to do what is right, but I don’t do it. Instead, I do what I hate.”

The difference between divine whispers and destructive ones? The fruit they bear. As Jesus taught in Matthew 7:16, “By their fruit you will recognize them.”

The Uncomfortable Truth

Some readers cringe when I speak of such things. The Bible actually addresses this directly. First Corinthians 2:14-16 explains why faith can seem like foolishness to those without it:

“The person without the Spirit does not accept the things that come from the Spirit of God but considers them foolishness, and cannot understand them because they are discerned only through the Spirit.”

In other words, spiritual truths require spiritual eyes to see them. It’s not that believers are delusional and non-believers are rational — it’s that we’re operating with different perceptive capabilities. The passage continues: “Those who are spiritual can evaluate all things, but they themselves cannot be evaluated by others. For who can know the Lord’s thoughts? Who knows enough to teach him? But we understand these things, for we have the mind of Christ.”

This isn’t arrogance; it’s simply acknowledging that faith opens doors of understanding that remain closed without it. Like trying to explain color to someone who’s never had sight, some realities only make sense when you’ve experienced them yourself.

I’ve come to accept that following heaven’s whispers will sometimes make us look foolish to the world. Joyce looked foolish building a park in a devastated neighborhood. I looked foolish praying for exact amounts. But foolishness that transforms lives and communities? That’s wisdom dressed in work clothes.

Your Park Awaits

What persistent thought keeps tugging at your heart? What seemingly ridiculous idea won’t leave you alone? What giant idea is being ignored because it seems impossible? What voice have you been dismissing as impractical, impossible, or irrelevant?

Joyce’s park wasn’t really about playground equipment. It was about obedience creating space for miracles. Those two girls thriving in her home? They were always the point. The park was just God’s way of getting Joyce to the right place at the right time with the right heart to rescue these precious lives.

Life isn’t about what we accumulate — it’s about who we help when heaven whispers their name. It’s not about our plans — it’s about having the courage to say yes when God’s plans interrupt our own.

Listen and Act

Joyce’s advice was beautifully simple: “Listen and take action.”

Not just listen. Not just act. Both.

Because somewhere, there’s a park waiting to be built. A life waiting to be changed. A miracle waiting for someone brave enough to look foolish for heaven’s sake.

This week, as I paint the beauty of Como, I’m asking myself: What’s my next park? What voice have I been too busy, too practical, too afraid to follow?

The morning light on Lake Como reminds me that God is an artist too, painting possibilities across the canvas of our lives. We just need to pick up the brush when He hands it to us.

What will you paint when heaven whispers your name?

Eric Rhoads

I’ve awakened inside a postcard. Outside my window at Hotel Seeburg, Lake Lucerne spreads like molten silver beneath peaks that dwarf anything I’ve painted in Colorado or the Adirondacks. These are the Swiss Alps in their full glory — cathedrals of stone and snow that make you believe in something larger than yourself.

The sun creeps behind the Pilatus massif, setting the mountain face ablaze with copper and gold. Light dances across the lake in brushstrokes I could spend a lifetime trying to capture. My easel calls from the corner, but breakfast waits, and soon we’ll board the coach to Engelberg, where my painting adventure begins in earnest.

This is day two of leading artists through Switzerland — some old friends, others destined to become so. Last night’s welcome dinner was brief; jet lag is the great equalizer. But today, ah today, we paint our first alpine village. I’m seriously considering those lederhosen hanging in the closet. In Switzerland, audacity feels not just acceptable, but required.

The Girl in the Clock Shop

Decades ago, I stood in this same magical landscape as a 19-year-old boy, trembling not from the mountain air but from my own inadequacies. My parents had gifted me a week in Switzerland — a gesture of love that would change the trajectory of my life, though not in the way any of us expected.

We wandered Lucerne’s cobblestone arteries until we found ourselves in a wonderland of a clock shop. Hundreds of cuckoo birds emerged on the hour from a variety of wooden chalets. Music boxes tinkled Swiss melodies. The air itself seemed to tick with possibility. I purchased a small golden cage housing two mechanical songbirds — wind them up and they would perform a duet that sounded like joy itself.

That cage sits on my shelf today. The birds no longer sing.

Behind the counter stood a young woman my age, dressed in traditional dirndl, her blond hair braided with ribbons that caught the afternoon light streaming through the shop windows. She could have stepped from the pages of a fairy tale, and in many ways, she had.

“Would you like to go dancing with me tonight?” she asked in accented English, her blue eyes holding mine with a directness that made my knees weak.

Time stopped. The clocks continued their chorus, but everything else was suspended in amber. This beautiful creature — this Swiss goddess — was asking me to dance?

“Me?” I stammered, glancing around as though she might be addressing some more worthy candidate hiding behind a grandfather clock. “You’re asking me to go dancing?”

“Ja,” she said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

I was 19, single, and had been dreaming of adventure since the plane lifted off American soil. Yet when adventure itself stood before me in a blue dirndl, offering her hand, I panicked.

“Oh, um, well, I’m … uh … with my parents and we have plans tonight.” The words tumbled out like stones down a mountainside, each one taking me further from possibility.

Her face fell — just a micro-expression, but I caught it. Disappointment flickered across her features before she recovered with European politeness.

When I confessed my failure to my parents over dinner, they looked at me as if I’d just announced I was giving up breathing.

“That’s perfectly fine,” my mother said. “You should go.”

“Absolutely!” my father agreed. “What an opportunity!”

They meant it. They would have gladly eaten room service while their son lived the kind of story people tell their grandchildren. But the damage was done, and my shyness had already stolen the moment. Even when they encouraged me to return to the shop the next day, to ask her out properly, I couldn’t summon the courage.

I’ve wondered a thousand times since: Would I now be speaking German to my Swiss children while a St. Bernard with a rescue barrel guards our chalet door? It’s a beautiful fiction, but fiction nonetheless. I’m grateful for the life I built, yet the question lingers to this day.

The Architecture of Fear

Shyness is fear wearing a Sunday suit. It masquerades as humility while it pickpockets our dreams. At 19, I had the confidence of a tourist with a phrasebook, fumbling through life’s most important conversations in a language I’d never learned to speak: self-worth.

The paradox still amazes me. Today, I can stride onto a stage before 2,000 artists at the Plein Air Convention, hang upside down from a trapeze, dress as a Renaissance painter complete with flowing cape and feathered hat, and feel absolutely at home. Yet put me in certain social situations, with certain types of people, and that 19-year-old boy resurfaces, still stammering, still backing away from the dance.

The Ten-Minute Miracle

Years later, at a Tony Robbins event — one of those massive gatherings where possibility hangs in the air like morning mist — I found myself confessing my limitation to a friend named Patrick. The venue thrummed with energy, thousands of people breaking through barriers they didn’t even know they had.

“There’s someone here who can help,” Patrick said, and within minutes I found myself in a quiet corner with a woman whose name I’ve forgotten but whose gift I’ll never lose.

“When do you feel most confident?” she asked.

“On stage,” I answered without hesitation. “When I’m teaching, performing, making people laugh.”

“And these people who intimidate you — how many have commanded a stage in front of thousands?”

“None,” I realized.

“Exactly. You possess something they don’t. You have the courage to be vulnerable in front of multitudes, to risk failure publicly, to stand in the light while others remain safely in the shadows.”

She taught me a simple anchor — squeeze my hands together while visualizing that stage, the crowd, the standing ovation. “When confidence deserts you,” she said, “return to that moment. Remember who you really are.”

It sounded like parlor tricks wrapped in psychology. I was skeptical until weeks later, entering a boardroom full of billionaires who looked at me like I was the help, I closed my eyes, squeezed my hands, and suddenly the stage was with me. The crowd’s energy filled my chest. I owned that room.

The technique has carried me into meetings with presidents and prime ministers, into situations where the old me would have withered. Am I truly confident? Perhaps not. But I’ve learned to borrow confidence from my future self, the one who already knows how the story ends.

The Song That Time Forgot

Those mechanical birds on my shelf stopped singing decades ago. Springs unwound, gears seized by time and neglect. But I keep them not as monuments to failure, but as reminders that some songs are worth waiting for.

Sitting here in Switzerland, decades older and infinitely wiser, I realize the Swiss girl didn’t just offer me a dance. She offered me a choice between fear and wonder, between safety and story. I chose safety and lived with the story anyway — the one where the boy was too afraid to say yes.

But here’s what I know now that I didn’t know then: Life is generous with second chances, though they rarely arrive dressed as we expect. I didn’t get to dance in that Lucerne clock shop, but I’ve spent 43 years learning the steps.

Today, I lead artists through landscapes that once intimidated me. I stand on stages that once terrified me. I’ve learned that confidence isn’t the absence of fear — it’s the decision to dance anyway, even when your hands shake, even when you can’t hear the music clearly.

The mountains outside my window are the same ones that witnessed my 19-year-old cowardice. But I am not the same man. Tomorrow, I’ll paint them with hands that know their power, guided by eyes that have learned to see beauty not just in what is, but in what’s possible.

The Invitation You’ve Been Waiting For

The Swiss girl with ribbons in her hair taught me something precious without ever knowing it: Every moment is asking us to dance. Right now, as you read this, some opportunity is standing behind your counter, dressed in work clothes or formal wear or a dirndl, extending an invitation that could change everything.

Will you squeeze your hands, remember your stage, and say yes?

The clock is ticking. The birds are waiting to sing.

Eric Rhoads

Is it my imagination, or is there a hint of apple cider floating in this crisp fall air?

Yesterday’s drive from Chicago to Door County, Wisconsin, transported me back to a childhood paradise. The harvested cornfields, roadside pumpkin stands, and orchards heavy with autumn fruit stirred something deep within me. Fall has always been my favorite season, and Wisconsin — with its sprawling farms — feels like the landscape of my childhood, where every breath carried the promise of possibility.

But here’s what struck me most: That apple cider scent didn’t just smell good. It triggered a flood of memories, taking me instantly back to childhood orchard visits, sticky fingers wrapped around warm cider cups, and the safety of family traditions.

Mental Time Travel

We all carry these invisible triggers. The taste of black grapes transports me to my grandmother’s garden arbor. The opening notes of “Have You Seen Her” by the Chi-Lites still choke me up, instantly returning me to that intersection as 17-year-old me drove my dad’s ’67 GTO, tears streaming, after my girlfriend Corky broke my heart.

These flashbacks can be beautiful gifts — or invisible prisons.

For decades, I let one devastating moment define my choices. Getting fired from the company I founded hurt so deeply that I stopped taking the very risks that had built my success. One traumatic experience became a cage I carried everywhere, limiting what I believed possible.

Here’s what I’ve learned: Our childhood brains couldn’t process what our adult minds can easily handle, and pain can be revisited to let go.

Rewriting Our Stories

That joke my father made at my expense during a family camping trip? It haunted me for years. But when I revisited it with my adult perspective, I realized it was harmless teasing between a father and son. The wound I’d been nursing was entirely of my own creation.

Sometimes our “truths” are just old stories we’ve never questioned.

I recently watched a friend discover this firsthand. For 30 years, he’d avoided a particular food, convinced he was allergic and would “break out in hives.” When I gently suggested he try it again, he looked at me like I’d suggested skydiving without a parachute. But he did it — and loved it. “I can’t believe I missed eating this all these years,” he said.

How many opportunities are we missing because we’re still operating from old, unexamined beliefs?

From Limitation to Liberation

As one of the two heaviest kids in elementary school, gym class became my nightmare. The humiliation of not being able to climb the rope or keep up with exercises made me physically sick. I started skipping school entirely rather than face that shame.

That trauma kept me heavy most of my life. The thought of exercise triggered those old feelings of inadequacy and embarrassment, though I did not realize it. But once I reframed exercise as a celebration of what my body could achieve rather than a reminder of what it couldn’t, everything changed.

As author S.M. Brain Coach writes in Subconscious Mind Reprogramming: “Making a pivotal decision, dedication to the new path is crucial. Commitment isn’t just about intention, it’s about action.”

The Frequency of Possibility

Ron, Corky’s father, gave me a gift that changed my trajectory. “She’s worried about you because you’re so negative all the time,” he told me, then taught me the power of positive thinking. That conversation became so transformational that I dedicated my first book to him.

Research now confirms what Ron intuitively knew: Positive thoughts operate on a different frequency and attract positive experiences. When we consciously shift from limiting to uplifting beliefs, we literally reprogram our minds.

Your Personal Inventory

Here’s my challenge to you: What moments are still holding you back? Where do you carry wounds that your adult brain could easily heal?

Start building your list:

• What experiences still make you avoid certain situations?
• What voices from the past still whisper limitations in your ear?
• What opportunities are you not seeing because old stories are blocking your vision?

Then create affirmations that are the exact opposite of those limiting beliefs. Read them when you wake up and before you sleep. As Brain Coach suggests: “Regularly count your blessings; this positive reinforcement can overwrite negative subconscious patterns.”

The Practice of Gratitude

When I learned to pray, I was taught to begin every prayer with gratitude for what I already have. Thousands of years later, neuroscience confirms this ancient wisdom: gratitude literally rewires our brains for possibility.

Your scars don’t define you — they can become your strength. When you transform pain into wisdom, every wound becomes a launch pad for freedom.

You have everything to gain and nothing to lose. What story are you ready to rewrite?

Eric Rhoads