A Personal Revelation

It’s peaceful, sitting lakeside in the Adirondacks, on the dock and staring aimlessly at the morning mist rising off the water and pondering what I’m grateful for as I think about some of the wonderful moments in my life. Today, before the sun started to think about painting the sky pink, the loons acted as my alarm, starting the day with their haunting loooooon call across the lake. It’s not just a sound — it’s a two-way conversation that’s been going on for thousands of years, since long before we humans showed up.

That call echoes off the mountains and settles right into my bones, making me realize that I’m just a guest here, and not even a particularly important one in the grand plan.

Like clockwork, as if someone said, “Cue the birds,” a giant bald eagle comes swooping in overhead like he owns the place — which, let’s be honest, he pretty much does. Wings spread wide as my mother’s old ’55 Buick, riding the thermals with the kind of effortless grace that makes you wonder why we humans work so hard at everything.

All summer long, we’ve been watching two baby loons ride around on their mama’s backs like tiny feathered passengers on the world’s most elegant water taxi. They started out as little puffballs that could barely keep their heads up, and now they’re almost ready to strike out on their own. Soon they’ll be practicing takeoffs and landings, and we pray the eagles don’t intercept them for a morning snack.

Reliving the ’80s
Though I’m not one to live in the past, I often think about some of the great moments in my lifetime, like the years between 1980-86, when I had my first radio station. The excitement was uncontrollable when we finally made the move. Our radio station had outgrown its Provo roots, and Salt Lake City — 45 minutes north — beckoned with its larger market and greater possibilities. Our signal now blanketed the Salt Lake Valley, but the ad agencies wouldn’t bite. To them, we were still outsiders, a Provo station playing dress-up in the big city. The daily commute to meet potential advertisers was becoming unsustainable. Something had to change.

Real estate prices in downtown Salt Lake hit me like a cold mountain wind. The prime locations were laughably out of reach. So I did what desperate entrepreneurs do — I got creative. I found a forgotten corner of the city, a neighborhood where most people quickened their pace and avoided eye contact. The old Crain plumbing warehouse stood there like a monument to better days, its upper 8th floor mostly vacant because tenants felt the area was too dangerous. It was all we could afford.

Being a Pioneer?
We transformed that empty space into vibrant studios, and when construction was complete, we threw a party that shook the rafters. With audacious confidence, we declared this forgotten district would become the city’s new media hub. Amazingly, people believed us. Within months, a celebrated restaurant opened on our ground floor. A major advertising agency relocated down the street. Like dominoes falling in reverse — building up instead of knocking down — the neighborhood transformed. Creative agencies, media companies, and art galleries flourished where decay once reigned. We had unknowingly wielded the cultural influence of a popular radio station to resurrect an entire district. Sometimes being first isn’t about being brave; it’s about having no other choice.

But the greatest treasure wasn’t the real estate transformation — it was the people I discovered in that old warehouse.

Three Guys and a New Tenant
Three guys shared a cramped office down the hall, fellow pioneers in our urban frontier. Henry was bootstrapping a direct mail company with more ambition than capital. Brent worked as a freelance TV and radio engineer, his desk perpetually buried under circuit boards and cable spools. And then there was Jackson, a former television news anchor who’d traded the teleprompter for entrepreneurship.

We became inseparable, our after-work conversations stretching long into the evening. Henry eventually vanished into the entrepreneurial ether — we lost touch years ago. Brent came to work for me, met his future wife at our station, then moved away. He’s since passed on, leaving memories of laughter and late-night technical miracles. But Jackson — Jackson remains a lifelong friend, one of those rare connections where months of silence dissolve instantly into hours of conversation.

The King of Conversation
Everyone who left Jackson’s office said the same thing: “What an incredible conversationalist! I feel so energized after talking with him.” This universal reaction made me pay attention. I studied Jackson like an anthropologist observing a master craftsman. Here’s what I discovered: Jackson wasn’t a conversationalist at all — he was an excavator of stories. He asked questions with genuine curiosity. He listened with his whole being. He reflected back what he heard, making people feel truly seen. In a world full of broadcasters, Jackson was a receiver, and that made all the difference.

The Art We’ve Lost
We all hunger to be heard. It’s a fundamental human need, as basic as shelter or warmth. Yet somewhere along the way, many of us — myself painfully included — become addicted to transmitting instead of receiving. Just last week at Boathouse Yoga, I met a woman and immediately found common ground. But instead of exploring her story, I hijacked the conversation with my own tales. The awareness hit me like cold water: I was so desperate to be understood that I’d forgotten to understand. I could tell by her eyes I’d lost her. But it was too late. 

The Bible speaks to this ancient wisdom: “Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak” (James 1:19), and “A fool finds no pleasure in understanding but delights in airing their own opinions” (Proverbs 18:2). These aren’t just religious platitudes — they’re blueprints for human connection.

I’ve catalogued some conversation killers over the years:

The Jumper interrupts mid-sentence, unable to contain their own thoughts. I worked with one who would cut me off 30 times in a single hour, talking 95% of the time while actively not listening the other 5%. They’re so busy formulating their next statement that your words bounce off them like rain off a windshield.

The Droner delivers monologues without pause, without breath, without mercy. One colleague was so committed to his soliloquies that I’d put him on speakerphone, offer an occasional “uh-huh,” and complete entire projects while he talked. The tragedy? He never noticed.

The Judge weaponizes every conversation into a tribunal. “That’s a terrible idea.” “You shouldn’t do that.” “What you’re doing is wrong.” They distribute unsolicited verdicts like a court clerk handing out subpoenas. After encounters with Judges, I find myself taking alternate routes at parties, treating them like social land mines.

The Negative finds fault in everything you say, never encourages, always looks for problems.

Tony Robbins once observed that “We’re all just scared little boys and girls,” and that truth reverberates through every failed conversation. I started life painfully shy, avoiding eye contact out of fear, inadvertently signaling lack of interest when I desperately craved connection. My father’s only communication training came when I was 8: “Firm handshake, look ’em in the eye, say hello with confidence.” Yet he was a master — making instant friends, remembering details from conversations years past, making everyone feel like the most important person in the room.

The Transformation
I’m rewriting my conversational DNA as we speak. Though my ego craves the spotlight, I’m learning to dim my own lights so others can shine. My new practice: Listen fully, regardless of duration. Probe deeper. Resist the urge to redirect toward my favorite subject — myself. Approach each conversation with love, recognizing that if someone needs to speak, I need to listen.

This isn’t about self-denial; it’s about discovering that real connection happens in the space between words, in the questions we ask rather than the stories we tell. When my mind races ahead to solutions, seeing the answer 10 steps before the speaker arrives there, I’m learning to guide rather than rescue, to walk alongside rather than charge ahead.

Can a bird change its markings? We’re about to find out.

My new mantra: Become a gentle spirit — more loving, understanding, supportive. At work, I’m painfully practicing silence, letting others speak first, resisting the gravitational pull toward conversational dominance and the need to solve every problem. What if we all listened more, interrupted less, avoided monologues, and cared more about hearing than being heard? The paradox is beautiful: By creating space for others, we often find ourselves truly heard for the first time.

The Best Speaker I Ever Saw

I once saw a speaker on stage and said, “I want to be like him. Brave, confident, and in control on stage.” I approached him after and asked him how to learn what he knew, which resulted in my spending five life-changing days in New York and writing a very big check I could not afford to write. The end result was remarkable, as I came to understand many of my issues and made directional changes, along with challenging myself and putting myself in situations that made me uncomfortable. I only wish I had discovered it sooner. If only we could be taught these skills in school.

I changed then, and I can change now. But it’s never easy. Being comfortable and not changing is easy.

How are you doing in the listening department? 

Are you listening, jumping to conclusions, judging, dominating the conversation, being negative, or over-talking? 

I’ve been guilty of them all, and I”m going to try to train my brain to be less of what I was and more of what I should be. Won’t you join me?

Sometimes the most profound journeys begin not with speaking, but with finally learning to listen.

Eric Rhoads