The morning light illuminates golden-green pollen as it drifts through the sunbeams, nature’s own glitter suspended in air and tickling my nose, much like the scent of sweet perfume from the color-filled wildflowers that filter among the spring grasses, growing wildly out of control like a rumor at a small town diner. 

Here I sit comfortably on my long, covered Texas porch overlooking the distant hills as I spot a smattering of Indian paintbrush, LYF (little yellow flowers), and a couple of iridescent bluebonnets lending their fragrance to the breeze. 

A chorus of bees hum their industrious melody among stands of tall greenery, within earshot but thankfully not within reach. We recently made our way back from the warmth of Florida beaches and have now returned to the ideal spring climate, the comfortable perfect days before the oppressive Texas heat sets in. 

It’s good to be home, and just in time for Easter. Happy Easter to you!.

Solitude Embraced

Sundays offer a different quality of silence than other days. It’s a chosen quietude rather than an absence of sound imposed by circumstance. My phone remains face-down, notifications accumulating unheeded. There is luxury in this deliberate disconnection, this small rebellion against perpetual availability and the dopamine rush of being needed. Somehow I’ve managed to resist reading my social media for a full month. I feel like I’ve had a restful time away. Oh, if I could give it up entirely and still survive in business. 

Wisdom Distilled

As I cradle my mug, I ponder the strange headlines about scientists working to cheat death through 3D-printed organs and brain transfers. Immortality in a lab, they promise. And recently news that if you sit in a hyperbaric chamber every day for 60 days, you can gain the health and cognition you had 20 years ago. Maybe I could check my social media while in a hyperbaric chamber while getting red light therapy after swallowing my 30 daily vitamins to reverse my aging? Hmm … something more to do.

Do we really want to live forever? Or should we give others a chance at their turn on earth? 

Tales Transcend Time

My great-great-grandfather has now lived for about 270 years. He was a Tennessee sheriff with wisdom that outweighed his ammunition. Legend tells how he spotted a fugitive by a campfire, and, instead of rushing in with guns blazing like some dime-store novel hero, he removed his badge, approached unarmed, and said, “Howdy, stranger, can you spare a cup of coffee?” Over flames and conversation, he disarmed the man with interest rather than intimidation. Eventually, he admired the fugitive’s gun, held it in appreciation, and only then made his arrest. Five generations later, I sip my coffee and realize I know a man I’ve never met — his patience, his cunning, his humanity — all preserved not in formaldehyde but in family narrative. He lives on.

Legacy Through Osmosis

Scientists tout hyperbaric chambers promising 20 additional years, while I silently transmit centuries to my children without even trying. My father’s entrepreneurial confidence flows through me like genetic material, not because he lectured me on business principles, but because I witnessed his phone calls, his negotiations, his presence. “Dad College” had no tuition but paid dividends beyond calculation. Now my children roll their eyes at my intentional lessons but absorb my every interaction — how I speak to strangers, how I treat their mother, how I navigate disappointment. They’re downloading my operating system whether I acknowledge the file transfer or not. It’s how I’ll live on … like it or not.

Immortality’s Mirror

I wonder which of my expressions my daughter will unconsciously mirror at 40. Will she inherit my laugh or my scowl? My generosity or my occasional insanity? The thought sobers me faster than my caffeine. We chase longevity supplements and cryogenic preservation without realizing we’re already achieving a kind of immortality through behavioral inheritance. I’m embarrassed recalling the times I’ve complained about bad drivers or slow service with my children watching — those moments potentially echoing through generations like ripples in ancestral waters.

Deliberate Eternity

As I take the final sip of my now-cooled coffee, loaded with lion’s mane to prevent Alzheimer’s, cinnamon to reduce inflammation, and MCT oil to superpower my brain, I wonder if wisdom follows the same pattern — revealing deeper notes with time and perspective. 

The longevity movements focus on extending our individual timelines, but they miss that we’re already smeared across time like watercolors bleeding beyond their borders. My great-grandfather’s jovial nature and creative business skills were adopted into my father’s life through osmosis, then unknowingly transferred to me — a kind of immortality achieved not through science but through story and presence. 

Perhaps my artistic side comes from my mother’s Aunt Ruth, whose oil paintings hang in the homes of her descendants, skills and passion probably acquired from a generation or two before her.  Our mental DNA and behavior may have been passed down for hundreds of generations. We don’t need hyperbaric chambers to transcend our lifespans; we need mindfulness about which parts of ourselves we’re programming into the future.

Tomorrow’s Ancestors

Setting down my empty cup, I realize that today I am someone’s ancestor — perhaps someone not yet born but destined to know me through the stories my children will tell, through the habits they unconsciously absorbed when I thought they weren’t paying attention. The greatest form of immortality isn’t avoiding death but creating life worth remembering, worth emulating, worth passing down like cherished recipes or heirloom furniture. The bluebonnets beyond my window will wither by next week’s heat, but their seeds ensure next spring’s revival — just as our words and deeds plant themselves in generations we’ll never meet.

Wisdom Distilled

Perhaps the true path to immortality isn’t found in laboratories or hyperbaric chambers, but in the conscious cultivation of our legacy. Science may eventually print new organs or transfer consciousness to younger vessels, but it cannot manufacture meaning or transmit values. (Or can it?) 

Our immortality project began the moment we entered this world and will continue long after we leave it — carried forward in the mannerisms of our grandchildren’s grandchildren, in stories told around future fires, in approaches to problems solved with wisdom accumulated across centuries. We live forever not by escaping death but by embracing the profound responsibility of life fully lived in full view of those who will carry us forward. 

The most potent immortality isn’t measured in extended years but in extended influence — the invisible inheritance we leave that shapes worlds we’ll never see.

And what about the lives we touch, those we influence — who may change forever, then influence the outcomes of their future offspring?

The real question isn’t whether you’ll live forever. You will. The question is: What version of you deserves that kind of immortality?

Eric Rhoads

The Florida humidity descended upon us like an overeager aunt at a family reunion — unwelcome, smothering, and absolutely unavoidable. This morning, the fog rolled in with theatrical flair, a dense curtain of moisture so thick you could practically spoon it into your coffee. My patio, normally offering panoramic views of the shoreline, now revealed nothing but ghostly outlines of what might be trees or might be strangers lurking with nefarious intent — impossible to tell in this atmospheric soup. The pelicans, those prehistoric-looking buffoons of the sky, pierce through the silence with their haunting croaks, invisible sky-beasts announcing their kingdom. “I’m here! I’m here!” they seem to crow, though nobody asked. And hiding behind this temporarily enchanting meteorological performance lurks the true villain of our coastal story — the oppressive heat that’s limbering up in the wings, ready to make us all regret our real estate choices for the next five months. Time to leave.

MASTERMINDS OR MADNESS?

About 15 years ago, I found myself in one of those suspicious motivational conferences, the kind where speakers pace stages like caged panthers and use words like “paradigm” and “synergy” with alarming frequency. The concept du jour? Masterminds. Though I’d encountered this in Napoleon Hill’s work (you know, those Depression-era self-help books your grandfather swore by), I’d dismissed it as some antiquated prosperity gospel. Then speaker Lee Milteer took the stage — a woman who could probably convince penguins to buy ice — and explained how we’re all essentially bumbling around in our own mental echo chambers. She pitched her group with a price tag that made my credit card whimper in advance. Against all logical judgment, like a moth to an expensive flame, I joined.

TERRIFYING TRUTH MIRRORS

The night before my first meeting, I tossed and turned like a novelist on a deadline. I desperately needed accountability, yet feared it with the intensity of someone about to have their search history read aloud. What masochistic impulse drives us to simultaneously crave and dread honest feedback? The meeting itself was a carnival mirror of revelations — I saw my own business flaws reflected in every other “successful” person there. Turns out those polished LinkedIn profiles and confident elevator pitches were elaborate facades hiding the same broken plumbing I was dealing with. The relief was refreshing, like finding out everyone is equally insecure and flawed.

UNEXPECTED BUSINESS THERAPY

A few months later, something shifted. Parts of my business began performing like they’d been secretly training for the Olympics. The group had become my business therapy — a place where my mental blockages were not only diagnosed but treated with the combined wisdom of people who’d already made the mistakes I was currently perfecting. After milking that first mastermind cow dry, I moved on to a marketing-focused group. Different players, same game — except this time the collective brainpower tackled my marketing strategy like the bees swarming around a honeycomb.

ADDICTION TO PERSPECTIVE

I hopped from group to group like someone channel-surfing for business wisdom. Five years here, five years there — each offering a different flavor of tough love and strategic insight. And though I’m still in a group I’ve loved for the past five-plus years, I succumbed to the inevitable entrepreneurial urge to create my own thing, launching an Art Business Mastery group for artists looking to transform their passion into profit. The irony wasn’t lost on me — I’d gone from reluctant participant to the very person inflicting accountability on others. Like an ex-smoker turned anti-tobacco crusader, I became evangelical about what I once feared.

BEAUTIFUL MENTAL DEMOLITIONS

There’s something intoxicating about watching someone’s limiting beliefs crumble before your eyes — like witnessing a controlled demolition of mental architecture that no longer serves them. As a coach, I’ve developed a particular fondness for being the wrecking ball, though I dress it up in kinder terminology for marketing purposes. The “aha” moments arrive like perfectly timed plot twists in a thriller — unexpected yet somehow inevitable. I’m not telling you this to sell you anything, but rather to emphasize the transformative power of allowing someone to call your bluff. True transformation is taking place already.

FRIENDSHIP CASTING CALLS

My friendship roster resembles a carefully curated theatrical ensemble — each player cast for specific emotional and intellectual contributions. Some friends exist purely for belly laughs, while others are painting buddies, and others serve as my personal truth-tellers, unafraid to point out when I’m starring in my own self-deception. 

Do you have someone who loves you enough to tell you when you’re being an absolute idiot? If not, you’re missing the most valuable relationship currency available. Curiously, I’ll accept hard truths from near-strangers that I’d bristle at coming from my own family — a psychological pretzel I’ve yet to fully unravel. I’m trying harder to listen to wise counsel from all corners of my life.

LONE WOLF DELUSIONS

Left to our own compromised brains, we humans are spectacular at getting things wrong. Our thinking isn’t just occasionally flawed — it’s a funhouse of distortions, biases, and self-serving narratives implanted by our parents, our teachers, and those who have innocently skewed our view of the world. Yet our egos, those fragile little creatures, recoil at correction like vampires from sunlight. We desperately need outside intervention, particularly in this era where social media algorithms function as yes-men on steroids, reinforcing whatever nonsense we already believe. Your mental diet requires as much scrutiny as what you put on your plate — possibly more, since nobody develops arterial blockages from consuming too many bad ideas (though society might).

DIGITAL DETOX REVELATION

Remember that cruise where I mentioned taking a social media break? What started as a vacation necessity has morphed into a three-week abstinence that I’m carrying like a sobriety chip. When the scrolling urge strikes, I redirect my twitching thumbs toward either a book or a paintbrush — substituting creation for consumption. The results have been nothing short of revelatory. My anxiety levels have plummeted like tech stocks in a bubble burst, or at least this past week’s stock market, and internal peace has moved in where constant outrage once resided. Most fascinating of all is how the gossip and “news” that friends still share now sounds like dispatches from a particularly unimaginative dystopian novel.

CLARITY THROUGH SEPARATION

Distance has transformed me into an anthropologist of modern communication — observing with detached fascination as others breathlessly repeat claims that would make even mediocre fiction editors demand revisions. The adage about repeated lies becoming truth hits differently when you step outside the repetition chamber. We’re all swimming in a sea of manipulated information, but most never realize they’re wet. Your sanity demands that you occasionally towel off and ask, “Is this actually true, or have I simply heard it so often that questioning somehow feels wrong?”

ACCOUNTABILITY TREASURE HUNT

What structures could you implement to receive regular reality checks?

Where might you source fresh perspectives that challenge rather than comfort? 

How might you discover those reputation-damaging blind spots that everyone sees but nobody mentions? 

Aging, that much-maligned, somewhat painful process, offers at least one gift — the gradual deflation of ego that allows wisdom to sneak in through previously guarded entrances. The young person’s certainty gives way to the middle-aged person’s questions, which I find infinitely more useful.

MENTAL GATEKEEPING BENEFITS

While many of my contemporaries’ brains calcified into human documentaries of outdated thinking or pure belligerence, I find myself increasingly receptive to new ideas — savoring the awakening that comes right before growth. This openness isn’t accidental but the result of vigorous mental gatekeeping. I’ve become ruthlessly selective about what narratives I permit to reside in my brain, which paradoxically creates more space for genuine exploration. The resulting clarity reveals just how masterfully we’re all influenced by forces with vested interests in our beliefs.

ANCIENT WISDOM ENDURES

“Seek and you shall find” — four words that pack the punch of a philosophical heavyweight. This isn’t just biblical wisdom but a cognitive principle with applications far beyond the Bible. When you actively pursue diverse perspectives, you inevitably discover new terrain — mental landscapes previously obscured by the fog of familiarity. 

You need not adopt every new idea that crosses your path, but allowing them temporary shelter in your thinking expands your intellectual real estate. A great awakening, like this morning’s dense fog that transformed familiar scenes into mysterious new worlds, fresh input can reveal beauty in what was previously mundane — if only we have the courage to step out into the mist.

Eric Rhoads

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

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

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

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

A Trip to Chicago

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

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

Strangers Among Us

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

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

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

Staying Connected

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

Is Social Media Social?

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

Deep Investment

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

Feeling Grateful

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

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

Carly Simon Was Right

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

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

Eric Rhoads

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

The Knot in My Chest

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

The Dating Game Gone Wrong

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

A Dance of Trust and Betrayal

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

Finally, a Plan!

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

Hello, You’ve Been Dumped

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

The Sourdough Theory of Business

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

The Real Mathematics of Loss

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

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

The Million-Dollar Sandwich

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

Dad’s Wisdom

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

The Trust Equation

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

Your Integrity Score

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

The View from the Top

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

Old School Thinking

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

Ouch!

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

Stay caffeinated, my friends.

Eric Rhoads

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

Politicizing Groundhogs

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

Groundhog Day, the Movie

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

Wild Adventure

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

Gypsy Me

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

The Paradox

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

The Speed of Time

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

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

What can I do to reinvent myself?

What can I do to reignite my passion?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What about you?

Eric Rhoads

Less than a week after snowballs melted in my gloved palm, I’m stretched out in a lounge chair, watching late January sunlight paint the distant mountain in watercolors. The morning air in Austin still carries winter’s bite, but the sun promises 70 degrees by noon. It’s warmer here than in Florida, but in a few days Florida will return to its sunny self. A cardinal flashes crimson against the live oak’s winter-bare branches, while somewhere in the distance, a tractor hums its morning song across the back 40.

This is the kind of morning that reminds you that being alive is a gift worth unwrapping slowly. The kind that makes you question why we spend so many precious hours under fluorescent lights when God’s own lightbulb is putting on a free light show. 

Time Flies

I’m shocked that our first month of the year has already passed. Time slides by these days, faster than a rattler disappearing under a rock. One minute you’re making resolutions over champagne, next thing you know you’re watching Valentine’s chocolates go on clearance. 

My grandmother used to tell me that the years speed up as you age, back when I was too busy being immortal to believe it could ever happen to me. Now I’m watching my hands turn into my father’s, and that face in the mirror has my grandfather’s smile lines.

Forced to Think

After last week’s unfortunate funeral for a friend, I’ve been rethinking my longevity plan. Am I doing enough? Am I going overboard? It appears my routine of supplements, strength training, stretching, and diet is working. But Thursday’s checkup with my MD buddy brought unexpected good news — grip strength matching guys 20 years younger, lung capacity of a 30-year-old, and all markers aced. Though he did mention I should plan financially for triple digits. Just got to dodge those buses.

Making Changes

Here’s the thing about aging: It’s not the enemy we make it out to be. It’s more like a dance partner who’s going to lead whether you like it or not. The trick isn’t fighting the dance; it’s learning the steps. That’s why my phone spends its nights in the kitchen now, far from my bedroom’s sacred sleep space. It’s why I chase that morning light like a cat after a laser pointer, and why my standing desk looks like something from a sci-fi movie. Staying vibrant and healthy has a lot to do with a lot of little things.

The Fountain of Youth

The real fountain of youth isn’t about popping pills or chasing miracle cures. It’s about staying in the game. It’s one of the reasons I host weekly model painting sessions on Wednesday nights, so I can make sure that I’m getting a dose of a social prescription at least once a week, so I can share laughs, stories, and keep my brain sharp with the challenge of painting portraits from life. It’s why I’m adding more artist retreats and painting trips when people younger than me are cutting back. 

Keep ’Em Younger

My goal is to always have more social connections than a switchboard operator and move more in a day than most folks do in a week. The scientists say this kind of social butterfly behavior is better for longevity than any supplement, though I take about 30 a day. Something about how laughing with friends oils your DNA better than olive oil ever could (though it’s remarkably good for you and you should drink a liter of the pure stuff a day.). My grandmother used to say, “Make sure to make a lot of younger friends, because you’ll outlive all of the ones your age.” It was great advice, and unfortunately is ringing true. I’ve lost four good friends in the last 10 days, but I have tons of friends half my age.

Don’t Go Slow!

I’m not trying to outrun death — that’s a fool’s marathon. In fact, the key is to be ready for it, excited about the next chapter. What I’m after is the kind of life where I can still drop to the ground to pick up guitar picks that have fallen without effort, groaning, or pain. Researchers say deciding to “slow down” is like setting a 10-year timer on your life. So I keep moving — playing pickleball and basketball with my daughter, lifting weights until it hurts, working out till I’m breathless. MCT oil and lion’s mane in my coffee, daily intermittent fasting, avoiding my sugar addiction to keep my glucose from spiking, and taking  peptides — it all adds up.

Here’s the truth: We’re not just trying to add years to our lives – we’re trying to add life to our years. 

Maybe if we keep our phone radiation out of our bedrooms to keep our sleep pristine, we lift enough weights that it’s a struggle, and we work out till we can hardly breathe, eat the perfect diet, nurture enough friendships to fill a small concert hall, and keep moving like we’ve got ants in our pants, we’ll still be chasing dreams well into our hundreds.

Staying Vital

There is no retirement for me. Have you seen the statistics on what happens after retirement? I work hard to stay busy and to mentally keep up with the brilliant 30-year-olds I surround myself with in my business.  I do my best to surprise them with an occasional “How did he know that?” moment. This is why I read like a madman, continue to attend conferences and learning events, and take a half dozen or more courses a year online. Again, it all adds up

So now my phone spends its nights in splendid isolation down the hall, like a teenager who’s been grounded. And wouldn’t you know it? I’m sleeping deeper than a philosopher at a calculus lecture. Sleep is the number one anti-aging drug. The more you can get, the more your brain recovers. My next step is to stop all screen time one hour before sleepytime. 

Learning from Experts

But here’s the thing about trying to stay young — it’s not about popping more supplements than a health food store’s inventory. Sure, Harvard longevity expert Dr. David Sinclair (who I suspect has a portrait aging in his attic somewhere) talks about NAD+, berberine, and resveratrol with the enthusiasm of a kid describing ice cream flavors. I do exactly what he says, but between you and me, I think the real fountain of youth is getting our weight under control and just refusing to sit still long enough for time to catch up with us. 

Staying vital is a full-time job. It’s the hardest work I’ve ever done, but the reward is bigger than the rewards of employment. More time with family and seeing my own kids age, and being there for the special moments in their lives is the best gift I can give all of us. It’s never too late for new New Year’s resolutions. After all, it’s still January for a couple more days.

Eric Rhoads