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

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

 Medici Money

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

Money. Lots of it.

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

Did They Know?

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

This is the part that keeps me up at night: 

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

Renaissance in Hindsight

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

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

So why aren’t we all creating masterpieces?

The Paradox 

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

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

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

Through First-Time Eyes

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

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

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

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

A Deliberate Journey

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

Curiosity Drives Growth

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

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

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

Breaking the Filter

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

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

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

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

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

Regular People Everywhere

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

The Travel Conversation

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

Your Personal Renaissance

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

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

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

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

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

Painting With Strangers

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

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

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

The Hotel Trap

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

The Challenge Awaits

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

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

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

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

Questions for You

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eric Rhoads

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

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

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

Voice at Dawn

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

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

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

Seeds Become Gardens

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

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

Beyond the Playground

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

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

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

When Everything Changes

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

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

Pennies and Providence

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

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

Dreams and Dinner Tables

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

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

Competing Voices Within

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

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

The Uncomfortable Truth

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

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

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

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

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

Your Park Awaits

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

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

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

Listen and Act

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

Not just listen. Not just act. Both.

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

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

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

What will you paint when heaven whispers your name?

Eric Rhoads

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

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

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

The Girl in the Clock Shop

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Architecture of Fear

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

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

The Ten-Minute Miracle

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

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

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

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

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

“None,” I realized.

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

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

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

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

The Song That Time Forgot

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

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

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

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

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

The Invitation You’ve Been Waiting For

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

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

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

Eric Rhoads

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

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

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

Mental Time Travel

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

These flashbacks can be beautiful gifts — or invisible prisons.

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

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

Rewriting Our Stories

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

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

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

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

From Limitation to Liberation

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

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

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

The Frequency of Possibility

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

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

Your Personal Inventory

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

Start building your list:

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

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

The Practice of Gratitude

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

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

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

Eric Rhoads

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

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

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

Mental Time Travel

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

These flashbacks can be beautiful gifts — or invisible prisons.

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

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

Rewriting Our Stories

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

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

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

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

From Limitation to Liberation

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

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

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

The Frequency of Possibility

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

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

Your Personal Inventory

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

Start building your list:

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

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

The Practice of Gratitude

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

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

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

Eric Rhoads

The morning light catches the lake, gleaming like liquid gold. Summer’s last breath warms the air while autumn whispers through the maples, their leaves just beginning to blush orange and crimson. Here in the Adirondacks, the baby loons have shed their fuzzy innocence, transforming into sleek young adults testing their wings. Soon their parents will abandon them to fly south, leaving the youngsters to master independence through trial and solitude. It’s nature’s way of saying: You’re ready, even if you don’t feel it.

In a few hours, I’ll reluctantly pack my car and drive north to Burlington, then fly back to the demands of boardrooms and studios. My extended summer here — interrupted by that magical month in China — feels like it ended before it truly began. The fiberoptic cable running along the lake bottom has been my lifeline, letting me broadcast from this sanctuary instead of rushing back and spending time on airplanes. Technology gave me the gift of not having to choose between work and wonder.

But reality calls. Board meetings await in Austin, followed by the next chapter of what I’m calling my “world art tour.” I’m excited about what’s ahead, yet leaving this place always feels like tearing away a piece of my soul. The air here doesn’t just fill your lungs — it cleanses them. The woods behind my house hold secrets and stories that only emerge during long, wandering hikes. This lake? It’s not just water — it’s liquid meditation.

The Art of Letting Go

Our two recent college graduates spent this summer with us, knowing it was likely their last before careers claim their time. We all needed it — them for the security of home, us for the joy of dishes left strategically in the sink instead of the dishwasher (some things never change). Now they’re in full job-hunt mode, sending resumes into the digital void while complaining about the “rest of their lives” stretching ahead like an endless Monday morning.

I remember that feeling. The simultaneous pull of wanting freedom and fearing it. The confidence of youth battling the terror of the unknown.

At 14, radio fever hit me like lightning. I talked my way into a volunteer spot at the local college station, which led to a part-time gig at a commercial station. The summer after high school, I carpet-bombed the country with resumes and demo tapes. Then the call came: “We like your tape. Be here in three days.”

Three days.

I threw a goodbye party (half those friends I never saw again), loaded my tan VW Bug, and drove straight to Fort Lauderdale to help launch Y100. August 3, 1973 — a date burned into my memory. They quickly realized my tape was better than my live performance and banished me to the graveyard shift. But here’s what I didn’t know: I’d just landed at one of the most influential radio stations in America. That halo effect followed me for decades.

The lesson? Sometimes your “failure” is actually your golden ticket. Sometimes getting knocked down is life’s way of positioning you for something bigger.

What I’d Tell My Younger Self (and You)

Here’s what strikes me: My son who skipped college has been independent for years now. He’s struggled — rent payments, food on the table, difficult people to manage — but those struggles forged something college couldn’t: true resilience. While his college-graduate siblings navigate job applications, he’s already been promoted, managing teams, learning the brutal art of human nature through necessity, not theory.

If you’re standing at that threshold between dependence and independence, hear this:

You are more capable than you know. The fact that you haven’t done something doesn’t mean you can’t. Your comfort zone isn’t protecting you — it’s imprisoning you.

Every generation gets dismissed. They called us lazy and entitled too. Every generation thinks the next one is doomed. Ignore the noise. Find your true north.

Beat the system by refusing to be systematic. Online applications are digital cattle calls designed to sort the desperate from the determined. When I hire, I intentionally don’t respond immediately — I want to see who gives up and who gets creative. The ones who send presentations with their follow-ups? The ones who find my address and send something memorable? The ones who contact me three different ways? Those are the ones who understand that exceptional requires more than ordinary effort.

Adapt your operating system. Your generation texts; my generation calls. Your future boss might operate differently than you do. Be willing to speak their language, not just your own.

The Long Game

Do what you love, but if you don’t know what that is yet, try anything that doesn’t make you physically ill. I’ve met countless people who took jobs they thought they’d hate and discovered unexpected passion.

Nothing is permanent except your willingness to settle for mediocre.

Start at the bottom without shame. We all did. The view from the summit is earned, not given.

Always do more than expected. When I was 17, my father drew two lines on paper: “This is what most people do. This is what employers expect. If you want to succeed, operate up here” — and he drew a third line above both. That philosophy got me every promotion I ever received.

Independence isn’t just about paying your own bills — it’s about betting on yourself when no one else will.

Eric Rhoads

Cool morning air kisses the warm lake water, birthing a mist that rises twenty feet into the sky, veiling distant pines and mountains in ethereal softness. The sky glows the color of childhood Creamsicles—that particular orange-cream hue that instantly transports me to summer afternoons when the ice cream truck’s melody meant freedom, a dollar from mom, and the simple perfection of a frozen treat melting in the heat.

I lived what might be called a Leave It to Beaver childhood—safe, secure, unmarked by significant drama or want. My father engineered this deliberately. He’d lived through the Great Depression, watched his family have to leave their secure little white home on Webster Street to economic necessity, and found himself at six years old doing pre-dawn farm chores on his grandfather’s land before walking miles to a one-room schoolhouse. “I never wanted you kids to experience what I did,” he once told me, and he succeeded magnificently.

Yet here lies the paradox: It was precisely that hardship that forged my father into the man I admired. And while I’m profoundly grateful for the security he provided, I sometimes wonder if a measured dose of struggle might have served us better. Like my parents before me, I’ve tried to give my children that same idyllic childhood—probably solving too many problems that should have been theirs to wrestle with.

The Alchemy of Adversity

Last week at a party, I spent hours talking with a young man barely older than my own children. When he mentioned his “tough upbringing,” something in his eyes invited deeper inquiry. His story unfolded like a map of resilience: father dead from addiction when he was eight, mother an addict unable to care for him, years in foster care, a false reunion with his still-addicted mother, and finally salvation in the arms of a grandmother who refused to let him fall.

Earlier that same week, a friend’s eyes revealed similar pain when advising me about estate planning. “Whatever you do, make sure it’s all equal,” he said, his voice heavy with memory. A single phone call—his mother demanding he drop everything to visit—had sparked her narcissistic rage. She rewrote her will that very day, cutting him out entirely. She died soon after, leaving not just an unequal inheritance but a wound that transcends money. “It’s not about the wealth,” he assured me. “It’s the message she sent—one final act of bullying from beyond the grave.”

What strikes me about both men is their extraordinary success. The young man has a soaring career fueled by something to prove. My friend reached the pinnacle of his industry. Both emerged from their crucibles not bitter but humble, balanced, and deeply loving. Their pain became their teacher, not their master.

The Edge Between Love and Cruelty

There’s a critical distinction we must make: Inflicting pain through bullying, meanness, absence, or abandonment is never productive. It’s destruction without purpose. But pain that comes from growth, from necessary boundaries, from tough love rooted in genuine care—that’s the kiln that fires our character.

Tough love has its place, unwelcome as it may be in the moment. The difference lies in its source: authentic tough love springs from love itself, while cruelty emerges from narcissistic instability and the need to control.

In my own family, we’ve faced moments requiring severe tough love—those agonizing decisions to let someone hit bottom so they might finally look up and see the light. It’s excruciating but sometimes necessary. My father’s tough love toward me once put me in one of the most difficult situations of my life. I met it with fury and resistance. Yet it was the moment I truly grew up, and years later, I thanked him for having the courage to be tough when gentle wouldn’t suffice. Even in his toughness, his love never wavered—that was the difference.

The Long Game of Love

Most of my friends carry similar stories—family members who struggle, moments demanding tough choices. Some avoid the difficulty and carry the burden their entire lives. I’ve watched friends bury children lost to addiction, some wondering if more tough love might have saved them, others questioning if their hardline stance pushed too hard. There are no easy answers, no universal formulas.

A dear friend cares for his wife with severe dementia. When I asked why he doesn’t seek institutional care, his answer was simple: “I can’t imagine life without her. I’ll be here no matter what.” Another friend, facing the same situation, recently placed his wife in a facility after she began wandering the streets, endangering herself. Both decisions are acts of love, tailored to different realities.

I wonder how I would handle such trials. Would I have the strength to stay, to honor “in sickness and in health” when health becomes a distant memory? I hope I would choose loyalty and presence, but we never truly know our capacity until we’re tested.

The Lifeline Principle

A friend who reads these reflections was estranged from her daughter and granddaughter for years. My advice to her was simple, the same I offer now: Never give up. Never give in. Though precious years were lost, they’ve found their way back to each other, wounds healing, life resuming its flow.

This is perhaps the most crucial lesson: We all need a lifeline. Sometimes love means letting someone swim on their own, letting them struggle and find their own strength. But even then, we watch from the shore, ready to throw that line when they need it most. We may need to step back, but we never step away entirely.

Conclusions: The Art of Persistent Love

The mist continues to rise from the lake as I write this, and I’m struck by how it mirrors our human experience—warm and cold meeting, creating something beautiful in their collision. Our struggles and our securities, our pain and our comfort, our tough love and our tenderness—they all swirl together to create who we become.

The lessons are clear, if not always easy:

1. Struggle shapes us, but shouldn’t break us. A childhood without any adversity may leave us unprepared, but trauma without support creates wounds that may never heal. The key is to balance challenges with unconditional love as the foundation.

2. Pain with purpose differs from cruelty. Tough love, when genuine, comes from a desire to help someone grow. Cruelty comes from a need to control or punish. Know the difference in your own actions.

3. Success often springs from adversity—but at what cost? Many highly accomplished people are driven by early pain. We should ask ourselves: Is worldly success worth the childhood wounds that sometimes create it?

4. Love takes many forms, all valid. Whether caring for someone at home or choosing professional care, whether maintaining contact or establishing boundaries—love manifests differently for different situations.

5. Never give up on people, but know when to adjust your approach. Being a lifeline doesn’t mean enabling. Sometimes it means watching from a distance, ready, but not interfering.

6. Time heals, but only if we leave the door open. Relationships can be restored, but not if we slam doors permanently shut in moments of pain or anger.

Perhaps my father was right to shield us from the hardships he knew. Perhaps I was right to do the same for my children. Or perhaps we all need just enough struggle to build strength, just enough security to build confidence, and always—always—enough love to know that whatever happens, someone refuses to give up on us.

That’s the real gift we give each other: not a life without pain, but the promise that through whatever pain comes, we won’t face it alone. We may sometimes need to swim through rough waters on our own, but knowing someone watches from shore, ready with that lifeline—that makes all the difference.

The mist is lifting now, revealing the mountains in sharp relief against that Creamsicle sky. Some things only become clear when the fog clears, when enough time passes, when we’ve lived enough life to understand that our struggles and our strengths are not opposite forces but dance partners, creating the complex, beautiful, difficult miracle of a life fully lived.

Never give up. Never give in. But always, always love.

Eric Rhoads

The steam from my coffee mingles with the morning mist rising from the lake, both carrying the scent of pine and the faint diesel exhaust from boats already heading out for their final summer adventures.

My uncovered legs prickle with goosebumps — a faithful companion during these last days in shorts before autumn stakes its claim. The metallic taste of cool air hints at change, while the sweet aroma of lake water and sunscreen still clings to the dock chairs around me.

The joy-filled screams of children on tubes behind speedboats pierce the morning quiet, their laughter echoing off the water as the wakes break the mirror-like surface. They’re grabbing one more ride, maybe two, before this holiday weekend draws summer to its inevitable close. This is the sound of a perfect summer. 

Later today, friends we’ve known for decades — some for every summer of their lives since they were children — will gather for our traditional lake-wide farewell ceremony, awarding sailing trophies and sharing hugs that must sustain us until next June, knowing some embraces may be our last after all these years together.

The Rhythm of Tradition

While the holiday weekend signals departure for most — back to schools and jobs and the urgent pull of ordinary life — we’ll linger a bit longer, held by responsibilities that call us away slowly rather than all at once. But there’s something profoundly moving about being part of a lake tradition that spans 120 years and multiple generations, like adding another ring to an ancient tree.

A Rite of Passage

My father didn’t just create family memories, he built a rite of passage that flows through me to my children, and perhaps someday to theirs. It’s a legacy measured not in dollars but in compass readings, not in certificates but in the steady hands that learn to dock in any weather.

Storm-Forged Lessons

From my earliest memories, we learned the sacred knowledge: how to untie ropes in a brisk wind, proper boating techniques, how to read water and weather. Each of us had roles when Dad took us on adventures, starting with that small OMC tri-hull — about 15 feet of fiberglass optimism whose innovative hull promised stability in rough seas (a tall order for such a modest vessel). I remember Dad’s pride when we got it, likely used but never diminished in our eyes.

The Worst Day of My Life at Age 10

One stormy day stands etched in memory. Dad, my brothers, and I set out from Port Huron, Ohio, into what seemed like hurricane-force winds. The boat rocked like a carnival ride designed by someone with a cruel sense of humor, while swells towered taller than our small craft. Foolish? Perhaps. But it was training disguised as terror.

We followed a charted course set by the Power Squadron, navigating by compass and charts while rain slammed the canvas top and stressed its aluminum struts. Water hammered the windshield in sheets as the boat pitched violently. “Stay on course,” Dad commanded. “Keep the compass on that spot no matter what.” Each of us took turns at the helm during what ranks among the most terrifying experiences of my life.

The fury of the Great Lakes is the same force that claimed the Edmund Fitzgerald, immortalized in song and maritime legend. Our adventure stretched from morning till evening — an eternity of soaked clothes, chattering teeth, and the profound relief that comes when you finally reach stable ground.

Compass Philosophy

But Dad had given us training for life: Keep your eye on the compass. Set your course, and stay on course no matter what storms arise. When giant waves push you off track, get back on course. Head straight into the waves and navigate through them with balance and purpose.

As Violet Fane wrote, “All things come to those who wait,” though the complete quote offers deeper wisdom: “All things come to those who wait … they come, but often come too late.” Dad understood timing. He knew that patience paired with persistence creates the perfect moment for growth.

Measured Success

Dad’s success was indeed measured in boats — a progression that told the story of hard work and dreams fulfilled. From canoe to rowboat with motor, from the tri-hull to a small cabin cruiser dubbed the Dusty Five — an all-aluminum 28-footer that graduated us from sleeping in the Airstream to cramped but magical quarters aboard the boat itself. (The name? People always referred to us as “Dusty Rhoads” … and there were five of us.)

Those tight quarters housed some of the richest memories of my life. Years led to a 32-foot version, then a 38-foot trawler, eventually a 56-footer, and finally, when we discovered the mountain lakes of the Adirondacks, a classic wooden boat — polished like floating furniture and treated with the reverence it deserved.

The Sacred Vessel

The wooden boat represented the ultimate rite of passage. We could drive any boat solo — except that one. Its high-polish finish and classical lines demanded respect that bordered on worship. Dad would let us drive it with him beside us, even help us dock it (a delicate operation requiring surgical precision), but solo voyages remained forbidden.

The wisdom of this restriction became clear when someone eventually took it out alone, returning with a docking gash that required complete restoration. They don’t patch these vessels; they strip twelve coats of varnish, sand to bare wood, replace damaged sections, and rebuild before applying fresh finish. This explains Dad’s reluctance to grant independence too soon.

Legacy in Motion

Dad wasn’t being stingy — he was cultivating something precious. Before he died, I bought that wooden boat from him, and now the rite of passage continues. I train my adult children in the ancient arts of handling and docking, preparing them for the day they’ll take her out alone and, hopefully, train future generations in turn.

I treasure this tradition he created: having something to anticipate, something special to earn. He reserved the privilege of the proper passing of the baton — not automatically granted at adulthood, but when wisdom and skill had properly matured.

The Value of Waiting

In our age of instant everything, there’s profound value in delayed gratification and earned privilege. Good things truly do come to those who wait, as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow expanded: “All things come to him who waits — provided he knows what he is waiting for.” Dad knew. He understood that keeping our eyes fixed on chosen goals, maintaining course through unpleasant storms, leads us through turbulence to calm seas and eventually to bigger, better opportunities that enrich our earthly experience.

Patience combined with persistence, steadfastness, and focus — these bring the treasures that matter most.

In a world drunk on TikTok’s 20-second promises, we’re seduced into believing treasures should arrive instantly — as if decades of dreams could be delivered through the magic of a marketing funnel. Yet I watched my father’s dreams unfold, one earned treasure at a time, through storms that tested both character and the patience that in turn forged wisdom. Each upgrade wasn’t just a bigger boat; it was proof that weathering life’s tempests makes success taste infinitely sweeter than anything handed to us on a silver platter.

The Bigger Boat

I remember Dad’s words as we passed giant yachts in our tiny fiberglass boat, marveling at their grandeur: “Son, no matter what you achieve in life, someone always has a bigger boat.”

At first, I heard only the caution: Be content where you are because someone always has more. But deeper wisdom lived in those words: Keep your eyes on the compass, keep moving forward, and your own bigger boat will come.

The real treasure wasn’t the boat itself — it was the compass Dad gave us, the one that points not north but toward purpose, patience, and the kind of legacy that spans generations.

As summer fades and another season of lessons draws to a close, I’m grateful for storm-tested wisdom and the compass that still guides us home. 

Eric Rhoads

Through the weathered screen of this old Adirondack porch, Lake Spitfire stretches before me like a mirror, its surface broken only by gentle lapping against a fallen pine that’s become part of the shoreline. The silence is so complete that the ringing in my ears becomes the loudest sound, competing only with the steady tick of the hand-wound clock that has marked time in this camp for 120 years.

I’m not the first to sit in this wicker chair with a warm cup of coffee, watching the lake’s morning ritual. Generations have found their way to this same spot, drawn by the magical escape these mountains offer. I’m not really an owner here — just a temporary caretaker until someone else takes their turn in this chair, continuing a tradition that predates me and will outlast me. Perhaps the only proof of my time here will be the painting hanging over the stone fireplace, slowly darkening with soot from countless fires.

I like it here because I can get lost in my thoughts and just disappear. Have you ever felt invisible? Like if you simply vanished, the world would barely register the absence?

I know that feeling intimately. Years ago, I went from being somebody to being nobody — a particularly brutal transition for men who tie their entire identity to their work. I had sold my three radio stations, put a couple bucks in my pocket, and told myself I was going to buy an RV and travel the U.S.A. visiting friends. There was no pressure to work for a couple of years.

Then came the defining moment that revealed the prison I’d unknowingly built for myself.

I remember walking into an industry convention right after the sale, feeling fairly smug because I had just cashed out. But no one knew, no one cared, and no one knew who I was. I may have been a somebody in my local market, but I wasn’t even a blip on the industry radar. I can still recall the lonely feeling of standing in the back of a cocktail party, not knowing anyone, not feeling confident enough to introduce myself, wishing I wasn’t there because back then I hated social situations. The irony wasn’t lost on me — I had a big bank account, yet it bought me no confidence whatsoever.

Do you have moments you remember feeling awkward or out of place? Standing in that room, I made myself a promise: “One year from today, everyone here will know my name and want my attention. One year from today, I’ll be so confident that I’ll be on stage in front of all these people, getting their attention as one of the best speakers they’ve ever seen.”

Being a “nobody” drove me to become a somebody. Again.

Here’s what’s fascinating about powerful motivation: When we have it, the universe seems to conspire to make things happen. I bailed on the RV dream, immediately started a new business, and ended up owning a struggling trade publication. I declared myself publisher, wrote a weekly column and, just like my bold prediction, found myself on stage a year later. Thanks to training and help from my friend Roy Williams, I delivered a fire-and-brimstone speech so strong that failure would have ruined my career. But I nailed it, got a standing ovation, and that became the moment I transformed from nobody back to somebody.

I’m sure any psychologist reading this would have a field day with my psychology. The healthy response would be not needing to be somebody, and just being myself. But that drive to be appreciated, rooted in some deep need for validation, was everything to me. It’s the same drive that makes people build great things, and that defining moment helped me understand what I thought I needed in life.

But here’s the uncomfortable truth I’m only now beginning to understand: That need to be somebody wasn’t really about professional success. It was about something much deeper.

Growing up, my father often pressured us to take over his metals business. It didn’t interest me — I was drawn to creative work, and the thought of a life buried in manufacturing felt like a death sentence. So I chose radio, telling myself I wanted to be my own man, control my own destiny. Yet even as I rejected his business, I spent my entire adult life desperately seeking his approval, measuring my success against his achievements, trying to prove I was worthy of his respect.

I once hired a woman who took a $150,000 pay cut to work for me in a $50,000 position she was passionate about. She’d become a lawyer because her parents expected it, earned her degree, and landed a position at a prestigious firm. Within two years, she was miserable, knowing she couldn’t imagine doing this work for the rest of her life. The job didn’t match who she was, but she told me the hardest part wasn’t leaving the money behind — it was telling her lawyer father she was quitting.

Her story is my story. It’s probably your story too.

The cruel irony is that in refusing to work for my father, I ended up working for his ghost my entire life. Every business decision, every public speaking engagement, every moment I needed to be “somebody” was really me trying to prove to a man who loved me unconditionally that I was worthy of that love.

I now suggest my kids might want to carry our business legacy forward, but I don’t push, because I want them to do what makes them feel genuinely special — not what makes them feel like they’re somebody in others’ eyes. I’ve learned the difference.

The question that haunts me from this old wicker chair, watching the morning light dance on Lake Spitfire, is this: How much of our drive to be somebody is really about being ourselves, and how much is about proving ourselves to people who probably already accepted us exactly as we were? My dad always told me he was proud of me and even told me he thought I had become more successful than he. Perhaps he sensed the competition and wanted to let me know everything was good.

The most successful people I know aren’t driven by the need to be somebody. They’re driven by the joy of being exactly who they are. The rest of us are just performing in a play written by our insecurities, hoping for applause from an audience that may not even be watching.

What play are you performing? And more importantly — who wrote the script?

Eric Rhoads

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