We all live in the small world of what we know. The human brain is a miraculous problem-solver, but it’s also intractably confined to its own experience. Yet we make decisions based on our own limited experience all the time—and with great confidence. It would be hard to operate in this world if we didn’t.

But speedy judgments can often be wrong, because we don’t know all there is to know about a subject. Our minds constantly use what Daniel Kahneman calls “substitution.”1 We translate complexity into a smaller problem within the boundaries of our paradigm. “How many apples are consumed in your town every month?” becomes, “How many people are in my town and how many apples do I usually consume in a month?” We know the number will be wrong, but it feels like a good estimate. “Besides, I’ve got more important things to do than worry about apples. I don’t much care for them.”

However, if you sell apples for a living, your estimate is likely to be much better, and of course you would very much care—in fact, apples might define a great deal of your world.

The way to form a bigger mental world is through other people. We travel to experience other cultures, we take classes taught by people who specialize in subjects we’re little acquainted with, we read books, we talk and debate. Our awareness grows.

In older times, such interactions often took place in a “common”: a central place where the village well was, for example—where people naturally gathered and conversed with neighbors. People interacted: connected, flirted, argued, etc. Common lands were grazed and common forests were logged and hunted, owned by townships that shared and managed them. Because people have different wants and needs, it wasn’t easy, but it forced people to come together and make decisions. It was a form of democracy honed out of cooperation, responsibility, and mutual respect. It was a construct that forced people to work together, over and over again, to solve their shared concerns.

Commons have changed and transformed over the years. Through the middle of the twentieth century, commons looked more like civic organizations which coordinated local action, such as Rotary, Kiwanis, Jaycees, the Elks Club, the Moose Lodge, churches, etc. Before television grabbed hold of every evening and long before social media inspired the ability to sit at the same restaurant table totally in our own worlds, people got together much as they did at the town well (or the company water cooler) and talked. Part of that talk was finding good things to do to benefit one’s community. The United Nations was started with a similar goal—rather than fighting wars, why don’t we get together and figure out better solutions?

With the rise of neoliberal politics, the commons became an inconvenience. The problem was it’s hard to act solely in your own interest when people in general know better, unless you can shut them up. The easiest way to do that was to turn them against each other. Notice Thatcher’s choice of words, “people look to themselves first,” not “people tend to look out for each other.” Well, if they have nothing in common, why should they?

We’ve accepted a broken narrative of what’s possible. There is government and business and charity, but society was no longer considered a player in impacting the world. Want to be responsible to fellow human beings? Then work hard, pay your taxes (unless you can avoid it), and give to institutions that specialize in causes you care about. Fight for what you think is right and avoid uncomfortable conversations. Socialize with those economically and ideologically aligned, and even then, keep conversations light and shallow.

The first step in gaslighting someone is to isolate them. The second is to control the narrative. Shrink their world to a size you can control. If you can, keep them so busy with nonessentials that talking about essentials is exhausting. Don’t worry about things like your neighbors being hungry, there are institutions to take care of that. If your neighbors are still hungry, criticize the institutions. Escalate emotions. Blame and shame. Make compliance comfortable and questioning inconvenient and uncomfortable. Facilitate discord by encouraging “either-or” thinking and discouraging the “both-and” thinking that builds consensus.

If we don’t want to be ruled by the manipulative few, we need to find a better way to do democracy. We must do the deliberate work of connecting to build common understandings rather than lazily default to the disconnection that breeds discord. I like how William Ury says it in his book, Possible:

The real problem is not conflict but rather the destructive way we deal with it. . . .

Transforming conflict is larger than reaching agreement. It means transforming the way we deal with one another and our differences. It means transforming our relationships.2

I have to disagree with Prime Minister Thatcher. Society does exist, but not in the way we’re currently doing it. We must put relationships before difference and work together for common interests. It’s time to rebuild the commons.

“We belong to each other.”
—Gregory Boyle, Tattoos on the Heart

I didn’t expect a book club to quietly rewire the way I see the world, but that’s exactly what the Travel on Purpose Book Club has done for me since early 2023. Fourteen books in, I’ve walked the streets of Los Angeles with a Jesuit priest, sat with global innovators rethinking capitalism, and now find myself in a small-town narrative that feels surprisingly universal.

At first glance, Tattoos on the Heart by Gregory Boyle, Manifesto for a Moral Revolution by Jacqueline Novogratz, and Theo of Golden by Allen Levi seem worlds apart. Yet together they form a compelling invitation: Expand your moral imagination—and then do something about it.

In Tattoos on the Heart, Boyle brings readers into the world of gang intervention in Los Angeles through stories marked by humor, heartbreak, and grace. His central insight is radical kinship. He does not approach people as problems to be solved, but as human beings to be known. Again and again, Boyle shows that transformation begins not with programs or pressure, but with proximity. When we move close enough to another person’s pain, labels lose their grip. “Us” and “them” become simply “us,” and life and its challenges becomes something we do together.

Theo of Golden moves at a quieter pace, but its wisdom is no less powerful. Allen Levi’s novel traces the hidden intersections of ordinary lives in a small town, revealing how much can happen beneath the surface of everyday routines. The book reminds us that every person carries a story worth hearing. Often, healing begins when someone slows down long enough to notice, to ask, and to listen.

If Boyle and Levi awaken the heart, Novogratz equips the hands. Manifesto for a Moral Revolution is both challenge and roadmap. She argues that markets, capital, and leadership can be redesigned to create human flourishing rather than simply accumulate wealth. She reimagines capitalism not as something to abandon, but something to redeem.

Rather than offering theory alone, Novogratz emphasizes the leadership practices that matter most: start before conditions are perfect; listen deeply to people closest to the problem; examine your blind spots; build trust patiently; measure what truly improves lives; and stay committed for the long haul. Her message is clear: empathy without action is incomplete.

Across all three books, leadership is reframed. It is less about authority and more about presence. Less about commanding and more about convening. Boyle models leadership through connection. Novogratz through responsibility. Levi through quiet faithfulness. Each suggests that change begins when we learn to see people—and systems—differently: not as machines to optimize, but as living ecosystems that either nourish dignity or diminish it.

We are living in a moment where division is easy and disengagement is the norm. It is simpler to scroll past problems than to step into them. But these books insist that another path is possible. They remind us that proximity changes perspective, listening builds dignity, and small, consistent actions can create lasting change.

By expanding our moral imagination, we are able to see another person’s struggle as connected to our own, and then act accordingly.

We need a shift in mindset—from systems designed primarily to maximize profit to systems built for human flourishing. We cannot make that shift while isolated from one another. Cynicism divides. Solidarity repairs.

If there is one unifying call across these works, it is this: move from “What’s in it for me?” to “What can we build together for others?” That change sounds small, but it reshapes how we spend, lead, vote, travel, and define success.

This rebuilding of connection and shared responsibility is echoed in the Aspen Institute’s Social Fabric Project called Weave, founded by David Brooks. Weave highlights “weavers”—ordinary people who strengthen communities through relationships, trust, and steady acts of care. It’s a living example of moral imagination in action, reminding us that social change doesn’t only come through institutions, but through individuals who choose to show up for others.

So here is my challenge, both to myself and to you: start small, but do not stay there. Read one book that stretches your worldview. Listen to someone whose story differs from yours. Support organizations that prioritize people over profit. Build a platform—however modest—from which you can serve, organize, advocate, and encourage others.

A better world will not emerge from isolated gestures alone, nor will it be handed down by the powerful. It is built when people refuse to remain divided, choose to act locally, and find their voice globally. The big forces of our time often prevail when communities are fragmented. Our task is to become indivisible.

Expanding our moral imagination is not optional. It is essential. We need the willingness to see more clearly, listen more deeply, and act more courageously—together.*

*I also highly recommend Vivek Murthy’s book, Together: The Healing Power of Human Connection in a Sometimes Lonely World.

How does it work? This short video illustrates the practices:

When I worked for a small publisher, I used to love titling meetings. We’d get the whole team together—marketing, sales, editorial, author relations, production, and the publisher—and we’d brainstorm ideas until we came up with what we thought was the best title for the book in question. It was rapid-fire, random, and often filled with laughter, as no idea was off the table. It was the essence of what makes collaborative creativity fun.

But then things changed. What happened?

We had a really successful book.

All of a sudden, we thought we knew what we were doing. We had accomplished brilliance, and though it was a team effort, each department was eager to point to their contribution. Was it the innovative cover? Was it the cool layout? Or was it actually the content? There was often a bit of tug-of-war between marketing (who had overseen the design) and editorial—and sometimes sales or leadership were involved.

In the coming months (before our parent company rewarded our success by selling us off and everyone losing their jobs), we tried to stay innovative and cutting edge, but projects flopped. We’d have disagreements with authors or their teams. Hierarchy in the company became slightly more rigid. It was subtle, but looking back, I see it now clearly—and how those of us near the bottom of the command chain (I’m speaking for myself here), became a bit more rebellious.

How this showed up in the creative, playful chaos of titling meetings was that ideas became a competition more than a collaboration. It suddenly mattered who came up with the idea more than how good it was. It became an unwritten rule that if one department’s title was chosen for a book, then it would have to be a different department for the next.

Divisions grew beneath the surface.

Had we not been sold off, I’m not sure what would have happened. I can only imagine it wouldn’t have been pretty.

Saved by the guillotine? Possibly.

I’ve thought about that subtle shift time and again in the decades since and wondered about it. What happened to us? Why was creative success something of a death knell for our creativity?

Recently I stumbled across a Freudian term that I think explains a good part of it. It’s called, “the narcissism of small differences.” Though you’ll find different takes on it, it’s basically the idea that when people become closer, small differences become more pronounced, and disagreement and separation become easier than collaboration and consensus. It’s the diabolical trap of thinking there’s more different about us than the same. The need to “stand out” and be “respected” overtakes the need to actually accomplish anything. A secret tally is kept, so that when one starts to rise up, the other acts to bring them even again. It seems to happen just below awareness without anyone realizing it is happening—like a dam letting water out of a lake to keep it at a certain level. There’s no intention involved; it’s just something our brains do to defend our identities.

And if we let it, it gets in the way of the brilliance that can only happen in collaboration. It becomes an impasse.

In order to maintain one’s “sense of self,” it begins to matter who gets the last word, who make decisions, and whose ideas win the day. It’s about getting recognized as the smartest person in the room, or the loyalest, or whatever reinforces your sense of significance. And the saddest thing is it exposes how fragile we truly are.

If we never grow past it, it becomes a roadblock not only to creativity, but also to solving big problems. Identity becomes a destination rather than a waypoint. Ego trumps growth—and eventually, even purpose.

Falling into competition vs. collaborating can block a team’s or community’s ability to innovate . Debates become endless cycles. Being “right”—which is tied to identity—matters more than actually accomplishing anything of substance. We’d rather shout our opinions than listen to anyone else’s. We turn everything into either/or dichotomies rather than sort priorities for action. The only way we can know we’re heard is to dominate the conversation. We become great at giving lectures, love Q & As, but are lousy at creating consensus.

Have you ever run into anything like it?

I believe it stems from a loss of curiosity and an uncertainty of our true worth. It’s easier to fight to maintain status than to actually effect change—because, after all, change is really, really hard because listening to others is challenging and sorting the chaos of people’s desires is exhausting.

Power is easy. Love is hard.

But that’s the work of being human.

Society needs people who stay curious and seek collaboration more than contention—who are more interested in finding a way forward together than just shouting how “right” they are. We need to lift up more than puff up.

We shouldn’t be so fragile. We will always accomplish more together than against each other. Plus, it’s a lot more fun. It’s time we stopped running away from the conflicts and run toward them instead. Find common ground, build bridges, engage.

It’s the real stuff life is made of.

According to Princeton social psychologist and Nobel Laureate, Daniel Kahneman, we all have two ways of thinking, a fast way and a slow way. The fast way is classically, “The first thought that popped into my head.” Dr. Kahneman calls this “System 1 thinking,” but we can also safely call it intuition. The other, the slower way, Dr. Kahneman calls “System 2 thinking,” or what I’ll call cognition. I find it interesting how well this parallels with social psychologist Johnathan Haidt’s metaphor of the rider and the elephant. The rider, as I see it, is our cognitive mind, and the elephant, our intuition.

When things are going well, the rider—our conscious, cognitive mind—is in charge; but often we go with our first impressions, and then the elephant—our unconscious, intuitive mind—can’t be stopped from having her way.

This is not to say that intuition is all bad. It helps us in many ways. Malcolm Gladwell wrote on the value of intuition and first impressions in his book, Blink. He begins it with the story of the J. Paul Getty Museum in Los Angeles contemplating the purchase of a kouros, a Greek statue from roughly the time of Homer. The price tag was $10 million. Their experts had been researching it for fourteen months and approved the purchase. Before the final transaction, however, Evelyn Harrison, one of the world’s foremost experts on Greek sculpture, came in to see it. The curator swished the cover off of it and said, “Well, it’s not ours yet, but it will be in a couple of weeks.”

Harrison responded, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

In an instant, she saw what museum staff hadn’t been able to discover in over a year. The statue was a counterfeit.

They called on others of Evelyn’s experience and stature to get their impressions of the statue. They had a similar dis-ease. When asked how they knew it was a fake, their remarks couldn’t be summed up in logical terms until they thought about it for some time. Their first impressions of the statue had simply been an “intuitive repulsion.”[1]^⁠

That’s one of the powers of a well-trained elephant.

However, Dr. Kahneman’s book, Thinking Fast and Slow,[2]^⁠ gives a dozen or so examples of how our intuition fools us. The basic concept can be shown with a simple word problem. (I apologize if you hated these in school. This will probably only make that worse.)

A bat and ball cost $1.10. The bat cost one dollar more than the ball. How much did the ball cost?

What was the first answer that popped into your head? (See the footnote for the typical intuitive response.)^⁠[3] If your answer matches the fast answer in the footnote, that’s perfectly normal. Your mind gave a fast estimate on the basis of what it knows, and for most of us, that would be wrong.

The idea is simple enough to understand. We’re better off if the rider makes most of the decisions, but that takes time and burns calories. Our instinctual mind is a lot like muscle memory and reacts instantly. Allowing it to decide a given direction saves us time and valuable energy.

Think of having to relearn how to tie your shoes every time you got dressed. Then multiply that by the hundreds of actions and decisions you make every day. If we weren’t able to do the vast majority of them based on past learning, we’d be exhausted before breakfast and would never get much done.

So we can’t let the rider walk, as it were. It would take too long and be exhausting, thus riding the elephant is much better and is actually a key to success. And most of the time, it’s perfectly fine. It’s those times when the “elephant really wants to do something, [and] I’m no match for him”[4] that cause us problems.^⁠ It’s fine if the elephant is right, but what about when she’s wrong?

Then it’s good to take a moment and ask the rider what he thinks.

There’s brilliance in that pause, but we’re often too overwhelmed to do so.

And, of course, not everything is worth making that pause. Most things don’t really matter that much. (I mean, who really cares if the ball is $0.10 or $0.05?)

But the ones that do?

Our brains seem to sort what we think into deeper and deeper layers so that our cognitive thinking has space to handle problems on hand. In a sense, like knowing how to tie our shoes, some things are sort of “pre-decided,” and our intuition builds our evaluations on deeply ingrained assumptions that have formed over our entire lives into paradigms and worldviews. The elephant is certainly a lot bigger than the rider, perhaps in the same way that most of an iceberg is underwater.

When we reacted to something, there’s a whole underwater iceberg of things those reactions are based on. Much of that has been learned from the outside world without much conscious choice. It’s more parroted than deduced. Yet the challenge of the future is not to stay stuck in imperfect paradigms, but to understand one another and find better ways to proceed together.

There’re new trails to forge our elephants don’t know. It’s time we get used to pausing to let our riders teach them a better way.

(This is the first in the Elephant Lessons essay series.)

[1] Malcolm Gladwell, Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking (New York: Little, Brown, and Company, 2005), 3–7.

[2] Daniel Kahneman, Thinking Fast and Slow (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2011).

[3] $0.10 is the fast answer. The actual answer is the ball cost $0.05 and the bat $1.05.

[4] Jonathan Haidt, The Happiness Hypothesis: Finding Modern Truth in Ancient Wisdom (New York: Basic Books, 2006), 4.

“Tomorrow, we begin the 32nd Commemoration of the 1994 Genocide Against the Tutsi. It’s a time to remember, reflect, and continue our reconciliation journey.”
—Donatha Gihana, Member of Parliament, Rwanda

Each April, I find myself holding two realities that should never have to coexist.

I celebrate my son’s birthday—born in April 1994, a time of joy, anticipation, and new life in our family. And at the same time, I remember that during those very same weeks, nearly a million lives were brutally extinguished in Rwanda.

I first traveled to Rwanda doing research for my doctorate in transformational leadership—specifically looking at the potential of women as transformational leaders in difficult contexts.

From my research, I learned that after the 1994 genocide, Rwanda was left with a 70% female population. As a result, women became the primary drivers of reconstruction. They led community rebuilding, agricultural revitalization, reconciliation efforts, and established the world’s highest level of female parliamentary representation, rewriting laws that encouraged peace and stability.

It was during that first trip I met Donatha Gihana.

At the time, Donatha was a local changemaker working quietly and persistently in a remote community in the Bugesera District of eastern Rwanda. During the genocide against the Tutsi, it was one of the hardest-hit regions—an estimated five out of six Tutsis were killed there, reducing the population from roughly 120,000 to 50,000 in a matter of weeks.

I visited the District with Donatha, traveling through rural communities where the past is never far from the present. The landscape is strikingly beautiful—rolling hills, open skies, a quiet that can feel both peaceful and heavy. All that beauty belied the not-so-distant past of unimaginable heartbreak.

Yet, what I encountered there was not grief, but resolve.

Donatha had launched a local initiative focused on empowering the most marginalized women—many of whom suffered domestic abuse and lacked access to nearly everything, from potable water to healthcare to education. Her work was deeply relational, grounded in the daily realities of rebuilding lives from both past and present trauma. She worked to build economic opportunity, foster community, and restore a sense of dignity and agency.

Donatha is the quintessential proximate leader. She saw a need and, regardless of a title or financial backing, used all her resourcefulness to address it.

This is where I learned that the most powerful leadership is proximate leadership—grounded in presence; fueled by persistence. It is found in the quiet, often unseen work of helping the people closest to you believe that a different future is possible.

So this month, on the 32nd Commemoration of the 1994 Genocide, I am reminded of Rwanda and the women who continue to shape its future. Donatha, now a Member of Parliament, rallies around her country’s commitment to “Remember, renew, reunite.”

Those three words are more than a theme. They are a framework for healing.

To remember is to resist the temptation to sanitize or forget. In Rwanda, remembrance is intentional. Stories are told. Names are spoken. The past is neither denied nor diminished. It is faced, with honesty and with reverence.

To renew is to do the hard internal work of rebuilding—not just infrastructure, but trust, identity, and moral imagination. After the genocide, Rwanda faced an almost impossible reality: perpetrators and survivors still living side by side. Renewal required a rethinking of what justice, accountability, and restitution could look like.

And to reunite is to move, however slowly and imperfectly, toward one another again.

This, to me, is where Rwanda’s story becomes not just remarkable, but instructive—because reunification is not the natural outcome of violence. Generational hatred is. And yet, Rwanda has chosen a different path.

Today, it stands as one of the most peaceful and prosperous nations in the region. That transformation did not happen by accident. It was intentionally built—day by day, relationship by relationship—through a national commitment to reconciliation that continues to this day.

But what stays with me most is not the macro-level progress. It is the human stories.

It is women in Bugesera finding their footing again, not only as survivors but as leaders in their communities. It is the willingness, in some cases, to extend forgiveness in ways that feel almost beyond comprehension. It is the next generation being raised with a vision of unity that refuses to be defined by the divisions of the past.

Remembering is not passive. Reconciliation is not a one-time event. It is a continual choice.

In a world that feels increasingly divided—where differences are often sharpened into demarcations—Rwanda’s example carries a quiet but urgent message.

Unity is not about erasing differences. It is about refusing to let those differences become the basis for dehumanization.

That truth was recently captured in the words of Artemis II astronaut Victor Glover:

“Seeing Earth from space has made one thing clear—no matter where you come from or how you look…we are one single people…not only by setting aside our differences, but by uniting them to achieve something grand.”

From a distance—whether from space or from another continent—it can be easy to see our shared humanity. The challenge is living that reality up close, in the complexity of our daily lives, our communities, our disagreements.

Every April, as I celebrate my now 32-year-old son, I am reminded of the lesson of Rwanda—that honoring our shared humanity in the midst of our ongoing struggles is where hope resides.

“Travel is the best teacher. This education reminds us that there are a million ways to cook, dress, worship, and speak. As we learn, we grow in character and understanding.”
—Dianne Sivulka, founder of Travel on Purpose

In 2022, I spent a year in Sri Lanka working as a training consultant with USAID in partnership with the Sri Lanka Tourism Development Authority. Much of the discussion centered around sustainability. I believed in the work then. But I didn’t fully understand its impact until I recently returned.

This time, I wasn’t a consultant; I was a guest with Travel on Purpose, an organization committed to changing the way we travel. Their ethos is simple but countercultural: our presence and our travel dollars make an impact, so we should make sure that impact is beneficial to the places we visit.

That commitment shaped everything about this journey.

We walked four stages of the 300-kilometer Pekoe Trail, winding through the rolling hills of Sri Lanka’s breathtaking tea country. We stayed in locally-owned accommodations. We listened more than we spoke. We approached each interaction not as entitled sojourners, but as learners.

The landscapes were as stunning as I remembered. But so was the tension beneath them.

Because beauty and hardship coexist here.

As we hiked through endless rows of tea bushes, we passed women bent at the waist, methodically plucking tea leaves for hours on end. Their labor fuels a $1.25-billion global industry. Their wages? About six dollars a day.

It’s the kind of disparity that has historically attracted outside intervention—well-meaning efforts that too often undermine local initiatives. I’ve seen that model up close. But this trip showed me something different.

It showed me what happens when proximity, dignity, and local resourcefulness take the lead.

In the heart of tea country, we spent four nights in a converted tea bungalow—not a multi-national luxury resort disconnected from its surroundings, but a place rooted in them. The owner, Remus, himself the son of a tea plucker, saw beyond the hardship to an opportunity.

With entrepreneurial vision, he transformed abandoned plantation bungalows into accommodations for hikers traveling the Pekoe Trail. The initiative has created its own local economy by hiring local tradespeople, artisans, chefs, farmers, washers, and household workers. His hotel staff are graduates of a nearby vocational school designed specifically for children of tea-plucking families. These weren’t just employees. Remus was teaching them a different story of what their futures could be.

We visited the nearby vocational school established by the Tea Leaf Trust. Its origin is disarmingly simple. A couple, who visited Sri Lanka on their honeymoon, encountered the realities of tea plantation life and couldn’t look away. What began as compassion became commitment. That commitment became a school.

Today, students there are learning English, computer skills, and vocational training that opens doors beyond the plantations. Some now work in the hospitality industry—including at the very place we were staying.

This is what it looks like when tourism strengthens local economies instead of siphoning from them—when travel dollars stay in the community, creating opportunity with dignity rather than flowing to international conglomerates or even the local rich. It’s what sustainable impact looks like; investing in people who have vision for their own communities.

Our guide throughout the trip, Ayesh, embodied this even further.

On our fourth and final day of hiking, he took us off the trail to visit a small preschool he had helped renovate. The building was basic, but clean, bright, and full of laughter. He showed us where he hoped to one day build a playground.

Not as a distant dream—but as a next step.

By the end of that visit, our group had committed to fund it.

That moment stayed with me. This wasn’t charity. It was simply joining a vision. A local leader saw a need, took initiative, and welcomed partnership.

That’s shared agency in action.

Community-based tourism creates pathways for local entrepreneurship. It elevates proximate leaders. It keeps resources circulating within a community. And it invites travelers into something deeper than observation—it welcomes participation.

Sri Lanka is breathtaking. The emerald-green, manicured hillsides of the tea country roll endlessly into the horizon. Wildlife abounds. Yet there’s so much more than the scenery, the safaris, the pristine beaches, and ancient cultural sites.

There are the innovators reshaping what their country can be by sharing it with others.

A former tea-plucker’s son building a business that employs and uplifts others.
A couple who turned compassion into opportunity for a new generation.
A local guide investing in the dignity of an impoverished community.

These are not side stories. They are the story.

If we want a different kind of world, we need a different kind of traveler.

Organizations like the Tea Leaf Trust are already doing the hard, patient work of building pathways out of generational poverty—through education, respect, and opportunity. They don’t need saviors. They need partners.

And models like Travel on Purpose remind us that how we travel matters.

So before your next trip, pause.

Choose experiences that prioritize people over luxury.
Support locally-owned businesses.
Enter as a guest, not a consumer.
Listen more than you speak.

And when invited, step in—not to lead the story, but to help strengthen the one already being written.

Because the most meaningful journeys don’t just change where we’ve been.

They change how we show up.

“The future belongs to the bridge builders.”
—Bridgely.com

The world is more connected than ever—and yet more morally dissonant. Some children scroll TikTok while others die from dirty water. Hundreds of millions of people struggle to meet their most basic needs while unprecedented wealth circulates elsewhere. Everyone knows this. Poverty statistics are familiar, widely cited, and endlessly discussed. Tens of millions of people from wealthier nations have crossed borders to serve, volunteer, or give in the name of humanitarian aid, development, or mission. Most describe these experiences as “life-changing.”

The harder question remains: life-changing for whom?

This tension sits at the heart of modern cross-cultural philanthropy. Generous people give money, time, expertise, and passion. Governments, nonprofits, foundations, faith-based organizations, and informal networks all engage in efforts to alleviate suffering.

Yet despite decades of work—and real progress in some areas—many current approaches fall far short of their potential and, at times, unintentionally cause harm.

Cultural imperialism has often hidden beneath the language of charity—doing something for rather than with those we’re trying to serve. Well-intended interventions can undermine dignity, initiative, and local leadership. Cross-cultural engagement is too often framed through hero narratives rather than humility; help provided to people instead of in partnership with them. And more often than not, financial pipelines leak needed resources before they ever reach those in need—all while power remains centralized far from the people whose lives are most affected.

These critiques are not new. For years, scholars and practitioners have warned that “helping can hurt,” that charity can become extractive, and that short-term engagement risks becoming poverty tourism. These critiques are necessary. But critique alone is no longer sufficient. What is missing are widely adopted, practical alternatives.

That urgency is what gave rise to the Bridgely Declaration, a call from leaders representing internationally connected nonprofits, mission agencies, and other do-good organizations to radically rethink how cross-cultural generosity operates. The Declaration begins with a clear-eyed acknowledgment: despite decades of effort, the world remains grievously fractured. Awareness is high. Effective action is not.

At the same time, the Declaration affirms something essential: intercultural relationships matter. When rooted in mutual respect, they have the power to heal, connect, and build shared futures. Generosity—whether motivated by faith, ethics, culture, or human solidarity—is a shared human value across traditions. The question is not whether to give or engage, but how to do so in ways that genuinely build capacity rather than dependency.

If concern for vulnerable communities is sincere, if the goal is restoration rather than relief alone, then philanthropy must be guided by a more demanding question: Where is the path to shared agency?

How can we harness the best of what we each have to offer in working toward a common goal?

Answering that question requires innovation and courage from leaders across the nonprofit and humanitarian sectors. Many organizations were designed to function as intermediaries—bridges between donors and communities. Over time, those bridges have become heavy with bureaucracy, cost, and outdated assumptions about who holds expertise and authority. Today, those structures often slow impact and dilute accountability.

Yet the global landscape has changed. Technology, connectivity, and local leadership capacity make it possible to build lighter, more agile, and more localized systems—bridges that transfer power rather than consolidate it.

The Bridgely Declaration articulates six commitments that together represent a fundamentally different model for cross-cultural engagement: dignity, relationships, listening, local-first practices, transparency, and decentralization. These principles are widely endorsed in theory. What has been missing is consistent, structural implementation.

Heather Neely, co-founder of the Bridgely platform, came to this work through personal disillusionment. Trained in the language of dignity and empowerment, she found herself operating inside systems that contradicted those values—systems that controlled relationships, restricted communication, and positioned organizations as permanent brokers of both money and meaning. While leading a fully funded program in Liberia, she encountered visibly malnourished children and an uncomfortable but unavoidable question: Where are the resources actually going?

Unable to reconcile aspiration with reality, Neely stepped away from the sector. Until one day, she was challenged to help build a solution rather than critique from the sidelines.

Bridgely emerged as a response not by inventing new values, but by redesigning the structure itself. Its starting point is simple: if a system does not work first for the local facilitator—the person embedded in the community—it does not work at all. Rather than “giving voice” to local leaders, Bridgely assumes they already have one.

Through clearly defined roles—local facilitators, mobilizers, supporters, administrators, and experts—the platform decentralizes authority while increasing transparency and connection. Local leaders share their own updates, define funding needs, collaborate with experts, and engage supporters directly. Donors see impact in real time. Networks mobilize without ownership. The goal is not perpetual dependence on external funding, but locally-led, locally-sustained initiatives.

This is what decolonization looks like in practice: not abandonment, but trust; not charity as control, but generosity as partnership.

The Bridgely Declaration calls this moment an inclusive disruption—one that invites nonprofits, philanthropic organizations, and global citizens to do better together. It is a call to move beyond good intentions toward shared agency, to redesign systems that honor dignity, recognize local leadership, and allow generosity to achieve what it promises.

At a moment when the world feels fractured by conflict, cynicism, and compassion fatigue, the release of A Goatherder from Rubaya: The Odyssey of an African Aid Worker by François Batalingaya arrives as both a rebuke and an invitation. A rebuke to the idea that change belongs only to the powerful or well-positioned. An invitation to reimagine agency—where it comes from, how it is cultivated, and why proximity to suffering may be the most underrated leadership credential of all.

Batalingaya’s life story asks a deceptively simple question: Given the worst of conditions at birth, what is the potential of a human life?

Orphaned early—his mother gone by age three, his father by third grade, his brother by age twelve—François inherited almost nothing except the two promises he made his father: to go as far in school as possible and to always look after the goats. These promises were not sentimental. They were survival strategies. Education became his way forward; stewardship of the goats, his tether to dignity and continuity, as well as a means of paying his school fees. In a global development landscape that often talks about “beneficiaries” as abstractions, A Goatherder from Rubaya reminds us that any life can make a difference, and that impact often begins with obligation—to family, to memory, to the small responsibilities that teach discipline long before leadership titles are ever earned.

Batalingaya’s trajectory might have ended quietly. He aspired to become a college professor—a life of ideas rather than emergencies. But history intervened. Rwanda’s 1994 genocide shattered any illusion of safety. François and his four-month-pregnant wife, Epiphanie, fled for their lives during one of the darkest chapters of the twentieth century. What followed was not a clean redemption arc, but a series of contingent choices; moments when suffering collided with opportunity to be of use. A chance encounter with a Western NGO did not “save” him; it redirected him. And what he brought with him into humanitarian work was something no résumé can convey: lived understanding of displacement, fear, and moral complexity.

This is where the book’s deeper lessons emerge. François did not become impactful despite his proximity to suffering, but because of it. He always saw his family in the faces of those needing help. He worked in war zones and fragile states not as an external expert parachuting in, but as someone fluent in loss. That affinity allowed him to navigate environments others could not, whether fleeing rebel factions, being held hostage by child soldiers, or traversing jungles and rivers to reach the remotest of communities. Proximity sharpened his judgment. It tempered ideology with humility and urgency with care.

Richard Stearns, President Emeritus of World Vision, captures this rare combination in his endorsement: “If you want to read the story of a real-life hero who walks into danger to help the widow, the orphan, the refugee, and the downtrodden, this is a book for you.” The operative phrase is “walks into danger.” François’s leadership was not performative or distant. It was embodied. And that embodiment earned trust—from communities on the margins and from institutions at the highest levels of global governance.

Perhaps the most instructive aspect of Batalingaya’s story for today’s fractured humanitarian ecosystem is his ability to mobilize diverse interests toward a common good. Over a career spanning GOAL Ireland, World Vision International, and ultimately the United Nations, he learned to translate across worlds: local communities, donor governments, NGOs, and multilateral institutions. He understood that saving lives often requires finessing politics without surrendering principles. His effectiveness lay not in moral purity but in moral clarity; the capacity to hold competing interests together while keeping the most vulnerable at the center.

This is a leadership lesson we desperately need. Too often, humanitarian discourse oscillates between saviorism and cynicism. A Goatherder from Rubaya offers a third way: grounded idealism informed by prioritizing human flourishing, not program scale, grant size, or territory.

Is it more important for an NGO to get bigger or to get better? For example, how are we measuring improvements made to resiliency and creating self-sustaining food systems? The emphasis on numbers emphasizes the value for organizations to go broader, not deeper. I had seen the chaos and disempowerment this competitive attitude creates from my first time working in Liberia to the emergency responses I had been part of in Japan and Haiti. It has certainly left me wondering if there wasn’t a better way.^[1]

Ultimately, this is not just a memoir of extraordinary experiences. It is a manifesto for possibility. It insists that origin does not determine outcome, that leadership can emerge from the margins, and that one life—deeply rooted in empathy and agency—can indeed make a difference. Read it for inspiration. Read it for insight into how humanitarian work actually happens. And then, as the back cover urges, read it as a summons: learn, and then go fulfill your own calling. The world, still waiting, needs leaders shaped by compassion and connection more than ever.

^[1] François Batalingaya, A Goatherder from Rubaya: The Odyssey of an African Aid Worker (Boulder, CO: Clapham House Publishing, 2026), 297.

The problem is not the problem; the problem is how we think about the problem.

—Paul Watzlawick

It was sometime late in 2025 when I first read the term defuturing in Chris Hoff’s blog in Liminal Lab. The term implies a mental block to envisioning the future—as if it is somehow ripped away from us. It seems to happen when fear or other strong emotions make the future an uncomfortable place to imagine.

The term has been echoing in my head, because it captures a phenomenon that we’re all feeling, but seldom able to name. It shows up in the furrowed brows of strangers’ faces, and silent, blank stares in hundreds of conversations every day. I often sense it in what people don’t say. I see it in myself, when it feels difficult to imagine what five years from now will look like, and then I realize that maybe it’s because I don’t want to know.

Defuturing is the weight that the polycrisis of our times has placed on our shoulders—a byproduct of the failing systems and the unwillingness to question the paradigms those systems are based upon. It is increasingly clear how crises of climate change, biodiversity loss, inequality, failing health outcomes, isolation, rising authoritarian-ism, and political polarization—among others—perpetuate each other.

Meanwhile there is a much quieter crisis happening within our own minds, practically invisible and seldom named. It is the grip that defuturing has on our imaginations. In the absence of envisioning a desirable future, we default to a dystopian hellscape straight out of a Hollywood apocalypse movie. It becomes the silent killer of our resolve, our motivation to work for something better, or even the idea that something better is possible. This is the invisible driver of all the other crises, simply because it keeps us quiet, unquestioning, and speechless before our dysfunctional and crumpling confidence in “life as usual.”

Around the same time that I encountered the term “defuturing,” I attended a discussion with Rob Hopkins, hosted by the Good Grief Network, about his new book, How to Fall in Love with the Future. It was the first time in recent memory that I heard someone having the audacity to imagine a compellingly different future. Not one in which we are taking incremental steps toward lowering emissions by a few megatons each year or working on gradual improvements to multiple interconnected problems in reductionist ways, but one in which we fully embrace a transformational way of living on the planet and with each other. What struck me most was not any specific version of the future he described, but the enormous potential of intentionally engaging our imaginations to “time travel” into the future we want to call into being.

We sometimes think that the opposite of dystopias are utopias, but that’s oversimplifying the narrative. In this discussion, Rob Hopkins gave a better word for what we should be aiming for, one that includes the complexity that utopias exclude: throughtopias.

It’s not a picture where everything is perfect, but a picture of how we are actively engaged in doing everything we can to create stronger communities, a healthier planet, thriving ecosystems, and more equitable distribution of resources. There are enough people who already deeply care about what’s happening to the planet that if they all pooled collaborative efforts on behalf of throughtopias, we would find transformation taking place faster than we believe possible.

There will still be disagreement, but we will be stronger communities that can hold disagreement without fracturing. There will still be problems and climate change is likely to be a challenge for generations to come, but if we train our imaginations in the way of throughtopas, we will not stay silent and complicit with failing systems.

Refuturing our imagination is not necessarily about solutions, although that will likely be an outcome. It is an exercise in taking back our creativity from political whims, authoritarianism, budget cuts, and Hollywood. If we are worried that reality is starting to resemble dystopian nightmares, let’s reclaim ownership of the dream. To do that, we must first use our imaginations on behalf of throughtopias that conjure up the world we want to live in. Not everyone will have the same map to get there, but I’ve found most people want the same basic things, like clean air and water, time with family, health, happy and curious children, strong relationships, a sense of meaning, and access to basic needs.

This is how our imaginations can become the renewable source of human potential to power the deep transformation of a vibrant planet and human society. These same imaginations can be, and often are, used on behalf of dystopias. But if they are used more holistically, embracing the complexity of real life, they can help us stay grounded, awake, clear-eyed, engaged, and in touch with our love for each other and the planet.

This is how we unlock the collective creative potential needed to regenerate a broken world.

Last week, Weave: The Social Fabric Project at the Aspen Institute, published a report titled “Social Connection in America: 2025.” It highlighted the widespread social disconnection that has become the norm in America. Less than a quarter of Americans get together with people outside their household even twice a month. A majority of Americans report never volunteering within their community or participating in civic or social groups. More than 40 percent of adults report feeling lonely, and nearly as many say they lack consistent emotional support.

These numbers are more than data; they point to a breakdown of structures wherein people connect deeply, care for one another, and take shared responsibility.

The report breaks social connection into three components—structure, function, and quality—and across all three, Americans are struggling. We are meeting less often, relying on one another less meaningfully, and experiencing more stress in the relationships we do have. What’s eroding is not just connection, but the infrastructures that once made it possible. Yet the Weave project highlights that the desire for deep connection remains—and so do opportunities. The question is whether our institutions and systems are designed to support, rather than hinder, this kind of relational work.

This is where the new frontiers of commoning come into view. Commoning is more than community. It refers to organizational forms and infrastructures that extend the life-giving dynamics of the commons—shared resources, trust, and mutual care—into everyday life. Commons scholar David Bollier argues that commoning represents a new paradigm for economics, politics, and culture, pointing toward a “commonsverse” where people collectively steward resources, responsibilities, and relationships. In this vision, resilience and connection are not side effects—they are the system’s purpose.

Commoning aligns with living systems design. Living systems are adaptive, relational, and regenerative. They thrive through feedback loops, local knowledge, and shared responsibility. They are not optimized for speed or efficiency alone, but for resilience over time. In organizations and communities, a living system design shifts the focus from managing people as resources to cultivating conditions where relationships, ecosystems, and human dignity flourish.

Commoning does the same: it embeds participation into the system itself, making trust, reciprocity, and stewardship structural rather than optional.

The erosion of social connection is systemic. Institutions that centralize authority and isolate decision-making have left many people without meaningful roles in shaping their environments. Disconnection is not accidental; it is a design outcome. Commoning restores people as contributors rather than clients, stewards rather than spectators, and cultivates spaces where relationships deepen through shared responsibility.

But commoning cannot thrive without a transformation in leadership.

In her Manifesto for a Moral Revolution, Jacqueline Novogratz argues that the failures of our time are not technical, but moral. Scale without accountability deepens inequality; innovation without empathy produces harm. What is required, she insists, is proximate leadership—leaders close enough to be changed by what they see, hear, and experience. Proximity is not sentimental; it is a practical and moral necessity for any system that depends on human relationships.

A commons cannot be stewarded from afar. It relies on trust, cooperation, and ongoing negotiation—all of which must be practiced locally. Proximate leaders do not stand above the system; they stand within it. They receive immediate feedback, witness consequences firsthand, and adapt as conditions evolve. This kind of leadership, paired with commoning, creates systems that are resilient, regenerative, and morally grounded.

The Weave report highlights a striking paradox: Americans are interacting less frequently, yet even the relationships they do maintain often feel stressful or insufficient. Connection alone is not enough. Trust is eroded by interaction without shared purpose. What is missing are structures that allow relationships to deepen through mutual problem-solving. Commoning provides that structure.

Across the country, we already see examples of the commonsverse in action: cooperative enterprises, community-led schools, faith-rooted social initiatives, and place-based economic ecosystems. They may appear small compared to national institutions, but living systems theory reminds us that resilience begins not at scale but at the nodes where people practice collaboration, navigate conflict, and experience themselves as necessary to the whole.

Novogratz’s call for a moral revolution is inseparable from this kind of design thinking. Morality cannot survive on personal virtue alone; it must be embedded in the infrastructures that shape daily life. When systems reward extraction, even well-intentioned leaders are pulled toward harm. When systems are designed for regeneration, acting in the common good becomes the norm.

Commoning, lived through proximate leadership, operationalizes this moral imperative.

Of course, commoning is challenging. It resists the illusion of control. It requires patience, conflict navigation, and comfort with complexity. Living systems are inherently messy, and proximity removes the protective distance that often shields leaders from accountability. But this discomfort is not a flaw—it is how living systems learn and thrive.

At the frontiers of commoning, success is measured differently: not only by outputs, but by trust; not only by growth, but by resilience; not only by innovation, but by dignity. Social connection is not a soft outcome; it is foundational. Without it, no expertise, technology, or capital can sustain a healthy society.

The new frontiers of commoning are not elsewhere. They are emerging wherever people choose proximity over distance, stewardship over extraction, and relationship over transaction. They call us to be close enough to be changed, to embrace the moral and practical responsibility we share for one another and the systems we inhabit.

The Talmud tells of two men who set out to cross a desert. One runs out of water and asks the other to share his. Upon looking, the one with water remaining realizes he has just enough to finish the journey. If one drinks it, the other will die; if both drink, both will die.

What is the moral choice?

The teaching states that the one with the water has the moral obligation to survive. Being the better prepared of the two, he should not forfeit his own life—nor should he sacrifice both of their lives—for the sake of principle.

It’s a brutal teaching, but it has a certain Darwinian logic to it. The one wise enough to bring sufficient water is the fittest to survive.

The way we run our economies today seems to agree with this teaching. Profits go to the cleverest, most skillful, hardest working, best planners, or whatever it is that leaves them with enough while the other has too little. Harsh as it is, that’s the morality of the market. The spoils go to the victor.

But what if we changed the parable slightly? What if the one has twice as much as he needs? What if he had three times as much? How about 150 times more?

Obviously, then, it should be no sacrifice for the one with more than he needs to share so both survive.

Having more than enough changes everything. It resets the cold logic of the parable. It changes the ethical landscape.

In a lot of ways, the desert of the parable could be used as a metaphor for life. We’re all on a journey through it, and we all need supplies along the way. And, at the end, we all leave the supplies of this life and journey on with nothing to whatever is next.

So, given a chance, wouldn’t it be better to help another along the journey rather than just dying with many, many times more than we need?

A caveat to add is that research shows, in the end, our possessions—especially more things that we can enjoy—are not what make us happiest in life. In The Good Life, the current directors of the longest scientific study of happiness ever undertaken, Robert Waldinger and Marc Schulz write

that people who are more connected to family, to friends, and to community, are happier and physically healthier than people who are less well connected. People who are more isolated than they want to be find their health declining sooner than people who feel connected to others. Lonely people live shorter lives.1

In their book, The Spirit Level: Why Greater Equality Makes Society Stronger, Richard Wilkerson and Kate Pickett point out that illnesses tend to be at the extremes of income and less in the middle.

[As countries start to get richer] The great infectious diseases—such as tuberculosis, cholera or measles . . . gradually cease to be the most important causes of death. As they disappear, we are left with the so-called diseases of affluence—the degenerative cardiovascular diseases and cancers.2

The “diseases of affluence” tend to be those connected with chronic stress and the lack of the social connection to which Waldinger and Schulz point.

And then how much is it worth not to have to put bars on your windows and require 24-7 security for your home because you’re afraid of being robbed? Many point to crime as being a problem of law and order, but could it more easily be explained as a problem of some having too little? Wilkerson and Pickett show there’s less crime the less inequality that exists, and that higher incarceration rates show little connection with decreasing criminal activity.3

The lowest inequality in recent US history was as the 1960s closed. Since then, the gap between rich and poor has steadily widened. During this same period, the buying power of wages has been relatively stagnant while the top percentage earners have a far greater share of America’s wealth.4

This divide is far from only in the United States, either. In his 2002 Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech, Former President Jimmy Carter pointed to income inequality as the greatest challenge of the 21^st century.

The results of this disparity are root causes of most of the world’s unresolved problems, including starvation, illiteracy, environmental degradation, violent conflict, and unnecessary illnesses that range from Guinea worm to HIV/AIDS.5

That the rich grow richer and the poor poorer is not a moral aphorism, it’s an observation of how economic systems tend to work. All things being equal, the most prepared and talented win, and they deserve the spoils of victory. But how many times more? Should we really let it happen to the point they leave others to die in the desert? That society suffers for it? That they suffer for it?

Or is there a better way to play the game of money? One where we all live healthier physically and socially?

If you have more water than you could possibly ever drink, isn’t there something better to be done with it than just storing it away from everyone else?

The issue today is that, too often, we’re not recognizing and thus not investing in proximate innovators working in underserved communities, meaning their innovations may never quite reach the depth and scale needed for systemic change.
—Alex Amouyel, Executive Director of Solve

Years ago, I sat with a local leader in a rural community on the outskirts of Kigali, Rwanda. We sat inside the training center she had built, accompanied by some of the women she had mentored, and several of the girls she had kept in school over the years. There were no consultants present. No five-year strategy. What was there was deep knowledge of the community, trust built through abiding relationships, and an ability to sense what was possible even when resources were scarce. Proximity was the context that gave rise to this profoundly transformational leader.

Leadership that transforms often shows up quietly—in a conversation over a meal, on a walk through a community talking with neighbors, in the moment someone finally feels seen rather than studied. Real leadership begins much closer than we tend to admit.

Leaders who practice proximation don’t pretend to have easy answers; they simply ask better questions. They stand where others stand. They let go of the illusion that authority comes from distance, and discover instead, credibility grows from care.

Yet we live in a moment that rewards distance. That glorifies data and algorithms over real-life human outcomes. Opinions travel faster than understanding. It’s easier than ever to analyze a problem without ever entering it. But leadership that operates from afar almost always misses something essential. That’s where the power of proximation comes in.

Proximation is the choice to move closer rather than pull back. It’s leading from within the lived realities of others instead of hovering safely above them. It means trading certainty for curiosity and efficiency for presence. In uncertain times, it may be the most undervalued leadership skill we have.

I’ve watched leaders make sweeping decisions about communities they’ve never visited, people they’ve never met, and realities they only understood through reports. The plans were smart. The language was polished. And almost every time, the outcome fell short—not because the leaders lacked intelligence or good intentions, but because they lacked proximity.

When leaders misunderstand context, their conclusions don’t just miss the mark—they can do real harm. They can leave a situation worse than it was before, causing people to lose hope, trust, and agency. Many well-funded initiatives fail because they are designed from a distance. They work on paper, but not on the ground. The problem isn’t execution; it’s perception. Proximity reveals the gap.

Yet the most proximate leaders are often the most overlooked—especially in the Global South. Many of the world’s most innovative, adaptive leaders are navigating instability every day. They’re responding to climate disruption, political change, and economic volatility not as abstract challenges, but as daily realities. Their leadership isn’t theoretical. It’s lived.

Unfortunately, global systems often treat these leaders as recipients rather than architects—as implementers rather than visionaries. That’s a mistake. Leaders who are embedded in context often see possibilities long before they are visible elsewhere. This “knowing how to see” is what Leonardo da Vinci called sapere vedere—not just noticing what’s obvious, but perceiving what’s underneath and what’s emerging. It means paying attention not only to what is broken, but to what is quietly taking shape.

Too many leaders see only what is measurable. But some of the most important things—trust, fear, hope, resilience—rarely show up on dashboards. You only encounter them when you’re close enough to listen and stay long enough to be changed by what you hear.

Of course, proximity is uncomfortable. It slows us down. It challenges our assumptions. In times of uncertainty, the instinct is often to retreat—to simplify complexity, to surround ourselves with people who think like us, to lead from language rather than presence. Distance can feel safer.

But truly transformational leaders do the opposite. They move toward the tension. They stay close when things get messy. They allow themselves to be changed before expecting change from others. That kind of leadership takes courage—the courage to admit we don’t see everything clearly yet.

And that matters, because leadership that refuses to be changed rarely changes anything else. Proximate presence exposes blind spots. It softens hardened judgments. It expands imagination. It reminds leaders that the world is more complex—and more hopeful—than their first conclusions suggested.

In the end, the power of proximation is the power to see clearly in a world that is still becoming. Leadership without presence becomes noise. Vision without context becomes ideology. Strategy without proximity becomes control.

If we want to lead wisely in uncertain times, we don’t need louder voices or faster decisions. We need closer listening. The future will not be shaped by those farthest from disruption, but by those navigating it every day. We need leaders willing to draw nearer—to people, to context, to the emerging possibilities right in front of them.

Because when we truly learn how to see, we don’t just understand the world as it is, we begin to recognize the world as it could be. And that vision—born of proximity and shaped by presence—is where real, lasting change begins.

As a Peace Corps volunteer decades ago in the Central African Republic, I learned that development programs without a focus on human agency often fail. When I first arrived in a community to initiate a pharmacy cooperative, for example, the village elders asked what would happen after I left. I explained that those I trained over the course of two years would be equipped to run it independently, as well as train others.

They were skeptical—and rightly so. Without a belief in their own capacity to sustain the project, no amount of training could generate commitment. You can teach skills, but more often what’s missing lies deeper within.

Information isn’t enough. What’s needed is transformation.

Twenty-five years later, I came across a documentary that defined what was often missing deeper within: the internal agency to fully take ownership of a desired outcome. In other words, the belief in one’s ability to effectively respond to and shape circumstances—to take responsibility.

Without agency—without the conviction that “I can”—hope has no foothold.

In 2014, researchers Gail Straub and David Gershon concluded that agency—the ability to act on one’s own behalf—was indeed the “Missing Piece in the Empowerment Equation.” When people believe they can influence outcomes, they engage; when they don’t, they withdraw.

Fast forward to 2023, when Fast Company published an article titled “Embracing the Age of Personal Agency.” It argued that organizations prosper when individuals feel empowered to make choices and drive change.

That idea isn’t confined to business—it’s civic, communal, and spiritual. In a world dominated by news of conflict, polarization, and despair, every leader—formal or informal—has a choice: to perpetuate cynicism, or to model agency by asking empowering, possibility-driven questions.

Sarah White put it succinctly in her 2024 essay, “A Model for Motivating Innovation.” She observed how transformational leaders “encourage, inspire, and motivate people to innovate and create the change necessary to shape the future.”

That’s exactly what we need now—a renaissance of leaders who help others see themselves as key sources of transformation.

Transformational leadership isn’t about being the hero of the story—it’s about guiding others to become heroes in their own. The practice of Appreciative Inquiry, pioneered by David Cooperrider, captures this approach: asking questions that expand a person’s sense of possibility.

When we ask questions such as, “What’s working? What’s possible? What can we build on?” we redirect attention from what’s wrong to what’s possible. This isn’t idealism; it’s neuroscience. What we focus on grows. The questions we ask shape the worlds we inhabit.

As Margaret Wheatley puts it, “We move in the direction of the questions we ask.”

In villages, boardrooms, or classrooms, we change culture not by command, but by curiosity. Because curiosity kindles creativity—and creativity fuels hope.

We need to stay curious. We need to show others the art of seeing “with an appreciative eye, the true and the good, the better and the possible” (David Cooperidder).

In doing research for a Doctorate in Transformational Leadership, I discovered that small shifts in self-perception was a major factor in building leadership efficacy. I identified six key steppingstones along this path, which I translated into a progressive framework represented by the acronym: A.G.E.N.C.Y.

Below are the six key components that cultivate leadership agency from the inside out:

A – Asset Awareness: Focusing on what you have, not what you lack.

G – Growth Mindedness: Believing in your ability to learn and adapt.

E – Emotional Intelligence: Governing your actions and reactions consciously.

N – Negotiating: Advocating for yourself and others confidently.

C – Connecting: Collaborating, convening, and communicating effectively.

Y – Yielding to a greater good: Aligning actions with a higher purpose or “why.”

Each letter represents a developmental shift—from dependency to agency, from self-focus to service. As people strengthen each dimension, they not only enhance their leadership capacity—they become agents of collective hope.

Modeling agency starts with the self. Each day, ask six reflective questions aligned with the AGENCY framework:

1. What do I already have that I can build on?

2. What do I need to learn in order to grow?

3. What do I need to put into practice or exercise more of?

4. What do I need to ask for (for whom should I be advocating?)

5. Who should I connect or collaborate with?

6. What larger purpose can guide my actions?

You can ask these same questions of your team. As leadership philosopher Jim Rohn observed, “Leadership isn’t just about telling people what to do—it’s about expanding your mind and the minds of those around you.”

When we act from this space, we transform leadership from a position into a posture—from authority into authenticity.

In Anne of Green Gables, L.M. Montgomery wrote that Anne’s greatest gift was “the aura of possibility surrounding her . . . the power of future development that was in her.”

That is what modeling agency looks like in practice—walking in an atmosphere of things about to happen. It’s the conviction that, even in despairing times, the boundaries of the possible are wider than they seem.

Now more than ever, the world needs transformational leaders who see differently, ask courageously, and act hopefully.

Here’s to the age of personal agency, and to the quiet revolution that begins whenever one person decides to model what’s possible.

Just what is success?

As a former HR Senior Executive and someone who makes himself available to coach young professionals, it’s a question I’m often asked and have given a good amount of thought.

Many people are looking for measures—the most common are wealth, accomplishment, and fame. When we’re young, these catch our eye, because they’re easy to recognize, and while most careers are partially made of these, I’ve seen time and again they’re insufficient on their own. Wealth doesn’t compensate for broken families or poor health that attacks before it can be enjoyed; fame is fleeting and often a two-edged sword because it suffocates privacy; accomplishments are wonderful, but without a solid sense of purpose, they can lead to endlessly chasing one “win” after another like a dog chasing its tail.

I know that success is not one size fits all, so for me to attempt to provide a definition of success to someone else might look and feel aspirational and motivating on the outside, but it just as easily could be demoralizing, received as judgmental and possibly even arrogant.

As many of the hundreds (if not thousands) of people I’ve known, coached, advised, and led in my career, I’ve seen two common mistakes as it comes to trying to define success. These may be because maybe it’s not as much about a definition as but more a question of perspective beyond looking for certain benchmarks by which to judge your life. I think it’s about seeing it through the right “scope.”

First, many look for success through a telescope. They try and see as far as they can to bring the future into a focus for the present. This is certainly helpful as if you don’t know where you are trying to go or want to visualize what your future may look like, you can end up “anywhere”. However, it’s nearly impossible to bring the future into enough of a focus to make it actionable for today or for the immediate tomorrow.

I know career coaches often ask, “Where do you see yourself in 5-10-15 years?” But what do those answers really reveal? I’ve not ever heard anyone answering, “That’s so far out, I’d be limiting myself and opportunities I can’t yet imagine.” But they did, though, I’d want to hire them.

I’ve seen many people get discouraged trying to view success through a telescope, because it’s not clear enough for them, and they give up and leave their success up for debate, chance, or fate. Their career can drift from job to job, company to company, and years later they have no cumulative summation that has brought them any closer to the success they once looked into the stars to find.

Then there are the people who look for success through a microscope. They go deep into the details wanting to break down each facet into very discreet areas. Again, there is nothing wrong with this, especially if the different facets become actionable.

But, if we end up getting fixated in one area and lose sight of the bigger picture, then the overall success we were seeking can elude us. Worse, we too often delude ourselves to think that the extra hours, weeks, and years doing the same thing is going to somehow release new opportunities. Our heads can stay down and focused in one company, in one function, or even in just one job until one day we lift our heads and wonder where the years have gone.

I was asked at a dinner party about my own career and how I went from a kid in Indiana studying Radio and TV to Silicon Valley, being asked to be on arts councils, working with political leaders, and authoring books. I can now tell the story in less a few minutes, if someone really cares to listen.

That evening, someone remarked, “Your life is like a movie.” I didn’t ask what genre she had in her mind, but I said, “Thank you, and I’m still working towards a happily ever after ending.” That brought a chuckle from the table.

So maybe the best way to view success is through a cinescope. Like the great movie makers, dream up great a story and then, scene by scene, frame by frame , you do your best to bring the story to life, every mindful of the timeframe and the budget.

What is the story we are trying to tell about ourself? What really matters to us? Who are the characters that star in our lives? How much time do we want to spend on any one area or storyline? How much time, energy, and money can we budget to get this life story made?

Just as importantly, what scenes do we need to reshoot repeatedly to get right? Which ones are better forgiving and forgetting and just leaving on the editing floor? Who do we want to be in the film with us? Who can we depend on to help us make it correctly? Who will we enjoy the adventure with the most—both on the screen and behind the scenes?

So I have to think, seeing life through a cinescope is probably the best way to find success.

What is the movie of your life that you want to make?

I hope it is a love story, and that everyone you know recognizes their part in t courageously, authentically, and passionately creating a great story that inspires others to equally great lives.

New ideas can be hard to find, and their value can be even harder to recognize. Every time I read the short parable above, I wonder, “How in the world does a poor man get access to a king to share his idea for saving a city?”

It’s been a problem in every company I’ve ever worked in.

Why? Because it’s often not about the merit of the idea, it’s about who actually sees it as having merit, or as something having potential.

That had to be one open-minded king.

Ideas can come from anywhere, and the more they reveal something unrecognized, the more valuable they can be. However, the more a group with common backgrounds spends time together, the more they tend to think alike. A paradigm is created for understanding each other, and, given long enough, they will be completing each other’s sentences. Like tends to feel comfortable with like, and the more a group spends time together, the more alike they become unless there is a conscious effort to differentiate or actively seek other perspectives. (By the way, this is the danger of committees.)

The litany of companies who have failed because they never managed to think outside their own boxes is infamous. Many of them I am sure you already know. Netflix becoming a DVD delivery service and then morphed into a streaming service unseated Blockbuster. Nokia was disruptive by smart phones. Blackberry passed into obscurity by failing to embrace touch screen technology. Kodak, that actually invented digital photography, was ultimately bankrupted by it, because they couldn’t let go of physical film. Uber and Lyft have both cut into the profits of taxis and limos, and we may soon see services like Waymo replace those. There are dozens of others. (This website lists fifty.)

Calling it groupthink isn’t incorrect, but I think it’s more than that. It’s not just new technology either. It’s the natural laziness (which might better read as “desire to conserve energy for more important things”) of the human brain. “If it’s not broke, don’t fix it.” “It’s not my job.” “That would never work.” “That would be too complicated.” We’ve spent so much time thinking in one direction that changing course seem unfeasible. We’re blind to possibilities.

Even worse, a lot of really great ideas come piecemeal.

I love Stephen Johnson’s example of this with the printing press from his book, Where Good Ideas Come From. It was the combination of four things that had already been invented, a couple to somewhat less than success. Paper and ink had been around for centuries, and the press itself was designed to smash grapes for wine, which it did somewhat poorly. Moveable type had been invented by a Chinese blacksmith some four centuries earlier, but no practical use had yet been discovered for it. However, the combination of the four together in the printing press changed the world as we know it. The proliferation of information that was possible after it made the world we live in today possible.

More recently, Abundance by Ezra Klein and Derek Thompson discussed the constant battle Katalin Karikó had to get funding to study mRNA, a sort of messenger that facilitated the manufacture and transport of specific proteins into a cell and then disappears. Fellow scientists and grant managers deemed it a worthless pursuit, the equivalent of scientific navel gazing. They didn’t see any use for it. Karikó continued to submit grants, though, and eventually ran into Drew Weissman while queuing to use the same photocopier. Weissman was working on an AIDS vaccine, and when they spoke of what they were each doing, they saw potential overlap. The two began collaborating, each bringing vital expertise to the other’s research. When they published their findings, though, science continued to ignore their research.

The private sector, however, was more open minded. A company called Moderna (the name being a combination of modified and RNA) saw potential for medical treatments. BioNTech, which made Karikó a vice president, began exploring its application for curing cancer. Research continued with no approved products, but the two companies still garnered funding because of their promise.

To make a long story shorter, when the COVID pandemic hit, mRNA proved the perfect vehicle for delivering a vaccine to strengthen the immune system against it. Had they abandoned the work because others couldn’t see its value, one of the fastest vaccine developments ever would have taken much, much longer. Who can say how many lives were saved because of it? (Vaccine deniers, of course, don’t see that, sort of emphasizing my point here.)

When others see something we don’t see, it’s easy to doubt them. Efficiency and economy don’t support pursuing things that we don’t recognize as potentially profitable. However, this leaves us always only seeing what’s possible in the short term and limits us to one point of view. In such environments, the poor wise man doesn’t get an audience with the king, and the city doesn’t get saved.

Wouldn’t it have been better if it was, though?

In the late 1700s, many believed that the world economy would collapse without the cheap labor provided by slavery. It seems an archaic and indefensible stance today— which it is—but what will future generations think of the way we run our society and economy? Will we be accused of clinging to practices as indefensible as slavery?

In the years ahead, the world will encounter shifts as tantamount as the ending of slavery. We are the first generation capable of destroying the earth multiple times over, whether through nuclear war or continuing to grow at rates impossible to maintain. If we don’t blow ourselves up or change our ways soon, we’ll be leaving future generations with a planet we’ve plundered for our own wealth and to their demise.

A better way will be forged, but will it be through legislation, as England solved the slavery question, or through bloody calamity, as it unfolded in the United States? There’s no question a change is forthcoming—the alternative is too dire—but will it come through cooperation or catastrophe?

This is a space dedicated to exploring ways we can figure it out without civil war or pushing our planet, economies, and societies beyond another breaking point. While we should never miss the opportunities in crisis, we also don’t have to keep living in a way that will guarantee they happen.

In the pursuit of profit above all, we’ve refused to learn the lessons of slower growth—or even more valuably: steady-state living. For centuries we’ve lived in competition with nature, but now that we’ve won, rather than making peace, we continue to extract what we can through conquest rather than learning the harmony of life around us. We certainly know we have the power to push species into extinction through habitat destruction, but can we learn a way to co-inhabit the world where diversity is a key to survival in every ecosystem?

The idea isn’t necessarily coming up with something new—though this space is open to that as well—but about coming up with ways to communicate ideas to snap us out of the delusions of neoliberal thinking that profit is an acceptable measure of well-being. Our rabid individualism makes too many think the way to happiness is paved by wealth, fame, and accomplishment when we know the real answer is stronger community, better relationships, and finding purpose and meaning in life. (See The Good Life: Lessons from the World’s Longest Scientific Study of Happiness by Robert Waldinger and Marc Schulz.)

It’s our firm belief—as the editors and curators —that the next great breakthrough must be human rather than technological. It doesn’t matter what great innovation comes through next if we can’t learn to get along. Only then will we be able to know how to properly use the brilliant technologies of the next few decades to promote life rather than further threaten it—for ourselves, our neighbors, and future generations.

We would like to use this space to catalog the best ideas for a future of human flourishing combining the best of ancient wisdom, classical values, equitable justice, and progressive change. We need to defuse our political dialogues. We need to find solutions rather than blame scapegoats. We need to come together rather than brace for the next civil—or world—war.

Change is coming. It’s inevitable. The human collective will soon have to figure it out—either through bold cooperation or rebuilding from an inevitable catastrophe. Our hope is that these are not “notes for after the revolution,” but a way to revolutionize our thinking and cooperation so future revolutions aren’t necessary.

We’d like to dedicate our magazine to the work of the late 18th-century social reformers known as the “Clapham Circle.” These influential women and men came together to end slavery in the British Empire; people such as William Wilberforce, William Pitt, and Hannah More. This is a place to gather and change minds so we can all better address the great ethical and existential challenges of our times.

So we are forming our own parliament (in this case, a parliament of owls per our logo), people whose wisdom we appreciate and whose voices we believe should be heard. It’s time to legislate a different kind of change.

With all that in mind, we ask you to please subscribe, return to this space, and reach out if you’d like one of your ideas to appear here and contribute to this vision. There’s no doing this alone. We have a culture to reform, and a commons to rekindle.

Subscribe now

We hope to hear from you, and even more, we look forward to working together in building a society that lives in cooperation and harmony with our planet and each other, rather than in conflict, greed, and discord.

Here’s to building a beautiful symphony that captures hearts and elevates minds.

Thank you for joining us.