I’ve been thinking a lot about you, dear reader—about how our lives have become intertwined through these words we exchange. Some of you have been with me since I was a cop writing for the Chicago Sun-Times. Others found your way here after hearing me speak at a conference. However you arrived, you’re here because something I said had an impact—and I feel an immense responsibility in that.
Lately, I’ve been reflecting on how we each carry our stories.
Picture your life as a piece of art hanging on the wall. It was once a blank canvas with a bright, white backdrop. Your life experiences are the paint and the brush that add color to it. Every stroke builds the backdrop that signifies your existence.
When you look at this painting—your life—can you see the multiple iterations that have taken place? Can you zoom out far enough so your eyesight blurs the fine lines and single strokes of daily routines to reveal another vantage point? Can you see the evolution? Maybe it reveals itself like a time-lapse, where subtle changes have resulted in a landscape nearly unrecognizable from its early scenes.
To those who have stayed with me as my own painting has morphed, thank you. You leaned in when the original version was a police officer and chief. And you haven’t turned away as I’ve stepped into an unfamiliar landscape—as a speaker and author trying to serve others through lessons on optimism and disruption, most of which I’ve learned by failing and falling short.
What a gift to have your attention right now. It’s vulnerable and remarkable to string these words together for you. You should know: I sat down to write this feeling enthusiastic and confident, and everything that poured out was garbage. I erased most of it and started over many times, chasing the perfect words.
And then I realized—chasing perfect words (or perfect anything, for that matter) is a waste of time. Because there is no such thing. Sure, words have the power to move us to tears, rage, or joy. But we’ll never agree on what is objectively “perfect.” Just like the painting of your life. It’s messy, and it’s brilliantly you. It’s not perfect. And it’s not finished.
No matter how long you’ve been at it—no matter how many brushstrokes have layered over one another, some intentional, others messy or misguided—you are still holding the brush.
You get to decide what colors you add next.
What I’ve come to understand is how much we allow others to contribute to our painting. Some add beautiful colors and textures. Others… not so much. And even the well-intentioned? They project their interpretations onto your canvas. We bend ourselves trying to fit their templates of who they think we should be.
Recently, someone called me a “self-help speaker,” and I cringed. I’m not qualified to help you. I’m just trying to help myself. And if you can pull something useful from my flailing and fumbling, then maybe that helps you too.
We’re all just trying to get better. I don’t have any more answers than you do.
I’ve also been called a “motivational speaker,” and I’m still trying to decide how I feel about that. Because I don’t believe I have any special power to motivate you. That’s all you. But if something I say inspires you to blow the dust off your brushes and start painting color into your life again, then I’d be elated—and honored—to be your muse.
But let’s be clear: you are the artist.
You get to repaint the corners you’ve ignored. Shade over the moments that no longer serve you. Start over if you must. The lie we’re sold is that once we’ve chosen a path, a job, a relationship—or even a version of ourselves—we’re locked in. But paint isn’t permanent, my dear.
The person you were five years ago doesn’t get to dictate who you are today. And the version of you who wakes up tomorrow? You get to design them.
Sure, there are parts of your painting to be proud of—bold colors that shout your name in confidence. But I’m more interested in the spaces you’ve left untouched. The areas you tried to smooth over with quiet compliance because you were afraid of being too much or not enough.
I’ve been studying disruption lately. And I’ve come to realize that my obsession with it is a result of what I’ve done to my own canvas. I’ve smudged it. Scratched it. I’ve layered unexpected textures over the top. Sometimes I’ve torn it down altogether.
Because you are a living, breathing, becoming work of art. The masterpiece isn’t in the polish—it’s in the process.
And maybe that’s the point. Maybe the purpose isn’t to get the painting right, but to stay in motion. To stay curious about how much more beauty, chaos, and brilliance you still have left to add.
So if you needed a sign, here it is: disrupt the canvas. Add something new. Strip away what no longer belongs. Embrace the fact that you are not finished—and be grateful for that. Because the world doesn’t need another perfect picture. It needs you: bold, messy, and becoming.
Onward and upward, my fellow disrupters.
