Drinking From a Fire Hydrant, Part II: Uncovering the Blindfolds of Leadership

 

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When I first graduated from RN school, the process of entering the nursing workforce was quite different from what it is today. At the time, in California, due to a nursing shortage, healthcare institutions often hired recent graduates to work in telemetry or critical care under emergency or temporary permits. This arrangement allowed new nurses to gain hands-on experience while studying part-time for the NCLEX exam, provided they obtained licensure within a set timeframe to remain accredited in accordance with regulatory standards.

I passed my NCLEX after six months working in the Coronary Care Unit (CCU), only to realize that I was on a heart transplant unit. Our patients were gravely ill, with severely compromised heart function, and many were awaiting transplants.

Needing to be perfect

My early days of new grad residency program were rife with trying to be perfect, accurate, and appear competent in everything I did, of course, under the watchful eye of a veteran preceptor, they new I was green and just short of having enough skill and ability to be dangerous enough to hurt someone. The lesson, then, was that I fell short of perfection and often completed my duties in a less-than-ideal way. Over the years, even as I gained experience, the desire to be perfect remained a persistent challenge. However, maturity has taught me to be honest about my strengths, abilities, and limitations. While competence is important, perfection is a myth. What matters most is showing up authentically, giving your best effort—even if it's imperfect—and modeling that authenticity for those you lead.

Assuming others can do what you can

My good friend, the Sergeant Major, often tells me, “Quit expecting you in other people.” This statement has always resonated with me. We each have our own methods, principles, and practices for approaching work, and that diversity isn’t inherently wrong—unless someone deliberately disregards essential instructions or standards. As my dad used to say, “There’s more than one way to skin a cat.” In other words, there are many ways to get the job done—not just yours—and that’s perfectly okay.

The challenge comes when we assume others can do things the same way we can, especially when delegating tasks or making assignments without considering differences in experience or training. Assigning tasks without understanding someone’s skill set can undermine confidence, particularly for those still learning. To avoid this, I make it a point not to assume others know what I know; instead, I focus on two things: investigating and validating before expecting someone to complete a task independently.

Refusing to disagree

Early in my career, especially while working alongside veteran critical care nurses, I was often described as “a quick learner but lacking confidence.” Honestly, those words stung. I struggled to project confidence, especially in the presence of senior medical attendings, residents, fellows, interns, medical students, and other allied healthcare professionals. My early years in critical care were marked by intense pressure to prove myself, build competence, and meet the team's high expectations. It took years before I became a true resource—a reservoir of knowledge, a preceptor, and someone others could rely on for guidance. That growth was fueled by my intense curiosity and relentless pursuit of knowledge, often spent in the medical library or poring over books and pamphlets. I truly was a novus medicinae studiosus—a student of the medical arts.

Looking back, I realize I often came across as agreeable and rarely challenged the status quo, especially in those early years. In leadership, this can be a double-edged sword. While agreeableness can foster collaboration, unity, and teamwork, it’s equally important to cultivate the skill of constructive questioning. Over time, I learned to approach disagreements not by outright objection, but by thoughtfully asking questions like, “Are we sure about this?” “Is this true?” or “What might we be missing?” This approach encourages open dialogue and critical thinking without creating unnecessary conflict.

Feeling incompatible

Finally, one of the most challenging blindfolds to remove as a leader is the persistent sense of inadequacy that floods my thoughts, emotions, and actions—often more often than I like to admit. I’ve previously shared about the VUCA environment, where our work is volatile, uncertain, complex, and ambiguous on a daily basis. In such conditions, it’s easy to feel unprepared or unable to support others, especially when it seems like others are outperforming you. Although these feelings are often unfounded and untrustworthy, recognizing them is crucial. Using internal dialogue and practicing cognitive reappraisal, as many behavioral psychologists suggest, has helped me navigate and overcome the daily challenge of feeling inadequate.

Together in the struggle,

Brian

Reference:

Wilkins, M. M. (2025). The Hidden Beliefs That Hold Leaders Back. Harvard Business Review, 103(6), 131–135. 

Drinking From a Fire Hydrant, Part I: Uncovering the Blindfolds of Leadership

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In my first six months in a leadership role in healthcare, I often second-guessed my decision and wondered if I had made the right choice. I felt overwhelmed and questioned whether I had bitten off more than I could chew. Before applying, interviewing, and seeking advice for the position, a trusted mentor encouraged me to pursue this opportunity, believing that my core values would make me a good fit. Although I was initially reluctant, her coaching and encouragement inspired me to take the leap.

Often, it takes someone else to see our strengths that we cannot see in ourselves. Our self-reflections are not always reliable, but mentors can draw out qualities that may otherwise go unnoticed. After interviewing and being offered the role, I thought, "Here is my shot; I will make a difference." Yet I humbly admit that in those first few months, I felt out of my league. I remember a co-worker telling me, “Congratulations, you accepted the challenge.” I had no idea how true those words would become. At first, stepping into this new role felt like drinking from a fire hydrant.

All of us can recall those who invested in us—coaches, mentors, parents, and even grandparents. As we grow older, those early-life coaches fade into memory, and if we find ourselves in leadership roles, we are called to coach and mentor others. A friend of mine, a retired Sergeant Major in the USMC, once shared a saying that continues to resonate whenever my internal resolve runs low: Who motivates the motivator?

This question, though elusive, carries deep significance. Those in high-level, influential roles often depend on trusted peers to navigate the unique challenges of leadership. Collaborative coaching among leaders tends to be more lateral and peer-based rather than hierarchical. Leaders also draw strength, knowledge, and encouragement from informal sources—reading books, attending lectures, and engaging with articles by experts in their field.

While conversations with peers can be invaluable, seeking guidance from higher up the chain of command may feel intimidating. Leaders often worry about appearing incompetent or about losing their superiors' confidence. This leads to a continuous internal dialogue—a kind of mental gymnastics—that is far more common than many realize. When the need for support arises, there are practical steps we can take. As author and leadership thinker Muriel Wilkins (2025) reminds us, sometimes we must identify and remove our own blindfolds to move forward. She discusses several types of blindfolds we wear as leaders. The following section is a discussion in which I share my personal insights and experiences.

The need to be on top of everything or exercise command and control

Command and control arise from the feeling that you must always be in charge. For someone like me—a self-starter who prefers to take initiative and not wait for others—this has been a personal struggle. While this approach once demonstrated my reliability, dependability, and accountability to my leaders, I have learned that as a leader myself, it can actually communicate a lack of trust and prevent others from feeling empowered.

I have had to learn to step back, relax, and trust that my team is both capable and prepared to manage situations as they arise. If they need help, they will escalate issues appropriately. Letting go of the reins has allowed others to step up, build their own confidence, and practice self-initiative.

The urgency trap

As a critical care nurse specializing in cardiac care, developing an internal "spidey sense" is invaluable—and, when finely tuned, can save lives. For example, being attuned to subtle changes in patients who seem stable or are beginning to decline is a hallmark of experienced nurses. Many seasoned nurses rely on their "eye test": the ability to notice something off about a patient simply by observation, even before reviewing objective data such as vital signs, laboratory results, or imaging. This kind of intuition is only built over years of experience and allows nurses to act with appropriate urgency when the situation demands it.

However, in leadership, particularly when dealing with tasks and deadlines that are not life-threatening, I've learned—often through trial and error—that not everything requires an immediate response. Mastering this balance is a critical skill. For instance, prioritizing which emails or employee concerns truly require urgent attention, versus which can wait, is an essential aspect of time management. As the saying goes, sometimes it's a "Monday problem," even if you hear about it late on a Friday night.

Needing to be right

Deep down, no one likes to be wrong. If we are honest with ourselves, we often have a biased point of view. We may believe we are correct, have the right information, and can see every angle of a situation, but in reality, others may have a more accurate perspective.

When I was younger, I strove to be seen as just and correct, believing my way was the right—and sometimes the only—way. Over time, I have come to accept that I am flawed, not infallible, and just as prone to mistakes as anyone else. This realization has helped me, especially when navigating disagreements with direct reports. Now, instead of focusing on "who" is right, I try to shift the conversation toward "what" is right. This guiding principle—aiming for what is right rather than being right—has served me well in my career.

Together in the struggle,

Brian

Reference:

Wilkins, M. M. (2025). The Hidden Beliefs That Hold Leaders Back. Harvard Business Review, 103(6), 131–135. 

Small Gatherings, Big Callings: How Scripture Shapes the Way I Lead

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There’s a familiar feeling that comes with Sunday mornings: the sense that it’s time for church, time to get showered and ready to go. However, since the pandemic, the way we gather has changed. With online services, flexible schedules, and our current family group, we now meet sporadically. When we gather in person, it’s often all together in the San Fernando Valley; for small groups, we meet in someone’s home, hosted by a member of our community.

Typically, we begin our gatherings with prayer and thanksgiving, followed by a brief message and Scripture reading. We then partake of the sacraments—usually a plate of Triscuits or Wheat Thins passed around, and a small paper cup of Welch’s grape juice. After a moment of silent reflection and prayer, we enjoy fellowship as a community of believers here in the Santa Clarita Valley.

Bible study has been a steady part of my life ever since my baptism. I’m not trying to be overly zealous here—just honest about the comfort and wisdom I find in Scripture. One of my favorite things is following those cross-references in the margins, seeing how verses connect across the Bible. The Thompson Chain Reference Bible is a great resource for this, but even the side notes in most translations help point out connections, whether between the Old and New Testaments or within a single book. It’s a simple pleasure that keeps me grounded and curious about my faith.

As a leader, my faith deeply influences how I respond to, treat, and interact with others, especially in professional relationships. While I am accountable to my organizational leader, I am ultimately responsible to God. Remembering who I truly serve guides me in supporting and leading my direct reports with integrity and compassion.

Even Jesus, when his disciples were focused on their own ambitions and hoping for special treatment—believing he would become a powerful earthly king—reminded them that he did not come to be served, but to serve others (The Holy Bible, New International Version, 1999, Mark 10:45). This example of servant leadership is one I reflect on often in my own role. The servant-leader mindset, as taught by the Greenleaf Institute, is more important than ever, especially in healthcare. With ongoing challenges like labor shortages and financial pressures, organizations need leaders who put others’ needs first. Servant leaders are able to meet the challenges of both those they serve and those they lead. Greenleaf (2008) suggests that true servant-leaders serve first because their genuine desire is to help others, and only then do they seek to lead. This approach continues to inspire my work and perspective on leadership.

Centuries ago, Thomas Aquinas addressed the argument of design in defense of the question, "Does God exist?" I share the belief that, just as an artist creates a lasting portrait, God intentionally created everything we see. There was a beginning—a moment of purposeful creation—rather than something coming from mere chance. As Aquinas (1952, p. 13) suggests, our world is the result of masterful design, not a random accident. This perspective also shapes my view of leadership: organizational influence does not happen by accident or mistake, but through intentional design and thoughtful action. My actions are a direct result of some influence on me, for example, the following.

“Don’t ask for a long life, don’t ask for wealth, and don’t wish harm on your enemies” (The Holy Bible, New International Version, 1999, 1 Kings 3:1-12). What does this mean? Solomon’s father, King David, wasn’t perfect, but he consistently aimed to be faithful, to act with integrity, and to make wise judgments as a leader. When Solomon, David's son, became king, he recognized his own limitations and inexperience and turned to God—not to ask for riches or revenge, but for two things: a discerning heart to be a good follower himself and to lead his people well, and the wisdom to tell good from evil.

As someone who works in healthcare, I understand the importance of working hard to provide for one's family—it's an honorable and deeply valued pursuit. There’s nothing wrong with building a career or striving for success; in fact, God created us to work and contribute. However, I believe Jesus cautions us against letting personal ambition overshadow our concern for others. When our own success becomes more important than the well-being of those around us, we risk losing sight of what truly matters.

It’s important to remember that all our achievements are ultimately possible because of God’s provision. This idea is echoed in the message God gave to Moses for the Israelites after they escaped Egypt. As they began to prosper—with growing bank accounts, homes, and property—God warned them not to become proud or forget the One who makes prosperity possible (The Holy Bible, New International Version, 1999, Deut. 8:11-13).

Together in the struggle,

Brian

References:

Aquinas, T. (1952). The Summa Theologica of Saint Thomas Aquinas. In R. M. Hutchins The Great Books of the Western World (Vol. 19, pp. 12-14  ). Encyclopedia Britannica

Greenleaf, R. K. (2008). The servant as leader. Greenleaf Center for Servant Leadership.

The Holy Bible: New International Version. (1999). Cornerstone Bible Publishers. (original work published 1973)

Can Sorrow Be Healed? Reflections on Aquinas

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Can sorrow or pain be remedied by pleasure, prayer, and weeping, the support of friends, meditation and contemplation, or sleep? This question was posed by Thomas Aquinas centuries ago (Hutchins, 1952, p. 786). Reflecting on this, I realize how the sources of pleasure in my life have changed over time. In the past, drinking alcohol and seeking sensual experiences provided a temporary escape. Now, I find enjoyment in weight training, exercise, and reading enriching literature. Prayer and meditation have become meaningful remedies for sorrow in my later years. As a young man, I coped with anxiety and allowed myself to grieve openly when faced with significant losses and struggles I felt were over my head—specifically, the loss of my father, the loss of a job, and the loss of a home—each a pillar of stability in my life as a husband and father striving to provide security for my family.

Following my spiritual conversion, my passion for meditation has deepened, fueling my desire to explore the deeper aspects of mind, soul, and spirit. This journey has brought me closer to understanding the truth of the world and strengthened my faith in a higher power—the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Sleep, too, offers relief from sorrow and pain, especially when I am exhausted from worrying about things beyond my control or when decisions impacting my livelihood are out of my hands. Often, a good night's sleep after a period of mourning brings much-needed relief and renewal.

Perhaps most significant is the role of friendship in alleviating sorrow and pain. In my experience, having a good friend has helped me through difficult times. Professionally, as a registered nurse, I have seen how being a friend to patients during their recovery can ease their pain and suffering, even if only a little. These personal and professional experiences affirm the importance of compassionate support in overcoming sorrow.

Reference:

Aquinas, T. (1952). The Summa Theologica of Saint Thomas Aquinas. In R. M. Hutchins The Great Books of the Western World (Vol. 19, pp. 786-790). Encyclopedia Britannica.

Learning Trust the Hard Way on Three Wheels

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Saul Bellow, as quoted in Writers (Crampton, 2005, p. 22), observes that many people harbor a deep and persistent feeling that their own experiences lack authenticity or grandeur—that their stories aren’t epic or meaningful. This sense of inconsequentiality, he suggests, runs deep and can be overwhelming; it is therefore because of the possibility of these feelings being true that we fight against the temptation to believe it so, and as such, we write to tell our stories, the stuff of life.

This question of whether our stories matter, whether our memories are worth telling, lingered with me for years. Yet, it is often in the ordinary details of our lives—moments that seem small or inconsequential—that we discover the most profound truths. My own story is not epic by any measure, but it is mine and honest.

With this in mind, I return to a memory from my childhood, one that shaped my understanding of trust, consequence, and growing up. Before they were outlawed in the seventies and eighties, televisions were filled with commercials advertising the thrill of wilderness adventures, especially through all-terrain vehicles (ATVs)—targeting outdoor enthusiasts and Texas deer hunters alike. Honda and other manufacturers sold millions of the infamous three-wheeler ATVs. My grandfather had one, and so did my dad. I was no older than ten or eleven when my father brought ours home. He was, understandably, very protective of it, and would only let me ride after much begging and with my mother urging him to give me a chance—always insisting I stay right next to the empty city fields near our home in Texas City.

Of course, I would push the boundaries, riding up and down the back alley behind our house, kicking up dirt and tossing rocks, revving the engine when I thought I was out of earshot. My dad was usually in the garage, tinkering with his rifles, hunting deer feeders, turning a wrench on the old army jeep he was refurbishing, or welding up a piece of angle iron or pipe for a friend or work buddy. Looking back, and admittedly foolishly, we never wore safety gear or helmets. I’m thankful I escaped harm, as those ATVs—with their single front tire and narrow turning radius—were notorious for rollovers and serious injuries, which is why they were eventually replaced by the safer four-wheeled models.

One Saturday afternoon, after completing my chores, mowing the lawn, finishing my homework, and cleaning my room, I wandered out to the garage. Dad was there, sweeping up debris and dust, tending to his “man cave.” I came in, feigning boredom, searching for something—anything—that wasn’t another chore. I wandered over to the three-wheeler, climbed on, gripped the handlebars, and hunched forward like I was ready to ride. “Dad, when was the last time we started this thing up?” I asked, hoping to pique his interest. “You think we should warm her up?”

He abandoned his garage tasks, in a better mood than usual, and replied, “Yeah, let’s take her out a bit, but you stay close.” My heart raced with excitement—a moment I’ll never forget. I pushed the beast beyond the driveway and tried to get her started. I had to stand atop the footpegs, straddling the seat, and pull the black Honda cord with all my strength to start the 4-stroke engine. This model didn’t have an electric start like my grandpa’s, the one we called Big Red.

Once I got the three-wheeler running, I’d peer over the front deer rifle rack that my father had welded onto it, and roll out smoothly. I’d carve figure-eights in the field next to our home, always within sight and earshot so Dad could keep tabs on me—especially if I was going too fast. He could tell by the engine’s pitch, and with his sharp, signature whistle—a sound I now use with my own family—he’d pierce the air to get my attention. I’d slow down, though I always tested the limits.

This day, though, is really the heart of this story. Anyone who’s ever lost trust knows what it’s like—and maybe that’s what qualifies someone to write about trust in the first place. I always knew the rules: stay in the fields, never cross city streets, keep to the alley behind our street, don’t speed, and absolutely never give another person a ride. Period.

It was the perfect Saturday afternoon for a kid: chores done, the sun shining, and me riding our ATV, my hair blowing back as I did mini-donuts in the field beside our house. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted one of my neighbors—a girl from across the street—standing at the edge of the field, watching me. She was about my age, and her curiosity got the better of her; she crossed the street to see what I was up to.

In true pre-teen fashion, I sped up when I passed her, imagining myself as a Supercross racer, zooming past with a grin, hoping to impress her. I’d glance over my shoulder, feeling especially cool and self-assured. I can’t even remember her name now; her family lived on our block for only a short while, but that’s beside the point.

After a few laps, I finally pulled up next to her, grabbing the handbrake to stop. The ATV idled in a low rumble—loud enough to talk over, but not so loud that my dad, about two houses away, could hear us. Dad’s ear was always tuned to the normal hum of the ATV circling the field, but what I didn’t realize then (and do now) is that he could sense when something changed—like when I stopped.

I said hello and asked what she was up to. “Just watching you,” she answered. Wanting to be generous (and maybe a little taken by her smile), I asked, “Want to go for a ride?” Without hesitation, she walked right up—curious and brave—and said, “Yes.”

I scooted forward to make space, and she climbed on behind me. Before I could even say, “Hold on,” she’d already wrapped her arms around my waist. We puttered around the field—one and a half easy laps, not fast, just enough to feel the wind. In that moment, I had a fleeting sense of what it must be like to feel grown up, even though I hadn’t even hit puberty yet. For a second, I felt like the real deal.

And then I heard it—the sound I dreaded: Dad’s whistle. I’d been conditioned since I was a toddler to respond instantly, like a dog to its owner. I looked over to our backyard—past the neighbor’s fence, over the wild honeysuckle vines—and there he was: sunglasses beneath his trucker hat, arms crossed, wearing a face of disappointment.

I knew I’d committed a cardinal sin. I rolled the ATV to a stop and told the girl, “Sorry, I have to go home now—that’s my dad whistling.” She hopped off, unconcerned, and said, “Thanks for the ride. I hope you’re not in trouble.” I thought, You have no idea—but deep down, it was worth it.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I rode slowly back to the garage. I hit the kill switch, let the engine sputter out, and climbed off to face my dad, who was waiting for me.

He simply asked, “What did I tell you about giving rides on that thing?”

Intimidated with my head down, “No one is supposed to ride with me,” I answered fearfully.

“So why did you do it?” he pressed with intensity.

I told him the truth: the neighbor girl had never been on one, so I gave her a ride. I think he understood, at least a little, that his boy was trying to grow up, to feel responsible, to enjoy the rush of having a pretty girl ride along. But he said, “You’ve got to be safe. If she’d gotten hurt, then what?”

Ignorantly, I disclosed, “I didn’t think about that.”

“That’s the problem,” as he shook his head from side to side, he replied. “You never think.”

My punishment was clear: no more ATV riding for a long time, until I could earn back his trust. That lesson about trust has stayed with me ever since.

Together in the struggle,

Brian

Reference:

Nancy, C. (2005). Writers. The Quantuck Lane Press. https://archive.org/details/writers0000cram

No Hall of Fame: Finding Water in a Thirsty World

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Imagine the Texas hill country—rolling hills, mesquite trees, and white-tailed deer in the background, a hunter’s dream during deer season. I used to visit a place like this with my dad: a log cabin tucked between two mountain ridges, reached by a rocky road that only a horse or jeep could navigate. Below the cabin, a converted mobile home housed hunters who leased it each season, all hoping for a successful hunt. The property, a mile or two from the main farm roads, relied on water from a spring at the base of the mountain. The water was siphoned off a dripping spring of the side of the mountain into a round stock tank, filtered, and then piped into the cabin and mobile home—clear, fresh, and abundant, just as nature intended. I remember showering and the challenge of making soapy bubbles with my wash rag because of the hard water. But what if that spring ran dry? No water, no showers, nothing. So, when our springs run dry in life, what do we do? Keep searching for a new spring and a source of strength.

Sometimes I think about where others get their strength. How do they muster the will to face daily challenges, bills, work, family, health, and the unpredictable world around them? I grapple with these questions myself, especially as I grow older. I’m grateful for my faith, which helps steady my mind and heart, even as life becomes more complicated. Yet, I wonder how those without faith cope. On the surface, many seem to manage well, but as a disciple striving to follow my path, I still struggle. My faith sustains me, but as Johnson (1971, p. 8) notes in his commentary on Job, no one is immune to pain, no one is vaccinated against experiencing adversity and hurt. So how do we deal with what hurts us?

I’m not talking about everyday mishaps like hitting your thumb with a hammer, twisting your ankle on a run, or stubbing your toe on the edge of your couch. Instead, I’m asking: how do we handle the deeper hurts that simply come with being human? Hurt is part of our existence, so how do we truly deal with it? If experience qualifies us to speak about pain, then everyone is an expert. We have all faced hurt and adversity; none of us is immune. I certainly don’t claim special wisdom; I wrestle with it like anyone else, but find solace in writing about it.

As a clinician, I am conversant, acquainted with, and no stranger to pain. Pain is always subjective; it depends on each person’s life situation, perception, and health (Emanuel, 2018, p. 52). For example, patients with terminal illnesses like cancer report both physical and psychological pain. Physical symptoms can include indigestion, nausea, and vomiting. Emotional pain may involve anxiety about their condition and depressive thoughts about living with illness. We see this with patients at times who have heart conditions as well.

Reflecting on this, I remember times in my life when I was overwhelmed by personal challenges—losing a parent, facing home foreclosure, navigating career changes, and managing complex family dynamics, along with the everyday realities of marriage and parenting. While these struggles may not compare to the severity of a life-threatening illness or heart attack, they still create real, painful experiences both physically and emotionally. Life’s adversity affects us all, even beyond major medical crises. My faith and conscious efforts to focus on gratitude help me find moments of peace and resilience.  From another perspective, Rathmell & Fields (2018, p. 65) clarify that pain is both a physical feeling and a behavioral response. We all know this to be true, no matter our personal experiences.

We can all relate to Job. I don’t believe God has called me to be what Morris A. Inch (1979, p. 29) describes in his commentary on Job as a “spiritually significant” person of influence—someone whose life is recorded alongside the great fathers of faith or whose name appears in a spiritual “hall of fame.” I won’t be remembered like Thomas Aquinas or C.S. Lewis, or as someone who led multitudes to faith. But I’m convinced there are countless Christians like me—living quietly, mostly unknown to others, but deeply known by God. Our relationship with Him is built through prayer, scripture, daily connection, our communities of faith, and our associations with our individual FBOs (faith-based organizations). Each of us carries His Spirit and is used by Him in the ordinary rhythms of life, telling our story not only through words but through how we live—imperfectly, but sincerely.

Drawing from Inch’s insights, I believe spiritual character is forged in the most challenging, bitter, and severe circumstances of life. Inch (1979, p. 29) insists it makes little sense to discuss persons of spiritual significance without first acknowledging the situations and experiences that shape and refine them. As he notes, God could have simply created a perfect, spiritually significant person. Yet, even Jesus—whose spiritual significance is beyond compare—chose not to take advantage of his divine rights, but instead became human and subjected himself to the same adversity, pain, and growth we all experience.

Ultimately, the call is not to avoid hardship, but to embrace it—trusting that adversity can shape us into people of deeper faith, resilience, and compassion. Like Job and Jesus, we are invited to rely more fully on God through our own trials, knowing that such growth is often found in the very midst of life’s challenges.

Together in the struggle,

Brian

References:

Emanuel, E. J. (2018). Palliative and End-of-Life Care.  In J. Larry Jameson & Anthony S. Fauci & Dennis L. Kasper & Stephen L. Hauser & Dan L. Longo & Joseph Loscalzo (20th Eds.,Vol. 1), Harrison's Principles of Internal Medicine (pp. 47-63). McGraw-Hill Education.

Inch, M. A. (1979). My servant job: A discussion guide on the wisdom of job. Baker Book House. https://archive.org/details/myservantjobdisc0000morr/page/28/mode/2up

Johnson, L. D. (1971). Out of the whirlwind: The major message of job. Broadman Press. https://archive.org/details/outofwhirlwindma0000john/page/8/mode/2up

Rathmell, J. P., & Fields, H. L. (2018). Pain: Pathophysiology and Management.  In J. Larry Jameson & Anthony S. Fauci & Dennis L. Kasper & Stephen L. Hauser & Dan L. Longo & Joseph Loscalzo (20th Eds.,Vol. 1), Harrison's Principles of Internal Medicine (pp. 65-73). McGraw-Hill Education. 

Contracts, College Kids, and Chronic Coughs: A Faithful Life on Uneven Terrain

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If I could step outside myself and tell my story, it might go like this: The year 2026 began with bumps in the road, calling for a "four-wheel-drive" spirit to navigate the terrain. I find myself facing professional hurdles—labor negotiations, contract disputes, staff issues, and the never-ending work of managing patients and resources. Every day feels like a balancing act, from staff evaluations to vacation requests, all while trying to steer a department toward excellence alongside my leadership team. Even though the atmosphere is mostly positive, I’m still learning, still pushing to meet high standards and deliver the care our patients deserve.

Meanwhile, my story at home is just as complex. I’m trying to be a good partner to my wife as she manages her health and navigates the changes of perimenopause—both of us growing older together. Parenting isn’t simple, either. One of our children continues to test the boundaries, and I often question if I’m getting it right. I want to keep a faith-centered home, but there are days when even that feels like a struggle.

On top of everything, I write this while fighting off a stubborn sinus infection. My energy is nowhere to be found, and the confident, go-getter version of myself feels distant. Normally, I’d charge into these battles, but lately, I feel the wear and tear of life’s demands. What helps is talking with my wife, spending time in scripture and reflection, and journaling to keep my thoughts clear. I remind myself that I don’t need to numb these feelings with alcohol—faith and honest self-reflection are what get me through.

So I tell myself this story, not just to remember the details, but to make peace with what I cannot control. People will act in ways I don’t expect. Negotiations at work will move at their own pace. My health, my daughter’s choices at university, some work challenges—these are all beyond my reach. The only thing I can do is model respect, kindness, and professionalism, and be patient where it matters. When anxiety rises and frustration threatens my mental well-being, I return to my journal and remind myself: acceptance is the key. This story isn’t about fixing everything; it’s about learning to live with the unknown and finding strength in faith.

Together in the struggle,

Brian