In my family, we have a long history of… I’m not sure what to call it, actually. Superstition? Emotional insurance?

For instance, growing up, if we wanted to go to the beach on the weekend, we would always make sure to say that we were "going to the snow"—just in case the "weather" might hear us. As if that doesn’t sound crazy enough on its own, the logic was that if the weather heard us express a desire for the beach, it would respond by bringing rain, cold, or clouds.

Sure, it was always said in good fun—never in complete seriousness. But it was never entirely a joke, either. There was always that lingering sense of "better safe than sorry." I took it for granted most of my life, the way you do with things that seem "normal" until you look at them through an outsider’s eyes.

I love epiphanies. Don’t you?

That sudden insight—the moment when disparate threads finally weave together into something cohesive, something that takes on its own shape and form.

There is another "ten-dollar word" I love, one that doesn’t often get much play in day-to-day culture: sacrament. A definition has stayed with me since my seminary days: a visible sign of an invisible reality.

Sacrament. Epiphany.

I don’t mind public speaking. I know it’s supposed to be a universal fear, but I actually thrive on it. I have the "stage presence"—honed over thousands of hours as a corporate computer trainer and years as a "preacher" delivering sermons. Recently, while officiating a bilingual wedding, I felt that familiar spark. I told a friend afterward, "I was born to do this."

But here is the secret: I am not afraid of the speaking. But I am terrified of the speech.

About two decades ago, while training for my first marathon, I discovered something surprising—and a bit disturbing—about how I viewed my own life. I have always aimed to be someone who appreciates nuance, who values the gray between the black and white, and who is willing to see things from every possible angle. In my mind, "nuance" was the ultimate good, and its opposite was "fundamentalism"—a word I used to describe anything rigid, unyielding, or fixed.

But as the miles added up, I realized I had misdiagnosed myself. I wasn't a fundamentalist; I was someone beginning to understand the value of an engaged rein.

It was a wonderful Christmas—perhaps the best in a long time. The reason was simple: Connection. I felt capable of truly connecting with the people around me, rather than just being physically present in the same space. It was the transition from simply "surviving" a holiday to actually "inhabiting" it. I was actually there.

Yesterday, Christmas Eve, I ran a few early errands to avoid the holiday crowds. My last stop was Trader Joe’s. As I pushed my cart toward the car in the pouring rain, I looked up and saw a family—mom, dad, and two children in raincoats, huddled under an umbrella. They were standing at the exit, holding a sign: “Merry Christmas. Please help.”

I took Fortuna out for another ride yesterday.

It was meant to be a relaxed, “clear my head before Christmas” kind of ride. But as we turned onto the dirt road to head home, the peace began to unravel.

Over the last decade, I have become what most people would call a confident rider. On the outside, there is a certain fluidity and ease. With Luna, I know the nuances of her moods; I can tell when she wants a leisurely graze and when she is a "rocket ship" ready to propel into the great unknown. With Alegria, the confidence is absolute. We have a history that allows us to gallop along the beach even as her four-month-old colt, Señor Sol, frolics beside us. In those moments, I am supported by my Vaquera saddle—a traditional style with what I call "seatbelts": high shoulders that hold my thighs in place and closed stirrups that protect my feet. It is a known world. It is a secure seat.

But a few months ago, I got a new saddle for Fortuna. It is a Tejana style. My old saddle was simply too heavy for me to lift onto a horse as tall as she is, and it didn’t fit her frame correctly. I thought the new saddle would be a simple solution to a logistical problem. I didn’t realize how much I had molded my very way of being—my posture, my balance, my sense of safety—to the "shoulders" of that old world.

For the past two decades, (has it really been that long?!) my work has focused on guiding individuals toward deeper meaning, purpose, and agency.

At the same time, my daily life at the ranch, working with horses (and riders), has revealed some of the most profound, practical truths about leadership, presence, and clear direction.

It has become increasingly clear that these two worlds, perhaps seemingly disparate, are actually deeply connected.