The other day on Facebook, I posted about one of my core personal and professional mantras: People are what matter. Period.
If you've heard me speak (check out my TEDx talk and my Thought Leader Talk if you haven’t), you know I learned that lesson the hard way.
After I made that post,, I heard that one of my friends in my Fellowship of Suffering is suffering again.
Before joining the fellowship, I thought I got what it meant to connect with others. I thought I knew what it meant to lead and to help people rise.
I’ve always loved people. From my days as lead lifeguard to being one of the first managers at Jamba Juice at BYU (I helped open that location: true OG here) to being one of the first three instructors helping to build BYU-Idaho’s Online Learning program, I believed in the power of people.
I’ve led, taught, coached, and cheered people on my entire life. So I thought I got it.
But I didn’t. Not fully.
Not until I stared death in the face and got to see people from a whole new perspective that I learned what it means to fully appreciate, honor, and respect human beings. Seeing people from the vantage point of laying on a bed in my living room, on couches at church, on the floor of the airport while waiting for flights to go see medical specialists and experts is a whole different ballgame.
That’s when I found the Fellowship of Suffering.
As an archetypal coach and stylist, archetypes (which are kind of like the emotions in Disney’s Inside Out, but they’re the characters that make you YOU) are how I see the world.
And the Fellowship of Suffering? It’s kind of like The Fellowship of the Ring—people with bonds forged through experiences that test you, try you, and can’t always be explained to those who haven’t lived them.
For example, you can’t explain the pain of not knowing if you’ll see your kids’ milestones and wanting to write letters in case you’re gone, but knowing there aren’t words to express what want to say when all you really want is more time.
You can’t explain what it’s like living with excruciating chronic pain, neurological symptoms, and a body screaming that something is wrong—only to have doctors say you're psychosomatic because, “Your tests are normal,” and dismiss you. Or the exhaustion of being judged as lazy because “you don’t even look sick.”
There are things you can’t explain to people unless they’ve lived them.
But for those who have? You don’t have to explain.
They get that “I’m hanging in there” speaks volumes.
They know that eyes aren’t just the window to the soul.
In the Fellowship of Suffering, you learn that when someone’s mouth is smiling but their eyes are glazed over, they’re probably worried—about their kids. A layoff or financial crisis. Another fight with their spouse.
When someone says, “I’m fine,” but their eyes are squinting in pain, they’re at a 7 or 8 on the “normal” pain scale—but it’s a 2 or 3 for them because it’s their “normal” and they’re just pushing through. If they can.
They know that trying to explain things to people who want to understand—but simply can’t—can be exhausting.
But in the Fellowship of Suffering, when someone asks, “How are you?” they really mean it.
You can say, “Um.” Or “It’s a day.” Or “You know.” And their eyes tear up—because they do know.
They give you a hug. Not a polite hug. A real hug. A gentle hug. Because they get that hugs hurt.
They look you in the eye—really look at you—and say, “Hang in there.” Or “Love you.” Or “I see you.”
And they really do.
Let me introduce you to some of the members of my fellowship:
At the same time my symptoms hit, my neighbor—two doors down, with daughters the same age as mine—was diagnosed with ALS. The first day she got her wheelchair, she brought my family dinner because I was in too much pain to get up. A few months later, I fought through the pain to make rolls for her funeral.
A few weeks after that funeral, I attended another funeral. This time for my backyard neighbor—two doors down—who died of cancer, leaving behind his wife and daughters.
A few months after that, I gave a keynote with a dear friend and colleague—also with two daughters the same age as mine—who had stage 4 colon cancer. We spoke about what we’d learned about life and leadership through our challenges (principles of human-centered leadership I still talk about today).
She passed away a few months later.
Here’s what they don’t tell you about survivor’s guilt.
There’s no explainable reason I’m still here and they aren’t. People tell me, “Your kids needed you.” But their kids needed them just as much.
I don’t know why I’m still standing when science says I should still be bedridden or in a wheelchair.
I’m a walking miracle.
And yes—it’s a blessing. But it’s also a responsibility.
The lessons I’ve learned from the Fellowship changed the way I view leadership, relationships, and life.
It’s why I’m passionate about helping others banish burnout and show up for life more fully and powerfully–because life is too short and too precious not to do it 100%.
It’s why I believe leadership isn’t just about outcomes, objectives, processes, and procedures–why human-centered leadership is more powerful and effective than outcome or object-oriented models of leadership.
It’s because people are what matter. Period.
So as I sit here thinking of my Chiari mama who has been fighting for her life since before my symptoms hit, and of my warrior friends battling life-threatening and quality-of-life-affecting conditions—after fires, floods, Covid, you name it—only to get hit again (some of us have all the luck) here’s a reminder:
You never know what people are going through, but we all have our stuff.
Be kind. Be courteous. Be gracious. Be civil.
Be human.
Because life is short.
And people are what matter.
Period.
~Your Real Life Fairy Godmother™
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