400 People

It wasn't usually visible. I functioned fine. I showed up where I needed to. But certain situations triggered something I couldn't fully control — a warmth that crept up, a mind that went blank, a body that felt like it was betraying me at exactly the wrong moment. I remember being sixteen, teaching tennis, when my mom surprised me at the courts with a chocolate cake and a crowd of friends gathered to celebrate my birthday. It should have been a perfect moment. Instead I felt exposed. Uncomfortable. Wishing I could disappear into the baseline at the end of the tennis court.

Over time the pattern deepened. I'd agree to something and then find a reason not to go. The anticipation was often worse than the event itself — but I kept feeding the cycle anyway.

Then my mom got sick.

She passed away from cancer at just fifty-nine. I knew I wanted to speak at her celebration of life, and on the day we gathered something happened that I wasn't prepared for.

I had arrived early and taken a seat at the front row of the church. I never turned around. When the time came I walked up the steps to the podium, reached the top, and turned to face the room.

It was packed.

Over 400 people filled that church. Faces from my childhood. Colleagues. Family friends. People I hadn't seen in decades. Well-known people from our community. Friends of my mom's I had never met. All of them there — for her and my family.

I was simply in awe.

I don't remember every word I said that day. But I remember what I felt standing at that podium — not anxiety, not the familiar warmth creeping up my neck. Something else entirely. Gratitude. Presence. A deep and quiet understanding that showing up for people matters more than we realize. That the connections we make, the conversations we have, the lives we touch — they accumulate in ways we never fully see until a moment like that one.

The transformation wasn't immediate. There was too much grief, too much to process. But when the dust settled and I had time to sit with what I'd witnessed something had shifted. Permanently.

I started paying more attention to people. Not just asking how are you and moving on — but really asking. Following up. Getting curious. Learning what someone cares about, what they're working through, what makes them light up. You'd be surprised how quickly a simple conversation becomes a genuine connection — and how much those connections enrich every single day.

I tell CJ and Hunter this often. Talk to people. Ask real questions. Don't let conversations stay at the surface. You never know what you have in common, who might change your path, or whose day you might quietly make better just by being genuinely present.

Because if you ever need a reminder of why it matters — just imagine 400 people showing up. That's what a life of real connection looks like.