Every year, our seasons and traditions grow more rich and robust—and that’s both the magic and the mess of it.

The longer we live, the more the holidays collect layers. Memories stack like tree rings. Grief adds weight. Joy adds expectation. Family systems bring their weather. And complexity shows up whether we invited it or not.

So we end up with this strange annual challenge: How do we sift through all that richness and still find the root truth that matters for everyone we love—right now, in this specific year?

No wonder the holidays can feel impossible.

The problem isn’t the season. It’s the accumulation.

Tradition has a funny habit of becoming a museum.

At first, it’s simple: we do this because it connects us.
Over time, it turns into: we do this because we’ve always done it.
And then, without noticing, it can become: we do this because we’re afraid to lose what it means.

That’s when people start snapping at each other over “small” things that aren’t small at all.

The cookie recipe isn’t about cookies. The seating chart isn’t about chairs. The gift list isn’t about money.

It’s about belonging. It’s about memory. It’s about the fear of being the one who breaks the spell.

And here’s the wild part: the more we care, the harder it gets.

I was raised by the land first—and that changed everything

I grew up in northern Michigan—what I’ve always called God’s country—where my friends were woodland creatures, cows, and their farmers (in that order).

Nature raised me in a way no institution ever could. The land taught me systems thinking before I knew the term. The seasons taught me change management before I ever coached a leader. Animals taught me presence—real presence—before anyone said “mindfulness” with a straight face.

And my dog (my incredible, almost-nine-year-old best friend) has taught me more about truth than any textbook ever dared.

Because we don’t speak the same language.

I don’t speak dog. He doesn’t speak human.
So if we’re going to understand each other, we have to do it the only way that works: pay attention.

Not perform attention. Not “half-listen” while planning your response.
Actual attention—like tracking wind direction before you step onto thin ice.

The first time I learned “obedience” wasn’t education—it was control

First grade. A modular classroom outside by the railroad tracks. Metal stairs like a little puddle-jumper plane. Industrial. Impractical. A perfect symbol, honestly.

My teacher was a nun—let’s call her Sister Margaret.

I walked in ready to learn. Hungry for answers. Curious in the way kids are when they haven’t been trained out of curiosity yet.

And then I picked up a pencil…

with my left hand.

That ruler came down fast enough to teach a lesson that had nothing to do with handwriting.

The lesson was this: there is a “right way” to be, and your questions are not welcome here.

Especially not the kinds of questions that widen a worldview. Especially not “What about other religions?” Especially not anything that hinted I might be thinking for myself.

So I learned something early:

Sometimes people will call you wrong when you’re not wrong.

Sometimes you’re just… left.

That one sentence has guided an entire lifetime of leadership work for me, because it shows up everywhere.

It shows up in workplaces where “culture fit” really means don’t challenge the system.
It shows up in families where tradition becomes a weapon instead of a bridge.
It shows up in communities where truth gets flattened into slogans.

And once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

This isn’t about rebellion. It’s about discernment.

Winning is a quantum concept

Here’s another truth I’ve learned the hard way: winning rarely looks like what we imagined.

It moves. It shifts. It shows up sideways. It arrives in strange colors.

Winning is the moment you thought would be calm—except it’s loud.
It’s the relationship you thought would end—except it transforms.
It’s the holiday you thought would be perfect—except it becomes honest.

Winning is a quantum concept: it can be more than one thing at once.

We must be present to win.

Not just present in the moment. Present after the fact—when you replay, reflect, reframe, and choose what it meant. That’s not “rewriting history.” That’s claiming your narrative.

2026: The year you stop waiting for permission

I’ve been saying for years that I’m ready to stand on stage. Ready to tell the truth cleanly. Ready to speak in a way that helps other people find themselves—without stealing their voice.

And here’s the part that matters for you:

2026 is not the year to be more compliant.
It’s the year to be more present.
More honest.
More intentional.
More willing to act.

Because life is short—even when it’s beautiful. And not just for people.

Puppies, too.

That reality changes a person. It turns “someday” into a lie you can’t afford.

A practical framework for courage (The Cardinal Rule)

When the season gets dense—when tradition gets heavy—courage needs a method.

Here’s a simple way to move from stuck to in motion, using the Cardinal Rule lens:

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Dove (Farming): Plant what you want to grow.
Pick one tradition to nurture on purpose this year. One. Not ten. What matters most?

Owl (Hunting): Track what’s true.
Where are you calling something “wrong” that might simply be “left”? What assumption needs evidence?

Peacock (Foraging): Choose nourishment, not performance.
What are you doing to look okay that’s draining your nervous system? Replace it with something sustaining.

Eagle (Fishing): Take the shot.
One courageous action. A conversation. A boundary. A decision. A proposal. A first draft. A first step.

Courage isn’t a personality trait. It’s a practice.

What to do this week: three actions that count

If you want 2026 to feel different, don’t wait for a dramatic overhaul. Start like nature starts: small, consistent, and real.

1. Name what matters this season.
   One sentence. No poetry required. Just truth.
2. Decide what you’re releasing.
   One obligation, one performance, one “should” that doesn’t serve life anymore.
3. Take one visible action within 72 hours.
   Not a plan. Not a brainstorm. An action someone else could point to and say, “Yep. That happened.”

That’s how you build a new season.

The invitation

If you’re the kind of person who feels everything—and still wants to lead well—this is exactly the work I do through Slingshot Designs, The Cardinal Rule, and VoicePrint LTD.

Not therapy. Not hype. Not performative “leadership language.”

Real reflection. Real strategy. Real movement—especially for leaders who are done living by someone else’s definition of “right.”

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is stop arguing about being right… and start building a life that’s true.

2026 is your season.
Be present. Choose what matters. Take the shot.

— Michelle Formanczyk