Last week, I sat down to write a retirement speech for a special person.

When I sat down to write it, it wasn’t hard. The words flowed straight from my heart and onto the page. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that when you are writing about people who have made you better, people who have lit your path, encouraged your growth, and somehow make you light up inside simply by being themselves, the words tend to come easily.

In my book, The Leader Inside, I write about the idea that some people come into our lives for moments, hours, days, or years. Each person is placed on our path for a purpose. They are like lanterns along the journey, guiding us toward our next destination. Some teach us what to do. Others teach us what not to do. Some stay for a season. Others stay for a lifetime. But all leave a mark.

The speech itself was meaningful, but what stayed with me most afterward had very little to do with the speech.

In the days that followed, many people approached me to share kind words. Some told me they felt like they got to know me better through what I had shared. Others commented on my writing style and the way I spoke, sharing that they didn’t know I was a writer. That always makes me smile because if you come to this space to read my writing, you know that writing and speaking are a big part of who I am. They are how I process experiences, make meaning of moments, and connect with others. Some were surprised to learn about the connection I had with the guest of honor. They hadn’t realized how meaningful that relationship was to me. 

And honestly, that made me smile.

Not every relationship needs to be announced or displayed. Some relationships simply are. They don’t need a stage, a spotlight, or an audience. They exist quietly in the spaces between conversations, meetings, phone calls, and moments when one person makes another person’s life a little better.

Ironically, some of my favorite parts of the evening happened before and after the speech. For once, I wasn’t running around. I wasn’t coordinating an event, planning professional learning, answering emails, finding and solving problems, or checking something off a list.

I was simply sitting. Talking. Listening. Being. And in education, that can be surprisingly rare.

At work, we spend so much time doing things for one another and for our students that we don’t always get the opportunity to slow down and truly know one another. We know people’s schedules. We know their roles. We know their responsibilities. But sometimes we don’t know their stories.

That evening, I learned that one of our school nurses is preparing to celebrate her 25th wedding anniversary in Greece, a trip she has dreamed about for years and a bucket-list adventure that is finally becoming a reality.

I learned that another colleague recently watched her daughter finish her first year of college. She wanted her to stay closer to home, as many parents would. Yet now, watching her daughter grow, discover herself, and create a new identity independent of her family, she realizes what a gift that experience has become.

I learned that another colleague is counting down the days until she can sit on the beach and dream about her upcoming wedding.

As I listened, I found myself thinking about a social media post I recently came across from an author who is unknown:

Maybe that’s what was happening around those tables. People weren’t talking about titles or accomplishments. They were sharing pieces of their lives. And somehow, everyone walked away a little better for it.

What surprised me even more was learning what surprised others about me.

Many people were shocked to hear that education was not my first career. They were surprised to learn about the winding path that eventually led me here, and how a series of unexpected experiences inadvertently landed me in my very first job in this district.

They were equally surprised to hear that becoming an administrator was never part of some grand master plan. In fact, if you had asked me even ten years ago where I would be today, I would have been shocked by the answer myself.

Coming from a family of teachers, I always imagined my path differently. Leadership was not something I necessarily saw for myself.

Yet somehow, life has a way of introducing us to people and experiences that expand our vision before we can expand it ourselves.

Brianna Wiest writes in The Pivot Year:

“Move toward the people who expand your perimeter of possibility, who believe in your potential just a little bit more than your reality.”

When I look back, I realize how many people have done exactly that for me. They saw things in me before I saw them. They encouraged me toward opportunities I never would have pursued on my own. They helped me imagine a future that was larger than the one I had envisioned for myself.

And perhaps that is one of the greatest gifts we can give another person. Not advice. Not answers. Possibility.

There is another sentiment recently shared on social media by Sahil Bloom that touched me:

“Just be unapologetically yourself. The moment you start filtering yourself to be liked is the moment you start attracting relationships that need constant maintenance. The right ones will stick, the wrong ones will walk.”

The older I get, the more truth I find in those words. The people who matter most are not drawn to a perfect or polished version of who we are. They are drawn to the real version. The imperfect version. The evolving version.

The version with unexpected stories. The version that surprises them. And perhaps that is why I keep coming back to the idea of lanterns.

The people who shape us are often not the people we expect. The paths we take are rarely the ones we planned. The conversations that stay with us are usually the ones we never saw coming.

A retirement speech reminded me of that. Not because of what I said. But because of what happened before and afterward.

Because for one evening, people slowed down long enough to share their stories.

And in doing so, they reminded me that some of the most meaningful connections happen when we stop doing, start listening, and allow ourselves to simply be.

After all, the people who leave us better than they found us are often the very same people who expand our sense of what is possible and sometimes, they’re just as surprised by our story as we are by theirs.