I wasn’t expecting much from the bus ride.

I was on my way to the museum for an artist’s date. It was something I had carved out intentionally for myself. Something that I had been wanting to do for weeks, but kept getting pushed back due to travel and other commitments. Finally, the day was here. I was going to make it happen. A few hours to breathe, to see something beautiful, to stay connected to generative and creative parts of myself.

When I boarded the bus, I noticed that the driver had a different vibe. “Welcome to this beautiful day!”

The energy was different. The warmth stopped me in my tracks, and I shared an organic smile with him. For a couple of stops, I listened to him greeting others in the same tone. “Welcome! ¡Bienvenidos!”

Then, as the bus got fuller, a few stops later, he looked back at me and made eye contact, and he unexpectedly walked back towards me. Him: “I have a request.”

Me: “Sure.”

Him: “Don’t let anyone sit next to you as the seat is wet.”

He really went out of his way. He sorted it out, smiled, and went back to driving.

It was such a small thing. But the entire experience felt human, so caring, in one of the most unexpected places.

I started contemplating: when was the last time a stranger made me feel seen and cared for? In a city, on a bus, in the middle of everything that’s happening in the world right now. He took the time. He noticed. He cared.

I didn’t want to let that feeling go.

When I arrived at my artist’s date, the care continued but in a different way.

In both exhibits, I spent the most time in: photographs, letters, stories of societal change, and people who connected fiercely in the middle of a crisis that was killing them. People who had every reason to shut down and chose to stay open instead. The next was about activism. Ordinary people who decided that what was happening around them was not something they could ignore.

I stood in those rooms and felt something loosen in my chest. I was reminded that history has always been heavy. We go through really messy periods. People have always had to keep going anyway. They connected, they organized. They did everything that was the opposite of isolation.

Fast forward to a call with my BD advisors.

I took a bit of a different approach and asked for a “pick your brain” type of session. I started with more of a personal question:

What do you do in situations when the world is unstable and heavy? How have you navigated throughout the years?

And then I said something out loud that I had been carrying and not expecting to share in that environment. It slipped out before I knew it:

“Everything feels fragile right now.”

They didn’t skip past it. They sat with me in it. And their inquiry: “What stories are you telling yourself about the world today?” That question cracked something open.

We talked about it. About the anger, fear, and the exhaustion and the sadness that keeps showing up underneath everything. About being a servant in the world. About leaning more into purpose when the ground feels unsteady.

Things I tell people. Things I coach people through. Things I know how to do. Things I just needed to do myself.

Grounded leadership is at the foundation of everything that I teach, coach, and even read. And right now, in this season, I needed it. I was the student for our time together, and sometimes you need to be a student before you teach again.

I’m telling you this because I know a lot of us are here right now.

Carrying something heavy into every meeting, every conversation, every ordinary workday. Trying to lead, trying to perform, trying to function, when below the surface, everything feels fragile.

And nobody is saying it out loud.

What saddens me most is not the heaviness itself. It’s how easy it becomes to stop noticing each other in the middle of it. To move so fast and carry so much that we forget to care for others. We forget to walk back and check on the seat next to someone.

We have not lost our humanity. But we have to choose it, especially as leaders.

Here is what I am sitting with and encourage you to do so as well:

What stories am I telling myself? And are they serving me or keeping me stuck in the fear?

Am I leaning into purpose or away from it? When everything feels fragile, purpose is the only ground that holds.

How will I care and show up like the bus driver did?The small act of human attention that costs nothing and means everything to the person on the receiving end.

I’ll close with this.

Think about what your colleagues are carrying right now. Some are fine, others are not. They are showing up to meetings, answering emails, hitting deadlines, and underneath all of it, something is churning. Fear. Grief. Anger. Confusion. And most of them will not say a word about it because the unspoken rule is that work is not the place. Being the bus driver is the least we can do.