Uncategorized | Margie Warrell | Be brave with your life!

Depth Over Speed: Making Space For Wisdom.

Margie — Thu, 29 Jan 2026 09:58:56 +0000

One of the most special parts of my trip to Egypt was cruising down the Nile, watching life unfold on its banks the way it has for thousands of years.

I couldn’t help but think of how differently most of us live.

The relentless pace. One more email or “to-do” that simply must get done. Trying to beat time and squeeze 30 hours out of 24.

Spoiler: we can’t.

It occurred to me that beneath what’s become an almost pathological busyness lies a deeper, unfaced fear—of being left behind, of missing out on the next opportunity, recognition, or “success,” at least by the world’s yardstick.

And so we push harder. We say “yes” without weighing the trade-offs, skim across the surface of life, often wearing our busyness like a badge—evidence that we’re “in the game.”

“I did 200,000 air miles last year. How many did you do?” someone asked me not long ago, as though air miles could ever measure our worthiness.

But the wisdom to live well, to love well, and to lead well in a world with its foot permanently on the accelerator won’t emerge from more speed. Rather the exact opposite.

It requires space.

Reflection.

In a world addicted to skimming the surface at speed, making space to live more deeply has become a quiet act of rebellion.

Prioritizing—and then protecting—time to connect to the deeper wisdom that lives within us. To think more deeply about our toughest challenges so we can respond with clarity rather than react from overwhelm; with courage rather than anxiety.

So this year, walking my talk and “leading bravely” is not about doing more, and faster, but doing less, but better. It’s putting into practice the title of one of my favorite books by John Mark Comer and pursuing the “relentless elimination of hurry.”

Will I fall short? Probably by dinner.

But as John Mark wrote in his book, “hurry and love are incompatible.” And as I wrote in The Courage Gap:

Love is courage in its highest form. And we get get cut off from love, the source of true wisdom, when we fail to slow down sufficiently to access it.

Which is why this year I’ve committed to being more intentional in my yeses —to carve focused space for deeper thinking, a more grounded presence, so that I can make my most meaningful contribution in our increasingly fraught, fractured, frenzied, and fearful world. And hopefully, bring a little more love, more light and more wisdom into the dark places around us.

But enough of me (though thank you for reading this far!).

What about you?

What do you need to say no to so you can create space to think a little deeper, lead a little braver, and move through your days with more presence and less haste?
And just as importantly, who will miss out over the longer arc of time if you don’t? Beyond yourself, of course.

Because when we are racing through life at speed, it’s not just others who miss out on our fullest presence and impact —it is us. Indeed, in the hurried hurly-burly of life, we run the risk missing out on life itself.

If nothing else, I hope you’ll take a moment to take the deepest breath you’ve had all day—breathe in courage, breathe out fear, and get present to the ground beneath your feet and the beauty of your life.

I also hope you’ll enjoy these few glimpses from my cruise down the Nile. One day, I want to go back and cruise its entire length.

The Illusion of Permanence

Margie — Thu, 15 Jan 2026 09:47:11 +0000

Thirty years ago, I backpacked around Egypt and the Middle East—armed with a few traveler’s checks and wide open to whatever the future might hold.

Two weeks ago, I returned with my husband and two of our children, now the same age I was then. As I rode a cantankerous camel past the Giza pyramids (which were already 2,500 years old when Cleopatra ruled Egypt and Jesus walked the earth), I was struck by how quickly life moves forward. Was it really over half my life ago?!

Then and Now. Sahara 1992. Egypt 2026.

More than that, I was reminded how easily we lose perspective on time—on the blink-of-an-eye brevity of our lives against the long march of history—and how naturally we assume things are more permanent than they actually are.

This is as true for us individually as it is collectively.

The pharaohs built monuments to permanence, assuming their empires would endure forever. They were wrong. But not because they lacked intelligence or ambition, but because every generation is vulnerable to the illusion of permanence—convincing itself that its power, success, and systems will last longer than they do. And the illusion of permanence becomes even more dangerous when the pace of change outstrips our capacity to make sense of it.

Such is the moment we are in right now.

Change is happening faster than we can integrate it.

Today’s leaders aren’t just navigating immense disruption—we’re doing so without the time or space to pause, reflect, or recalibrate. Psychologists call this temporal compression: too much change, too fast.

It’s not that life itself is moving faster. It’s that our cognitive bandwidth to make good decisions is reduced.

While ancient Egyptians planned in centuries, leaders today are forced into quarter-by-quarter survival cycles. Sustained time pressure activates the brain’s threat response, reducing cognitive flexibility and long-term thinking. Under chronic urgency, we become more risk-averse and less creative—precisely when adaptability matters most.

Change threatens how we see ourselves

But here’s the deeper problem – fear doesn’t just make us more cautious, it narrows our identity. Under pressure, we begin to define ourselves by what feels safest and most familiar: our title, our expertise, our past wins. As identity contracts around what has previously earned approval, security, or status, the status quo starts to feel like self-preservation.

Even when we can intellectually see that change is necessary, loss aversion—the brain’s tendency to prioritize avoiding loss over pursuing gain—keeps us clinging to familiar roles, systems, and structures far longer than is rational. Little wonder it’s so easy to find leaders operating from a play-not-to-lose rather than a play-to-win mindset.

Letting go of the status quo toward something new doesn’t just feel scary. It can feel like we’re losing a part of ourselves.

That’s why what keeps us from adapting isn’t a lack of intelligence or insight—it’s a deficit of courage in the face of increasing fear that we’ll lose ourselves if we stop doing what once worked. This is why expanding our capacity to process fear and act in its presence—closing our internal ‘courage gap’—is so critical right now.

While humanity has evolved, our human struggles haven’t

Humanity has advanced immeasurably since the era of the pharaohs. Yet we’re still wrestling with the same fundamental fears – of loss of status, of irrelevance, of the unknown. The parallels write themselves:

Pharaohs → CEOs
Scribes → Knowledge workers
Temples → Organizations built to signal power and permanence

Context evolves. Psychology doesn’t.

We must choose to step toward the uncertainty

Back in the early 1990s, as I marveled at the imperceptibly slow moving sands of the Sahara that gradually consume villages, I had no cell phone, no email, no social media. There was none. I used to record my adventures on cassette tapes I mailed home to mum. I could scarcely have imagined back then how much the world would change, much less the life ahead of me, in the decades ahead.

As stark as that contrast is with today, I’m certain that thirty years from now the world will look radically different again.

And the greatest threat to our ability to thrive—and to lead well—won’t be external. It will be our own internal resistance… our unchecked fear and undeveloped courage.

To adapt and seize opportunity in a world moving ever faster, we must be humble about what we think we know and courageous enough to change before change is forced upon us. We must learn, unlearn and relearn. Not once, but constantly. And the smarter you think you are, the more important this as past success can lure us into “competency traps”—doubling down on past strengths even as the ground beneath us shifts.

Familiarity will almost always feel safer than reinvention in the moment. But walking among the ancient ruins of Egypt reminded me that living and leading well is never about controlling the future. It’s about stepping onto new ground, risking the occasional misstep, and harvesting the learning those missteps offer.

So as you begin this new year, I invite you to pause and ask:

Where do I need to step toward something new—even when a part of me would much rather stay with the familiar?

And perhaps the more important question:

What do you put at risk if you don’t?

From bunk bed to private jet: A lesson on ego taming and claiming your truest source of freedom and power.

Margie — Wed, 17 Dec 2025 14:54:51 +0000

Some days are surreal, glamorous, and ironic.

Last Friday was one of them.

WEDNESDAY: A booking glitch landed me in the smallest hotel room in New York… in a bunk bed!

My ego protested. The wiser part of me saw the humor. Particularly when I had to prop my laptop up on two pillows over my suitcase to do a TV interview so it didn’t look like I was in a bunk room.

FRIDAY: I’m on a private jet to speak at an event. Full VIP treatment. My ego relished it. The wiser part of me knew to savor the moment but not let my head swell.

I’m sharing both moments because the contrast was stark—and the reminder important:

Keep your ego in check and your humor on hand.

Of course, flying private is pretty darn nice and sleeping in a bunk bed in shoebox… not so much. There’s nothing wrong with wanting more of the former and less of the latter.

Yet I regularly speak with people who are captive to their ego. Some whose esteem hangs on by a thread to external markers of status. Others—some who always fly private—who live with a lingering anxiety of falling behind or losing status symbols that form the scaffolding of their identity.

Fear belies their questions:

Who am I if no longer have this title?

Who am I if I have to go back to flying coach?

Who am I if I lose my VIP status or looks or …?

Precisely.

Who are you if not ‘that’?

Answering this question requires looking inward, not outward. Only when your answer is self-referenced—rooted in your own values rather than external validation—can you feel the unshakeable sense of worthiness that everyone craves but so too few find.

In a world that measures success by numbers we all get regular opportunities to manage our ego (like when your hotel room resembles your kid’s dorm).

When you outsource your identity to external markers, you forfeit your greatest source of security.

But when you define yourself by values you want to measure your life by—integrity, courage, generosity, humility, service—you loosen ego’s grip and, with it, the anxiety of having the red carpet pulled out from beneath you.

In the process, you spare yourself the downward shame spiral that siphons your power and free yourself to lighten up and laugh when you’re stuck at the back of the plane surrounded by screaming kids. (In my case, often my own.)

This is what it means to live powerfully. This is what it takes to lead bravely.

Because when you tame your ego enough to know that no title will validate you, no situation will diminish you, and no external measure will ever define you—you unlock true freedom and power.

Power to lead boldly.

Power to show up authentically.

Power to inspire others to claim that same liberation.

Here’s to more of every type of experience that connects you to that power.

What dad taught me about true wealth – what we appreciate, appreciates.

Margie — Wed, 26 Nov 2025 15:49:28 +0000

While I didn’t grow up with the Thanksgiving holiday in Australia, I’ve come to treasure this American tradition dedicated to practicing gratitude in a world that constantly pulls our attention toward what’s missing.

Whenever I think about what gratitude truly means, I think of what my dad has taught me.

My dad spent much of his childhood living in the shed you can see in the image above. No sanitation. No electricity. No running water. No floor. He and his brother (my Uncle Bob) slept on hammocks made from potato sacks hanging from the rafters (handy for a high tide). He didn’t own shoes until he was 12 and later spent 50 years milking cows to make ends meet as he raised his seven children (of which I was big sister).

Needless to say, Dad has weathered more than his share of hardships and heartache over the years. He’s endured brutal droughts. He’s grieved the loss of his youngest son, my brother Peter, after his long battle with schizophrenia. He’s supported his eldest son, Frank, as he learned to navigate life with paraplegia. And most recently, he’s had to say goodbye to his beloved wife of 56 years — my mum — to the brutal fog of dementia.

In August this year, I had the joy of taking dad on a cross-country train trip across Australia to celebrate his 90th birthday. Whether sitting in our cabin staring out the train window at the red parched earth or reflecting on our day over dinner, time and time again he would take my hand and say, “Oh Margie, this is the trip of a lifetime!”

Every time he did, he made me present to the gift of that time together and the gift of life itself. My own. My dad’s. Everyones. Dad’s outward expression of gratitude is my dad through and through. As he has said countless times throughout the years, “I feel like the richest man in all the world.” And he doesn’t just say it, he truly means it. He embodies it.

And it’s got nothing to do with his monetary wealth. In fact, he’s never had a lot of it. Dad’s sense of wealth has never been in a stock portfolio (the only stock he ever had were his herd of dairy cattle!) but in the love he’s generously given and received, and in his daily expressions of gratitude for what is, rather than lamenting what isn’t.

Dad taught me that gratitude isn’t something you practice only when life is going your way—when the job comes through, the illness lifts, or long-prayed-for rain finally falls. It’s a discipline for all seasons. The more we practice it, the more it bolsters our resilience and buoys our spirits to rise above the waves when life’s storms roll in. (If you haven’t one lately, it’s coming.)

Here’s the thing about gratitude that research confirms and lived experience proves:

What we appreciate, appreciates.

When we focus our attention on what we’re grateful for, it doesn’t just make us feel better in the moment—it actually expands. Our relationships deepen. Our joy multiplies. Our capacity to meet life’s inevitable challenges grows larger and our ability to find the good even in the hardest of circumstances grows deeper.

In a world that pummels us 24/7 with reasons to feel anxious, inadequate, or ‘left behind,’ it’s all too easy to fixate on what’s wrong, who’s to blame, or how life should be different than it is. Our brains are wired for this ‘negativity bias’ which kept our ancestors alive by constantly scanning for threats. But in today’s world, that same wiring can hold us captive to scarcity thinking, living in a perpetual state of ‘not enough’, always chasing the next thing while missing the beauty and abundance that’s right in front of us. Or at least not appreciating it fully. I’m as guilty of falling into this trap as anyone.

This isn’t about denying hard realities. Rather it’s about intentionally placing our attention on what’s good and what’s right. Doing so expands our capacity – mental, emotional, physical and spiritual – to meet our challenges better and to emerge as better humans.

This has been my personal truth again and again—especially in my toughest seasons, when my expectations and hopes collided head-on with a reality I didn’t want or wasn’t prepared for. In those moments when the world has felt like it’s falling apart, I’ve slipped into what I call an un-gratitude state… feeling angry at life or sorry for myself.

And so this is my wish and prayer for you in this Thanksgiving week:

~ To pause long enough to really see your blessings — you have many, even if some are hiding in plain sight.

~ To look for the gifts and goodness in the people around you, rather than focusing on how you wish they were different.

~ And to recognize that the “ordinary” moments of your life — your health, your morning coffee, a hug from your kids, a friend who checks in — are, in truth, the really big things.

On this Thanksgiving week, I’m thankful for YOU, for taking the time to read this right now.

I’m thankful for everyone who has cheered me on this year, supporting me as I reset my sails to launch The Courage Gap (if you haven’t read it yet, the holidays are coming!) or supported my me in any way.

I’m even thankful for the experiences I’d never have chosen and to the people who’ve given me opportunities to practice forgiveness, empathy and patience. They have helped me to grow ways I couldn’t have without them.

The mystic Rumi once wrote:

“Wear gratitude like a cloak, and it will feed every corner of your life.”

What we appreciate, appreciates. May this week remind us all to focus on what we have, knowing that in doing so, we create more of what truly matters.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Don’t betray your future self. Bet on them.

Margie — Fri, 07 Nov 2025 09:43:10 +0000

Ever sold yourself short?

If you can think back to a moment you wished you’d backed yourself more—taken that chance, made the ask, leapt—you’re not alone.

The truth is, most of us regret the risks we didn’t take far more than the ones we did. By a long shot. That cautious voice hammering “What if…?” usually wins. And that’s because we’re lousy negotiators when it comes to our own lives. Not so much with others—with ourselves. Especially with the person we’ve yet to become.

Why? Because your brain treats your future self like a total stranger. Let me explain.

Research by Peter H. Diamandis and Steven Kotler (detailed in their book The Future is Faster Than You Think) found that that when we imagine our future selves, the part of your brain that lights up when you think about yourself starts to shut down. It’s the same reaction as when you ponder a complete stranger. And the farther into the future you go, the more cognitive effort is required and the alien you seem to yourself. No wonder we so often make shortsighted decisions and sell our future time so cheap—we just can’t picture ourselves in it!

That’s why people struggle to save for retirement, ditch bad habits, or make tough calls today that pay off tomorrow. Our biased brains trick us into thinking the person who’ll reap the rewards (or suffer the discomfort) isn’t really us at all.

The hidden ‘timidity tax’ compounds over time

This neurological quirk teams up with what Harvard’s Daniel Gilbert calls the “end of history illusion”: We admit we’ve changed heaps in the past, but we massively underestimate how much we’ll transform in the future. We think we’ve already peaked as who we’ll be.

The fallout? We shortchange our future selves. We cling to safe choices that keep us in jobs that no longer fit, relationships we’ve outgrown, or lives that feel too small. I call this the “timidity tax.” It’s sneaky—it doesn’t hit you now, but it racks up compound interest. Sticking with comfy today can leave you less secure, less fulfilled, and way more uncomfortable down the track. The irony?

In shielding ourselves from uncertainty now, we betray the person we’re evolving into.

I once interviewed Richard Branson at a global leaders’ retreat on his private Necker Island (yeah, tough gig, but someone had to do it). I’d spent the afternoon kite surfing with him—and nearly got blown to Cuba (slight exaggeration) but knowing he’d once flown a hot air balloon across the Atlantic (and nearly died), I had to ask: Have your goals ever been too ambitious? He didn’t miss a beat before replying:

“If your goals aren’t scaring you, they’re too small for you.”

Not gut-wrenching terror. Not paralysis. Just that, “I’m-not-sure-I-can-pull-this-off” aliveness. That’s the sweet spot – the gap between where you are now and where you could be if you made more consistent bets on yourself (present and future!) It’s where your deepest potential lives, and where you make your greatest impact on others.

Look at history’s greatest leaders—they pursued bold visions and chased big dreams that were no sure thing. Some thought they were too audacious. When Martin Luther King Jr. proclaimed “I have a dream,” he wasn’t talking current reality. He was claiming a future that didn’t exist yet, but one he believed was worth fighting for. As I shared in a recent keynote speech (above), in doing so he stretched what everyone else thought possible and rallied a nation.

Yes, King’s dream came at a cost. And no, not every dream was fully realized — not everyone is judged by the content of their character. But his life was profoundly worthy because he refused to betray his future self.

Risking ‘worthy failure’ honors your future self

You don’t need to seek to end racism or world hunger for your future self to high-five you. My family took on such a risk when we decided to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro – Africa’s tallest peak- at 19,341 feet/5,895m. We had four teenagers then. Friends thought we’d gone mad. We lived at sea level; our “big” climbs were sand dunes, not summits. Odds of all six summiting? Slim.

But that wasn’t the goal. If we failed, it’d be a worthy failure—one we’d never regret trying. Nine brutal hours from base camp, we all stepped onto the summit. Every one of us. Back at base camp, I learned our guides had placed bets we wouldn’t all make it. Huh! But that’s precisely the point: Only when you dare to do something that can feel, in the present, a little too ambitious, can you discover how much you can actually do.

Better decisions require empathy for your future self

So, how do we over-ride our neurobiology? How do we stop treating our future selves like strangers and start casting a vote for the person we’re on our way to becoming? By building empathy. Don’t just vaguely daydream—slow down, step in. Feel it. What does that life look like? What do you you look like (enlist GenAI to create an image of you 20 years from now)? What makes you proud? What regrets did you dodge by getting brave today? This isn’t fluffy stuff. This is science applied to your life!

The more vividly and often you connect to the future version of yourself, the more real they become. And the harder it is to let them down.

As leaders and change-makers, we should never underestimate our power to pivot, make changes and pursue challenges our future selves will thank us for. Bold goals, rooted in a big “why,” aren’t reckless in shaky times—they’re vital. Like Ranjay Gulati says in his recent article for HBR, “Now is the Time For Courage!”:

When uncertainty is running high and our instinct urges us to grip harder to the familiar, courage is most essential—and most rewarding.

So… what’s your Courage Gap?

It’s the space between what feels familiar today and the future that’s calling your name; between the person (and leader) you are right now and the one you have it within you to become (the one the people you care about most need you to become.)

Let me leave you with three questions:

1. Where are you underestimating yourself right now?

2. What change are you avoiding because you’re not sure you’ve got what it takes?

3. If you risked a worthy failure—one that honors your future self rather than short changes them—what would it look like?

As I wrote in The Courage Gap (a book your future self will be glad you read):

Dare to risk failures worthy of the person you’re on your way to becoming.

So, what’s your Kilimanjaro? Whatever popped into your head—it’s no coincidence. If nothing did, start small: do one brave thing today.

Your future self will thank you. I guarantee it.

Brave the Awkward: Forging Real Connection In A Digital World

Margie — Wed, 15 Oct 2025 09:49:38 +0000

I almost sent a text I would have regretted.

Someone had misinterpreted something I’d said, and I wanted to fix it — without making things worse. So I started composing a carefully worded message before I caught myself. Instead of hiding behind my iPhone screen, I picked it up and called her.

Within five minutes, what could have spiraled into a drawn-out misunderstanding was resolved. My voice did what twenty text messages never could — conveying my genuine concern, clearing the air, and ending with a laugh.

It reminded me how powerful (and increasingly rare) a real, unscripted (and yes, sometimes messy and awkward) conversation has become.

Chances are, you’ve seen it too: a group of young people sitting together, all on their phones — more likely to text a meme than share a real fear. I call this the connection paradox — surrounded by communication tools, yet starved of genuine connection.

At the heart of it lies something subtle but powerful: a growing reluctance to brave the awkward moments that real connection demands.

We’ve become masters of impression management — curating, editing, scripting — but amateurs at vulnerability.

We draft and redraft our replies. Some even put them into ChatGPT to polish (and yes, I see the irony of writing that here). But beneath all that polish often lies fear — fear of judgment, rejection, fumbling our words, or losing face.

“The leaders I work with rarely struggle to set strategy. What they struggle with most? The awkward conversations that bring that strategy to life.”

And it’s not just Gen Z I’m talking about. We all do it. Even seasoned leaders I work with often find themselves avoiding discomfort. Just last week, I asked a group of executives where they most regret not being braver in their careers. The majority said it was in addressing people issues. One shared:

“I should have let someone go sooner. I kept hoping things would turn around, even though I knew that was unlikely. It just felt easier to delay.”

It’s rarely a lack of intellect or information that holds leaders back — or perpetuates their biggest (avoidable) problems. It’s fear. Fear of the fallout. Fear of confrontation. Fear of defensiveness. Fear of holding people accountable — and the tension that may follow.

In an AI-fueled world of polished communication, genuine connection has never been rarer — or more valuable.

Because it’s not in grand declarations of strategy that trust and culture are built. It’s in the small, courageous, messy moments of human honesty that bring those strategies to life. Yet these are precisely the moments where courage counts most — not in setting bold strategies, but in having the honest, human conversations that bring them to life.

Long before GenAI came along, we were already defaulting to digital distance — sending emails instead of talking, texting instead of calling, posting instead of showing up. (I even wrote a Forbes column on “talking over texting” back in 2012.)

Now, with AI permeating every corner of our lives, communication requires even less of us. It doesn’t just make it easier to avoid awkward conversations — it spares us the effort of even crafting them. But here’s the thing: when something feels too easy, it often is.

“Every time we dodge an awkward moment, we weaken the interpersonal muscle that builds authentic connection and trust — and widen the gap between the influence we have and the influence we want.”

Because it’s not our perfect delivery that earns trust — it’s our willingness to be real. To show up unscripted. To be uncertain and sometimes clumsy. To be fully, awkwardly, imperfectly human. No wonder people today are more connected than ever — yet feel more alone.

📉 In 1990, 75% of Americans said they had a best friend. Today, only 59% do.

📉 The share of people with no close friends at all has quadrupled.

📉 Only 23% of employees say they feel truly connected at work.

📉 Gen Z reports the highest levels of anxiety and loneliness in the workplace.

This isn’t coincidence. It’s the predictable result of a culture fluent in emojis and memes but less practiced in emotional nuance, conversation, and good old-fashioned eye contact. Another irony: we end up experiencing more stress over time than the discomfort we sought to avoid.

We often suffer more from the compounded stress of avoiding an awkward moment that requires us to lay our vulnerability on the line than from braving the moment itself.

It’s why one of the most underrated superpowers today is our willingness to brave the awkward. To make the ask. To give the feedback. To extend the invite. To say how we really feel. Because the things we most want — trust, influence, belonging, confidence, connection — are often waiting just past the awkward moment we least want to face.

If we want to raise braver kids, build stronger teams, and nurture more connected communities, we must re-normalize the awkwardness that comes with being human.

We have to be the ones who go first — who pick up the phone, who start the honest conversation, who say:

“I’m sorry.” “I need help.” “I’m feeling upset.” “I don’t quite know how to say this, but…”

Because in today’s curated world of polished perfection, people are hungry for what’s real. I know I’m not alone when I say I’d much rather build a relationship or work with someone who fumbles over their words but speaks from the heart than someone who hides behind a screen.

So next time you’re tempted to send a perfectly edited message — or say nothing at all — pause.

Ask yourself:

“What might open up if I were willing to brave the awkward moment?”

Connection isn’t built through perfect performance. It’s built through genuine presence.

As the world speeds up, walk at the pace of wisdom, not urgency

Margie — Wed, 03 Sep 2025 08:57:17 +0000

My Uber to Union Station in Washington DC this morning took twice as long as it often does, the traffic heavy as everyone returns from summer breaks. Crawling across the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, bumper to bumper with hundreds of other commuters, I couldn’t help but glance at my watch a few times to double-check I’d have time to grab coffee before boarding my train for back to back client meetings in NYC. (Fortunately, I did!)

After a week away by the water, that drive felt like I was suddenly jolted back into the fast lane—or at least, the lane that’s desperately trying to be fast.

As I sit on this Amtrak train now, I can’t help but contrast my view with what I looked at just three weeks ago while traveling across Australia by train with my 90 year old dad, watching the vast sunburnt landscape roll past as we traveled from the south to the ‘Top End.’

Dad and me on (and off) the Ghan train across Australia, August 2025.

We’re trying to run modern software on ancient hardware.

Dad has slowed down a lot in in the last year and now relies on a walking stick. Forced to match his slower pace, I noticed how slowly down physically helped me slow down mentally. Over the course of a few days, his walking stick tapping a gentler rhythm against the parched earth, I observed a calmness permeate throughout my entire being. It reminded me of a factoid I came across while writing The Courage Gap. That our brains are wired much the same as they were 65,000 years ago, yet we’re living in an age where life comes at us faster than our nervous systems were designed to handle.

We’re essentially trying to run modern software on ancient hardware, and it’s showing. The stats tell the story: rising anxiety and depression, attention spans that have shrunk from 12 to 8 seconds over just 25 years.

Yes, eight seconds—shorter than a goldfish!

But what if the extra pressure we feel to do more and move faster isn’t actually a problem to solve, but an invitation to evolve?

Think of it like the Woodrow Wilson Bridge bridge I crossed this morning. When traffic exceeds a bridge’s capacity as I did on my commute this morning, everything slows to a crawl. Like every bridge, it can handle a certain volume, but overload it and everyone suffers, regardless of how urgently they need to get somewhere.

The same happens when outer demands exceed your inner resources. But unlike a physical bridge, we humans have have agency to expand our inner bandwidth—to hold complexity, navigate uncertainty, and respond with wisdom rather than reactivity. But we have to be intentional about it.

It’s what I call closing ‘the courage gap’—that space between knowing what serves us and actually doing it, particularly when our fears are urging us to speed up lest we get left behind.

Choosing to slow down your ‘doing’ and reconnect to your being isn’t passivity, it’s courage. It’s also the wisest thing you can do.

Your nervous system is called a nervous system for a reason. Its default is self-protective vigilance. This includes speeding up under pressure. It’s why choosing to slow down or take some time to pause and be still isn’t passivity but an act of courage. And having the courage to pause, to breath, and to ground yourself before rushing headlong into the next thing can help you see that the most important thing to do is often s the thing you feel pressured to do.

Your fear will try to convince you that slowing down risks left behind. Yet it actually does the opposite, expanding your bandwidth to prioritize more effectively, to solve problems better and discern which ones aren’t yours to solve.

Navigating your path through a world whose foot seems stuck on the accelerator doesn’t require you to control the chaos and uncertainty. (Good luck trying though!) Rather, it calls on you to live more spaciously within it – kinder to yourself in moments of overwhelm, intentional in nurturing your nervous system so you can expand your capacity to hold what needs to be held and to discern what isn’t yours to hold in the first place.

So as you move through your day today – on a train, behind a wheel or on foot – simply notice the pressure you are feeling to speed up. Feel it in your body when you’re rushing between meetings, checking your phone while walking, or mentally calculating whether you can shave off a few minutes.

Don’t let a false sense of urgency outrun your wisdom. Rather, allow yourself to be informed by life rather than bulldozing mindlessly through it.

And then…

Deliberately choose to move through your day at the pace of wisdom, not urgency.

How we move in the world is who we are in the world. By moving with presence —pausing before responding to that “urgent” email, taking three deep breaths before entering a difficult conversation, walking with intention, not Road Runner pace—you empower yourself to be informed by life rather than bulldozing mindlessly through it.

As I experienced both in the Outback as I did on Woodrow Wilson Bridge, sometimes the slower route is the most direct path to where you actually need to go.

What’s your ‘helicopter moment’? Why courage compounds.

Margie — Fri, 29 Aug 2025 14:09:20 +0000

A few weeks ago, I found myself buckled into a helicopter seat, headset on, lifting off above the ancient sandstone cliffs and winding waters of Katherine Gorge in Australia’s Northern Territory.

Beside me sat my 90-year-old dad.

“Dad, want to take a chopper ride over the Gorge?” I’d asked him earlier that morning.

“Sure, why not? I’m not getting any younger,” he said, slightly nervous.

But he didn’t dwell on the ‘what-ifs?’ He simply decided it was worth the ride.

And it was.

Yet how often do we let our fear of what might go wrong direct our decisions. Not fear of falling from the sky, but the subtler fears – of embarrassing ourselves, of being found out as not as smart as others think, of ruffling feathers or of stepping up but falling short.

In The Courage Gap, I write about how these fears—often unconscious and disguised in more socially acceptable clothes like perfectionism, people-pleasing, or the need for consensus—can hold us back from taking the very actions that would fuel our growth, advance our goals, and create greater value for others.

We tell ourselves we’re “waiting for the right time,” “protecting others’ feelings,” or “just doing more preparation.” But beneath it, what we’re really doing is avoiding the risk of failure, rationalizing our caution, or giving ourselves cover not to take the very step we know, deep down, would move us forward most.

And it’s costly.

Harvard researcher Amy Edmondson, who has studied psychological safety for over 20 years, has found that when people don’t feel safe to take interpersonal risks, they default to silence — withholding ideas, concerns, and questions that could spark innovation or prevent mistakes. Over time, this erodes not just performance, but confidence.

We regret our excesses of caution far more than our excesses of courage.

Even when our brave actions don’t land with the ideal outcome, we walk away with learning, growth, and often, unexpected opportunities. But when we hold back, telling ourselves we’re just being ‘prudent’ it exacts what I call a hidden ’timidity tax’ that is rarely obvious in the moment.

We don’t just stay where we are — we shrink our own capacity to stretch.
We gradually lose confidence in our ability to do hard things.
We reinforce avoidance, making future acts of courage harder.

As I’ve witnessed many times in others:

Comfort doesn’t stay comfortable forever.

On the flip side, every time we take action that defies our doubts and fears, we grow a little braver in our own estimation. And research backs this up. Neuroscience tells us that every time we choose to act amid our fears – even in a small way – we strengthen the neural pathways that make courage more accessible next time.

The reverse is also true: every time we avoid, we strengthen the habit of avoidance. And the cost of caution compounds. In a world moving at speed, that hidden “timidity tax” we pay for holding back and ‘playing not to lose’ can be easily underestimated.

My encouragement to you is this:

Don’t wait for the perfect moment. Don’t wait for perfect conditions or until you feel 100% confident. The conditions will never be perfect, and confidence is a result, not a prerequisite, of action. Rather, identify one action you’ve been putting off:

The conversation you’ve been avoiding (we nearly all have at least one!)
The idea you’ve sat on, waiting to refine it to perfection
The decision you keep procrastinating on making, waiting for the ‘fog to clear’

Then take it.

Because whether it’s climbing into a helicopter at 90 or taking a leap in your career, courage compounds.

The sooner you start, the more it grows.

Promise.

Rewrite the Story Fear Wrote Long Ago

Margie — Fri, 08 Aug 2025 05:42:31 +0000

I was nine the day my dad sold his entire herd of dairy cows.
A long and devastating drought had forced his hand. As the cattle truck rumbled down the laneway, I looked up at him and asked:

“How will we get money now, Dad?”

“I don’t know, Margie,” he said, before adding, “But we have to trust the Good Lord will provide.”

My nine-year-old brain tried to imagine how—
Would we win the lottery?
Would a bag of cash just appear on the back verandah?

Neither happened.

Rather, Dad did whatever it took—handyman work, baling hay, building cabins by the nearby lake.

We wore hand-me-downs, never ate out, and bartered milk for fish.

We never went hungry. But an insecurity was planted in me that day—a deep, subconscious fear of ever feeling that vulnerable again.

For decades, it shaped how I approached money, risk, and success —long after I’d outgrown the circumstances that created it.

Last weekend, back on the farm to celebrate Dad’s 90th, I stood with him by that same cattle dock—now weathered and overgrown—and reflected on just how many of us still carry psychological scar tissue from our childhoods.

Often, it’s this old emotional wiring—not a lack of opportunity or intellect—that most limits our future and sabotages our success.

As I wrote in The Courage Gap, working through the moments our young brains interpreted as “near-death” (even if they weren’t) is essential for any adult who wants to truly flourish and critical for transformational leadership.

So let me ask you:

What old fear still has an outsized influence on your decisions today?
And what would it take to stop letting it run the show?

The pen is still in your hand.

When “It’s Fine” Isn’t Fine at All

Margie — Tue, 15 Jul 2025 17:33:42 +0000

Note: This is clearly not my normal type of column. But on this occasion, I want to share a personal experience that, while involving nudity, holds some powerful lessons that I hope will be helpful for you in some small way.

I’m really disappointed in myself.

I did something I wouldn’t want my daughter to do. It wasn’t terrible—but it sure wasn’t brave.

Of course, no one is perfect. But in retrospect, I failed to do the very thing I often encourage others—especially women—to do: own their power and back themselves.

Even when it’s awkward.

Especially when it’s awkward.

To be clear, I’m fine. But I’m sharing this because in a similar situation, someone else might not be.

I booked an Airbnb in Middleburg, Virginia—a basement studio on a farm with a private pool. Just one night of solitude to recharge after an intense stretch of speaking, media, and travel.

After a peaceful summer evening, I asked the host if I could check out later to savor more solitude by the pool. She agreed to noon then later texted that a regular guest might stop by to swim after 11.

I didn’t love the idea of sharing the space—presuming he was coming to swim laps—but she was doing me a favor.

“Fine,” I replied.

The man arrived at 10:30 and asked, “Do you want me to come back later?”

I did but I didn’t want to be an imposition.

“No, it’s fine,” I said.

He pointed to a sign on the pool gate – ‘Swimsuits optional’. “You okay with that?”

“Fine,” I said again, unsure what I was consenting to, just wanting to avoid any more interaction.

He then asked to use my bathroom. That seemed kinda odd, but again:

“Sure, fine.”

I just wanted solitude. To read my book. To contemplate my life. To reflect in my journal. To talk to God and no one else.

A few minutes later, he returned. From the corner of my eye I could see he was undressing—fully… utterly… stark bloody naked.

Oh shit, I thought to myself. But did i say anything? No. I wanted to avoid all interaction.

After laying on the poolside lounge, he climbed onto a floating lounge, on his back, legs splayed wide.

Oh shit, I thought again. And again, I said nothing but kept my head down. I had zero desire to see what I knew could not be unseen.

Then I saw something glint. Curiosity won. I glanced over.

There he was—naked, legs splayed, wearing a large silver ring on his appendage.

W.T.?!*!

Instinct kicked in. I immediately packed up. As I veered for the gate, he called out:

“I hope I haven’t driven you away?”

“No, it’s fine… it’s fine… it’s fine,” I said without looking back

Two minutes later, I was in my car, heart pounding, head whirling. What the hell just happened?

Later, I messaged the host: “I left early. The man got naked. It felt very uncomfortable.” She apologized, offered a free return stay. Later she texted again. He said you’d agreed to no swimsuits. And technically I had—except I hadn’t. But clearly, it was not fine. And I had no idea he’d take that as permission to be fully nude—much less fully exhibitionist.

So why do I share this now? Because at each moment, I had a choice:

When the host texted.
When he showed up early.
When he asked about ‘swimsuits optional.’
When he asked to use my bathroom (where I assume he suited up with his ‘jewelry’).
When he undressed
When he got into the pool and floated in full display

At no point did I say: “Hey sir, you know what? This is NOT fine.”

Why not? I’d like to say I’m an easygoing person. Accommodating. Agreeable. The kind who doesn’t make a fuss sharing a pool with someone—especially not on a blazing hot summers day.

The truth? Without realizing it, my default was to prioritize his wants over my own and to avoid an awkward moment.

By trying to avoid an awkward moment, I let someone cross a boundary by a country mile.

But in trying to avoid an awkward moment—or him thinking I was difficult or uptight—I ended up feeling violated and putting myself in a much more uncomfortable, and potentially vulnerable, situation.

And while I am a relatively empowered woman—not easily intimidated and pretty good at taking care of myself in situations that would make others anxious —in that moment, I was not in my power resulting in a man violating the boundary of basic respect and decency by a country mile.

Yes, this was a moment I froze. But it also exposed something deeper.

“The reflex to say ‘fine’ isn’t just personal—it’s cultural. And it costs us more than we realize.”

We’re shaped by culture. The reflex to say “fine” was not a wholly personal failing but learned behavior—especially for women, taught to be agreeable—even when uncomfortable. But unclear consent is not consent—especially when there are ambiguous expectations, a power imbalance, or a desire to just keep the peace.

This wasn’t one big ‘no.’ It was death by a dozen small ‘fines.’”

And micro-boundaries matter. This wasn’t one big “no.” It was death by a dozen small “fines.”

We all have moments when we freeze or fear wins—especially when we don’t see them coming. But if there’s one lesson that stands out from this experience for me it’s this:

Those moments we want to shrink back, stay quiet, or just say ‘it’s fine’ are often the exact cue to speak up.

I’m curious how this experience lands for you. Maybe you’re surprised that i wasn’t bolder and more asertvive frpm the get-go. Or maybe you totally relate. Or maybe you have another reaction. Either way, i’d love your thoughts and feedback.

Have you ever said “fine” when everything in you wanted to say “no”?
Or maybe you did what I didn’t—and braved an awkward moment to protect your peace or power? If so, what helped you do it?

I’m hoping my experience can be a learning moment for anyone who’s ever said yes or “fine” just to keep the peace only to regret it later. Clearly i’m still a work in progress when it comes to practicing my own “Be brave and back yourself” advice. Then again, aren’t we all?

If you’d lie some inspiration and encouragement to help you navigate your bravest path, please check out my book The Courage Gap: Five Steps to Braver Action (also narrated by yours truly on Audible).

And if you’re a podcast fan, take a listen to my Live Brave podcast!