Stretching My Heart
In preparation for a work-related retreat, I was asked by the workshop facilitator to create a dual biography for myself — a professional bio alongside a more personal bio that includes more of the “eulogy virtues” that David Brooks writes about, or how we’d like to be remembered.
The standard bio was easy: Copy and paste. It was, of course, the personal bio that suddenly thrust me into a reckoning of: “Why do I feel different from the person I wish to be?”
It’s not lost on me that it took a forcing function like a leadership retreat to get me to pause, reflect, and map out more deliberately the kind of life I’d like to lead. Why didn’t I do this when I started college or my academic career? But it feels like only recently that these “design your life” frameworks have become part of our cultural vocabulary.
I think unless we happen to be a spiritual leader like my good friend and podcast cohost, Rev. Dana Allen Walsh, most of us don’t consciously chart out a life path. During one of our recent recordings, I mentioned this to Dana, saying, “You probably think about living purposefully more often than most people.” She laughed and replied, “It’s all we think about.”
That kind of intentionality is at the heart of a life of faith. But for the rest of us, it’s easy to overlook the strategy behind living a good life, the kind of life we’d like to be remembered for.
My mentor, Clayton Christensen, wrote beautifully about this in his book How Will You Measure Your Life? One of my favorite sections draws on his distinction between deliberate and emergent strategies—two forces that shape not only businesses but also our personal lives. A deliberate strategy reflects the values and goals we choose intentionally—the kind of life we mean to lead. An emergent strategy, on the other hand, arises from the unexpected opportunities, pressures, and incentives that appear along the way.
Clay warned that if we’re not careful, those emergent forces—career rewards, external validation, the endless “fire drills” of work—can slowly crowd out our original, deliberate intentions. What starts as flexibility or adaptability can slip into drift. Before we know it, we’re compromising on what truly matters: integrity, relationships, purpose. His lesson was simple but profound: Stay conscious of how you spend your time and energy, so that the emergent doesn’t quietly overtake the deliberate. Only then can you stay aligned with the life you actually mean to live.
Even though my own mentor wrote a book on this, it can be difficult to remember and maintain that sort of deliberate focus. When I began my career, I was mostly emulating those around me—working hard, chasing success, hoping that diligence might lead to stability. I was a high achiever but not always a reflective one. Without a clear strategy for how I wanted to live, I think I drifted away from the things that mattered more.
Because when I really think about it, the person I most aspire to be isn’t a CEO or a thought leader—it’s Jeff, a retired police officer who worked as a security guard at one of the toughest jobs I’ve ever had (let’s leave it at that).
At the end of each day, I’d pack up my things and prepare for my commute home. I’d step out of the building, cross the main street, and make my way down a short alley that opened into a large parking lot.
It wasn’t the kind of place you’d want to linger after dark—a poorly lit, rough corner of the city often frequented by people struggling with addiction. Jeff would be there, waiting to walk us safely to our cars.
Jeff had a gift for making hard days end more softly. Every evening, I’d see his big smile before I heard his voice: “How we doin’?!” It was impossible not to grin in return. Jeff became a part of my daily ritual. I looked forward to seeing him every day.
Between walks and waves, Jeff would share small bits of wisdom and quiet care. Knowing I was a Californian—and unlikely to check the weather—he’d offer practical advice like, “In the winter, always dress as if you might get stranded in your car.” And when it snowed, Jeff would zip his truck over and help me brush the snow from my car windows. He didn’t do this just for me; he did it for everyone.
But he also offered deeper counsel—gentle encouragement to stay strong, be courageous, speak my mind, and not let hard days harden me. His gestures were small but full of heft; they remind me that care doesn’t have to be grand or powerful to be transformative.
When I say I want to be like Jeff, what I really mean is that I want to be more generous.
Over the years, I’ve grown deeply introverted. Ignore the public moments—the keynotes, the panels, the podcasts. Those are performances that actually drain me. I’ve even noticed that recovery takes longer now. And so, I have gotten into the habit of guarding my energy carefully because replenishing it takes time and care.
But that self-protection has a shadow side. My introversion, though very real, has also enabled a kind of stinginess to take root—a cautiousness about giving too much of myself.
In trying to conserve my energy, I fear I’ve become less generous than I’d like to be remembered for. The résumé virtues—the accomplishments, titles, and milestones—feel hollow next to the thinner, more meager lines of my personal bio. I’d much rather be remembered with the same warmth and affection with which I remember Jeff.
Rabbi Amy Eilberg, in her book From Enemy to Friend: Jewish Wisdom and the Pursuit of Peace, writes that sacred texts and Rabbinic teachings “remind us repeatedly (and counterintuitively) that it is a mark of wisdom to actively work at expanding our heart’s capacity to hold multiple views. ‘Stretch your heart,’ it encourages, like a wise and gentle yoga teacher, ‘and now stretch it some more and explore what that feels like.’”
Jeff’s quiet way of being in the world reminds me to stretch my heart—to resist the urge to conserve, to hoard my energy, or to retreat too far inward. Like Jeff, I can be a steady presence for others, even when I’m tired or worn thin.
A life of intention isn’t always built through grand plans or sweeping strategies. Sometimes, it’s shaped by the quiet, deliberate choice to show up with kindness—again and again.
Because in the end, the measure of a life well lived may be how softly we help the hard days end for others.
Dr. Michelle Weise is the chief impact officer of the Kern Family Foundation and author of Long Life Learning: Preparing for Jobs that Don’t Even Exist Yet. She is also the co-host of the podcast, “A Life Worth Working,” available wherever you listen to podcasts. All thoughts and opinions expressed are solely my own and do not express the views or opinions of my employer.
The tension between protecting our enrgy and staying generous is somthing I wrestle with too. Jeff's example reminds me that small gestures can have profound impact. It's not about grand acts but the consistency of showing up with kindness. The way you describe stretching the heart like a muscle resonates, it takes practice and intentional effort to expand our capacity for genrosity.
Thank you Michelle for this piece. it actually made me tear up. I lost my husband two years ago. When you speak about "eulogy virtues" that rang true. Even though I was married to my husband for 30 years, I found out about his quiet acts of kindness and support during his service. Things I had no idea that he had done that had such a huge impact on friends and strangers alike. This piece was a wonderful reminder about intentionality. Thank you!