By Mike Baker
I’ve always believed that leadership should feel human.
Not perfect. Not polished. Just real.
I know I don’t always fit the mold.
I hear the feedback, sometimes directly, sometimes through the grapevine.
He shares too much. He’s too visible. He leads with emotion. He’s different.
And honestly, I’ve stopped seeing that as a bad thing. We’re in a time where being different might just be what’s needed most.
The recent No Kings post? Yeah, that stirred things up.
It came from a real place, personal and layered.
I probably could’ve said it differently.
I’m still learning how to speak hard truths with tenderness.
That one’s still tender for me, too.
Nothing I share is meant to divide.
If you’ve followed my work or my heart, you already know that.
My messages are a call to the middle, the space where people who care deeply can sit in the tension without giving up on each other.
That’s where I want to live.
It’s not easy, but it’s honest.
I’ve learned that showing up with your whole self, your stories, your struggles, your voice, will make some people uncomfortable.
And that’s okay.
I’m not here to be everyone’s favorite.
But I am here to lead in a way that builds trust and opens doors for others to do the same.
I’ve seen what happens when we do that.
I wrote a song for a young man who passed away, a beautiful soul with deep roots in faith and country life. His mother told me the song helped her smile again, even through the tears. It captured who he was, and reminded her she wasn’t alone.
Someone living with chronic pain reached out after reading a post I shared about endometriosis. They said, “That helped me find words I didn’t know I needed. It finally made sense to the people around me.”
I’ve sat with people at work who’ve told me, “This doesn’t feel like just a job. It feels like we’re part of something that matters.”
And now, with the release of my book, I’m hearing from people in a whole new way. They’ll reach out and say a passage hit them at just the right moment. That a sentence helped them breathe, or cry, or remember who they are. One person told me it felt like the book showed up for them when they didn’t even know they needed it. That’s been incredible.
It’s wild to think that something I wrote quietly at night, hoping it might matter, has turned into this little adventure people are taking with me. It’s fun. It’s full of heart. And it’s one more way I’m trying to make space for people to feel connected again.
These aren’t my victories. They’re reminders.
Of what happens when we lead with heart.
Of what happens when we stop hiding the parts of ourselves that don’t fit the mold.
Of what happens when we stay in the middle, even when it burns.
That doesn’t mean I always get it right.
I’ve moved too fast. I’ve trusted people I shouldn’t have. I’ve said things the wrong way.
And in moments where I thought I was helping, I know I’ve caused hurt.
I own that.
I carry it with me.
And I’m trying to do better, not just say I'm better.
If you’ve felt unseen, misunderstood, or shut out, I want you to know there’s space for that here.
I don’t get defensive because people disagree with me. I grow because people care enough to speak up.
You don’t have to agree with everything I say to believe we want the same things:
A better world. A stronger community. A life that feels honest and connected.
I’m still here. Still trying.
Still listening.
Still showing up, not just as a leader, but as a human being.
If you’ve supported me, thank you.
If you’ve challenged me with kindness, I respect that more than you know.
And if we’ve had tension, and you’re still here reading this—I see you. That means something to me.
I’m not trying to be everything to everyone.
I’m just trying to be real.
And I still believe we’re stronger together.