Some trips are about meetings and agendas. This one included all of that. We showed up, we worked hard, and we got a lot done. But it also left a mark on my heart.
I am headed home from Washington, D.C., and I am still carrying it with me. Not just in my suitcase, but in my chest. The conversations were important. The connections we built and the clarity we sought were real. But behind every meeting was a deeper question: What kind of future are we building together?
There is a lot of tension in the air right now. You can feel it in every hallway, every headline, and every conversation. People are tired. Systems are strained. The path forward is not always clear. And more than ever, we need leadership that does not just check boxes or bends the knee, but brings people together.
We need leaders who are not prideful or self-serving. Leaders who are not afraid to speak the truth, even when it is uncomfortable. Leaders who do not look the other way when power goes unchecked. We need people who will stand up with integrity, who will listen more than they speak, and who are willing to do the hard work of holding space for others. That kind of leadership creates trust. That kind of leadership changes things.
In the middle of that tension, I found something I did not expect: peace.
It started with a lunch recommendation from a new friend. We walked over to the National Museum of the American Indian, thinking we would grab a bite before heading back into a full schedule. I was not expecting what came next.
Even before we walked inside, I felt it. The space was different. The water flowing quietly along the path. The trees that felt placed with care. The stillness of the pond. And right at the entrance, a large circular sculpture rising from the middle of the water. It was bold and quiet at the same time. It made me stop. In the middle of a noisy city, something in me settled. It felt like the world slowed down, just for a moment.
Inside, it was peaceful and thoughtful. Every exhibit, every space, seemed to invite reflection. It was not loud. It did not overwhelm. It was designed with reverence and intention. I had come expecting lunch. I walked into something sacred.
I spent time with the stories, stories of survival, resilience, heartbreak, and hope. One that stayed with me was the Two Row Wampum Belt. It is a symbol of an agreement between two nations to travel down the river of life side by side, each in their own vessel, neither steering the other. That kind of mutual respect should have been the foundation. But history tells a different story. A story of broken promises. A story of pain. A story that is still unfolding today.
The more I read, the more I felt the weight of what has been lost. And the quiet strength of those who have held on. The wisdom of Indigenous communities, their connection to the land, to community, to spirit, these are not things of the past. They are lessons we need now more than ever.
While I stood in that space, I thought about the Coeur d’Alene Tribe, my neighbors back home in North Idaho. Their leadership is steady and humble, deeply rooted in care. But what I admire most is that their care does not stop at their own. They include all of us. They show up for this region in ways that are generous and often unseen. They build. They protect. They serve. They lead with compassion and courage, and they remind all of us what it means to belong to one another.
That morning, before our hill visits, I had a cherry blossom latte and it had a perfect heart poured into the foam. Later that night, I was with friends at the rooftop bar at our hotel, and we shared a cherry blossom cocktail. It was a mix of Toki whiskey, citrus, sparkling sake, and a little smoke, and it caught us off guard. The flavor was incredible. Unexpected. Powerful. That bright, unforgettable taste broke through the noise of the day. And somehow, it reminded me of the heart in that latte earlier. Two small moments of quiet beauty. One at the start of the day. One at the end. Both of them soft and strong in their own way.
That cherry blossom became a symbol for me that day. Beauty in the chaos. Color and flavor in the middle of tension and complexity. Something gentle that still carries strength. That is how I want to move through the world.
We ended the night the way we always try to when we are in D.C., on that same rooftop, looking out at the Capitol, glowing through the rain. I was with people who care deeply. People who give their energy to this work day after day. People who believe in healing, in progress, in showing up when it would be easier to walk away.
We talked about the broken systems. About burnout. About the weight we all carry. But we also talked about the good. About what still inspires us. The hope that does not quit.
Before flying home, I left behind a few copies of my book, The Optimist’s Way. One in my hotel room. One on a table at a the coffee shop. A few more tucked into quiet places where someone might find them. I included a small note, just a simple message. If the book speaks to you, I would love to hear from you. Not for attention. Just connection. Just to say, if this landed with you, you are not alone.
Sometimes, I wonder if it all matters. The songs I write. The art I create. The stories I share. I see posts go viral for things that are shallow or cruel or designed to provoke. And yet the words I pour my heart into, the ones that could move someone, or maybe even help, get five likes and disappear into the scroll. It feels like untapped potential. Like there are sparks of truth just waiting to reach the right person, but the algorithm keeps them buried. And it is hard not to feel discouraged.
But then I remember: even one person reached is enough.
That is why I keep going.
I keep leading my team. I keep serving my community. And I keep writing. I keep making music. I keep creating art that tells the truth. These things are my outlet, my therapy, my way of processing what I carry. Because I believe in the quiet power of optimism. The kind that does not need a spotlight. The kind that does not quit when things are hard. The kind that keeps showing up, even if no one is watching. The kind that leaves something behind for a stranger, just in case they need it.
We need better leadership. Not louder. Not flashier. Just better. We need people who care about others. People who build trust. People who can look at the bigger picture and still see the individual standing in front of them.
I saw that kind of leadership in that museum. I see it every day in the Coeur d’Alene Tribe. And I see it in the people who keep doing the work, even when it is hard, even when it feels like no one sees it.
So if you are tired, if you are wondering if what you do makes a difference, this is for you.
You are still here. Still trying.
And that means something.
— Mike