Most people assume I left public service when I retired from local government.

For a while, I thought that too.

Long before I understood local government, healthcare, or public service, I understood that some families lived with choices no family should have to make.

Growing up, money wasn’t often tight. It was simply tight. My brother faced ongoing medical challenges that required surgeries, doctor’s appointments, and specialized care. As a child, I didn’t understand insurance, reimbursement, or the complexities of our healthcare system. What I did understand was that every medical need came with difficult decisions. Sometimes those decisions meant balancing healthcare with groceries, rent, utilities, or other basic necessities. I learned early that access to healthcare wasn’t simply about whether a doctor existed. It was also about whether a family could realistically afford to receive the care they needed.

Looking back, I realize those experiences shaped my understanding of service long before I ever thought about a career.

They instilled in me a desire to help others, which ultimately led me to local government. For more than three decades, I had the privilege of serving alongside remarkable people who dedicated themselves to improving the quality of life in our community. Whether we were building parks, responding to emergencies, strengthening neighborhoods, attracting new jobs, supporting economic development, or planning for the future, the mission was always the same.

Make life a little better for someone else.

When I retired from local government, I wasn’t looking for just another job.

I was looking for another opportunity to serve.

That search led me to Cone Health.

If I’m honest, I expected healthcare to be completely different from everything I had known.

Walking into Cone Health was both exhilarating and intimidating. Overnight, I went from a career where I understood nearly every nuance of local government to an organization with its own language, specialties, and complexities. Every meeting introduced a new acronym. Every conversation revealed another service I never knew existed. After more than thirty years of experience, I once again found myself becoming the student.

Yet the deeper I immersed myself, the more something unexpected happened.

Healthcare wasn’t as different from local government as I had imagined.

I wasn’t learning a new mission.

I was learning a new profession.

Both exist to serve people. Both wrestle daily with limited resources and unlimited needs. Both ask how they can make the greatest difference for the people who depend on them. Most importantly, both are filled with people who quietly dedicate themselves to helping others, rarely seeking recognition and often doing their best work when no one is watching.

I recognized those people immediately.

They were the same people I had worked beside during hurricanes, ice storms, and tornadoes. The planners who spent years preparing projects that would never bear their names. The firefighters, police officers, parks and recreation professionals, engineers, sanitation workers, and countless others who simply showed up because someone needed them.

At Cone Health, I found physicians, nurses, therapists, technicians, environmental services staff, researchers, administrators, volunteers, and countless support professionals carrying that same spirit.

Different uniforms.

The same mission.

Long before I joined Cone Health, I had opportunities to work alongside the organization while serving the City of Greensboro. I remember presentations where leaders openly discussed difficult realities. We learned that life expectancy could vary dramatically depending on which neighborhood someone called home. We talked about barriers that prevented people from receiving care and the factors that influenced health long before anyone walked into a hospital or physician’s office.

Those conversations stayed with me.

There was a phrase I kept hearing.

Value based care.

Like many people outside healthcare, I assumed it was simply another healthcare term. The more I learned, the more I realized the focus was different.

It wasn’t simply about treating illness.

It was about improving health.

That approach goes well beyond a doctor’s visit. It means coordinating care so people are not left to navigate the healthcare system alone. It means seeing the whole person, closing gaps in care, and helping people achieve better health.

That way of thinking felt remarkably familiar.

Throughout my career in local government, we understood that quality of life wasn’t determined by a single department. It was shaped by safe neighborhoods, quality housing, parks, recreation, transportation, education, employment, and countless other factors that influenced daily life. Improving a community meant looking beyond the immediate problem and addressing the conditions that created it.

What surprised me was how naturally those same ideas extended into healthcare.

Better health is influenced by where people live, learn, work, and gather. That is why partnerships with local governments, schools, parks, nonprofits, faith communities, businesses, and many others matter so much. They each play a role in creating healthier communities.

As I learned more about Cone Health and its relationship with Risant Health, I realized there was a philosophy behind much of what I was seeing every day. The focus was on improving health, not simply treating illness. Better outcomes for patients ultimately become better health for communities.

That wasn’t a departure from what I had spent my career doing.

It was a continuation of it.

Today, I have the privilege of working with both my former and current colleagues. On any given day, I may be meeting with city managers, county commissioners, planners, parks and recreation professionals, public safety leaders, school officials, nonprofit organizations, and business leaders. Later that same day, I may be sitting with physicians, nurses, therapists, researchers, and healthcare administrators.

What strikes me is how similar the conversations have become.

We are all asking many of the same questions.

How do we improve lives?

How do we remove barriers?

How do we make the greatest difference with the resources we have?

How do we leave our communities better than we found them?

There was a time when I viewed healthcare and local government as somewhat separate worlds. Today, I see them as partners. Local government creates many of the conditions that allow people to live healthy lives. Healthcare helps people stay healthy and restores health when life takes an unexpected turn. Neither succeeds alone. Strong communities require both. Along the way, they depend on schools, businesses, nonprofits, faith communities, and countless others who share the responsibility of improving the lives of our neighbors.

Caring for a community takes the whole community.

Looking back, I realize I didn’t leave public service by joining healthcare.

I simply found another place to practice it.

My childhood taught me that health can shape every part of a family’s life.

My years in local government taught me that communities become stronger when people work together in service of others.

My time at Cone Health has reminded me those lessons were never separate.

They have always been part of the same mission.

Helping people live healthier lives.

Helping communities become stronger.

Helping others when they need us most.

Different uniforms.

The same mission.

What makes something essential?

Most people would answer that it is something necessary. Something we need. Something we cannot imagine living without.

If that is true, then I have spent much of my career wondering why Parks and Recreation has so often been described as a non-essential service.

How did we get that so wrong?

Parks and Recreation shapes some of our very first memories and many of our last. It introduces children to play, gives teenagers positive places to gather, helps adults stay active, and allows older adults to remain connected. It provides opportunities to learn, explore, compete, celebrate, reflect, and simply breathe.

It is where we hike, fish, paddle, bike, run, picnic, and play. It is where neighbors become friends and communities become stronger. It is where festivals are held, races begin, concerts are enjoyed, and milestones are celebrated.

It is one of the few public services that truly belongs to everyone.

Remember the pandemic.

When much of life came to a stop, parks and trails became places of refuge. Families searched for fresh air, exercise, and a sense of normalcy. Recreation professionals found safe ways to keep young people engaged when isolation threatened their well being. Community centers became food distribution sites when families needed help putting meals on the table.

When so many doors closed, parks remained open.

During my own career, I had the privilege of helping build parks, trails, recreation centers, athletic facilities, and gathering spaces that communities had envisioned for years. Looking back, I realize we were never just building amenities. We were creating places where life happened.

We watched children learn to swim and ride bicycles. We saw young people discover confidence through sports, camps, and outdoor adventure. We watched friendships form, families reunite, and neighborhoods come together. We preserved natural places, expanded access to recreation, and created spaces where people found peace, joy, and belonging.

Sometimes one coach changed a life.

Sometimes one summer camp revealed a future career.

Sometimes one afternoon in a neighborhood park was enough to remind someone they mattered.

People spend billions of dollars every year pursuing recreation because they instinctively understand its value. Communities compete for people long before they compete for companies. Families choose places where they want to raise children because of schools, safety, parks, trails, recreation opportunities, and quality of life. Employers notice the same things.

Law enforcement agencies have long partnered with Parks and Recreation because positive activities help prevent negative outcomes. Faith communities work alongside recreation professionals because they share a commitment to serving others. Healthcare organizations increasingly encourage movement, connection, and outdoor activity because they recognize what park professionals have known for decades.

Healthy communities do not happen by accident.

They are built intentionally.

Yet when difficult budget conversations begin, Parks and Recreation is often among the first services considered for reduction.

I understood why. Every budget decision reflects difficult choices, competing priorities, and a sincere desire to serve the community responsibly.

Those of us in Parks and Recreation simply became very good at doing more with less.

We stretched every dollar. We found volunteers, built partnerships, wrote grants, and solved problems creatively. We rarely said no because we knew someone was counting on us. We made extraordinary things happen with ordinary resources.

When I served as Interim City Manager, a wise mentor shared something I have never forgotten.

For every dollar you reduce in Parks and Recreation, be prepared to spend more on public safety.

I did not need convincing. I had already witnessed it firsthand.

Every positive opportunity we create is one less opportunity for something negative.

Investment in Parks and Recreation is not simply about playgrounds, trails, or ballfields. It is about prevention. It is about giving children safe places after school. It is about reducing isolation among older adults. It is about improving physical and mental health. It is about creating places where neighbors know one another, where families gather, and where communities build trust.

That is public safety.

That is public health.

That is economic development.

That is community building.

Throughout my career, one thing never sat well with me. It was hearing Parks and Recreation described as non-essential.

No, we did not treat your drinking water, but we protected the watersheds that supplied it.

We did not respond to every medical emergency, but we helped people live healthier lives through recreation, movement, and connection.

We did not patrol every neighborhood, but we created places that strengthened communities and helped prevent crime.

We did not build every road, but we built trails and greenways that connected people to one another.

We cared for thousands of acres of public land, maintained hundreds of facilities, welcomed millions of visits, responded to emergencies, mentored young people, supported families, and served residents from cradle to grave.

If that is not essential, what is?

This Parks and Recreation Month, imagine your community without Parks and Recreation for just one month.

No favorite trail.

No neighborhood park.

No youth sports.

No summer camps.

No afterschool programs.

No kayak launch.

No recreation center.

No festivals.

No concerts in the park.

No greenways.

No place to gather.

The loss would be measured by far more than closed gates. A child would lose a place to play. A senior would lose companionship. A family would lose affordable opportunities to spend time together. A neighborhood would lose one of the few places where everyone is welcome.

Essential is not defined by what happens when something is present.

Essential is revealed by what happens when it is gone.

Parks and Recreation has never been a luxury. It has never been an extra.

It is one of the foundations of healthy people, safe neighborhoods, vibrant economies, and connected communities.

Perhaps we have simply become so accustomed to its presence that we stopped recognizing its importance.

I have never believed Parks and Recreation was non-essential.

I believe it is one of the most essential public services we provide.

And I always will.

Dedicated to the thousands of Parks and Recreation professionals who quietly improve lives every day, often without recognition, but never without impact.

One year.

Saying it seems like just yesterday may be too cliché. Truthfully, in some ways it does, and in others it feels like forever. Moving on from my beloved local government team was one of the hardest things I have ever done and yet also one of the easiest decisions I have ever made.

Going from public service to healthcare allowed me to continue focusing on helping others while tackling new challenges and learning new approaches.

What I miss most are the people I worked with and the people we worked to support. I miss the excitement of a nonstop pace that was truly 24/7 and always brought a sense of fulfillment. The privilege of playing a role in others’ success. The challenge of solving the hardest problems. The creativity and freedom to shift approaches and develop new processes.

Jumping into a new role meant starting over and earning the respect of peers all over again. Doing my best to gain the trust of residents in multiple communities has provided a renewed sense of purpose. I get to help, in a small way, across a much larger geographic footprint. I have always enjoyed supporting regional collaboration, and my new role allows me to do that alongside so many friends, both new and old.

Supporting medical caregivers who improve lives is meaningful work that allows me to stay connected to a critical purpose. At the same time, I get to help team members better understand how government functions and why it works the way it does. There is genuine interest, and I enjoy being able to bridge those worlds.

Many of you have asked if I miss being in the mix or the adrenaline of racing toward a challenge. The answer is yes, but let me share what I have gained in the exchange.

I often carried guilt for the things I missed with family along the way. I struggled with not being present in the moment, constantly checking my phone or darting off to handle a crisis. So many people supported me during my years of dedication to community. Ironically, they were often the last to receive my attention.

While my current work, both through my employment and service on several boards, remains meaningful, I have learned the value of boundaries. I chose to make my time outside of work a priority. I cannot go back and attend the things I missed, but I can be present now, and I am enjoying it.

I have dinner without walking away to take a call. I attend events for enjoyment instead of assessment. I have meaningful conversations about life, faith, and hobbies. I do not fret about the next day or what the weekend might bring. I can read or watch the news without sounding like I am acting out a scene from Goodfellas, at least most of the time.

Please understand that I am extremely grateful for the first chapter I had. It was a journey that led to many meaningful things for others and for myself. The journey did not come without mistakes, loss, and sacrifice, though. That was not just true for me, but also for those around me.

Often, I failed to recognize that the people who cared about me experienced their own hurt and disappointment while watching me struggle through difficult moments. I convinced myself that my challenges were not worth anyone else’s concern or time, so I created distance to make things easier for them, or so I thought. I know now that was not the case.

Today, I watch others who dedicate themselves to helping people and communities, and I hurt for them at times because I understand the imperfect balance they are trying to achieve. Service is rewarding, but it often comes with a cost that is not always visible.

Each day and each month carries meaning for me. June will always hold a special place in my heart. It was the month in which I began one journey and the month in which I ended it and began another.

The month itself is only a marker, though. The real lesson has been learning that it is okay to end one shift, begin a new one, and appreciate the breaks in between. No regrets, only lessons. And now, I am using those lessons to help navigate whatever comes next.

Have you ever noticed that one of the most consistent differentiators of a truly good experience is follow-up?

It is the friend who checks back in after you were sick. The employee who circles back to make sure the job was done correctly. The service provider who insists on ensuring your experience met expectations.

In my experience, that one extra step is often the difference between adequate and exceptional.

It seems like such a simple thing to do, even though it requires effort. It means balancing competing obligations or finding the energy to do one more thing. Sometimes it takes 30 seconds. Sometimes it takes 30 minutes. Either way, the impact it creates far outweighs the difficulty required to provide it.

So why is it so often withheld?

Especially in professional or service-oriented settings. Or perhaps a better question is why is follow-up not always built into the process of serving others?

I spent many years as a public servant. I never considered myself especially gifted in any one area or uniquely expert in what I could do. What I did learn, however, was that follow-up became the difference-maker in my success.

Time and time again, I heard from elected officials, residents, and partner agencies that I was doing one thing many others simply did not. I followed up.

What baffled me was that I worked alongside great people who genuinely cared about what they did. I often reflected on how grateful I was when others followed up with me, and naturally, that experience made me want to do the same for others.

As was customary for me, I tried to rationalize why follow-up seemed to be such a unique quality. Maybe people were too busy. Maybe it slipped their minds. Perhaps something prevented them from fully closing the circle of service. Surely, I thought, it was usually just an oversight.

But the truth is that follow-up is not always an innate characteristic.

I was fortunate to be trained to see that final step as part of completing the process. It made me wonder whether others were simply never taught the same thing along the way.

At the same time, most people have experienced meaningful follow-up in their own lives at some point. Experience is often our greatest teacher in how we care for others, which is why it never occurred to me that someone who had benefited from follow-up would not recognize its value enough to offer it themselves.

That may remain one of life’s small mysteries to me. If you have the answer, I would genuinely love to hear it.

Whatever the reason someone chooses not to follow up, it is never too late to course correct.

Let me offer a few examples of why this small step can transform a “C” effort into an “A” effort almost every time.

If you are entering the professional world, imagine following up after an interview to express appreciation and offer your availability for additional questions.

If you work in the service industry, imagine checking in to ensure the quality of what was delivered matched the customer’s expectations.

If you work in healthcare, imagine how meaningful it is for a patient to receive a follow-up call simply asking how they are doing and whether they understood the next steps in their care.

If you are a public servant, imagine helping a community member resolve a challenge and then calling afterward to confirm everything was completed and communicated clearly.

In every one of these examples, your follow-up demonstrated care. It demonstrated concern. Most importantly, it demonstrated character.

Now here is the interesting part. While follow-up is often rare in practice, it is still expected.

In each of these examples, the other person should absolutely expect follow-up. It should be as commonplace as introducing yourself. If we skip this step, then we have not truly completed the effort. We should not be surprised when appreciation feels limited because deep down, the recipient knows the process was never fully finished.

Follow-up is not simply an extra touch. It is the completion of the promise.

In a world where people are increasingly busy, distracted, divided, and transactional, following up is one of the clearest ways to show someone they mattered beyond the moment itself. It tells people they were not just another task on a list. They were worth remembering.

And perhaps that is why follow-up leaves such a lasting impression. Not because it is complicated, but because it has become rare.

“Why do we fall, sir? So that we can learn to pick ourselves up.”

One of my favorite movie lines, and never were words more true. In every sense of the word, it had been a long time since I had fallen. About ten years or so, as I recall. My last fall was not physical, but emotional and mental. I remember thinking there might not be a path forward and if there was, I could not be quite sure where I would land.

Of course, I was blessed in so many ways and I did find a path forward. One that led me to a better place where my soul and mind began to heal. I was not alone and never would be. I did not forget what I had learned in picking myself up, but I knew there would be times when I would need to fall again, if only as a reminder.

January 1, 2026. A new day in which to begin.

My compulsive behavior kicked in immediately. I began removing Christmas decorations and moving furniture that had made way for a Christmas tree back to its original spot. Carrying furniture down stairs is something I have done countless times, ever since I can remember. Why should that day be any different?

Nowhere in my mind did I ever once think I could fall. It never occurred to me that I should plan out such a simple task or take precautions. Turns out, that is exactly what could happen and did.

Multiple breaks in an ankle that appeared to be in the wrong place, a broken nose, and a less than cognizant state of mind earned me a ride in an ambulance, a trip to the emergency room, surgery complete with a sleeve of screws that even Frankenstein would be aghast at, and of course, a set of crutches.

I remember thinking, this is not real. I do not break bones. I heal quickly. So why am I sitting here staring at the wall with no plan for what to get into next?

Well, perhaps it was time to fall.

I cannot remember a time when I sat still for more than a few minutes. I could not even stand taking more than a month off after a thirty year career before starting my next one. Even my vacations were planned and full of activities.

The first several days, I squirmed at the thought of another minute of confinement and rest. I fell several more times as a result of my impatience and yet, even knowing the risk of trying to do instead of just being, I could not help myself day in and day out.

Fear set in as I was left alone with my thoughts. Too much time to think had always been one of my greatest fears. I was never quite ready to face all that I had suppressed. I could not seem to find enough distraction from the things I never wished to think about again.

And then things began to shift.

I got tired of fighting myself. I reflected on how minor this was compared to what others deal with each day. I started to become more attuned to things I often did not notice or had taken for granted.

Each day, I experienced things a little differently.

Five minutes without pain became an achievement marked with thankfulness. The opportunity to shower became an invitation to take a few extra minutes just to feel the sensation of water hitting my skin. I found myself tasting each sip of coffee and appreciating the flavor.

I sat by the window simply to feel the sun or watched the snow come down without worrying about how to coordinate services during the event. I realized that each email or call was not a race to crisis, but something that could be handled without stress or anxiety in due time.

There was joy in watching my Pizza Hut pizza arrive by delivery and reminiscing over the smell that filled the house. I rewatched every episode of Star Trek the original series and saw just how ahead of its time it really was. I felt the genuine care my wife has for me in every gesture of kindness. I began to look forward to hearing the First Baptist Church bells each hour with a special song at noon.

I started to understand again.

All of these things came with a new appreciation because just like seeing the sun after days of rain, I had to fall to feel the joy of not falling. I had to slow down in order to truly feel what was around me. I had to lean into thankfulness and faith, even when things were not going according to my plan.

I often fool myself into believing that if I just reach a certain level of accomplishment, I will take the time to experience and enjoy. I will capture the moments, feel life to the fullest, and embrace the things that give us perspective and balance.

That did not happen.

Instead, I moved from one task to another, one project to the next, never slowing down for fear of what might creep in. In doing so, I prevented myself from experiencing both the good and the difficult.

I needed to fall, so I could learn how to get back up again.

---

A reflection on place, care, and collective will.
Sometimes the most meaningful leadership shows up without a title.

I want to begin by being clear about something important. Nothing I share here is meant to diminish the incredible efforts of local government, particularly public administration professionals. In Gainesville, Florida, that work is evident everywhere, and I am genuinely a fan of much of what has been accomplished.

What I want to reflect on instead is why those systems exist in the first place. The answer, at its core, is community.

If you did not know, we have family in Gainesville, and I have been visiting for several years now. Each trip deepens my appreciation for the place. I am drawn to learning about new communities, their history, environment, wildlife, and culture, and Gainesville offers all of that in abundance. It is a place that consistently leaves me fulfilled.

Gainesville provides no shortage of opportunities to explore remarkable outdoor spaces, experience landmarks that recognize Native American and Spanish history, encounter art that celebrates diversity and musical roots, and observe a culture shaped by both opportunity and tension as it balances the influence of one of the largest universities in the country with the needs of long standing neighborhoods.

Given my professional background and personal passion, I also tend to follow local news closely. I find myself analyzing the political and public administration context behind daily headlines. Like many communities, Gainesville faces familiar challenges including socioeconomic disparities, systemic barriers, infrastructure needs, employment pressures, and debates over the meaning and appearance of shared public spaces.

One such moment that caught my attention was the removal of a community created rainbow crosswalk. That decision followed a request from the state transportation department. While opinions varied widely and the issue was heavily debated, the removal ultimately proceeded, and frustration lingered.

What stood out to me, however, was not just the removal itself, but how the community responded. Rather than retreat, residents and leaders found other ways to express shared values. The bricks were preserved, a street was renamed, new rainbow themed amenities appeared in other locations, and municipal leadership reaffirmed its commitment to inclusion. The message was clear. While one expression may have been removed, the values behind it were not.

Throughout my career, I often said that community problems require community solutions. I learned early on that listening before acting often revealed insights no policy document could capture. I also worked hard to remind people that local elections matter deeply, because local leaders understand their communities in ways broader systems cannot. They navigate constraints, but they also translate values into action.

In Gainesville, I often walk the city’s impressive trail and greenway network, taking in the mix of vegetation, murals, and wildlife. If you know me, though, you know my favorite places are the uncharted ones. The paths not marked on maps. One such place exists along Hogtown Creek, a simple trail shaped by community use and featuring a small, hand painted rainbow bridge.

This bridge predates the removal of the rainbow crosswalk. Yet over time, I have noticed repairs, fresh paint, and even additions like a rainbow bench. There is no plaque or formal dedication, just evidence of care.

Each visit to this bridge reminds me that the desires of a community can be expressed by the community, led by the community, and sustained by the community. While I cannot say there is a direct connection between the crosswalk’s removal and this bridge’s continued care, it is hard not to see each brush stroke and plank as part of the same shared impulse. A desire to be seen, to belong, and to shape place with meaning.

This belief sits at the heart of my personal philosophy that quality of life is a right, because the ability to shape one’s environment, feel belonging, and experience dignity in shared spaces should never be optional.

I have been fortunate in my years of public service to witness something consistent. When communities face moments of frustration or despair, they often respond with creativity and resolve. Some of the most meaningful change I have seen emerged during times of lost faith and deep challenge. Those moments can feel overwhelming, but connection, people supporting one another, has a way of cutting through even the cloudiest days.

This bridge does many things. It provides passage over the creek. It offers a safer route when the ground is muddy. It creates a joyful space for reflection, a compelling subject for photography, and most importantly, a quiet but powerful demonstration of community will.

Perhaps we need more bridges like this. Not just physical ones, but bridges built through shared effort. I also invite you to pause and consider what small acts of community care exist where you live. The hand painted bench. The tended garden. The unofficial path worn into the ground by neighbors choosing connection over convenience.

Waiting for everything to be done for you lasts only as long as someone else’s willingness or ability to act. Community already holds power. When people choose to use it together, change becomes possible.

CAW

A reflection on identity, purpose, and the spaces between work and self.

Sometimes the path back to yourself runs through the places you helped build.

Have you ever noticed that when you introduce yourself to someone, almost always within the first few minutes, you are asked, “What do you do?” Most of us instinctively answer with our occupation. For me, that answer was always my title, which changed depending on the year or decade, followed by “with the City of Greensboro.”

For years, I would tell my wife that no one really wanted to talk to me; they only wanted to talk about what the City could do for them or what was happening at the City. I would go on about how no one actually knew anything about me, that they only saw me as “the City.”

At dinner parties, events, birthdays, or even funerals, it did not matter where I was. People who knew me would offer a quick greeting and immediately get down to business. Even when meeting someone for the first time, as soon as I introduced myself and mentioned my occupation, they would dive right into conversation about City matters as soon as the “nice to meet you” ended.

The truth is, for many years, I secretly loved having something to talk about that was comfortable and gave me confidence. I am not social by nature, and that work identity provided a shield I could stand behind. At some point, I was not even sure who I was beyond the job. What I did for a living reflected my passion and beliefs, so using it to create a comfortable space for conversation made sense.

When I did steer the conversation elsewhere, my favorite topic was my sons. Both Caleb and Josh carry distinct sides of my personality, giving me an endless supply of stories to share. The pride I have in them always brought smiles and reassuring reactions from others. Yet somehow, it never took long for the discussion to circle back to work.

I also loved talking about my wife, Cecelia, a leader in our community, a true beacon of inspiration, and someone who humors my constant fanboy behavior. I would proudly boast about her latest efforts in almost every setting. But even then, after people finished praising her accomplishments, they would often end with, “So, about the City…”

As time went on, I began to fear what might happen if I no longer had that identity. Who would I be to others? What would I talk about? I knew I had things to share, my faith, my family, my hopes, and my interests, all meaningful topics depending on the audience.

Sometimes I wondered if it was my fault. I always saw small talk as meaningless chatter to fill silence. I respected others too much to recite sports scores or discuss the weather. Maybe my constant promotion of my beloved City created a platform for others to channel their curiosity about it through me. Work gave me purpose, and I have always been purpose-driven, so it naturally seeped into every part of my life.

I often convinced myself that by representing my work so completely, I was providing a service to my community. That was a good thing, right? I believed in what I was doing. I welcomed criticism, appreciated praise, and loved spreading good news about things to come. It was not wrong, and no one seemed to mind.

When I was a little boy, I was extremely shy. I often bottled up my desires for fear of failure. But when you bottle something up, it eventually leaks out. My feelings were no different. I remember a day when my mother saw me tap dancing after watching Jerry Lewis on television. She waited until her friends were over and asked me to perform. I always blushed and shied away, except for one day when her encouragement broke through my fear. I danced like I had been doing it all my life. The reaction was incredible, applause, cheers, smiles. It felt wonderful. But afterward, I convinced myself I could never repeat it and never danced again. Instead, I learned to distract and redirect attention until people stopped asking.

Work was similar. I would pour my passion into a project, one initiative at a time, and then move on, convincing myself I could not repeat the performance. The reactions to my work made me feel accepted, so I clung to those conversations like a security blanket. As the years went on, a little voice in my head whispered that one day this work would be behind me and I would have to tap dance again.

I wondered if that was what I projected in conversation, someone holding tightly to what felt safe because it gave him confidence. Maybe it was my fault that work was all anyone wanted to discuss. Maybe I was afraid to step into a space that felt less certain.

Whatever the case, I knew the day was coming when that blanket would be taken away. As it loomed like a cloud, I searched for a way to hold onto my identity.

On July 1, 2025, I woke up and realized I was no longer Chris Wilson with the City of Greensboro. I was simply Christian Alexander Wilson again. No blanket. A dad, a husband, a hiker, an occasional blogger, a science fiction and superhero fan, a decent basketball shooter from outside the perimeter, and someone who loves to photograph wildlife and landscapes. For all the accolades and accomplishments of my professional life, I knew that the version of me most people never knew was what remained, and what I had to offer in conversation and in life.

I remember those first few outings feeling awkward, as people still wanted to talk about the City. Another easy topic was “retirement,” which I quickly corrected once I found a new opportunity to engage in meaningful work again.

At times, it made me sad and even frustrated. It left me questioning who I really was. In those moments, I would go for a hike. One day, I just kept walking. Twenty miles later, I began to find clarity. I was hiking twenty miles, passing places I had touched in some way, each with a story I could tell. Along the way, I saw friends who honked their horns or rolled down their windows to shout encouragement. Even the sounds and smells of the journey reminded me of projects and efforts that filled me with pride. I took pictures, reflected on memories, and later wrote about what I had experienced. And then it hit me.

Those sights, memories, and feelings were mine. They had been shaped through my work, but they were still part of me. They came from who I am, not just what I did. I had never allowed myself to see that those experiences were not only the City’s efforts; they were my own. Yes, I did them as part of my job, but I also did them because that is who I am.

And if that is part of who I am, then those memories, and the moments I will have forging ahead in community work, will not be a shy person’s shield but meaningful topics of conversation that truly reflect who I am.

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Christian A. Wilson

Something in our vocation gives me great pause. I could blame it on our culture’s divisiveness, or perhaps our fragile nature in a socially toxic environment rampant with misinformation. Maybe we’re just exhausted from weather-driven catastrophes, pandemics, or the seemingly constant violence around us.

As with any concern, we must consider why it exists and what comes next. Acknowledging a cause and effect does not necessarily excuse subsequent behavior. Many behaviors are sparked by things beyond our control, hard to process, and drain our emotional capital. Processing can take time and may involve others, but what we do next and how we handle it makes a lasting impact. This is especially true in public service.

I hope you will receive this in the spirit of observation. If it resonates with you, do me a favor and let it ruminate for a bit. Then decide if it’s worthy of consideration.

Many public servants no longer take pride in what they do. In previous essays I have shared my undoubted belief that public service is vital work, often tied to the very nature of the one who provides it. It’s impactful, life-altering, and often leaves a legacy. No community can succeed without effective public service. I have often shared the stories of public servants’ remarkable nature and selflessness and I author these pride-beaming words to tell our side of the story and shine a light on what we do.

But, today, I have reason for pause. Not a grave concern or a hopeless dilemma, but definitely an alarming trend. As I look around, I sometimes see the projection of fatigue in service. I see some employees cut corners or shy away from duty. I can almost feel some workers’ disdain toward their responsibility and even their colleagues. I’ve seen curt behavior and an unwillingness to serve.

What’s more puzzling is I don’t just see this in folks new to the profession, those less experienced in managing the work’s challenges and frustrations. I see this behavior in seasoned professionals, those on a promising career trajectory, and those reliable in reputation.

Right or wrong, I have made this profession a big part of my identity and I’m proud to have worked with many others who do likewise. It’s a unique comradery. The fruit of our labor is an intrinsic injection that energizes our days. Society’s need for what we offer can’t be accurately valued in modern metrics. However, some of us are beginning to wane.

I see this in most every organization and profession. It was bad and now it’s worse. Our expectations of customer service are a shadow of what they once were. We’ve become so accustomed to such lackluster service that we either don’t realize it’s missing or we just accept a half-baked effort. I suppose the reasons for this trend mirror those that explain why public service is showing dents in its armor.

While many professions and services must consider course correction for lack of effort, none are more imperative to a community than public service. We can speculate on why, but we must not miss the critical response. How we respond to this trend as public servants is tied to daily function, economies, infrastructure, and quality of life. We are professionals who show up on a bad day. We take an individual’s venom and bite and build an immunity that allows us to continue serving. We host no Golden Globe Awards, and rarely even get honorable mentions, but we wear our duty like a diamond-studded, 24-karat gold championship ring.

At least we used to.

Public administration is the last castle amongst an empire of service, and our walls are breached. A lack of effort cannot become the norm. Too many people count on us. I wish I could tell you how we got here, but that would likely negate each individual’s path to this prideless place. Here are some reasons why we must move forward with a renewed sense of responsibility.

If you are a public servant, you are special. You are a hero, a role model, and a trusted girder on the bridge of society. You work with a dedicated group of people who make it their passion to help others. Your effort not only affects you and those you serve. Whether we like it or not, your effort reflects on all of us.

Let your reasons for pursuing a career in public service outweigh those things that hold you back. What has happened before is behind us. We must chart a better future. Many counting on us. The burdens that weigh us down are heavy, but our responsibility to serve is heavier.

Take pride in what you do, and you will help others.

Take pride in what you do and you will inspire others.

Take pride in what you do, because those who came before you and those who work with you now (like me!) believe in you. You can help others carry forward.

We are foundational elements in our communities. May we also be the change we wish to see in humanity. Lead by example and take pride in what you do. Your effort will be appreciated, particularly in a society facing so many concerns. Be the constant bright spot among the people you support. You never know when that one thing you do for someone else will result in meaningful and beneficial change.

Written by: Christian A. Wilson

Editor: David Walters

Every few months or so, I stand in front a group of new public servants to greet them and welcome them into our profession.  Often, I am asked to review a power point that goes over the highlights of our core functions. While this is a great opportunity to share some important information, I usually spend a lot less time on the power point and opt to talk about what helps me stay focused on the good days and the bad.

I share that many of us choose public service because we recognize that it impacts community in a positive way. What we do, can have a profound impact on quality of life, access, and human success. We connect you to transportation, water, recreation, safety, employment, and so many things that allow you to support the fundamentals of life. We should take that seriously. It’s a privilege and a responsibility. There are good days, in which you recall having an impact that carries you through the week and there are bad days in which you question the choice of employment you have made. There will be days of significant appreciation where someone expresses to you their gratitude for everything you have done for them and there are days where someone acts as if your very existence has caused them pain. We don’t always earn the response we get from the public, and it can be incredibly perplexing when our efforts aren’t matched with an expected response. We give it our best regardless and the outcomes can often win over the hardest of hearts.

While this message seems straight forward and comes as no epiphany to anyone, what I often offer next can get lost in the day-to-day race.  If you agree that what we do is important, then we must remind ourselves to gauge success. Many of us use spreadsheets, counts, and various forms of data to measure what we do, but there is a more straight forward method that we can use every day, that will remind us of where we have been and where we are going.

When you wake up, ask yourself the question, “What will I do today?” When you go home, ask yourself, “What did I do today.” Perhaps you already do it. Or perhaps you did and shied away from continuing because you didn’t like the answers you were providing. Whatever the case may be, I’m suggesting you give it a try, even if you’re doing it again. Be honest with yourself, and regardless of reactions, you will stay on task and centered.

If what we do impacts others, and we do it because we want to help, it stands to reason that we need to know we are making a difference.  Those simple questions, allow you to not only know that you are, but that you will be intentional in trying to be helpful every single day. Whether you love talking about work after hours or not, you are likely to be asked how it’s going or what is happening at work. Believe it or not, people value what we do and genuinely desire to know what’s going on.  Wouldn’t it be great to share a story of what you did today? I love hearing about your days of impacting community, but more importantly, I want you to remember what you set out to do and what you accomplished. 

So, what did I do today?  I shared a message reminding public servants that they can set out to do great things every day, and I reminded everyone that I believe they can accomplish it.  We simply have to do it.