Author: HarrisGroup

JMH Blog

2026 arrived quickly and with a certain enthusiasm for chaos.

Some seasons arrive quickly, carrying more than we planned to unpack.

It was probably best that I didn’t subscribe to Dry January. I should have known the year was going to be a beast when, less than six hours into it, I was in a hotel and the fire alarm went off—and it wasn’t a drill. This is not how you want to meet a new calendar year. Then the gods of fate said hold my beer when four members of my immediate family experienced “medical” events, including three emergency room visits, three hospitalizations, and a surgery. January came in like it had a clipboard and a very aggressive agenda.

Along the way, I learned—or was reintroduced to—phrases like spinal stenosis, Clostridioides difficile, colitis, concussion, and tympanostomy. My medical vocabulary has expanded more in a few weeks than it had since I snuck into my dad’s home office and leafed through his copies of the Journal of the American Medical Association and Annals of Surgery. I may not have earned a degree, but I’ve at least qualified for a certificate. Possibly laminated.

And in case you hadn’t noticed—perhaps because you, too, were distracted by sirens and discharge papers—there is also a lot going on in the world.

Much of my attention has been on the Twin Cities. My family has been impacted. My friends have been impacted. This hits close to home. I watch and wonder how we got here. Early in my professional life, I spent time both prosecuting and defending criminal cases, which means I have a reasonably high tolerance for human dysfunction. Even so, many of the things I now see and read—especially through that lens—are genuinely shocking. Not shocking in a cinematic way. Shocking in a quiet, procedural, this-is-how-it’s-written-down way.

Current events often pull me back to what I studied in college, back when you could take courses that wrestled directly with uncomfortable truths instead of politely circling them. I took more than one class focused on the Holocaust and similar atrocities. As a senior, I enrolled in Light in the Darkness: Courage and Evil in the Twentieth Century. The course focused heavily on the Holocaust. At the time—and still—I struggled with how something so terrible could happen.

We studied life in Nazi Germany. We discussed Anne Frank. We read Elie Wiesel. We also read Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad, a book I still don’t fully understand, which puts me in excellent company that includes most honest readers.

Though my memory of the course is imperfect—college being a long time ago and optimism being a powerful anesthetic—several moments stand out. Perhaps most significantly, we took a “field trip” to Minneapolis. While there, we attended a concert at Orchestra Hall, spent an evening at the Chanhassen Dinner Theatre, and visited a Holocaust museum.

But there is one experience I will never forget.

We met Holocaust survivors.

One woman had been sent to Auschwitz. She told us her story patiently and answered our questions with care. Then, in a moment that permanently fixed itself in my memory, she rolled up her sleeve and showed us the tattooed number on her arm—a mark that had been there for more than forty-five years. No build-up. No warning. Just history, sitting across from us in a folding chair.

She spoke about the days leading up to liberation. She described the moment she knew she was free. She was offered a ride to the nearest supply camp roughly a mile away. She declined. This, she said, was her freedom walk. She walked the entire distance, stopping frequently because she was so weak. She had to keep her head lower than her heart to avoid losing consciousness.

She spoke about her first bite of food—and the danger of eating too much, too quickly—because her body had essentially shut down. She knew she was close to death, close enough to feel it in a practical, unsentimental way, but she willed herself to live. She told us she kept repeating to herself: Not today. Today I am free.

Someone asked her how she felt about Germany now. Very calmly, she explained that she bore no ill will toward Germans born after World War II. They were not responsible, she said; they carried the scar, not the guilt. But Germans who were present at the time—who did nothing and said nothing—were responsible for the atrocities.

There was no theatrics. No slogans. No grand conclusions. But the emotion, the pain, and the anger hung in the air, doing what facts sometimes do when delivered by someone who earned them the hard way.

I don’t remember her name. I remember her message.

Make sure this never happens again.

Since then, I have found myself returning to her words. I wonder—perhaps naively—whether a similar regime could ever arise in my own country. I keep reaching the same conclusion: yes, it absolutely could. Not because of any single current event, but because we are human, and humans have repeatedly shown a remarkable capacity for atrocity, especially when paperwork is involved.

I also arrive at a more uncomfortable conclusion: there is no way to know how I would respond.

Would I recognize what was happening in real time? Would I speak out? Would I protect those being targeted? Or would I choose personal or family safety over principles and values? Would I convince myself that compliance was temporary, reasonable, or necessary? History suggests these decisions are rarely dramatic. They are incremental. Transactional. Rationalized. Often explained afterward with excellent grammar.

And that, more than anything, troubles me.

What unsettles me most is not that the news feels alarming—news often does—but how quickly alarming things begin to feel normal. A headline that stops you cold on Monday becomes background noise by Friday. By the following week, it’s something we summarize with a shrug and a sentence that starts with, “Well, I guess that’s just how things are now.” That is usually the point at which questions about how we would respond quietly turn into questions about what we are willing to tolerate.

What we are willing to tolerate is shaped, in no small part, by what we understand to be our rights in the first place. When those boundaries are clear, normalization has limits. When they are vague, everything becomes negotiable. Fortunately, we do not have to define those boundaries from scratch or rely solely on instinct and outrage. We have a well-worn roadmap. It is called the Constitution. It does not prevent abuse or guarantee wisdom, but it does establish a baseline—certain rights meant to exist regardless of convenience, popularity, or who happens to be in power.

At its most basic level, that baseline includes the right to move through daily life without harassment; the right not to be stopped and required to justify one’s existence; the right to be free from restraint, harm, or worse based on minor suspicion; and the right to observe authority without becoming its target. It includes the right not to be threatened, exploited, confined, or erased—and the right to speak freely, worship freely, and to have a home that remains a refuge rather than a checkpoint.

None of this is abstract. None of it lives safely in textbooks or court opinions. It unfolds in real time—often within hours: a traffic stop at dusk, a crowd forming, a knock before sunrise, a decision made quickly by someone with power and limited restraint. At that speed, there is no meaningful pause, no appeal, no rewind. Due process—the idea that power must justify itself before it harms—only protects people if it exists before force is applied, not afterward. If this feels distant or exaggerated, it is usually because it has not yet arrived at one’s own door.

These are not rights granted by government, nor privileges extended for good behavior. They exist prior to government—whether understood as gifts of God, products of nature, or the result of generations of hard-won human progress. We entrust them to the state for one narrow purpose: protection. When that order is reversed, what remains may look like order, but it is not law.

It is force, borrowing the language of authority.

I began by describing how difficult January felt for me—personally, professionally, and emotionally. But those struggles, real as they were, pale in comparison to January of 1945, when Auschwitz was liberated and survival itself depended on the refusal to give in, even when the body was failing and the future uncertain. Remembering that contrast doesn’t diminish present concerns; it sharpens them. It reminds me that perspective matters, that endurance has a history, and that resolve—then as now—often begins with a single, quiet decision: not today.

Sleepless in Savannah

I didn’t sleep well last night. Perhaps it was the low-grade anxiety that comes from traveling during a major weather event, the kind where every departure board looks like a crime scene. Maybe it was the neck pain, still hanging around like an unwanted houseguest who keeps promising, “I’ll be gone tomorrow.” Perhaps it was the realization that three beers is now officially one beer too many when you’re not 23—or even pretending to be. Or perhaps it was the unmistakable sense that my hotel room and I had very different ideas about acceptable living conditions.

Perhaps it was something else.

Perhaps it was the conversation I overheard at the hotel bar, where three extremely drunk, mostly younger people were conducting what appeared to be a peer-reviewed symposium on the modern dating landscape and which apps deliver the strongest romantic return on investment. (Important disclosure: none of them were married, but all spoke with the calm authority of seasoned divorce attorneys who had seen things.)

I can’t control what happens in the world. I can barely control what happens before my first cup of coffee. But I can control how I respond to it. Which is why I’ve chosen not to unload my thoughts on social media—that gleaming coliseum of reasoned debate where everyone listens carefully, nobody interrupts, and no one is sharpening a digital pitchfork while waiting for their turn to speak.

There’s a reason I’ve connected with people on social media, but I can’t think of a single friend I have because they voted a certain way. That feels important.

For the most part, I don’t think my social media friends are inherently good or evil. Do they post dumb things? Absolutely, but who am I to judge? My dog has her own Instagram account—@sdgingerdoodle—and it is, without question, the most consistently joyful and least controversial thing in my feed. You should probably follow it, if only to restore your faith in the internet.

Which brings me back to the hotel bar. To be clear—and I want this on the record—I AM NOT IN THE DATING MARKET and haven’t been for many years. That may be why dating apps confuse me the way TikTok confuses my parents. Back in the prehistoric era of my youth, dating involved something radical: talking. Face-to-face. Sometimes—often—alcohol was involved, but there were no algorithms, no swipes, and no carefully curated versions of yourself that mysteriously enjoyed hiking.

You walked up to someone and said, “Hey. You’re cute. I like you. Want to go on a date?” Frequently, the answer was “No.” When that happened, I licked my wounds, questioned my entire identity, wondered if I should’ve worn the other shirt, and moved on. It was brutal. It was inefficient. And yet, somehow, humanity endured.

Eventually, through a combination of persistence, timing, and luck that bordered on divine intervention, I got the girl. We’ve been married almost 25 years now. No app required. Just conversation, shared space, and the quiet miracle of two people choosing each other again and again.

So why couldn’t I sleep?

I think it’s because we’re disconnected. I think social media, for all its conveniences, has a way of sanding down real human interaction until it’s flat, loud, and oddly lonely. I think we’re better when we talk to each other—actually talk—where autocorrect can’t rescue us and we have to look someone in the eye and live with what we say.

So here’s my modest proposal: let’s talk. Meet in the town square or the coffee shop. Pick up the phone. Check in. Be human. Care a little more than feels comfortable. In short, stop being assholes to each other.

So I end with this message – Love everyone. Even Packer or Buckeye fans.

Cold Hard Facts

There is a strong argument for keeping certain things to yourself. This is probably one of those things. Unfortunately, I may soon be in public wearing medical equipment, which tends to raise questions and invite speculation. Rather than let the driveway control the narrative, or pretend it didn’t know exactly what it was doing, here is what happened.

Friday morning, as I was leaving my house to walk the dog, I was attacked. Not by an animal. Not by another human. By ice. In my own driveway. A place I had crossed hundreds of times safely. No warning. No sound. No dramatic buildup. The last clear thought I remember having was wondering whether the driveway might be slippery. That thought turned out to be the prologue. When I regained consciousness—flat on my back, staring at the sky, with a dog hovering over me like a very judgmental witness—I felt comfortable ruling the surface hostile.

Out of an abundance of caution, and at my wife’s direct and non-negotiable order, I went to the local hospital. On the drive there—where my wife also works—she decided to run a neurological exam. The questions were unfair and oddly personal: when were we married, where were we married, when is her birthday, and, in what felt like an advanced interrogation technique, what is the password to our financial accounts.

Because my injury did not involve a gunshot, a stroke, or a heart attack—and because I walked in under my own power—the hospital staff responded with polite professionalism mixed with the unmistakable vibe of let’s see what this turns into. This was reasonable.

After a short wait—which, in medical terms, is often measured in hours rather than minutes—I was invited to check in. Check-in involved a weigh-in, an IV “just in case,” and a full panel of vitals: blood pressure, heart rate, and oxygen levels. All of this felt slightly unfair given that I had not yet taken my medication and had recently been tackled by frozen precipitation. At one point, I believe they also asked my body to “relax,” which suggested a touching but misplaced optimism.

Then came the questions, which demonstrated that my wife—though well-intentioned—was still very much an amateur. After the battery of questions, the staff turned to her and asked whether she had noticed any personality changes. She said I was more irritable than usual. This answer was delivered efficiently, confidently, and without hesitation. It is now, presumably, part of my permanent medical record.

After a CT scan and an MRI, it was confirmed that I had indeed “bonked” the back of my head. Medical terminology has a way of minimizing the unsettling. I did not break my neck—which aligned with my own independent research—but I did sprain it. I am now in a cervical collar, which sends a clear message about fragility, gravity, and the quiet power of ice.

I have been told to take it easy and to avoid complex thinking until my brain fully heals. This feels less like short-term medical advice and more like a long-term warning.

I should end by thanking my wife, whose compassion, patience, and steady presence have carried me through this with far more grace than I deserve. She has been unfailingly supportive, calm when I could not be, and generous with both care and restraint—except, of course, for the comment about my irritability, which has been entirely forgiven.

The dog, meanwhile, remains unconvinced. She watches me closely, tilts her head from time to time, and appears to believe that my collar is essentially the same as hers. In her mind, this confirms that I am ready for a walk. Healing is fine—but the schedule still matters.

2025 Competitive, Not Complete

My 2025 looked a lot like the Minnesota Vikings. It began, as always, with hope—an early victory that made you believe this could be the start of something. Then came the injuries, the false starts, the failures, and the quiet realization that planning and execution were still passing each other in the hallway without speaking. By late October, hope had slipped into despair. But then December arrived, and despair softened back into hope—what is known as fake spring. In the end, the record will land just above or just below .500, exactly where uncertainty likes to live.

That’s how 2025 felt for me. There were real successes—moments that mattered, progress worth acknowledging, things I’m genuinely proud of. But there were also stretches when momentum stalled, when intention didn’t always translate into follow-through, and inaction led to failure. 

So 2025 was neither disastrous nor satisfying. A very Minnesota Viking outcome—competitive but incomplete. A fair grade is probably a 5 out of 10, even with the wins, because consistency matters as much as highlights.

My hope for 2026 isn’t about grand promises or naïve optimism. It’s about clarity—and momentum. 2025 finished strong, which matters more than it sounds. It suggests that improvement wasn’t accidental, that progress is possible when effort and intention finally line up. The goal now is to carry that forward. Decide what matters. Align efforts with intentions. Invest accordingly. Losses can be endured. Wins can be celebrated. What wears you down is ambiguity—and the feeling that being better was always within reach, but never quite seized.

Gratitude Challenge 2025 Style

In 2025, I skipped the Gratitude Challenge, mainly due to time constraints. Reflecting on a hectic year, I recognize my gratitude for family and the present moment, acknowledging their support despite challenges. As Christmas approaches, I emphasize kindness, reminding us that everyone faces unseen struggles that require patience and grace.

This was the first year since 2020 that I didn’t do the Gratitude Challenge in November. I could offer plenty of reasons, but the truth is simple: I didn’t make the time for it. That’s on me.

A couple of days ago, I read “The Right Attitude to Gratitude” by David Brooks. It prompted me to look back on 2025. It’s been a hectic year — full of unexpected turns, long stretches of stress, and more challenges than I planned for. But even with all of that, there’s a lot to be grateful for.

I’m grateful for my family. Most of what I feel about them ends up in private writing, where it belongs. But they make my life better in every possible way. They push me to be better, to stay grounded, and to remember what truly matters. I’m grateful for the ways they’ve helped me, and for the quiet ways they help others just by being themselves. Too often, I take them for granted and they become the brunt of my frustrations. I hope to reduce — if not stop — that going forward.

I’m also grateful to be living here and now. When you step back and look at the sweep of human history, you realize how fortunate we are. Things aren’t perfect, but they are better than they’ve been for most of human existence. That perspective doesn’t erase the hard parts, but it does put them in context.

As we move into the Christmas season, I keep coming back to one simple reminder: be kind. Everyone is carrying something — stress, grief, uncertainty, hope — and most of it we never see. A little patience and a little grace go a long way.

No Gratitude Challenge this November. Just a moment to acknowledge what’s good, and to carry that forward.

2000

The pandemic feels like a lifetime ago, and yet I can tell you exactly how long it has been: 2,000 days. I know this not because of science, or history, or the passage of time, but because on March 1, 2020, I started a streak.

A walking streak.

Every single day since then—through shutdowns and reopenings, through new jobs, new routines, travel, stress, exhaustion, weather that felt like it was designed to break me—I have walked at least 10,000 steps.

Two thousand days.

I didn’t set out to do this. At the beginning, it was something to do during the pandemic. It also protected my sanity. Walking was the chance to get out of the house and leave everything else behind. Ten thousand steps a day had long been the baseline, ever since I started wearing a fitness tracker. Twenty-two thousand steps was the dream. (For reference, that’s about ten miles a day, or the equivalent of pacing nervously during a seven-hour baseball game.)

The first year was easy. I averaged nearly 22,000 steps per day. The second was manageable, still averaging nearly 20,000 steps per day. But the last three were harder. I changed careers. Time shrank. The joy of the walk, once as natural as breathing, sometimes felt like another appointment on an already crowded calendar.

Quick aside here: if you’ve never experienced the low-grade panic of watching your fitness tracker show 9,976 steps at 11:57 p.m., you haven’t lived. That’s when you find yourself walking in pajama pants around the kitchen island like a lunatic, praying the neighbors can’t see through the window.

What kept me going? Partly, the dog. (She doesn’t negotiate. She knows when it’s walk time, and if I try to skip, she looks at me like I just canceled Christmas.) Partly, the number itself. The bigger the streak grew, the harder it was to let it go. You don’t walk 1,732 consecutive days just to stop there.

And now we’re at 2,000.

I should say this: I am impressed with myself. I don’t usually say things like that, but persistence deserves a little horn-tooting. If I can string together 2,000 days of anything—walking, writing, flossing—maybe I’m not as undisciplined as I sometimes think.

Of course, streaks end. Technology fails. Bodies get sick. Life interrupts. At some point, a day will come when the step counter doesn’t make it to 10,000, and I’ll have to deal with it.

But not yet.

The next goal is December 30, 2025—Day 2,131. If you’re a baseball fan, you know why. (That’s the number Cal Ripken Jr. reached when he passed Lou Gehrig in consecutive games played. If you’re not a fan, know this: it’s persistence at a mythical scale.) After that, the big one: 2,633 days, when Ripken’s streak itself comes into view on or about February 6, 2027.

Will I make it to 2,633? I don’t know. The streak doesn’t give me the same joy it once did, and some days it feels like one more box to check. But every morning, the dog is there, stretching in anticipation, eyes pathetically pleading. And every morning, I lace up my shoes.

Unforgettable Moments

When I was growing up, my mother drove Chevrolet station wagons. They had wood paneling on the sides, vinyl seats that could burn your legs on hot summer days, and an 8-track player. We had a limited selection of 8-track tapes stored in a faux alligator skin box. One of my favorite tapes was “I Got Lucky” by Elvis Presley. I enjoyed listening to it while we drove around town or went on road trips. Truth be told, it was one of his worst albums, but I loved it.

On June 21, 1977, Elvis performed a concert in my hometown, marking the first event held at the brand-new civic center. This was my first concert (not counting elementary school Christmas concerts). Though it was a long time ago, my memories of that evening are still vivid. The excitement in the building before the concert was palpable. When the lights dimmed and “Also sprach Zarathustra” started playing, I knew we were in for an amazing show.

When Elvis walked onto the stage, the lightbulbs began popping, accompanied by the screams of excited women. I will never forget those screams. It was evident that Elvis was larger than life. He delivered a tremendous show before walking off the stage. Less than two months later, we were all shocked by his sudden death. In the fall of 1977, we gathered around our television to watch the Elvis In Concert CBS Special, which featured the same concert.

That night in June 1977 had a profound impact on me. I fell in love with the music of Elvis Presley. My first cassette tape purchase was “Elvis: Aloha from Hawaii via Satellite.” I must have listened to that tape a thousand times, and I can still sing most of the songs from memory.

In the years since the concert, many people have commented that it wasn’t Elvis Presley’s best performance. In fact, it wasn’t. He was significantly heavier than in earlier parts of his career and forgot many lyrics, often slurring his words. When I compare the concert I attended to other performances I’ve seen, it’s clear that I didn’t witness his finest work. However, even at his worst, his performance was still remarkable.

I still have my ticket stub from that concert, tucked away. It’s a simple piece of paper, but each time I see it, I’m transported back to that night. I’m not entirely sure why I’ve held onto it all these years, but perhaps it’s because some moments in life are so impactful that we want to preserve them forever.

Reflections on Another Year

It’s complicated. It’s Father’s Day. My father wasn’t the father I wanted him to be; however, given how things have turned out, it appears he was the father I needed.

It’s complicated. Twenty-nine years ago today, my mother called to tell me that my father had suffered another heart attack and didn’t survive. It was a Saturday, and the next day was Father’s Day. his sudden death is one of the saddest days of my life.

It’s complicated. As critical as I was of my father while growing up, on this day when we celebrate fathers, I am reminded of how challenging it is to be a parent. You are constantly trying to make the best decisions, but you often fail. I love my sons more than anything in the world. I haven’t been perfect, but I have always loved them.

It’s complicated. An elected official was assassinated yesterday, marking the seventh such incident in the last 50 years. There is a suspect and it appears he was targeting several other elected officials. Meanwhile, the president celebrated his birthday with a grand military parade, something I have never witnessed in my lifetime across the country. There were mostly peaceful protests taking place. The country is deeply divided.

It’s complicated. Birthdays should be a celebration—a time to reflect on all that is good in our lives. Over the past year, I have used social media to acknowledge birthdays. Each day, I start by checking Facebook for birthday announcements. For those who share their birthdays, I make sure to send them a heartfelt birthday message.

I also take a moment to reflect on how I know each person, why they remain friends on Facebook, and the joy we have brought to each other’s lives. My friends come from various places, with diverse interests, differing political views, and various professions. While I may have favorites among them, taking the time to think about each friend is a nice way to start my day and often reminds me of many wonderful memories.

I also remember friends who are no longer with us but are still on Facebook. I believe that if we dedicate time to remember and celebrate these connections, it enriches our lives.

It’s a bittersweet day for me—today marks my birthday, Father’s Day, and the anniversary of my dad’s passing. It’s a lot to process. So, let’s take a moment to do something special today to brighten the world around us. Reach out to the people you love; they might be facing their own complexities. You never know how your words of kindness can make a difference. Life is complicated.



6/9/72

Some numbers stick with you. For me, they are 6/9/1972, a date, and 238, the number of deaths.

On June 9, 1972, in western South Dakota, it started to rain. My only memory of that evening is standing outside under our covered front entryway while my father smoked. As I watched him, I noticed that the raindrops were the biggest I had ever seen. When I mentioned this to my dad, he suggested we go back inside because it was bedtime.

On the evening of June 9, 1972, our family went to bed early. When we awoke the next morning, we were unaware of the tragic events that had occurred overnight. Persistent clouds over the Black Hills resulted in severe flash flooding that devastated the Rapid City area. By the morning of June 10, there were 238 fatalities, and more than 1,300 homes had been destroyed.

My father was a medical doctor in our community. That morning, my mother received a call from the hospital asking if my dad would be coming into work. She was surprised by the question because she was unaware of what had happened. The hospital explained that there had been a severe storm that caused significant damage, and his services were urgently needed.

In the days, weeks, months, and years following the flood, I began to hear more stories. I learned about a classmate and friend who lost his father and two brothers, one of whom was never found. I heard about a friend of my sister’s who survived in an air pocket inside a submerged vehicle while her brothers slowly succumbed. I listened to the accounts of the screams that echoed during the disaster. I witnessed the devastation firsthand.

Our house and family were on high ground, so we were safe from the flooding. However, some friends of ours lost everything and had to stay with us until they could find a new place to live. My preschool was destroyed. While I’m not sure, I believe my father’s office was flooded but did not sustain permanent damage.

It has been over 50 years, but I still vividly remember many events from the time of the flood. Growing up, I encountered haunting reminders of the devastation: driveways where homes once stood, streets that are now vacant and abandoned, and buildings bearing the names of those who perished. Many of these reminders are still visible today if you know where to look (see picture at top of steps from a house washed away in the flood still present). Ironically, much of this is located along a beautiful greenway and bike trail that were created in the aftermath of the destruction.

In recent years, on this anniversary, I have taken the time to read through a list of the names of those who lost their lives. I reflect on friends who were affected by the flood and how suddenly life can change. This reminds me of what Marcus Aurelius wrote over 2000 years ago: “You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do, say, and think.” Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 2, Section 11.

This is dedicated to all who were affected by the 1972 flood but more specifically to Shirley, Steve, Sarah, Andy, Lisa, Mike, and JoAnn.

Life Events

Throughout my professional career, I have consistently advised adults to establish an estate plan. A well-crafted estate plan helps prevent family conflicts, reduce taxes and expenses, and provides clear guidance on how assets should be distributed. I also recommend that individuals review and update their estate plans after significant life events, such as a death, birth, marriage, or divorce. After this past weekend, I am adding college graduation to that list of important events.

This past weekend, our youngest child graduated from university, and I couldn’t be prouder of him. Watching him grow and mature over the last four years has been incredibly rewarding. As I observed friends, family, and others interacting during this significant occasion, I found myself reflecting on a few key points.

First, I was struck by the importance relationships that were formed over these years. Second, I was reminded of how quickly time passes; it feels like just yesterday when we dropped him off at school. Lastly, I was reminded of the importance of higher education.

My university years were quite a while ago, but many of the relationships I formed during that time still play a significant role in my life today. Watching my son interact with his friends and their families brings a smile to my face; they are wonderful people. As the graduates transition to the next phase of their lives, I hope they continue to nurture their relationships, even as they scatter across the country.

As I write this blog post from my now-quiet empty nest, I can hardly wrap my head around how swiftly time has passed. It feels like just yesterday we were dropping him off at his freshman dorm, filled with a mix of excitement and apprehension. His brief visits home during breaks often left me wishing for just a little more time together, and our trips to his university town were far too few. Yet, here I am, in a surprising twist, sending him a checklist to gear up for moving out of his apartment and into a house of his own. How did we get here so fast?

As a former university professor, I have attended numerous graduation ceremonies. While many share similar elements, my son’s graduation truly reaffirmed the importance of higher education. In recent years, higher education has faced significant scrutiny, and in some cases, this criticism is warranted.

As a student, my university required every student to take a capstone course centered around the essential question, “How then shall we live?” This course encouraged us to explore, connect, and discuss what we had learned throughout our time at the university. My simple takeaway, both then and now, is that higher education serves at least three important functions.

First, it develops and expands our knowledge base. Second, it cultivates essential soft skills, including critical thinking, adaptability, time management, commitment, and improved communication. Lastly, and most importantly, it highlights the importance of building and engaging in a strong community.

What resonated with me was the vital role that universities play in fostering community. A good university gathers a diverse array of individuals—each with their own backgrounds, perspectives, and aspirations—and creates an environment where collaboration and growth can flourish. This sentiment was articulated by both the president of the university and the commencement speaker, who emphasized the importance of this collective journey. They encouraged us to recognize our shared responsibility in using our unique talents and experiences to contribute positively to the world.