If I’m surprised by anything right now, it’s not the opportunities. It’s not the travel, the titles, the invitations, or the platforms.
It’s the depth of gratitude.
Gratitude that feels less like a passing emotion and more like a steady undercurrent. A quiet awareness that the most meaningful parts of my life are not the ones listed on a CV—they are the ones that cannot be quantified.
For Alison—my partner in all things. Not just in logistics, not just in parenting, not just in home remodels and coffee shop mornings—but in vision. In growth. In choosing each other again and again in small, ordinary ways that no one applauds but that build something unshakeable.
For my children—who remind me that leadership without tenderness is hollow. Who don’t care about conference keynotes but care deeply about presence. Who measure me not by my ideas, but by my availability.
For my tribe—those friends who have seen the different seasons. The ambition, the doubt, the pivots, the reinventions. The ones who celebrate wins but also call me back to myself when needed.
For colleagues who trust me. Students who lean forward in their chairs. Audiences who choose to listen in a world full of noise.
That’s the part that overwhelms me.
Because the real measure of a life isn’t visibility.
It’s resonance.
Visibility is being seen.
Resonance is being felt.
Visibility can be manufactured.
Resonance must be earned.
Visibility attracts attention.
Resonance builds trust.
I can stand on a stage and be visible.
But if the people closest to me do not feel seen by me, something is out of alignment.
So I keep returning to a few quiet questions:
Do the people closest to me feel understood—not managed, not advised, but truly understood?
Do my students leave believing not just in the material, but in their own capacity?
Do my friends feel safe enough to tell the truth in my presence?
Does my work give more than it takes?
That last one matters more than ever.
In a world optimized for extraction—attention, productivity, output—it is easy to build work that consumes you and others. It is harder to build work that nourishes. Work that leaves people steadier than when they arrived. Work that strengthens connection rather than merely stimulating it.
Resonance is slower.
It requires consistency. Integrity. Humility. Repair when necessary.
But resonance lasts.
When I step back and look at the through line of my life—education, leadership, research, spirituality, fatherhood, partnership—it all bends toward the same aim: creating environments where people feel safe enough to grow.
That’s the measure.
Not how far the work travels.
But how deeply it lands.
Not how many know my name.
But how many feel stronger in their own.
That’s the through line I want to keep choosing.
— The Social Capitalist
The Official Author Page of Dr. Rick L. Mask (The Social Capitalist) and the Home of Social Capital 2.0 