Living Lessons Learned

I spent two days in middle school classrooms this week, and two questions have been on my mind ever since.

It's part of a program called Living Lessons, the brainchild of Judy Gothelf, a former English teacher, and Joe Keiser, who helped bring it to life as a social studies teacher in Montville and now serves as principal in Franklin Lakes. Their idea was simple yet powerful: bring in adults who've persevered through difficult life experiences and let them talk to kids who are still figuring out who they are and what the world expects of them.

The goal: every student leaves with a more open mind and a kinder heart. Simple to say, but not so simple to do.

Fighting to get heard over the hum of the AC.

I revised my talk, pulled back on depth, and made sure every story circled back to them. Their doubts, their insecurities, and the feeling at that age that no one else quite gets you. Those questions aren’t unique to them.

Two questions, back to back, landed in a way I’m still thinking about.

A boy raised his hand and told me about another speaker, a man who survived a devastating accident, lost a limb, and later became a Paralympic champion. When asked whether he’d change it all back if he could, he said no. Those experiences were worth everything. They had made him who he was. Then came the question I was waiting for: would I?

I’ve heard that response before. It’s more common than you’d think. But it isn’t my answer. I told him that if I could, I’d go back to my old life in a heartbeat.

Then a girl asked me how my paralysis had changed the way I see life. It was the first time a student had asked me that question. She was wise beyond her years.

Catching up with my friends Steve and Jacy, whose story also centers on distracted driving

Before the accident, my focus was on the day-to-day. My family, my career, staying fit, and the friendships I kept working on. There was always a plan deferred to later. When the kids were grown. When work slowed down. Then there’d be time for the longer trips, the treks, the adventures I’d been quietly filing away. That version of later felt real and reasonably close.

A near-death experience changes your relationship with time. Some of the things that had given me the most joy were now out of reach, and I can’t say I’ve made peace with that. But something else has kicked in, too. A sense of urgency. Not panic, but clarity. Life isn’t indefinite. I think more about bigger questions, even existential ones. How we live and what we owe each other as individuals, as people, and as societies.

That urgency revealed something that had always been there: a sense of purpose. The accident didn’t create it, but it uncovered it. If I can make a difference in a small but meaningful way, whether that’s two days with New Jersey middle schoolers or something larger, it’s a leap worth taking. That’s part of why I’ve taken to speaking to share a message.

And there’s something else. When life throws the hardest thing it can at you and you’re still here, still showing up, you learn something about yourself you couldn’t have known any other way. You’re stronger than you thought. More resilient, with a fortitude you didn’t know you carried.

That’s what I wanted those kids to hear. Not a story that ends with a bow, because that isn’t the reality they’ll face. The questions they’re starting to carry at twelve and thirteen aren’t small. They haven’t fully wrestled with them yet, but they will. We all do.

And maybe that's the overarching goal of Living Lessons: to plant a seed before the storm hits. They don't yet know that they have what it takes. None of us does, until we have to.