“When a Room Looks Right… But Doesn’t Feel Like You”

It happened in a room that had everything going for it—beautiful furniture, perfect lighting, every detail carefully chosen. And yet, something felt missing. The homeowner sensed it too. After a pause, they said, “It looks right… but it doesn’t feel like us.” That moment says more than any design rule ever could.

If you’ve ever stood in a room that looks complete but doesn’t feel complete, you’re not alone. You’re not just trying to decorate a space, you’re trying to create something that reflects who you are, what you’ve lived, what you value, and how you want to feel every time you walk through the door.

And that’s where most people get stuck. The problem isn’t a lack of options; it’s knowing what kind of art actually belongs in your life. Most artwork is chosen to match a space, but the pieces that truly matter do something more. They either help you remember, or they help you express who you are today. When neither of those is present, a room may look finished, but it never quite feels right.

Some Art Helps Us Remember What Matters
There are pieces that take you back to a campus that shaped your life, a landscape that feels familiar, or a moment you never want to lose. These works don’t just hang on a wall; they hold meaning. They quietly reconnect you to where you’ve been and what has shaped you, offering a sense of grounding that only something personal can provide.

Some Art Helps Us Express Who We Are Today
Other pieces do something entirely different. They bring energy into a space. They make a statement the moment you walk in. They reflect how you want to live now not just where you’ve been. These works are bold, present, and forward-looking, shaping the atmosphere of a room and the feeling you carry within it.

The Most Meaningful Spaces Embrace Both
The spaces that feel the most complete aren’t built on one idea alone. They include a piece that grounds you and a piece that inspires you. Together, they create balance, one honoring your story, the other expressing your direction. When combined, they tell a fuller, richer story that is uniquely your own.

Here's my take on it:
Over the years, my own work has evolved from capturing meaningful places in watercolor to exploring bold, contemporary expressions in acrylic. What I’ve come to appreciate is this: there is no single way art should make you feel. Sometimes it should take you back. Sometimes it should push you forward. The key is choosing pieces that speak to where you are—and where you’re going. Because the right piece of art doesn’t just complete a room, it completes the feeling you want to live with every day.

The Princess Who Showed Up

Last week Joy and I attended the spring conference of the Association Executives of North Carolina in Durham. These gatherings are always energizing—filled with opportunities to reconnect with colleagues, hear inspiring ideas, and occasionally discover someone whose story truly stops you in your tracks.

That moment came when Jess Ekstrom stepped onto the stage. I’ll admit, I wasn’t familiar with her work before that morning. But a friend and speaking colleague, Sharon Delaney, leaned over beforehand and said, “You’re going to love this.”  She was right!

 Jess began by sharing an experience from early in her career working with children facing life-threatening illnesses through the Make-A-Wish Foundation. One young girl had a simple dream—to meet Snow White and be treated like a princess for a day at Walt Disney World Resort.

Jess carefully arranged every detail. But just days before the visit, the heartbreaking call came: the little girl had become too ill to travel.

Most people would have quietly canceled the plans and moved on. Jess did something different. She found a princess costume, stepped into the role herself, and brought the magic directly to the child. That moment of compassion stayed with her. Around the same time, she noticed many young girls undergoing cancer treatment had lost their hair but loved wearing headbands. It was a small observation—but one that helped them feel beautiful and normal again.

That insight eventually became the inspiration for Headbands of Hope, the company Jess launched while still in college. Built on a simple idea—for every headband sold, one is donated to a child battling illness—the organization has now delivered millions of headbands to children’s hospitals and raised support for families facing childhood cancer.

As I listened to her story, I couldn’t help but think that Jess Ekstrom is a wonderful example of something I often talk about in my own programs:

There’s an ART to Making a Difference.

First, it begins with Awareness. Jess noticed something others might have missed. A small accessory that helped children feel confident again became the seed of a powerful idea. Many meaningful contributions begin not with grand plans but with simply paying attention.

Second is Resourcefulness. When the little girl could not travel, Jess didn’t allow the dream to disappear. She found a way to bring the experience to the child. That same creative thinking later shaped the business model behind Headbands of Hope—turning compassion into a sustainable mission.

Third is Timing. Ideas come to many people, but few act on them. Jess launched her company from a college dorm room and watched it grow into a national movement. Often the difference between a thought and real impact is the courage to act when the opportunity appears.

Today Jess continues to inspire others through her speaking and her Mic Drop Workshop, encouraging women to share their voices and ideas with the world. Listening to her that morning reminded me that making a difference rarely begins with a grand strategy. More often it starts with a moment of compassion and someone willing to step forward and do something about it.

And sometimes, that simply means showing up dressed as Snow White when a little girl needs a princess.

When Service Brings Strangers to Your Table

The laughter started before the pasta was even served.  Eighteen college students—dusty from a week of construction work, tired from sleeping on air mattresses, but still full of energy—piled into the studio for dinner. They had spent their spring break not on a beach, but in Greensboro helping neighbors they had never met.  By the time the plates of chicken alfredo and baked ziti were passed around, it felt less like hosting strangers and more like welcoming family.  

These students were part of Chi Alpha at the University of Virginia, a Christian campus organization that sends teams on mission trips during spring break. For fifteen years one of those teams has come to Greensboro to work with Community Housing Solutions.

And this group made the most of their week.
They built a ramp for a woman recovering from a stroke.
They rebuilt two decks for elderly homeowners.
They repaired drywall and painted.
They stained ramps built the year before.

Community Housing Solutions depends heavily on volunteers like these. In fact, their most recent report shows 148 homes repaired and 526 volunteers helping neighbors in need across Guilford County. 

But the numbers don’t fully capture what happens during a week like this. What I witnessed around the dinner table told a deeper story.

Three Things I Took Away That Night

Service Shapes the Servant
The students came to help others, but it was clear the experience had changed them too.  When you spend a week building a ramp for someone who can’t walk safely into their own home, the work becomes personal. Service has a way of reminding us that the smallest act of help can restore dignity and independence.

Young People Are Looking for Purpose
What struck me most during dinner was their curiosity. They asked about my life as an artist and about my friendship with Mike Saavedra—the homeless man whose story ultimately inspired the Honor Card program nearly four decades ago.

Their questions revealed something hopeful: young people are not just looking for success. They’re searching for meaning and purpose in their lives.

Community Happens Around the Table
Some of the most meaningful moments came between bites of pasta.  Stories were shared. Laughter filled the room. A group of students who had worked hard all week began reflecting on what they had experienced.  Service had brought them to Greensboro.  But fellowship turned the evening into something special.

A Night I Won’t Forget

Before the evening ended, I had the privilege of congratulating these students on a job well done.  They may not fully realize it yet, but experiences like this often plant seeds that shape the rest of a person’s life.  For me, the evening was a reminder that making a difference doesn’t always begin with a grand plan.  Sometimes it begins with a hammer, a helping hand, and a dinner table full of conversation.

From Waiter to U.S. Open Artist:
A Pinehurst Story Full-Circle 

When Phil Werz invited me onto his Podcast  "Paradise in the Pines", I expected to talk about painting golf courses and U.S. Opens. Instead, his questions took me somewhere far more meaningful, back to Pinehurst, where my life quietly changed direction.

I was born in Pinehurst but did not grow up there  It was years later, after struggling in high school and doubting myself, that I returned and finally found my footing. My GPA was nothing to brag about, and no university was lining up to accept me. Then during my senior year at Pine Forest High School, we hired our first art teacher, Ms. McDuffie. She saw something in me and told me to chase it.

Sandhills Community College became my second chance. I took my first real art classes there and went from near the bottom academically to making straight A’s. For the first time, I wasn’t just getting by. I found my calling in a classroom just minutes from where I was born.

To pay my way, I bagged groceries at the local A&P, worked customer service at a candle company, and eventually landed a job waiting tables at the Carolina Hotel. That dining room opened my eyes. I saw elegance, culture, and confidence up close. Guests treated me with kindness and respect, and I began to believe I could stand in rooms like that one day, not serving dinner, but sharing my work.

Years later, I returned to Sandhills as Alumnus of the Year. The boy who once struggled to get accepted anywhere was now building a career that would take him to becoming the Official Artist of the Men’s and Women’s U.S. Open and beyond.

Three Lessons Pinehurst Taught Me

A Mentor Can Change Your Trajectory
Ms. McDuffie saw what I hadn’t yet seen in myself, one teacher, one voice of belief. Never underestimate what encouragement can unlock.

Humble Work Builds Unseen Confidence
Bagging groceries and waiting tables didn’t distract me from my calling, they prepared me for it. Those experiences taught me discipline, humility, conversation, and how to connect with people from every walk of life. That human connection later became essential in both my art and my speaking.

Your Environment Can Elevate Your Vision
Pinehurst isn’t just the Home of American Golf. It’s a place that models excellence. Walking through the Carolina Hotel, watching the world gather for championships, seeing how a community honors tradition, those images shaped my standards long before I ever painted them.

 Reflection

Looking back, Pinehurst gave me what I now call A.R.T.  Awareness, seeing possibility when others might miss it.  Resourcefulness, using whatever was in my hands and Timing, stepping forward when the opportunity appeared.

And here’s the part that still makes me smile. After my days as a waiter at the Carolina Hotel, one of my proudest moments was returning there as a guest. Pinehurst did more than host my beginnings it shaped them. 

Sometimes the place where you struggled the most becomes the place that lifts you higher than you ever imagined.

Lessons from a Bus Driver’s Seat

The engine would rumble before the sun ever thought about rising. At sixteen years old, I would step up into the driver’s seat of Bus 217, a yellow giant that looked far bigger than any teenager should be trusted with. The keys felt heavy in my hand, responsibility always does.

Yesterday morning, as I drove Gabby and Samuel to Caldwell Academy, I told them that “back in the day” their grandfather drove a school bus for Pine Forest High School. They looked at me like I had just said I once flew a rocket ship. And honestly, in 1969, it felt a little like that.

I parked that behemoth in our front yard, Bus 217 sitting proudly beside our driveway like it belonged to the family. At first, my motivation was simple: If I have to get up early for school, I might as well get paid for it. But somewhere between the early mornings, the fogged-up windshields, and navigating that long yellow monster through traffic, something deeper was forming.

I wasn’t just driving a bus. I was learning how to carry people.

Recently, I watched a story about Mike Mason and his experience choosing to drive a school bus after retirement as fourth in command of the FBI, not because he had to, but because he wanted to give back. His perspective stopped me. What I once saw as a teenage job, he sees as a calling. And that made me reflect.

Maybe the parallel isn’t about buses at all. Maybe it’s about stewardship

Three Lessons from Behind the Wheel

Responsibility Changes You Before You Realize It
At sixteen, I thought I was just steering metal and rubber. But what I was really steering was trust. Parents entrusted me with their children. Administrators trusted me with their equipment. And those students trusted me to get them there safely.

When someone hands you the keys—literally or figuratively, you grow up quickly. Leadership often begins long before we call it leadership.

Gratitude Grows in the Ordinary
There is nothing glamorous about a school bus at 6:30 a.m.  But there is something grounding about it. Watching the sun rise over quiet roads. Hearing the chatter of students finding their seats. Learning how to manage personalities before first period even began.

The ordinary has a way of shaping extraordinary character.  Mike Mason seems to understand that. What others might see as routine, he sees as contribution. That shift in perspective turns a job into a gift.

The Vehicle Isn’t the Point, The People Are
I remember worrying about turns, making sure the rear wheels cleared curbs, learning the length and weight of that machine. But over time, I realized the real cargo wasn’t steel and seats, it was potential.  

Every morning, I carried future teachers, business owners, parents, leaders. At sixteen, I couldn’t have articulated that. But now, looking back, I see it clearly. When we serve others even in small, unnoticed roles we are moving lives forward.

An Unexpected Gift
Driving Gabby and Samuel yesterday wasn’t just a quick trip to school. It was a reminder.  Life has a way of circling back.  The same roads feel shorter now. The responsibilities are different. But the lesson remains: when you accept the role of steward—even temporarily—you make a difference far beyond the task itself.

Bus 217 taught me gratitude. It taught me appreciation.  It taught me that responsibility is not a burden, it is a privilege. And sometimes, the most unlikely jobs become the training ground for your life’s work.

Closing Reflection

We don’t always recognize the significance of the roles we play while we’re playing them. A school bus driver. A volunteer. A mentor. A friend.  But every time we take the wheel of a bus, a business, a family, a calling we're entrusted with lives, influence, and legacy.

What if the smallest assignment you’ve been given is actually preparing you for your greatest impact?