Yellow Belly Lessons (Part 1: Character and Credibility)

February 21, 2026

“I’m just a traveler on this earth.” — Chris Stapleton

I have always been interested in bottle caps with messages.

Back in college, I used to collect Lone Star caps, the puzzles printed underneath “The National Beer of Texas.” They were pretty simple. You just looked underneath, passed them around, and tried to figure them out together. Conversations happened naturally. We didn’t have the internet in our hands or AI to explain everything. Just curiosity, discussion, and time.

Years later, during a quieter period of my life, I started saving a different set. Coors Original Yellow Belly caps. Each one had a short phrase stamped inside. Something about them resonated. I didn’t overthink it. I just kept them in an old loose change bowl.

I almost threw them away, but they traveled in my Lucchese briefcase from Illinois to Texas, they’ve had a journey in hotel rooms, truck floorboards, and airport terminals. Eventually they disappeared into the bottom of a pocket in my bag, only to resurface recently while going through things in preparation for a trip.

Six of them stayed with me. The first three are the focus of Part 1.

Get Your Hands Dirty

Early in my career, I was a PE coach at Ed White Elementary. My dad had given me an old Honda riding lawnmower, and every week I cut the fields myself. The budget was tight, the maintenance and operations teams had more important things to do than regularly groom elementary school fields. I did this not because anyone asked me to, but because the kids deserved a great experience.

I still remember them running out from the gym onto that field for Capture the Golden Football, their favorite game. Pure joy. Energy. Anticipation. Some of those same students read Halcyon Headwinds today, which is a reminder that the work you do quietly often travels farther than you ever expect.

The work behind that moment was invisible. Just repetition. Maintenance. Showing up early and doing something that mattered even if no one noticed who did it.

That lesson has followed me ever since. You learn a lot by doing the work. Experience isn’t always something you start with. Often it is something you earn along the way. From my first classroom in Clear Creek ISD to later helping build nationwide education programs, I learned early that nothing meaningful moves forward without someone willing to roll up their sleeves first.

And later, as a leader, the lesson evolves. You have to know when to step in and help and when to step back and allow others to learn through their own mistakes. You cannot do the work for people forever. Growth requires ownership.

Over time, I learned that mentorship is a balance between presence and restraint. Early in leadership, it is tempting to solve problems quickly because you know how. But growth rarely happens when leaders remove every obstacle. Real development comes when people are trusted with responsibility, allowed to wrestle with challenges, and supported without being rescued too soon. The goal isn’t to create dependence on your experience. It’s to help others build confidence in themselves. The strongest teams I’ve been part of weren’t shaped by leaders who had all the answers, but by leaders who created space for others to discover theirs.

What You’re Made Of Matters

I started saving these caps during a time when I was mostly alone with my thoughts, writing songs from a one-bedroom apartment near O'Hare airport while transitioning from Illinois to Texas. The ranch wasn’t real yet. It was just an idea. Maybe even a dream.

Reflection has a way of clarifying things you already know but haven’t fully admitted to yourself.

Over time I learned that integrity, mental health, and reputation are lines you cannot afford to blur. Every professional eventually faces moments where pressure encourages shortcuts or decisions that do not sit right.

Character is built in those quiet repetitions. Not in moments of recognition, but in choosing to keep doing the right thing when fewer people are watching, and when others are pushing toward something you know may not work or may be cutting corners.

You do not always control outcomes. But you always control how you show up. Titles change. Organizations change. What lasts is integrity, resolve, and the ability to adapt without losing your values.

I remember one of those moments clearly during my time as a principal, at the height of high stakes testing in Texas. I was strongly encouraged to have a particular student take the state assessment in English, even though Spanish was his primary language. There were percentage targets tied to testing participation, and on paper that single decision would have helped secure the school’s highest possible rating. But behind the metric was a student who would have been placed in an unfair and discouraging situation.

I chose not to do it. Our rating was lower as a result, and a few months later I moved on from that role. At the time it felt costly. Looking back, it clarified something lasting: leadership is not measured only by outcomes, but by who you protect and what lines you refuse to cross along the way.

Quietly Work. Let Success Speak Up.

Results have always mattered more to me than recognition.

There is a difference between looking good and being good. Throughout my career, I have watched people become very skilled at managing perception while the underlying work failed to sustain itself long term. Eventually, reality catches up. At the same time, today’s professional world often requires explaining your value more than it once did. Metrics matter. Visibility matters. But experience teaches something deeper. The question is not whether you are seen working. The question is whether you are doing the right work.

Knowing when to push forward and when to hold the line is not about avoiding performance. It is about integrity. About choosing durable outcomes over short-term approval. Some of the strongest results I have been part of did not look impressive at first. They required patience, adjustment, and trust long before success became visible. Sustainable impact tends to look quieter early on. It compounds slowly, often without applause. But once it works, it lasts.

Early in my career, I learned not to chase applause. I focused on building trust, building teams, and solving real problems. Over time, the results began speaking louder than anything I could have said myself. We talked about in the first issue that my dad used to say, “Keep chopping wood and stacking it neatly. Someone will notice sooner or later.” At the time it sounded simple. Over the years, I realized it was really about trusting the work itself, even when recognition comes slowly or not at all.

Like writing songs during that transition period, progress often felt invisible day to day. Small pieces came together slowly until something meaningful finally emerged.

On the ranch, that lesson feels even clearer. Out here I am a true individual contributor. Nothing gets done unless I do it myself or choose to invest the capital to have it done. Progress becomes honest quickly. Doing the work before asking others to, holding the line when pressure invites shortcuts, and trusting that durable results matter more than immediate attention.

Solid results do not need constant amplification. They speak for themselves over time.

Funny how things meant to be thrown away sometimes end up carrying the lessons that stay with you the longest.