This reflection traces a two-year journey through Daemen University’s Leadership & Innovation program, where leadership was not only studied but lived through seasons of adversity, creativity, and renewal. Ultimately, this journey reveals that leadership, like life itself, is impermanent yet deeply enduring in the connections it cultivates and the meaning it creates.
When I began the Leadership & Innovation program in early 2024, I didn’t realize that my leadership education would be as much about living through hardship as it was about learning about leadership. My earliest entries in LEAD 500 were written from a hospital bed, reflecting on a period of physical recovery and emotional exhaustion. I had just undergone surgery and found myself observing acts of leadership and, more poignantly, the absence of it. “We weren’t observing a deficit of hospitality or effort,” I wrote, “we were bearing witness to a whole team pushed beyond their capacity with supervisors who were failing to support them.” That experience redefined my understanding of leadership—not as authority, but as stewardship of others’ wellbeing. Even in my most vulnerable moments, I began to see that compassion and resourcefulness often coexist with exhaustion, and that leadership falters when systems forget their human core.
From there, the logs evolved into a chronicle of resilience. In LEAD 501, I was “struggling significantly in my personal life,” balancing graduate school, a declining grandparent, two unplanned surgeries, and the impending loss of my best friend to brain cancer. During that time, mentorship became my lifeline. My department chair, Christina Coyle, encouraged me to stay in the program when I was on the verge of deferring. “She understood the challenging position I was in,” I noted, “but also knew me to be someone who drew strength from creative thinking.” Her faith reminded me that leadership is often a quiet act of belief in someone else’s potential.
As I progressed into LEAD 502, creativity became a sanctuary for grief. Visiting the Strong Museum of Play and reconnecting with my childhood fascination with puppetry rekindled my spirit during one of the most difficult years of my life. “Strolling down the familiar boulevard [of Sesame Street], reveling in the beauty of Jim Henson’s creations, and momentarily escaping into my nostalgia was, admittedly, only a Band-Aid on a very deep wound,” I reflected. Yet even a Band-Aid can be an act of healing—proof that joy and imagination are leadership tools as much as strategy or structure. The recurring lyric from the Broadway musical Avenue Q—“everything in life is only for now”—became an emotional refrain across multiple semesters, a mantra that captured the impermanence of pain and the continuity of growth.
By the time I arrived at my immersion in LEAD 514, my reflections turned outward. Observing Andy Morin at Avenir Cine showed me leadership in motion—“a lesson in sustainable artistic entrepreneurship.” His ability to “say no to projects that don’t align with his passion or ethics” inspired one of my key realizations: that leading with values sustains both the leader and the community. Watching Andy’s studio evolve into a shared space for filmmakers, students, and freelancers helped me articulate five guiding principles for creative leadership: lead with values, respect as currency, make space for others, stay curious, and build visibility. Those lessons foreshadowed the self-definition that would arrive later in my personal branding process.
Throughout 2025, my reflections deepened as my personal and professional worlds collided once again. In LEAD 515, I chronicled the aftermath of losing my artistic partner, writing that I was “grieving deeply while simultaneously taking on the responsibility of planning his memorial service.” Coordinating an event for over 600 guests while managing my own grief was an act of leadership I never sought but one that tested every capacity for empathy, organization, and endurance. “I worried constantly about whether he would have been happy with the choices we made,” I confessed. That entry revealed a shift in my leadership lens—from outward control to inner compassion. It became clear that leading through pain is not about perfection; it’s about presence.
As my thesis came into focus in LEAD 541, I began weaving together years of creative inquiry, loss, and academic growth into a cohesive philosophy. What started as a simple interest in puppetry and storytelling had transformed into a research-based exploration of mentorship and imposter syndrome. My advisor’s challenge—“Maybe the research can help you write more accurately about the puppeteers [in your film script]”—shifted my perspective entirely. “In that very moment,” I wrote, “the dreaded thesis paper morphed into some sexy pre-production work.” Through humor and insight, I recognized that leadership and creativity share a common foundation: both are acts of meaning-making. I concluded, “Leadership is not about knowing everything but staying open to learning.”
By LEAD 529 and beyond, my reflections synthesized into action. Competing in the Buffalo 48 Hour Film Project using the Appreciative Inquiry framework and the “Three Eyes Open” model, I discovered that “true responsibility as a leader involves creating the conditions where others can contribute fully.” The insight was profound: leadership isn’t about carrying everything; it’s about distributing the weight. “Our film,” I wrote, “was better because our team dynamic was better.” This was the clearest evidence yet that psychological safety, collaboration, and joy are not peripheral to leadership—they are its engine.
Finally, in LEAD 530, I began the process of distilling all these lessons into language. Writing my mission, vision, and values became, as I described, “an unexpected act of self-discovery.” My mission—“to solve problems with creativity and compassion”—wasn’t a new identity; it was a naming of what had always been true. My vision, “to facilitate community by devising and disseminating visual storytelling,” affirmed that leadership for me is coalition-building. And my values—playful, ambitious, surprising—became a declaration that joy and curiosity are not weaknesses but strengths. “Playfulness,” I wrote, “is not immaturity but curiosity; it’s the willingness to rearrange those shelves.” In defining myself, I reclaimed the childlike wonder that had sparked my leadership journey in the first place.
Threaded through all these experiences is a single realization: leadership begins in relationship—relationship to others, to purpose, and to oneself. My hospital stay taught me to see systems, not scapegoats. My grief taught me to practice self-compassion. My creative collaborations taught me to share ownership. My mentors taught me that guidance can coexist with grace. And my personal branding work taught me that self-awareness is not vanity; it is responsibility.
By living through the extremes of care, loss, and creation, I came to understand that leadership is less about fixing and more about holding. “I’m beginning to think,” I once wrote, “that the most successful leadership model is not top-down like a pyramid, but rather bottom-up like a growing plant.” That metaphor captures what these years have revealed: leadership grows best in well-tended soil—environments of trust, empathy, and purpose.
Across my coursework, I internalized frameworks that mirrored these lived truths. Theory U taught me to move from “downloading” to “presencing”—to sense before acting. Appreciative Inquiry reminded me to ask, “What’s working?” rather than “What’s broken?” Scrum showed me that iteration, collaboration, and feedback loops are not just project strategies but ways of living creatively. Together, these tools gave structure to my natural leadership instincts and language to the compassion that had always guided me intuitively.
By the time I wrote, “True responsibility as a leader involves creating the conditions where others can contribute fully,” I had stopped seeing leadership as performance and started seeing it as facilitation. Each experience reaffirmed that the art of leading is the art of listening—of noticing what is present and what is possible.
Looking ahead, I carry forward a clearer sense of purpose: to lead by creating spaces that are as compassionate as they are creative. I want to continue designing environments—whether in branding, puppetry, or education—where others feel “seen, valued, and inspired to play a part in something greater than themselves.” My leadership is now guided by three commitments.
First, to nurture environments where curiosity and care coexist. Just as I learned from the overworked nurses at Buffalo General, no system can sustain itself if its people are not tended to. The lesson was simple but enduring: you have to properly tend to your team.
Second, to practice leadership as storytelling. Through Avenir Cine, through The Hand Off, through the Buffalo 48 Hour Film Project, I’ve seen that narrative is a leadership act. It binds teams, bridges identities, and gives meaning to chaos. I want to continue using story—both literal and metaphorical—to invite others into shared vision and action.
Third, to lead with authenticity. My personal branding work made clear that self-knowledge is not a destination but a discipline. “Self-knowledge,” I wrote, “is not a static endpoint but a continual process of editing and refinement.” I intend to carry that principle forward, treating leadership as an evolving creative practice—an act of design, revision, and wonder.
Ultimately, the “what” of my logs reveals growth through adversity; the “so what” illuminates the deeper patterns of meaning; and the “now what” points toward a future rooted in empathy and imagination. As I continue to lead and create, I hold onto a truth that has echoed across every semester: that “everything in life is only for now.” Leadership, like life, is impermanent—but its impact endures in the hearts we tend and the communities we build. My journey through this program has shown me not only who I am as a leader, but also who I am becoming: a compassionate creator, a reflective collaborator, and a lifelong learner with “three eyes open”—one on the present, one on the horizon, and one turned inward toward the ever-growing self.
What
Much of my January was spent recovering from surgery to have my gallbladder removed—I missed our first two regularly scheduled class sessions, in fact, as I was physically out of commission. My logs first entries were a collection of snapshots from my hospital stay.
The nursing staff at Buffalo General Hospital is comprised of some of the most knowledgeable and compassionate individuals in the industry. While under their care this winter, however, I was dismayed by their outright lack of attentiveness, follow through, and kindness. I was fortunate enough to have members of my family to support and advocate for me, but I knew this was not the case for everyone.
My roommate was a verbally challenged man recovering from significant leg wounds. In the nurses’ exchanges with this gentleman, it was clear they were not taking sufficient time to listen to his questions or concerns and were actively trying to discharge this immobilized patient back home to his third story walk-up apartment. His physical therapist intervened and was able to ensure he was temporarily transferred to a nursing home while he more fully recovered from his injuries, fortunately, but I was still confounded and frustrated by the uncharacteristic lackadaisy of the greater hospital care team.
Eventually I asked one of my aides (who I had built up some rapport with) if there was a root cause for this seeming anomaly. It turned out that, since Thanksgiving, hospital management was scheduling fewer nurses on each shift to make up for overall staffing shortages and—further compounding the issue—some of those who were scheduled couldn’t work, as they had contracted COVID or the flu while working overtime. Suddenly, my entire perspective of my hospital stay was shifted as I recontextualized the preceding 48 hours. We weren’t observing a deficit of hospitality or effort, we were bearing witness to a whole team pushed beyond their capacity with supervisors who were failing to support them. I was heartbroken for my feelings of contempt and frustration towards individuals who didn’t have control of the situation they were in, and, frankly, were going over and above the call of duty… they had every right to be tired and stressed.
So What
My experience in January is a microcosm for many of the observations in my leadership log, wherein individuals’ actions are so often the result of their environment and how much they are supported by supervisors and higher-ups.
I am confident that, if the hospital floor was properly staffed, my stay at Buffalo General would have been completely different—marked by the genuine kindness and professionalism I am used to. Without sufficient resources, systems begin to crumble and our faith in them will waiver. Imagine my relief knowing that, as I was absent from my workplace, my supervisors were addressing the situation in a compassionate manner and ensuring that a) I was given the space to properly heal, and b) my coworkers weren’t hindered by unrealistic expectations to compensate for my absence.
There is no way I would have been able to relax and recuperate during my recovery if I knew my absence was causing stress and hardship for my team. I feel so lucky that the leaders who I work with most regularly understand the importance of work/life harmony and what it takes for a team to be successful—in good times and bad. Without a doubt, this is the kind of leadership I aspire to most, and the last eight weeks will forever serve as a teachable experience on best practices.
Now What
It is vital to remember that you have to properly tend to your team. I am beginning to think that the most successful leadership model is not top-down like a pyramid, but rather bottom-up like a growing plant. Just as a plant doesn’t grow without sufficient sun, water, and nutrients, so must we give our teams the proper amount of resources to ensure they not only survive but thrive to become their best selves.
What
The semester kicked off around the beginning of March, a time during which I was struggling significantly in my personal life. My experience since the beginning of the year had already been one of trying growth – juggling grad school, my day job, a declining grandparent, two unplanned surgeries, and my best friend dying of brain cancer. A journal entry from this time that reflected upon the grief of losing my friend read:
We have both bolstered each other by sharing knowledge and experience as puppeteers. We’ve grown up together and challenged the other to be the best possible versions of ourselves. As we stand here, facing down the ugly stare of the great unknown, I’m trying to realign my priorities and figure out how to best use the time we both have left together.
Something had to give, and for a time I thought it was going to be my time in the LEAD program.
A running character throughout my Leadership Log had been out department chair, Christina Coyle. I have been so grateful for her mentorship and support in bringing me into the program and shepherding me through this trying time. When I told her I was considering deferring grad school, she was the one who encouraged me to stick with it. She understood the challenging position I was in, but also knew me to be someone who drew strength from creative thinking and thought 501 may provide a respite to the challenges I was facing personally. While the semester was still a difficult one (evidenced by the fact I’m still wrapping up course work six months later), I really did value what we learned in this course.
The facilitation exercises were a game-changer for me. I loved pooling the resources from my classmates to brainstorm unique solutions to challenging problems. I took part in three sessions of varying topics – addressing laundry organization, figuring out how to schedule time for podcast production, and ideating designs for university-themed stickers at my job. One of the most exciting discoveries I noted in my leadership log was using music during facilitations to get the brain thinking.
For the out of class facilitation where we needed to be in the mind-set of college nostalgia, was especially tickled by the efficacy of a sentimental track from favorite musical Avenue Q, an otherwise raunchy Muppet-parody, called “I Wish I Could Go Back to College.” As the wistful song’s lyrics looked back fondly on the characters’ bucolic undergraduate eras, my coworkers were inspired to reminisce on what they most loved from their time in college. Seeing the connection between music and creativity in such an immediate, effective way in these facilitations is something I will never forget and look forward to using this tool as I meet creative challenges in my future.
So What & Now What
My second semester in grad school implored in me that change is the only constant. There’s no amount of money, or coffee, or chemotherapy, or sticky notes, or musicals that can stop change from happening. As another line from Avenue Q goes, “everything in life is only for now.” But within this endless centrifuge of uncertainty, we can still, always draw strength from the memories and creative problem solving tools we acquire along the way.
What
The semester kicked off around the beginning of May. While most (all?) of the internet celebrates May 4 as Star Wars Day, the fan-made holiday I have always had more love for is May 2 – Wizarding Independence Day, as celebrated in the Harry Potter series. I grew up on the iconic book series, enthralled by the characters, messages, and even the empathetic imagination of the series’s author J.K. Rowling. In recent years, however, I have found it very conflicting to take part in that fandom, as Rowling has actively spoken out about the trans community while spouting pseudo-science and misinformation on her social media platforms. In reflection of that holiday, I wrote in my leadership log, “I miss loving the HP franchise free from the disdain and anger I feel towards its author and the pain she has caused.” I’m fortunate to have friends who feel the same way as I do – we seek refuge in other means of expression. Yet I remain wistful for the untarnished world that captured my imagination over 20 years ago.
Another highlight of these last eight weeks was a trip to visit my sister at her new home in Rochester. For my birthday in December, she had gifted me tickets to see our favorite stand-up comedian Mike Birbiglia (as well as a serendipitous copy of Michael Schur’s How to Be Perfect, without any idea that it would soon be required reading for my new graduate program) and I was excited to make the trek for a long weekend. Birbiglia was hysterical. He’s working on a new hour where he discusses growing up, specifically the perils of re-learning the world as our consciousness changes and we learn new things about ourselves and our surroundings. He touched on religion, parents, manliness, marriage – all through a lens of uncertainty, knowing that he’d have to explain each topic to his 8-year-old daughter. “We will all be wrong often,” he said with resonance, in the final seconds of his show. Truly a night I will never forget.
The trip to Rochester also gave me an excuse to revisit one of my fondest childhood stomping grounds – the Strong Museum of Play. I have vivid memories of the museum from my elementary school years, taking day trips with my parents and grandparents to experience the child-sized Wegmans, archive of vintage toys, and (of course) an entire recreation of Sesame Street – complete with Muppets from the actual show. While I justified the hour-long sojourn as inspiration for an upcoming puppetry exhibit I’m directing at Daemen, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t also there as a purely selfish respite. This year has already been fraught – juggling grad school, a declining grandparent, two unplanned surgeries, and my best friend dying of brain cancer – I needed to recharge. Strolling down the familiar boulevard, reveling in the beauty of Jim Henson’s creations, and momentarily escaping into my nostalgia was, admittedly, only a Band-Aid on a very deep wound. It was still a helpful reminder that there are always elegant, simple solutions to complex problems and that play is always an effective fuel for inspiration.
…Also the old Sesame Street logo had WAY more charm than the current one does. I’m still mad – as a graphic designer and as a human.
So What & Now What
My experience since the beginning of the semester has been one of trying growth. Even as I write this, I’m learning that my best friend, Adam, who has been fighting against stage-3 and-4 brain cancer for two years, has been told he only has six months left at best. He has tried all kinds of treatments, including a very experimental clinical trial, but nothing has been sufficiently effective and his tumor has re-emerged with a vengeance.
I share this because Adam and I have always bonded over art… a terribly silly art form. We have both bolstered each other by sharing knowledge and experience as puppeteers. We’ve grown up together and challenged the other to be the best possible versions of ourselves. As we stand here, facing down the ugly stare of the great unknown, I’m trying to pull from my experiences these last eight weeks.
Change is the only constant. There’s no amount of money, or coffee, or chemotherapy, or re-tweets, or magic, or trans-activism, or trans-phobia, or stand up comedy, or pizza, or philosophy, or petitions to the Children’s Television Workshop about the Sesame Street logo that can stop change from happening. As a line from the Muppet parody musical Avenue Q goes, “everything in life is only for now.” But within this endless centrifuge of uncertainty, we can still, always draw strength from the memories and totems and love that once gave us comfort.
We will forge into the unknown darkness with silliness in hand, buoyed by a new mantra: “We will all be wrong often.”
Over eight weeks of LEAD 514, I had the chance to immerse myself in the world of Avenir Cine, a video production studio tucked into a repurposed warehouse on Niagara Street in Buffalo. Run by Andy Morin, Avenir is more than just a place where films are made — it’s a creative hub, a blank canvas, and a lesson in sustainable artistic entrepreneurship. Andy, who founded the studio six years ago, has built a space that reflects both his craftsmanship and his values. What struck me most during my time there is that he now chooses projects based on passion rather than necessity — a luxury not many creatives can claim, and one that he’s earned through hard work and smart decision-making.
Avenir’s space itself is dynamic: green screen, white screen, and even an “apartment wing” with modular interior sets allow for flexible, professional shooting setups. While Andy is the sole full-time employee, he frequently hires freelancers and opens his studio to other local filmmakers. It’s a community space as much as it is a business, and the balance between the two has taught me a lot about how creative people can support one another without compromising quality or boundaries. One standout project during my immersion was a local documentary called One Before I Die, which tells the story of Buffalo Bills fans holding out hope for a Super Bowl win. What moved Andy most, he told me, was the unfiltered passion of the people in front of the camera — a reminder that sincerity, not spectacle, often drives the most compelling stories.
Another highlight of my time at Avenir was working alongside students from Buffalo State College on a television pilot called Be Happy. The show is a darkly comedy, which follows a disgraced children’s TV star trying to put his life back together with the help of his puppet co-stars who have suddenly come to life. It was the kind of offbeat, heartfelt project that seemed tailor-made for the collaborative energy of Avenir. Andy offered the students use of his studio and even recommended me and some other local puppeteers for the production. I was fortunate to support the project with character illustrations, design work, and puppetry performance. Helping shape the visual identity of Be Happy was a deeply rewarding experience, both creatively and personally — it reminded me why I’m drawn to storytelling in the first place.
Throughout this experience, I’ve found myself quietly studying Andy — not just his technical skills or creative instincts, but his leadership style. He navigates client relationships with a level of respect and professionalism that I truly admire. Whether he’s negotiating a big-budget gig or politely turning down a mismatched project, Andy treats everyone with integrity. I’ve seen firsthand how he balances being firm with being kind, how he creates a sense of welcome while still running a business. That kind of emotional intelligence is something I want to carry forward in my own work.
Currently, I’m collaborating with Andy to develop a more consistent and strategic social media presence for the studio. We’ve started planning a content calendar and are building an electronic press kit to better showcase Avenir’s capabilities — particularly for sharing behind-the-scenes moments when projects allow. My background in marketing and my interest in creative storytelling make this work feel like a natural extension of my immersion. It’s exciting to think that, even in a small way, I can help amplify the studio’s voice and vision.
Looking ahead, I want to spend more time on set with Andy to deepen my understanding of his workflow and the day-to-day realities of running a production business. There's still so much to learn—from how he scopes out projects, to how he manages timelines, to how he continues to protect the creative core of his work. What I’ve already taken away from this experience is the importance of choosing projects that align with your values, treating collaborators with respect, and maintaining a sense of curiosity no matter how long you’ve been in the game.
As I reflect on teachable take-aways that I anticipate sharing with other members of my cohort, five important principles have emerged:
1. Lead with Values, Not Scarcity Andy’s ability to say “no” to projects that don’t align with his passion or ethics speaks to the maturity of his leadership. In creative industries, this is countercultural, yet it builds longevity and trust. Leaders should ask: Does this opportunity serve my mission, or only my survival?
2. Respect is a Leadership Currency Andy models what it means to treat every client, collaborator, or student with equal respect, regardless of payment, prestige, or project scope. His approach reminded me that relationships built on mutual dignity outlast any contract.
3. Make Space for Others By renting out his studio and hiring freelancers, Andy demonstrates a commitment to building community, not competition. Leaders in any field can benefit from asking: Am I creating pathways for others to thrive alongside me?
4. Stay Curious, Even as an Expert Despite running a successful business, Andy still takes on diverse roles — from camera work to mentorship. His humility and curiosity reinforce the idea that leadership is not about knowing everything but staying open to learning.
5. Build Infrastructure for Visibility The work we’ve done together on Avenir’s social media strategy is a reminder that even the most talented teams need visibility. In today’s world, leadership includes storytelling, inviting people into your process and making your impact known.
In short, my time at Avenir Cine was true mentorship in motion. Watching Andy work has given me new language for the kind of artist and professional I hope to become. For anyone building a business, mentoring a team, or shaping a legacy, this experience is proof that you can lead with both integrity and imagination.
I really enjoyed learning and practicing the Scrum methodology to create prototypes for new products. The process was incredibly challenging; however, I quickly saw the virtue in gathering so many diverse insights and opinions from my interview subjects. I was most enamored by the idea of creating personas — these backstories offer tremendous value throughout the prototyping and editing process.
I was very surprised that my final product for this class ended up being a Muppets-centric media campaign. When I first sought out to design a program to revitalize puppetry in the United States, the last thing I would have considered was the Muppets as an essential catalyst. I believe this discovery to be a testament to this development strategy. My final pitch presentation has already excited many who have watch the full video online.
Moving forward, I anticipate continuing to use the Scrum model — whether at work when creating campaigns and recruitment material for Daemen University, or as I develop characters for scripts and other original puppetry projects. I have found that getting to know characters through this level of detail and insight is invaluable to the overall process.
Introduction
Reflection often comes from moments we never expected to face—times when our personal lives collide with our academic and professional responsibilities in ways that feel almost impossible to reconcile. Over the last eight weeks, I found myself in one of those seasons. While I had started this course eager to engage with the material, my world was upended by the loss of my long-time artistic partner and friend, Adam Kreutinger. His passing forced me into a dual role: grieving deeply while simultaneously taking on the responsibility of planning his memorial service. The weight of this period tested my resilience, my ability to prioritize, and my capacity for self-compassion.
What
These past eight weeks unfolded in the shadow of an enormous personal loss. My long-time artistic partner, Adam Kreutinger, passed away after a two-and-a-half-year battle with brain cancer. The timing of this course coincided with the immediate aftermath of his death, which meant that much of my energy in the first month was directed toward preparing his memorial service. I found myself suddenly immersed in a host of logistical tasks—arranging travel for friends and family coming in from out of town, scouting venues large enough to accommodate over 600 guests, and designing promotional assets like digital sign-ups, programs, and marketing materials. I coordinated with performers and managed talent for the ceremony, while also curating a gallery of Adam’s puppets and artwork to honor his life’s creative contributions.
In the midst of it all, I carried the dual weight of my own grief and the responsibility of making sure everything was worthy of Adam’s memory. I worried constantly about whether he would have been happy with the choices we made. At the same time, I was focused on supporting his wife and their two young children, trying to shield them from additional stress while navigating my own mourning. It was not only about logistics; it was about managing emotions—my own and those of a community reeling from loss. I felt pressure from every direction, and yet I knew how important it was to rise to the occasion.
So What
This season of my life made it nearly impossible to focus on anything else. Work and school responsibilities often felt meaningless when compared to the enormity of what was happening in my personal world. I remember sitting down to complete finance assignments and feeling an emptiness inside, as if numbers and ratios didn’t matter when everything around me was consumed by grief. I went through the motions, running mostly on adrenaline, but I wasn’t fully present.
I struggled to communicate effectively during this time, and that is something I regret. Because I was too deep in the storm, I couldn’t step outside myself long enough to explain what I was experiencing to my colleagues or professors. That silence created its own problems — I dropped the ball on commitments, failed to show up as the best version of myself, and couldn’t articulate why. Looking back, I see how overwhelmed I was, but at the time it just felt like survival. I had too many things to juggle, and even though I was doing my best, my best wasn’t what it usually is.
Now What
I know I’ll never face this exact experience again, but it has left me with lessons that I’ll carry forward. I’ve learned that when I find myself in high-pressure situations, compassion— both for myself and for others—has to come first. I’ve also learned that prioritizing friends and family over work is not a weakness but a value that defines who I am. The skills I developed in event management and publicity while preparing Adam’s service are ones I can use again in professional settings, though in that moment they were rooted in love and grief rather than career advancement.
Still, there are things I could have done better. I should have communicated more openly with both work and school when I was struggling. People would have understood, but I didn’t give them the chance to. I also wish I had extended myself more grace. There is no roadmap for moments like this, no step-by-step guide for how to navigate unprecedented circumstances. I see now that it’s okay not to know exactly how to respond. Finally, I recognize the importance of leaning on my community. I don’t always need to carry everything alone, and asking for help can be an act of strength, not weakness.
This reflection has shown me that even in the most difficult moments, there are opportunities to grow. Adam’s passing reminded me of the fragility of time and the necessity of choosing people over tasks. Moving forward, I want to carry that awareness into both my personal life and my professional one—making space for compassion, honesty, and balance even when life doesn’t follow the script.
TPOV
As I look back on this period, I realize that grief reshaped the way I think about leadership, responsibility, and humanity. I may not have handled everything perfectly, but I did the best I could with what I had in the moment. More importantly, I discovered lessons that extend beyond this one experience: the importance of communication, the power of community, and the need to extend grace to myself when circumstances fall outside my control. Reflection doesn’t change the pain of the loss, but it does allow me to carry forward something meaningful from it. In the end, I hope to honor Adam not only through the service we created but also through the way I live, work, and lead moving forward—with compassion at the center.
What?
I was a Muppets kid. My lifelong love for strong characters started before I could probably walk. I grew up on Sesame Street. I drove a Studebaker across the country with Fozzie Bear. I sang Rainbow Connection on a banjo in the swamp with Kermit the Frog. Throughout my education, this childhood interest in puppetry developed into a vocation that I wanted to pursue professionally. Suddenly, the integrity of pop culture’s most iconic characters was ever-present in my mind. In high school, I followed entertainment news in horror as small companies run with “mom-and-pop”-style ethos got sold to mega corporations, becoming cogs in a capitalistic machine. Throughout my days in undergrad, our community would mourn as our favorite puppeteers passed away as their creations were traded between studios the same way sports teams swap their rookie players.
Years later, my late friend and puppetry partner Adam Kreutinger would lament the fact that there would never be a good biopic about Muppets creator Jim Henson. A noxious combination of characters being owned by different companies, performers not wanting to disclose “state secrets” about what really happened behind the scenes, and not wanting to admit Henson’s flawed management practices. It would be too difficult to tell an honest and compelling story without whitewashing history.
These observations eventually inspired a short film that we produced called The Hand Off. We chose to tell the truth via fiction by depicting a fictional children's television show in the wake of its founder’s untimely death. In our story, Mark Agee was the creator of a show called “Nursery Nook” where he performed a Miss Piggy inspired “Mother Goose-in-training named Brenda. The question on the crew’s mind: whether Brenda will be cast to Agee’s female protégé, Taylor, or his nepo-baby son, Ronnie. What played out was a Late Night Wars-styled clash that would make Jay Leno blush. The film was produced for Buffalo’s 48 Hour Film Project in 2023. Once the competition wrapped, Adam and I weren't overcome by our usual disdain for what we had just created—historically, by the time we finished a film, we would be chomping at the bit to hop to the next project. Taylor’s story kept eating away at us. We knew we were on to something and that we had a much bigger story to tell.
A few months later I started the Leadership & Innovation program at Daemen University. When we had to write our Mission & Vision statement in LEAD 500, I included “make The Hand Off a full-length film as one of the goals I had before graduating. It was more an inside joke to my future self, more than anything. I was well-aware that I was not going to graduate school for television or film production. I knew that, by the end of the next 24 months, I would have a thesis in-hand and not an entry for the Tribeca Film Festival. What the hell was I getting at?
I've always been the kid who would rather do a project than a paper. I would much rather spend two months working on a short play that centered around an intense research subject—one where I had to write a 70-page script, build sets, cast actors, and hire a cat wrangler—then sit down and write a four-page paper with a bibliography. Early on in my L&I career, with all this in mind, I visited Christina to ask if I could potentially produce a film or documentary for my thesis instead of writing another dreaded paper.
To her credit. She did not laugh me out of the room. She asked to hear my whole story.
We talked for over an hour about The Hand Off and all the Muppet mania that had gotten me to that point. … Then she told me I still had to write my paper.
Devastating.
Where did she think we were? Grad school!?
What really surprised me, though, was the way she help me paradigm-shift. She recognized that what the story’s characters needed most was solid mentorship, as they were experiencing imposter syndrome. “Maybe,” Christina challenged, “the research can help you write more accurately about the puppeteers on Nursery Nook.” In that very moment, the dreaded thesis paper morphed into some sexy pre-production work! I left her office self-charged with a research topic.
Fine Christina…
I’ll write the paper…
You win.
So What?
On the other end of writing my thesis, “Finding your Voice,” I'm most heartened by how much better I understand the human machinations of the creative organizations that I have long loved. Developing a vocabulary for what happens during the transitions of legacy performers has been empowering and insightful. What I had previously observed as corporate drama and ego-fueled actors pulling their weight, I now understand as employees within a flawed structure that didn’t have their long-term success in mind. The product was being prioritized over the people who produced it. There was no longer an emphasis on respecting the upcoming talent, nor what they could bring to the table as they rose the company ranks.
One of the platitudes in storytelling is “what is personal is also universal.” As I combed Daemen’s research databases for any kind of peer-reviewed articles about imposter syndrome in the entertainment industry, I was consistently coming up short. What I read in papers about medical and academic fields, however, seem to rhyme with the themes and motifs that I was hoping to spotlight in my story about puppet arts. Not only was I gaining deeper insights into my area of study, I was also seeing the ways in which imposter syndrome effects anyone in every field. My hope is that the emotional truth of The Hand Off will effectively resonate with audiences beyond the niche of puppetry.
Maybe it’s not a coincidence that my literature review is calling to catalyze researchers to broaden their sights at the same time I’m re-thinking the potential audience for my future film.
Now What?
Every time Adam and I saw each other in the months following production of the original short in 2023, we would lament, “The full-length version of this thing really needs to happen!” Since his death in February of 2025, his family and I have been committed to continuing the projects we started together—to see them through to the finish line. In March, I realized the only way The Hand Off was going to happen was by putting weekly accountability meetings on my calendar and treating the appointments with the same commitment and respect that I would give a meeting with my doctor’s office.
Using the research that I was conducting, as well as other leadership tools that I picked up through this program—including Professor Spero’s market research and facilitation methods—I am now well on my way to having a first draft of our filming script.
In June, I attended the National Puppetry Conference at the Eugene O'Neill Theater Center and workshopped a scene with four incredibly talented actor/puppeteers, including two with ties to Sesame Street. It was warmly received by an audience full of puppeteers, many of whom offered thoughtful critique and shared their own experiences with imposter syndrome.
I am still the same Muppet kid that I was when I was born. With the tools I have now, thanks to Daemen, my field of vision has expanded. This has made me a better teammate and creator. I look forward to being able to leverage what I know about mentorship to mitigate the feelings of imposter syndrome experienced by those around me. Maybe I can even help quiet those negative voices in myself as well.
TPOV
Reflecting on this whole process, I realize the value of sticking to your passions, while also allowing what inspires you to help you discover new fields, as well. I never would have thought of linking mentorship and imposter syndrome to the worlds of Jim Henson. Now that that connection has been made, however, I cannot unsee it. The moral of the story is not to stay in your lane, rather, to explore whatever detours are ahead of you on that road. You don’t have to abandon your true-North, but the experiences you gather on these backroads will only enrich the stories you share once you reach your destination.
For this semester’s leadership log, I’m specifically reflecting on how the Appreciative Inquiry (AI) process has impacted my leadership journey while competing in the Buffalo 48 Hour film Project (48HFP). The fast pace of the 48HFP leaves little time to pause during production, but once the dust settles, I find myself replaying moments in my mind—asking what worked, what didn’t, and what I learned in the process. As we participated this year, I chose to use the “Three Eyes Open” (3EO) model to reflect: What? So What? Now What? This framework not only allowed me to make sense of what happened but also challenged me to connect those lessons to my ongoing development as a leader.
What?
At its core, the film production process taught me that the interpersonal conditions and connections of a team can be strengthened with intentional leadership practices. By applying AI and the 5D model, I created structures that encouraged open communication, delegated responsibilities, and invited shared ownership. The “what” of this process is visible in dozens of small but meaningful outcomes. Team members who might have remained quiet in the past spoke up when problems arose. People volunteered for tasks that I would previously have shouldered alone. Props and food were sourced in creative ways I never would have considered. Our playlist became a bonding ritual. These actions may seem minor, but together they painted a picture of a team that trusted each other and operated with mutual accountability.
On a personal level, the “what” was also about discovering a new way of leading. I had always prided myself on being responsible and reliable, but I now see that responsibility is not about doing everything myself. True responsibility as a leader involves creating the conditions where others can contribute fully. This shift in mindset—from protector to empowerer—was one of the most significant outcomes of the project.
So What?
The implications of this realization are far-reaching. The “so what” is that strengthening the relationships within a team is not just a nice bonus; it directly impacts the quality of the creative output. Our film, Something There, was better because our team dynamic was better. The humor landed more naturally, the puppet performance was more seamless, and the overall production felt smoother. The critical buzz and audience response we received were not just reflections of technical skill but also of the cohesion and energy that infused the project.
This resonates with research on psychological safety and team effectiveness. I saw this play out in real time. When people admitted errors quickly, we fixed them faster. When they felt ownership, they contributed more creatively. In short, the film itself became a reflection of the team’s relational health. The “so what” also connects to leadership identity development. I realized that my leadership is not defined by how much I personally accomplish but by how effectively I create an environment where others thrive. Perhaps the most profound “so what” for me was how this experience helped me grieve Adam’s absence. By dedicating myself to strengthening the team, I felt I was carrying forward one of his most enduring legacies: the belief that creativity is a communal act. Adam thrived on collaboration, and in honoring that, I found healing and purpose in my leadership.
Now What?
The final question invites me to consider how these lessons will shape my leadership moving forward. While the 48 Hour Film Project was the immediate context, the insights I gained extend far beyond one weekend.
First, I intend to continue using the 5D model as a leadership tool in both creative and professional settings. The cycle of Define, Discover, Dream, Design, and Destiny is not limited to filmmaking. It can be applied to succession planning at work, developing strategies for lean teams, or creating opportunities for horizontal collaboration. I see it as a repeatable process for ongoing improvement. Second, I want to be intentional about delegation and ownership in every team I lead. This project taught me that when others have real responsibilities—not just token tasks—they feel more invested and perform at a higher level. Going forward, I want to resist the temptation to take on too much myself and instead enable others to act. Third, I want to carry forward the importance of joy and social connection. The playlist, the dance breaks, the laughter in the greenroom—all of these created a sense of belonging that fueled our work. In future projects, I plan to build in similar rituals of connection, whether through shared meals, informal check-ins, or other playful practices. As Catmull (2014) reminds us in Creativity, Inc., creativity flourishes when people feel safe, valued, and energized.
Finally, I want to keep “three eyes open” for the ongoing evolution of my leadership. One eye focused on the present moment, ensuring that tasks are handled and people feel supported. One eye on the horizon, dreaming about future possibilities and growth. And one eye turned inward, reflecting on how my leadership identity continues to develop. Leadership is never finished; it is a practice that requires constant reflection, humility, and willingness to adapt.
TPOV
Reflecting through the 3EO model reinforced what AI had already begun to teach me: that leadership is less about fixing problems and more about nurturing potential. The “what” of this project was the strengthening of my team’s dynamics. The “so what” was the recognition that these dynamics directly enhanced our creative output and deepened my leadership identity. The “now what” is my commitment to carry these practices into future projects, honoring both my growth as a leader and the legacy of those who inspired me.
In many ways, this reflection closed the loop on the 5D process. Define asked me to identify a focus, Discover revealed our strengths, Dream stretched our imagination, Design gave us structure, and Destiny was our lived experience. The 3EO reflection added a sixth step: integration. It asked me not just to complete the cycle but to embody its lessons in the ongoing story of my leadership.
Over the past eight weeks, the process of articulating my personal brand has become an unexpected act of self-discovery. I set out to define a few professional statements—my mission, vision, and values—but what I uncovered was far more personal. By examining what drives my creative work and how I want to show up as a leader, I came to see patterns that have been present my whole life. These reflections have helped me not only clarify my identity as a “visual storyteller” but also strengthen the way I lead—with authenticity, curiosity, and purpose.
My mission, “to solve problems with creativity and compassion,” is rooted in a lifelong belief that artistry is a service to others. Creativity alone is not enough; it needs to be accompanied by empathy and ethical intention. This realization has reframed how I manage both people and projects. I now recognize that every design decision or performance choice I make is, at its core, a leadership decision—one that models how to balance imagination with responsibility. By defining this mission, I’ve become more intentional about the environments I create for my teams: spaces where playfulness and professionalism coexist, and where the process of problem-solving feels as meaningful as the outcome itself.
My vision builds upon this foundation. I wrote that I hope to “facilitate community by devising and disseminating visual storytelling”. In essence, this vision defines leadership as an act of coalition-building. To tell a good story requires listening—to teammates, to audiences, and to oneself. Reflecting on this helped me see that my role is not only to direct creativity but also to nurture it in others. I want my teams to feel a sense of belonging in our creative process, to see themselves as part of something larger than any one of us. This idea of “raising all ships” appears throughout my notes and has become a personal north star for how I measure success—not just by what we make, but by how we make it and who we become in the process.
Defining my values—playful, ambitious, and surprising—was the most clarifying exercise of all. For years, I worried that “playfulness” might not be taken seriously in leadership, but exploring this tension helped me realize that it is precisely my superpower. In my Leadership Model presentation, I used the metaphor of a bookshelf: sentimental, celebratory, utilitarian, and flexible shelves representing our past, present, tools, and openness to the unknown. This metaphor reminded me that leadership is about balance—honoring nostalgia and accomplishment while leaving room for growth. Playfulness, then, is not immaturity but curiosity; it’s the willingness to rearrange those shelves, to make connections between the expected and the unexpected. Recognizing this gave me permission to lead as myself, not as a version I thought others wanted.
Ambition and surprise complete the triad of my values. Ambition challenges me to “bite off a little more than I can chew”—to aim high and trust that the path will emerge through collaboration. Surprise reflects my desire to inspire others by breaking patterns and inviting them into new perspectives. Together, these values serve as both compass and mirror: they guide my decisions and remind me who I am when those decisions become difficult. When I face uncertainty, I now ask myself, “Is this choice aligned with being playful, ambitious, and surprising?” That simple question has become a grounding practice in self-leadership.
Most importantly, this branding process helped me see how my creative identity and leadership philosophy are inseparable. The same impulse that drew me to puppetry, illustration, and design—the joy of making meaning visible—also shapes how I mentor and manage others. My “space-holding leadership” model embodies this connection: it’s about making room for multiple versions of self, multiple stories, and multiple collaborators to coexist in harmony. By consciously holding space for both certainty and ambiguity, I’ve learned to lead with more humility and adaptability. I no longer feel pressure to have all the answers; instead, I focus on arranging the conditions for discovery.
In reflecting on my personal brand, I’ve learned that self-knowledge is not a static endpoint but a continual process of editing and refinement. Just as a designer iterates on a concept or a performer reworks a scene, I now approach leadership as an evolving creative practice. My mission gives me direction, my vision gives me purpose, and my values give me voice. Together, they have clarified not only what kind of leader I want to be but also why that leadership matters. I lead to “design good”—to craft spaces, stories, and systems that make people feel seen, valued, and inspired to play a part in something greater than themselves.