life – Necessary Whispers

Poem: We Walked Through Snow and Ice

People are complicated. They’re rarely what we first believe, and they’re almost always carrying a weight we cannot see. We tend to notice what others are willing or able to show us, and we assign meaning from there.

Strength, in particular, is easy to misread. Sometimes it’s resilience. Sometimes it’s concealment. Often it’s both.

We move through the world interpreting one another through our own mixture of experience, education, memory, and fear. It is remarkable that we connect at all. And yet, we do.

We walked along in the snow and ice
And you wanted to hold my hand.
I thought you wanted to show yourself strong,
But you were losing your footing too,
And needed my steadiness to help you along.

I refused you because I did not need your help,
I did not fear a fall,
And then you fell all on your own.
I wondered
If I could have helped.

We walked along a sandy shore
And you wanted to hold an umbrella up to the sun.
I thought you worried my skin would burn,
But yours was turning red,
You forgot your hat and needed the cover.

I refused you because I did not need your help,
My skin is olive in tone,
And then your skin turned hot.
I wondered
If I should have helped.

We walked along in wind and rain
And you wanted to lead me into shelter.
I thought you wanted to hold me close,
But beads of sweat gathered around your head,
And fever took your strength and made you ill.

I refused you because I did not need your help,
For me, the rain is a thrill,
And then you lay for days in your bed.
I wondered
Why I did not help.

We walked along inside my dreams
And you wanted to plot out the way.
I thought you wanted to boast in your sense of direction,
But the path grew long and the day turned to night,
So we lost one another under the stars.

I refused your course because I did not need your help,
For me, wandering without plan is adventure,
But then I lost you and you were gone.
I wondered
If I should have let you lead.

We walked away, I went this way, you went that,
And you did not turn to watch me go.
I thought you wanted to stay,
But the distance grew wide
And the time grew long.

I refused to feel because I could not feel it all,
My heart was broken in your hands,
But when I felt it all at once
I turned,
And you were gone.

© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025

The Stewardship of Fear: Trauma-Informed Leadership in an Age of Anxiety

By Jill Szoo Wilson

She is thoughtful, intelligent, good-humored, and consistently encouraging to her fellow students. She’s the kind of student who listens closely when others speak, offers quiet affirmation rather than competition, and seems genuinely glad when her classmates do well. She began the semester strong, delivering two solid speeches and attending every class. There was nothing tentative about her start.

Midway through the term, something changed. Her warmth toward others remained. Her generosity did not disappear. But her attendance became uneven. Absences began to grow to the extent that she missed one of her assigned speaking dates. From there, a pattern emerged that did not match her ability or her effort.

This student did not vanish or disengage as some do. Each missed class came with a morning email in which she apologized and asked what she could do to keep up with the rest of the class. Even as she struggled to be present in the room, she worked to remain connected to the course and accountable to its expectations.

On the final day of the semester, I pulled her aside before class began. This was her last opportunity to deliver the make-up speech she had missed earlier in the term. I asked a question I have asked many students before, a question meant to open a door rather than close one: “How are you doing? Are you ready to go today?” I could see the fear in her eyes drain into the rest of her body and turn into fight-or-flight level tension. Tears came first. Panic followed. We agreed that she could choose whether to deliver the speech privately, after the other students had gone, or not deliver it at all.

When the classroom emptied, we talked for a long time. In the end, she did not give the speech—she could not—and in that moment, I knew I needed to honor her choice. There are times when I will encourage a student to push through their fear. Knowing when not to is part of the work.

What unfolded in that empty room was a trauma response. Panic, dissociation, and fear overtook the student’s capacity to communicate as her nervous system shifted into a state of perceived threat. Her breathing became shallow and rapid. Her body held itself tight. Her words rushed forward, tumbling over one another as she tried to explain how desperately she wanted not to feel the way she did.

Anyone who works in a position of authority—teachers, pastors, physicians, supervisors—has seen this moment. Communication can become physically unavailable when fear takes over. The body tightens, language recedes, and access to speech narrows. When someone is in that state, it is important to remember that applying pressure to the one suffering amplifies distress. Performance returns only when the nervous system has time and space to settle.

There are moments when growth comes from learning that discomfort is not danger, and pushing through fear can be part of that work. There are other moments that call for a different response, as I will explain in the next section.

Fear, Authority, and the Return of Choice

Clinical psychologist David A. Carbonell has spent decades working with people whose lives are shaped by anxiety and panic. His work is especially instructive for those in positions of authority because it explains fear without shaming the person who experiences it and without requiring the leader to become a therapist.

Carbonell begins with a simple but destabilizing premise: anxiety is not a failure of reasoning. It is the activation of a survival system designed to move faster than thought. When fear arises, the brain’s alarm circuitry engages before the reflective systems responsible for language, planning, and explanation have time to come online. This system is meant to protect us, not to help us communicate well.

In moments of perceived threat, the nervous system does not pause to ask whether fear is reasonable or proportional. It acts. Muscles tighten. Breathing shifts into the chest. Attention focuses inward, and sometimes sight narrows. The body prepares for escape, defense, or collapse. Thought follows only if the body allows it.

This is why anxiety so often surprises both the person experiencing it and those witnessing it. A student who is prepared may suddenly freeze. A patient who understands their condition may struggle to answer basic questions. A congregant who wants to speak honestly may fall silent at precisely the moment language feels most necessary. These responses are not evidence of avoidance, deceit, or unwillingness; they’re evidence that the body has moved ahead of the mind.

Carbonell describes anxiety as a “counterintuitive problem” because the strategies people instinctively use to overcome fear often make it worse. Reasoning with fear, pushing through it, or trying to suppress it may appear sensible, but they frequently intensify the nervous system’s alarm. The body interprets urgency, control, or insistence as confirmation that danger is present. What sounds like encouragement to the leader can register as a threat to the person already struggling to regulate.

When I was struggling with heightened anxiety in 2013, I remember telling my longtime family doctor, who was familiar with my personality and profession, “Speaking exhausts me right now. I know what I want to say, but I just don’t feel like talking. It’s exhausting.”

This insight is critical for anyone in authority. When anxiety is driving the body, access to speech narrows as survival takes precedence. Communication returns as the conditions that support it are restored.

The AWARE Framework

Dr. Carbonell developed the AWARE framework while working with clients whose anxiety escalated quickly and overwhelmed their ability to stay present. Rather than asking people to conquer fear, the model offers a way to slow the moment down once fear has already arrived and to change how a person relates to that fear in real time. AWARE stands for Acknowledge, Wait, Allow, Repeat, and Engage. The sequence follows the nervous system’s own rhythm as it moves from alarm toward steadiness.

Acknowledge

Acknowledge begins by bringing attention to what is happening in the present moment. Fear often intensifies when it goes unnamed, especially when a person tries to reason their way out of it or push it away. My student described it this way: “The last time I did a speech, I kept thinking if I could run out of the classroom I would be okay, but then also telling myself I couldn’t run out of the classroom. The more I told myself to stay, the more panicked I felt.”

Acknowledgment interrupts that spiral. When fear is named as it appears, the body no longer has to work as hard to contain it. Attention shifts from escape to awareness, and the nervous system begins to loosen its grip.

In practice, acknowledging fear means noticing and naming what is present in real time: a tight chest, shallow breathing, racing thoughts, a sense of urgency. This naming does not analyze or correct the experience. It simply brings it into awareness. That attention eases the body’s demand for immediate action and signals that the moment can be tolerated rather than escaped.

Instead of asking, “How do I get out of this?” the question becomes, “Is this danger or discomfort?” When the answer is discomfort, fear can be acknowledged without being obeyed.

Acknowledgment slows the interaction and opens space for choice.

Wait

Wait introduces time into a moment that feels compressed. Fear collapses experience into urgency. Everything begins to feel as though it must happen immediately.

For my student, waiting would not have meant deciding what to do next. It would have meant staying with the sensations for a few seconds longer without acting on them. Feeling her feet on the floor. Allowing her breath to move as it could. Letting the urge to escape crest and fall rather than rushing toward resolution.

Even brief pauses give the nervous system crucial information. As seconds pass without action, the body begins to register that immediate escape is not required. Breathing steadies. Muscles soften. Attention widens enough for choice to return.

For leaders, waiting can feel counterintuitive. We are trained to move toward solutions, explanations, or outcomes. Carbonell’s work asks us to trust time itself as a regulating force. Waiting allows the body to recalibrate so that whatever comes next emerges from awareness rather than urgency.

Allow

Once fear has been acknowledged and time has been introduced, the next impulse is often to make the fear stop. This is where anxiety tends to escalate. The body senses resistance and responds by pushing harder.

In the student’s experience, this showed up as an internal struggle. She tried to calm herself, reason with herself, and override the urge to escape. Each attempt intensified her panic. Her body interpreted the struggle itself as evidence that something was wrong.

Allow changes that relationship. Instead of working against fear, the student lets the sensations exist without trying to fix them. The chest remains tight. The breath stays shallow. The urgency lingers. But the fight stops.

Allowing fear does not mean agreeing with it or surrendering to it. It means recognizing that the alarm has already sounded and does not need correction in order to settle. When resistance drops, intensity often follows. The body begins to regulate not because it was forced, but because it is no longer being fought.

Repeat

Fear rarely resolves in a single wave. It rises, softens, and often returns. When it does, the impulse is to interpret its return as failure.

Repeat offers a different response. When fear resurfaces, the student returns to the same steps without escalation. She acknowledges what she notices. She allows the sensations to exist. She waits again. Nothing new needs to be solved.

This repetition teaches the nervous system something essential: fear can come and go without requiring action. Each cycle weakens the urgency attached to the sensations. Over time, fear loses authority not because it disappears, but because it no longer controls the response.

Repeat builds tolerance, not toughness. Consistency, not control, carries the system toward regulation.

Engage

Engage comes after fear has been acknowledged, time has been allowed, and resistance has eased. The student does not wait for fear to disappear. She reenters the task while carrying the remaining sensations with her.

In the classroom, this means shifting attention outward. The student stands at the front of the room with a breath that is still shallow but workable. She looks up. She finds one face in the room. She begins with the first sentence she prepared.

Engagement does not require full calm. It requires orientation. Attention moves away from internal monitoring and toward the shared task of communication.

As the student speaks, fear may continue to rise and fall in the background. She does not evaluate it. She stays with the work in front of her. Each sentence spoken gives the nervous system new information: the body can remain visible, engaged, and unharmed.

Engage restores agency. Communication resumes not because fear vanished, but because attention found a place to rest outside the self.

What This Means for Leaders

Over the years, I have noticed that more students are arriving in my classrooms with nervous systems already shaped by repeated alarms. I see it in attendance patterns, in the way bodies brace before a speech, and in how quickly attention collapses inward once fear takes hold. This is not unique to my classroom. It is widespread and growing.

Recent data make that clear. A large national survey by the University of Michigan School of Public Health found that one in three college students reported moderate to severe anxiety symptoms, with more than a third meeting criteria for a diagnosable anxiety disorder (University of Michigan School of Public Health, 2023). The National Education Association reports similar findings, noting that anxiety now surpasses depression as the most frequently cited mental health struggle on many campuses (National Education Association, 2023). A global review in BMC Psychiatry echoes this pattern, showing that roughly one-third of college students worldwide experience elevated anxiety levels, with anxiety disorders among the most common conditions in this age group (Nguyen et al., 2023).

These are not abstract statistics. They describe the lived reality of the bodies and minds leaders stand before every day in classrooms, churches, clinics, and offices. Anxiety is shaped not only by individual history, but by cultural and academic pressures that accumulate long before people enter our spaces. For many, heightened vigilance is already the baseline.

That reality has direct consequences for communication. Bodies braced for threat do not speak as freely as bodies oriented toward engagement. When the nervous system detects danger, real or perceived, it redirects energy toward survival. Leaders trained to maintain momentum or secure outcomes may misread hesitation as resistance, silence as avoidance, or uneven performance as lack of preparation. Yet insistence on immediacy or efficiency can quietly confirm the very threat the nervous system is trying to manage.

Trauma-informed leadership begins with recognizing this dynamic. It does not require diagnosis, nor does it ask leaders to become therapists. Instead, it calls us to:

notice how fear shows up in the moment,
slow the interaction enough for regulation to begin, and
orient expectations around the body’s capacity before asking it to communicate under pressure.

This does not weaken standards. It strengthens people.
Honoring a student’s nervous system in a moment of acute distress does not eliminate accountability or academic standards; it ensures that evaluation reflects capacity rather than collapse.

A trauma-informed posture creates the conditions under which students and colleagues can perform to their actual ability. It allows them to remain present long enough for thinking, skill, and preparation to take shape. The goal is not to remove challenge, but to ensure that challenge does not exceed the body’s ability to participate.

When leaders understand fear as a physiological response rather than a personal failing, they interpret hesitation as information. They allow choice to reenter the moment. And they learn to meet fear not with urgency, but with timing, which is often the difference between collapse and communication.

In an era when anxiety is this pervasive, trauma-informed leadership is not an added skill. It is a necessary form of stewardship.

Afterword

This is a complicated topic to write about because so much of what we do in a classroom grows out of instinct and the kind of discernment that only time creates. It is hard to explain to a new teacher, or to a young professional in any field, when to hold a firm pedagogical line and when to let it soften in order to meet the human being in front of you. Students need different things in different moments, and those needs are often invisible until they surface in panic, silence, or retreat.

I was out of the college classroom for two years. When I returned this past semester, I noticed a marked shift in the students. I am not someone who says, “This generation is lazy” or “The kids are changing” as a complaint about the future. The students are changing, but they are responding to changes that began long before they entered our classrooms. They face a cultural landscape shaped by social media, constant comparison, economic pressure, and a world that asks them to “perform” in nearly every public and private space. Their nervous systems reflect the world that formed them.

I taught a student in 2013 who blacked out while giving a speech. He remained standing at the podium, but his words stopped. Just before he went silent, he began to stammer, and I watched fear move through him until it overtook the moment.

After class, we sat together and debriefed. I asked him what had gone through his mind just before the fear took hold. He said, “I pictured my mom in the audience. And she was telling me I would not amount to anything.”

In that moment, it was clear that no amount of pedagogy would help him. He did not need stricter deadlines or more detailed feedback. He needed encouragement. He needed someone to meet him in the present moment and remind him that the story he carried was not the story he had to live. I decided to let him give the speech again during the next class period so he could replace that frightening experience with a new one.

What happened next shaped the way I think about teaching. After he finished the second speech, the entire class stood and applauded. They were not applauding brilliance. They were applauding something much more important: courage. They had seen a peer face something that had once undone him, and they honored the strength it took to return.

That semester taught me to build classroom cultures rather than classrooms organized around performance. It taught me that skills grow best in environments where students trust that their humanity is seen and that their fear will not be used against them. I have never regretted that decision.

What My Students Taught Me This Semester

Christmas treats handed out. Goodbye hugs and handshakes extended. Grades turned in. Another semester in the books.

Moments like this remind me of what it used to feel like to drop a coin into a noisy fountain. Whatever wish I made filled my mind and hand with anticipation, with the kind of energy that moves you forward. Then came the thrust of the arm, the release, the drop, the looking through rippling water. It felt quiet. Like you had accomplished something, but wouldn’t quite know what until much later.

Where do our wishes go? Where will these students go?

Does that make sense?

This was probably my favorite semester in all my decades of teaching in higher education.

Intersections. Semesters are always intersections between me and the students, the students and one another, and the students and themselves. Who they were, who they are, and who they are becoming. But this semester felt electric, alive with points on a map charting lefts and rights, ups and downs, and ins and outs. For better and for worse.

I had students who became homeless and held on. Students who were beginning afresh and letting go. Students who started with little hope and left with direction, and others who learned quietly that school just isn’t for them. There were fights for freedom. Heated arguments about the meaning of courage, good, and knowledge. I bore witness to confusion and courage and strength and joy. Tides in an ocean of relative chaos, and ships that refused to sink.

I am so proud of my students. Every single one of them. And I am humbled by the role I have in their lives to listen, question, encourage, and challenge.

In the final summation, what I realize is that I needed them more this semester than they needed me. Or maybe it was equal. They kept me focused outside of myself, and when I wanted to despair, they met me with laughter, frivolity, complexity, and routine.

This is life. Our classrooms are microcosms of the wider world, and when we can love, negotiate disagreement, have difficult conversations, and still extend hugs and handshakes at the end, we have taken part in some of the most rewarding work this life offers.

I’ll leave you with some of the results from one of our more contentious Socratic question roundtables this semester, What Is Courage:

“Courage is the willingness to make a full, genuine attempt at overcoming an obstacle that presents a physical and/or mental danger.” —B

“The full attempt to overcome a physical and/or mental obstacle with perceived risk.” —A

“An action. Choosing to face an obstacle that presents risk in spite of those risks.” —P

“An act or mentality that allows or enables someone to overcome an obstacle despite the chance of danger or other unfavorable outcomes.” —D

“The mental and moral strength to act despite fear and danger.” —T

“Courage is doing something even when you feel afraid.” —C

“Courage is the act doing something even when you feel fear/danger/risk/ obstacle, whether is physically or mentally challenging even when it costs you something, and even when no one is watching.” —S

“Courage is bearing up under the weight of outward and/or inward threat for the purpose of becoming who you need to be for yourself and others. All for the glory of God.” —J

“I’m not sure, but I know it’s something we do for the greater good or else it’s just self-confidence.” —L

What do you say courage is?

Poem: Refreshment

There are moments when we 
must stop
and look
and tend to
the unexpected and
deeply welcomed,
simply because 
we live.

A lemonade stand
at the edge of the road,
cardboard sign wavering
between LEMONADE and LEMONAED.
The coins wait in a jar,
oblong ice accepts its fate
as tiny fingers stir 
through mostly water.
Engines reconsider.
Appointments learn patience.
Briefcases bloom with splashes of sugar
any bee would envy.

My cat arrives
with the object he loves most.
Not the clean one.
The true one.
He sets it down carefully,
then looks up,
as if to say:
you’ll want to see this.
And I do.
The afternoon brightens,
pleased with itself.
Thoughts wander off
without wearing their shoes.

My eyes squint
in mixed morning light—
the bulb above the kitchen sink
and ribbons of sunrise through open blinds.
Coffee steams.
I smell it before I see it,
and then I do—
steam lifts
just as light
reaches the window.
Waking,
and God,
and refreshment
keep company
without comment.

—Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025

Poem: The Us We Can See

I am stationed at a wooden table
the size of a reasonable thought.
It does not wobble.
This feels like a small mercy
after watching my Americano
sway back and forth on the last.

Here, the Americano steams steadily
as if rehearsing confidence,
dark, uncomplicated,
uninterested in my opinions.

I wear fingerless gloves,
a compromise between dignity and survival.
My knuckles remain unconvinced.

Winter returns again and again
through the green-painted door,
carried on the backs of coats,
slipping in at ankle height,
lingering like someone
who has already said goodbye
but remains.

A woman at the counter
counts her change twice,
the last of her pennies
now a relic of a simpler time
when 1-2-3 meant something more.

A man near the window
keeps turning his cup
until the logo faces forward,
forgetting the face
with every sip,
which ends with a new turn.
A familiar dance, a waltz?
Sip-2-3, sip-2-3.

A woman with wiry white hair
removes a bright turquoise hat, 
carefully crocheted,
leaving one thread to dangle
from a curl.
The thread hesitates.
So does she.

Heavy oak chairs keep their positions,
pretending not to notice
who chooses them and why,
practiced at holding
what is briefly certain.

A barista with inked forearms
wipes the same spot again,
loyal to a principle I do not know.

The clock on the wall yawns
while declining comment,
stretching its hands
in a familiar reach,
analog-2-3, sameness-2-3,
predictable without irony.

I lift the white mug,
my fingers watching and ready,
and remember how warmth
asks to be held,
while cold does not.

—Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025

Poem: The Path Widens

A meditation on how people grow: slowly, sideways, and almost never on schedule.

In teaching acting, you learn that most progress happens quietly.
Not in the moment a student secures a role, but in the moment she finally makes a choice no one suggested. Nothing dramatic. A shift of breath. A decision about when to look away. A line spoken with intention instead of hope.

Parents ask me when they should know whether theatre is a good path for their child. They mean well. They want a timeline, a benchmark, a sign that reassures them the world can still be predicted. Adults love prediction. It keeps the fear at a reasonable volume.

But acting doesn’t depend on prediction. It depends on attention.
A student gives more than she takes. She listens longer. She works without being asked. These are not qualities that make announcements. They don’t trend. They barely register unless you’ve been watching the way a gardener watches new growth: alert, but never frantic.

Younger students arrive full of borrowed enthusiasm.
A favorite movie. A character they memorized line for line.
At that age, the self has not yet solidified enough to have a motive.
They imitate because imitation is how they understand the world.
It’s not my job to explain their “why.”
It’s my job to give them something sturdy to push against.

I learned this long before I ever taught anyone.

When I was five, my uncle removed the floaty from my back and told me to jump into the pool. He said he would be right there. Adults often say this. Sometimes it’s true. Sometimes it’s more aspirational than factual.

The first time, he stood still.
The second time, he stepped back.
By the end of the afternoon, my floaty lay drying on the concrete like a gasping fish.

That is how learning works at its best.
You move toward someone who trusts you can manage the distance.
Then the distance widens.

A simple object left drying on the concrete carries its own questions.
What does a beached object imagine?
That this is the edge of its usefulness,
or that the next body of water will be waiting somewhere farther on?

Even a stranded object suggests the truth: every stage asks something different of us.

Parents want to know when their child is ready for the “path.”
But the path is not an announcement.
It is a series of small decisions, barely noticeable except in accumulation:
a student opens her script earlier in the week,
rehearses with a friend instead of scrolling a phone,
asks a question that requires thinking instead of guessing.

These things don’t earn applause.
But they build a life.

The work goes on.
The child grows.
The deep end waits, patient and unbothered.

And the path widens without saying why.

Poem: Beautiful/Lies

I will tell you what to see—

Everything but me—

A variety:

First, the shape my lips take

When I smile

Then, only aspects of my style—

The ones that deceive the senses

Lower your defenses

Make you wonder

Confidence thrown asunder.

A breeze

Whizzing by your certainty

A tornado—

Or a reverie—

Where the facts

Are art-i-facts

Designed to twist

To burrow in your mind

Then to grow

Into trees of truth

Where flowers of falsified youth

And branches that carry the load

Explode into blossoms and

Inspire.


Time evaporates into years

My collection has piled

Your recollection defiled

Melted

Reshaped

Into unknown

Unsuspected, unsuspecting

Wisdom flown

From your mind

And into my hands

Like clay

Shaped, reshaped

The size of the holes

On either side of your nose

Where what you see

Is only dreams—

The ones I dare to

Echo

Deflected from the truth

Reflected onto the marquee

Like a refugee memory

No longer sure

Which way

Is home.


I will choose the color,

You will trust my hand

Not because your will is irrelevant

Only because

You cannot understand—

And—

You trust

The choices

I make

Wait for the plans

The paths

That I take

Like a child—

Hope outstretched

Faith recklessly displaced—

Still you smile

And wait to see

What you will be-come

When the operation is done

Your vision restored

To my point of view

The illusion of Truth

Wrapped inside

Like a film reel

Reflecting

My cinematic lies.


The seed is sown

The deed is done

Now water it with your tears

Blink until you make it your own

Follow my finger

First up and then

Down

First left and then

Right,

“Don’t fight

let it be

trust me

I know the plans

I have for you:

to kill the boredom

to steal the dream

to destroy the blinding vision

to replace it with soothing

fabrication and

elation

for today.

Today is all that matters.

One more spin

Your view will be new—

you will thank me

when I am through.”


“I can see”

said she who trusted.

“Thanks for your selection.

How can I repay your

close attention,

touch easing apprehension,

voice soothing

the searing dissonance of

incomprehension?”

She wiped a tear

From the corner

Of her newly installed

Perception.


She who answered

Leaned in

Close

Low

Bestowed the wages

To be collected on

Another day,

“Only three things I pray:

go further than you intended to go

stay longer than you intended to stay

pay more than you were willing to pay.”


I will tell you what to see—

Everything but me—

I will whisper in the breeze

Rolling from the sea,

Caress your lips

From a hot cup of tea,

Sing in your ear

On the notes of a melody,

Just as long

As you agree

Never

To set me free.

© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025

Rethinking Career Paths: Why Talent Clusters Matter More Than Majors

By Jill Szoo Wilson

Connecting Creative and Analytical Skills

“My dad has a totally different expectation for how my life should go,” one student reflected recently. “It sounds easy. He tells me to do one thing, and that that thing will lead to the next thing and the next and the next. But it’s not working that way.”

When asked to explain, he hesitated, then continued. “He told me to go to college, so I did. Two years in, I realized there weren’t enough jobs in my major, so I came back to community college to find a different path. I’m working two jobs and still live at home because I can’t afford to move out. When he tells me about his life, it all sounds easy. He went to college, got a job, bought a house, and got married. It sounds so easy.”

His words captured a generational tension I see often. Namely, the struggle to build a meaningful life in a world that no longer rewards linear scripts. The milestones that once defined adulthood — education, employment, marriage, ownership — rarely appear in sequence. The narrative has fractured, and with that fracture comes both loss and opportunity. Herminia Ibarra describes this shift clearly in Working Identity when she writes, “We learn who we are in practice, not in theory. We reinvent ourselves by doing, experimenting, and stepping into new roles.” It is a problem that calls for a new framework for understanding how work and identity evolve, one I have come to call talent clusters.

The days of the single income and the single career may well be behind us. The camera lens has widened, and with it, the way success is defined must widen too.

Students entering higher education today often inherit an outdated expectation that success depends on finding one right path and staying on it. But the modern economy no longer rewards singularity. It rewards synthesis. This is where talent clusters come in — the natural intersections of ability, curiosity, and experience that form the foundation for meaningful work. Rather than viewing careers as straight lines, these clusters invite students to see the web of connections already present in their interests and skills.

I began noticing this pattern in my own career before I had a name for it. In my life, theatre and communication have been that intersection. They didn’t compete. They conversed. Theatre taught me to listen for subtext, to inhabit perspective, and to read emotion in real time. Communication grounded me in theory and structure. It taught me how messages take shape, how persuasion works, and how to communicate ideas clearly and confidently. Together, they formed a foundation that prepared me not only to teach but also to write, to use language as both performance and connection.

When I began writing professionally, I realized I was drawing from both disciplines at once. The rhythm and tone I developed in the theatre informed my writing voice, while communication theory clarified audience, purpose, and persuasion. What looked like two paths became one integrated practice.

My experience reflects a broader truth. What seems like wandering is often a kind of weaving; the gradual merging of abilities that form something stronger than any single thread. The actor who learns to embody another person’s experience develops the empathy essential to leadership. The stage manager who coordinates complex productions gains logistical precision transferable to project management. The student who studies public speaking acquires the rhetorical awareness needed in advocacy, policy, or entrepreneurship. Each of these evolutions demonstrates the elasticity of transferable skills.

Workforce research supports this pattern. The nonprofit Jobs for the Future identifies communication, problem-solving, and creativity as “the most reliable predictors of long-term employability across industries.” The University of California, San Francisco, similarly defines portable skills as those that endure across shifting technologies and economies. Both findings affirm that artistic and professional fluency share the same core capacities: interpretation, adaptability, and disciplined imagination.

David Epstein, author of Range, writes, “The most effective people are not those who follow one path but those who explore multiple interests and connect them.” The humanities, long dismissed as soft or impractical, may therefore be among the most resilient fields of all. Theatre and communication cultivate habits of perception that remain deeply relevant: reading tone, decoding motive, and adjusting the message to the moment. They prepare students not merely to perform roles but to understand the systems in which those roles operate.

Jonathan Haidt situates this generational experience within an even wider lens. In The Anxious Generation, he notes that many young adults “feel unmoored from the stable institutions that once gave direction to their lives.” Yet that instability, while disorienting, also creates space for creative recombination. The disappearance of predetermined pathways invites a new kind of agency. It becomes the freedom to design lives that integrate multiple disciplines into meaningful coherence.

Many of my former students who began in theatre or communication now work in fields as diverse as consulting, user experience design (UX), public relations, real estate, and education. They have not abandoned their earlier training. They’ve simply translated it. The ability to connect meaning across disciplines has become a form of expertise.

Such an approach reframes the anxiety of choice. By seeking patterns, the recurring connections among their abilities and values, students can seek to define their own paths. A meaningful career, viewed through this lens, becomes a cumulative act of interpretation rather than a fixed destination. The result is not mastery of one discipline but the capacity to see how ideas speak to one another.

Translating Performance into Professional Presence

When I first began writing professionally as a content and copywriter, I noticed something familiar in the process of finding a client’s brand voice or a publication’s style. It felt like preparing a role. The work required listening for rhythm, motivation, and what I call character keys, the same instincts I practiced in the theatre for years. What I once used to understand a character, I now used to understand a brand. That connection not only helped me build continuity between theatre and writing but also gave me early confidence and, more importantly, measurable success. I knew I was on to something.

Theatre taught me that playing a character is rooted in playing action. Every moment on stage is driven by verbs: to lasso, to comfort, to resist, to reveal. Acting is not about emotion but about pursuing intention. Writing works the same way. Every effective sentence carries an action. Good copy does not describe. It moves. Whether the goal is to inform, inspire, or sell, the writer, like the actor, must choose verbs that propel intention forward. Both crafts rely on clarity of motive. The moment the action disappears, the scene or the sentence loses energy.

Theatrical training, often dismissed as niche, is an education in adaptability. It teaches how to read a room, sense emotional temperature, and adjust delivery to context. Those same instincts translate to the written page where attention and authenticity must be earned in every line. To communicate persuasively, whether on stage or in print, requires more than argument. It requires presence.

What ultimately connects these practices is the pursuit of resonance. Whether speaking to an audience or writing to a reader, the communicator’s task is to close the distance between self and other, to let recognition pass quietly between them. That moment of recognition, the shared understanding that this is true for me too, is where both art and communication do their deepest work. Acting teacher Sanford Meisner said (paraphrased), “There is something going on over there (in the other person). And something happening in here (the inner self) . . . truly paying attention is what connects the two.”

Adapting Across Roles and Redefining Success

I’ve had so many students and young people in my own life say things like, “I don’t know what my purpose is,” or “How can I learn what my purpose is supposed to be?” or even, “What is the point of all this?” Part of what they seem to be reacting to is the constant barrage of discouraging news across social media and other platforms. The other part is the same question every generation has asked, only they’re asking it in a new landscape shaped by volatility, comparison, and the pressure to define themselves early. This is where we need to pay close attention. Too often, adults respond with pity, but pity creates distance. Brené Brown says it clearly: “Empathy fuels connection. Sympathy drives disconnection.” If we feel sorry for young people, we project limitations onto them, and we can no longer help them. They don’t need pity. They need hope, presence, and leaders who will help them meet new challenges with other-focused attention.

When most students talk about “purpose,” they’re not usually describing a single calling. They are trying to articulate a desire for coherence in a life that feels connected rather than scattered. In a world of shifting roles and unstable markers of adulthood, purpose emerges from the ways students participate in their communities and apply their abilities to real situations. Jonathan Haidt captures this idea in The Happiness Hypothesis when he writes, “Happiness comes from between.” Meaning, in Haidt’s framing, grows out of the relationships between a person and the world they inhabit: their work, their commitments, and their connections. Purpose is built through engagement, not isolation.

Seen through this lens, transferable skills become essential. They allow students to discover purpose through participation. A graduate trained in theatre and communication may evolve into a writer, strategist, or educator while retaining the same internal architecture of strengths. Each role draws on the same foundation: the ability to interpret, translate, and adapt. Purpose takes shape as those skills meet real needs . . . for others and then for themselves.

For many students, this realization carries profound hope. It suggests that the search for meaning does not require narrowing the self to one direction. One discipline can open the door to another, and together they form a structure that feels cohesive, lived-in, and human.

Identifying Your Talent Clusters: A Reflective Guide

Every person carries a set of abilities that naturally intersect. Some begin as skills. Others begin as interests or instincts that, with attention and practice, develop into genuine strengths. Taken together, these patterns form the early architecture of a talent cluster. The questions below are meant to help you recognize the intersections already present in your work, interests, and habits of mind.

1. Trace your through-lines.

Which activities have consistently engaged your attention or energy across different seasons of life?
Example: Maybe you were the friend who organized school projects, planned events in college, and now color-codes work tasks. That through-line points toward a cluster involving coordination, structure, and leadership.

What themes or methods appear in everything you do, even when the contexts change?
Example: You might notice that wherever you are — school, work, or volunteering —you tend to bring people together. You create group chats, organize meetups, or help resolve tension. That pattern suggests a relationship-building cluster.

Which skills seem to travel with you from one role or discipline to another?
Example: If you have used clear communication in many settings — calming a customer, explaining a task to a teammate, or helping a friend make a decision — that mobility signals a communication cluster that strengthens almost every profession.

2. Name your complementary skills.

What comes naturally to you that others often notice or rely on?
Example: If people often come to you to translate confusing information, whether it’s a work memo, a form, or a family decision, that points toward a clarity and interpretation cluster rooted in communication.

Which strengths balance or enhance one another?
Example: If you love generating ideas but also enjoy organizing them into steps, that pairing suggests a creative-strategy cluster that is valuable in writing, design, planning, or entrepreneurship.

Are there pairings of skills that make you unusually effective or fulfilled when used together?
Example: If you listen deeply but also know how to offer direct solutions, that blend indicates a strategic empathy cluster that is powerful in leadership, counseling, coaching, and team development.

3. Observe your patterns of satisfaction.

When do you feel most alive, focused, or capable?
Example: If you feel most energized when learning something new and then immediately teaching it to someone else, that signals a learning-to-teaching cluster common to educators, trainers, and communicators.

What kinds of tasks give you a sense of both challenge and clarity?
Example: If you love tasks where you get to make something make sense, like editing, organizing, or redesigning, that aligns with a problem-solving and systems cluster.

In which environments do you feel your perspective adds value?
Example: If people often say, I did not see it that way until you explained it, you may have a perspective-shifting cluster that is useful in storytelling, analysis, user experience, and leadership.

4. Reframe your so-called detours.

Look back at past jobs, studies, or interests that seemed disconnected at the time. What common learning thread ties them together now?
Example: If working in childcare taught you patience, retail taught you communication, and volunteer work taught you compassion, the thread points toward a people-centered service cluster.

What did those experiences teach you about how you think, solve problems, or relate to others?
Example: If you notice you always jumped in to calm conflict or clarify misunderstandings, your experiences reveal a mediation and understanding cluster.

Which past experiences might not be mistakes, but the raw material of synthesis?
Example: If a past interest in photography sharpened your eye for visual detail, that experience enriches a visual communication cluster even if you no longer pursue photography itself.

5. Articulate your emerging cluster.

If you had to name the intersection of your skills and passions in one phrase, what would it be, such as creative communication, strategic empathy, or analytical storytelling?

How might this cluster of strengths apply across different fields or industries?

What kinds of work would allow all parts of this cluster to grow together rather than compete?

Get Curious!

Talent clusters are not fixed identities. They’re living relationships among your skills. They reveal what you can do and how your ways of thinking and creating naturally connect. When you recognize those patterns, your career path shifts from feeling like a maze to functioning as a map.

Poem: The Reaching

If ever a UFO landed on your head—

“She thinks that's a weird question.

No UFO has!”

I wasn’t talking to you.

But to you . . .


Pretend one has.


What do you think it would feel like?

Imagine it.

Go on.

I will wait.


[A sparrow flies by]


I am not asking how heavy it is or

Cold or

Bumpy or

Smooth:

You could not really know such things

At all.

I am asking what you would feel like inside—

“She would feel like an idiot!”


But if it was really there . . . on your head—

“On her head? What is this ridiculous riddle?”


Okay not on your head, but over . . .


If you ran out of your home

With no where to go

Your hair was torn and

Bruises and

The smell of whiskey

And cigars

On your face—


If your shoes were untied

And you saw your mother cry

And you didn’t want to stay

One more second

In that place.


If the air was so cold

You could see your breath

Shooting into the night

Like a jet engine beginning a race

So you slowed your pace

And panted and heaved

And your knees buckle under you

With disgrace.


Let us pretend the aloneness

You feel—

“It’s just a feeling, she's not alone!”


But still . . .


Your aloneness is real

With no one to call

And if you turned back now

You would be thrown against a wall.

So despite your

Aloneness

You crawl

To safety and the blackest woods

You embrace.


If in that space

You held on tight to a

Branch you could reach

Or the neck of a deer

Or the paw of a bear

Until

At last

You saw glowing near

A rounded

Machine with light bulbs you could see

And a sound you could hear

Like a robot giving chase.


What would you think—

“She would think she was nuts!”


Okay, maybe. But . . .


Would you believe your eyes

Or think your sanity was disguised

In the brain of a woman

Otherwise apt?

If you could touch and

Feel

Would you believe it was real?

And what about smell?

If you could smell the exhaust

Coming from the pipe

And taste the metal on the

Wind of the night

And hear a voice shrieking,

“We come from someplace” . . .


If it landed and

A hand

Came out from within

Would you look at your fingers

And kiss them goodbye

In case after touching they never returned

But still reach them out

And touch the warmth

Of an unknown hand

Unrecognizable

And trust

Even before you could see his face?


You can answer now—

“She doesn't want to answer,

She thinks you’ve gone mad!”


But there is no madness in the question. It is only a question . . .


“Yes,” she said.

And continued on,

“If I knew I was alone

Even in a crowd

And the sky delivered a mystery

I would.

Reach out.

And be brought in.”


Thank you for your honesty—

“Thanks for nothing, you mean!”


But thank you for telling the truth.


With a pair of eyes

Belonging only to her

She looked at the man

With the question,

“I would.”


© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025

Poem: Slowness

There is a secret bond between slowness and memory, between speed and forgetting. A man is walking down the street. At a certain moment, he tries to recall something, but the recollection escapes him. Automatically, he slows down.

Meanwhile, a person who wants to forget a disagreeable incident he has just lived through starts unconsciously to speed up his pace, as if he were trying to distance himself from a thing still too close to him in time.

In existential mathematics that experience takes the form of two basic equations: The degree of slowness is directly proportional to the intensity of memory; the degree of speed is directly proportional to the intensity of forgetting.
Milan Kundera, Slowness

Kundera, man. This guy just knows how to pierce into and extend a metaphor.

The question his thoughts inspire in me today is this: when we travel from the present moment to our memories–or an imagined future–does the speed of life around us change? How do we move from our imaginations to our current surroundings? Slowly or with speed?

Slowness
By Jill Szoo Wilson

A breeze blows through my window 
proclaims,
"I wants to write,"
as it lifts the pages of my notepad–
the crinkling sound of paper–
no–
the sound of pages running across a sidewalk
though no footsteps follow behind. 

Free, the pages tumble
twist into a roll–
double back salto tucked with a triple twist–
a pigeon holds up a sign, 
"7 out of 10."

It had to be the pigeon. 
No one else was paying attention. 

The fluttering of the notebook page
pulls me back into the moment–
how many sounds have I forgotten to hear?

Do I hear the past
more loudly than today?
How many hours echo through a chamber of disparate chatter?

A dog is barking, 
a squirrel's claws are tapping the inside of my ceramic pot,
I'm humming a song that was sung to me once,
the pigeon is bored–
he flys away.  

©Jill Szoo Wilson, 2023

Tag: life