The View from the Stage Means Nothing If Your Front Row is Empty

My front row.

This week, I’m in Mexico. (Quick side note: I’m writing this from the back of a Sprinter van at 10PM, I left my laptop on the plane in Cancun, and had to drive back to airport in the middle of the night to pick it up from customs 🤦‍♂️)

I’m here to deliver a keynote speech on a truly world-class stage—a goal I wrote down a year ago, hoping my future self would be way more impressive than my current self.

And for once, the plan actually worked.

But the most important moment of this trip didn’t happen on the stage.

It happened in the United lounge at Newark Airport.

I live in airports.

It’s the other, less glamorous side of my job, a world of recycled air and questionable snack choices. (don’t judge)

My usual rhythm is head down, move fast and get through the crowd. It’s a solo mission.

But this time was different.

My wife, Meg, was by my side.

Bringing her into my world, the one she’s heard about on the phone for years, was like seeing it all in color for the first time. The chaos, the hurry… it all just felt calmer, more meaningful with her there.

This is the woman who has been with me through everything.

Through the years of uncertainty, the late nights filled with doubt, and the ramen-noodle-levels of financial confidence. (Which, for the record, is surprisingly low.)

She’s the one who believed in the person I was trying to become long before any stage was ever built.

You see, this keynote wasn’t just another flight on the schedule. It was the fulfillment of two goals.

One was professional: to finally get the call—the invitation to a stage of this magnitude.

The other was personal: a quiet prayer to be able to take my wife on this exact trip for our anniversary.

And this vacation, this moment, is a direct result. It’s the tangible reward for all the unseen work.

Hear this, The professional dream was always in service of the personal promise.

Sitting there in the lounge, watching her relax (as much as you can in an airport), I was hit with a profound sense of gratitude.

The massive stage waiting for me is an incredible achievement. The nerves are real.

But the pride I feel isn’t just about the talk I’m about to give.

It’s the pride of a shared victory.

It has taught me the most critical and clarifying lesson about ambition.

The size of the stage doesn’t matter if your front row is empty.

We chase the title. We chase the fee. We chase the spotlight.

We chase them like a dog chases a car, with absolutely no idea what we’d do if we actually caught it.

Because the spotlight is a cold and lonely place if there’s no one there who remembers when you were practicing in the dark.

The title is just a word on a business card if there’s no one who knew you when you were just a dreamer with a messy plan.

The fee is just a number in a bank account if you have no one to share the rewards and the relief with.

The world will tell you to climb the ladder. To get to the top. To build your own stage.

And you should.

Go build the biggest, brightest, most badass stage you can imagine.

But don’t forget to build your front row first.

Because real success isn’t standing alone under a bright light.

It’s looking out into the crowd and seeing the person who believed in you when the only light you had was the one you made yourself.

Happy Anniversary my love. 8 crazy years, and here’s to a lifetime more.