Hi Friends,

Back in October, I sent you my first Opus Note, a quieter, more personal way for me to stay in touch alongside my regular newsletters. Several of you told me how much you enjoyed the format, and so here I am again. This time, I’m reflecting on the past few months, and the thread that’s been quietly pulling everything together. And I’m sharing a sneak preview of what’s coming—and where I’ll be living—throughout the rest of this year.

The first three months of 2026 flew by.

• In January, I was sick with a mystery virus for three weeks.

• In February, my first book, Live Your Opus, was published—thank you for being a part of its launch.

• And, between February and March, I was traveling—London, Miami, Jaipur, and Mumbai—and starting to interview on podcasts.

Along the way, I also found out that my second book, Raising Humans For A World That’s Already Arrived, coauthored with Lina Ashar, will be published by HarperCollins this November. (We are SO excited!)

2026 is clearly for me, a year of birth.

Or, perhaps it’s rebirth.

Exactly six years ago, I stepped away from corporate life to grieve my mother’s death and recover from intense burnout. I did so abruptly, because my body and spirit simply gave out. And then, I never went back.

But when I left Pearson, I was leading some fascinating work on the future of learning. That work started back in 2017-18 with the release of a major report on the future of skills. And it continued as we gathered insights, wrote about the future of higher education, convened FTSE 100 leaders to solve the skills gap, and more.

Having spent ten years at Harvard, I was deeply hooked by that work.

And, as the universe would have it, that work was hooked by me, too. Although I didn’t fully realize it until the past few months.

Someone asked me recently what the ‘unifier’ has been in my career to date. And, although I’ve had an adventurous, squiggly career, the red thread that has followed me from teaching in a classroom to leading in the boardroom has been to help people learn and develop themselves so they can live and perform well.

Perhaps the biggest gift of the past six years is that I now have a much deeper clarity about who I am and what I’m here (yes, on this earth) to do.

I don’t take this for granted because clarity doesn’t always arrive this cleanly, or all at once. But I’ve come to see that most of us are being pulled, in one way or another, toward something that’s trying to take shape.

Part of what makes that so challenging is the moment we’re living in. There hasn’t been a moment in our history quite like the one we’re in today. Where we’re all scrambling to keep up with a world that’s already changed.

And while a lot of attention is being paid to geopolitical issues, AI, and skills, far less is being paid to the plight of humans living and working and trying to thrive in this crazy world.

What’s clear to me is that we’re in the midst of a human development crisis, something you may be feeling in your own way, too—whether it’s a sense that the pace and pressure are relentless, that the rules have changed, or that what once worked no longer quite does.

We are preparing people at every stage of life to succeed in systems that no longer match the world we’re living in, one that’s changing faster than the systems we’ve built to support it.

This mismatch is showing up everywhere, often in ways we feel before we can fully name: in how children are educated, in how young adults enter the workforce, in how leaders are expected to perform, and in how people navigate midlife, longevity, and retirement, often without a clear map.

It is driving:

• depletion and burnout,

• loss of meaning and direction,

• rising anxiety across generations,

• a growing sense of disconnection,

• and a widening gap between achievement and well-being.

A question I keep coming back to is: How do we intentionally shape lives, systems, and societies that allow people to flourish?

In Live Your Opus, I focus on what this means at the individual level—what it takes to develop the capacity to think clearly, make decisions, and sustain performance in a world that no longer slows down.

In Raising Humans For A World That’s Already Arrived, Lina and I explore how this gap shows up in the home and at school, and how to intentionally develop the capabilities young people will need to live and lead in this world.

Together, they explore the same issue from two directions: how we support people to live and perform well now across the arc of life, and how we develop those capabilities from the beginning.

I’ve come full circle. And, now I’m building a body of work around it all. It’s still taking shape, but here are a few of the ways it’s starting to come to life:

• Through my writing and speaking, I’m continuing to develop and share these ideas more broadly.

• I’m also beginning to convene more conversations across the arc of life—with educators, students, leaders, and working professionals at various stages of their careers, and those navigating later stages of life—to better understand the realities people are facing and how they’re making sense of them in practice.

• I’m looking to partner more deeply with one or two organizations this year that are thinking seriously about how to develop their people—not just in terms of knowledge and skills, but also in the underlying capabilities required to perform, adapt, and lead in these conditions.

• And I’m starting a podcast, The Lifelong Leap, where I’ll speak with experts from across the arc of life—connecting perspectives from education, work, and beyond, translating insights into practice, and sharing stories of people and organizations responding to the challenges I’ve described here. (You’re the first to hear about this…more soon.)

As this work continues to evolve, I’m also realizing how much it depends on conversation and connection. Which is why I’ll soon be spending most of my time in the U.K. to be closer to many of you, as well as family, friends, and colleagues.

More than anything, I’m finding that this work deepens through conversation, especially with people who are living these questions in different ways.

So, if you’re thinking or working on any of the issues I’ve raised in your own context—whether in schools, universities, or organizations, I’d genuinely love to hear from you.

If there are opportunities to bring this work into your communities, to convene conversations, or to collaborate in some way, I’m always open.

And if there are questions you’re sitting with, things you’d like to see explored, or people I should connect with and feature—here or on the podcast—I’d love to know that too.

Until next time, be well!

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I believe there’s so much more to life than the snippets we share online or the quick “how are you’s” we trade between meetings.

I miss the kind of conversation that lingers, the long-form letters and blogs that feel like propping your front door open and inviting a friend to stay a while.

That’s what Opus Notes is: a quieter space to connect, reflect, and share what’s alive and bringing me and you energy, joy, and focus lately. If this works, I’ll do it again next month.

I turned 53 at the end of last month. It wasn’t the kind of birthday to make a big fuss over, but, as happens to me with most birthdays, it still invited reflection.

This year, I gifted myself a navy-blue Moleskine with extra pages. With life and work speeding up, I wanted a place to catch what I might otherwise lose: a flicker of thought, a small noticing, a line of gratitude before the noise returns. I love the feeling I get when I look back at those observations months and years down the road.

So, most early mornings now, I curl up in my oversized chair, chai tea steaming beside me, my two puppies tumbling at my feet, and (try to) write my Morning Pages. It’s becoming a place where I can quiet my mind and meet with myself.

The peace never lasts long, but for a few minutes, it’s just me, the page, and the sound of puppies playing.

Puppies aside, this past week, I began noticing the things that shape my life: the people who make up my village, the rhythms that remind me of who I am, and the promises that keep me moving forward.

The same patterns appear no matter what I’m doing. They’ve carried me through change, and they continue to anchor me now as I step into this next chapter, one that’s asking me to live my own Opus more fully, and to help others do the same.

The Village

Over the past five years, I’ve learned a truth I keep returning to: none of us is meant to do life alone.

Every dream, every season of rebuilding, every leap forward…there’s always been a village behind it. Some people I see every day; others live oceans away.

Some have no idea how deeply they’ve shaped me—through one conversation, a line in a book, or instilling in me the quiet belief that I could keep going when I wasn’t sure I could.

If you’re reading this, you’re part of that village too, this shared experiment in becoming more whole, more human, together.

This year, I want to nurture that connection, to build spaces that feel like modern-day hearths, where reflection meets action, and where we remind each other that growth doesn’t have to be a solitary act.

The Rhythms

Each season asks me to check in, not just with my calendar, but with myself. Autumn is usually one where the biggest internal check-in happens. Maybe it’s because of my birthday, or the deeply ingrained school-year calendar, but I always seem to make critical decisions at this time that have to do with who I am and where I’m going.

This even happens in a smaller way when I’m doing the wardrobe switch, folding away one season’s clothes and pulling out the next.

Earlier this week, I lifted a couple of dresses from last fall and winter and knew instantly that they didn’t feel like me anymore.

So I folded them neatly, took out the few pieces that still fit who I am now, and put the rest away in a storage tote.

I also noticed what was missing that I feel drawn to, like some feminine blouses, for example. So I rifled through some other totes, found a few options to recycle back into my closet, and treated myself to a couple of new pieces.

That small ritual of choosing what still fits, releasing what doesn’t, and welcoming in the new feels like life itself.

Wherever you live, you can feel it too: the subtle shift in light, the cooler air, the invitation to edit your life, and to ask, Who am I becoming now?

The Promises

Each year, I make a few quiet promises to myself. They’re usually small and grounding: continued dedication to my morning routine, to stillness, to pockets of time for deep work and connection with others. They’re not resolutions, but reminders of how I want to live.

This year, one of my promises to myself is more significant: To help as many people as I can find their way to steadiness, purpose, and possibility. To see their way back to themselves and all the joy that is possible, should we choose to live from that perspective. To help them live their Opus.

The world can feel heavy right now. That quiet sense of powerlessness can slip in, sometimes for a moment, sometimes longer.

I think that’s precisely why this work matters.

Because Living Your Opus is about remembering that you are your greatest work.

Your life–this one, imperfect, extraordinary life–is your masterpiece to create, moment by moment.

And the truth is, the world needs your wholeness now more than ever. It requires your steadiness, your creativity, and your compassion. And, not when things calm down, not when you feel ready, but now.

Of course, none of us can go it alone.

We all need this village–you and me and everyone of us–to help, to share the message, and to practice living our Opus together.

And to remind each other that we don’t need to fix ourselves or our lives, we just need to come home to who we already are, and create our Opus from there.

Before You Go

If you take anything from this first letter, let it be this:

Your life, however messy, beautiful, or in-between it may feel today, is your masterpiece in progress.

Every season asks something new of you.

Every day offers another chance to return to who you are and who you’re becoming.

I’m glad you’re here, walking this path with me.

Let’s see where it takes us. ❤️

With love,

PS. If this letter resonated, you can share it with a friend or colleague who’s also learning to live their Opus. The more of us who practice it, the stronger our village becomes.