Trust Grows There Too

I love mowing my yard!

There’s something therapeutic about it. It’s mindless activity with instant results. Much of my life operates in the opposite realm—deep thought, long conversations, and investments that often take months or years to bear fruit. A freshly cut lawn, however, rewards you immediately. Every pass leaves behind those beautiful stripes that whisper, "Look what you accomplished."

Besides, mowing reminds me of my youth. Sunshine, the smell of fresh-cut grass, and endless summer afternoons spent outside. Somehow, a zero-turn mower feels like nostalgia with cup holders.

Recently, however, my peaceful therapy session turned into a scene straight out of America's Funniest Home Videos.

I was mowing near a hill in my yard when the rear tire of my zero-turn suddenly gave way. In what felt like slow motion, the mower slid sideways and leaned just enough to make me wonder if I was about to win the $10,000 grand prize.

Actually, my first thought was, "Don't die."

My second thought was, "Did anyone see that?"

Thankfully, no witnesses.

Perfect.

No explanations. No embarrassment. No stories to be retold at Thanksgiving dinner.

I walked to the garage, grabbed my tow strap, and prepared for a covert recovery mission. Hook the mower to the SUV, pull it out, and eliminate all evidence. Nobody needed to know. 

But as my children have grown, I've found myself reflecting on how often I've missed opportunities to bring them into the journey of life—not just the victories, but the mishaps, frustrations, and occasional train wrecks.

So I stopped.

I unhooked the strap, put my vehicle back, walked inside, and gathered my children and a few friends who were visiting.

"Kids, come look at what Dad did."

There sat my mower. Sideways. Looking like a turtle stuck on its back.

I asked them, "What do you think we should do?"

Did I actually need their help? Not one bit.

But maybe one day one of them will find themselves in a similar situation. They learned where to hook a strap, how to think through a problem, and how to recover when things don't go according to plan.

More importantly, they learned something else.

Dad messes up.

Dad asks for help.

Dad doesn't hide his mistakes.

And when we were done, my son looked at me and said, "That was cool, Dad. Yea…That was fun." That sentence stuck with me.

Because after years of working with teams, I've discovered something:People don't trust perfection. They trust people.

Trust isn't built by impressing others with how put together you are. It's built when you're willing to wave people over and say, "Come take a look at this mess." and be willing to fix it! 

Vulnerability isn't weakness. It's an invitation.

An invitation for others to stop pretending.

An invitation for others to contribute.

An invitation for others to grow.

I've never seen a team become healthier because everyone had it all together. I've watched teams become healthier when someone had the courage to admit they didn't.

Most of us spend far too much energy trying to drag our mower out of the ditch before anyone notices. We want to appear strong, capable, and in control.

But maybe leadership isn't about convincing people that you never get stuck.

Maybe leadership is having the courage to let people see where you are stuck.

Because people don't grow by watching us recover in secret.

They grow when we invite them into the process.

And long after the grass grows back, they'll remember that trust grew there too.

Turns out, sometimes the most important thing growing in the yard isn't the grass.