L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
I had flown to Las Vegas the evening before and had just completed the sound check and run through the slides for my talk. I had a few minutes to myself before the doors opened and the event began.
Glancing to my right, I saw a grand piano on a secondary stage for a performance later that afternoon.
I walked over to it and looked around to see if anyone was watching.
I sat down and stared at those beautiful white ivories. I peered around one more time, and then, with no one telling me to “step away from the piano, sir,” I began to play. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission, right?
My wife, Beth, and I had recently seen Coldplay perform at a similarly sized arena, so I punched out a few chords from one of our favorite Coldplay songs, “The Scientist.” I imagined the rush that Chris Martin must feel every time he’s onstage and is surrounded by fans singing along to his music. As I got to the refrain, the words “Nobody said it was easy” were echoing in my ears, as someone behind me spoke up, “I didn’t know you played the piano.”
I stopped playing, shut the lid, and sheepishly turned toward the voice. “I don’t!”
My face flushed at being caught in a daydream.
One of the leaders who had planned the meeting that was about to take place approached me with a smile on her face.
“Well, I was standing right here and it certainly sounds like you know what you’re doing.” After a pause, she asked, “Would you play for our group later today?”
As you know, I grew up being forced to take piano. For years those Tuesday afternoon lessons were the worst part of my week!
In time, though, what was mandatory shifted into something I came to love. Although I don’t have fingers (and Chris Martin isn’t peering over his shoulder in fear that I am coming for his job), I love to play today. Beth and I have an old upright piano in our house. I play it on occasion to relax after a long day or to spark creativity before beginning a new project. Some evenings we’ll jam on songs like “Heart and Soul” as a family. I’ll play one hand and one of my kids will play the other hand.
But this wasn’t my family room. It was a stage in the amphitheater of the MGM Grand. This wasn’t an intimate family room filled with my kids, but an arena that would soon be filled with thousands of strangers.
It just wasn’t something I was ready to do. It was above my pay grade! So I responded the only way a sane individual would: “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“John, I think it’s a great idea…and it would mean a lot to me and our consultants.”
I wanted to refuse. I wanted to say no. This seemed like a ridiculous request, and the thought of it terrified me.
But then I thought about my mom. I thought about her taking a child sitting at a kitchen table and releasing the brakes on his wheelchair. Pushing him forward toward something that seemed impossible.
Why was I putting on the brakes now?
So I began to ask myself: Why not?
Why not say yes? Why not show a little courage and vulnerability, and do something that scared the heck out of me?
Why not do more than just tell the consultants who would be filling the seats how we can all survive and thrive through adversity? Why not show them? Why not prove to them that though things may seem impossible, when you have the right team by your side, they will help push you forward, challenge the status quo, and show you just how high you can aim, how far you can reach?
It was the perfect way to share this lesson with this audience.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Brakes exist for a very important reason. They keep you safe. They keep you from rolling into oncoming traffic. They prevent the pull of gravity from catapulting you down a steep hill.
But the brakes on your vehicle, and on your life, aren’t meant to be on all the time. If you always keep the brakes of your wheelchair latched, you won’t have a wheelchair anymore, you’ll just have a…chair.
How often do you have the brakes on in your life?
In my experience, when we get stuck doing things the same way we’ve always done them, we have the brakes on.
When we accept that the status quo is as good as it’s gonna get; when we listen to the voices that say it can’t be done, including our own; when we see only discord and difficulty, and decide not to even try; when we believe that things are impossible; it means the brakes are holding us back.
I may not be sitting next to you at your kitchen table, but I’m here to release those brakes and push you forward into what might come next in your life—if you have the courage and creativity to start doing things differently. To remember the endless possibility you felt as a child, and get back in touch with that whimsical sense of wonder.
My mother did more than release my brakes that day. She taught me to see, just over the horizon, what I could not yet see for myself. To fight, regardless of adversity. To stride bravely forward, no matter the unlikelihood of success.
And to not let what looks impossible stop me from envisioning what could still be mine.
So as I finished my talk that afternoon, I walked over to that piano.
My heart pounded in my chest. I thought at that moment of my mom. I imagined how she would feel if she knew that her little John was about to play the piano in front of eighteen thousand people. All because of her love, and dedication, and endless belief in me.
And I played the song that always brought tears to her eyes when I played it for her: “Amazing Grace.”
As the notes of that familiar song reverberated in that enormous theater, I realized the answer to the question I had been asking myself: How did I get here?
By embracing the challenges of my life rather than being limited by them, and letting them launch me.
By staying deeply in touch with the power of possibility, instilled in me by my mother and that dreaded, turned beautiful, compassionate piano teacher.
By asking questions, being filled with wonder, and believing nothing was impossible.
It’s how I got here.
And it’s how you’ll get where you most want to go, too.