01/02/2026
Mary Oliver asks:
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
This question is often read as a call to freedom.
Or creativity.
Or bold personal expression.
But from where I sit with leaders, founders, funders, executives holding real responsibility it lands differently.
Not as permission to abandon what you carry.
But as an invitation to tell the truth about how you’re carrying it.
For the leaders I work with, “wild” doesn’t mean reckless.
It means the part of you that is still alive beneath competence.
The part that remembers why this mattered in the first place.
The part that hasn’t been fully absorbed into roles, expectations, or institutional gravity.
And “precious” doesn’t mean delicate.
It means finite.
Your time.
Your energy.
Your attention.
This particular season of leadership.
So the question becomes sharper:
What happens when a capable, responsible leader
builds a life that no longer makes room for what’s wild?
What happens when the work keeps going but the aliveness goes quiet?
I don’t see this as a personal failure.
I see it as a systemic pattern.
We reward leaders for endurance.
For over-functioning.
For carrying more than is sustainable
as long as the results keep coming.
But something else gets traded away in that bargain.
Vision narrows.
Desire becomes inconvenient.
And leadership slowly shifts from creative stewardship to obligation management.
Mary Oliver’s question isn’t asking you to choose between impact and aliveness.
It’s asking something far more challenging:
Can your leadership still belong to you?
Can the life you’re building
with all its responsibility, consequence, and reach
still feel like a life you recognize as your own?
Not optimized.
Not defended.
Not justified.
Fully lived.
Mary Oliver’s question isn’t asking you to choose between impact and aliveness.
It’s asking whether the way you’re leading
honors your desire, your aliveness, the nudges of knowing deeper than what must get done.
May 2026 be the year of
Your wild and precious life.