The Animal Show

I have always had a deep affinity for animals. Perhaps it took root when a close family friend gifted me a stuffed bunny as a baby—a stuffed animal that I simultaneously sheepishly and proudly still keep in my bedside drawer.

My mom and I share this love, but with a particular twist. We are especially delighted by talking animals. The Aflac duck. Boris in Balto. Sid from Ice Age. A perfectly voiced-over Instagram reel featuring a dog with opinions. On the floor, every time.

I'm six years older than my youngest sibling, Sarah, and growing up, she had an extraordinary number of stuffed animals—all of which lived in her twin bed with her, which left very little room for Sarah but seemed to be a non-negotiable arrangement. At night, my mom would put on "animal shows”. Sarah's stuffed animals would take on full personas, have full conversations, work through whatever was happening in their lives. As I got older, I started directing some of these myself. Bear would have a lot to say about Bunny. The new turtle would want to understand the politics of being chosen as the night's bed stuffie among a very crowded field.

It was, in hindsight, an improv show. I just didn't know it yet.

This weekend, Wesley and I were at a behind-the-scenes bear experience at the Birmingham Zoo—supporters of the zoo, shocking to no one—when we ran into a longtime friend on staff (who, fun fact, is the reason Wesley and I met). She asked when my love of animals had started.

I thought back to Sarah's stuffed animals, the nightly shows, Bear and Bunny and the new turtle navigating their little lives. And somewhere in that memory, something clicked about my own.

I have been told, many times, that I'm a good public speaker. It started early—as a prefect in my dorm, then as a senior leader at camp, then in a career in admissions that involved a lot of talking. Presentations, one-on-one meetings with parents and students, learning to find my way through a conversation without notes. That ease followed me into bigger rooms and bigger audiences, and eventually into the head of school role I've held for five years. And honestly, it has always felt very natural.

So much of what makes communication work is the yes, and. In improv, that's the foundational rule—accept what your scene partner offers and build on it. Don't block. Don't redirect to what you'd planned to say. Stay in the scene.

When I walk into a parent meeting, I do my best not to come in with an agenda. I come in trying to understand what someone is afraid of and what they're hoping I'll do. If I've already rehearsed my defense, I'm not listening—I'm just waiting for my turn. The same is true in a larger speech. I have anchor points, but the path between them is responsive to the room.

A head of school I worked with early in my career taught public speaking to eighth graders and drilled three things—levity, brevity, repetition. Tell them what you're going to tell them. Tell them—with humanity, humor, and as few words as possible. Then tell them what you told them. I use this constantly.

Can it be taught? I think so. My senior year of high school I took an actual improv class at Baylor. It didn't rewire me, but it gave me practice—at leaning into the unexpected, at recovering when something didn't land, at committing to a direction without knowing where it was going.

That practice is what I think leaders need more of. Not more coached content, but actual reps at letting go.

Some of it may come more naturally to some people than others. But I do wonder how much more effective we could be as leaders if we leaned into the yes, and a little more?