Walt Hampton, J.D.

Creating the Work & Life You LOVE

The Turning Point

The Turning Point

“Change today?” the beggar asked.

There was a touch of anger. Some sarcasm. A bit of sadness too.

My son glanced up at me sideways. “So now you want to be a father?” I’d been endeavoring to share some hard-earned, hard-fought, hard-edged wisdom.  The conversation had been difficult. The topic unpopular.  The message unwelcome.

A long silence.

Now you want to be a father?” he asked again.  (Indeed, I hadn’t always been the best dad I could be.)

“Yes, now,” I said. “I get to change and grow too, you know.”

That’s the beautiful part: we do.

We’re not caught.  We don’t have to stay the same, be the same, do the same things, go the same places, have the same job, get stuck in the same relationships, be the same weight, have the same level of fitness, make the same amount of money, have the same outlook on our life.  We can mix it up, turn it upside down, play it sideways. All out. Or not at all.

We get to choose. We get to change.

It is easy to feel stuck, to get stuck.  All of us have been there.  

We get overwhelmed by the circumstances of our lives: by the financial pressures we feel, by the demands of our jobs, by the expectations of our clients and customers, by our responsibilities to our children and significant others and loved ones.  

We travel down long rabbit holes into careers that we are good at but that are unfulfilling, that fail to nurture and satisfy us at the deepest levels. We find ourselves in relationships that once fed us but now, perhaps only through the ebb of time, slowly poison. We wake up overweight and out of shape with cholesterol that’s too high and estrogen that’s too low and blood pressure that’s elevated and a sex drive that’s not.  

It feels too complex to untangle the tangled web; too difficult to overcome the status quo. The maze is too complicated and the cheese is nowhere to be found.

Can we get out? How do we get out?

Ann describes her father’s later years: disillusioned, he moved away; caught in cycles of hopelessness and isolation, he self-medicated with alcohol; and died alone.  He couldn’t believe that his world could be different.

The worlds we create can always be different.

We get to choose. We get to change.

Sometimes we need encouragement.  Sometimes we need coaching or professional help. Sometimes we need patience. Sometimes we need a kick in the butt.  But the door is always open. It is our birthright to continually transform our lives, ourselves.

We in the Northern climes celebrate the winter solstice this week. The shortest day and the longest night. The earth will turn on its axis, and begin its journey back toward the sun.

Light will triumph over darkness once again.  

The seasons change.  And so do we.

Years ago, renowned saxophonist Paul Winter composed a haunting instrumental piece as a hallmark of his magnificent winter solstice celebration: The Turning Point Suite.

Each moment in our lives is an opportunity, a turning point. Sweet.

Change today?  Yes, today.

See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland.

— Isaiah 43:19

Step Out of the Fray

Step Out of the Fray

December has a way of speeding up the world.

The calendar fills. The inbox swells. The invitations pile up.

Shopping. Decorating. Family gatherings. Office parties. Neighborhood drop ins. The days blur into one another until it feels like you are running a race you never agreed to enter.

And then January 2nd arrives. You look around. You feel wrung out and worn down before the year even begins.

There’s a better way. You can step out of the fray. You can claim time and space for yourself even when the world seems intent on sweeping you along. Especially then.

We live in a culture that rewards busyness. The fuller your calendar, the more valuable you appear. The more holiday events you attend, the more you seem to be part of the picture.

It becomes easy to believe you should just keep saying yes. Keep pushing. Keep showing up. Even if your body and mind are begging for a break.

But this season does not have to be a test of endurance. You’re allowed to slow the pace; you’re allowed to rest; you get to choose what you say yes to; and you get to choose what you decline.

No is a complete sentence. And it’s one of the most powerful tools you have for protecting your wellbeing.

This is especially true if you are an introvert. Nearly half of the population is. I’m one myself. A highly compensating introvert. You might not guess it if you only see me on a stage or in front of a room. But the truth is simple. When life gets loud, I need quiet. I need to pull back. I need space to breathe and reset. Without it, everything else suffers.

Maybe you’re the same way; maybe you feel the world speeding up and your energy draining down; maybe you know you need a pause but worry what others will think.

Here is the truth. You can’t take care of others until you take care of yourself. You can’t be present to anyone if you are running on fumes.

Stepping back is not selfish. It’s responsible; it’s wise; it’s essential. Because the holidays are not meant to empty you. They’re meant to enrich you. They’re meant to remind you of what matters.

And what matters is not how many events you attend, or how perfectly decorated the house is, or how many cookies you baked. What matters is that you show up whole. Grounded. Rested. Alive to the moment.

So take the time you need. Take the space you need. Turn down invitations that drain you. Carve out pockets of stillness where you can. Read a book. Bundle up and walk in the cold air. Sit in front of the fire and breathe.

Let this season be calmer than the world wants it to be. Let it be slower and gentler. Let it support you, not consume you. And when January 2nd arrives, you will not be depleted. You’ll be ready and renewed. You’ll be able to begin the New Year with strength rather than exhaustion.

Step out of the fray. Claim your time. Protect your energy. Honor your wellbeing. Honor your life; your work; and your joy. Everything that matters will be better for it.

Need help? Let’s talk. Email me: [email protected]

Slow The Roll

Slow The Roll

It’s the first week of December. The air is sharper. The light is thinner. Nature knows what to do this time of year. It slows down.

Many animals hibernate. Many plants go dormant. Even the forests quiet themselves and rest under rising drifts of snow.

And we humans, though we’ve built our bright lights and our busy schedules, are not exempt from the rhythms of the natural world. Researchers tell us that winter brings a kind of biological down-regulation. People often feel more tired, more foggy, more “on empty” by late winter, even when nothing in their external circumstances has changed. This isn’t weakness or failure. It is simply physiology responding to less daylight, shifting melatonin timing, and circadian rhythms slowing their arc.

Our bodies know. Our spirits know. But our culture does not.

Because while nature slows, we speed up.

And for those of us wired for high performance, December becomes a kind of final sprint. Deadlines. Deliverables. Deals that must close before the year ends. It’s as if the finish line, suddenly visible, demands everything we have left.

I remember those days clearly. My years as managing partner of a law firm were filled with last-minute negotiations, end-of-year billing, and the relentless pressure to “win the year.” It felt like entering a vortex that kept tightening. Faster. Harder. More. And all of this before the holidays even began.

Then December would unfurl its familiar chaos: gifts to buy, cards to write, travel to plan, events to attend. All those parties, all that rushing, all those obligations layered on top of an already impossible pace.

It could be soul-sucking. And exhausting. And by January 2, I often felt spat out on the other side. Wrung out. Depleted. Disconnected from the joy I hoped the season would bring.

Maybe you know that feeling.

Maybe this year you can already sense the pull. The pressure. The expectation to do it all and do it well, while pretending it’s all merry and bright.

But what if there were another way? Not a perfect way. Not a dramatic reinvention. Just a gentler, more mindful path through these winter weeks. One that honors both the beauty of the season and the truth of your own humanity.

Come with me. Let’s explore what that might look like.

You might begin by lowering the bar. Not everything needs to be done. Not everything needs to be done by you. And not everything needs to be done right now. Give yourself permission to simplify. Fewer commitments. Fewer obligations. Fewer plates spinning in the air.

You might practice saying no. Not harshly. Not defensively. Simply truthfully. A “no” that protects your energy is ultimately a “yes” to the season you want to experience.

You might schedule pauses. Real pauses. Ten minutes in the morning to breathe deeply before the day takes off. A quiet walk during lunch. A hot beverage at night without multitasking. These tiny interruptions can restore you in profound ways.

You might reclaim your mornings. Instead of diving into email or rushing into tasks, set a tone that nourishes you. A little journaling. A moment of stillness. A look out the window at the winter sky before it brightens. Ground yourself before the world grabs hold.

You might try mindful gift-giving. Not more. But less. Gifts that carry meaning rather than volume. Experiences rather than things. Handwritten notes rather than frantic purchases. This alone can shift the entire season.

You might practice tech boundaries. Turn off notifications after a certain hour. Resist the compulsion to check everything immediately. Allow your nervous system the gift of quiet.

And above all, you might allow yourself to rest. When your body asks for it. When your spirit calls for it. You are not a machine. You are a human being moving through a darkening world that is preparing for its own rest.

Slowing your roll doesn’t mean opting out of the holidays. It doesn’t mean disengaging from work. It means moving with intention instead of compulsion. It means choosing presence over pressure. It means remembering that winter invites us into a deeper, softer rhythm—not forever, but for now.

And if you do this, even in small ways, you may find that January 2 feels different. Not like the aftermath of a storm, but like the quiet promise of a new beginning. A beginning you can meet with clarity, energy, and a full heart.

Come with me. There’s another way.

Need help? Let’s talk. Email me: [email protected]

Pathway to Possibility

Pathway to Possibility

It has been a challenging year. No one needs to tell you that. The headlines have been heavy. The markets unpredictable. The culture loud and anxious. Conflicts around the world have shaken the ground under our feet. Many people are carrying more worry than they care to admit. And yet here we are again, arriving at Thanksgiving. A moment set aside to give thanks. A moment that can feel almost out of place in a season like this. And also a moment we may need now more than ever.

Gratitude is not a denial of the hard things. It is not pretending everything is fine. Gratitude is choosing what we will allow to guide our attention. Because what we focus on shapes what we see. When we dwell on what is broken, not working, or chaotic, our minds begin scanning for more of the same. The world looks darker. Options feel fewer. Possibility narrows. But when we consciously shift our gaze toward what is good, toward what is working, toward what remains beautiful and meaningful, our awareness expands. More opportunities appear; more resilience surfaces; more energy returns.

It works the same way your mind suddenly notices the specific car you’ve been thinking about buying. You didn’t summon hundreds of new cars onto the road. You just activated your attention. Gratitude works on the same principle. It heightens your ability to see what has been there all along: the people who show up, the moments of peace, the small wins, the unexpected kindness, the simple pleasures, the new sparks of creativity, the foundations that remain steady even when other things shake.

And here is the real gift: gratitude doesn’t just make you feel better. It makes you more effective. Leaders who cultivate grateful awareness tend to make clearer decisions. They are more grounded under pressure; they connect better, listen better, collaborate better. They have access to more creative problem-solving because their attention is not hijacked by fear or scarcity. Gratitude creates inner space. And from that space, new ideas, new solutions, and new pathways begin to emerge.

This doesn’t mean ignoring pain, uncertainty, or loss. It means letting gratitude act as a counterweight. A stabilizer. A way of remembering that there is always more happening than whatever crisis happens to be loudest today. Gratitude softens the edges and opens the door to perspective. It helps us see beyond the narrow tunnel of worry and into a wider horizon where possibility still lives.

And this is the deeper truth: gratitude turns us toward the future. When we practice gratitude, even for small things, we are signaling to ourselves that there is still something worth investing in. Still something worth hoping for. Still something unfolding. Gratitude keeps us open. And in that openness, new possibilities begin to take shape—possibilities far beyond what we could imagine when we’re locked in fear or contraction.

So as we enter this holiday, take a moment. Breathe deeply. Notice something good. Something simple. Something that reminds you that life still offers beauty, connection, meaning, and possibility. Let that awareness be an anchor for you in the days ahead.

I wish you and yours a happy Thanksgiving.

Planting For The Future

Planting For The Future

I’d been putting off the task. As I do.

But the nights had been pretty cold for the last few weeks; and now, snow was in the forecast.

So it needed to be done.

Now or never.

Planting the daffodil bulbs.

The light was low that day. The sky a steel grey. And a brisk November wind was stripping the trees of those last stubborn leaves.

As I knelt and dug on the hard ground, I was overcome by strong waves of emotion.

An old archbishop friend once said, “The seeds of spring blow on the cold winds of November.”

And I was aware that planting bulbs is an act of faith. Of hope. That spring will come. That what we plant will grow.

It struck me in that moment how much of our lives depend on this same quiet trust. We plant long before we see anything happen. We put something into the ground knowing the winter will come and stay. We take action without any guarantee of timing or outcome. And still, we plant.

And yet, these past months, the world has felt heavy. Darker than usual. The news cycles. The uncertainty. The fatigue that settles in when we try to make sense of too much. It is easy to feel that our planting doesn’t matter. That our efforts barely make a dent. That maybe waiting for a “better season” makes more sense.

But here is the truth I remembered as I pressed those bulbs into the cold earth: the planting we do in the dark is the planting that transforms us. Anyone can sow in the sunshine. Anyone can take bold steps when everything feels light and easy. But planting in November, whether literally or figuratively, is what shapes our character. It is what sets the stage for the life we want next.

Every dream worth pursuing asks something of us long before it offers anything back. The new business. The book. The product. The program. The next chapter we can feel but cannot yet fully see. All of them require faith. All of them require a willingness to kneel in the cold, dig into hard ground, and bury something small with the trust that it will become something beautiful.

Most people wait for certainty. For green shoots. For signs that the timing is perfect. But life doesn’t work that way. Growth does not come to those who wait for ideal conditions. It comes to those who take the step, however small, and trust that spring follows winter as surely as morning follows night.

So plant.

Even when you feel discouraged. Even when the world feels unsteady. Even when your confidence is shaky and your vision is blurry. Plant anyway.

Because planting is not about the immediate return. Planting is about declaring that you still believe in what is possible. It is about staking a claim in the future you want, even while standing in a present that feels uncertain.

Those bulbs will rest now in the dark. They will sleep under snow and ice. Nothing will look different for months. But something powerful will be happening just below the surface. Roots will take hold. Energy will gather. And before long, those first green shoots will push through, quietly insisting that hope was never misplaced.

And so it is with your dreams.

What you plant now will grow.

Need help? Let’s talk. Email me: [email protected]

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