I remember my first moment of clarity in life. I was six years old, and my kindergarten class had been bussed over to the middle school to act as a captive audience for the jazz band. Just about anything is an adventure at six, right? But I was hardly prepared for what would happen.

I saw it: a gold sparkle Ludwig drum kit. It wasn’t necessarily the music, or the drummer, or the instrument. There was just something magnetic about the energy of the drums, like they were calling to me. They called to the whole audience, sure—but they were surely calling me on a secret, captivating frequency that no one else could understand. I knew from that moment that I wanted to play the drums. I didn’t know how, or even truly why. I just knew it had to happen.

Of course, on the bus after the concert, I realized I was part of the majority—most kids wanted to play the drums. A few had a friend or family member with drums already, a seeming inside track toward the goal. I was intimidated, but not deterred. And for the time being, my dream would have to remain as such—specific and yet non-specific at the same time.

By fifth grade, though, I finally had the chance to choose an instrument for the school band. Although “drum set” was curiously missing from the list of options, I took a leap and chose “snare drum.” My parents took a leap as well, signing a payment plan for an expensive instrument with no idea whether their ears or their wallet would pay the higher price.

From there it snowballed. I said yes to all things music in my life. Music—whether as a listener or creator—felt like the experience of life amplified to the maximum. I felt love and hate, fear and passion, heartbreak and victory like no one else could possibly understand, or so it seemed.

Paradoxically, I wasn’t alone on this journey of deep expression. I was incredibly lucky to stumble into some of the most wonderful teachers a passionate student could have. Without truly understanding it at the time, I had hit the jackpot. There are too many to name here, but the takeaway became this: growth takes a partner—many partners. Their patience and support created the conditions for a young man to begin to know himself, far beyond any lesson plans, test scores, or recitals. I was a garden, and my teachers were the gardeners.

It went well. So well, in fact, that the pressure built. Before long I found myself “driving the bus” of the University of Miami’s Concert Jazz Band—one of the elite college ensembles in the world. Not only that, but I was playing out every night in a world-class city, plus carrying a rigorous course load. It built up a level of stress that demanded attention. Music wasn’t enough anymore—because oddly, the thing that gave my life meaning as a teen had become the stress itself. And so, with the nudge of yet another amazing teacher (thanks, Steve!), I discovered meditation for the first time. Stress had me on the ropes—and also gave me a life-changing gift.

In between the ensuing heartbreaks and thrills that a performance career held over the years, I nurtured this budding sense of something deeper calling for my attention. I was building tools—but for what? I started to realize it during the private drum lessons I would teach, with students ranging from age five to seventy.

What began as a way to earn extra income quickly became something else entirely. I started noticing that my favorite moments in those lessons weren’t about technique or notation—they were about people. They were the pauses between playing, when a student would exhale and share something real: fear before a performance, frustration from work, the desire to be heard. I found myself leaning in, listening differently. Without realizing it, I was learning to coach.

Those conversations taught me that presence was far more powerful than instruction, and that growth, once again, was a partnership. Some students learned to play more confidently; others rediscovered courage, joy, or calm. And every time I thought I was teaching, I was reminded that I was really the student—learning still more about attention, patience, and what it means to witness someone else's process.

Further down the road (in a suspicious looking, beaten-up Dodge Ram van), my five years of chasing the dream with my rock band, Ghost of Gloria, came to an end with an agonizing whimper. Our record deal stalled as EMI was sold to Universal Music. Bandmates drifted apart. I was left in debt and disillusioned.

It was the first time I learned how deep true resilience must go—not bouncing back undamaged, but collecting the sparse pieces of what was left and reorienting. I had to rebuild from zero, with the quiet support of my soon-to-be wife, whose presence reminded me that connection matters more than any circumstance. That truth fixed my compass.

I reoriented my sights on a career as a sideman musician, leading to my first genuinely “big” gig with Latin pop icon Jon Secada. A gamble of moving to Nashville, a new city where my only assets were a few introductions and a pile of skills, paid off with one opportunity after another as I finally stepped into the arena of my dreams. Even that pesky topic of finance, once a chain around my neck, became a source of empowerment as I learned to rebuild.

The same year I achieved my childhood dream of performing in stadiums, my father was diagnosed with ALS. Just like that, my dream come true had to coexist with a nightmare of suffering. This became yet another catalyst, as I’ve learned to call them. Events are catalysts for change—not always good or bad, but certain change. It’s up to us to determine the quality of that change as it unfolds over time.

My father left me with many lessons, but one stands above the rest: that humor is a sacred art. Even as ALS took his speech, his wit never faded. His ability to make light in the darkest moments taught me that humor is not denial—it’s resilience in the shape of laughter. It’s a way to find breath when things feel unbreathable. And in less existential moments, humor offers a wonderful way to get un-stuck when things feel heavy.

After his passing in 2017, something new began to open in me. My coping process involved friends, meditation, and prayer, but also a voracious appetite for philosophy, psychology, and contemplative works—all paths that led toward deeper growth. Instead of being the guy who could bootstrap himself to success, I learned what it meant to lean fully on others—through psychotherapy, hypnotherapy, psychiatry, and community.

Do I have a mental health journey? Of course. Just like physical health, we all do. Anyone who pretends otherwise hasn’t yet learned what a strength vulnerability can become when combined with wisdom.

By 2020, I finally had the courage to enroll in coach certification with mentors who shared my love of East-meets-West, of science that holds space for mysticism. I couldn’t ignore the congruence I felt between Carl Rogers and Thomas Merton, the deep truths hinted at by both Martin Seligman and Paramahansa Yogananda. Whether Stoicism or Christian Mysticism, Zen or Vedanta, Mindfulness or Appreciative Inquiry, I felt I was finally surrounding the same truth from all angles at once.

And then, the world shut down. Touring paused, and my slow-burn passion for coaching became my primary calling. And after years of grieving our inability to start a family, my wife and I learned we were expecting a baby girl. No matter how much I’ve learned, I can’t possibly know what’s around the corner. Wisdom isn’t knowing everything—it’s being able to hold space for anything.

It was sheer good fortune to gain my first coaching credentials just as the appetite for leadership development surged. That timing allowed me to fill what had been a Swiss-cheese touring calendar with a humbling list of clients from world-leading companies—AT&T, Google, BlackRock, IBM, Salesforce, HelloFresh, Chipotle, CrowdStrike, the U.S. Air Force, and more.

I learned that being an expert has little to do with being a great coach. The better I was at checking my ego at the door, the better I served the humans across from me.

After all the stages I’ve stood on, I know better than to fall for the seduction of identifying myself by an impressive client list. The truth is that my wife, Carla, keeps showing me that partnership isn’t a fairy tale—it’s the daily practice of joining together, again and again. Aria, our daughter, reminds me that presence isn’t an ideal—sometimes it’s an adorable four-year-old asking for more when I think I’m done. What could mean more than being a girl dad, the first example of masculinity for her lifetime? These are my most important lessons and my truest work.

After a chapter marked by marriage, loss, a pandemic, and birth, I learned that values evolve as we do. Achievement slowly gave way to balance. Drive softened into presence. And resilience became less about endurance, more about grace.

These days, when someone new asks, “What’s your story?” I often pause. Saying I’m a “leadership coach” feels like a contrived error of omission—because of the priceless gifts music has brought me. Saying “I’m a musician” plays too easily into the ego traps I’ve learned to avoid. Saying both is more story than anyone wants to hear—but the truest answer is this:

My name is Mark, and I’m the one who hears your question.

I’ve learned that I’m here. That we’re here, now. Labels, accolades, and achievements aren’t the true assets we carry. All I try to do is cultivate presence in all things, which is why I love supporting its emergence in others. It’s what I need to keep top of mind, which is why I’m compelled to talk about it. And regardless of what the future holds, it’s the only thing that’s truly ours every step of the way.

That’s why I love coaching, why I treasure opportunities to speak and work with groups, and why I savor getting behind a drum kit—communicating through the primal energy of vibration. And through it all, I remember: no matter how far I go, I’ll always be right here—a place patient enough to wait while I learn to love it with my whole being.