There’s a term in professional wrestling called being “over.” To people outside the business, that probably sounds like the opposite of what it actually means. If a wrestler is over, it doesn’t mean they’re finished. It means they’ve connected with an audience in a way every performer dreams about. The crowd erupts when they walk through the curtain. People cheer, react, invest emotionally, and become part of the story. There’s another phrase you’ll hear in wrestling too: “putting yourself over.” That’s the business’s way of saying, “Enough already. Stop telling everyone how great you are.”
So this month, I’m doing the exact opposite.
Because I’ve been riding a high ever since our recent music video shoot in Athens, Georgia, and surprisingly, it has very little to do with the footage we captured, the songs we performed, or the video that will eventually make its way into the world. The thing that has stayed with me is the people.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve become less impressed by the things that used to impress me. Titles. Credentials. Followers. Accomplishments. Applause. Those things are wonderful, but they’re temporary. The things that stay with you are the people who show up when things get hard. The people who quietly carry part of the weight without being asked. The people who make your day better simply because they’re in it.
I’ve spent most of my life around entertainers, athletes, executives, entrepreneurs, and leaders. One thing I’ve learned is that leadership doesn’t always look the way we think it should. Some people lead by volume. Some lead by force. Some spend so much energy convincing everyone they’re important that they become exhausting to be around. Then there are the rare ones. The people who walk into a room, immediately start solving problems, make everyone around them better, and never once feel the need to announce what they’re doing.
When you find a room full of those people, something special happens. That’s what happened in Athens at Clarke’s Collective the go to hot spot for friends!
Like every production, our shoot had challenges. That’s just part of the deal. There’s a reason the entertainment business gave us the phrase, “The show must go on.” Audiences never see the missing pieces. They don’t see the last-minute cancellations, the schedule changes, the unexpected obstacles, the exhaustion, or the thousand tiny fires that somehow need putting out before anyone yells “action.”
Life is a lot like that.
Most people you encounter every day are carrying something you know nothing about. They’re worried about a parent, a child, a bill, a diagnosis, a relationship, or a dream that isn’t working out the way they hoped. That’s why kindness matters so much. You never know what battle someone is fighting behind the smile they’re wearing.
Thankfully, I wasn’t fighting mine alone.
One of the first people to arrive was Elix Skipper, along with his wife Michelle. Wrestling fans know Elix as one of the most athletic performers of his era, a man whose career included moments so daring that people are still talking about them years later. What impressed me wasn’t any of that. It was the fact that after all the crowds, all the travel, all the years in the spotlight, he showed up exactly the way I asked, dressed in Georgia Bulldogs red and black, ready to help and ready to work.
No ego, entitlement, or reminders about what he’d accomplished. Just a genuinely good human being willing to jump in wherever he was needed.
The older I get, the more I realize that showing up is a talent. It sounds simple, but it isn’t. Plenty of people have good intentions. Fewer people follow through. The people who consistently show up when they’re needed become priceless.
Michelle and Elix spent the day helping, appearing in scenes, and becoming part of the fabric of the production. At one point, Georgia humidity decided it had declared war on my hair. I looked like I’d stuck my finger in a light socket and lost the fight. That’s when Michelle and my longtime wrestling friend Tracy Taylor stepped in.
Tracy has spent enough years around wrestling and live events to know that nothing ever goes exactly according to plan. Somehow she had an entire rescue kit in her car and proceeded to perform what can only be described as emergency surgery on a catastrophe. What struck me wasn’t what she did. It was how she did it. She didn’t judge or make me feel ridiculous. Just kindness.
I’ve noticed something about truly confident people. They don’t make others feel small. They make others feel safe. That’s a much rarer gift.
Erik Watts brought that same energy. Erik has spent most of his life around the wrestling business, and like many people who’ve seen just about everything, he arrived without needing attention. He set up shop at the bar with his iPad, handled his business, stayed completely self-sufficient, and the second we needed him, he delivered.
As the day unfolded, it became obvious we needed a little sports entertainment magic to help elevate some scenes. Suddenly Erik, Elix, and Tracy fell into rhythm together. Years of experience have a funny way of showing themselves. While the rest of us were still figuring out what might work, Erik, Elix, and Tracy were already finding the moments, discovering the story, and making it come alive.
Watching them work was like watching great musicians find the groove of a song they’ve never played before. One person threw out an idea. Another built on it. A third improved it. Before long, something special was happening. What impressed me most wasn’t their experience. It was their generosity. None of them acted like gatekeepers. None of them protected their knowledge. They shared it freely.
That’s something I’ve noticed about the best professionals I’ve ever met. They don’t spend their lives protecting the ladder they climbed. They spend their lives holding it steady for someone else. And that’s a lesson that applies far beyond wrestling, music, or entertainment.
The rest of the day continued in much the same way…
I was equally proud of my bandmate, Rod Saylor.
I’ve known Rod for fourteen years, and at this point he’s much more than the drummer in our band. He’s family. He’s my best friend. What most people see is the guy sitting behind the drum kit for a couple of hours on stage. What I see is everything that happens before and after those lights come on. I see the preparation, the maintenance, the organization, the planning, the troubleshooting, the loading, the unloading, and the countless details that nobody ever notices because Rod has already handled them before they become a problem.
One of the greatest gifts Rod has ever given me is trust. When I bring him an idea, I don’t have to prepare for an argument or brace myself for resistance. He already knows that I’ve spent days, weeks, and sometimes months turning that idea over in my head before it ever reaches him. He trusts the process because we’ve walked through enough storms together to know how these things work. That trust saves time, saves energy, and most importantly, saves momentum.
In a world filled with talented people, reliability remains one of the rarest superpowers on earth. Talent is everywhere. Ambition is everywhere. Great ideas are everywhere. Reliability is not. If you’re fortunate enough to find someone who possesses all of those qualities in one person, hold on tight. Fourteen years later, Rod remains one of the steadiest, most loyal, dependable people I’ve ever known, and our band, our productions, and frankly my life are all better because of it.
One of the biggest surprises of the day came from a young sorority leader, Edie Sharpton who helped coordinate part of the production. There were promises made throughout the process and, as often happens in life, there were some promises broken. Through all of it, she remained calm, poised, and effective. She quietly held things together without needing attention or recognition. She convinced people to stay, found solutions to problems, and filled needs before they ever became emergencies.
Watching her work reminded me that leadership doesn’t always arrive with a microphone in its hand. Sometimes leadership shows up quietly. Sometimes it looks like grace under pressure. Sometimes it’s a person calmly solving problems while everyone else is focused on the problems themselves. If these young adults are any indication of what’s coming next, our future is in very good hands.
What impressed me even more was the respect these students showed throughout the day. Cam Sharpton, Austin Lathrop, Jacob Groover, Celia Gilliland, even Clarke’s Collective team members Katie Kriesler and Sullivan Follin. I’ve worked with highly paid professionals over the years who left wardrobe crumpled in corners, tossed across furniture, or abandoned like yesterday’s laundry. These young adults folded garments, returned hangers, and left things better than they found them without ever being asked. It’s funny how character reveals itself in the smallest moments. Long after people forget what you said, they’ll remember how you treated other people, their belongings, and the opportunities placed in front of you.
Then there was Jess.
Years ago, we met Jess at a casino in Chester, West Virginia. Today she’s a successful professional with a busy life and every reason in the world to spend her day somewhere else. Instead, she showed up. She asked how she could help and then immediately got to work.
Throughout the day, Jess had an incredible ability to spot what needed to be done before anyone asked her to do it. As the evening wore on, she was carrying equipment, organizing gear, helping dismantle lighting rigs, loading vehicles, and making sure every last detail was handled. At one point she even paid the crew’s tab without mentioning it to anyone. That’s the thing about truly generous people. They don’t perform generosity for applause. They simply live it.
When life feels overwhelming, pay attention to the people who show up carrying drills instead of opinions. Those are your people. Those are the builders. Those are the friends who don’t just talk about helping, they help.
I would also be remiss if I didn’t thank Paul Steward from 316 Productions. Paul is one of the hardest-working people I’ve ever had the pleasure of creating alongside. What amazes me isn’t just his technical ability, although that’s certainly impressive. What amazes me is his ability to see the vision before I’ve even finished explaining it. I’ll be halfway through describing an idea and somehow he’s already solving problems, planning shots, and seeing the finished product in his head.
I’ll also be honest. Productions are stressful. Sleep deprivation is real. Pressure is real. Responsibility is real. There are moments when I’m carrying so many moving pieces that my patience isn’t what it should be. Paul has always had an incredible understanding of that. He never escalates. He never takes things personally. He simply keeps moving forward, helping solve the problem in front of him.
Of course, I always apologize afterward because growth matters and accountability matters. None of us are perfect. But I can’t say enough about the grace Paul extends during difficult moments. What I admire most about him is that for all his talent, he’s a family man first. His priorities are in the right place. His values are in the right place. You can teach someone how to operate a camera. You can teach someone how to edit video. What you can’t teach is character. Paul has both.
As I drove away from Athens exhausted, sore, sleep deprived, nursing a broken toe and wondering how my feet survived an entire day in platform heels, I realized something. The reason I was still smiling wasn’t because we made a music video. It wasn’t because we got the shots. It wasn’t because the production survived. It was because I had spent an entire day surrounded by people who reminded me what excellence really looks like. Not perfection. Excellence. The kind built on effort. The kind built on character. The kind built on showing up when it’s easier not to.
Sometimes the most beautiful days aren’t the ones where everything goes right. They’re the days where everything goes wrong and you discover just how many good people are standing beside you. The older I get, the more I realize that life isn’t built by stars. It’s built by the people carrying the lights. The friend with the drill in their hand. The bandmate loading gear after midnight. The woman fixing your hair when you’re falling apart. The young leader quietly holding everything together. The director who sees the vision before you’ve even finished explaining it.
Those people aren’t just part of the story. They are the reason the story exists at all. And for one unforgettable day in Athens, Georgia, I was lucky enough to be surrounded by the very best of them.
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