My purpose

Purpose is the question that has followed me through every season of my life. It is the question that whispers to me in moments of stillness and rises loudly during moments of doubt. It is the question that sits beneath every other choice I make, guiding me toward something larger than my own self-interest. Purpose is not an accessory that I place on a shelf when I leave my home. It is not separate from my personal or professional identity. It is the center point of my life, a place where the different parts of me meet and form a coherent whole.

When I speak about purpose, I am referring to my deepest reason for being. I am reflecting on why I exist on this earth and what I am called to do with the time I have. I have learned that purpose need not be mysterious. Purpose reveals itself when a person listens closely to the lessons from their own life and the lives of others. Purpose also reveals itself when a person allows their scars and their triumphs to carry equal weight. Understanding purpose requires honesty, reflection, and a willingness to examine one's entire history with clarity rather than judgment.

How imperfection led me toward purpose

I came to understand purpose through lived experience rather than theory. I reached it through the discomfort of trying to be someone who met others' expectations. I believed for decades that perfection was about pleasing everyone. I believed that perfection meant minimizing my own needs and shaping myself into whatever others wanted. This way of living left me exhausted and disconnected from myself. I carried the belief that I did not belong anywhere. I moved through the world with the constant hope that if I worked hard enough, achieved enough, or showed up flawlessly enough, I would finally know acceptance.

The turning point arrived when I realized that perfection is not the absence of flaws. Perfection is the courage to embrace one's imperfections fully. When I decided to accept myself exactly as I am, I discovered a truth that has shaped my entire purpose. I want others to feel the safety and liberation that come with belonging. I want every person to know that they have a place in this world, and that their existence is not conditional on approval. I want people to know that they belong within their families, workplaces, communities, schools, spiritual spaces, and their own hearts.

What I also know is this: when a person with a platform lives openly in their own imperfection, they give something to everyone watching. Not permission, exactly. Something more generous than that. They make imperfection visible as something to lean into, not apologize for. That is what I hope this book does. Not by telling you that imperfection is acceptable, though by showing you that it is beautiful.

I also understand that I come from a place of privilege as a white man in a society structured to advantage me. I cannot ignore this reality. My privilege is not something that makes me superior to others. It is a responsibility that requires action. I have accountability to help rebuild systems, cultures, and environments in ways that include everyone. In my professional work, I have come to see myself as what I call the policy person: someone who believes that creating cultures of belonging requires written documentation, not just good intentions. It requires clear articulation of values, expectations, responsibilities, and accountability systems, whether in a workplace, a place of worship, a school, a community center, or a government at every level. The rules and guidelines that govern how a culture operates either invite everyone in or quietly turn people away. I have made it my work to examine those systems and demand better. I will go deeper into what that looks like in practice in other chapters, particularly in the sections on what I have learned and how I lead. However, I want to name it here: purpose without accountability is incomplete. Purpose with accountability becomes transformative.

Daily choices, daily purpose

Purpose is not a grand declaration that a person makes once in life. Purpose is a daily practice. It shows up in the smallest interactions and the largest commitments. It defines how I greet the barista who hands me a cup of coffee, how I speak to the person checking my groceries, how I show up for my colleagues, and how I listen to the people I love. Purpose is present in every opportunity to create a connection.

Those small moments matter more than people realize. When I notice the barista has done something bold with their hair, I say so. When I see a pin on someone's uniform that speaks to who they are, I call it out with genuine care. When I ask a colleague how their weekend actually was and then wait for the real answer, not the polished one, I am practicing inclusion. It does not require a policy or a program. It requires presence. Belonging happens in the smallest of moments, and those moments accumulate into something a person either carries with them or does not.

I also want to be honest about something. I do not always show up as the best version of myself. Since my cancer treatment, I no longer have a thyroid, and I will explore what that has meant for my health and my life in the chapter dedicated to that experience. What I will say here is that there are days when I simply do not have the energy to maintain the mental clarity and emotional presence that my purpose requires. On those days, my filter is not as sharp. I can be a little cranky. I know it. The people close to me know it. And in those moments, I am not the version of myself I aspire to be. However, I have the responsibility to ensure that, even on my hardest days, I do not negatively impact the people around me. That responsibility does not disappear because I am tired. It simply requires more intentional effort.

Maya Angelou observed that people will forget what you said and forget what you did, though they will carry forever the feeling of how you made them feel. That truth is the architecture of everything I do. My life's work is to help create spaces where people know they are seen, valued, and safe. I want people to leave interactions with me feeling more grounded in their worth, not less.

When I look ahead to the end of my life, I hope that my legacy will be clear. I hope people say I helped create a world where belonging was possible for everyone. Not belonging in a passive sense. Rather, belonging is an active, lived experience that shapes the quality of a person's life. Belonging creates confidence, healing, and courage. Belonging allows people to thrive.

The power of intentionality and clarity

Intentionality guides the way I move through the world. It requires presence, care, and attention. Being intentional is the art of choosing actions that align with one's values, identity, and commitments. It requires preparation, deep listening, and a genuine investment in understanding the humanity of the person in front of you. A person cannot show up with intention if they have not done the interior work to know who they are and who they are serving.

One of the clearest moments of intentional action in my professional life came when I joined Krispy Kreme and was offered the title of Chief Diversity Officer. I turned it down. I had come to understand that the use of the word Chief in that context carried cultural weight I was not willing to ignore, given the ways that title has historically been connected to Indigenous communities and used casually in corporate settings without that recognition. So I chose a different title: Head of Belonging. That choice was not universally understood. However, for those who knew, it was unmistakable. My title lives out in front of me before anyone even speaks to me. And I believe it should reflect the values I am asking others to adopt. That is what intentionality looks like in practice: it is not always a grand gesture. Sometimes it is a job title. Sometimes it is the word you choose when no one is watching.

Clarity is different from intentionality, though the two are inseparable. I think of clarity the way I think of windows. Windows get dirty. Left alone, they cloud over and distort the view. You have to actively and consistently clean them. Clarity is not a destination I have arrived at. It is something I work on every day. I do this by reading widely, even when the news of the world is difficult to sit with. I do this by asking the people in my life what is actually happening in their world, not just the surface version, so that I can understand what might be affecting them and show up for them accordingly. I do this by seeking out thinkers who disagree with me and by reading books that poke holes in my existing assumptions. If my lens on the world is cloudy, I cannot see people clearly. And if I cannot see people clearly, I cannot serve them well.

Clarity also requires me to distinguish between two often-confused concepts: safety and comfort. They are not the same. Think about physical exercise. You have to exercise safely, with proper form and without injury. However, if you are comfortable throughout the entire workout, your muscles are not growing. The discomfort is where the growth happens. The same is true in the spaces I try to help create. My responsibility is to ensure that those spaces are genuinely safe, which means people are secure, respected, and protected from harm. It does not mean everyone will be comfortable at all times. Comfort without challenge can become complacency. And I do not believe that is the purpose anyone actually wants.

Authenticity cannot exist without psychological safety. An environment filled with fear cannot produce connection. An environment filled with curiosity, empathy, and respect allows people to express themselves without hesitation. My purpose, therefore, requires that I cultivate psychological safety in every space I enter.

Claiming my identity through my name

My name, Christopher, reflects the intentional way I choose to live. Insisting on the use of my full name is not about formality. It is about honoring my identity and inviting others to honor theirs. When someone calls me Christopher, I feel grounded, upright, and present. I feel understood.

There are moments when hearing the name Chris feels incomplete, even when spoken by family. I understand that for them, the name carries history and affection. I also understand that names have power. They shape how a person sees themselves and how others see them. By choosing Christopher, I choose to affirm my own identity. I choose to respect myself. I also choose to open conversations about the importance of honoring others' names and pronouns. Names are central to belonging. They signal acceptance, dignity, and humanity. I explore this at greater depth in the chapter that opens this book. If you have not read it yet, I invite you to return to it. The story of how I came to claim the name Christopher fully is woven through everything else I will share here.

I also want to name something that has taken me a long time to say clearly: I live at the intersection of all of my identities. The ones I have named here, and others I have not yet shared. All of us do. We cannot park one identity aside while we inhabit another. Our lived experiences, our heritage, our longings, our contradictions, all shape how we view this world and how we show up in it. I know that my purpose has been shaped precisely by the place where my identities meet. That intersection is not a burden. It is the source of my most honest and most useful work.

Moments that defined my path

There is no single moment that made me who I am. That is important to name. My path has been shaped by an accumulation of experiences, some painful, some joyful, many both at once. Each of the moments I name here will have its own chapter later in this book, where the full story lives. What I want to offer here is not a complete accounting. I want to give you a sense of the texture of a life that has known both fracture and wholeness, and how all of it has pointed toward the same purpose.

I experienced bullying in school because I danced. I heard from leaders in the Catholic Church that my family structure made me unworthy. I realized I was a gay man and encountered additional rejection. I navigated environments where my identities caused discomfort in others. These moments created pain. They also created depth. They gave me a direct line of understanding of what it feels like to be told, implicitly or explicitly, that you do not belong. I carry that understanding into every room I enter.

There were defining moments in faith and tradition as well. Being raised in an Italian family that believed deeply in tradition, and being formed in the Catholic Church, gave me a framework for belonging that was also, at times, conditional. Coming to fully understand and accept my sexuality did not happen quickly. The messages I was receiving from the Church and from the cultural values of my family made that journey complicated. Being gay was not supported by the Church. It also challenged what my Italian family understood as tradition. That tension took years to navigate. I will explore it fully in its own chapter. What I will say here is that living through that tension gave me a profound understanding of what it costs a person to be told that who they are is not welcome.

I also want to name something I am still in the middle of. I am recently divorced. That is not a story I am fully ready to tell yet. What I know is that it has affected my children, and I carry that with the weight it deserves. My work, every day, is to ensure that this chapter of our lives does not derail them. The belonging I am working to protect most urgently right now is theirs.

There were uplifting moments as well. Adopting my children was one of the greatest joys of my life. I knew instantly that I could help give them stability, security, and unconditional love. Surviving cancer taught me the complexity of the medical system and the strength that emerges when a person confronts vulnerability. During my treatment, I navigated moments that were genuinely frightening, not just medically, though systemically. I grew up in a family connected to the medical field. I knew how to read between the lines, how to advocate for myself, how to ask the right questions of the right people. And I kept thinking: what about the people who do not have that? What about the person who cannot pull back the curtain because no one in their life has ever shown them how? People fall through the cracks of systems designed to be complex. Their health is the cost. That experience deepened my commitment to accessibility in every sense of the word.

Growing up on a farm taught me the value of labor, resilience, and nature. Being raised in an Italian family taught me loyalty and generosity. Pursuing education taught me the power of opportunity. These experiences formed the foundation of my leadership and my empathy.

My mother has had a significant influence on my sense of self, and still does. She pushed me to reach further than I believed I could. She encouraged my voice and supported my growth. Mentors across my life shaped my understanding of leadership. They modeled the courage and humility I now strive to embody. I also carry gratitude for the activists and trailblazers who paved the way for me to live more freely. Their work created openings that allow me to create openings for others.

Leadership rooted in listening

I define leadership through presence, listening, and intention. Leadership is not about titles or authority. Leadership is about influence, trust, and service. And yet I will be honest: I am someone who likes to talk. I have been known to enjoy the sound of my own voice. That is not a quality I hide. However, it is one I actively work against, because I have learned that what happens when I stop talking and simply listen is irreplaceable.

When we do not listen, we miss the story. We miss the richness of others' experience. We miss what the room is actually telling us. I have moments where I go into the woods and simply listen to the sounds of nature, because that kind of stillness clears something in me that nothing else does. It reminds me that insight does not always come from speaking. It comes from being present enough to receive what is already there.

When people recognize that you are truly listening, they know they are valued. They know they are welcomed. They know they are respected. Listening is just as powerful as talking. Often more so. It is the act through which belonging is confirmed, not just promised.

I think about a moment with one of my direct reports at a former organization. It was one of the busiest weeks our team had faced. We were relying on her specific expertise to get critical work across the finish line. And then a family crisis happened. There was no question about what came first. Family comes first. I told her: we have you covered. Go. Whatever we cannot get done because it requires you, it waits until you return. And when she came back, she came back with a renewed sense of purpose about why she was there. Because she had been shown that she was a whole person before she was an employee. That is what active inclusion looks like inside a team. It is not a grand gesture. It is a choice made in a moment of pressure.

I also want to name something that I believe other leaders sometimes avoid saying: I did not cause white male privilege to exist. However, I have absolutely benefited from it. I am a white man in a society structured to advantage white men, and I have a responsibility to do more than acknowledge that. I have a responsibility to actively work toward dismantling the systems that sustain it. That means saying so publicly, as I am doing here. It means using whatever access and influence I have to open doors I was handed keys to. And it means holding myself accountable when I notice my own biases at work.

I have one that I will name here, because honesty is the point. I have a bias toward people who dress in certain ways. I notice it. I catch myself making early assumptions based on physical presentation before I have had the chance to know who someone actually is. I have a whole chapter coming about the work of recognizing my own biases. However, I name this one here because I believe leaders who acknowledge specific, personal patterns of bias are more credible than those who simply declare themselves allies. What is in someone's heart and mind is what matters. I have to keep cleaning my lens so I can actually see it.

I also believe that the communities around us deserve to be reflected in the leadership that represents them. The leaders of companies should reflect the employees and consumers they serve. Our government leaders, from the most local office to the federal level, need to be representative of the people who live in their communities. When leadership does not reflect the community, the community is being asked to trust people who do not know what it is to live their lives. That is an equity problem. It is also a belonging problem. And it is one I intend to keep naming.

I want to be known as a leader whose actions align with his words. I value the high say-do ratio others have observed in me because I believe integrity is essential to cultivating trust. I see myself as a global citizen. I believe that every human being has inherent dignity. I do not believe anyone's identity makes them less deserving of opportunity, safety, or belonging.

My purpose is to help create a world where people do not just survive. People deserve to thrive. People deserve to explore their passions, express their truths, and live boldly.

Reflection invitation

As you reflect on this chapter and on the idea of purpose in your own life, I invite you to pause and consider the inner landscape that guides you. Purpose is not merely discovered. Purpose is shaped, challenged, refined, and strengthened by the choices you make and the truths you claim. These questions will help you connect with the meaning that lives within you.

What moments have shaped your understanding of who you are?

Think about the experiences that revealed your strengths, tested your confidence, or demanded that you stand in your identity more firmly.

Where have you felt the deepest sense of belonging in your life?

Recall the environments, relationships, or communities where you felt seen and valued. Notice what conditions allowed that belonging to grow.

When have you felt disconnected from yourself or others?

Consider the times when belonging felt distant or fragile. Reflect on what those moments taught you about your needs, your boundaries, and your resilience.

What values guide your decisions, even when the path is uncertain?

Identify the principles that anchor you. These values often reveal the core of your purpose.

How does your identity shape your purpose and the way you show up for others?

Acknowledge the parts of your story that have given you empathy, courage, and awareness. Recognize how your lived experience has strengthened your calling.

Where do you feel called to create a sense of belonging in the world?

Think about the spaces, people, or systems that could benefit from your voice, your leadership, or your presence. Purpose often becomes clearest when directed toward service.

What legacy do you hope your life will leave?

Imagine what you want others to say about how you made them feel. Reflect on the impact you hope your presence will have on the world around you.

The world you are helping to build

Purpose is not a destination. Purpose is an ongoing decision to live with intentionality, clarity, and authenticity. It is the courage to know yourself, to honor your identity, and to create spaces where others can honor theirs. It is choosing to stand firmly in who you are so that others feel empowered to do the same.

As you step forward, remember that your purpose does not need to be perfect. It simply needs to be true. You are building a world through every interaction, every choice, and every moment of presence. Make it a world grounded in belonging. Make it a world where people know they are safe to breathe, grow, and be their full selves.

Your purpose is already within you. This reflection is simply an invitation to see it more clearly.

Updated: 02/25/2026