I Found My Why

Let me tell you about the time I found my why…

When I think about times when I feel true synergy in my work it always comes back to this: connecting with others over ideas that resonate like music, creating harmony in the exchange of understanding.

There’s something transformative about sharing knowledge I’ve studied deeply, watching people connect with it, interpret it, and make it their own. Those moments of exchange—where learning becomes a shared act of creation—are where I feel most alive.

But my “why” didn’t start on a keynote stage or television interview. It started in a small living room in Queens, New York, when I was just three or four years old.

I remember light streaming in through the bay windows behind me as I sat in a little wooden rocking chair. The room glowed in that light, and I could hear the soft murmur of conversation between my parents and grandmother, likely wondering what Papa Benny and I were getting into at the piano.

My great-great-grandfather, Benjamin Ervin—known as “Barroom Benny”—was an extraordinary pianist. Despite his talent, he couldn’t fully pursue opportunities in orchestras or major philharmonics due to the times he lived in. Instead, he became a local legend in his own right, playing in small venues across the city. Here is a fan’s comical rendition of him at work back in 1939. I imagine if here were still here he would be like virtuoso concert pianist Kayden Kelly.

That day I watched Papa Benny at the piano. His eyes closed, completely transported, fully engaged and joyful as he played Scott Joplin’s March Majestic. The soft, lilting opening swelled into a jubilant crescendo, filling the room with its famous ragtime rhythm. His white teeth and hair seemed to glow in the sunlight as he smiled, his joy radiating through the music.

The piano itself, a polished wooden upright with keys worn from years of playing, seemed almost alive under his hands. I was mesmerized, unable to take my eyes off him.

He must have noticed because he stopped, turned to me, and said, “Marcia, come here.”

I shuffled over, my small feet barely making a sound on the wooden floor. He patted the piano bench, warm from where he’d been sitting. As I climbed up, my feet dangled and swung beneath me.

He took my little hand in his—his touch warm, gentle, and guiding—and placed my fingers on the keys. The cool smoothness of the ivory was a new sensation as he showed me where to press: middle C, D, E, F, G. Hesitant and clunky at first, I managed to tap out the simple melody.

The rocking chair I’d been sitting in still creaked softly as if it were part of the moment too. When I finished playing, Papa Benny clapped enthusiastically, as if I’d just performed Bach at Carnegie Hall. He even showed me how to bow after the performance.

“How does it feel?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.

I looked up at him, beaming. “So good. The music comes from my hands. I love this. Thanks, Papa.”

This moment stayed with me—not just for the music, but for the way he shared his expertise with such care and joy. He didn’t just teach me how to press the keys; he passed on his love for music in a way that made it mine.

That memory is where I trace my “why.” It’s not just about expertise; it’s about sharing my expertise with care and compassion, inspiring others to make it their own and build upon it.

Whether it’s giving a keynote, writing a book, coaching a CEO, or writing a post for fun like this one, my best work always follows this pattern. I love weaving stories, crafting beautiful visuals, organizing ideas into a meaningful flow—creating something that resonates like a song.

When I’m connecting with others in these ways I’m not only performing. I’m inviting them into the melody, giving them the tools to remix and retell it in their own voices.

Just like Papa Benny taught me those first few notes, my work is about showing others how to find their own key so they can take it further. That’s what I love most about what I do: helping others create their own stories, chart their own paths.

And that’s my “why.” It’s connection. It’s legacy. It’s sharing ideas with love, care, and joy—like music, ready to be played in new ways by future generations. That, to me, is the ultimate harmony.