I’ve won every major advertising award in the world—twice—and it’s shockingly still embarrassing to say out loud. Not because I don’t respect the grind or the people who made the work with me, but because I never wanted to be the guy who needed a gold statue to know he did something right. The trophies matter, sure. But the making of the thing—and what that thing did in the world—that’s what counts.

Creativity starts in doubt. In the quiet, twitchy corners of our minds where fear likes to whisper things like “don’t say that” or “play it safe.” It lives in the silence after someone says, “any thoughts?” and no one wants to go first. While some turn to data and diagrams to steady themselves, I’m more interested in what happens when people lean into the unknown. The hunch. The risk. The original idea that feels almost too human to survive a feedback round—but does.

The way I see it, my job isn’t to be the genius in the room. It’s to make the room safe enough for genius to take root. Especially when the stakes are high—when bonuses are on the line, when comfort wants to kill originality. That’s when the best work shows up: in the quiet energy you feel when a group of people just made something out of nothing—and they know it’s good.

There are plenty of CCOs/ECDs/Global Muckity Mucks who think they have the answers. I’m not one of them. I just try to ask the right questions:

Can we make this the job people look back on as the best one they ever had?
Can we build teams of not just the best—but the kindest people?
Can we pitch on our feet instead of our knees?

Can we beat the high watermark?
Can we actually enjoy this?