In Oregon, it rains most of the year. People don’t wait it out. You put on a jacket, pull up the hood, and head out. No one bothers with an umbrella. Life keeps moving. Over time, the rain teaches you how to think. Gray days stop feeling like a problem to solve. Rain means full lakes and rivers, and snow building up in the mountains. You learn to hold a longer view, to trust that what feels inconvenient now is supporting something essential later. When the mountain is an hour

I grew up in Minnesota, which means certain things still live in my body. You show up. You do not announce it. Someone’s car won’t start, so you grab jumper cables. A neighbor’s sidewalk is buried, so you keep shoveling past your own. Food arrives quietly when life gets hard. No one asks if help is needed. You already know. Humility is a given. You learn early that competence speaks louder than confidence. People notice who works hard, who follows through, who doesn’t need cr