Every Behavior Has a Story

One of the first things I learned as a coach was that behavior is easy to see.

Attitudes. Effort. Body language. Words. Choices.

They’re all visible. What isn’t visible are the reasons behind them.

Imagine an iceberg floating in the ocean. Only a small portion rises above the water. The massive foundation remains hidden beneath the surface.

People are much the same.

The words we speak. The choices we make. The anger. The anxiety. The withdrawal. The confidence. The arrogance.

Those are the parts everyone sees.

Underneath are experiences. Relationships. Loss. Fear. Shame. Hope. Dreams. Trauma. Love. Identity.

The heart.

Most of life happens beneath the surface.

I know this is true, because for most of my life, I was the iceberg.

Let me show you what the surface looked like on me.

No smiling — that’s weakness.

Fists balled up. Face locked. Always ready for a fight at the drop of a hat.

Feelings are the enemy. Feelings make you vulnerable, and vulnerable means prey.

Every man for himself. No one gets in. No one gets close.

If you had met me as a boy — if I had walked into your classroom, your gym, your youth group — that’s what you would have seen. And if you only responded to what you saw, you would have called it an attitude problem. Defiance. Disrespect. A kid looking for trouble.

You would have been wrong.

Because underneath the surface, there was a story.

I grew up in West Philadelphia, the son of a father who was almost never there — and when he was, there was drama. I rarely remember any peace.

He would disappear for weeks and resurface like nothing happened. I’d be outside riding my bike, see him heading for the door, and beg him to take me with him.

He’d say, “Next time.”

It was always “next time” and never “get in.”

So I learned early that a man’s word meant nothing. And that lesson didn’t stay contained to him. It attached itself to everyone — teachers, coaches, anyone — regardless of their intentions. Remnants of it remain today. My brother and I walked to our games alone, all across West Philly. No one showed up. If it was too far, we caught a ride with the coach — or we didn’t go. We figured it out. We always figured it out.

Because we had to.

Then one day — I was still in elementary school — my father took my brother and me somewhere we had never been. An apartment across town. He walked into a bedroom and changed into comfortable clothes, like it was home. Nothing was said. No explanation. He was answering a question we hadn’t asked yet: where he goes when he says he’ll “be right back.” Where he goes when he says “next time.”

And then he took us outside to watch another woman’s son.

The boy started doing flips in the yard, like some kind of Olympic champion. And my father — this man who did not cheer, who did not show up, who did not stay — started cheering him on with an enthusiasm I had never heard before. A joy in his voice I did not recognize and had never been able to locate when it came to me.

Standing there, watching my father cheer for someone else’s son, something in me went quiet in a way that took years to name.

That’s when the armor went on.

Here is what I need you to understand about the difficult people you lead.

Trauma is survival dressed up as a personality.

The armor I wore wasn’t rebellion. It was protection. The locked face, the balled fists, the refusal to smile, the wall against every adult who tried to get close — every piece of it made perfect sense given what my heart had learned about the world.

A man’s word means nothing. Showing up isn’t for you. Feelings get you hurt.

My behavior wasn’t the problem. My behavior was the evidence. It was my heart’s honest report about what life had taught it so far.

And here’s what breaks my own heart looking back: the adults who only saw the surface confirmed the story. Every “what’s wrong with you” told me I was right to keep the armor on. It took the rare adult — the coach who kept his word, the teacher who saw something in me — to make me wonder if the armor was still necessary.

That armor made sense somewhere.

Your job isn’t to punish the armor off of him. It’s to become safe enough that he starts to wonder if he still needs it.

When behavior frustrates us, our instinct is to correct it.

The player rolls their eyes. The student talks back. The employee misses deadlines. The child throws a tantrum.

We immediately ask, “How do I stop this?” A better question might be, “What is this behavior trying to communicate?”

Behavior is often communication before it’s rebellion. Not always. But often.

Sometimes anger is protecting hurt. Sometimes withdrawal is protecting disappointment. Sometimes perfectionism is protecting shame. Sometimes control is protecting fear.

And sometimes a locked face and balled fists are protecting a boy who watched his father cheer for someone else.

Healthy leaders learn to become students of people before becoming judges of people.

I used to believe that if I could motivate people enough, they would change. Work harder. Try harder. Focus harder.

Eventually I realized something.

Not everyone starts from the same place.

One athlete may come from a home filled with encouragement. Another may have never heard the words “I’m proud of you.”

One student may go home to peace. Another may go home to chaos.

One child may believe they are deeply loved. Another may spend every day wondering if anyone notices them.

The assignment may be the same.

The starting line isn’t.

I know, because I ran my whole childhood from a starting line most of my teachers never saw. That realization changed the way I coached forever.

When Samuel came to anoint Israel’s next king, Jesse didn’t even invite David.

His own father assumed someone else was more worthy.

Imagine that for a moment. Before David ever defeated Goliath, before he ever became king, he knew what it felt like to be overlooked. Forgotten. Undervalued. Left in the field while his father presented other sons.

I don’t have to imagine it. I stood in that yard.

Scripture never tells us exactly how being overlooked shaped David. But it reminds us that every hero has a story. And it tells us what God did with it:

While everyone else looked at appearance, God looked beneath the surface.

God didn’t ignore David’s heart. He saw it.

That’s still how He sees people today. Looking Like Jesus

One of the most remarkable things about Jesus was His ability to see beyond behavior.

When everyone saw a tax collector, Jesus saw Matthew. When everyone saw an impulsive fisherman, Jesus saw Peter. When everyone saw a woman caught in sin, Jesus saw a daughter worth restoring. When everyone saw a thief on a cross, Jesus saw a man capable of faith.

Jesus never minimized sin. But He refused to let a person’s worst moment become their entire identity.

That’s the invitation for us as leaders. Not to excuse behavior. Not to ignore accountability. But to remember that every person is more than the worst thing they’ve ever done.

And more than the armor they walked in wearing.

One of the greatest gifts we can give another person is curiosity.

Curiosity slows us down. It keeps us from making quick assumptions. It reminds us we don’t know the whole story.

Judgment asks, “What’s wrong with you?”

Curiosity asks, “Help me understand.”

Judgment closes doors. Curiosity opens conversations.

People who feel understood are far more likely to accept correction than people who feel condemned.

Nobody ever asked the boy with the balled fists what he was protecting. I’m asking you to be the one who asks.

This may surprise you.

The goal of leadership isn’t behavior modification. It’s heart transformation.

Behavior matters. Choices matter. Accountability matters.

But lasting change rarely happens because someone was forced to comply. Lasting change happens when the heart begins to change.

That’s why Jesus consistently addressed the heart first. Because whatever fills the heart eventually shapes behavior.

Healthy fruit grows from healthy roots.

The armor didn’t come off of me because someone punished it off. It came off — slowly, over decades — because a few people showed up, kept their word, and stayed. It came off because the story my heart had learned was finally contradicted by evidence.

You can be that evidence for someone. Reflection

Think about someone who has been difficult for you to lead.

Now ask yourself:

Remember: everyone you meet is carrying a story you cannot fully see.

Lead accordingly.