SPARK Insights™ Issue #0051

As you're reading this, I'm sitting in Perry Marshall's Roundtable meeting in Chicago.

I'm there as a coach, helping members set intentions and integrate what they learn so they get the most out of their mastermind experience.

But last week, I was somewhere completely different.

Eleven rounds in eight days with Arlene across multiple courses around Myrtle Beach and Pawleys Island, South Carolina.

Perfect fall weather.
Courses in pristine condition.

And on the very first day, something happened that took my breath away.

The Hawk

Hole number 3 of the first course on the first day. Par 5. Lots of undulation.

Arlene was on the left side of the fairway in the rough.
I was on the right side, also in the rough.

Then a hawk flew down from a tree and landed on a hill directly in front of Arlene.

Just standing there.

She pointed at it.
I pointed at it at the exact same moment.
We both saw it.

About fifteen seconds later, the hawk took off.

Straight toward me.

It flew in a direct line.
Right at me.
And I mean right at me.

I took a step back with my left foot and pivoted 90 degrees.

The hawk flew past my eye line.
So close I could have reached out and touched it.

Then it disappeared into the forest another sixty yards away.

I stood there, breathless.

I've done a little research since then.

Across cultures, hawks show up during moments of transition. They're messengers that appear when you need to gain a higher perspective, when you're being called to see something you've been missing.

Hawks symbolize clarity, vision, and spiritual awareness. They represent the ability to rise above challenges and see the bigger picture.

In Native American traditions, they're viewed as spiritual messengers and protectors. In biblical texts, they're symbols of divine guidance, a reminder that we're being watched over from above.

What strikes me most is this:

Hawks appear when you need to pay attention to something that's right in front of you.

They fly high to see the whole landscape, but they can also spot the smallest detail on the ground. They remind us to zoom out and zoom in at the same time.

I'm turning 56.
Starting a new year around the sun.

And this hawk showed up on the first hole of the first course on the first day.

Maybe it was just a hawk looking for food.

Or maybe I'm supposed to pay attention to something I've been missing.

The Week

Eleven rounds of golf in eight days across multiple courses around Myrtle Beach and Pawleys Island, South Carolina.

My 56th birthday on October 23rd.
Time with Arlene away from everything. T
he week before, we celebrated with our daughters at Top Golf and a nice dinner.

And here's what hit me during the trip:

I'm not sure I fully know what it means to celebrate.

I mean, yes, we did the dinner.
We had the golf outing with the girls.
I was there.
I was present.

But there's something deeper about celebration that I'm still learning.

Monday Night

The day after I got back, we held our golf team banquet.

Sixteen athletes and their families. My first year coaching high school golf after retiring from coaching basketball.

We celebrated their season. The growth they showed. The moments that mattered.

And I realized something:

I'm way better at celebrating others than I am at celebrating myself.

I can throw a banquet for sixteen teenagers and their families and make sure they feel seen and appreciated.

But when it comes to my own wins? My own milestones?

I just move on to the next thing.

The Pattern

Here's what I'm seeing in myself:

I'm always looking forward.
Always focused on what's next.
Always chasing the next level of growth or achievement.

And I almost never stop to acknowledge where I've come from.

It's a pattern I've reinforced for years.

Always moving to the next thing. Never stopping to acknowledge what just happened.

I told myself it was just humility.
Just staying humble.
Just the way I'm wired.

But maybe it's something else.

Maybe it's a way of avoiding acknowledgment. 
Of deflecting praise.
Of keeping myself small even when something big happens.

And here's the problem with that:

When you don't celebrate, you miss the evidence.

Last week, I wrote about the momentum flywheel. How conviction leads to action, action produces evidence, and evidence builds more conviction.

But what if you never stop to see the evidence?

What if you blow right past every win, every milestone, every moment of growth because you're already focused on the next thing?

You rob yourself of the fuel that keeps the flywheel spinning.

You train yourself to believe that nothing you do is ever enough. You reinforce scarcity instead of abundance.

I like when people know me.
I like when people respect me.

But I avoid people making a fuss over me.

I actually enjoy the texts and messages. They're simple. Direct. No performance required.

What I struggle with is the attention. The spotlight. The celebration that requires me to be the center of it.

I prefer to celebrate quietly.
Or not at all.

What Celebration Actually Is

Back in May, at the last Roundtable meeting, one of Perry's team members, John McGee, talked about celebration.

And the topic is coming up for me again now.

Because I'm realizing celebration isn't just about throwing a party or patting yourself on the back.

Celebration is stopping long enough to acknowledge what happened.

It's saying out loud: "This mattered. This was significant. I'm different because of this."

It's the pause between action and the next action where you actually look at the evidence you just created.

Think about it:

You land a big client. Do you celebrate, or do you immediately start thinking about how to deliver?

You complete a major project. Do you acknowledge what you accomplished, or do you move straight to the next deadline?

You make it another year around the sun. Do you reflect on what that year taught you, or do you just blow out the candles and move on?

Celebration is evidence recognition.

And without it, you break the momentum flywheel.

You go from action to more action without ever noticing the results. Without ever building the conviction that comes from seeing what you're capable of.

It's not indulgent. It's not optional.

It's how you prove to yourself that growth is actually happening.

What I'm Working On

So here's what I'm committing to as I start another year around the sun:

I'm going to practice celebration as evidence recognition.

Not just the big wins.
The small ones too.

Not just other people's achievements.
My own.

Here's what that looks like practically:

At the end of each week, I'm going to write down three things that happened that week that mattered.

Not vague gratitude statements. Specific evidence.

"I had a breakthrough conversation with a client."
"I wrote something that resonated with people."
"I showed up when I didn't feel like it."

When something significant happens, I'm going to pause for 60 seconds before moving to the next thing.

Literally stop.
Breathe.
Acknowledge what just occurred.

Let myself feel it.

I'm going to tell people when their work impacted me.

Because celebrating others is how you learn to celebrate yourself. And because people deserve to know when they mattered.

And I'm going to stop apologizing for taking up space.

When someone celebrates me, I'm going to say "thank you" instead of deflecting. I'm going to let myself be seen.

This isn't natural for me yet.

But maybe that's why the hawk showed up on hole number 3 of the first course on the first day.

Flying straight at me.
Impossible to miss.

A messenger appearing in a moment of transition, telling me to pay attention to something I've been ignoring.

Maybe I'm supposed to stop flying over my own evidence.
Maybe I'm supposed to land.

Your Turn

So here's my question for you:

What evidence have you created in the last month that you never stopped to acknowledge?

Not "what are you grateful for" in some vague sense.

What specific thing did you do?
What result did you get?
What moment mattered?

And here are some harder questions:

What pattern are you reinforcing by never celebrating?

Are you telling yourself you're staying humble when you're actually staying small?
Are you avoiding acknowledgment because it feels uncomfortable to be seen?
Are you rushing to the next thing because stopping feels too vulnerable?

What would change if you actually paused to see your own evidence?

How would your conviction grow if you let yourself feel proud of what you've accomplished? How would your momentum increase if you acknowledged that you're actually making progress?

And who in your life deserves to be celebrated but hasn't been?

Who showed up for you that you never thanked?
Who accomplished something significant while you were too busy to notice?
Who needs to hear that they mattered?

I'm working on this myself. I don't have it figured out.

But I know this: the things you don't celebrate, you eventually stop noticing.

And I don't want to stop noticing the goodness in my life just because I'm too busy chasing the next thing.

The hawk didn't show up by accident.

It showed up when I needed to pay attention.

A Resource for Clarity

If part of your struggle with celebration is that you don't actually know what's working or what fulfills you, that's where the Purpose Factor® assessment can help.

It shows you:

• What actually brings you fulfillment (so you know what to celebrate)

• Your natural strengths (so you can acknowledge them instead of dismissing them)

• The patterns behind your best moments (so you can create more of them)

Clarity about what matters makes celebration feel less awkward and more natural.

👉 Get your Purpose Factor® Assessment and Clarity Call here

Until next week,

– Coach Reg

P.S. Tonight, my dad turns 79. We're having dinner to celebrate him.

Making it to 79 is an accomplishment worth acknowledging. Making it to 56 is too. And so is whatever age you are right now, whatever milestone you just passed, whatever evidence you just created.

Stop right now and name one thing from this past week that mattered.

Say it out loud. Let yourself feel it.

That's celebration.

P.P.S. If you have a hawk story—a moment when nature showed up in a way that felt significant, a message you needed to hear—hit reply and tell me about it.

I'd love to hear what you were supposed to pay attention to.