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THE RESILIENCE ISSUE

contents

issue no. 23

What it takes

Paws of War

Lifted to lead

Lessons in building something from nothing

A mission to serve veterans and the dogs they love

An educator discovers the true meaning of leadership

page 24

page 28

page 36

EXECUTIVE EDITOR FRANK PINE fpine@medianewsgroup.com

advertising SENIOR VICE PRESIDENT, ADVERTISING KYLA RODRIGUEZ advertising@scng.com

SENIOR DIRECTOR OF MARKETING CAROLINE WONG cawong@scng.com

editorial EDITOR SAMANTHA DUNN sdunn@scng.com

CONTRIBUTORS JEFF ANTENORE, DANIELLE BAUTER, PAUL BERSEBACH, JOE BLACKSTOCK, JEFF GRITCHEN, MICHAELA HAAS, SUSAN HORNIK, ROBIN KEATS, DREW A. KELLEY, TONY LATTIMORE, JESSICA PERALTA, PAUL RODRIGUEZ, JIM RULAND, MINDY SCHAUER, TREVOR STAMP

PHOTO EDITOR MICHELE CARDON

COPY EDITOR JERRY RICE

CREATIVE DIRECTOR LAILA DERAKHSHANIAN

cover

ILLUSTRATION JEFF GOERTZEN

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publisher’s letter

The rest of the story DEAR SUBSCRIBER,

PUBLISHER, SCNG

PHOTO BY TREVOR STAMP

RON HASSE

PHOTO BY LEONARD ORTIZ

overcome illness and personal demons to bring the joy of music to others; an 81-year-old retiree who decided to learn coding and create a video game. And these are just a few. Why do some people manage to thrive after experiencing catastrophic setbacks? That’s another topic examined in these pages. Journalist Michaela Haas, author of “Bouncing Forward,” writes for us about the concept of “post-traumatic growth.” Researchers have found that, for some, struggling with adversity can lead to profound self-discovery, new perspectives and enhanced mental resilience. Many of the people profiled here are perfect examples of this. Great journalism plays an important role in reminding us of our best selves. This magazine is just another example of how our team delivers. I hope you’ll agree. Thank you for your support of our publications and for being a stakeholder in local news. You allow us to keep telling the stories that matter. Happy reading,

SGV Panthers member Jairo Rodriguez touches a base during a drill at McDonald Park in Pasadena.

Surfing Walk of Fame inductee Jesse Billauer with his son, Nakoa, during the 29th ceremony on Main Street in Huntington Beach

PHOTO BY JEFF GRITCHEN

You might remember that years ago, there was a famous radio commentator named Paul Harvey. His most enduring creation was a series called “The Rest of the Story.” In less than five minutes, Harvey mesmerized listeners with true stories that were often about the trials and tribulations people had endured. Most often, it would turn out to be the hidden struggles of someone who was well-known. There was always a lesson in how they triumphed in some way, even when the odds seemed stacked against them. Harvey ended every broadcast with the line, “And now you know … the rest of the story.” Day in and day out, our reporters, editors, photographers and designers provide award-winning local journalism to communities throughout Southern California. I’m very proud of the work we do. Our watchdog reporting to hold institutions accountable to the communities they serve is more vital than ever, as is our reporting on everything from how the weather is impacting the region to updates on our favorite sports teams. But beyond pressing headlines and daily updates, great local news delivers even more: It gives you “the rest of the story,” like this issue of our PREMIUM Magazine. In these pages, we highlight stories not of the famous or powerful, but of everyday people who have faced — or are facing — challenges of varying magnitudes. They have nevertheless found a way forward. Like the profiles Harvey popularized years ago, I think you’ll find that these tales about quiet endurance, commitment and courage offer perspective, inspiration and a sense of connection. They remind us of the individual strength of average citizens, who are the bedrock of our society. This issue introduces us to unforgettable folks: a team of blind athletes who challenge the idea of what’s possible in baseball; a quadriplegic surfer whose mission is to help others with disabilities enjoy the thrill of the ocean; a blues musician who has

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up close

This is not self-help ‘I Would Die If I Were You’ author Emily Rapp Black refuses easy answers BY SAMANTHA DUNN

By any standard of conventional beauty, author Emily Rapp Black is a beauty. She is also quite brilliant; a Fulbright scholar, a Harvard graduate. I can tell you from personal experience that she also has a wicked sense of humor. Another thing to know: Because of a congenital birth defect, Emily is also an amputee who wears a prosthetic leg — she was literally a poster child for the March of Dimes. Why is any of this, in any way, relevant to this article about her new book, “I Would Die If I Were You: Notes on Art and TruthTelling”? Because for most of her life, it’s been as if people can’t wrap their heads around the idea that someone so blessed with physical beauty and intelligence could also experience disability. Random strangers have demanded to know, “What happened to you? Why are you like that?” As Emily, a professor of creative writing at UC Riverside, once said in a Gotham Writers interview, “People have asked me personal questions about my body my whole life and I used to, as a kid, answer them, but now of course I don’t. I just say ‘I wrote a book. Read that.’” Actually, she has published five books, including the New York Times bestseller “Still Point of the 6

Turning World,” about the life and death of her son Ronan, who at nine months of age was diagnosed with Tay-Sachs disease, a rare and always-fatal degenerative disorder. In the wake of losing her son, the constant refrain she heard from others was, “I would die if I were you.” How to respond to that? You could say that her new book is the definitive rejoinder to a lifetime’s worth of unhelpful reactions to tragedy. But it’s also much more. “This is not a how-to or a selfhelp book,” Emily writes in the opening pages. Instead: Call it a manifesto for how art can heal, a manual for how to connect with others, a craft book on writing well, and finally a meditation on how to find meaning when our lives are touched by loss — as all lives eventually will be. “...My life as an artist has made me happy, maybe happier than some because I know it is possible to be the kind of sad that you are sure will kill you and then it doesn’t, and you live,” she writes. “I would die if I were you. No, you probably wouldn’t, but maybe you might at some point say I found a way to live happily, not ever after, but for now, and in a way that you might not have chosen but can still be your own and can still bring you joy.” Here’s a conversation I had with the author, which has been edited.

Q. Your earlier memoirs, “Poster Child” and “The Still Point of the Turning World,” are deeply personal accounts. I’m curious about how this book grew out of those books, and what is different in terms of what you’re offering readers here. A. Yeah … well, it’s not as sad as the other ones, woohoo! So often I found that people who go through any kind of trauma, whatever that might be, feel really alone in it. I mean, I still think that’s part of grief and part of trauma — you do feel really alone — but when you can offer something up to other people that’s a narrative that maybe works as a frame, it’s just … it’s easier to alchemize that experience into something that’s bearable. It felt … I don’t know … more generative and uplifting. I don’t use the word “inspiring” a lot, but it didn’t feel like such a slog to get these stories down. It just felt fun. Q. How do you reframe that idea of not going around, but through pain? A. There’s that old dumb phrase that’s been used — overused — that “the only way out is through.” But I do think that is true. I think you can’t brush everything to the side, or it just comes back fourfold. Yet I think in the process of going through it doesn’t have to be all doom and gloom — even when you’re writing about something really gloomy and doomy. I really do believe that, because,

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PHOTO BY WILLIAM WALDRON

Emily Rapp Black

especially when I was writing “Still Point,” I was sadder than I’ve ever been, in the most miserable, multifaceted, kind of wordless way, but the writing process itself felt so good to me. And this time, there was no one dying when I was writing this, right? I wasn’t in that acute situation with my son, and so it felt like an invitation for me to be, like, okay, I may not be going through that, but other people are, and will continue to be. And they need a better guidebook. So many people in situations of trauma do not have agency and choice — but they have do agency and choice in how they write about it. Q. For readers who are not writers, what is the first step to use writing as a tool for resilience, for survival and for meaning-making, without worrying about it being for publication? A. I think part of it is to slow down. Slow down and practice attention. I often say to my students — we’re all on our phones, but especially the kids that are Gen Z — I say, “Go out in the world without your phone … and just absorb the experience. Don’t write anything down. Don’t do anything.

Just wander around, smell things, use your senses, use your body in space to the best of your ability, and see how that changes how you think.” And once that’s kind of locked in, take that same energy of being outside and smelling grass, listening to birds — and write from that feeling. Because whenever you use your body to do stuff, especially when you’re doing nothing, you are in a state of receptivity, and you’re curious. And I think curiosity is the thing. Get curious about what has mattered to you as a person. And then write those things down. Put down the first things that come to mind. It doesn’t have to be dramatic. Use your associative brain that’s always putting together connections — which I think that we don’t do as much now, because the phone makes the connections for us through the algorithm. But, like, you have your own algorithm in your body; you just may not know what it is. What leaves your attention? What snags your attention? And that’s it. Anyone can write about their life. Q. I’m curious what you would recommend for people who want to show up for friends

or family or whoever, but feel awkward about saying the wrong thing. What’s the guidance there? A. Well, don’t say, “I would die if I were you.” The title is the clue! Don’t say that. It’s just not helpful, and it’s not true. It’s inaccurate, rather. Also, don’t say, “I’m here if you need anything,” and then not be available. Don’t say, “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” Don’t make it about you. I mean, just say things like, “Wow, that sucks.” My friend, the writer Lisa Glatt, when Ronan was alive, would call me and be like, so what’s going on today? And I would tell her, and she would just scream into the phone, over and over, “This is just awful.” It was exactly what I needed to hear. I didn’t want to hear, “Maybe it’ll get better.” Often people want to make a false comparison. This has happened to me so many times: People will literally say to me, “My uncle had a wooden leg,” and I’m like, okay…? I don’t have a single thing in common with your uncle, who’s probably dead if he had a wooden leg, because they don’t make them like that anymore. I don’t know what to say, because that doesn’t mean anything to me. When you lose someone like a parent or a child, you don’t want to hear about how someone’s cat died. I mean, I love my cats a lot, but it isn’t the same. Just, don’t make weird one-to-one comparisons. What would be helpful? Say, “If there’s anything that you think of, here’s my number,” and then respond when they call. Listen. Say, “That is awful,” “It makes me so angry, or sad,” “I hate this for you,” “It’s really unfair.” That’s all true. Don’t offer solutions. Just try to sit with them in the problem of it. Some things don’t have solutions. Don’t put the person going through the trauma in a position to comfort you. So many times, especially in the child loss community, people who try to step in become so sad that then suddenly the person who is experiencing this trauma is helping the person who’s sad. Q. One of the things I loved about this book is that your solutions to loss and pain are found in community and creativity. And you articulate that in so many different, nuanced ways. I want you to know I found that really helpful. A. Thank you. Yeah, I hope so. I hope people will take it, find it helpful and … be happy. Imagine that. 2026 ♦ PREMIUM MAGAZINE

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insights

Up from the silence Nonspeaking people with autism are finding their voice on the page

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PHOTO COURTESY RAMONA JIMENEZ

The cover of the forthcoming book by Lina Hjalmarsson Lyons

an interview format with Lyons’ mother Helena posing questions, Lyons writes not only about the profound challenges of autism but also about her strong connection with what she calls “divine reality.” One of those is her experience with equine-assisted therapy, drawing insights that will resonate with anyone who not only admires the strength and beauty of horses, but also the indomitable human spirit: “I love riding. I feel that riding is like galloping hastily out of my own longstanding troubles. I feel free on the horse’s back. I feel lighter and more competent. It is as if the horse carries my load… “Horses don’t align through force. Really, neither do I. For me, no force is paramount to my success. I must say horses are very real, authentic creatures. It has to be a partnership between humans and horses. Horses need to feel safe and respected. I need that same safety and respect.” — Samantha Dunn

PHOTO BY HELENA HJALMARSSON

PHOTO BY COURTESY SKYHORSE PUBLISHING

“O

ur soul is not troubled. Our soul is not afraid. Our soul has no need to surpass others, to compete, to conquer. I think the more we connect with our soul — the seeing, loving soul — the more we see the beauty of this life.” These are the words of Lina Hjalmarsson Lyons, author of the memoir “My Life on This Planet: A Letterboard Speller’s Revolutionary Insights Into the Paradox of Autism,” being published by Skyhorse Publishing later this summer. A 22-year-old student at Passaic Community College in New Jersey, Lyons is a nonspeaking person with autism who spells her thoughts on letterboards. Her mother, Helena Hjalmarsson, acts as her facilitator and communication partner. Lyon’s memoir joins a growing body of literature created by nonverbal people with autism, including the debut novel “Upward Bound” by Woody Brown, a student at UCLA who also employs the letterboard technique. “Upward Bound,” which tells the story of residents at an adult day care in Southern California, garnered wide critical attention when it was published in March. A 2024 study by researchers at the University of Virginia published in the journal “Autism” might give insight into this publishing phenomenon: The study showed that knowledge about the conventions of written language was five times more prevalent in nonspeaking autistic teenagers and adults than in previous estimates of their abilities. In the article, researchers asserted that their findings were striking because the data indicated that even though most of the study’s participants had never received any formal education in reading and writing, many had nonetheless developed an understanding of how written language works. For her part, Lyons says that with “My Life on This Planet,” she wants to offer a window into her experiences and her thinking. Written, in part, in

A masterpiece in the scars Three lessons on transformation

or Ramona Jimenez, the road to becoming a Peer Support Advocate wasn’t paved with flawless intentions. It was forged in the trenches of addiction, domestic abuse, and the agonizing period when her children were temporarily taken by CPS. Today, Jimenez’s life is anchored by a deep religious faith and a profound sense of purpose. Working with Lutheran Social Services Southern California (LSSSC) and preparing to lead their new wellness campus in San Bernardino, Jimenez helps others navigate the survivalmode landscape she once inhabited. She shares three spiritual and practical truths about what it actually takes to turn one’s life around.

PHOTO COURTESY RAMONA JIMENEZ

PHOTO BY HELENA HJALMARSSON

Surrender is the first brick

Ramona Jimenez, pictured here with her daughters, has a BA in Human Services and was recently certified as a community wellness coach.

Society often views personal transformation as a singular, heroic moment of self-mastery. Jimenez sees it differently. For her, the external shift can’t begin until there is an internal submission. “You really have to come into submission to accepting your part in what you’ve been through,” Jimenez says. For years, it was easier to blame the system or family members for her circumstances. But real change required a full surrender to accountability and the realization that she wasn’t the highest power in

her own life. Jimenez believes there is an all-knowing, all-powerful God. “Until we can surrender to that, that there’s something bigger than ourselves, we cannot begin to have that turnaround experience, that upward spiral.” This spiritual curiosity — finding what sparks interest and meaning — is the first brick in a new foundation.

You are a masterpiece in progress

A damaging misconception about those struggling with trauma is the idea that they have nothing left to contribute. Jimenez argues that the survival skills honed in the darkest places are actually evidence of immense resilience. This isn’t just an optimistic theory for Jimenez; it’s the foundation of her professional focus. In her role heading a state-wide pilot program for the prison system, she works with those re-entering society, identifying the hidden assets within their history. “The people released from incarceration have survived things that most people would never even have a nightmare about,” she notes. When speaking to her daughters or the people she mentors, Jimenez uses an artistic lens to reframe their history. “We don’t see what a masterpiece we are. Because every scar is just another stroke on the canvas. You’ll see the masterpiece one day.” 2026 ♦ PREMIUM MAGAZINE

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Ramona Jimenez, at the Lutheran Social Services Southern California gala in April 2026

In her 20s, Jimenez measured success by performance and money. Now, at 37, her definition has shifted toward creating an enduring legacy. She believes long-term success is only possible when someone connects with their whole self — mind, body and spirit. It’s a philosophy she puts into practice through her work at LSSSC, which incorporates faith into community support. “A lot of what I learned at California Baptist University was how to incorporate my faith into how I serve,” she says. “And I think Lutheran Social Services exemplifies that and has given me a place where I can practice my faith while helping others of all denominations and walks of life. Because addiction does not discriminate.” The purpose extends far beyond her professional duties. Alongside her husband — a foster youth alumnus and former inmate — she runs Mobile Blessings in Yucca Valley. Using his automotive background, they provide free or low-cost automotive repairs to fixed income residents in the rural Morongo Basin. It also doubles as an informal classroom where her husband mentors disadvantaged youth. “It goes beyond what our job is,” she says. “It is truly a deep part of our self-satisfaction and our soul relief.” Ultimately, Jimenez hopes her journey shows that no life is ever too broken to be beautifully rebuilt. And that the deepest scars can eventually reveal a work of art. — Danielle Bauter 10

PHOTOS BY HEE JUN PARK

Success is found in whole-self service

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Hung So Park, at home in Irvine, taught himself video game development to create “The Flying Fireball.”

Changing his tune Retired cellist becomes a game developer at 81

rvine resident Hung So Park wanted to share the beauty of Orange County beaches with the rest of the world. To that end, this 81-year-old retired cellist, who had no background in coding or computer science, decided to combine his passions into a gaming app. It took him nearly four years, but “The Flying Fireball” was released on March 16 on Google Play as a free download. “It was like getting lost and wandering in the pitch-black night,” Park says of learning the game development process. “There were many mistakes, repetitions, and trials and errors. Now, if I were to create another app, I believe I would be able to save time.” The move to game developer is a far cry from Park’s professional background. He spent his career as a commercial attaché in the Korean embassy in Latin countries including Chile, Costa Rica, Guatemala and Spain. As a cellist, he played at diplomatic parties in those countries. He also played in the Irvine College Orchestra after immigrating to the United States.

He moved to the U.S. in 1998 and initially settled in Cypress in Orange County. After moving to Texas in 2004, he returned to Orange County in 2009. He and his wife Hee Jun Park have lived in Irvine for the last 17 years. In addition to sharing the beauty of the beaches, Park had some other goals in creating his app. “Drawing upon a lifetime of experience, I know full well that never giving up is the true path to success,” he says. “If something is indeed the right thing to do, then perseverance is the only genuine way to achieve it. Even if the waters ahead are rough, I wanted to show our children exactly what it looks like to resolutely overcome every obstacle, and in the end, reach their ‘Treasure Island.’” He describes the game he created as a “serene flight experience,” with a palm-tree-lined beach and Gabriel Faure’s classical “Sicilienne” (performed and recorded on piano by Park) harmonizing with the movements of the game’s protagonist and background. “This also serves as a message I wish to share with young people — particularly those who are currently

feeling discouraged,” he says. “Young people have the power to achieve any dream they set their minds to. … We currently live in an era where gaming apps exert a profound influence on the emotional development of children. Therefore, I hope that game developers will incorporate classical music into their games.” He believes that children who grow up listening to classical music are more likely to develop “good character” as they mature into adulthood. Park says that based on his own experience, he thinks studying computer software stimulates deep thought, training and rejuvenating the brain, and can help prevent the mental health and cognitive issues often associated with advanced aging. He used the Unity game engine, which he describes as both challenging and helpful, to develop his game. “The average retirement age still falls within what could be considered one’s youth,” Park maintains. “If one succumbs to psychological discouragement simply because of advancing age, one’s daily life is bound to suffer as a result.” — Jessica Peralta 2026 ♦ PREMIUM MAGAZINE

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grit

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Stronger than we think STORY BY MICHAELA HAAS, PHD

ILLUSTRATIONS BY JEFFREY GOERTZEN

THE SCIENCE OF POST-TRAUMATIC GROWTH SHOWS WHY THE WORST DOESN’T HAVE TO BE THE END

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ver since I watched my grandfather succeed as a businessman and father of five despite being half-paralyzed from polio, I’d wondered: How is it possible that some people emerge from pain fortified? Throughout my decades as a reporter, when I visited tsunami victims and torture survivors, these questions tugged at me: Why do some people fall apart after catastrophes while others not only survive, but thrive? What makes the difference? When I was diagnosed with a debilitating virus in my twenties and found myself bedridden for eight months, this quandary became deeply personal. How could I glue the smithereens of my life back together? You have probably heard of posttraumatic stress. Yet, beyond the medical community, few are aware of the evidence of posttraumatic growth. It may seem paradoxical to even put the words “trauma” and “growth” next to each other in one sentence. And yet, survivors and experts are increasingly focused on the new science that we can benefit from hardship. As someone who has struggled with chronic illness, I initially recoiled at the suggestion. But eventually, I learned that this is a possibility — and perhaps you can, too?

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Born of pain

Psychologists Richard Tedeschi and Lawrence Calhoun at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte coined the term “posttraumatic growth.” When I visited them on campus, I learned that they didn’t invent a fancy theory and then try to prove it with studies; it was the other way around. They were consulting with trauma survivors, initially bereaved parents, then people who had lost the loves of their lives or were severely injured, cancer survivors, veterans, and prisoners. Again and again, people shared a perplexing insight: While they were not happy about what had happened to them, they felt they had learned valuable lessons from the experience and these lessons eventually changed their lives for the better. Of course, they would prefer to have their loved ones back or their health restored. But they felt they became better parents, better partners, and more compassionate friends; many discovered a new purpose in life. Almost 90 percent of us — nearly everyone — experiences at least one or more traumatic events. Nearly 50 percent of first marriages end in divorce. Every 10 minutes in the U.S., a parent loses a child. This year, 2.1 million people will be diagnosed with cancer, estimates the American Cancer Society. And the list goes on. Yes, traumatic events happen all the time. Whether it’s a common crisis, like a job loss or car crash, or a “capital T” trauma, like violence or severe illness, there is no shame in getting pummeled by a devastating event. But it is also crucial to know that the trauma is not the end of our story. “What is revealed here is the dual nature of trauma: first, its destructive ability to rob victims of their capacity to live and enjoy life. The paradox of

trauma is that it has both the power to destroy and the power to transform and resurrect,” writes trauma therapist Peter Levine in “An Unspoken Voice.” “Trauma is a fact of life. It does not, however, have to be a life sentence.”

Finding a way forward

We obviously don’t need suffering to find our calling, but it happens to be where we often discover it. Richard Tedeschi and Lawrence Calhoun have found that their clients report growth in five main areas: personal strength, deeper relationships with others, new perspectives on life, appreciation of life, and spirituality. “In brief, people’s sense of themselves, their relationships with others and their philosophy of life changes,” Tedeschi says. “Perhaps one of the most common growth experiences triggered by a major stressor is an increased appreciation of life.” Contrary to popular opinion, experiencing growth after trauma is far more common than posttraumatic stress disorder. Tedeschi rejects the designation “disorder” because of the stigma the term carries. “When someone crashes their car against a wall at 60 miles per hour, they’ll have many broken bones. Do we say they have a broken bone disorder? They have an injury. Same with trauma survivors; they have been injured. Psychologically injured, maybe morally injured.” It is vital to look closely: While most people will suffer from posttraumatic stress in the aftermath of trauma, few will develop full-blown PTSD, and even of those, most will heal with therapy and time. “But it is important to make clear that not everybody experiences growth, and we are not implying that traumatic events are a good thing,” Richard Tedeschi stresses. “They are not. In the wake of trauma, people become more aware of the futility in life and that unsettles some while it focuses others. This is the paradox of growth: people become more vulnerable, yet stronger.”

What you make of it

It is crucial to distinguish between the event and the outcome. There is nothing positive about trauma itself; we wouldn’t choose it, then or now. Nevertheless, we might be able to reap something beneficial out of the sorrow. The good only comes from what we decide to do with it — from our struggle that unveils what needs to change in us and in our society, from honing our ability to make meaning out of events that seem senseless, from not trying to rebuild an exact replica of what was lost, but to engineer a stronger, sturdier foundation for our life. The common notion of resilience entails a sense of bouncing back from a severe crisis, but for me, the idea that we can “bounce back” from a devastating blow and “return to our original shape” falls short. We never forget the ones we’ve lost or the arduous struggles we’ve fought. The lives we lead are markedly different before and after a trauma, because these losses and struggles transform and profoundly change us. Civil rights icon Dr. Maya Angelou gave me a gift: When I asked her how she emerged from her violent childhood and rose above poverty and hardship, the poet and civil rights icon called her emergence “bouncing forward, going beyond what the naysayers said.” After my health crisis, my ability to “return to my original shape” was close to zero. Rather, I was beating myself up for not being able to bounce back and live up to my ideal. When people attempted to cheer me up with well-meaning advice to pull myself up by the bootstraps, they just added to my despair, because I felt they didn’t understand how hard I tried. I was relieved to discover that the science of posttraumatic growth offers strategies and hope for those of us who don’t consider ourselves resilient. I learned that most people are not born innately resilient, that every single person I admire had to learn to grow

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this resilience muscle before they could flex it, and, much to my relief, that it is sometimes the least resilient people who grow the most. Many think of resilience as a kind of Teflon quality, an impenetrable armor that magically wards off pain and suffering. Most likely, this magic potion exists only in Hollywood and hairspray ads. The mavens of posttraumatic growth tell a different story: that resilience is a matter of small steps, of inching forward one breath at a time. Only after they embraced their suffering and after they let it penetrate them to the core, did things change. Covering up a scar with a smiley face Band-Aid does not lessen the pain either. Growth arises, quite to the contrary, from acknowledging our wounds and allowing ourselves to be vulnerable. This might include recognizing the traumas we have created ourselves.

...resilience is a matter of small steps, of inching forward one breath at a time. Only after they embraced their suffering and after they let it penetrate them to the core, did things change.

“Nobody ever does it alone,” Angelou told me. Resilience is a team effort. Bouncing forward after a crisis depends not only on our own resources but also at least as much on our connection to the people who surround us and how well we are able to gather support. What’s important is not the number of friends, but the quality of the support. Support can come from friends, family, support groups, our church, or professionals who are trained in trauma therapy. The best kind of support encourages us to focus on our strength, to take our life into our own hands, and helps to bring out the best in us. Nothing is as powerful as knowing we are not alone. The goal of researching the science of posttraumatic growth is precisely this: to find out what protects us and those around us from unnecessary suffering; to discover strategies to intervene when

life’s trajectory goes ballistic; to help the healing. And not only to heal, but to use the crisis as a launching pad for a new beginning. When people ask paralyzed surfer Jesse Billauer how he keeps his spirit positive, his advice is clear-cut: “The best thing is: go volunteer for some people who are less fortunate than you are. There is always someone less fortunate.” As Angelou said, “Nothing will work unless you do.” So, let’s get to work. Michaela Haas, PhD, is an awardwinning reporter, speaker and author. Her latest books are “Bouncing Forward: The Art and Science of Cultivating Resilience” (Atria/Enliven, 2015) and “Dakini Power: Twelve Extraordinary Women Shaping the Transmission of Buddhism in the West” (Shambhala, 2013). Find her at michaelahaas.com.

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overcoming

Riding the waves of possibility BY MICHAELA HAAS

JESSE BILLAUER CREATED LIFE ROLLS ON SO THAT ANYONE CAN ENJOY SURFING, REGARDLESS OF ABILITY

n a clear morning along the Southern California coast, Jesse Billauer studies the Pacific the way surfers always have — patiently, instinctively, scanning the horizon for movement. “The ocean is my home,” he says with a broad grin, while watching waves roll toward shore in rhythmic sets. “I feel more comfortable in the water than I do on land.” Surfing, to him, represents “freedom, independence, endless possibilities.” Billauer helped pioneer adaptive surfing after a devastating spinal cord injury ended his career as a rising professional surfer. Today, he is a four-time adaptive world surfing champion and seven-time U.S. national champion, and he has been inducted into the Huntington Beach Surfing Walk of Fame outside Jack’s Surfboards. He appeared in the surf documentary “Step Into Liquid” by filmmaker Dana Brown, helping bring adaptive surfing into the global spotlight. Yet Billauer rarely talks about awards or championships. These days, he talks about community, about the thousands of people who have rolled onto beaches across North America through

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the nonprofit he founded, Life Rolls On. For them, the ocean represents something larger than sport. It represents possibility. That idea — to explore possibility after unimaginable change — has defined Billauer’s life for nearly three decades.

Surfing Walk of Fame inductee Jesse Billauer, left, has won several ISA World Para Surfing Championships.

PHOTO BY JEFF GRITCHEN

SoCal native

Before he became a symbol of resilience, Billauer was a quintessential Southern California beach kid. Growing up in Pacific Palisades and Malibu, he rose with the sun to catch as many waves as he could before school. His brown curls were bleached by sun and saltwater, and he spent every free minute either in the ocean, on the soccer field, or playing basketball. By age 17, he had more trophies than he could fit on his shelf, and friends compared him to his idol, Hawaiian big-wave surfer Shane Dorian. On March 25, 1996, the swell was building at Zuma Beach. He remembers the wave because it was so flawless: an 8-foot wall of water rolling toward him as he sat perfectly positioned. He swooshed through the barrel like the pro he was about to become but stayed on the wave just a moment too long. The crest hit him in the back and drove him headfirst into a shallow sandbar. He didn’t even have time to cushion the blow with his hands. The impact shattered a vertebra in his neck. Billauer’s body started shaking, then tingling, then went numb. “It was the weirdest feeling, like a giant was pulling my arms behind me with great force.” At the hospital, doctors delivered the diagnosis: a C-6 spinal cord injury. He was paralyzed from the chest down. The word “never” entered his life with the weight of a doctor’s voice: You will probably never walk again. 2026 ♦ PREMIUM MAGAZINE

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Learning to start over

Just before the accident, Billauer had been nominated as one of the world’s top 100 surfers by Surfer Magazine. “Impossible” was not part of his vocabulary. Now 47 years old, Jesse winces when he thinks back to that 17-year-old boy in a hospital bed. “All I could think about was that I urgently needed my friends to get my truck at Zuma so that my parents wouldn’t find the pile of condoms in the middle console.” The early months after the accident were brutal. He had to “start life all over again. Like a little kid, I couldn’t even brush my teeth or my hair.” He hated not being able to feel his body, to spend most of his time in bed, to depend on others 24/7. “I couldn’t even go to the bathroom by myself; all these private moments were gone.” But he focused on the task in front of him: rehabilitating his body, regaining strength, and figuring out how to live inside this new reality. “I knew I was on a new journey, a new path, a new life.” The discipline that had once fueled his pro ambitions suddenly mattered in a different way. Years of chasing waves had trained him to tolerate pain, frustration and fear. The same mental tools that pushed him into heavy surf — focus, stubbornness, a willingness to fall and try again — now helped him learn to navigate life in a wheelchair. Within months, he returned to school and completed his senior year with his classmates. They elected him homecoming king, and he launched his graduation cap into the air from his wheelchair. Six months after the accident, he moved into his own apartment with a caregiver, then headed to San Diego for college. When he speaks at schools today, he often guides students through a brief visualization. “Close your eyes,” he tells them. “Visualize your dream. Find your passion. You never know what’s gonna happen. So you really gotta enjoy the moment, follow your heart. Follow your own dreams, not your friends’ dreams or your parents’ dreams. Once you know what you love, life will be more beautiful. Appreciate life. Never give up. Try everything.” For him, that dream still centers on the ocean. Soon after the accident, all he could think about was getting back into the water — his element, his life source. “If I can go surfing lying down, who cares about standing up?” he decided. He asked his pro surfer friends Rob Machado and Kelly Slater to help. 18

Returning to the ocean

Machado and Slater worried about his safety. What if he fell into the water and couldn’t right himself? What if they misjudged a wave? But Billauer kept insisting until they finally relented and drove him to the beach. The first attempts were humbling. He had little strength, kept rolling off the board, and could barely lift his head. “The waves are rolling in on us, and he’s just laughing the whole time. Just his whole attitude, like, cool, no worries.” Machado remembers. “For me, that was so intense.” Then a perfect peeler approached. Billauer’s friends floated behind him, steadying the board. As the wave rolled in, they pushed him smoothly into its crest. The board lifted, the wave grabbed him, and he began to glide. The sensation flooded Jesse with a familiar joy. “These are top athletes, dude,” he says. “Any surfer would be thrilled to go out surfing with them. And here they are, taking time out of their surfing time to take me out.” Jesse can breathe on his own and move his arms a little. He still hasn’t gained enough strength to cut a steak, but he has trained his upper arms — his “guns,” as he calls them — so that he can balance on a surfboard. Technology helps, too: a motorized board propels him into the waves at the push of a button. Being back in the ocean, he says, means “freedom, independence, getting away from it all. I feel a lot of burning sensation in my body, but when I’m in the water, it’s gone. I feel buoyant, light.”

Creating a movement

Sometimes Billauer catches himself wondering, “How unlucky am I to be part of that very small percentage of people who get hurt?” Then he flips the script. “How lucky am I? I gotta make the best of it. I just gotta roll, have fun. I am living for the now. My body is what it is, but I’m still enjoying my life.” He likes to say we are all “only temporarily able-bodied.” Sooner or later, illness or age will catch up. The question, he believes, is how you live in the meantime, and how kind you can be. His grandmother Engelina helped shape that outlook. Her parents were deaf and mute. During the Holocaust, she lost all her family but one sibling and survived five different concentration camps before the British army liberated Bergen-Belsen. “You

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have to look forward, not look back,” she told him. In 2005, she took her sons and grandchildren to visit BergenBelsen and other camps. Standing in those places, Billauer thought, if my grandmother could survive the Holocaust, I can survive this. Life Rolls On, the charity he founded in 1999, grew directly out of that resolve. It began as a fundraiser to help cover his rehabilitation costs, but the first surf events were such a success that the mission quickly expanded. Today, Life Rolls On has become the go-to organization for adaptive surf and skate events. As founding CEO, Billauer hosts more than a dozen events each year between California and Nova Scotia, and he personally oversees every single event — all of which are free for participants. Each event costs $15,000 to $20,000, but Billauer insists on financing them with sponsorship money. At the nonprofit’s surf day in Huntington Beach, Billauer wheels between the microphone tent, sponsor booths, and clusters of volunteers on the sand. More than a hundred surfers wait in their wheelchairs. Nervous parents hover over 4- and 6-year-olds. No one is too young, too old, or too disabled to take a turn. Many participants can’t swim or even move their limbs. Volunteers slide them into wetsuits, then carry them to the water’s edge. Able-bodied surfers form a human chain into the ocean. One by one, they hoist each rider onto a board, push and pull them through the break, and surround them in the lineup, ready to steady or dive. The payoff comes on the way back. When their minders catch a wave, the group gathers speed and the rider shoots toward shore, eyes wide, sometimes screaming with exhilaration. “It’s like a roller coaster ride, just way more fun,” a blonde 6-year-old squeaks after her first run. “Can I go again?” Over time, Billauer realized these events were doing more than

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PHOTO BY JULIE BUSCH

introducing people to surfing. “It really builds up people’s self-confidence and mental health,” he says. “Surfing is just the catalyst; it’s about boosting their confidence, building a community, building relationships.” For many, the bravest act is simply showing up. “It’s a big deal for a lot of people with disabilities to leave their house or leave their comfort zone,” he says. “I look at them as being brave just showing up to the beach — whether they catch one wave or 15 waves or just sit there and watch.” Billauer’s outlook has made him a sought-after speaker at schools and companies. Audiences often describe him as inspirational, a label he accepts with mixed feelings. “I mean, I’ll forever be in that role,” he says. “If I keep my mind straight.” He’s quick to point out that life after trauma still includes hard days. “Like anybody, I have ups and downs,” he says. What steadies him is the sense of purpose his work provides. “I know what I give back to the community is really inspiring.” The work, he adds, hardly feels like a job. “I get to go hang out at the beach and give opportunities to people that may never have had it.” He keeps stretching the realm of possibilities. Soon after he figured out how to balance on the surfboard with his elbows, he went to Fiji to surf 10foot breaks. After his Fiji adventure, Jesse went diving with 15-foot sharks in Mexico, then skydiving. Never showing an iota of fear, he bursts with joy at every milestone. “Jesse has more energy and drive to do things than anyone I know,” Jesse’s friend Brett Sanson says. “He gets up at five to go fishing, then surfing, later in the evening to a concert. He does not want to miss a thing. A lot of people say, ‘Oh, I’ll do that later.’ With Jesse it’s always, ‘I’ll do that now!’” Things can go wrong. He fractured his femur surfing in Hawaii and his tibia while surfing in Nicaragua. His friend, musician Ben Harper, likes to say, “He has destroyed the word ‘excuse.’ He is one of the bravest cats I know, and every time you know someone this brave, it enriches your soul, it enriches your life.” For Jesse, bravery isn’t just about giant waves or dramatic recoveries. “Bravery is trusting in people,” he says. “Bravery is stepping out of your comfort zone and trying something new.” Perhaps the biggest shift in Billauer’s life came as a father to twin boys, Dorian Blue and Nakoa Reign, now 8

Jesse Billauer, founder of Life Rolls On, holds up his surf board in 2004.

years old. Parenthood gave him a new understanding of what his own parents endured when he was injured. “I can only imagine what I put my parents through,” he says. “I would never want that to happen to my kids.” It also reframed what he thought fatherhood would look like. “My boys are my greatest accomplishments,” he says. “I was so scared and nervous to have kids. I wish I could physically do more with them, but I have realized that showing up, giving them love, being there emotionally is even more important.”

The ocean, revisited

Despite decades spent building adaptive surfing, Billauer’s relationship with the ocean continues to evolve. Crowded lineups and competitive surf

culture can feel exhausting compared with the quiet rhythm of another pastime. “I love fishing these days more than surfing,” he says with a grin. “It’s just more peaceful. Surfing is chaotic. There’s so many people in the water and people screaming and yelling and it takes a lot of work.” Yet the ocean remains the center of his life. Surfing gave him purpose once; now his purpose is to give others the same opportunity. For Billauer, those moments capture what bravery really looks like: not the cinematic version, but the quieter, everyday courage required to try again after life takes an unexpected turn. Choosing, wave after wave, year after year, to keep moving forward — no matter what the tide brings next. 2026 ♦ PREMIUM MAGAZINE

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PHOTO BY JEFF GRITCHEN

after the fire

Steve Cabler at his home in Huntington Beach

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Walking through hell BY JIM RULAND

HOW DO YOU HEAL WHEN THE DAMAGE NEVER STOPS? THIS PUNK ROCKER HAS FOUND A WAY.

inutes before he was supposed to take the stage, Steve “Crabby” Cabler snuck a peak at the crowd, and he didn’t like what he saw. His band, El Centro, was playing the final set of the night during the Vans Warped Tour’s 30th anniversary at Shoreline Waterfront in Long Beach last summer. “Yikes,” he said. Crabby was expecting maybe five people, but instead there were thousands. The massive two-day festival had sold-out, drawing 80,000 fans each day — and some were determined to stick around until the last note. It had been 25 years since El Centro had played the Warped Tour. Formed in Orange County in the mid-’90s, the melodic skate punk band has a small but devoted following. These days, they play the Tiki Bar in Costa Mesa and other

small clubs, or open for bigger bands including Agent Orange at the Santa Ana Observatory. “I didn’t think anyone remembered us,” Cabler said after the show. He’d hoped to spend the day reminiscing about days of punk rock glory with old friends — anything to keep his mind off the recent deaths in his family — but a hernia kept him glued to a chair and he was barely able to walk. It was the latest setback in a long string of health issues. As Cabler had done so many times before, he pushed down the pain and with a heavy heart hobbled out on stage. “What’s up?” he shouted into the mic. “We’re El Centro from Orange County, California!” The crowd erupted with cheers. “As soon as I felt that positive energy,” Cabler said, “it just lifted me up.”

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•••

Off the stage is a different story. Cabler hasn’t moved on from that fateful day in Bali. His recovery, both physically and mentally, is ongoing. Every day is a battle. He’s been dealing with pain from his hernia for more than a year. The year before, it was kidney stones. And before that? Crippling bouts of vertigo came and went, turning a day on the waves 22

PHOTO COURTESY STEVE CABLER

•••

Painting by Steve Cabler

into a life-threatening situation. For most doctors, Cabler is an enigma. They’ve never seen anyone with his medical history. How do you treat someone who has been blown up? How much trauma can one person take? Cabler is sympathetic — to a point. “I’ve not felt good in quite a long time.” Which makes what happened to his mother and his sister all the more heartbreaking. Roughly six weeks before the Vans Warped Tour, Linda and Carynne Cabler, his mother and sister, perished alongside their dog and cat in a horrific house fire in Grand Junction, Colorado. An electrical fire started on the ground floor. Cabler’s mother was upstairs in her bedroom; his sister was downstairs in the basement. Neither heard the smoke alarm. When they woke up, it was too late. The flames had already devoured much of the house. The insurance agent told Cabler that over the last 80 years, only one person had died in a house fire in Grand Junction. “People usually get out.”

•••

I met Cabler two-and-a-half years ago at a Denny’s in Oceanside. He’d read some of my work with other punk rockers, and he was looking for a writer he could trust. Over coffee and eggs that neither one of us could finish, Cabler shared some of his story with me. It’s true what they say: every person has a story, but I knew within a matter of minutes that I wanted to help Cabler share his with the world. Something strange happened as I got to know Cabler. I thought I had a handle on his story, but as the months went by, the more I listened, the less I understood. As a Navy veteran, I’ve met lots of people who have been injured during conflicts overseas; and as a punk rock historian, I’ve encountered plenty of performers damaged by addiction, excess, and the ravages of the road. I’ve never met anyone like Cabler — a civilian swept up in a war he didn’t understand, a punk rocker who refused to give up on music even as his body

screamed at him to stop. Part of what makes Cabler’s story seem unknowable is that the tragedy lingers in his broken body and continues each night when he tries to sleep. “I actually fear the night,” he said, “because I don’t dream. I have nightmares. They blur with reality and I don’t know what’s real.” With the death of his beloved mother and sister, it’s as if some cruel and capricious higher power is testing him. The irony of his loved ones dying in a fire is, to put it simply, grotesque. “I know what fear comes with fire,” Cabler said. “I know what that feels like.” There’s nothing in Cabler’s experience he can use to get through this fresh hell. His courage in the aftermath of the bomb blast, his fearlessness while riding waves, and his passion on the stage are no help to him now. Not in this fight. If he’s going to survive this, he’s going to have to shed his skin, so to speak, and start over. Incredibly, he’s done exactly that. Cabler has found something like salvation in the most unlikely of places.

•••

Cabler’s mother collected dolls. Not just any dolls, but rare antique dolls from the 1930s. She was an avid collector and an expert in their provenance. The representative from the insurance company told him they’d found 1,800 dolls — or what was left of them. Cabler often compared his mother’s house to a museum. The dolls sat on shelves, were arranged on furniture, and were displayed every imaginable way to showcase their unique beauty. Those dolls became nightmare fuel the first time he entered the house after the fire and was greeted by dolls with scorched clothing, singed hair, melted faces, and blackened bodies. “About 80% of them were almost completely destroyed in the house fire,” Cabler said. “I had the daunting task of gathering them up and throwing them in trash bins.” Except he couldn’t bring himself to throw them away. He brought the bins back to the home he shares with his

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For Cabler, every day since October 12, 2002, is a triumph, even though it seldom feels like it. That was the day a 2,500-pound car bomb exploded 20 feet from where he was standing in an open-air nightclub in Bali. The explosion shattered his sternum, separated his ribs, cracked all his teeth, and blew out both eardrums. As the club’s thatch roof ignited and collapsed, Cabler escaped the inferno, leading several others to safety. After the adrenaline wore off, the vertigo and ringing in his ears left him helpless and disoriented until someone carried him to safety. When he came to in his hotel room the following morning — no hospital would take him out of fear that it would be targeted in another attack — he was covered in burns and bleeding from every orifice. What was supposed to be an epic surf trip with his best friend, Steve “Webby” Webster, had turned into a nightmare. And he was one of the lucky ones. The bombings at a pair of nightclubs popular with tourists were part of a coordinated terror attack that resulted in 202 dead, 209 wounded. Of the eight Americans who were present that night, including Cabler and his best friend, he was the only survivor. Cabler returned home broken and bereaved. The prognosis for his recovery was bleak. “Your hearing is almost gone and your balance is shot,” Cabler remembered the doctor telling him. “I don’t want to be the grim reaper but you’re probably not going to be able to sing or surf again.” The best way to get a punk rocker to do something is to tell him he can’t do it. Today, the 65-year-old surf punk is still singing and still surfing. He knows he has more years behind him than he does ahead, but he’s not ready to stop doing what he loves. If anything, he’s more determined than ever. “I’m better on stage now than I’ve ever been,” Cabler said. “I feel really strong right now.”

PHOTO BY JEFF GRITCHEN

PHOTO COURTESY STEVE CABLER

Cabler holds dolls he salvaged after the fire at his mother’s house.

girlfriend Michelle and put them in the garage where they nagged at him like the remnants of a bad dream. One night when he couldn’t sleep, he went out to the garage to see if any of the dolls could be salvaged. After the bomb, Cabler credits the EMDR treatments he received for his PTSD for helping him navigate his waking hours, but the nights continued to torment him. After taking a painting class with Michelle, he started staying up late to paint surf scenes. “At first they were really horrible,” Cabler said of his paintings, “but I just kept going and going and going. And then it became almost an addiction, to where I kept finding different things to paint.” Cabler also sews punk rock patches onto denim jackets and vests that he finds at the Salvation Army. Like his paintings, he occasionally sells them, but mostly he gives them away to his friends. He’s used to staying up late, engaging his mind and body in creative pursuits, but the dolls were a different kind of challenge. “I’m not a doll maker. I’ve never done anything like this. I paint, I sew, I’ve worked with wood, so I took a couple of dolls that I knew meant the most to my

mother, and I thought to myself, I’m going to try and save them.” Cabler was used to knocking out several paintings a night, each one a variation on a theme, but the dolls required him to be more patient, more methodical. “Each doll has a different problem, whether it’s clothing, skin or face.” First, he puts the clothing through the washer, dozens of times if need be, to get out the smoke smell. Then he sands down the paint that has bubbled or cracked, and patches the wood in places where the doll’s features have become disfigured. Finally, he’s ready to paint the doll, restoring it to its former beauty. After he finished the first doll, he was surprised by how well it came out, so he kept going. “Each doll is a whole new journey for me,” Cabler said, “because I know these dolls, I was raised with them. They’re just gorgeous little entities. And each one of them has their own little dress and their own little style. I think it’s a pretty special thing.” When he finishes a doll, he gives it away to a family member or close friend — people who knew and loved his mother. It’s a way to stay connected to her. “I’m able to call people and go,

‘Hey, I’ve got a doll for you.’ And they’re like, ‘I thought they were all burned.’ ‘No, I resurrected them.’” Restoring the dolls is more than a way to stay busy at night, to keep his mind off of the ghosts of war, the horrors of the house fire. They’re a metaphor for the work Cabler has done on himself, work that is ongoing. Cabler estimates he’s restored two or three dozen dolls so far, but don’t expect him to hang up his surfboard or retire from the punk scene anytime soon. El Centro continues to play shows, along with his punk rock cover band, Anton Shadows and the Impalers, in which Cabler sings while wearing a mask. He’s also rebooted The Uprising, a band he started after the bombings in Bali whose lyrics have a more political edge. By the time you read this, Cabler will have gone under the knife again to treat his hernia. If that goes well, he’ll schedule another surgery. He’s leery of doctors and hates going to the hospital, but there’s a new urgency now. He has work to do. “Rebuilding these dolls,” Cabler said, “is rebuilding my spirit and my soul.” Jim Ruland writes the weekly Substack, “Message from the Underworld.” 2026 ♦ PREMIUM MAGAZINE

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can do

What it takes BY DANIELLE BAUTER

LESSONS LEARNED FROM TRYING TO BUILD SOMETHING FROM NOTHING Bravery is sometimes romanticized as a singular, cinematic moment — the dramatic leap into the unknown. But for those who have spent decades building organizations from the single seed of an idea, bravery looks less like a leap and more like a long-term endurance test. It is less about the initial spark and more about the grit required to sustain it. It’s the ability to audit your own failures and survive the lean years, where the mission is the only thing keeping the lights on. We spoke with four Southern California business leaders — Shirin Behzadi, Penny Lambright, Antoinette Balta and Kathy Copeland — who have built legacies from the ground up. What they offered was their hard-earned wisdom and insight into what it actually takes to create something from nothing, and make it last.

Changing the point of view Shirin Behzadi, an author and former CEO of Home Franchise Concepts, embodies the bravery required for an internal shift in perspective. Behzadi’s story begins in Iran, where she was arrested as a teenager for the simple act of having a book. As a result, she was expelled from school and forced to leave her home. To Behzadi, this became a blessing in disguise. “In hindsight, it confirmed something essential: there is a cost to courage, but there is also dignity in refusing to shrink,” says Behzadi.

PHOTO BY MINDY SCHAUER

SHIRIN BEHZADI Project: “The Unexpected CEO” Mission: A bestselling author and former billion-dollar CEO, Behzadi focuses on “resilient leadership,” teaching others how to turn adversity into fuel for professional and personal growth. Website: shirinbehzadi.com Instagram: @shirinbehzadi

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When she arrived in the U.S. at 17, alone and broke, she worked as a gas station cashier behind bulletproof glass in Pomona. Eventually she realized that her circumstances weren’t the problem — her point of view was. “I chose to focus on hope and the idea that someday I would run a big company,” says Behzadi, who shares the details of her journey in “The Unexpected CEO: My Journey from Gas Station Cashier to Billion-Dollar CEO,” published in October 2025. “I decided to pursue that vision so seriously that I even printed a business card.” Behzadi eventually rose through the corporate ranks to become a CFO and CEO, navigating a brain tumor diagnosis along the way that required her to learn to walk again. But her most profound professional hurdle was unlearning the modesty that had been drilled into her since childhood. “Societal and cultural norms had encouraged me not to show up too loudly, not to stand out, and not to take credit even when it was well-deserved,” she says. “The result was that others often didn’t learn about my contributions until much later. Once I unlearned that and allowed myself to participate more fully and visibly, I became a much stronger leader, and one better able to lift others along the way.” She warns leaders against following the fears of others. “I’ve heard many times that what I set out to do was ‘statistically impossible,’ that I should ‘not get my hopes up,’ or that ‘it may backfire,’” she says. “Their advice came from where they were in life. And often, it came from their fear. I learned early on that while it is wise to hear people out, you do not have to listen to them, to live inside their fears.” The takeaway: Bravery is the refusal to shrink to fit the expectations of others. Unlearn the habit of hiding your contributions. 2026 ♦ PREMIUM MAGAZINE

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that in a mission-driven environment, it is better to hire slowly — trusting both instinct and process — than to bring on a highly capable individual who creates friction within the team culture. She also challenges the obsession with work-life balance, a term she finds misleadingly rigid. “No two days are the same, and the needs of the work do not always fit within a predictable structure,”

Balta says. She advocates instead for work-life harmony. Harmony allows for movement — recognizing that there are seasons of intensity and seasons that allow for rest — without the crushing pressure of maintaining an even 50/50 split every single day. The takeaway: Hire slowly, fire with clarity, and aim for harmony rather than the myth of balance.

ANTOINETTE BALTA Organization: Veteran’s Legal Institute Mission: Providing pro bono legal services to homeless and at-risk veterans to remove barriers to housing, healthcare and employment. Website: vetslegal.org Instagram: @veteranslegalinstitute

PHOTO BY PAUL RODRIGUEZ

For Antoinette Balta, the journey to founding the Veterans’ Legal Institute wasn’t about a lack of knowledge, but a career redirection. For more than 12 years, Balta has overseen the serving of 12,000 veterans, but the organization’s foundation was built on a calculated risk that required her to step away from a more traditional legal path. “At the time, there were many unknowns and very few guarantees,” Balta says. “Looking back, that decision was not just about starting something new. It was about stepping forward with conviction and trusting that meaningful work, done with integrity and persistence, can create lasting impact.” However, Balta is quick to point out that conviction alone isn’t enough to sustain a team. Her most significant mistake was one common to many fast-growing leaders: hiring too quickly. “In a mission-driven organization, shared purpose and culture are everything,” she notes. “When there is a disconnect, even with a highly capable individual, it can create friction that affects the entire team.” This lesson taught Balta the discipline of patience. She learned

PHOTO BY JEFF ANTENORE

A calculated risk

Productive naïveté Common professional wisdom suggests you should know exactly what you’re getting into before you sign the first lease. But for Kathy Copeland, founder of Access Mammoth, her greatest asset was a certain level of ignorance. “I would say being so naïve — to the point of being ignorant about what it took to start a nonprofit — I just grabbed it and went with it, not knowing what all it entailed and the amount of fundraising and support systems, the policies and procedures required,” she says. “So being green 26

around the gills and going for it turned out to be an advantage for me, because otherwise, I think if I had known what I was getting into, I might have shied away from it.” This taught Copeland the value of a “baby steps” approach — taking the work a little bit at a time to avoid being paralyzed by the sheer scale of the mission. In the early days of Access Mammoth, which provides outdoor sports and therapeutic recreation for people with disabilities, the challenges were steep. Rather than trying to solve every systematic problem at once, she

focused on functional fixes. One of her most pivotal decisions was the transition to a year-round program. Originally, the organization functioned seasonally, but Copeland realized she was losing her greatest asset: her people. “I would lay staff off in the spring, and by the time fall came around for the winter season, they would have gotten another job and moved on,” she explains. By branching into summer sports, she transformed seasonal jobs into long-term careers. Today, that baby steps approach

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Living the mission

has culminated in the Copeland Center in June Lake, which serves as a permanent, year-round residential facility for veterans and individuals with disabilities. This ambitious project involves rebuilding a main lodge and cabins, creating a permanent footprint for their mission. But even as the scope of her work grows, Copeland remains grounded in the practical. She points to the organization’s thrift store as the “goose that laid the golden egg.” For Access Mammoth,

If there is anyone who understands the physical cost of bravery, it’s Penny Lambright, founder of Patriots and Paws. Lambright started her Anaheim-based organization — which provides furniture and companion animals to veterans — in 2011. But while many founders look for outside venture capital or government grants, Lambright used her inheritance. “Instead of taking my inheritance and putting it into investments or a house, I put almost every dime into Patriots and Paws,” Lambright says. “That’s what kept us sustained for so long.” It was a decision rooted in her faith, but the immediate reality was far from glamorous. To keep the mission solvent during lean times, Lambright lived inside her warehouse for two years. “I thought, ‘Well, I’m never home anyway,’” she says. “I built a little room for me and my dogs. … I’d go to my sister’s house once a week and do my laundry, and when I needed a shower, I’d use the bathrooms in neighboring buildings. I was at work all the time anyway.” This period of sacrifice was a strategic choice to ensure the organization remained stable. Today, Patriots and Paws boasts a 97 percent

it is both a revenue stream and a vocational training ground. “When our participants age out of regional support, we will hire them and they have a job, and a responsibility. They have something that makes them proud, because they are giving back to the community.” The takeaway: You don’t need a 50-page manual to start, you need the curiosity to be green and the discipline to solve one problem at a time.

efficiency rating — meaning nearly every dollar that comes in goes directly to veteran programs. Lambright’s most actionable advice for aspiring leaders is to dismantle the “get rich” myth of the nonprofit sector. “If you’re wanting to start a nonprofit, and you think you’re going to take vacations and you’re going to have an easy life — if you’re doing it right, your whole life is going to be engulfed in that.” Her suggestion for those wanting to start their own path? Volunteer first. “The last thing we need is more nonprofits doing referral work. We need boots on the ground.” She also made a decision on day one: third-party accountability. Even when she was funding the organization herself, she insisted on a third-party audit. “I was taught to be respectful of people. … If somebody gives you money to do a job, you do the job, and you do it to the best of your ability and you spend their money wisely,” she says. “Transparency is how you honor your donors.” The takeaway: Sustainability is built on transparency and the willingness to sacrifice personal comfort for the integrity of the mission.

KATHY COPELAND Organization: Access Mammoth Mission: Creating inclusive mountain sports experiences — skiing, mountain biking and more — for people of every age and ability in the Eastern Sierra Website: accessmammoth.org Instagram: @accessmammoth

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PHOTO COURTESY KATHY COPELAND

PHOTO BY PAUL RODRIGUEZ

PHOTO BY JEFF ANTENORE

PENNY LAMBRIGHT Organization: Patriots and Paws Mission: Providing veterans, active-duty military and reservists with essential home furnishings and rescued companionship animals — all free of charge. Website: patriotsandpaws.org Instagram: @patriotsandpaws

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partnership

Paws of War BY ROBIN KEATS

NONPROFIT HELPS MAINTAIN THE UNBREAKABLE BOND BETWEEN HUMAN AND ANIMAL SERVICE MEMBERS

Navy veteran Nelly Conklin, 41, holds her dachshund and Yorkie, Daisy and Pumpkin, at her home in the Point Loma area of San Diego. During her service, Conklin worked as a handler for Bosco, a German shepherd that was trained to detect bombs. She later adopted Bosco.

PHOTO COURTESY NELLY CONKLIN

Above: Nelly and Mela Below: Bosco

PHOTO COURTESY NELLY CONKLIN

ithin hours after the war with Iran broke out in late February, retired U.S. Navy Master at Arms Nelly Conklin called military service members on active duty seeking news about those she had served with at Isa Air Base in Bahrain. She placed the call just after learning the base had been hit by Iranian missiles and drones. Conklin, who retired from the Navy in 2024, was concerned not just about personnel at the facility but also about Mela. Who is Mela? One of two explosivesdetection dogs she had handled in Bahrain as they inspected vehicles, ships and barges together. Conklin intends to adopt Mela when he is retired, if she gets the chance. A military dog’s last handler is given the first opportunity to adopt the dog they’ve worked with, so Conklin is second in line. “She is close to 10 years old, and that is why I’m trying to contact my past coworkers and keep her on my radar,” Conklin says. “I just hope she gets the love she deserves even if it’s not with me.” During her tour of duty on the Persian Gulf, Conklin had become inseparable from the two dogs she worked with — both Mela, a Belgian Malinois, and Bosco, a German Shepherd. As her deployment in the Middle East came to an end, Bosco was nearing retirement. With orders to redeploy to Naval Air Station Joint Reserve Base near New Orleans, Conklin arranged to adopt him and bring him with her. But bureaucracy held up Bosco’s release. He had to stay behind. Leaving both dogs tore at her. Mela had

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PHOTO BY KRISTIAN CARREON

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PHOTO BY KRISTIAN CARREON

time left to serve, but Bosco was ready to enjoy a life free of danger with Conklin, a 39-year-old military dog handler who was raised in Brawley, California. She now splits her time between a Riverside home and a San Diego apartment she rented so that she, her husband, Darnelle Mason (a senior chief in the Navy), and their baby daughter Natalie can be together as much as possible. “Bosco and I were apart for about a week, but it felt like forever because he was oceans away from me, in a country he knew well but was now without me for the very first time,” Conklin says. “His military flight got cancelled, then delayed, and then his pet permit expired. With my orders on hand but 30

no hope of taking him with me, I had a broken heart.” But then, someone told her there might be a way to get help. “I heard about an incredible organization called Paws of War,” Conklin recalls. “I texted them and I got a message back quickly — giving me hope and letting me know that Bosco and I were not alone. Within minutes, I had a message back telling me that they would get him on a flight to the States.” Be it one of the military’s highly trained canine service members or a stray our troops unofficially adopt, emotional support an animal provides to those deployed overseas can be invaluable.

“Even a little time with a dog makes you feel that you should be inseparable because these dogs not only serve our country but are also true mentors and the best friends of a lonely military member,” Conklin reflects. “Bosco and I were both up in age for the job, so the ‘new kids’ made fun of us. We just kept to ourselves and became one. He knew my heart and accepted me when others did not.” Bosco was flown to Dallas a week later. Conklin picked him up and drove back to Louisiana. During her last two years of active duty spent there, she got pregnant and gave birth to her daughter. “We were alone, looking forward to rejoining my active-duty husband,”

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TO LEARN MORE Paws of War :: pawsofwar.org

Navy veteran Nelly Conklin, sitting with two family pets, formed strong bonds with bomb-detecting dogs she served with during her tours of duty.

she says. “Bosco knew I was pregnant, because he became even more intensely watchful when people approached us. He’d cuddle up to my stomach. When I brought my baby home from the hospital, he walked up to her, smelled her face with his big, wet nose and then looked gently into her eyes and got close to me. From then on, he’d let me recline Natalie on his belly when he lay down to rest. He was a big baby, too!” Paws of War again came to their rescue when Conklin was discharged and ready to fly to San Diego to rejoin her husband who was stationed there. She had a month-old baby, her elderly mother, and two other dogs to take with her. But no airline would fly Bosco

because it was August, and intense heat ruled out a flight for him. “Paws of War arranged for Bosco to be driven to California,” she explains. “When they said they would always be there for us, they meant it and went above and beyond.” Bosco has since passed on. “But he’s still very much present in my life,” Conklin says with a sigh. “His big portrait hangs at the entrance to my house, with his ashes close by. I pass by him every day and tell him how much I miss him.” The possibility of being reunited with Mela, helps take away some of the sting of his loss. With the motto “helping both ends of the leash,” Paws of War has been addressing the needs of those on active duty and veterans in myriad ways for the past 12 years. Its mission is “...to bring together military service members, first responders and rescued animals, creating unbreakable bonds that foster healing and mutual understanding.” Among the services are animal rescue for deployed, active-duty military; service dog training; housing assistance for vets with pets; lifetime care for retired military dogs; a therapy dog program for vets and seniors; emergency foster for hospitalized vets; Ukraine animal rescue and care; and natural disaster response and animal rescue. During the Los Angeles wildfires in January 2025, Paws of War dispatched their experts to work with local volunteers in building and distributing emergency feeding and water stations for animals — for both pets that may have been inadvertently left behind (or escaped during evacuation), as well as wildlife — in Pacific Palisades and Altadena. They brought oxygen masks for dogs to dozens of fire stations throughout the city and county of Los Angeles, with the eventual goal of equipping fire stations throughout California so that dogs can be rescued from smoke inhalation when future fires break out. Robert Misseri cofounded the nonprofit after undertaking a mission that brought some dogs out of Afghanistan. “Knowing that I was an animal rescuer, the spouse of a soldier serving

there got in touch with me,” he says. “She said she desperately needed help. Her husband had adopted a stray dog in Afghanistan who had given birth to a litter of seven pups. So, I found a way to bring all of them to the States.” The mama dog was reunited with her original rescuer. Five of the puppies had other soldiers ready to take them. “We put the remaining two up for adoption and two vets reached out to us for them,” Misseri says. “These soldiers were coping with PTSD and traumatic brain injuries. We realized they needed service dogs to help them live better lives, so we had these two puppies trained especially for them. Looking back, that’s when we became aware of the tremendous need our vets have for service and therapy dogs, and that prompted us to create our War-Torn Pups initiative. It’s but one of the many programs we have going.” These dogs, rescued from a warfront, Misseri points out, would have been subjected to abuse or worse had they fallen into the hands of the Taliban. “We simultaneously saved dogs in extreme danger and served returned troops who were facing the debilitating after-effects of their deployments. The rate of suicide amongst those coming back from war is astronomical,” Misseri adds. “Having these dogs makes such a crucial difference.” “America’s military steadfastly maintains the doctrine of leaving no one behind. You saw that this spring, in the rescue of the two-man crew whose jet fighter was shot down over Iran,” Misseri says. “We marshalled our forces and spared no effort in their rescue.” Paws of War takes the same approach regarding the animals that stand by our troops overseas. “We’ve gotten these loving, vulnerable, and loyal dogs out of Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria and many other intensely hot spots. Wherever we go, it’s dangerous,” Misseri says. Paws of War is based in Nesconset, New York, and it has a global reach. The veterans it serves and those on active duty who so value the animals they shared their lives with, are scattered throughout the U.S. “No matter where an animal is, or where we need to go to bring about these reunions, we go. It’s a huge, intricate, and challenging mission,” Misseri adds. “And it’s incredibly rewarding, as we can see from the story of Master of Arms Conklin. With every reunification, we can say ‘one mission accomplished,’ while knowing our work is never done.” 2026 ♦ PREMIUM MAGAZINE

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a positive note

Out of the blues BY SUSAN HORNIK

MUSICIAN BILL GRISOLIA TURNED A HARD-LUCK LIFE INTO A MUSIC PROGRAM THAT HELPS OTHERS

PHOTO BY HOWARD FRESHMAN

f you look in the dictionary under the word “survivor,” you might well see a photo of Bill Grisolia, founder of the Long Beach Blues Society (LBBS). The seasoned singer/musician — who has played with everyone from Burt Bacharach to Dionne Warwick — has overcome a litany of adversity, including squamous cell cancer, a radical neck dissection, congestive heart failure and a stroke. But there’s more: Alcoholism led to his being homeless for a time, and he was arrested for three DUI’s. “I could have died or been killed many times, but I feel like God had more work for me to do,” he says. Yet, at 68 years old, Grisolia’s zest for life is apparent. “That which did not kill me made me stronger,” the Long Beach resident says. “I’m still an optimist. Many of my best characteristics that helped me with all of these challenges were developed through the difficulties themselves.” One thing for which he is immensely grateful: After all his troubles, he still has his singing voice. “There was a moment when I thought my life in music might be over. … When the doctors found the cancer and I went PREMIUM MAGAZINE ♦ 2026

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Bill Grisolia and his blues band perform at DiPiazza’s in Long Beach as part of Long Beach Gives, a citywide fundraising event for nonprofits.

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the Schools program has been implemented at three of the schools where I’ve served as principal, including my current site, Burbank Elementary,” says Richard Littlejohn, who noted that Grisolia’s work has a “lasting, positive impact” on their school environment. “Bill has been an integral part of our framework through his involvement in spirited, cultural assemblies, art fairs, promotion ceremonies, and other festivities. He has a unique ability to connect with pupils of all ages, making music both accessible and engaging. They are not just passive listeners; students actively participate, which builds confidence and self-expression.” Littlejohn appreciates how Grisolia’s presence on campus consistently brings energy, excitement, and a sense of community. “The students get educated on the history of blues, learning about storytelling, emotion, and the roots of the genre, which helps broaden their understanding of music as an art form and a reflection of lived experiences. This is something many of them might not otherwise experience.” During Black History Month in February, Blues in the Schools set a new record, working in 12 schools throughout Southern California, attending to more than 10,000 children, parents and staff. Of the dozens of schools Grisolia worked with during the last decade, most have his program return each semester. Another LBBS initiative is the Blues for Vets program, which provides music for and with veterans at the Tibor Rubin Veterans Administration Hospital, the Century Villages at Cabrillo and other venues. While there, Grisolia often collaborates with blues musicians like Stoney B. Blues, a veteran who lost his sight eight years ago. Having him perform with Blues for Vets has immensely improved Stoney’s confidence and sense of self-worth, the musician says. “Music is my therapy, and performing with Blues For Vets has been incredibly moving for me,” says Stoney. “When people are in the hospital because of illness, or have gone blind, blues music offers the possibility of really healing — people can feel the sounds. Sharing my gift for the benefit of others is a great feeling.” Recreation therapist Elizabeth Greco, who works at the Major Charles Robert Soltes Jr. Blind Rehabilitation Center, saw firsthand the effects Blues for Vets

has had on attendees. “It’s inspiring to see these blues musicians sing and perform for our veterans. They seem to come alive with the music and, in most cases, it’s relevant to something that they have experienced before or perhaps are going through a time in their life. Connecting is healing for them.” Grisolia also works with other groups throughout Orange County that support veterans, including U.S. Vets, American Gold Star Manor, and the American Veterans Assistance Group. He also connected with Guitars4Vets, a nonprofit with more than 100 chapters nationwide, which gives free guitar lessons to veterans who are struggling with PTSD. “We both support the healing power of music,” says Army veteran and Guitars4Vets Long Beach chapter coordinator, Ming Chen. “Bill is so gracious in always inviting me to jam when I am able to do so and has been great at supporting my organization.” “Likewise, I promote and support what he is working on. We keep each other informed on community events, such as veterans resource fairs, so we can further get the word out about our organizations. It’s made me feel like we’re really putting our best efforts forward and truly affecting others in a positive way.” Another LBBS initiative Grisolia created is Blues for Seniors, developing an ongoing relationship with several places — the Long Beach Senior Center, Doris Topsy-Elvord Community Center at Houghton Park, Park Pacific Tower, and the Dollarhide Community Center in Compton — to perform live music throughout the year. “The seniors know the songs and love to sing along and dance,” noted Eileen Ludlam, a recreation assistant at City of Long Beach’s Houghton Park Senior Center, which has developed older adult programs for the past 40 years.

PHOTOS BY DREW A. KELLEY

through radiation therapy and surgery, my voice was profoundly affected. I was literally and figuratively croaking, afraid I might never sing again.” But somehow, after a long recovery period aided by speech therapy and vocal lessons, his voice returned. “It is my heart, my desire to make a difference in the world, that keeps me going.” After stabilizing his life, Grisolia knew that helping others is a cornerstone of long-term sobriety, because it shifts focus from self-centeredness to service. He wanted — needed — to find ways to help others, which led him to volunteer with more than 70 charitable organizations throughout the area. “My parents were both committed to their community and it had a lasting impact,” he says. “I know that my path in this life is to work through my artistry, and also hold out a glimmer of hope to others who may be going through similar challenges.” Grisolia eventually started his own nonprofit, Long Beach Blues Society, with the idea to bring inspirational blues music performances and education to underserved students, veterans and seniors. “As an arts presenter, I had been producing and promoting shows commercially and realized that forming a charity would allow me the opportunity to serve disadvantaged communities, which need these services so desperately.” The way Grisolia sees it, blues music is the foundation of most popular music, including such styles as jazz, R&B, pop, soul, rock and roll, hip-hop and rap. “The reason people like the music is the same reason why it has evolved into these other forms — because it is sincere, authentic and born of human suffering. Since we all go through those emotions, we can all relate on a very basic foundational level. That is why it has such a universal appeal.” Grisolia believes the music itself is the lifeline; his job is to get it to those who need it most. “Exposure is key; once you hear it — its rawness, authenticity, sincerity — it just grabs you, so that is half the battle. Once you start listening, then blues music is both motivating and healing.” One of the ongoing initiatives of LBBS is its Blues in the Schools, which provides meaningful, live music experiences to kids and teens ages 6-17, mostly from lower socio-economic neighborhoods. “Over the years, the Blues in PREMIUM MAGAZINE ♦ 2026

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PHOTOS BY DREW A. KELLEY

Left: Bill Grisolia performs at Century Villages at Cabrillo. Right: Grisolia at Century Villages at Cabrillo in Long Beach

“Bill’s dedication and professionalism is outstanding,” added Nancy Hathcock, director of Tenant Services & Well Being at Park Pacific Tower. “We have worked with Blues for Seniors for several years and happily support Bill as he works his great enthusiasm, joy and music to other senior communities in Long Beach and the surrounding areas.” Last year, Grisolia was awarded a $2 million grant by Los Angeles County to purchase a building with Lockout Music Studios, creating a venue for local bands and small businesses in Long Beach. “The building is also being used to start my lifelong dream of creating a music museum for musicians and the city’s impressive musical history,” he says. As a result, Grisolia’s nonprofit is expanding, hiring more musicians for multiple events. “We’ve had simultaneous shows twice last month — two different teams of musicians, volunteers and sound people. It’s a great blessing to be able to provide services to the underserved.” For any initiative the LBBS works on, Grisolia hires older blues musicians,

which helps them financially and renews their purpose in life. “The additional income is a morale booster. I want these musicians to know that they are liked and valued, and that they can still make a difference. While the world is so focused on the young, these seasoned performers bring such wisdom to the stage.” When Grisolia is not working on his nonprofit, you can often find him on a stage somewhere. For his community music events, Blues for All, he generally partners with cultural institutions, including the Aquarium of the Pacific, KJAZZ-88.1 FM, and the Museum of Latin American Art. Over the years, he has played numerous concerts, casinos and nightclubs around the world, sharing the stage with pop, rock and blues legends Leon Russell, Los Lobos, Macy Gray, Tito Jackson, Eddie Money, Starship, Canned Heat, Three Dog Night, the Lowrider Band (War), Dick Dale, Katey Segal, and Blood, Sweat & Tears. This summer, Grisolia and the LBBS will once again produce the New Blues Festival, coming to Shoreline Aquatic

Park in Long Beach on Aug. 29-30. “Long Beach has a long history of music and blues music performance in the area,” notes Grisolia, who is also a music historian. “In the nine years that I have put together the New Blues Festival, we’ve gone on to entertain thousands of people. It is extremely gratifying to find emerging talent, like blues musicians Kingfish or Bobby Rush, and have them perform for our festival and then years later, see them win a Grammy!” George Foster (who appeared in the band for the movie “Wayne’s World”) has performed at the Festival and has gone on tour with Grisolia’s band, most recently in Texas. “When you think of all the lives Bill’s work has touched, it’s really quite moving,” says Foster. “I admire his ambition, and tireless commitment to contribute to his communities. He is always creating projects that are so exciting to be a part of. I very much appreciate our partnership over these past 30 years.” For Grisolia, helping people is a calling that he says will last until his last breath. “Bringing people joy is the foundation of my life.” 2026 ♦ PREMIUM MAGAZINE

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lessons to learn

Dr. Stefan Bean at the Costa Mesa office of the Orange County Department of Education

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Hold the ladder STORY BY SAMANTHA DUNN

PHOTOS BY PAUL BERSEBACH

IN WRITING HIS MEMOIR, ORANGE COUNTY SUPERINTENDENT STEFAN BEAN CAME TO SEE THAT REAL LEADERSHIP MEANS HELPING OTHERS RISE

here was no denying what was staring back at him in black and white. Suddenly, the ultimate truth about Dr. Stefan Bean’s life, and his life’s mission, had crystallized. Now, it wasn’t like it was the first time he’d considered these things. Starting when he was just 14 in front of an audience of 15,000 at a Lutheran church youth conference in Washington, D.C., and continuing to this day, Bean has been giving inspirational speeches. How he, stricken by polio at age 2 and abandoned by his birth mother to the streets of Saignon, overcame language barriers, disability and personal loss. He would go on to become a teacher, then ultimately achieve the role of superintendent of Orange County’s school system, influencing the education of 450,000 students across 28 districts. You know the kind of up-by-yourbootstraps, overcoming-adversity story about successful people. He worked hard to learn English as a Vietnamese refugee taken in by a foster family in San Diego, who later adopted him. He suffered numerous agonizing surgeries to deal with polio’s afflictions, which ultimately resulted in him being wheelchair bound. Even though

he struggled through elementary school, he turned things around academically and went to USC — where he met the love of his life — and then received his Ph.D from Cal State Fullerton. The father of four kids. Everybody kept telling Bean he should write a book about his life. A publisher agreed. And that’s when, in working with co-writer Kathy Nash, Ph.D., to finish “Lifted to Lead,” published last fall, he finally understood the real meaning of his very own story. “I think by putting it on paper glued every principle and value that I had into this moment of understanding,” Bean reflects during an interview in his second-floor Costa Mesa office. To get there, visitors pass a wall bearing a large district symbol, with Bean’s name underneath in big, bold white letters. But that moment of understanding? “No one gets there alone, especially me,” Bean says. “In my keynote [speeches], I’ve been thinking about this metaphor: Many leaders want to be the one to climb that ladder of career and success. But for me, I see that we should be holding that ladder, so others can climb that ladder to success.”

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Dr. Stefan Bean holds a copy of his book, “Lifted to Lead.”

Raised up

Like a lot of people, Bean says that he’d been “writing a book in my head” for a long time. Being appointed as the superintendent finally motivated him to get it all down on paper. “I said, okay, now we’ve got to write the book. I knew that I wanted to honor all of those people in the book who lived in me,” he says. “My journey is more than a personal story about an individual; it’s actually something that could inspire people and even inform them on life lessons that I’ve learned.” Throughout the stories Bean tells in “Lifted to Lead,” he reframes the concept of successful leadership as a practice that comes not from a place of superiority, but from mutual support. “What I discovered through the writing process is that it all culminates in lifting,” he says. Hence the title of the book. “We had other working titles, but when we read the book, we just saw this theme of ‘lifting.’” That theme begins quite literally with Bean being part of Operation Babylift at the end of the Vietnam War, an initiative by then-President Gerald R. Ford in April 1975 to evacuate some 3,000 war orphans. Another dramatic survival twist to his already dramatic story: Because of a mix-up, he was bumped from the rescue plane he was initially set to board — only to have that plane crash, killing 138 passengers. Once Bean saw the metaphor of being lifted by others, he recognized it was a pattern throughout his life: His adoptive parents lifted him, literally and figuratively, throughout childhood. 38

His friends in high school lifted his wheelchair up the stairs so he could get to class. San Diego public school teacher Donald Geisinger, who told the then-mediocre sixth-grade student that he had “the gift of gab” and lifted his sense of himself. (In a full-circle moment, Geisinger would be the one to swear Bean in at his superintendent ceremony in 2024.) And then there is the story of his wife, Janet, who on their very first date saved Bean’s wheelchair after it rolled down a hill into the Kern River. As he describes in the book, the next thing he knew, she was running down the river bank, jumping in the water, lifting Bean’s wheelchair out of the current, and lugging it back up to him. But their happily-ever-after would not last nearly as long as Bean imagined. She died of cancer in 2020, leaving him a widower with four children: Sophia, now age 23; Amelia, 21; Samuel, 18, and Gabriel, 15. The lesson he’s tried to teach his children through their grief, he says, is, “We never move on from a loss, but we can move forward from loss.” In one of the most emotionally raw and poignant sections of “Lifted to Lead,” he recounts how Janet had initially rejected him when he asked her out, admitting she was worried that because he was in a wheelchair, he wouldn’t be able to take care of her should she ever become sick or too old to get around by herself. The fact that her fear ultimately became a reality “wrapped around me like a chain. … I could not care for her the way I wanted, and the truth crushed me,” he

writes in the book. Even then, he was lifted by support from family and friends, who did what he could not. “Their presence was not my failure,” he writes. “It was the way it was supposed to be, even if it was hard for me to see it that way. We were blessed.”

From inspiration to action

“Lifted to Lead” does more than recount Bean’s rise from disadvantaged beginnings to an empowered position; it reveals the ideological underpinning of his approach to education. “There’s a difference between inspiring strength and empowering strength,” Bean notes while recounting how that sixth-grade teacher, “Mr. G,” not only told him that he had

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Dr. Stefan Bean meets with Orange County Department of Education staff members in Costa Mesa.

the “gift of gab,” but then assigned him to do oral presentations. “The thing about Mr. G is that not only did he inspire that gift within me, he actually empowered it. You have to not only inspire strength in people, but empower the strength of people.” (Also, one more thing to know about this 55-year-old superintendent: In his spare time, he’s been binging the TV show “Ted Lasso,” the dramedy about a relentlessly optimistic soccer coach who, though haunted by a painful past, turns around a struggling team. Extrapolate from that what you will.) The one obstacle to all of this he sees? Distrust among people limits what can be accomplished. “When we’re so divisive like we are right now, we need leaders to build

community, and remind people that, yes, we have differences, but there’s so much more that we have in common,” he says. He points to a state-of-education address he gave earlier this year to a room full of nonprofit leaders, business executives, educators and district leaders. “We had everybody from different parts of the community, with different political viewpoints in that room. I reminded everybody in that room — and I said it was a through line for me — that no one gets there alone. So when we are being divisive, we’re actually being counterintuitive to human nature. Human nature is that we have to do this together rather than apart.” “I've worked really hard to shed

this idea that, ‘oh, he’s political’ or ‘he has this agenda,’” says Bean, whose detractors have criticized his support for school choice, defined as a policy of allowing public education funds to be used outside of a student’s assigned neighborhood public schools, including for charter schools, private schools, and homeschooling. “I mean what I say, and I do what I say. I want to bring people to the table from all walks of life, all political viewpoints, and find common ground in the work that we do. And it’s very simple. In education, the common ground is our kids, our students. The baseline is: What is best for all of our students? At the end of the day, if we’re really, truly here to serve all students, then let’s lift up together.” 2026 ♦ PREMIUM MAGAZINE

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sports

SGV Panthers member Eric Cooley wears a mask, as per the rules of beep baseball, while participating in batting practice at McDonald Park in Pasadena.

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A SWING IN THE DARK STORY BY JOE BLACKSTOCK

PHOTOS BY TREVOR STAMP

BEEP BASEBALL GIVES VISUALLY IMPAIRED ATHLETES A WAY TO COMPETE IN AMERICA’S PASTIME

t was by far the oddest baseball game I’ve ever witnessed. There, on a converted soccer field, were the familiar batters, fielders, a pitcher and catcher. But only the spectators could see the game. It is Beep Baseball, with players who are blind or visually impaired — and who trash the idea that you have to see in order to play ball. Darren Keepers of La Verne founded the SoCal Beep Baseball Association because he longed to play baseball since losing his sight at age 5. So in 2018, the association’s Panthers was formed with players from Oxnard and Lancaster to Redlands with limited or no sight and who simply want to play the game. They practice at Pasadena’s McDonald Park, preparing to play in tournaments all over the nation. “For many blind people, there is still a stigma that we are fragile, quiet, incapable, or need to be protected from

the world,” says Keepers. “That has never matched the blind people I know. Blind people are parents, spouses, professionals, athletes, leaders, volunteers, and community builders. We live full lives. We just do some things differently.” The Panthers are the only California team in the National Beep Baseball Association, a program founded in Minnesota 50 years ago to encourage and enable the blind to participate in rigorous physical activities. There are 25 teams in the U.S. and Puerto Rico. “The ball beeps, the bases buzz, and players wear blindfolds so everyone competes on an equal playing field,” he says. “Athletes hit, run, dive, communicate, and compete hard. It is not fragile. It is loud, physical, emotional, and full of energy.” But seriously, can someone who is blind really play a game so seemingly dependent on keen eyesight? It’s actually possible because 2026 ♦ PREMIUM MAGAZINE

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of the creation of a rather unusual ball. Slightly larger than a softball, it emits a beeping sound from the electronic gear hidden inside. And batters do hit the beeping ball even without any visual clues. A pitcher (who is sighted) tosses a ball, yells “pitch,” and the batter directs his swing at the point where and when he hopes the bat and ball will meet. I watched the batters often make contact with the ball and wondered whether my own baseball past could help me do any better. I was offered the chance to hit wearing a mask and my answer came quickly — my wife’s video of me taking seven wild, futile swings is simply embarrassing. Finally, after managing a foul tip on the eighth pitch, I declared victory and gave up. I might as well have been in a coal mine at midnight trying to swat a fly. In each game, there’s an umpire who keeps the count. Batters get a little help because it’s four strikes for a strikeout, but there are no walks. After hitting the ball fair, a batter takes off at top speed to one of the two 4-foothigh cushioned bases. He has nothing to guide him except for a different beep tone emitting from the base. If he hones in on the sound and touches the base before a fielder finds the ball, it’s a run. If a fielder tracks down the beeping ball and picks it up first, it’s an out. The fielders out there try to capture the batted ball with only its beeping to direct them. As the sound of the ball approaches, they fall to the ground in hopes of corralling the ball. “It’s not impossible, but you really can’t tense up when the ball is coming toward you,” said Victor Hernandez of Sylmar, who has played for the Panthers for four years. “You have to relax and listen, and you can find it.” Everyone, even the fully blind, wears a black mask to ensure that any light can’t be used to assist a runner or fielder. Any partially sighted player wears a mask on the field. At a recent tournament in Las Vegas, the Panthers finished in third place, winning their last game by scoring the deciding run on a poorly described “walkoff ” victory. In truth, there was no walking at all. Panther Alex Marositz, after hitting the ball, raced off at top speed and knocked over the beeping base while the fielders were unable to find the ball. Keepers, who is president of the SoCal Beep Baseball Association as well as a player, is also second vice president and public relations director of the national organization’s board of directors. He 42

SGV Panthers member Victor Hernandez yells out to notify his teammates that he retrieved the ball during a fielding drill.

Above: Dale Wright, right, assists SGV Panthers member Victor Hernandez in finding the plate during batting practice. Right: Darren Keepers, center, a SGV Panthers member and SoCal Beep Baseball Association president, is embraced by his teammates.

will tell you there’s more to the program than just playing ball. “It gives people exercise, athletic competition and a reason to get outside,” he said. “But it also gives people friendships, confidence, structure and a support system. “Many blind people face isolation, especially after vision loss. Coming to practice gives them a place where they are understood without having to explain themselves. They can meet other blind people who are working,

raising families, traveling, using technology, going to school and living independent lives.” Serving as an umpire at the Las Vegas tournament was Darnell Booker of Indiana who has been involved in the program for 41 years after he lost one eye from a BB gun incident as a 15-year-

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The SGV Panthers huddle together as practice concludes at McDonald Park.

old. He became a player and then a coach of the Indy Thunder, six-time winners of the Beep Baseball World Series. (Yes, there’s even a yearly world championship.) Last year, he coached his team to the title with a 26-0 record. “This sport has changed the lives of many people,” said Booker, recently inducted into the Beep Baseball Hall of Fame. “It provides those with limited or no vision a chance to build confidence from all the camaraderie and activity the game gives us. We just ask everyone to judge us on our abilities, not our disabilities.” It is not an inexpensive sport. While a regular baseball might cost only a few bucks, the electronic beeping balls carry a hefty price tag at $42 apiece, and they’re not especially durable. At the tournament in Las Vegas — which had teams from as far away as New York, Texas and Georgia — 35 of the balls fell silent after being hit so many times. That’s nearly $1,500 in “dead balls” at that tournament alone. The price tag for two of the beeping bases is about $500, Booker said. Keepers said the SoCal Beep Baseball Association receives financial support from the Pasadena Host Lions Club, AT&T Pioneers Pacific Chapter, the Pasadena Community Foundation and

the Tournament of Roses Foundation. The team’s uniforms — with a Pasadena City Hall and roses on the front — reflect their hometown sponsorship. SCBBA also stages golf tournaments and other events to raise funds. Last year, there was a Dining in the Dark fundraiser in Pomona, where sighted guests wore blindfolds while eating their meal. Guests got a glimpse into navigating a meal without sight, while opening conversations about accessibility, independence, and everyday problem-solving skills blind people use throughout their lives. Keepers said he is gratified that this program has enabled him to participate in sports, something he always desired in his youth in Rancho Cucamonga and while attending Alta Loma High School. “Growing up I wanted to play organized sports so badly,” he explained, but his vision loss and other health challenges kept him on the sidelines. “This led me to playing ball in my parents’ front yard and eventually discovering Beep Baseball.” He also plays the drums in various garage bands after being a part of the jazz band while at Alta Loma High and Chaffey College. He is also appreciative of the program’s volunteers — including his

mother Lisa and dad Darrell (who is also the team’s pitcher). All the sideliners help guide players to the plate or to and from their positions, as well as cheer them on. “We are not just building a sports program. We are building a community where blind and visually impaired people can be athletes, leaders, teammates, friends and role models,” he said. “The Panthers and the SCBBA give people a place to compete, belong, and be seen for what they can do, not for what others assume they cannot do.” For Hernardez, who still has lost all but a small portion of his vision for natural reasons, his dealing with his blindness all changed when he was introduced to Beep Baseball. He wasn’t much involved in athletics before he lost his sight, but that’s all changed with the Panthers. “After I lost my sight, I ventured into what more I could do, and the Panthers have opened so many doors for me,” he explained. “To be part of something so growing, so large, it means I have more of a purpose in life.” To learn more about the SoCal Beep Baseball Association, visit www.socalbeepbaseball.org. 2026 ♦ PREMIUM MAGAZINE

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etcetera Darin Nakakihara with his family: daughters Kendall, 24, from left, Madison, 28, and Brooklyn, 27, and his wife Denise, in Laguna Niguel.

AFTER CAREGIVING ALS influencer Darin Nakakihara inspired thousands with his ‘Go Find Some Joy’ motto. Now, his widow faces how to carry that forward. BY SAMANTHA DUNN

is death came faster than she imagined. Of course, Denise Nakakihara had understood that ALS is always fatal. When Darin, her husband, went to his doctor’s appointment for what he thought was a minor issue and instead came home with a diagnosis of Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis — ALS, commonly known as Lou Gehrig’s disease — the two of them clung to each other in shock and fear, crying together in their kitchen. Soon thereafter, on April 21, 2024,

Darin announced his diagnosis on Instagram. A popular teacher at Tustin High School, Darin loved teaching technology and had developed a loyal online following for his posts about digital hacks and using tech in the classroom. The smiling, joking Darin — “Mr. N,” as students called him — would always sign off with the tagline “Go find some joy.” But, in the wake of this devastating news, the words rang differently, urgently. Suddenly, he went viral — hundreds of thousands of people were following his social media posts, which became about documenting his journey to

squeeze all the love and happiness he could out of his remaining days. “What if I told you I can’t change my diagnosis, but I can change the way I live through it?” he told followers in one post. Fans watched as he and Denise traveled to Paris and London, and later Hawaii, on bucket-list trips. They watched as two of his daughters got married, another engaged. He spoke to his followers from his backyard with his Corgi Harlow at his side, from his favorite wine bar, Five Vines, in San Juan Capistrano. His journey attracted the attention of Today.com and People Magazine,

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Yet there is another dimension to ALS that people seem to forget, or don’t really think about much in the

PHOTOS BY MINDY SCHAUER

and he was named a Most Influential Person by the Orange County Register. Even as the neurological disorder destroyed more and more of the motor neurons in his brain and spinal cord, first stealing his voice, then his ability to move, he used all his technological know-how to continue posting and advocating fiercely, sometimes bitterly, for more research and better — more rightly said, any — treatment for the disease. “Today, if you get an ALS diagnosis, it’s terminal. Like, there is zero hope,” Denise says, speaking from her home in Laguna Niguel via Zoom, from the very same bedroom where Darin took his last breath on April 22, a mere two years almost to the day of his announcement on social media. “That’s hard to fathom in today’s medical society, with how much science we have,” she says “I hope for, obviously, a cure, but also just for something that genuinely can slow down the progress and maintain quality of life for an ALS patient.” Even knowing this, his rapid decline came as a surprise. “There was not once that I thought we would lose Darren in such a short time. I really thought that we would have him longer,” she admits. And really, it’s easy to understand why. He was so prolific with his posts, so much of a presence; imagining all that energy could just stop is difficult for anybody to wrap their head around. “The standard diagnosis is two to five years — and we knew that, you know?” she says, her voice catching in her throat. “So we spent a lot of time living. Doing things while he could still get out and about.” It wasn’t until their daughter Brooklyn’s engagement party that it truly hit Denise how near the end they were. Struggling to transfer Darin into the car because he no longer has any ability to love on his own, it suddenly became obvious that just she and the home healthcare aide couldn’t provide all the support he required. “We signed on for hospice on April 8, and it was as if his body just said, “Thank you. Thank you. I’ve done what I can. And now I … now I can go.” She wipes tears from her eyes as she talks.

Denise Nakakihara, gets a hug from family friend Steve Sloan after Sloan and his wife, Cynthia, spoke at her husband's celebration of life memorial at Tustin High School on Saturday, May 9, 2026.

first place. “This disease doesn’t just happen to the patient,” she says. Denise hesitates. She says she “doesn’t want this to sound selfish.” She is quick to enumerate all the many ways she and her family were “lucky.” How she is “grateful to the core” that the Nakakiharas have a huge support network — a church community, each other, a robust GoFundMe account that helped defray the “massive expenses” of a disease “that bankrupts people.” “What do people do if they don’t have family, if they don’t have the benefit of a GoFundMe? Because it is expensive. I mean, it is a crazy expensive disease. We have to pay for caregiving. I was super mindful to ensure that the money didn’t run out.” The fact that insurance doesn’t cover so much of what is involved in the care of ALS patients is a particular sticking point. “It, to me, is baffling, because they cannot do anything for themselves. That’s the point it gets to. So their sheer existence requires 24-7, side-by-side support. “I think the hard thing about ALS caregiving is that the needs of an ALS patient are so specific, and it’s so different by patient,” she explains. “And as a full-time caregiver, you become so in lockstep with their needs. It really becomes almost part of your love language together as you move throughout the day. I really felt like I became an extension of Darren’s body for him.”

Darin Nakakihara's positive message about life has played on the Tustin High School marquee ever since the beloved teacher stopped working a couple of years ago because of ALS.

In the wake of Darin’s death, only now does she realize she and her family “needed probably almost twice as much [help] as we were using.” For the past two years, the routine went like this: A home health-care aide came to the house on weekdays so Denise could go to work. “I covered my work hours so that I could keep a roof over our head and I could keep us insured,” she says. “I knew he was cared for while I was working, but then as soon as I was done with work at 5 p.m., the caregiver left, and I was on.” 2026 ♦ PREMIUM MAGAZINE

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In May, 300 or so attended the celebration of life for Darin at Tustin High. He’d been a DJ in his younger days, and had of course put together the playlist for his own funeral. OK, so maybe Denise thought “Celebrate” by Kool & The Gang was a little much and excised that number, but the rest — the Justin Bieber, Prince, all those uptempo tunes he loved — those stayed. On his deathbed, Darin tasked Denise and his daughter with their own “mission” to continue forward. One of them is to maintain his “Go Find Some Joy” campaign. “I don’t know yet quite what that looks like in the future. We will leave his site and his product line available. Friends of ours helped us create a nonprofit under the same name. I don’t know where it will go yet,” she says. “But I do know this: It is a motto that our family and our friends and our circle will forever live by. I think he imprinted that on people who will continue to look at life through the lens of not just what we can’t control, but what we can. There is joy to be found in every situation if you look hard enough. That is truly, to the very end, what he stood for — community, bringing people together and celebrating joy. I mean, he laughed until the very last moment.” In this time of grief, she holds to that lesson. “We all have the ability to choose how we respond to what life brings our way, and even in this moment of 46

Pictures of a smiling, and sometimes goofyfaced Darin Nakakihara are displayed at his celebration of life at Tustin High School.

profound sadness, I am committed to looking for the good, and to finding joy, and to not letting this tragedy define who we are as a family.” These days, Denise has a lot of time to think about what her life will hold going forward. One thing that gives her comfort is comforting others in the struggle of ALS. “We had so much support, and as all of that was coming our way, I just kept saying to myself, ‘Someday I will be able to pay this forward,’” she says. “It’s hard to accept all of that help. And I remember at the beginning of the journey, people told me, ‘When others want to help, just say yes. Just accept it. Allow us to help you.’ So I learned to accept it, but in the back of my head, I kept coming back to, ‘Pay this forward.’” Now, her spare time is spent “reaching out to other caregivers that are still in it and connecting with them,” she says. “I’ve given stuff to them, I’ve offered just an ear.” Her main advice to other caregivers going through this? “It’s so much easier said than done, but you have to find a moment for yourself,” she advises. “I was having coffee with another caregiver the other day, and I said,

PHOTO BY MINDY SCHAUER

“This might sound like a weird thing to say — but I think it was a really good example for our three girls, that this is what marriage is. It is truly ‘for better, for worse, in sickness and in health.’ I think we all hope and pray that the person we say ‘I do’ to is going to be there with us through something like that, and you know really fast who’s who, and the depth of your love. “And I have never felt more love for another human. It was a depth that I can’t even explain. I just wanted to protect him, to wrap him in a bubble, and make sure every moment was as safe as possible and that he felt as loved as possible.” The destruction ALS wreaks on its victims never takes a day off, so neither could she. “And that’s okay,” she insists. “Every time I felt that fatigue, that burnout, every moment that felt too hard, I would just remind myself, there’s going to come a time where I have so much time on my hands, I won’t…” She starts to cry.

‘Okay, what are you doing for you?’ And she goes, ‘I have found twice a week the ability to walk to my mailbox and back.’ And my heart just broke, because I know how hard that is, to even walk out your front door, because your person with ALS is so vulnerable every moment, and their needs are so heightened. Just walking to a mailbox and back is a luxury.” Denise herself is still discovering how to “reset” after the past two intense years. “For me, it’s about quiet, it’s about friends, it’s about really just taking the time to give myself the space to feel and to breathe,” she says. “And movement! That’s my secret sauce. I don’t mean moving just to be busy — I’ve always believed that walking really allows me to process. And when I’m walking by the water, it’s that smell of salt air and sand that brings me a lot of peace.” Her companions, however, are less enthusiastic about this reset: “My poor little dogs haven’t walked in two years and they’re like, “What’s happening? We’re exhausted!” And just like that, Denise, for the first time, laughs. Joyfully.

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