It began with an invitation—not just to a place, but to a possibility.  It happened because my wife persisted in desiring to pull together a gathering for fellow residents at our 55+ apartment complex.  It occurred because she convinced me it was a chance to build community and further new relationships.  It succeeded because it connected with many at an emotional and personal level.

Twenty-two neighbors, all over the age of 55, arrived one Sunday afternoon at our lakeside townhome.  There was no agenda, no formal program. Just a warm welcome, a table full of potluck dishes, chairs facing the water, and time carved out of ordinary life.

Leadership, here, looked different. It wasn’t about directing; it was about holding space. The hosts, my wife and I, demonstrated adaptive leadership—creating a container for others to bring their stories, questions, and wisdom. We honored both the seen and unseen experiences of aging, of living through change, of carrying personal histories that often go unspoken. The leadership made room for vulnerability.

The structure was simple and intentional. An outdoor conversation area formed naturally as the sun shone brightly, the temperature eased by a soft breeze off the lake. People drifted between conversations—some about grandchildren and gardening, others about sports and leisure activities.  There were pauses, laughter, even moments of silence. This flexible, light-touch structure allowed the group to regulate itself. It invited both spontaneity and safety, accommodating introverts and extroverts alike.  Surprisingly to me, when offered the chance to participate in charades, giant Jenga, and a game of cornhole, everyone in their own way stepped up, and the laughter, and shared vulnerability of potentially embarrassing themselves was shared by all. 

The climate was unmistakably healing. It wasn’t just the lake breeze or the gentle rustle of trees. It was the unforced kindness in every interaction, the way people listened to one another, how they noticed who was quiet and gently drew them in. A sense of psychological safety emerged—not because it was mandated, but because it was modeled. People felt seen. Valued. Whole.

And of course, the individuals brought it to life. Each resident came with their own lived experience—some navigating loss, some rebuilding after change, others perhaps seeking a sense of purpose in this next chapter. Together, they created what no one person could alone: a temporary community where healing wasn’t something to fix but something to feel. The group was not solving problems; they were sharing presence with each other.

This was not a one-time event. It was a living expression of an infinite mindset—an acknowledgment that relationships are never complete, that wellbeing is a shared, ongoing pursuit, and that community doesn’t need to be built perfectly to be deeply meaningful.

This lakeside gathering showed that a healing ecosystem does not require a formal program or institutional resources. It begins with intention. With creating space. With listening deeply. And with trusting that, given the opportunity, people will bring their full selves to the circle.

In our last post, we introduced the second component of a workplace healing ecosystem: climate. As we noted, thinking about what climate means and how to work on it may seem more ambiguous than working on organizational structure, which might then discourage anyone from tackling climate as a means to improve well-being at work. In addition, it’s natural to wonder whether focusing on something as diffuse as climate can have an impact.

In our last post, we introduced the second component of a workplace healing ecosystem: climate. As we noted, thinking about what climate means and how to work on it may seem more ambiguous than working on organizational structure, which might then discourage anyone from tackling climate as a means to improve well-being at work. In addition, it’s natural to wonder whether focusing on something as diffuse as climate can have an impact.

As we continue to explore the concept of organizations as healing ecosystems, we now move beyond the first component of the model – structures and evidence that working on structures can enhance well-being – to an equally important component: organizational climate.

Completing my third and fourth year at Tulane during a pandemic in the combined public health and medicine program gave me the opportunity to witness crisis leadership first-hand, albeit from a medical student’s perspective. Feeling that intentional leadership training in medicine is lacking, and with guidance from some mentors, I sought to expand my expertise in this area. This led me to the Crisis Leadership Canvas for COVID-19.

Most of us think of structures as physical buildings or organizational hierarchy – but structures show up as policies, systems, programs, schedules, or any other decision, rule, constraint, or tool that impacts how work is organized and executed. Even an agenda for a meeting is a form of structure.

The Marvel Cinematic Universe. The Justice League. Superpowers abound – so cool, so fun, so unbelievable. Fantasy. Real people don’t have superpowers. Superpowers are beyond our grasp. Or are they?

Despite our tendency to view structures as immovable sources of burnout, they are important components of the ecosystem and therefore deserve attention.

Discovery creates interest, curiosity, and potential excitement among those directly involved. Fingerprinting the goal drives engagement in making it happen.

What would a healing ecosystem look like, at work? Defined, an ecosystem is a a community of organisms and agents that interact with and within their physical environment.

New Orleans is a city of jazz, crawfish boils and many other forms of togetherness. The collective city was very lonely. Krewe of House Floats gave us the opportunity for an aesthetic reset—a phrase sometimes used in Organizational Aesthetics (OA).

What are the “Sharpies” that people on healthcare’s front lines confront that represent choices their leaders have made, reflecting a focus on something other than what’s best for the patient/the clinician, and/or indicating we’d rather put a Band-Aid on a serious wound than to try and work on improving the condition(s) causing the wound in the first place?