I listened, captivated, to an April 2026 episode of The Diary of a CEO podcast featuring Scott Galloway. He has plenty of opinions about current events, business, the future, and, of course, artificial intelligence.
But one statement stopped me in my tracks.
He said the safest thing you can be in the age of AI is a storyteller.
I smiled when I heard it because, at heart, that’s exactly what I am.
One of my favorite team-building exercises has nothing to do with quarterly reports, strategic plans, or personality assessments. I ask groups of people who work together every day to talk about something completely unrelated to work — but deeply connected to who they are.
I’ve coined it The STACK Game.
Participants can choose from five different types of stories from their lives. Every single time, we learn the craziest things about each other. We laugh. We cry. We have “aha” moments. Walls come down.
But one category evokes the strongest response every time.
The “K.”
The K stands for the kindest thing someone has ever done for you.
You can literally feel a room connect when someone shares their K story.
I always go first.
I share a funny story (usually involving a Cher impression) to break the tension because everyone is silently thinking, Oh no… one of those awful icebreaker exercises. Then I share something vulnerable in the hope that vulnerability will invite vulnerability.
And when I share my K story, the star is always Mrs. Gertrude Lungen.
Similar in stature to Sophia Petrillo on The Golden Girls, this imposing five-foot-nothing piano teacher changed my life forever.
But to explain why, I have to take you back to 1974.
One of the hottest songs on AM radio that year was Scott Joplin’s ragtime masterpiece, The Entertainer, from the movie The Sting. I was absolutely captivated by the opening piano riff.
We didn’t own a piano. I couldn’t even imagine owning one. But morning, noon, and night, I sat at our kitchen table pretending to play it anyway.
Tap tap tap.
Over and over again.
An obsession that probably drove my family insane.
Later that year, on my birthday, my sister and I were relegated to the basement while my mother vacuumed upstairs. That wasn’t unusual in our house. My mom was an extreme clean freak, and once those vacuum lines were laid down, heaven help the child who dared disturb them.
So downstairs we stayed, playing games, reading books, and lip-syncing to our 45s while the vacuum roared endlessly overhead.
At one point I remember pleading, “Mom, can I please come upstairs to use the bathroom?”
“Nope. Nope. Nope.”
Different times, I suppose.
Finally, hours later, we were allowed upstairs.
And there it was.
A brand-new Wurlitzer piano sitting in the living room with a giant red bow stretched across the top.
I had no idea that my father — a cement mixer truck driver working endless overtime — had been sacrificing all those extra hours so his little girl could have the piano of her dreams.
To this day, it remains one of the greatest acts of love and kindness anyone has ever shown me.
But the story doesn’t end there.
Less than a year later, my father died suddenly of a massive heart attack. The dreaded widow maker. He never had a chance.
Our little household of three was shaken to the core.
I remember quietly asking my mother if we were going to need food stamps or if I should apply for free lunches at school. She had to return to work immediately, and without education or specialized skills, life became incredibly difficult overnight. Even as a child, I could feel the weight of it.
Which is why I assumed piano lessons were over.
After all, lessons were not a necessity. They were a luxury. Something I loved deeply, but certainly not something we could justify anymore.
And then a sympathy card arrived in the mail from Mrs. Lungen.
Now, understand, this woman was tough. I don’t remember her smiling once during all the years I studied with her. Her standards were sky-high. Her recitals were first class. She demanded excellence from every student fortunate enough to sit at her piano bench.
Inside the card she wrote:
“I will continue teaching Brenda piano as long as she wishes to continue lessons… free of charge.”
I have never forgotten it.
Here was someone who, in many ways, was practically a stranger stepping into our heartbreak with generosity and dignity. No fanfare. No announcement. No need for recognition.
Just kindness. Life-changing kindness.
I never became a concert pianist.
But I learned something infinitely more valuable from her example.
I learned how powerful it is when someone chooses to sprinkle a little pixie dust onto another person’s impossible situation.
I learned that generosity can alter the trajectory of a life.
And I learned the kind of person I wanted to become.
When you look back over your shoulder, what is the kindest thing someone has ever done for you?
I believe we are the stories we tell.
And I agree with Scott Galloway — storytelling will always matter because stories connect us in ways information never can.
Goodness knows, we need connection more than ever right now.
So maybe the next time you’re sitting around a dinner table, or leading a team meeting, or gathering with people you think you already know, ditch the agenda for a moment and ask the question.
“What’s the kindest thing anyone has ever done for you?”
You may discover what truly matters to people.
What shaped them.
Or broke them.
And what healed them.
These are the conversations that allow us to be a little more human together.
