The Wall of Shame, the Fun Room, and Knowing Where Emotion Belongs

There are five photographs on my phone that trace an emotional arc I did not understand at the time but recognize clearly now.

Two are from the first Seahawks Super Bowl I attended. One is from the second. One hangs permanently over our television. Another hangs, very intentionally, in the bathroom of our game room. The fifth is the insignia for Super Bowl 60, which I am traveling to today.

Taken together, they tell a story about highs and lows, but more importantly, they illustrate something deeper about judgment, proportion, and where emotion belongs.

Nothing has mirrored the swings of life and career quite like the Seahawks’ Super Bowl journey the first time around.

The first trip was to New York. I traveled on my boss’s private plane, and the mood was pure elation. Everything felt possible. That week unfolded exactly as every fan imagines it will. We went from the team event to the players’ after-party and then followed Seahawks fans wherever they gathered, staying out until the snow started falling the next morning and none of us had gone to bed.

That Monday felt light. The effort had been rewarded. The joy came without qualification.

The second trip was Arizona. There was pride again and excitement again. I told my son he had been to his first Super Bowl, even though he had not entered the world yet. One photograph from that game hangs over our television where we watch sports together as a family. Another photograph from that same game hangs over the toilet in the bathroom attached to our fun room.

The result earned both placements.

That Monday could not have been more different. We walked silently to our cars. We drove silently back to the house we had rented in Ahwatukee. We unplugged the cable and disconnected the internet. We played cards, sat in the hot tub, and stayed quiet for forty-eight hours until our plane left. We did not watch a single highlight. We did not analyze what had happened. We simply let time do what it always does.

Those two Mondays taught me more than I expected.

Emotion, Assigned Intentionally

In my professional life, I have experienced what many people would consider major career setbacks. They were moments that should have rattled me and situations where others expected me to linger in disappointment or frustration.

Instead, every time, I woke up the next morning feeling lighter. I felt clearer and more focused. I went straight to work. I became determined to make things happen, and they always did.

I have also experienced real career triumphs. I have had moments that others wanted to celebrate, recognize, and savor. In those moments, I did not pause. I did not revel in success. I went straight back to work and largely ignored the praise.

That contrast never concerned me. It simply felt natural.

And yet, sports, which are entirely out of my control, have the uncanny ability to hijack my emotions in ways that real, consequential work never has. A referee’s call, a dropped pass, or a play at the one-yard line can provoke a reaction that far outweighs its importance.

For a long time, I assumed this meant I was inconsistent or immature. Eventually, I realized something else was happening.

I was not suppressing emotion in my career. I was assigning it.

The Fun Room

Before we had kids, our sports, game room, gym, and play area began as a collection of the biggest sporting events I had attended and the most significant moments in Seattle sports history.

Over time, that room changed.

Today, it reflects family events at games and shared experiences where all of us were together. It is filled with color, noise, and memory. It represents time spent, not outcomes achieved.

Those are the moments that adorn the fun areas of our house now, and that evolution matters. The room tracks the progression of my life as much as it tracks sports. It marks the shift from spectacle to presence and from being a fan to being a father who happens to love sports.

Emotion belongs there. Joy belongs there. Exaggeration belongs there. That space is meant to be loud, irrational, and fun.

The Wall of Shame

There has always been another space as well.

Ever since I bought my first house, I have kept what I call the Wall of Shame. It lives in the bathroom of the fun room, and it always has.

It documents the worst sporting moments I have ever witnessed in person. It includes the 0–8 Huskies season. It includes Jake Locker spiking the ball against Air Force, drawing a penalty that pushed the extra point back and cost the game. It includes Phil Humber’s perfect game against the Mariners, which I watched from the third row. It includes Kevin Durant’s final game as a Sonic. It includes Bobby Engram dropping the ball against the Rams in a Seahawks playoff loss.

And, of course, it includes Malcolm Butler.

For reasons I still cannot explain, that play exists on canvas twice, printed from two different angles. I do not remember buying the second one, and I do not remember how it arrived. Both remain in the bathroom to this day.

The placement matters. The Wall of Shame is not hidden, but it is not central either. It is private, slightly absurd, and intentionally disproportionate. It serves as a reminder that disappointment, even sharp disappointment, does not deserve the main room.

It deserves perspective.

Reversing the Stakes

Here is the inversion that took me years to understand.

In my career, I treat loss as fuel and victory as a footnote. In sports, I allow victory to be a release and loss to be archived, mocked, and eventually laughed at.

The stakes are reversed, and that is exactly the point.

Real work carries real consequences. It involves people, livelihoods, trust, and long-term direction. It does not benefit from theatrics.

Symbolic competition can absorb excess emotion without causing harm. Sports are a safe container for feeling deeply about things that ultimately do not matter.

Problems arise when leaders reverse those roles, when ego attaches to professional outcomes, when setbacks become identity, or when wins invite complacency. That is when emotion stops serving judgment and starts distorting it.

Two Mondays, Reconsidered

The Monday after New York showed me what celebration looks like when it is earned and temporary. The Monday after Arizona showed me something else entirely.

That silence was not despair. It was containment. We did not spiral or relitigate the outcome. We simply unplugged and allowed time to restore perspective.

That instinct has served me far better in work than any motivational framework ever could.

Why This Super Bowl Matters

I had no intention of attending this Super Bowl. I did not need another emotional swing. I did not need to revisit those highs and lows.

And yet, everything and everyone in my life pushed and pulled until it became clear that this was a rubber match I needed to take. Not for redemption or closure, but for symmetry. I wanted to show up again fully aware of how it might end and confident that I would be fine either way.

That decision has nothing to do with football.

It has everything to do with emotional ownership.

What Leadership Actually Requires

Over time, I have learned to carry wins and losses in life and career with far more balance than I once did. That did not come from numbing emotion or pretending it does not exist. It came from deciding where emotion belongs.

Serious work requires steadiness. Trivial pursuits can absorb excess feeling. The mistake is confusing which is which.

I coach leaders now who are exhausted not by the work itself but by the emotional noise they attach to it. Every setback feels personal. Every win feels fragile. Every decision feels heavier than it needs to be.

That is not resilience. It is misallocation.

The Lesson That Stays

The lesson I keep returning to is straightforward.

Save your strongest emotions for the silly and the trivial. Bring judgment, calm, and proportion to the serious and the consequential.

Let the fun room be loud. Let the Wall of Shame remain ridiculous. Let the work stay clear.

Today, I travel again. By Monday, it will be one of two conditions. I already know both.

Either way, the work continues