This article is adapted from Ted's podcast episode 348: There is No Scorecard in Leadership (Leadership & Process).

Someone asked me recently what qualifies me to talk about leadership. I laughed and said, "Really, nothing." But that question got me reflecting, and I realized something profound: In 32 years of working professionally, I've spent over 60,000 hours with other people—watching, observing, learning from the beautiful weirdness of human behavior.

Most of what I know comes from experience rattling around in my head until someone asks me to share it. But what if we had an intentional process for this? What if instead of waiting for someone to have the courage to step into a vulnerable conversation, we made wisdom-sharing natural—something that just happened because someone led it?

Let me tell you about Kurt, the hippie zen master who changed my life.

The Deep End and the Revelation

During college, I pieced together money through a dozen different jobs. Most were just jobs—means to an end. But I learned skills I use every day, usually one of two ways: being thrown in the deep end or being mentored by someone extraordinary.

The deep end was brutal. No guidance, all anxiety, complete criticism. I remember starting one job where they said, "Well, here you go," and walked away. I stood around for two hours trying to figure out what to do. When someone finally asked if I knew what I was doing and I said "not really," she responded, "Well, you'll figure it out." I left at lunch and never came back.

But then came the painting job that changed everything.

The owner met me at the job site after school. "I've heard good things about you, Ted," he said. "I want you to fill all the nail holes on the boards the carpenters hung today." He gestured at miles of pre-stained trim everywhere. "You can work until nine or leave early, but this all has to be done by Friday." Then he left.

I stood there at four o'clock, sun blazing through curtainless windows. I'd never filled a nail hole in my life. Didn't know what to fill it with, how to reach the ceiling, nothing. That familiar sinking feeling crept in—the one that whispers "you'll figure it out" before abandoning you to failure.

Just as I was about to give up, around the corner came magic in white painter's gear.

Enter the Trust Fund Philosopher

He had long blonde hair, John Lennon glasses, a cigarette hanging from his lip, and a Body Glove surf hat. Zero paint on his pristine clothes, which told me this guy was a pro. He moved with this weird coolness, approaching me like a cinematic scene.

He removed his orange headphones and said, "Hey man, what are you doing?" His chill energy made me feel safely vulnerable. When he asked if I knew what I was doing and I admitted I didn't, he didn't judge. He just laughed: "You're going to learn two things tonight—to hate carpenters and to always be nice to them."

Without being asked, Kurt walked me to the toolbox and showed me everything: how nail filler worked, where it was stored, how to keep it wet. He demonstrated proper technique, cleanup methods, how to make the holes perfect for his work the next day.

Kurt had no desire to treat me like a rookie. As I'd learn, job sites are like Survivor—everyone wants to pick on the college kid. But not Kurt.

Kurt didn't need to work. He came from money but painted because he enjoyed it and needed work hours to access his trust. Twenty years older than me, he'd been everywhere in the world. He painted summers and traveled winters.

Every morning, Kurt spoke in poetic metaphors that would ping-pong in my head all day. "Today will be a good day for sunshine and fresh air," he'd say. Two hours later, when I was dizzy from oil-based stain fumes, Kurt would appear with that exact phrase, then help me move everything outside.

Some mornings made no sense. Like his favorite: "A frog never sleeps on its back." Thirty-five years later, I still have no clue what that meant.

One day I brought him a mixtape as thanks for his guidance. Kurt was trapped in music between 1968 and 1979, so my Depeche Mode tapes blew his mind. When I explained I'd made it because I was grateful, he hit me with a line I still use today:

"Dude, there is no scorecard in our friendship."

On my last day, I asked him how he got so smart. "I have a PhD in philosophy," he said. "My dad thinks he's a pretty huge deal in philosophy. Pretty huge deal, PhD."

Kurt was an outlier. No scorecard, all service to others. He cared about my success from day one without knowing me. He could have left me to figure it out. Instead, he treated me like someone he knew, cared about, and wanted to share his wisdom with.

The Receipt vs. Ticket Revolution

What made Kurt extraordinary reveals two things we can all do:

First, he understood there are no receipts, no scorecards, nothing owed for leadership and wisdom. Some people are naturally transactional—they keep score, saying things like "I did this and no one said anything" or "I don't think anyone knows how much I do."

That's not cool, and it's not safe. Pessimists keep score.

Optimists have tickets. They distribute wisdom, support, grace, mercy. They ensure others have what they need to win. Our mindset must be that we're leaders in the business of advancing everyone around us, not waiting for people to notice and pay us back.

When people say "They always give me the extra work," that's receipt thinking. Ask yourself why—it's likely because they depend on your skills and intelligence. It's not punishment; it's recognition.

I love when teachers say, "Every year they give me the bad kids." That's a compliment. They're giving them to you so you don't punish the kids—because you must be remarkable, able to do things no one else can.

Stop looking for ways people are tallying against you. Start printing tickets.

The Wisdom Collection Process

How do we collect the wisdom of our Kurts and make it safe with everyone around us? We create intentional systems for sharing wisdom.

The strategy is simple. Establish that you're a ticket culture, not a receipt culture—you don't score what's been done for you; instead, you provide others opportunities to better themselves.

Here's the process using Post-it pads and wall space:

Put up prompts like these:

• If you could share one piece of advice with yourself from your first year, what would it be?
• What was the best piece of advice you've ever been given?
• When you struggle with balance, what works to get you realigned?
• Where did you waste time that you've learned to approach differently?

Have people write answers on Post-its and put them on walls. You're deliberately collecting the collective wisdom of everyone around you. Use the Post-it app to scan responses into shareable PDFs, or shuffle note cards and have people explain their wisdom.

One of my favorites came from a principal: "Go when you can, not when you have to." Brilliant wisdom for bathroom breaks and life decisions.

Crisis Wisdom and Practical Applications

Use this process when challenges arise. Every team has someone who's faced something similar to what you think is new.

If you have a disruptive student, put up prompts: "What has worked for you? What do you know we can do?" Do a wisdom dump to discuss solutions instead of complaining about the problem.

For classroom instruction, try prompts like:

• List ways you confront negative thoughts
• How do you build courage when facing difficult situations?
• What study tips actually work?

Never underestimate the wisdom of young people. You can even disguise your problems as theirs—they'll give you incredible answers.

The Deeper Truth

Years later, Kurt's mysterious frog statement still surfaces in my mind. Recently, I asked AI about it. Response: "This could be a metaphorical way of saying something is impossible or highly unlikely."

Even artificial intelligence doesn't know. But I assume Kurt meant, "Don't sit on your butt, let's get to work."

When I gave my first commencement address, terrified but wanting to say something meaningful, it hit me:

Diplomas and life experiences are not receipts. They are tickets to our future.

When you interact with others, does your encounter leave them with a ticket? With knowledge, wisdom, role modeling that moves them forward? Are your interactions debt-free?

There is no scorecard in friendship. You're not exchanging anything. There's no transaction in leadership or life. Free yourself from the idea that people owe you something.

You earn leadership by presenting others with opportunities to be their best. That comes from a service mindset, an others-before-you mindset, a no-receipts mindset.

Your Turn to Be Someone's Kurt

Kurt looked like just another painter. To me, he was a genius who appeared exactly when I needed him, guiding me professionally, personally, and spiritually. That can happen anywhere, anytime.

I was a 19-year-old lost in insecurities who encountered someone who saw what I needed and shared his wisdom. That's what we need to do in our organizations.

Nothing stops us from being great cultures except missing leadership, absent shared mindset, and lack of tools to connect it all.

Leaders leave tickets in their wake. People see courage, resolve, compassion, perseverance, and think, "That taught me something I need to do."

So here's your Smart Thinking challenge for this week: List your Kurts. Describe how you make it safe to share wisdom in your culture. Ask yourself—do you have a receipt culture or a ticket culture?

The choice is yours. Remember: there is no scorecard in friendship, and the wisdom you share today becomes the ticket someone else uses to transform their tomorrow.