I have always loved puzzles, especially the numerical ones. Math made sense to me. It was logical, solvable, and deeply satisfying. I was good at it, often working ahead of the class. So when I was not placed in the advanced math track in eighth grade, my dad intervened. He enrolled me in a community college algebra course. And while he was at it, he said, “Why not also take a programming class?”
That is how I met Walt Coole.
Walt was not just a professor. He was a presence. With his jazz-lounge posture, kind eyes, loose slacks, and soft-spoken confidence, he looked like he had wandered out of a smoky 1960s club and into a fluorescent-lit computer lab. He taught me to code in GW-BASIC, but more than that, he made technology feel approachable. He made it human. And somehow, cool.
Fourteen-year-old me was completely hooked. I wanted to impress him. I wanted to learn everything. The logic of it—the way code demanded precision and rewarded curiosity—fit something in me that already loved seeing how things worked.
Falling in Love with Structure
Somewhere between debugging loops and figuring out how programs flowed, I began to notice other patterns. I got curious about the structure of the college itself. How did the courses fit together? What fulfilled which requirement? How many credits did you need in each category? I was not aiming for a degree or trying to get ahead. I just liked seeing how the pieces connected.
Without realizing it, I was already doing what would become a lifelong instinct: turning ambiguity into structure. I liked pulling vague or scattered information into a clear, usable framework. When I discovered the college catalog, I started building tables. I copied course descriptions, grouped them by category, and tracked my progress just to see what I had, what I needed, and what might come next. Watching those blank credit requirements slowly fill in felt like finishing a puzzle. It was satisfying, but it was also grounding. It gave shape to something that had felt abstract.
Not long after, I discovered Quattro Pro, one of the early spreadsheet programs that came bundled with our home computer. It was love at first formula. The ability to enter data, apply logic, and instantly see results felt like magic. Suddenly, this was not about math; it was about mapping possibilities. I could organize complexity, visualize outcomes, and see the story that numbers were telling. I did not know it yet, but I had found a way of thinking that would follow me everywhere.
What Walt gave me was more than a starter course in programming. He gave me the confidence to explore. He made it clear that technology was mine to learn. Quattro Pro gave me the tools to go further—to apply structure where there had been only noise. Even though I could not have articulated it at the time, I was developing the same habit I lean on now in every part of my life: turning ambiguity into structure.
A Spreadsheet, a Family Dinner, and a Lot of Corn
Years later, that instinct would resurface in very different circumstances.
In 2016, my family gathered in Washington State to celebrate my parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary. Each of my sisters wanted to plan a meal, and at some point, someone had what seemed like a brilliant idea: “Let’s all plan one meal together.”
Naturally, it went sideways.
We live in three different regions. I was in Atlanta, my youngest sister was in Pennsylvania, and the middle sister was local. You might expect the middle sister to take the lead, but the youngest jumped in with enthusiasm. I offered a shared Google spreadsheet. “Just update it with what you are bringing,” I said. Simple, right?
Except for the corn.
My youngest sister wanted to bring fresh corn. She told someone—at least, she thought she did—but she never updated the spreadsheet. My middle sister, trying to be helpful, picked some up from a nearby farm stand. And when the moment came, the two of them started bickering about who had said what and who was supposed to bring what.
Eventually, one of them turned to me and said, “Didn’t I tell you?”
I did not raise my voice. I just asked, “Did you put it in the spreadsheet?”
The whole room burst out laughing.
That moment became shorthand for everything I believe about planning. The point was not the corn. It was what happens when everyone assumes clarity exists and no one actually writes it down.
Why Turning Ambiguity into Structure Matters
That line has become my personal mantra: If it is not in the spreadsheet, it did not happen.
Naturally, it is also my family’s favorite way to tease me. Anytime there is confusion about who said what or who was supposed to bring what, someone will inevitably ask, “Do we need to make you a spreadsheet?” They say it with a grin, but honestly, that question gets at the heart of it.
My youngest sister is someone who moves fast. Her motto is literally, “I do what I want.” She says things once and assumes they have been heard, agreed to, and remembered—whether or not anyone else was actually in the room. And it works for her. She is decisive, efficient, and confident in her choices.
But in a group, that approach falls apart. When you have multiple people coordinating from different places, verbal agreements do not hold. Someone forgets. Someone misunderstands. Someone thought they were doing the other thing. Without shared documentation, it becomes chaos.
That is the part I had been learning since I was fourteen. A spreadsheet is not about micromanagement. It is about creating a shared reality. It is a place where ambiguity does not get to rule the room. Instead of “I thought you said,” you can simply see what was said.
Over time, I have come to recognize that as a guiding principle. While the phrase might earn me some eye rolls from my family, it is no joke. It applies to far more than corn. It applies to course requirements and college credits, to project planning and team coordination, to family trips, cross-functional work, and every decision where memory alone is not enough.
Walt Coole taught me how to think in systems.
Quattro Pro taught me how to build them.
But the corn incident taught me why they matter.
Shared understanding does not just happen. It has to be built. And sometimes, the kindest thing you can do for a group of people is to create a place where everyone can see what is true.
Next in this series: Planning with Heart – Fundraising, Friendships, and the Kind of Structure That Holds.