The Permission Project: How Small Encounters Create Big Ripples

I'm standing in line at Lighthouse Coffee on a Sunday morning, watching an older gentleman who looks about my age - which is 72 - order his usual. Something about him seems familiar, not because I know him, but because he carries that quiet Sunday energy that comes with being a regular somewhere.

"Hey," I say, stepping closer. "Do you have any grandkids?"

He looks at me with that split-second calculation we all make when a stranger speaks to us. Then his face softens. "No, my daughter's 35 and doesn't have kids yet."

Within minutes, we're deep into a conversation about being grandparents, about National Grandparents Day (which happens to be today), about how Rory's Ice Cream is giving away free scoops to grandparents. A completely random encounter that leaves both of us smiling.

This interaction happened because about a year ago, I heard Scott Galloway mention a rule he has in his house with his two teenage sons. They're not allowed to come home after their day - school, play, whatever - unless they've talked to at least one person they didn't know and had a short conversation.

That rule stopped me cold. Not because it was revolutionary, but because I realized I'd been doing exactly that my whole life. The difference was, after hearing Scott articulate it, I started doing it intentionally.

The Accidental Discovery

I've always been the person who talks to the stranger in line, who comments on someone's interesting tattoo, who asks visiting tourists if they're enjoying Santa Barbara. For years, I thought this was just my personality - the extroverted guy who can't help but engage.

But something deeper was happening that I didn't fully understand until people started coming back.

A few years ago, a woman stopped me in the grocery store. She was practically glowing as she told me how thrilled she was that I'd been in her son's life. Her son, she said, had gone on to become a visual effects supervisor working in motion pictures, and she credited those early days when he worked with us at Wavefront - specifically how I paid attention to and celebrated his work.

I barely remembered the kid.

Another time, someone commented on a piece I'd written about our after-school program for at-risk high school students. "You probably don't remember me," he wrote, "but I was one of the kids. I now own my own business with people working for me, and I credit you for giving me the confidence to do that."

Again, I had no specific memory of him.

These moments shook something loose for me. I realized I'd been having impact I never knew about, in conversations I barely remembered, with people whose names I'd forgotten. Those 90-second interactions weren't throwaway moments - they were echoing across decades.

That's when I understood what was really happening. In a workshop about 15 years ago, during some deep introspection, I'd settled on a personal philosophy: make every moment matter. But I didn't fully grasp what that meant until people started showing me the ripple effects.

Through Another Lens is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

The Art of Actually Seeing People

Here's what I've learned about the difference between looking at people and actually seeing them: it shows up in the smallest gestures.

When I compliment a family's "parade" of three kids, I'm not talking to the children - I'm acknowledging the parents who are probably feeling slightly overwhelmed by their beautiful chaos. When I tell a dad his dog is gorgeous, I'm recognizing the pride he takes in caring for something he loves.

The magic happens in what comes back. A subtle head nod from the dad. A smile from the mom. That tiny moment of connection that says, "Okay, you see us as humans, not problems."

I've noticed this especially when I'm walking down the street. A simple nod - not a full conversation, just that brief "I see you" acknowledgment - almost always gets returned. It's like we're all walking around starved for the most basic recognition that we exist.

The exception, I've learned, is New York City. I've been chided there for being myself, for giving people that little nod. "You just don't do that," New Yorkers tell me. And I understand why - the sheer volume of people makes it impossible. But what does that mean for a city of eight million people who have collectively agreed to pretend each other don't exist?

The Introvert Excuse

This brings me to something I think we've gotten wrong about human connection. In my experience, we've started using introversion as a blanket excuse for avoiding any genuine interaction.

Susan Cain's TED Talk about introversion was revolutionary - she showed us that introverts aren't broken extroverts, they're just wired differently. She talked a