(You can find all the work of Rascal Zurfluh at https://zimplicity.org/.)
The story of the observations of a trusted confidant of a retired school leader.
November is done—the month when schools shift from sprinting to pacing, and when leaders finally begin to see their communities settle into recognizable rhythms. It’s also the month when I, Rascal, notice my master used to slow down just a little. Not much—he’s still human, after all—but enough that even a small dog with a good nose could smell the difference. November, for him, was the season of gratitude, grace, and gentle noticing.
This year, as he reads through school newsletters and messages from colleagues around the world, I’m reminded of one thing he always watched for: the student who still hadn’t found their place.
Most humans forget this, but in every school—no matter how warm, how welcoming, how beautifully mission-driven—there is at least one young person who is still looking for the path that feels like theirs. I remember how my master used to spot them. It might happen in the hallway, during recess, or just outside the cafeteria line. He’d slow his steps, tilt his head, and offer a word, a smile, or sometimes just a moment of presence. Those moments mattered. I could tell because the students would stand a little taller, breathe a little steadier, or sometimes seek him out again later—not for answers, but for assurance.
That, I think, is what this season’s leadership is all about: offering assurance.
The Power of the November Pause
November is famous for its complications—report cards, strategic planning, accreditation visits, concerts, sports travel, parent coffees, and the sudden sense that December is barreling toward everyone far too quickly.
Yet I watched my master intentionally walk slightly slower in November. Not a dramatic slowdown—nobody would have believed it—but enough to let him see what a leader can’t see when they’re rushing: who is thriving, who is surviving, and who is quietly struggling to belong.
Humans underestimate the importance of pace. Dogs don’t. Our entire worldview is calibrated to the walking speed of the person we love.
The best heads of school understand this instinctively: slowing down allows you to see more.
Gratitude as Leadership Practice
Another November ritual I observed: gratitude. My master never made a show of it, but it seeped into his leadership like warmth into a chilly room. Teachers received notes. Facilities teams received appreciation. Students received smiles and recognition for the thousand small things they did well. Even the parents (the species most likely to cause the need for long walks) received signals of appreciation.
I learned that gratitude isn’t a message—it’s a posture. It’s the difference between appearing available and being available. Between saying “my door is open” and opening the door.
Schools are remarkably sensitive organisms. They respond to the leader’s emotional weather. When gratitude is present, the air is more breathable.
Belonging: The Quiet Heartbeat of School Life
But the theme I want to lean into this month—the one my master modeled best—is belonging.
Not the poster-on-the-wall kind. Not the “we welcome everyone” messaging for open house. I’m talking about the lived, unmistakable experience of feeling like you matter here.
Belonging, I’ve learned, is rarely loud. It shows up in the student who sits with someone new. In the teacher who checks in a second time. In the counselor who doesn’t give up after the first closed door. In the principal who knows the name of every student they pass.
But most of all, it shows up in leaders who understand that schools can be overwhelming, complex, and occasionally bewildering places—and that children need adults who see them even when they are trying not to be seen.
I remember one student at the American School of Warsaw who spent an entire week wandering the halls between classes, pretending to look for something in his backpack. My master noticed. He didn’t call attention to it. He simply walked beside him, asked how he was settling in, and then—my favorite part—he adopted the student’s pace as they continued through their day.
You’d be amazed what happens when a leader adjusts their stride.
Grace in the Mid-Year Grind
November is also the month when leaders feel stretched. Tired. A little frayed at the edges. And yet, this is precisely when grace matters most.
In the dog world, we call this conserving energy: don’t use all your bark in the first half of the year. Human leaders could learn something here. Grace isn’t softness—it’s steadiness. It’s knowing that a well-timed pause, a heartfelt thank you, or a brief, genuine connection can shift the culture of a school more powerfully than a dozen initiatives.
And yes, grace applies to yourselves too. Leaders often forget that they’re allowed to rest, to breathe, and to admit that the work is heavy. I spent thirteen years watching my master forget this truth and then rediscover it each November. Rest was never a retreat—it was a recalibration.
A Final Tail Wag
So, my November message is this:
Slow your steps.
Look for the student who still feels lost.
Notice the teacher who needs affirmation.
Express gratitude like it’s oxygen. Even my master would admit you will never do this enough.
Choose grace when fatigue nudges you toward frustration.
And remember that belonging isn’t a program—it’s a promise.
You make that promise real not through policies or assemblies, but through presence.
If you’re leading with your heart this month, trust me—you’re doing it right. Even a dog can see that.
Until next time,
Rascal
