Bettering your own Best

last night at Camp Dunmore, 1991

What started as a camp motto became a leadership mindset.

It wasn’t printed anywhere.
It wasn’t shouted during Friday night services or at Color War.
But it was there, quietly shaping how we moved through each day at Camp Dunmore for Girls.

It didn’t mean being the fastest or the loudest.
It meant showing up. Trying again. Growing.
Even if no one noticed.
Even if you didn’t win.

But on the last night of camp? Everyone noticed.

We gathered on benches. Our Champion sweatshirts were as crisp as our white shorts. The energy buzzed. That’s when the color chevrons came out—bright felt stripes awarded for skill development in swimming, sailing, arts & crafts, and more. You wanted those chevrons.
You wanted to sew them down both sleeves of your navy Champion sweatshirt, a visual legacy of what you’d earned.

It was exciting. Tangible. Proof that you’d done something well.

But the most meaningful award wasn’t a colored piece of felt. It was a sentence:
“Bettering your own best.”

It was the quietest moment of awards night—and somehow the most meaningful. A single sentence that carried the weight of the whole summer.

I never won it. And I’ve never forgotten how that felt.

It didn’t mean much then. It means everything now.

Years later, I hear that phrase in my head all the time.

Not in a nostalgic, summer-camp way. In a real, practical, grown-up way.

Running a business.
Raising a family.
Trying to build something with meaning, integrity, momentum, and margin.
Trying to lead.

When I rewrite a deck.
When I show up differently than I would have a year ago.
When I lead with more clarity, more calm, more conviction.

I’m not trying to win someone else’s game.
I’m just trying to evolve.
To be sharper. Braver. More honest.
To better my own best.

And What It Means for How I Work Now

That’s what we build at Plan + Pivot, too.
We don’t chase growth for the sake of performance.
We chase progress that actually fits.
We help brands get clear on their direction, not someone else’s.

Because success doesn’t always look like medals or chevrons.
Sometimes, it looks like a quiet shift.
A better version of how you show up.
And the confidence to know that’s enough.

Camp taught me that.
Even if I didn’t have the language for it at the time.

Now I do.
And I use it every day.