Sarah Lewis Unscripted

For the past ten years, I haven’t written much.

That’s a strange sentence for me to write because, if I’m being honest, I’ve always been a writer.

Long before I built a career, long before I became a leader, and long before life became as busy as it is today, I loved words.

In eighth grade, my English teacher submitted one of my poems to our local newspaper. Seeing my name in print lit something inside me. Writing became the way I made sense of the world. I wrote letters. I wrote essays. I wrote poems. I wrote songs.

Then life happened.

Marriage.

Children.

A career that demanded more responsibility each year.

Somewhere along the way, I became known by my title instead.

HR Professional.

Leader.

Director.

Those roles have challenged me, stretched me, and given me opportunities I never imagined. I don’t regret a single step of that journey.

But over time, something quietly shifted.

My career became more than what I did.

It became who I thought I was.

It wasn’t intentional. It happened gradually, the way many things do. There was always another meeting, another project, another employee who needed help, another problem to solve. The work mattered, and because it mattered, it was easy to let it consume the space where other parts of me used to live.

This weekend, I realized something.

I don’t need a different career.

I don’t need to reinvent myself.

I simply need to make room again for the parts of myself that have been waiting patiently while I was busy nurturing my career.

Writing is one of those parts.

Over the years, my work has given me a front-row seat to humanity.

I’ve celebrated with people on some of the happiest days of their lives.

I’ve cried with them on some of the hardest.

I’ve listened to stories of resilience, heartbreak, hope, regret, perseverance, and redemption.

I’ve learned that behind every attendance record, every resignation, every promotion, every difficult conversation, and every headline is a human being carrying a story that most of us will never fully know.

Those stories have changed the way I see the world.

They’ve made me more curious.

More compassionate.

More aware of how much we assume about one another without ever knowing what someone is carrying.

That’s what I want to write about.

Not because I have all the answers.

I don’t.

But because I believe there is value in paying attention.

I want to write about work—not from the perspective of policies or procedures, but from the perspective of people.

I want to write about leadership, not as a list of tips, but as a lifelong practice of learning.

I want to write about communities, families, faith, resilience, and the ordinary moments that often reveal extraordinary truths.

Most of all, I want to ask better questions.

Questions that slow us down long enough to see each other more clearly.

If you’ve found your way here, thank you.

Whether you stay for one article or a hundred, my hope is simple.

I hope you leave seeing something you hadn’t noticed before.

Not because I told you what to think.

But because together, we took the time to look a little closer.

Welcome.

I’m glad you’re here.

— Sarah