My wife called me first thing this morning. My wife’s name is Lisa. You’d love her. I married way, way over my head. I married the most beautiful human being who’s ever walked planet Earth. She’s drop-dead gorgeous and equally as beautiful on the inside. She never sees a cloudy day. She inspires me. She called me first thing this morning. She knew that I had this date circled on my calendar for a long time.

The phone rang at 5:30 this morning. I answered the phone. I said hello. She said, “Good morning, big boy, how are you?” She calls me “big boy,” and I like it. She said, “Good morning, big boy. You know what today is?” I said, “Oh, I do.” She said, “You’ve got MDRT.” I said, “I know.” She said, “You know what I want from you?” I said, Oh, yes, ma’am, I do.” She said, “I want you to be amazing. Leave it all on the stage. Give them everything you’ve got. Make sure your zipper’s up before you get on the platform.”

And the very last thing my bride says to me, the very last thing Lisa says to Kevin is “Don’t forget to smile.” She says it for two really powerful reasons. No. 1, she knows smiling is the gateway to connecting. It’s how we draw people in, how we connect, how we build our practices. We tear down walls and build bridges with a simple smile. The second reason she says it is because she knows I have a very poor resting face. She said, “Baby, you scare people. You know that, right?” She said, “You don’t look like the speaker; you look like security.”

The other day she told me I looked like Wolverine. I said, “You mean I look like Hugh Jackman?” She said, “Baby, can’t you leave well enough alone?” So that I can have complete integrity with my bride, if you ever email me, and I hope that you do, if I’m in a heavy travel cycle, Lisa will intercept the email on my behalf. And if she knows you’re part of the MDRT family, if she knows you are at this inaugural Edge meeting, she’s going to ask you one question and one question only: Did he smile?

Now, she’s still amazed I get to do what I do for a living. She’s amazed. I asked her the other day, “Baby, in your wildest dreams, did you ever think I would get to do this for a living?” She thought for a minute and said, “Baby, in my wildest dreams, you don’t even show up.”

It’s not that funny.

I want to tell you all a story. For the last decade, I’ve been chasing one question. One question. I had clients ask me to come and speak to their group, and they said, “We don’t want a stock speech, Kevin. We don’t want to hear about the normal leadership vision, communication and customer service type topics. We want to hear something special. Something unique.” I said, “What do you want to hear about?” They said, “We want you to honor our people. These people work really, really hard. They show up every day in the wake of disasters big and small and help people put their lives back together. A lot of our customers consider this group to be heroes.” And when I wrote that word down, I circled it; I underlined it. It jumped off the page at me. They kept talking, but I didn’t hear a lot of what they said after they used the word “hero,” and I wrote a question across the top of my yellow pad. Here’s the question: “What does a hero look like?”

What does a hero look like? We use this word in society to describe high-performance people in high-performance organizations, but what does it really mean to be a hero? I don’t know about you, but the very first thing I thought of when I heard the word “hero” was our military men and women. Listen, you cannot have a conversation about what it means to be a hero without honoring the gold standard — the men and women who go to work for this amount of money and keep you and me safe, keep us free, allow us to build our businesses and impact the lives and the communities that we serve.

I live at airports. I spend 200 days a year in airports. I see men and women move through airports in uniform like vapors, invisible to the people they serve. And I think that’s tragic, don’t you? Are there any veterans in the room, by the way? Thank you for your service.

I have a great friend of mine back home. His name is Chad. He’s a long-time buddy of mine, like a brother to me. He’s also married to a lovely lady named Lisa. So, it’s real easy for me and Chad. We’re both married to Lisas. It’s Lisa and Lisa; we can’t mess it up. But Chad’s Lisa is the most patriotic human being I’ve ever known in my life. If she sees men or women in uniform, she is going to love them, hug them, thank them and buy them food, if we’re anywhere near it. Any Friday night that I’m in town, the four of us go out for dinner. We’re sitting in a Cracker Barrel one Friday night because we’re big spenders, and that’s where we take our girls. We’re sitting in the Cracker Barrel. We’re having a great time. We’re laughing, catching up on the week, and in through the door comes a guy wearing fatigues. The three of us just look at each other and grin. We’ve seen this movie before; we know how it ends.

Sure enough, Chad’s Lisa is on the move. The hostess sits this guy two tables over from us. Lisa goes over there, sits down across from this guy and freaks him out completely. This guy starts to move back from the table. She reaches across the table, grabs his hands and pulls him close and says, “Sir, I want to thank you for your service to our country. I want to thank you for what you do for me and my family. You don’t even know who we are. I want to thank you for keeping my boys safe; I have two of them. I want to thank you for keeping my dogs safe; I have two of them. Shelties. I want to thank you for keeping my husband safe; I have just one of those.” And it’s always in that order: the boys, the dogs, Chad.

This guy’s wide-eyed and speechless. He doesn’t know how to process it. And she tops it off with this. She says, “Sir, it would be my honor and my privilege to pay for your meal tonight as a small token of appreciation for what you do for me and my family.” He’d had all he could handle. He let go of her hands, pushed himself back and said, “Oh, ma’am, I’m not in the military. I’ve just been out hunting.” It was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life. We fell out. We lost it right there in the Cracker Barrel. She turned three shades of red, came back over to the table, and we did what any good group of friends would do; we beat it into the ground for like 30 minutes. We wore it out. We did the voice and everything. “Oh, ma’am, I’m not in the military. I’ve just been out hunting.”

After about 30 minutes, we knew it wasn’t going to be a good night for Chad if we didn’t knock it off. And he said something to his bride that was powerful. He looked at his Lisa and said, “Baby, you could never go wrong doing the right thing.” You could never go wrong doing the right thing, treating people with kindness and respect not because there’s something in it for us, but by the virtue of their status as human beings, they’ve already earned it. You see, we’ve moved to a place in our world today where everything’s a condition. Everything’s a transaction, a negotiation. I’ll do this for you if you do this for me. You could never go wrong doing the right thing. So, what? We bought a hunter’s meal that night. Big deal. In fact, if you’re ever in Nashville, Tennessee, throw on some hunting clothes. We’ll meet you at the Cracker Barrel.

I went back to my yellow pad, and that one question was begging for an answer: What does a hero look like? I’ve asked thousands of people that one question. I’ve heard every answer you can imagine. I heard about our military men and women, world changers. I heard about first responders. I heard about teachers and coaches and moms and dads. And throughout this entire narrative, every single person I’ve ever asked the question to has said these words: “Heroes are ordinary people who do extraordinary things.” The first time I heard it, I wrote it down. It seemed reasonable to me. But as I stand on this MDRT stage today, I can tell you, it’s absolutely dead wrong.

I want to tell you a story. I want to paint a picture of what I think a hero looks like in everyday life, what high performance looks like in world-class organizations. You see, when I think of heroes, I think of my son. His name is Josh Brown. If you met him he would tell you his name is Josh-Brown. He thinks it’s hyphenated, all one word. Josh has autism. We’ve known that since he was a little, bitty guy.

When he was 7 years old, he discovered Walt Disney World. Any Disney fans in the room? Disney is a magical place. It’s a magical place because when you go there, your money disappears. You go to Orlando, everything you own stays in Orlando. You know what I’m talking about. Josh Brown discovered Walt Disney World when he was 7 years old, and if you know anything about autism, you know when these kids get something on their brain, it’s the only thing that exists in the whole wide world.

For two years we listened to him. “Dad, I want to go to Disney. Dad, please, please, please, please take me to Disney.” We waited until he was 9 years old. We wanted to make sure he could enjoy the trip, and it wasn’t so overwhelming for me. I’m not a good vacation taker. I never have been. My wife made me sign a metaphorical contract. “Dad, I need you for eight days. I need you to be all in at Disney. I need you to be here for the trip of a lifetime. Please leave all the work at home.” I signed the metaphorical contract with a simple “Yes, ma’am.” We packed our bags, and we made a list. If you know anything about autism, you know these kids like everything planned out.

My wife’s background is accounting and finance. We showed up at Walt Disney World with an Excel spreadsheet. Everything we were going to do was mapped out by the minute — rides, parks, meet and greets. Are there list people in the room? Be proud. Prioritize your list. You color code your list. You make a copy of the list in case you lose the list. Put stuff on your list that you’ve already done so you can check it off your list. By definition, that is mental illness.

We packed our bags and took off. We got to Orlando four hours ahead of our luggage. Not a big deal. We went out exploring. We had a list. Back in the room, the bags finally joined us for the trip. We unpack; we settle in; we go to bed. We’re anxious to get the next day started. We get up the next morning, and I said, “Josh Brown, where are we eating breakfast?” He said, “Dad, we’re eating in this hotel. We’re going to ease you into this. No lines, no trams.” He’s a smart boy; he knows his father well.

We head out. Now, listen. I promised my wife that I wouldn’t work on this trip. I did not promise her that I wouldn’t pay attention to what’s happening at Disney. I’m at the customer experience mecca of the entire universe. I want to know how they do what they do. How do they draw you in and make you feel special? How do they create magic over and over again? How do they get so much money out of your wallet and make you feel good about it?

Down the escalators, my radar’s up. I’m paying attention. I’m listening. I want to hear. I want to know how they do this. I’m paying attention. Down the escalators. We get to the restaurant, and the hostess greets us with a giant smile. “Welcome, Brown family. We’re so glad that you’re here. We have a table just for you.” And I’m making mental notes. Giant smile. That’s a brilliant way to start. She drew me in with that simple smile. Brown family. We love the sound of our own name, don’t we? Table just for us. How special do we feel? She takes us to our table. She hands us menus. She takes two steps back and says, “Brown family, may I be the first to wish you a magical day?” Oh, you people are good. You people.

She leaves, and the waitress comes over. The waitress has no expression; she looks a little bit ticked off. She comes over, looks at my wife and says, “Hey, can I get you something to drink?” And Lisa says, “You can get us something to drink, but I need to tell you my son’s on a very special diet. And before Lisa could say another word, the waitress put her hand in my wife’s face, and she said, “Ma’am, I’m not going to be able to take your order. You’re going to need to speak to the executive chef.” And she disappeared. Now I’m ticked off. I’ve got a boatload of money wrapped up in this trip. I have a few expectations. Smiling is one of them. If you could whistle why you work, I’d greatly appreciate that a lot. At the very least, you could hum, “It’s a Small World.”

From the back of the restaurant comes the executive chef. She’s easy to spot — big white coat, giant Chef Boyardee hat. She comes out and looks right at my son, and she says, “Good morning, sunshine. How are you?” He lowers his head and says, “Good morning.” He’s really shy. She said, “My name is Bea. I understand somebody’s on a special diet. How can I help?” She takes a notebook out and starts asking Lisa questions: Tell me about his diet. How do you make that? What’s in that? Where do you get that? Interesting. Most important question, what’s his favorite? She gets done, she looks back at my boy, and she says, “OK, sunshine, what’s for breakfast?” “Apple pancakes, please.” That’s his favorite. She said, “Sunshine, I’m so sorry. We don’t have the ingredients. Mom told me how to make them. I don’t have the stuff. How about some bacon and eggs and some special toast?” He nodded; she left; and Miss Personality came back and took the rest of our order. We ate; we left. We were completely satisfied.

There’s an important point I want to make about being satisfied. A great friend of mine, her name is Kelly Swanson, says nobody notices normal. Nobody notices normal. Nobody notices when the people you serve are satisfied. Nobody notices when the people at home are satisfied. Nobody notices when the people you serve with are satisfied. Satisfaction does not even get you a ticket to the dance. If you have anything in your organization that alludes to client or customer satisfaction, burn it. If you’re chasing satisfaction, you are chasing the same thing as everybody else, and that makes you just like them.

You see, world-class players don’t want a piece of the pie; they want the whole pie. They want enthusiastic ambassadors for their brand. Nobody will ever tell your story like an enthusiastic client. Isn’t that true? Absolutely. Satisfaction doesn’t even get us a ticket to the dance.

We didn’t tell anybody about our first day at Disney. We were simply satisfied. Day 2. I said, “Josh Brown, where are we eating breakfast?” He said, “Dad, I want to go see Aunt Bea.” “Who?” I looked at Lisa. She said, “The executive chef. Her name was Bea. B-E-A.” He said, “Dad, I want to go see Aunt Bea.” I said, “Brother, we’ve got a spreadsheet.” He said, “Dad, I want to go see Aunt Bea.” Guess where we went? Down the escalators. We get to the hostess, and she says, “Brown family, welcome back.” She’s got a giant smile on her face. She says, “No reservation, no problem. We have a table just for you.” Guess who’s working our section? And she still hadn’t got the memo. You would think at the very least during onboarding, somebody at Disney would tell her she works at the happiest place on Earth. She had no clue. She saw that it was us and didn’t even make it to the table. She stopped in her tracks and went to the back of the restaurant. And from the back of the restaurant, Aunt Bea.

Making a beeline out to our table, she says, “Good morning, sunshine,” to which I promptly said, “Good morning.” She said, “I’m not talking to you.” She looked at my boy and said, “Good morning, sunshine. What’s for breakfast?” “Apple pancakes, please.” “You got it, baby. Coming right up.” “Whoa. Time out, Aunt Bea. Do you remember us from yesterday?” “Oh yes, sir, I do.” I said, “Aunt Bea, yesterday you didn’t ...” “Sir, why are you calling me Aunt Bea?” It’s a fair question. “Sorry, Bea. Family thing. Bea, yesterday you didn’t have the stuff. True. Today you do?” “Yes.” “Where did you get it?” “The store.” “So, you sent someone to the store?” “No, sir. I stopped on my way home last night. We have them all over Florida. Anybody can go.”

I looked at this woman. I asked her probably the dumbest question I’ve ever asked anybody in my life. I looked at her and asked, “Why would you do that?” A profound answer: “I thought that’s what he wanted, sir.” Let me make a note. Give the people we serve exactly what they want or need whether we serve it or not. Ballgame. Guess where we ate every day for eight days? When those apple pancakes shaped like mouse ears were slid under my boy’s face, from that day to this, I’ve never seen that boy smile the way he smiled that day. When we left, we bought a card. Josh Brown signed it; Mom and Dad put money in it. When we got home, we wrote her bosses a letter and raved about our experience with Aunt Bea.

You know there are only two times people talk about us — when we exceed their expectations or when we miss them completely. And guess when they like to talk about you the most? When you miss them completely. Oh, yeah. They’re locked and loaded, ready to capture the moment and post it to the world. Oh, yeah. We bought another card. Josh Brown signed it; Mom and Dad put money in it. We have bought her birthday presents, Christmas presents — Disney is still costing me a fortune.

But isn’t it true? We will pay a premium. We will pay a premium for people who reach beyond what is required to do the remarkable. We’ll pay a premium for people who don’t get caught up in playing the game and blame other people for their lack of success. She didn’t blame us. She didn’t blame a colleague. She raised her hand and asked, What can I do with what I have to serve this child? We’ll pay a premium for that. But in the absence of it, we will be reduced to being a commodity, and we will always have to compete on price.

When Josh was a little boy, we sat in a school conference room at a big, mahogany table. He was 5 years old at the time. We were there to confirm what we already knew but were afraid to say out loud. The doctor spoke first. The doctor said, “Mr. and Mrs. Brown, your son has autism. You need to ready yourself for the road ahead. It’s going to be a steep climb. You need to understand your son is uneducable in many ways. He will not learn like the other kids. You need to understand your boy probably will not graduate high school. If he does, he will get a special education diploma. There’ll be an asterisk by his name.

Leaders, we have to be very careful of the vision we cast for the people in our lives. People are all too willing to live up to or down to the vision that you cast for them. I looked at my wife and the teardrops were hitting the papers in her lap. I became angry. As a father I’m embarrassed to tell you my mind went immediately to everything my boy wasn’t going to do and who he wasn’t going to be. I started thinking about the life he wasn’t going to live. He wasn’t going to be the star Little League shortstop like his dad was. He wasn’t going to be the star quarterback and captain of the high school football team like his dad was not.

And while I’m busy having a pity party of one, the teardrops dried up and, thankfully, moms get a little something extra that dads don’t get. They are natural born leaders with natural born vision, especially when it comes to their babies. She sees that boy not as he is but as he can be, which is the No. 1 job of leadership and friendship. Oh, she sees that boy for all that he can be, and she did what leaders do. Leaders take the story line that life gives them, and they immediately rewrite it. You know, life’s never going to give you the story line you want, and she did what leaders do. She took the story line that life had given us, and she said to Josh, “That’s not your destiny, son. That’s not your destiny, baby. You listen. You keep your eyes right here. I heard what he said. That’s not where we’re going, son. We’ve got a different place we’re going to go. You keep your eyes right here on your mother. We’re going somewhere else.”

Leaders are brilliant at taking what’s probable and turning it into what’s possible. They only deal in what can be, not what is. And that’s what you do so brilliantly for the people you serve — moving them from where they are to someplace better. Taking them places that they could never have gotten to on their own. That’s what you do. Oh, she rewrote that story, and I’ve had the great honor and privilege, for 16 years, to have a front row seat. And I’ve watched this leader do her work. For 16 years I’ve watched this leader do her work. With a compelling vision, she attracted the teachers, the tutors, the guides, mentors and coaches.

It’s amazing what a compelling vision will do for your life. It’ll help you automatically begin to attract the resources and the people that you need to help bring it forth. To take you out of a category where you’re with everybody else and you sit all by yourself in a category of one, as Joe Calloway would say. A category of one organization. Chasing high levels of performance, moving people from where they are to someplace better, fulfilling their dreams, helping them achieve a life that they never even imagined.

I’ve had a front row seat, and I’ve watched. I’ve watched as this dream has come to pass. And in May 2016, we were invited to a graduation ceremony. We sat in the school auditorium. We were in the upper deck with all the friends and the family, and we watched as 300 kids came through the door. Three hundred kids marched in. We were only looking for one. And we saw him standing in the doorway 6 feet tall. His cap was crooked; we knew he was ours. The boy walked in with his classmates. Single file they came in. He found his seat, and before he sat down, he turned. He found his dad, and he gave me a nod. And they started calling names. Three hundred names were called that night, 300 names. One after the other, 300 names. We heard one name the whole night: Joshua Douglas Brown. And when that boy stood up, a chill ran down my spine.

I saw a young man stand up with whom I was unfamiliar. He stood up, and he steadied his cap, straightened his shoulders and put his chin up. And that boy started marching to the stage with confidence and purpose, boarding on swagger, as he made his way to that stage. Halfway there, he grabbed the honors cords that were draped around his neck. That boy walked tall and proud. With tears streaming down our faces, we watched as he was striding to that stage. And he had a bead on the principal. My boy didn’t look people in the eye, but he had a bead on the principal because the principal was holding a prize.

Mom and I made our way from the upper deck. We made our way and we were standing right there off stage. We were there. We had our phones locked and loaded, ready to capture the moment when his foot hit the stage. When that boy’s foot hit the stage, I heard the voice of my father. My father used to tell me when I was a boy that it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks; all that matters is what you believe. See, the doctors didn’t think my boy could learn. Teachers didn’t think he would graduate, much less with honors. But they underestimated what he believed, and he believed what he believed because a leader with the title of “mother” decided to get down in the ditch and do the work.

Leadership isn’t for babies. It’s not for the weak. You have to be willing to roll up your sleeves and get dirty to help somebody bring forth the best that’s in them, and it starts with you. If you’re not bringing forth a better version of yourself every single day of your life, you have nothing to offer the people who follow you. Oh, I watched. Mother and son couldn’t even be in the same room together on some days because she was pushing him. She was stretching him. She was making him grow. She was making him dig deep. There were days they couldn’t even be in the same room together.

I was there when my boy put his head in his hands and said, “Why doesn’t my brain work?” And I was there when his mother with the title of “leader” leaned down and said, “Baby, your brain’s just fine. It takes more work to be special.” Oh, we watched him walk across that stage and get his diploma. We watched him get that diploma, and as he walked down those stairs, I put my arms out to hug him. And he walked by me to hug his mother. He held that diploma all the way home. I could see his face in the rearview mirror. He was smiling, which is rare.

At home we were sitting at the dinner table. He was still wearing his cap and gown, and he was holding that diploma. He pulled it down and looked at it, looked over the top of it. Then he looked at me and said, “I did good, didn’t I?” “Oh,” I said, “you did better than good, brother; you knocked it out of the park. Mom and Dad are so proud of you. We love you so much. To reward you, we’ll take you anywhere you want to go in the world. Dad’s hoping for Australia, but you pick.” He looked at me, and he said, “I want to go see Aunt Bea.” You’re kidding me.

In May 2016 the emails starting flying between Josh and Aunt Bea. They’d stayed in touch for over 10 years. They planned the perfect reunion. We called it The Reunion Tour of 2016. We went back to Orlando in July 2016 for another eight days, which was a mistake because the average temperature in Orlando in July is 478 degrees. But we went back for another eight days, and on Wednesday of our return tour, we went to Hollywood Studios. That’s where she would be, at the Hollywood & Vine restaurant. Bea’s been at Disney for over 25 years. Hundreds of chefs and millions of guests have flowed in and out of her leadership. She’s a remarkable woman.

We got there, and there were hundreds of people waiting to get into this place. Even by Disney standards, it was a lot of people. I made my way through the crowd to get to the little guy at the host stand, and I said, “Three for lunch, please” He said, “Yes, sir. What name is that reservation under?” I said, “We don’t have a reservation.” He said, “Well, you’re not getting in here. Without a reservation, you’re not getting in here.” I said, “We have to get in there. We’re here to see Chef Bea.” He said, “It’s not happening.” I said, “Brother, I’ll give you everything I’ve got in my wallet.” He said, “Sir, how much do you have in your wallet?” Everything’s for sale.

He disappeared inside. He came back a few minutes later. He had one of those restaurant pagers with the lights on it. He said, “Here’s the deal. You will not get a table. You will not get to eat. It’s going to be at least 45 minutes, but you can say hello.” I said, “We’ll take it.’ He said, “I still need a name.” I said, “Tell her it’s Josh Brown, and he’s here for apple pancakes.” He smiled as he wrote it down. We went and sat down with all the other people.

Not two seconds later, this other little Disney guy shows up. He’s got an earpiece. He looked like Disney CIA. He came over and looked at us and said, “Are you the apple pancakes family?” I said, “We go by the apple pancakes gang, thank you.” He looked at my boy and said, “You must be Josh Brown. You’re famous around here. My name is Mike. Please follow me.” And this guy starts escorting us past everybody. This guy starts moving us past everybody, and at first, we were a little embarrassed by the treatment, but halfway there we caught our stride. You know what I’m talking about. When we crossed that razor thin line. When we start saying things like “We’ve arrived,” We’ve made it,” “We’re all that and a bag of chips,” as Walter Bond would say.

We got to the entrance of that restaurant, and it was like all of the people had disappeared. All of the people parted. We walked into this restaurant, and there was our old friend with her arms open. And this boy of mine, who does not show much affection, does not like people in his personal space, walked up to this woman and fell into her arms. They hugged for what felt like an hour. It was a powerful moment as a dad to see my boy express himself in that way.

And then my business brain kicked in, and I thought, How do you do that? How do you own a moment in time so fully and completely that it transcends special needs, race, religion and every other label we like to slap on each other? How do you do that? How do you own this space so fully and completely that it transcends a decade and feels like yesterday?

Do you want to take your practice to a place it’s never been? Do you want to take your family, your community, your life to a place it’s never been? You better start by owning this space better than anybody else because if you don’t, somebody else will. There’s always somebody who’s hot on your heels, and that person wants to take your clients, your colleagues and everything else you’ve got.

It starts by owning this space. Listen, we not only ate, we spent two and a half hours with Aunt Bea, and she told us her apple pancakes story. “Mr. and Mrs. Brown, when you were here in 2007 I didn’t know anything about autism. From that day to this, I’ve not stopped learning about the effects of nutrition on kids like Josh. You’ve made me better at what I love to do. Thank you.” Stunned. “Mr. and Mrs. Brown, when you were here in 2007, we didn’t have a special dietary meal program. After you left, we went to work. We didn’t have a program that would serve kids like Josh. And after you left, we reengineered the program, and in 2016, we’ll serve over a million kids like Josh.” Stunned again.

You can never underestimate what one moment in time can do for your business. You see, we knew how this experience had changed our lives. We had no idea what had lingered after Joshua Brown had left her presence, because something always lingers when you leave. Something always lingers when you hang up the phone, when you push “send” for the last time, when you leave this moment where you engaged or you didn’t. “Mr. and Mrs. Brown, this is how I train my chefs. We call it the apple pancakes experience.” And I was so overwhelmed in that moment thinking I should trademark this before they do.

You see, what I learned is that one moment in time profoundly changed our lives. It had profoundly changed her life. One moment in time has the capacity to change everything. And what I’ve learned, what I came here to tell you, what I came here to share with you is this journey of a decade that I’d been on to discover: What does a hero look like? It’s not ordinary people doing extraordinary things. Not by a long shot. Heroes are extraordinary people who choose not to be ordinary.

What I’ve learned is that ordinary is a choice. Ordinary is a decision that far too many people make on a daily basis. They show up, and they become ordinary employees. They become ordinary advisors. They become ordinary agents. They become ordinary husbands and wives and parents and friends. And they leave a trail. What lingers after they leave is simply ordinary. And the great ones know that they were born with talents, gifts and abilities as unique as their fingerprints. And they show up every single day, and they make a conscious decision to not be ordinary. You don’t even have to choose ordinary or extraordinary. Extraordinary already chooses you at birth—talents, gifts and abilities as unique as your fingerprints. But somewhere along the way someone convinced you that you were ordinary, and I think that’s tragic.

You were put on this planet to be extraordinary, to use your formidable talents, gifts and abilities — superpowers, dare I say — and to pour them into the lives of the people whom you serve and serve with. To leave your fingerprints all over every single client, every single community that you serve. To build people up. Listen, you’ll be rewarded for the business you build. You’ll be respected for how you build that business, but you will only be remembered for the people you build, for what lingers after you leave.

I believe heroes help people with no strings attached. They create an exceptional experience for the people they serve. They take 100 percent responsibility for their life and everything in it, and they see life in each other through this beautiful lens of optimism. That’s what Bea gave us that day, and Bea will be a member of our family forever.

MDRT, what you do matters. It matters in big ways and in small ways. Do not ever let it become routine. Do not ever let it become rote. Do not ever let it become a job. You understand that what you do changes lives in profound ways, and I encourage you to take everything that you squeezed out of this conference and go home and pour it into the people whom you serve and serve with. Trust me when I tell you, I believe that’s what heroes do, and you’ll leave a mark on this planet that cannot be erased.

Kevin Brown is a keynote speaker and author of "The Hero Effect."