I was on a roll.

For 30 straight minutes I’d been firing on all cylinders, delivering a virtual speech for dozens of college campus advisors about building environments where students feel seen and heard.

We talked about empathy, understanding, incorporating diverse perspectives, and active listening. I’d told the famous “Ed story” from my TEDx talk.

It was as close to a perfect presentation as I know how to give. And then, my phone rang.

Well, it lit up, anyway. My phone was on silent, of course, and out of view of the camera. I could see it but the audience couldn’t.

It was my 10-month-old’s day care calling.

I started sweating. They’d never called in the middle of the work day before. Something must be very, very wrong.

At that point I realized I was still talking, working off of muscle memory from having given a version of this presentation hundreds of times.

The call went to voicemail, and I had a choice I’d only ever seen in the movies:

Abandon my professional obligation at the risk of my reputation to check on my family, or power through my professional obligation at the risk of my family.

“I’m sorry, I have to pause for a moment. I just missed a call from my baby’s daycare, and they’ve never called during the day before. I need to step out and call them back. Can someone take over for just a few minutes?”

The host popped back on screen and said, “Oh my goodness, go! Of course!”

I stepped into the hallway and called the daycare back. The director didn’t even know that they had called me, which meant it couldn’t be that bad. I asked her to call my wife directly, who I knew was on a break from work.

When I jumped back on the Zoom call minutes later, the chat was ablaze with support and concern for my baby.

I told them that it couldn’t be that bad, and that I’d keep them up to date as I found out anything. Then, without missing a beat, I dove right back into the presentation.

When it was all over, I got the virtual equivalent of a standing ovation. The chat was alive with gratitude and kind words. During the Q&A I got a text from my wife:

“He’s just got a fever, so they’re sending him home early. I’m on my way to pick him up.”

I relayed the information to the audience, who sighed along with me in relief. After the call, two thoughts occurred to me:

First, an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the kindness and humanity of the audience who made me feel so seen, heard, and understood in that moment of brief panic.

Second, disappointment that we live in an age when I was genuinely concerned that by acting like a human I might endanger my professional reputation.

That particular group of advisors proved that there is still so much grace to go around. We can treat others not as cogs in a machine or means to an end, but as people with individual, internal lives that matter.

And I’m proud of myself for walking out of a professional commitment, for placing my concern for my son over my work – not just in theory, but in practice. When I think of all the movies where the work-obsessed protagonist finally chooses family over work at the climax – Elf comes to mind – it occurs to me that not one time does the movie end with the protagonist wishing they’d stayed in the office.

Yes, we should be responsible and accountable at work. Yes, being a professional means making promises and keeping them.

But being a professional is a choice.

Being human shouldn’t be.