When folks learn I am the eldest of 10 children, they often ask what that was like.

It helps to understand that was probably where my core values developed. Life in such a large family is its own kind of apprenticeship.

It teaches lessons that endure long after childhood, lessons that became part of my foundation. Things like:

Sharing in community became second nature; scarcity became a teacher.
With 10 children’s plates at the table, you quickly learned that holding too tightly meant someone else went without. Over time, that pull to share shaped the way I lead, with generosity always setting the tone.

Finding your voice in a house full of noise, you learned to speak clearly without shouting and to listen without disappearing.
That balance of presence and humility shaped my communication as an adult.

Practice in patience: waiting your turn for the bathroom, for the car, for attention, shaped this attribute not as a virtue but as survival.
Endurance became a habit, preparing me to weather storms in my professional life without expecting instant resolution.

Finding quick reconciliation in disagreements.
But when you share a room, forgiveness is not optional. Learning to move past conflict quickly became second nature in my capacity for reconciliation, one that keeps relationships from breaking down under pressure.

Resourcefulness as resilience came from siblings’ hand-me-down clothes, limited privacy, and stretched resources requiring creativity.
That same trait showed up later when I adapted to crises and found solutions with what was at hand.

Respect for difference: 10 children meant 10 personalities under one roof, which meant constant negotiation.
Respecting differences wasn’t an ideal; it was a necessity. It taught respect, empathy, and curiosity — skills that later guided me in working across diverse communities.

Compassion multiplies.
Perhaps the most profound lesson was that it stretches. Even when divided 10 ways, it did not diminish. It taught that care isn’t a finite resource. It grows when given away.

Grit through sibling rivalry with daily teasing and tussles in life while growing up together as siblings teaches things parents can’t.
Things like how to share scarce space, how to push back, how to yield, and how to stand your ground.

Justice was learned early.
Fairness mattered, whether it was who got the last cookie or the front seat. Those early disputes planted the seeds of moral discernment and ethical conviction that later defined your service.

Sibling rivalries sharpen resilience.
Teasing builds toughness. And the small daily negotiations (e.g., who gets the bigger slice, who takes the fall), prepared you for the larger battles of his adult life. For me, those early dynamics mattered as much as anything.

My folks gave me a moral compass, but it was in the push-and-pull with my three brothers and six sisters that my leadership, grit, and sense of fairness took root. The family mix of nurturing and rivalry would later echo in my leadership style, in how I negotiated, and even in my refusal to back down under pressure to do the right thing.
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These lessons from family life also became more than childhood memories. They became the code I lived by as an EMT, a police officer, a police chief, and a senator: service first, respect for all, forgiveness, resilience, and love of community. Leadership, at its best, is not invented in adulthood. For me, it is carried from the crowded corridors of childhood to those of the Senate, refined in experience and responsibility, and proven under pressure. They have endured throughout my adult life.