"The measure of a culture is not how fiercely its people pursue excellence, but how faithfully they protect one another's humanity along the way." — Mary Coughlin

On hockey, humanity, integrity, and the beautiful, messy courage of caring for one another.

I have a confession to make. I was a hockey cheerleader in college.

Yes, really.

So perhaps my affection for the glorious chaos of Shoresy shouldn't come as much of a surprise.

I've always loved hockey. The speed, the grit, the extraordinary skill, and the sheer unpredictability of a game that can change in a heartbeat. I love the electricity of an arena, the anticipation before the puck drops, and the way complete strangers become a temporary community, united by something unfolding on the ice.

But what has always fascinated me most about the sport isn't confined to the scoreboard. It's the humanity. The extraordinary things that become possible when people commit themselves to something larger than their individual ambitions. The relationships forged through adversity, the courage it takes to trust another person with something that matters deeply to you, and the remarkable capacity of human beings to keep showing up through both heartbreak and triumph.

Which brings me to Shoresy.

I'm currently rewatching the series, all the seasons, and finding myself just as captivated as I was the first time around. Perhaps even more so. There's something about returning to a story and discovering that its characters and relationships still have something to teach you. The humor remains outrageous, the language gloriously inappropriate, and the hockey exhilarating. But beneath all of that, I keep finding myself drawn to the same thing: the humanity.

If you're unfamiliar with the Canadian television series, imagine a hockey team populated by some of the most gloriously imperfect, foul-mouthed, emotionally complicated characters imaginable. There's relentless chirping, questionable judgment, fierce competition, and enough testosterone to make your head spin. And somehow, beneath all of it, there's something profoundly beautiful.

Love.

Not the polished, sentimental variety, but the messy, demanding, sometimes uncomfortable kind that asks something of us. The kind that says you matter, what we're building matters, and because you matter, I'm not going to pretend it doesn't matter how you show up.

What moves me most, though, isn't simply the camaraderie of the Sudbury Bulldogs. It's Shoresy himself. A man whose language could make a sailor blush, whose social graces are occasionally nonexistent, and whose approach to motivating others would send most human resources departments into cardiac arrest. Yet beneath all that bluster is someone remarkably grounded in his principles. He knows what matters to him. He takes his commitments seriously. He loves fiercely. He can be unexpectedly vulnerable. And when someone he cares about is hurting, he doesn't always know what to say, but he often knows how to show up.

Somewhere between the profanity, the ridiculousness, and those unexpectedly tender moments, I found myself recognizing something deeply connected to my life's work in trauma-informed developmental care, relational health, and the cultivation of healing cultures.

Stay with me 😉. Because Shoresy, of all things, has me thinking about integrity, accountability, belonging, rupture and repair, and the profound difference between proclaiming our values and actually living them.

When Principles Become Practice

Shoresy has a code. It isn't always elegant, but it's unmistakably his. He believes in showing up, working hard, being accountable to the people who count on you, and refusing to accept indifference when something matters. He's not particularly interested in whether living by those principles makes him popular, and there's something refreshing about that.

We live in a world overflowing with declarations of values. Organizations announce their commitments to compassion, respect, inclusion, integrity, and excellence. Leaders speak passionately about culture. Institutions publish beautifully crafted mission statements. Yet the lived experience of the people within those institutions can tell a very different story.

I've spent much of my professional life exploring this disconnect. We can teach the principles of trauma-informed care, develop frameworks and educational programs, and articulate what safety, trust, collaboration, empowerment, and dignity ought to look like. But none of that guarantees those values will be experienced by the people we serve or the people with whom we work.

The real test comes when circumstances become inconvenient. When someone makes a mistake, when a colleague challenges our authority, when a family questions our judgment, or when the demands of the system collide with the needs of the human beings within it. That's when our values become visible, or don't.

This is where I find Shoresy unexpectedly compelling. He's not a model of perfect conduct, but his commitment to what matters to him is rarely just rhetorical. He acts. Sometimes clumsily, sometimes outrageously, and sometimes with a tenderness that catches you completely off guard.

Perhaps integrity isn't the absence of imperfection. Perhaps it's the ongoing practice of bringing our actions into alignment with what we claim to value, and remaining accountable when we fall short.

Accountability, Belonging, and the Kangaroo Court

One of the storylines I found particularly interesting involves a kangaroo court. Now, if you're imagining a thoughtful exercise in restorative dialogue, you clearly haven't watched Shoresy.

The proceedings are gloriously absurd, but beneath the comedy is something worth considering. The conflict involving the Jims exposes tensions around inclusion, respect, and belonging within the team. What appears on the surface to be a matter of misconduct also invites attention to what has been happening beneath the surface of their relationships.

And isn't that often how human behavior works? We see the action, react to the disruption, and identify the rule that's been broken. But we don't always ask what the behavior might be communicating.

In trauma-informed practice, we recognize that behavior occurs within a context. It can reflect distress, unmet needs, disconnection, competing loyalties, or experiences of powerlessness. Understanding that context doesn't excuse harmful behavior. It allows us to respond more intelligently and, potentially, more compassionately.

There's a world of difference between asking only what rule someone broke and also asking what happened, what the experience has meant for everyone involved, and what needs to change. Accountability without understanding can easily become punishment dressed up as principle, while understanding without accountability can leave harm unaddressed. We need both.

What fascinates me about this storyline is the way an apparently ridiculous situation can reveal something consequential about group culture. Who belongs? Who feels respected? Whose contributions are recognized? Who gets to challenge the group? And what happens when people who are supposedly part of the team don't actually experience themselves as fully included?

These aren't merely hockey questions. They're questions every organization ought to be asking.

The Compassion of Simply Being There

There's a scene involving Nat, the team's owner. She's struggling with her own insecurities and becomes emotional. She moves away, crossing to the other side of the room. Shoresy follows, but not with a grand speech, advice, or an attempt to talk her out of what she's feeling. He simply moves toward her and offers this wonderfully awkward, almost stiff little pat on the back.

It's such a small gesture, and somehow it contains buckets of compassion.

She becomes even more emotional, and he remains there, offering what he can. Here is a man who can unleash an endless stream of words when he's chirping an opponent, yet when confronted with someone else's vulnerability, he doesn't try to fill the space. He doesn't make her emotions about himself or insist that she be strong. He offers presence.

I found that moment extraordinarily moving.

In my work I return again and again to the importance of attunement: the capacity to notice another person's experience and respond in ways that communicate safety, recognition, and care. Attunement doesn't require perfection, eloquence, or even words. It requires a willingness to recognize the humanity of the person before us and allow that recognition to shape our response.

Sometimes that means speaking, sometimes listening, sometimes offering a choice or making room for someone to experience their emotions without being hurried toward resolution. And sometimes, apparently, it means an awkward pat on the back from a foul-mouthed hockey player.

There's something wonderfully liberating about that. We don't have to be emotionally polished to be compassionate. But we do have to pay attention, and remain curious about whether our presence is actually experienced as supportive by the person receiving it.

Perhaps one of the most profound expressions of care is not knowing what to say, but knowing not to walk away.

Love, Vulnerability, and the Courage to Be Known

Then there's Laura.

Shoresy's affection for Laura Mohr reveals another dimension of his character that is deeply endearing. For all his bravado, he's remarkably willing to make himself vulnerable in pursuit of a relationship that matters to him. He expresses his affection openly, makes his intentions known, and wants to earn her trust. His efforts are often hilarious and unexpectedly sincere.

It's an interesting contrast. A man who seems almost incapable of embarrassment on the ice is willing to risk emotional rejection off it. Beneath the comedy is someone who wants to be known, wants to love, and wants that love to mean something in how he behaves.

There's a lesson here that extends well beyond romance. We often speak of compassion, kindness, respect, and love as though they're primarily feelings or personal qualities. But caring is also a practice. It requires action, sometimes generous and joyful, sometimes inconvenient, and sometimes deeply vulnerable.

To care deeply is to accept that we may be disappointed. To trust is to acknowledge that we cannot control another person's response. To love is to recognize another person's freedom, including the freedom not to respond as we might hope.

And to remain principled in the midst of that uncertainty requires a different kind of courage than the one celebrated on the ice. Strength isn't measured only by what we can withstand. It's also revealed in what we're willing to feel, express, and honor.

The Beautiful, Messy Work of Repair

Of course, the Bulldogs are hardly models of harmonious relationships. People disappoint one another, tempers flare, words land badly, and expectations collide with human limitations. In other words, they're human.

What interests me isn't the existence of conflict. Conflict is inevitable wherever human beings are genuinely engaged with one another. What matters is what happens next.

Healthy relationships aren't characterized by perfect attunement. Misunderstandings, disconnections, and ruptures occur even in loving, responsive relationships. What helps build trust is the possibility of repair: the recognition that a relationship can experience strain without necessarily being destroyed by it, that harm can be acknowledged, responsibility taken, and reconnection made possible.

This principle is profoundly relevant to leadership, teamwork, and organizational culture. Yet we rarely design our institutions with repair in mind. We develop policies for managing conflict, reporting incidents, and documenting failures. Those processes may be necessary, but they aren't the same as cultivating the relational capacities that help people navigate inevitable moments of disconnection.

We teach people how to perform their jobs, but how often do we teach them how to apologize without defensiveness, acknowledge impact without immediately explaining intent, or listen when someone tells us we've caused harm? How often do we create conditions in which people can speak honestly about rupture before it becomes irreparable?

Repair isn't always possible, nor should anyone be required to reconcile with someone who continues to harm them. Genuine repair requires accountability, changed behavior, and respect for the agency of those affected.

The Bulldogs don't always get this right. Neither do we. But the invitation remains: to build cultures in which getting something wrong doesn't automatically end the possibility of getting it right.

What We Practice Becomes Our Culture

We talk endlessly about organizational culture. We create mission statements, articulate values, conduct engagement surveys, and develop strategic plans intended to move us toward healthier workplaces. Yet culture isn't something we can simply announce into existence. It's something we practice.

It's revealed in the conversations we have when things go wrong, the way we welcome newcomers, whose voices are heard and whose concerns are dismissed. It's reflected in what we celebrate, what we tolerate, and what we're willing to challenge. It's visible in whether leaders acknowledge their mistakes, colleagues feel safe asking for help, and our professed commitments remain intact when circumstances become inconvenient.

The Bulldogs don't become a team because someone writes a compelling statement about teamwork. They become a team through the repeated, imperfect, sometimes chaotic experience of being accountable to one another. Their culture emerges through participation.

And this, I believe, is where the deepest connection to the work resides.

Trauma-informed care isn't simply a collection of principles we memorize or practices we implement. It's a way of understanding what human beings need in order to experience safety, connection, agency, dignity, and belonging. If we take that understanding seriously, it must shape more than our interactions with the people we serve. It must shape how we treat one another, how we lead, how we organize work, how we respond to mistakes, how we distribute power, and how we recognize and repair harm.

A healing culture cannot be sustained through individual acts of kindness alone. It requires collective commitment and structures that make caring possible. It asks us to move beyond whether people know the right things and begin examining whether our environments support them in doing those things.

And perhaps that's the distinction that matters most. Culture isn't what we say we believe. It's what people experience because of how we live those beliefs together.

What Are We Really Playing For?

There's something about sport that reveals our longing to belong. We want to be part of something, to know our contributions matter, to have someone notice when we're struggling and celebrate when we succeed. We want to believe our efforts are connected to a purpose larger than ourselves.

And perhaps, beneath all the competition and spectacle, we want to experience what becomes possible when people care enough about one another to keep trying.

That's what I see in Shoresy. Not a blueprint for trauma-informed leadership, but a wonderfully imperfect portrait of human beings discovering that they're capable of more together than they ever imagined alone.

At the center of it all is a man who reminds us that integrity doesn't always arrive in a polished package. That tenderness can coexist with toughness, vulnerability isn't the opposite of strength, and accountability and compassion need not be adversaries.

We don't need our hospitals, classrooms, or workplaces to resemble hockey locker rooms. But we could learn something from the fierce devotion that emerges when people believe they matter to one another.

Imagine cultures where people are as committed to protecting one another's dignity as they are to achieving their goals. Where accountability is a shared responsibility rather than a weapon, repair is practiced rather than merely hoped for, and belonging isn't contingent upon perfection. Where leaders recognize that sometimes the most powerful thing they can offer isn't another directive, but the willingness to stand beside someone in a difficult moment. And where we stop treating humanity as something we must manage around the demands of performance and begin recognizing it as the very foundation of what makes extraordinary performance possible.

I love hockey for the passion, the unpredictability, and the extraordinary beauty of people working together toward something that matters. And yes, perhaps some part of that college hockey cheerleader is still alive and well in me. But these days, I find myself cheering for something even bigger than a win on the ice.

I'm cheering for cultures in which people can bring their whole humanity to the work. Where they can be imperfect and still belong, challenged without being diminished, and accountable without being shamed. Where they can make mistakes, repair harm, and grow. Where people don't simply work alongside one another, but recognize their responsibility to one another.

Because the real measure of a team, an organization, or a community isn't simply what it achieves. It's what becomes possible for the human beings who belong to it.

And isn't that what we should be playing for?

Hugs and hope for a better tomorrow, Mary

Give a damn. About the work. About the people. About how we get there.

Because winning means very little if we lose our humanity along the way.