The next right thing is rarely wrapped in glitter. It seldom arrives with applause. It almost never asks for our comfort.
It is not always the next popular thing.
It is not always the next easiest thing.
But it may be the next right thing—for your credit union, for your career, for your life. I’ll be honest—sometimes I’ve asked myself, What is the next right thing?
But deep down, I usually already know.
The truth? I just don’t want to deal with it.
When the next right thing is fun, inspiring, or instantly rewarding, sign me up. I’m first in line. But more often, at my credit union, the next right thing isn’t glamorous. It looks like difficult conversations. It sounds like change. It feels like tension in the air before something shifts for the better.
For us, the next right thing is opening a second branch in January 2026—right in the heart of an underbanked community. On paper, it’s not the easiest or most popular move. The area has seen two banks close during COVID. Opening there means investing in a location where others have walked away. It means hiring and training a new team, designing services tailored to that community, and committing resources long before we see the financial return.
It’s a leap of faith—and a promise in progress. We aren’t doing it because it’s easy. We’re doing it because access matters. Because every family deserves the dignity of a safe place to keep their money, to build credit, to plan for the future.
I’ve always loved poetry—its way of saying what the heart already knows. I can still recite lines from Robert Frost, whose words remind me that the next right thing often means choosing the path that others avoid. He wrote:
“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.”
That’s what the next right thing feels like—taking the road less traveled, trusting it will lead somewhere better even when you can’t see around the bend.
Leadership is less about steering when the waters are calm and more about choosing the course when the winds fight you. The “next right thing” might not earn applause at first. In fact, it might bring resistance. But resistance is often proof that we’re moving something worth moving.
In the end, the next right thing becomes the thing that turns doubt into direction, discomfort into progress, and quiet conviction into a legacy.
And when we get to that place—when the hard choice finally blooms into the best choice—we’ll see that doing the next right thing was never about ease. It was always about honor.
