Enough. The Job Is Done. Thoughts On Finishing Well.

“Harrowing, not harvesting,
is the right image for now.
…
Enough. The job is done.”
—Parker J. Palmer, Harrowing

When my dear friend and longtime client Randy Goodman retired from his role as Chairman and CEO of Sony Music Nashville, he did something rare: He finished well.

That phrase—“to finish well”—first surfaced in our very first dinner conversation, in a Nashville restaurant called Germantown Café. I had just met him, it was a few months after he’d read my first book, Reboot, and he’d invited me to come speak to his team. And like many first-time conversations I have with CEOs, we talked about his struggles, his team, the landscape ahead, and, because of a shared and deepening interest in the process of being a better human, we talked about our lives—his and mine. But unlike most such first conversations, Randy said something I’ll never forget. He told me, “I want to end well.”

That intention became a persistent theme, something to hold onto despite the tumult in the world that was to come—the pandemic, the reckoning with justice, the upheaval in how music is made and shared. Through all of it, we held that goal. And he kept his word.

There’s a passage in Reboot, the chapter where I reflect on my continuing tendency to question whether or not I’m a good man, been a good father, lived a good life. In those pages, I reflect on the powerful archetypal call that many feel as we lean into the liminality of transition—the castles we build, the dragons we must face, and the identity we often need to shed in the process.

“You don’t get to slay the dragon, save the kingdom, and be the hero without first facing the truth of who you are,” I wrote. “And sometimes the most heroic thing you can do is stop building, lay down your sword, and rest.”

Randy didn’t just lay down the sword. He passed it with grace, blessing the path for those who followed him. And in doing so, he modeled something for all of us who are looking not just to lead well—but to finish well.

Whether it’s a job, a relationship, a season of life, or a life itself.

He began his career at RCA. And he ended at Sony Music Nashville—the company that had come to hold RCA’s legacy. It wasn’t just a return to a company. It was a return to self. He became the elder he was meant to be.

I remember a moment early in the pandemic. Randy told me about a livestream Luke Combs did from his “man cave”—a very nice garage, Randy noted—where he played a song called “Six Feet Apart.” It was a balm in those early days. Then, unexpectedly, Luke played “Fast Car” by Tracy Chapman, a song his father had taught him on his very first guitar. He played it in honor of his dad—his elder.

That livestream reached into hearts like a prayer. Years later, at what would become Randy’s final Grammy Awards, he watched with pride as Luke Combs sang “Fast Car” again—this time with Tracy Chapman herself.

A full circle moment, within a full circle life.

As Randy stepped back, he did so as someone who had led with care, curiosity, and courage. He didn’t win every fight. But he showed up for them. And in doing so, he became something more than a CEO. He became an elder.

Richard Rohr writes: “In the second half of life, we don’t so much ask what we should do; we ask, ‘What can I give?’” Randy gave.

And so I offer this not only as a tribute to Randy Goodman, but as a quiet invitation to you:

What would it mean for you to finish well?

Not triumphantly. Not perfectly.

But soulfully. Truthfully. With an inner sense that you’ve tilled what you were meant to till, loved who you were meant to love, and handed the reins with an open hand.

What would it take to say: “Enough. The job is done.”