Goodness not Greatness: Raising Good Kids In A World Obsessed With Power

For our sons, it’s the possibility of homicide and suicide that haunt me most.

Everything else—the risk of brain cancer, broken legs, broken hearts, grades, sports, screens—I can handle. But those two? They rattle the cage of my soul.

These numbers come from the CDC’s vital stats. After the first year of life, the three leading causes of death for kids in Michigan are:

1. Accidents (7.2 deaths annually, per 100k)

2. Suicide (4.3 deaths annually, per 100k)

3. Murder (4.0 deaths annually, per 100k)

Even if the numbers are “low” statistically—15.5 per 100,000—they’re real. And if it’s my kid, even a low-probability event is worth preparing for.

So I keep coming back to this:

What are we actually trying to do as parents?

Every parenting decision we make—whether we realize it or not—is moving us in one of two directions:

• Path 1: Raise kids to be wealthy, powerful, and comfortable

• Path 2: Raise kids to be capable of caring for themselves and other people

These two paths can overlap. But often, they don’t. And when they come into conflict (and they do), we have to choose which way we’re heading.

Power might shield my sons from pain. But only goodness prepares them to handle life—and show up for others in it.

That wasn’t just a philosophical shift for me. It was personal. And it started in a tough stretch with our oldest son.

When It Got Real

A couple of years ago, he was in a class with a few kids who were really struggling—kids who were acting out in ways that scared others. It got physical. The teachers did their best, and eventually things got better. But for a while, the whole class was walking on eggshells.

At home, my son was clearly carrying it. He was angry, out of sorts, lashing out. It was intense. And honestly, kind of scary at times.

That’s when it clicked: I can’t control everything that happens to him. But I can help him build the tools to handle it.

I had read the books. I thought I understood this stuff. But this was the moment where theory turned into real change. I started parenting less like a protector and drill sergeant, and more like a coach. I had to let go of control, and start helping him figure things out for himself—even when it was messy.

It’s not fast work. It’s not easy. But I believe in it. And it’s why I choose Path 2. We can’t shield our kids from the world—but we can prepare them to stand in it.

OKRs for Parenting Goodness

I think about parenting like I think about strategy—aspiration, objectives, key results.

Aspiration: Raise kids who are good people—who can take care of themselves and others.

Here’s how I break that down:

• Love them unconditionally

• Be a role model—we become good people too

• Help them become lifelong learners

• Raise them in a community where people care for themselves and support others

This post is about that third one—learning. (For thoughts on how we actually become role models for goodness, I wrote this book: Character by Choice (Link).

Yes, school matters. Teachers matter. But especially as our kids get older, we have the most influence. The most time. The most moments. If we don’t step into that, even the best schools can’t fill the gap.

Here’s what I try at home—key results that help build lifelong learners.

🧠 Be There, Literally

If I’m not there, I can’t influence them.

Keep moving toward the exit.
A colleague once told me, “Don’t stop moving on your way out of the office.” Whether I’m working remotely or in person, that line helps. There’s always one more thing. But every extra minute at work is a minute I’m not with my kids—and the window’s short.

I’ll take you with me.
There’s this Luke Combs song with that line, and I think about it every time I run errands. I ask the kids if they want to come. Usually they don’t. But sometimes they do. And those little trips lead to unexpected conversations, random laughter, and small moments that matter.

Have them help.
Our five-year-old made scrambled eggs the other day. I didn’t need help, but he offered. So I said yes. These little “can I help?” moments add up. They learn by doing, and they get to feel useful—and that’s a good feeling.

Be a parking lot parent.
My wife talks about how her mom was always around the school, helping out in small ways. Not necessarily running the PTA every year—just showing up. We do that now. Not superstars, just present. It lets our kids know we’re paying attention, and we care, even from the sidelines.

💬 Be Fully Present

If I’m not truly there, I can’t reach them.

Emote and express.
When I’m anxious or angry and I don’t deal with it, it leaks out. Journaling is how I keep track of what’s going on inside. It doesn’t fix everything, but it gives me enough clarity to show up for my kids with more calm and attention.

Timebox.
I literally put family time on my work calendar for a while—dinner, bedtime, even Saturday mornings. It helped me draw boundaries between work and home. I started saying: “If I’m not going to solve this now, I’ll set it down and come back to it later.” It took practice, but it worked.

Get on the floor.
The world my kids live in doesn’t move fast. It doesn’t follow a schedule. Sometimes I have to literally get on the floor and let them climb all over me. That’s when I stop giving them attention and start letting them take it. That’s presence.

🧩 Make Them Think

If I think for them, how will they learn to work it out themselves?

Turn the question around.
When they ask me “what’s 13 + 3?” or “is that a train?” I try to flip it: “What is 13 + 3?” It makes them pause, think, guess. And it gives them practice in saying something out loud and standing by it.

No baby talk.
Never been into it, honestly. But over time, I’ve come avoid baby talk for reasons beyond just finding it irritating. Speaking to them like real people has created space for more back-and-forth, more curiosity. They ask deeper questions. They answer more fully. There’s less distance between us.

You try first.
I’m a fixer by nature. I want to jump in and do it for them—whether it’s wiping yogurt off a face or getting a book off a shelf. But now I say, “You try first, then I’ll help.” Most of the time, they figure it out. And that builds confidence I can’t manufacture.

🎓 Make Them Teach

Teaching builds mastery—and confidence.

Would you teach me?
I didn’t grow up Catholic, and my oldest has religion as part of his school day. One day, I asked him to teach me what he’d learned—and he lit up. Now I ask all my kids to teach and show me how to do things. They love it, and honestly, I usually learn something too.

What did you get better at?
I used to do full debriefs after soccer practice—like I do with teams at work. It wasn’t working. Now, I just ask: “Did you have fun?” and “What did you get better at today?” It opens up space without judgment. And sometimes, they teach me how to improve.

Can you show your brother?
With siblings, we get this beautiful opportunity to turn learning into leadership. If one kid figures something out, I’ll say, “Can you show your brother?” It reinforces what they’ve learned—and reminds them that we learn best by giving it away.

🙏 Please Share Your Wisdom

Being a Path 2 parent is an uphill climb. The patience of it is really hard. And, though I share these tactics with good intent, I don’t really know what works. None of us do.

But I figure this: we each know something that works.

So please consider sharing what’s worked for you. What you’ve tried. What’s been messy, and what’s been beautiful. Your story might be exactly what another parent needs to hear right now (namely, me!).

The road of Path 2 parenting is hard—but it’s less hard when we walk it together.

The Legend of Griffin the Brave

Griff,

The way you came into this world—so boldly—is already legend in our family.

You will hear many retellings, each filled with rich detail, each from a different perspective. But some things will always remain the same.

Your mother’s labor moved so quickly that you were born in front of the fireplace before the ambulance could even arrive. You spent nine days in the hospital because your tiny body was too cold to register a temperature at Dr. Marlene’s office.

And then, you recovered at home in the very room where you were born, tethered to an oxygen machine that hummed its steady rhythm: whirr-hiss-boom, whirr-hiss-boom, whirr-hiss-boom.

But there is another part of your story I want you to know. The story of your name.

Just like your birth—three weeks before your due date—your name, Griffin Aditya, was a surprise. It wasn’t on any of our lists. You were supposed to be Graham, or maybe Owen.

But when we saw you, we knew. Neither name was bold enough. Your entrance into this world was far too grand—too intense—for anything less.

So I started Googling and asking questions in a ChatGPT thread which titled itself “Fierce Baby Name Ideas.”

As I read the names out loud to your mother in the hospital recovery room, we didn’t choose Griffin—it chose you.

A name of Welsh origin. A mythical creature known for its courage, fierceness, and strength. It was perfect. It was you.

Then came your middle name. We wanted something warm, something radiant—something that carried the fire of the marble fireplace in front of which you were born.

So we chose Aditya, Sanskrit for "sun."

But the meaning of your name doesn’t stop there. In the days and weeks after your birth, Griffin came to represent a different kind of courage for each of us.

For Robert, it was the courage of leadership—gathering your brothers (and Riley the pup) upstairs just minutes before you arrived.

For Myles, it was the courage of responsibility—stepping into his new role as an older brother, standing silent and strong at your bedside.

For Emmett, it was the courage to love. Though he was just shy of three, he spoke of you and Mommy every day while you were in the hospital, missing you with an intensity that many don’t experience until much later in life.

For your mother, it was the courage of sacrifice—weeks spent sleeping in a chair, pumping milk to nourish you, letting go of every expectation she had for what this time with you would be.

And for me? It was the courage of humility—learning to accept the love, support, and kindness that poured into our lives when we needed it most.

And for you, my son, Griffin will carry its own meaning. Because when I think about it, your bravery was the purest kind—unintentional, unknowing.

You didn’t choose it. You were just born. In the dead of winter, in difficult circumstances, and you survived. You fought without realizing you were fighting.

And in doing so, you made us brave.

When I was afraid—wondering if you and your mom would be okay—you were there, finding a way to stay warm, to breathe. You kept going. And because of that, we did too.

That is the greatest lesson from the night you were born: bravery can come from the smallest of us. From those who don’t even know they’re being brave.

And that kind of bravery is powerful. It spreads. It lifts us all. Whenever I hear your name, I remember that quiet, unassuming, unstoppable courage.

You didn’t choose this. Just like your name—bravery chose you.

Why I'm a Part-Time Capitalist

I’ve come to the conclusion that I want to be a part-time capitalist.

What I mean by this is that I want to create enough material wealth for my family and society to live a good life, but I don’t want capitalism to dominate my identity or values. I want to earn a living, but my goal in life isn’t to be a good producer or consumer. I’ll engage with capitalism where it serves me—maybe the equivalent of two days a week—but I won’t live and breathe it as though it’s my religion.

This realization didn’t come to me overnight. It simmered for years, as I wrestled with the game society handed me: capitalism. From an early age, we’re taught to measure success by wealth, status, and accumulation. For a long time, I felt like I was failing at it—even though my family and I were doing just fine. Capitalism has a way of making you feel like nothing is ever enough. It whispers that you’re not climbing the ladder fast enough, not maximizing your earnings the way you could.

But at some point, I started to ask myself: Why am I even playing this game? What if I don’t want to “win” capitalism? What if I’d rather play a different game altogether?

That’s where my sons come in. They love soccer. They play with an abandon and joy that makes me envious. Watching them, I realized they’ve found a game that suits them—one they’ve chosen for themselves. Soccer has creativity, fluidity, and rhythm. It’s nothing like football, the sport I played for years growing up.

I chose football because that’s what my friends were doing. As a Michigander, it felt natural to play, and I enjoyed being part of a team. But looking back, I see that it didn’t suit me. I wasn’t built for it—physically or mentally. It was someone else’s game, and I just happened to be good enough at it to get by.

That’s how capitalism has felt for me as an adult: the default game I got pulled into. Like football, it has its virtues. It provides structure and can even be exhilarating at times. But it’s not the primary model for how I want to live.

I’m never going to “win” at capitalism, and I don’t want to. I’m not willing to make the sacrifices required to maximize my earnings or climb higher, because I value other things more. I love being a father. I’m drawn to public service. I care about relationships, creativity, and dignity far more than accumulation.

For years, though, I struggled under capitalism’s invisible grip. People told me I had talent and potential, which I heard as: You could be doing more. This latent anxiety followed me everywhere. Could I provide enough for my family? Could I live up to everyone’s expectations? That sense of “not enough” became like a chronic cold I couldn’t quite shake.

But then came my a-ha moment: I don’t have to play this game—not fully, anyway. I realized I could be a subscriber to capitalism part-time and play my own game for the rest of my life.

For me, this shift has been about aligning my life with my values. It’s why I’ve embraced a nonlinear career, oscillating between government and corporate roles to find balance. It’s why Robyn and I have crafted a marriage that works for us, breaking free from traditional gender roles. She works a flexible schedule, and I’ve leaned into an unconventional path as a husband and father. We’ve structured our lives around fairness and teamwork rather than default societal expectations.

It’s also why we’ve chosen to raise our family in the city instead of a suburb. The city challenges us, inspires us, and aligns with the cultural and inter-religious values we’re navigating as a couple. Every one of these decisions reflects a conscious choice to reject the "default game" and build something that works for us.

This path isn’t easy. Freedom is exhilarating, but it’s also daunting. Choosing your own game requires courage. It means setting boundaries, risking judgment, and often swimming upstream. That means being willing to be a little weird or out on a ledge, at least some of the time.

But it’s worth it. Recently, I’ve started to feel the effects of this mindset as I’ve entered a new job. Do I have to be the best at work and think about it constantly? No. Do we need an excess of money to complete every home renovation we want this year? No. Do I need to loudly reject capitalism or evangelize my alternative path? No. I’ve chosen my line in the sand, and I’m okay with where it puts me.

While I wish I’d started sooner, I’m grateful to be starting now. Better late than never.

So here’s my question for you: What’s the game you’ve been playing? Is it one you chose, or was it handed to you? What would it look like to redefine the rules and build a life that fits you?

The process isn’t easy. It’s challenging, peculiar, and sometimes lonely. But it’s also liberating. It’s your life, after all—why not make the rules yourself?

Next-Level Listening: What My Oldest Son Taught Me

Friends,

The most life-changing lesson I learned while writing Character by Choice is this: listening is the most important skill we can cultivate.

When we truly listen, we discover the extraordinary in others. That discovery grows into love. And love—bigger than ourselves—gives us the courage to become better people. Better people make the world more vibrant, joyous, and trusting.

But here’s what my son taught me today: listening is just the first step. The real magic happens when we prove we’re listening—when we leave no doubt that someone has our full attention.

That’s what makes someone a next-level listener. And it’s how love blossoms.

I share this insight—and the powerful conversation with my son that inspired it—on this week’s episode of Muscle Memory. Check it out, and share if it resonates with you.

With love from Detroit,
Neil

We are hybrid dads, and we GOT THIS

If you’re a dad like me, juggling work, home life, and your role as a partner, let me tell you—you’re not alone. We’re the first generation of dads stepping into this new space, trying to figure out what it means to be fully present as fathers and equal partners in our relationships. It’s not easy, but it’s ours to own.

We’re hybrid dads. We’re building something new, something better—and it’s time we talked about how to get there together.

A hybrid dad isn’t defined by tradition or rebellion—it’s about creating a role that works for your family. It’s part breadwinner, part partner, part parent—and 100% intentional.

Why Men Should Read Fair Play

If you’re a millennial husband or father, I think you should read Fair Play by Eve Rodsky. Or, if you know a millennial husband or father—especially one who’s quietly trying to balance home life, work life, and being a good, equitable partner—gift them this book. Even if it doesn’t seem like it’s “for them,” it just might be what they need.

It was a game changer for me personally, and also for our marriage.

The book offers both a mental model for what a fair balance of domestic responsibility can look like in a partnership and a practical system to manage those responsibilities with clarity and efficiency. It’s dramatically reduced the friction Robyn and I used to experience while running our household and managing our family system.

For example, cooking and meal planning used to be a source of endless improvisation and frustration. We’d either figure everything out together or constantly reset our schedules on the fly. It wasn’t working. Now, we’ve set roles: I’m the weekend chef, and Robyn’s the weekday chef. I used to handle groceries, but it made more sense for her to take over, and we adjusted intentionally. Knowing exactly what ingredients she needs and when has made the process seamless, thanks to concepts we learned in Fair Play like the “minimum standard of care.” These ideas helped us have conversations about fairness and efficiency without resentment.

This shift gave us more than just better logistics—it gave us peace.

And that’s what we need in this reset—peace of mind, clarity, and confidence. Because this isn’t just about household chores; it’s about redefining what it means to show up as dads and partners in a way that works for us.

A Reset for Men

There’s been a lot of talk about how men are struggling. The data is there, and the anecdotes are everywhere. To me, all of this is true—but I see it more as a practical and personal phenomenon than an abstract crisis.

As a man, I think of it as a reset.

Here’s why I hate the “crisis” framing: It feels emasculating. When people talk about us as a lost generation of men, it’s hard to engage with that narrative—it feels like a judgment, like we’re failing somehow just by existing in this moment of change.

That’s not helpful, and frankly, it’s a turn-off. It makes me want to disengage.

I don’t see us as victims, and I’m not interested in crisis rhetoric. What I see is an opportunity to reset and redefine what it means to be a husband and father.

A generation ago, gender roles were simpler—though not necessarily better. The man worked outside the home, often as the breadwinner, and there were plenty of examples (good and bad) of what that looked like. Today, it’s different. Many men aren’t the sole earners anymore, and many of us are leaning into home life and parenting in ways our fathers didn’t.

The problem? Most of us don’t have a blueprint.

Few of us had dads who split domestic responsibilities equitably. Fewer still had dads who volunteered at the PTA or took paternity leave. We’re making this up as we go because we’re the first generation actively navigating pluralistic gender roles.

And that’s the beauty of it: There’s no one way to be a good husband or father anymore. Traditional roles can work, but so can new hybrids. What matters is that we’re intentional about creating a family system that works for us.

We are hybrid dads—we’ve got each other’s backs, and we GOT THIS.

How Fair Play Helps

Fair Play gave Robyn and me a language to talk about our family system and decide how we wanted it to work. By breaking responsibilities into categories—from chores to self-care to parenting—we could set standards for our household and adjust as life changed.

For us, this meant defining who “owned” which tasks. For example, when my work schedule changed, we switched roles for groceries.

In addition to the book, we also bought Rodsky’s flashcards and found it helpful to “redeal” physical cards every few months.

I also created a PDF template to keep track of all this and reset my focus weekly on my Remarkable.

You can download my PDF template here.

The results? Less tension at home. Less self-doubt about whether I’m doing the right thing as a husband or father. And something even more meaningful: more joy.

By being more involved at home, I’ve gained something many men in previous generations didn’t have—deep, priceless time with my kids and my wife. The joy that comes from being fully present, from knowing I’m not just managing but thriving as a dad and partner, is worth every effort.

Why Men Should Read This Book

If you’re a man in this “reset” generation, Fair Play is a godsend. It’s not just about managing tasks; it’s about finding confidence in the type of husband and father you want to be.

We may not have role models for this new way of being a man, but we don’t need to feel lost. Fair Play gives us a framework to build our own hybrid roles—ones that work for our families, bring us closer to our partners, and let us embrace the joy of being present.

I recommend this book to any man navigating this shift. Read it. Try the system and the cards. Download the template. See how it changes your home life.

It sure as hell changed mine.

Parenting is an act of faith

Friends,

It’s a joyous time for us. Not only are we getting ready to welcome our fourth child, but many close friends and family are either having children themselves or moving out of the newborn phase of life.

When you’re expecting, love starts pouring in from all directions. The fraternity of caregivers—parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, “aunts,” and “uncles”—is built on love. And when others join that fellowship, all you want to do is pay that love forward.

I feel that deeply right now.

As we all know, there’s no foolproof playbook or universal script for parenting—no single piece of sage wisdom we can all rely on. But what we can do is share our biggest mistakes in the hope that others might avoid them. After all, mistakes tend to be more universal than we’d like to admit.

Mine was this: I was a colonizer.

When my kids invited me into their world, I tried to reshape it—imposing adult order with schedules, tasks, and structure. I thought I was helping. But that approach cost me years of connection during our older kids’ youngest years.

This week’s episode of the Muscle Memory Podcast is about that very mistake—and what I’ve learned since. I hope you enjoy it.

With love from Detroit,

Neil

How To Grow Our Hearts

“It’s kind of like the Grinch,” I told my oldest son.

“When we have another kid, God helps us grow our heart so that we can love and support each of you 100%.”

Bo gave me that perplexed brow that he always gives me when he’s punching above his weight while processing a complex idea. Luckily, he understood and trusted me enough to take a leap of faith and believe me.

Truth is, I get why he was so torn. Soccer has been his thing: for fun, for confidence, and for having our whole family be his fans. And now, Myles, two years his junior, was encroaching on a precious source of love and stability by having his first game. For Bo, soccer was no longer just his thing.

He needed to understand that our love wasn’t a limited resource—our hearts have grown big enough to fully support him, Myles, and their younger sibling. Like the Grinch, our love expands with every child, every moment, growing larger as life calls for it.

But I could see his hesitation. He was still trying to understand how this worked. How does our heart grow? How do we become the Grinch? Where does that process even begin?

So, where do we start? I believe it begins with making sure we aren’t turning into ‘black holes’ of emotional energy—the kind of person who constantly drains others because their own heart feels empty. We all know that person—the one who pulls love and attention from anywhere they can, but can never seem to hold onto it. To truly let our hearts grow, we need to stop the leaks in our own cup and learn how to fill it.

Once we’ve learned to hold onto love and stop draining it, we realize something else: love is all around us, waiting to be noticed. It’s easy to fall into the trap of believing the world is cold or that people can't be trusted—after all, negativity shouts louder. But if we stop and pay attention, we’ll see that love is quietly everywhere.

In my experience, the ugliness just seems louder, drowning out the love that’s quietly waiting to be seen. If we actually pause and look, we’d notice that so many people are eager to share love—they’re just waiting for a small sign to open their hearts. I’ve seen this firsthand in the smallest moments.

When I go for a run, for example, I make a point to give a thumbs-up to cars and pedestrians as I pass by. People almost always wave back—90% of the time, they respond. And I remember doing a ride-along with the Detroit Police when I worked with them. Even in the roughest, most violent neighborhoods, there would still be one or two houses with cut grass and flowers, standing as a beacon of love and care.

When I’ve stopped and paid close attention, it’s clear—love is everywhere, like water behind a dam, waiting to rush forward. It’s in the small gestures, the people around us, just waiting to be released. But love doesn’t just sit there; it does something magical. For me, that magic has two parts. First, love starts to mend the leaks in our emotional cups. Where there were once holes—places where fear, doubt, or loneliness drained us—love flows in and seals them up. The more I’ve opened myself to love, the less I’ve felt those leaks, and the more whole I’ve become.

That’s the first part of love’s magic: it stops the leaks.

The second part is when love begins to pour in, like a river rushing into an open cup. Once we slow down, notice the love around us, and give just the smallest signal that we’re ready for it, love bursts in. It fills our cup, and when it overflows, that flood of love makes it easy to share with others.
And that’s when our hearts start to grow. Just like the Grinch, our hearts expand to hold all that love, naturally growing larger so we can give even more of it away.

Then it’s inevitable for our hearts to grow, like it did for the Grinch.

For Men, It's Bigger Than Just Crying More

While I don’t speak for all men, I believe many share this view: phrases like "it’s okay to cry" and "you need to talk about your feelings" are not always helpful.

To be healthy, human beings need to express themselves. The problem with the phrases I mentioned (and others) is that they prescribe a specific means of expression. Not everyone likes or wants to express themselves through conversations about their feelings or through tears.

Personally, I express myself through words (writing, talking) and physical expressions (tears, laughter, singing, dancing, hugs). But those aren’t the only healthy means of self-expression. Athletics, fine arts, martial arts, carpentry, cooking – these are also healthy ways to express oneself.

While these phrases are true – it is okay to cry, and people probably do need to talk about their feelings to some degree – throwing them around can cause withdrawal. Men who aren’t naturally cryers or talkers withdraw when others impose a specific means of expression onto them. Even as someone who is a cryer and a talker, I feel controlled and violated when people insist that men need to cry and talk more, despite agreeing with the statements themselves.

It’s more productive to remind everyone, regardless of age or gender identity, that we need to express ourselves to be healthy. Instead of saying, “it’s okay for men to cry,” it’s more effective to ask, “how do you express yourself, and what type of forum do you need?”

This post may sound like a rant, and in some ways, it is. However, I appreciate the intent behind encouraging men to talk about their feelings because many men, myself included, have faced or will face challenges. I’m glad people are starting to understand that men and boys – and other groups too – have unique mental health challenges.

These challenges are reflected in suicide rates. Here are three informative data sources about suicide rates and how they intersect with gender, age, occupation, and other factors. The punchline is that men have higher suicide rates than women, particularly Native American and White men.

• American Foundation for Suicide Prevention - Suicide Statistics

• CDC: Suicide Rates by Industry and Occupation — National Vital Statistics System, United States, 2021

• Population Reference Bureau: In U.S., Who Is at Greatest Risk for Suicides?

I’m suggesting there’s a better way to communicate with men about mental and emotional health. While I appreciate well-intentioned phrases like “it’s okay to cry” and “it’s important to talk about feelings,” I believe they often lead to closed doors, particularly for men. A more effective approach is to emphasize the importance of expression and begin a conversation about how each of us wants and needs to express ourselves.

Days Like These: A Father’s Wish

I forget sometimes how large I loom in their world. But on this Father’s Day, I am reminded of it, and it’s something I don’t want to forget.

All my sons put so much effort and care into my Father’s Day present. It helped me remember that, no matter who you are, as a young kid, the people who raise you are your whole world. Mothers and fathers are just…giants to a kid. All children explore this, fascinated and in awe. That’s why all kids put on their parents’ shoes and mittens and walk around in them.

“Maybe someday,” we wish, “these will fit and I’ll get the chance to be like them.”

Mothers and fathers are giants to a kid.

This is such a gift of love, not just for our joy and hearts but for the people we will become in the future.

I’ve been thinking about how this year, on my birthday, my perception of age changed. When we’re young, the first change comes when you realize how awesome it will be to be older: bigger, stronger, and more free. Then you hit the invincibility years of your twenties, wishing to stay 27 or 28 forever.

Next come the years of control—or lack thereof, I suppose. There’s not enough money, not a good enough job, the kids grow up too quickly, and you find yourself nervously joking about the increasing gray in your hair or talking about revisiting old haunts to recapture fleeting youth.

Then my 37th birthday hit, and my perception of age changed again. It was a birthday where I thought, “Damn, I’m just glad to be here for it.”

Why? Because I became very conscious of how our table grew more crowded this year, not less. This year, we’ve added children, brothers, and sisters to our table of friends and family. And we lost almost nobody. I’m old enough now to realize how rare and precious birthdays like this one will be from here on out.

So yes, when I blew out the candles on my pineapple birthday cake this year, my wish was: “Thank you, God, for letting me celebrate this birthday. My wish is for my next birthday to be like this one, with our table more crowded, not less.”

One of my greatest fears about death now is not the pain, suffering, and uncertainty that surrounds it—though that’s still a real fear. I have started to fear that a birthday will come—especially if my friends and family are gone, and I’m the last one standing—where I won’t wish for another one.

That’s the final change in our perception of age: moving from a place of peace and gratitude for our life—where we’re just happy to be here—to hoping for death to come peacefully, but also soon. I don’t want to ever slip into that last phase of age. I hope this last birthday, where I was just happy to be here and hoped for another birthday, is the last time my perception of age meaningfully changes.

No matter what happens, I know today that I have mattered to my sons. Days like these, marked by little celebrations and small gestures of love, remind us that we mattered to someone—whether it was our kids, friends, family, colleagues, or neighbors—that we loomed large.

These little Father’s Day gifts, like the ones I received today, are more than just presents. They are symbols we can hold onto as we age, reminders that we loved and were loved. These symbols of love will always give me hope and a feeling of worth, a reason to keep wishing for more birthdays. Because we were loved once, there’s always hope that each day we wake up, there will be that light of love again—whether it comes to us or is the light we carry and gift to others.

Maybe I Should Just Shut Up

My conclusion after a slump of parenting was this: Maybe I should just shut up.

Maybe my meddling between two sons, who have infinitely more experience in what it’s like to have a brother, isn’t helping. Unless they’re drawing blood, breaking bones, or veering into legitimate cruelty, maybe I should keep doing the dishes and let the hollering in our basement work itself out.

Maybe I’ve taken what Dr. Becky taught me a little too far. I should help narrate and put some scaffolding on their big feelings, sure. But maybe I can let him freak out for at least 20 seconds before I interfere and force his heart rate to lower through me and my adult voice. Maybe I can just sit here with him and just breathe for a minute, before I say something that he’s trying to express and feel himself.

Maybe if my reaction to whatever just happened carries the tone that I’m older, smarter, and more arrogant—believing my son is being ridiculous—I should take my own advice and shut up if I don’t have anything nice to say or if I can’t say it kindly right now.

Maybe when they’re excited about something—like a goal they scored, a word they learned to read, or a bug they saw on the playground—I can just smile eagerly. I don’t have to rattle off details like Wikipedia, make their moment mine, or turn it into something teachable. Maybe I can just look at them, give them my attention with my whole body, and smile eagerly.

It turns out, for an external processor of feelings and thoughts like me, learning to keep my mouth shut long enough to let a pause pass was really hard. But it turns out, it freaking works.

I always worry about letting them struggle to the point of developing depression, anxiety, or God forbid, a hopelessness dangerous enough to invite self-harm.

Yes, I need to not cross that line.

But damn, it turns out I could have avoided many of the worst moments, where I’ve been the worst version of myself, by shutting my mouth, opening my ears, and letting things linger a little before I shift into “dad mode.”

They’re smart, good, and capable young men—already. As difficult as it is to let them grow forward, something they might need from me is to stay nearby, with love waiting, but also quietly.

Sometimes, the greatest act of love for them today, and for our future selves where we’re all grown men, is to just shut up.

Honoring Love That Can’t Be Reciprocated

A parent’s love and a child’s love are different.

A parent’s love for a child is, and ought to be, unconditional. Despite occasionally being angered or critical of our children’s antics, we, as parents, embraced this unwavering love as part of our commitment when starting a family.

I don’t think a child’s love for their parents is necessarily unconditional, nor should it be. For example, if I abused my kids, they certainly shouldn’t love me unconditionally.

What I realized this week, as I’ve observed aging family members up close and from afar, is the concept of unreciprocated love. A child’s love for their elders may be unreciprocated—unable to be returned as those elders age and lose their mental and physical capacities. This unreciprocated love so often shown by children to their aging elders is courageous, thankless, and uncommonly special.

Sometimes, as our elders age—our parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and godparents—they might not have the capacity to love us back in the ways they once did. They may become too weak to hug, kiss, or care for us as they did when we were younger. In the most cruel of possibilities, they may not even recognize the person in front of them who is offering love and care. They may want to reciprocate the love they’re receiving, but there may come a time when our older loved ones simply can’t.

Fourteen percent of the population, equating to 37.1 million people, provide unpaid eldercare in the United States, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics (BLS). In our culture, and especially in the workplace, the caregiving these people do is invisible. Being a parent, on the other hand, is very visible and at least a little bit supported. Even though the US lags behind the rest of the world in workplace policies related to families, parenting is at least visible and acknowledged.

Adult caregiving is much less visible, supported, or even understood to be a reality that millions of people live with every day. It seems, sometimes, that we often forget that adult caregiving even exists.

In my writing, I often talk about parenting and its immense struggles. I’m a parent, so I unsurprisingly over-index there.

Today, I’d like to put us aside as parents and pause to be grateful for the children, grandchildren, nieces, and nephews who are caring for older loved ones, even though that love and care might be unreciprocated. Even if we don’t celebrate it or value it broadly in our culture, I think we should at least acknowledge and name this very gracious sacrifice of unreciprocated love.

Let us hope and pray that we have the strength to care for someone even when they can’t reciprocate our love. And that we are good enough to our children that they are willing to love us when our love for them is unconditional, yes, but cannot be reciprocated.

Backyard Ball

In the imaginative world of my son Myles, a simple makeshift field on the beach, outlined with big conch shells for goals, transformed into a grand Premier League stadium. As he dashed across the sand, he wasn't just a kid playing with his brother; in his heart, he was a star footballer, emerging onto the pitch to the sound of his name being announced, just like the heroes he admires on weekend broadcasts.

As the sun set on Florida’s Gulf Coast, Robyn announced, "Last play of the game," and Myles, Robert, myself, and their Mimi dialed in for one last run down our sandy field. As our clock expired and Robert clutched the ball insistently, he cried, "One more play! One more play!"

I didn't want the sun to set, ending our game, either. To play backyard ball is to experience pure joy. It's so pure, where the goal is to just have fun and play. It’s something I didn’t know I was longing for. As adults, after all, we are often robbed of the simple, pure joy of play, a vital source of joy and creativity that we unknowingly surrender in our pursuit of 'adulthood.' Play is not just a child's domain but a necessity for us adults.

As we returned from the beach, I was reminded of all the pick-up games I've played over the years. Like when I would call Al asking if he wanted to hit tennis balls, and hopped on my bike, rackets on my back, to meet him and some tennis teammates at the neighborhood courts, even if it was the dog days of summer. Or playing Ultimate Frisbee at the park, with Sunny tossing a lob to Herman, the person who was usually quiet, tall, gentle, and unassuming but then would outrun us easily with his gigantic stride.

These moments, seemingly trivial, were anything but; they were pure expressions of joy and camaraderie, free from the weight of adult responsibilities.

Some of my happiest adolescent memories were at the Lionas' house – either playing at the Whiffle Ball stadium – ring, scoreboard, and all – under the lights during summer break, or as a newcomer in the "Nerf Combat League" that Nick's older brother John started in their basement on February 4th, 1999 – a date I remember because it was in the league’s theme song, which we’d play after the national anthem every Thursday in the offseason between football and baseball, when we’d have matches after school.

At the time, I suspect many adults thought all this was charming – but still just something childish and suitable for teenagers but not for “grown” people. But what is the line between adolescence and adulthood, really? What makes play something that we outgrow? The weight of adult responsibilities is so deep sometimes; isn’t that when we need lightness and joy the most – to prevent us from forgetting what all these steps and accomplishments are actually in service of? I don’t want to believe that all we’re here for is to “win at life,” “grow our careers,” or some of these other myths we tell ourselves.

This is what I miss so desperately, all these backyard games, where playing the game – just playing – was more important than winning. In the backyard, the beach, the driveway, or the park is where you learn to love the game. It's where I, too, made some of my best friends – who are still my guys to this very day. And it's where I hope I'm becoming one of my sons' guys now. Maybe it makes me naive, but love, passion, joy, fun, and friendship have to be bigger than winning.

Maybe that's why I can't fully let go of watching football or throwing back a couple of beers with my buddies. Even though I’ve soured on tackle football and alcohol since my early twenties, those are the closest things to that feeling of silliness and play I still have. I sense such a deficiency of play in my life, akin to my lack of Vitamin D for which my doctor prescribed a supplement. Just like the supplement boosts my immune system, play would probably do the same for my spirit.

This blessing of play is one of the biggest gifts children give to us. My sons certainly have. They've reminded me how to play, taught me really, and made it easy for me to feel the silliness and joy of play, once again. I've realized so easily that I'm not the only one making a generous sacrifice in our relationships. My sons, also, are doing me a favor and choosing me, like the last kid at recess, and including me in their wonderful world of joy and play.

How did I ever get so serious, anyway? How did I let the dull and grinding world of adults make me so stiff? As we walk back from the beach, I feel like I did when those backyard games – whether it was soccer, football, tennis, capture the flag, whatever – ended as a kid. I'm so alive, smiling without needing to try.

"This was so fun," I thought as we walked up from our impromptu derby on the beach. "I can play. I'm allowed to play. I want to play again."

The best part is, we don’t have to ask the grown ups for permission to play. Because dang it y’all, we are the grown ups now. All we need to do is let the experts - our children - remind us how.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

I’m not going anywhere.

This is one of the most divine things a person can hear. Especially someone, like me, whose nightmare is to be alone. But aren’t we all that way, in the deepest part of the heart at least, where it’s hardest for the light to reach?

I knew that if Robyn and I started dating, I would marry her. We started, and I loved her quickly. I was hers, before the end of our first summer. As summer became winter, I started to get scared. I honest-to-God loved Robyn. And I knew that when we married and had our life together, eventually one of us would pass from this earth. And there was a chance that Robyn would be the first to go, and that I’d be left alone.

The idea of being on this earth without kissing Robyn goodnight is among the most painful realities possible for me. What if? How could it? Would I? When?

By then, Robyn already knew the reaches of my curious and inquisitive mind - both the gregarious dimension of it and the morose. And so she said to me, those divine words that protected my soul from its darkest fears.

I’m not going anywhere.

Really, saying this is a promise. It’s a promise that we’re going to stay. It’s a commitment to companionship and love. Whether we reach the gates of heaven or hell, when we say something as bold as “I’m not going anywhere,” it means we’re there. This word, anywhere, is all-encompassing. When we say anywhere, it means we’re ride or die for someone.

But that’s the catch, isn’t it? The second part of ride or die is just that, die. We can’t control when we die; none of us can. So we know that “I’m not going anywhere” doesn’t mean that we’re going to be here forever. We infer that it means we’re here for as long as we can outrun the reaper.

I’m not going anywhere.

Our sons are at the age where they’re afraid of the dark, afraid to go to bed, or some combination of both. I get it. I slept in my parent’s bed well past kindergarten. I was scared too. Part of me still is.

So we say this to them: “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here. I’ll check on you before I go to bed.”

This is what most soothes them. Because they know we mean it, and they know they’ll be safe because we have the night watch. They know they won’t be alone and they’ll have someone to run to if they have a bad dream or throw up in the middle of the night - because we’re not going anywhere.

But they don’t understand the deal, fully. I can’t tell them, yet, that when I say this I implicitly mean unless I die.

This unsettles me because I am making them a promise that they don’t fully understand. I am running the risk that I will be stolen from them before they understand this. They need me to say it, so I say it. And I mean it, so I say it. And I plan to be here for a long time, so I say it. But I’m always still sending up a prayer every time I speak those four words.

I’m not going anywhere.

When I wake up in the morning, I believe in God. And when I go to bed at night, I really believe in God. This faith is what carried me through tonight.

Robyn is traveling this weekend for our soon-to-be sister-in-law’s bachelorette party. It’s Saturday as I write this, and I’ve been solo parenting since lunchtime on Thursday. The kids are having a really hard time with their mother being away. I can tell, even though they are the same rambunctious, gleeful, hilarious set of brothers that they always are.

It was a boys weekend and tonight was game night. Bo was the last one up today because I let him. And to be honest, I think we needed each other. We are both incredibly emotional. We both feel the sting of loneliness more devastatingly than anyone else in this house. So, I let him stay up later than his brothers, so we could play one extra game. He chose Ticket to Ride: First Journey, probably because it’s the only game where it’s at least 50% likely that he’ll beat me.

After his bath and bedtime story, he started to wig out. He flailed his arms, and contorted his body while sputtering semi-coherent sentences, as if the closing of the book’s cover caused him to be possessed by a wandering ghost. Thank God I wasn’t a train wreck of a father like I was earlier in the day. Next thing I knew, he was clinging to me, he and I on top of the duvet - and he was just clutching me, tight as he ever has.

“I’m never letting go,” he whispered.

This may be the most vulnerable he’s ever let himself be around me. His big feelings scare him, and with Bo, there’s no such thing as little feelings. So I am surprised, and humbled, as he says this.

“I will always be with you,” I replied.

Then my heart started to quicken, and tears squeezed out the sides of my eyes.

“No matter where you are or when it is, part of me is always with you, bud. Wherever I am, I am always thinking about you, mommy, and your brothers. Part of me is always in your heart. I will always be with you.”

This, I suppose, is the way out of this ride or die dilemma. I believe in God, and I believe that I have a soul. And I believe that if I love and pray hard enough, part of me will always be with Robyn, and with each of my sons. I can say those words and actually be telling the full truth. Because even if I die, part of me will always be with them.

And that is the divine element. Because with the help of God, I can say “I’m not going anywhere”, fully, lovingly, and deeply, without any exception.

And that’s where I left it with Bo tonight. I carried him to his room. I helped him squirm under the covers, tucked him in, and told him.

I’m not going anywhere.

---

My new book, Character by Choice: Letters on Goodness, Courage, and Becoming Better on Purpose, is now out in soft launch. I’m so excited to share it and proud of how it turned out. If you liked this post, you might find it a good read. You can learn more about the book here.

2023: The Year of ‘Not Helpless’

My biggest regret this year was not attending a memorial service for someone I knew who died unexpectedly.

Despite our distant connection, my grief was real, but fear held me back. I worried about navigating the unfamiliar customs of their faith and feared saying the wrong thing to their family, whom I had never met before. Additionally, I was concerned about how others would perceive my attendance, given our weak ties.

Upon reflection, none of these fears justify my absence, and this regret has been a poignant lesson for me. It seems so obvious now, but I actually have some control over how I react to fear. Nothing but myself was stopping me from making a different choice.

I am glad that even though I feel regret, I have learned something from it: My ignorance is my responsibility and under my control. My irrational fears are my responsibility and under my control. My boundaries and response to social anxiety is my responsibility and under my control. These are all hard, to be sure, but I am not helpless.

—

I’ve now proven to myself that I can do better. This is my greatest accomplishment of the year.

On vacation, where work stress dissolves into the Gulf of Mexico's salt, I find myself more patient with my sons. In the last two months, gratitude journaling helped me realize that I was unfairly expecting my sons to manage my frustrations. This insight has made me a better listener, helping me see them as they need to be seen - closer to how God sees them.

On vacation, when the stress of work dissolves into the Gulf of Mexico’s salt, I am more patient with my sons. In the last 2 months of the year, when some gratitude journaling I did finally made it click that I’m expecting my sons to help me manage my own frustrations, I am better. I am a better listener and I finally see them in the way they need me to - closer to how God sees them.

Now, I know, I can do better - I just have to do it when the world around me feels chaotic and when we’re out of our little paradise and back into our beautiful, but very real, life. This will be extremely difficult, but I know I can do it, because I’ve already done it.

Once I am better - as a listener, as a father, and as a husband when Robyn and I work through this together - I start to talk to them different. I’m curious. I’m asking questions. I’m taking pauses. I’m no longer trying to control and react, I am the powerful wave of the rising tide that is firm but gentle, enveloping them and their sandy toes until they are anchored again.

I change how I talk. Instead of saying - “stop it, now!” I start to say, with a full, palpable, sense of love and confidence in them - “you are not helpless.”

—

Over the years, Robyn and I have taken exactly one walk on the beach together during our Christmas vacation.

We saunter away for 30 minutes at nap time, letting the masks we so reluctantly maintain as parents and professionals fully drop. It's just us, speaking to no one except three young girls who earnestly and eagerly approach us, asking, “Excuse us, but would you like a beautiful sea shell?“

Some years, one of us is weeping as our grief and frustration finally is allowed to boil over. This year though, we are incisive and contemplative. I am honestly curious. We struggled so much this year, how is it that we aren’t more frustrated with each other?

By the end of our walk and our conversation, I see her differently. She is more beautiful, but that’s how I feel everyday. Today, I also feel the depth of her soul and resolve more strongly. Her gravity pulls me in closer.

We have fought hard to get here. All the hard conversations we’ve had and all the conflict resolution techniques we’ve studied and applied have made a big difference. Yes, we have put in the work.

But at the root of it, is something much deeper and strategic. We have seeds of resilience that we have planted consistently with every season of our marriage that passes. We plant and reap, over and over, not a fruit but a mindset. We have vowed to be in union. We are dialed into a single vision that is bigger than both of us. We are committed to make it it there and we have jettisoned our escape pods, figuratively speaking, we have left ourselves no choice but to figure it out.

And with every crisis, we feel more and more that we can figure it out. With each year that passes, the difficulty of our problems increases, but so does our capacity to manage them. More than ever, as the clock strikes the bottom of the hour and we end our saunter, I remember - we are not helpless.

This year was hard. But the silver lining was that I finally internalized something so simple, but so important.

When the going gets tough - whether it’s because of death, our children growing up, or external factors adding stress to our marriage - nobody is coming to save us. We are on our own. But that’s okay, because we are not helpless.

Children bring out our best

I've noticed that almost everyone, myself included, behaves differently in the presence of children.

We swear less, we try harder to be nice, and we try to be more patient than when we’re around adults. It’s like children bring out the Christmas spirit in us in every season of the year. But why?

For one, they deserve it. Kids are innocent and we owe them a chance to be in a nurturing environment. We all know kids’ surroundings affect who they become. We try our hardest for them because we know it matters. Our responsibility to them matters.

But I don’t think that’s the only reason. I think we also feel safer around children than we do around adults.

When I interact with a child, I don’t expect them to be mean. I don’t expect a child to pounce on my vulnerability and kindness like an adult might. My expectation of how a child will treat me matters. This lack of expectation for cruelty from children creates a sense of safety, contrasting sharply with my guardedness around adults. And that helps me to act differently. Our expectations of how others will behave matter.

—

It’s a common and worthy trope to ask, “why can’t we embody the Christmas spirit all year?” What I realized this year is that we already can. The vast majority of people I know try harder to be their best, kindest self when they’re around children. We have it in us to try a little harder all year.

The rub is, we don’t expect other adults to embody the Christmas spirit all year. I think that’s why it’s so easy to regress into being crabby in January - our expectations of how others will be have matters.

That’s the challenge isn’t it? Our challenge is to try harder so that others expect that we will be kind toward them, no matter what circumstance or season we’re in. What we can do, I think, is just to remember that it’s our choice whether we want to always act with the grace we always afford to children.

By this, I don’t mean infantilizing every adult we do. What I more mean is that we can believe that everyone deserves to be in a nurturing environment, even as adults. Imagine a world where we all extend the kindness and grace we naturally offer to children, to everyone we meet. How wonderful might that be?

It’s not just kids who deserve nurturing surroundings, we all do. Because it matters.

The Irony of Intention: My Accidental Phone Fast

The Unintended Experiment

Just like everyone else, I spend many bullshit hours on my phone every week and a few more loathing myself for it. I know it affects my mood, my body, and my relationships negatively. It’s terrible, and such a waste of time and energy. Every week, I tell myself, “this is the week” and yet, I do it again. It’s maddening.

Oddly, I forgot my phone at the office on Thursday. I didn’t think the two hour round trip was worth it to retrieve it, which meant I would be without a phone until Tuesday - my next in-office day. This created a natural experiment: what happens when I literally can’t be on my phone because it’s not here? All the usual tropes were true…I can get by without it, I’m so less distracted, I sleep better, social media is so addictive, yadda yadda yadda.

But there was one big surprise. I used to blame my phone and social media for all these distractions and toxic influences. But really, it’s not the phone or social media that’s the problem - it’s that my intentions are weak.

A strong intention is an intention that you care about enough to follow through, even if it requires substantial discomfort. For me, running and exercising is a strong intention. A weak intention is an intention that fizzles away even under minor duress. Mowing the lawn and raking the leaves is one of those for me. I’ve been saying I’m going to do it for weeks, but here I am and another weekend has passed without it happening. That’s a weak intention.

I realized this weekend that my phone is not really a distraction, it’s just the easiest thing to do when I’m not exactly sure what I want to be doing. The problem, really, is that within the ebbs and flows of the day, I don’t really have intentions of how I want things to go. And when I don’t have a clear, strong intention I don’t sit idle - I bullshit.

Because when I bullshit, I can feel comfortable and feel like I’m doing something useful, without having to go through the struggle of figuring out something better and actually doing it. It’s a perfect trap.

The real solution isn’t limiting the phone, it’s forming stronger intentions for the part of the day I’m in. If I had stronger intentions, I wouldn’t be on my phone as much because I’d be spending my time doing things I care more about.

The Parallel: Resisting Yummy Bacon

Here’s another way to think about it, let’s talk about bacon.

I like bacon. It’s really delicious. When I smell it, I still crave it. Same thing with pepperoni and chicken wings. They’re SO good.

But I haven’t eaten those foods in years, I went solidly pescetarian about 10 years ago and haven’t looked back. I don’t even eat much fish anymore. Even when there’s delicious bacon, pepperoni, or chicken wings on a restaurant menu I don’t flinch any more. Why? Because I feel much stronger of an intention about not eating meat than I used to. Now, I have a strong intention because I’ve decided that I don’t want to take an animal’s life to avoid starvation if I don’t have to, especially because there are many delicious alternatives that are better for my health and the environment.

In high school, I used to waffle because I didn’t really have strong intentions about vegetarianism - I kind of just flirted with it and was a vegetarian when it was convenient, more than anything else. So I caved and flip-flopped on my dietary restrictions often.

My phone is the same way, because I don’t have a strong intention of what I want to do or focus on today, I jump to my phone because it’s an easy mechanism to give myself something to do.

The Rub: Making Intention Tangible

I will get my phone from the office when I head in on Tuesday. But this experiment has taught me a valuable lesson, it’s important to make short-term, intra-day intentions strong and explicit. Luckily, I do this already for longer time horizons of my life:

What do I intend to contribute to that’s bigger than just me?

I’m good on this one. I intend to be a loving husband, father, and citizen. Beyond unconditional love to my family, I want to help the world become a free and trusting place.

What do I intend for this phase of my life?

I’m good on this one too, but it’s a bit more scattered.

Right now, I intend to help our family take root, form a cohesive bond, and be ready to flourish once we’re out of diapers. Professionally, I intend to do a lot of experiments to understand the different paths I can take to influence the things I care about most: trust in government, social trust, morality and character, leadership on every block, and issues like homicide, suicide, parks, and the literacy rate.

What do I intend for this season within this phase?

I don’t think about this a ton, but I think about it enough.

I intend to help get our home life running efficiently and with less friction. I also intend to get back to connecting with friends and our extended family. Finally, I intend to bring energy to my teams at work and figure out where I want to pivot. Oh, and publish this book I’ve been working on for seven years.

This is where I get stuck. I get caught up in the motions and don’t translate these longer-term and loftier intentions into our daily grind.

What do intend for the next week or two?

Generally, I wouldn’t think like this. But if I took the time to , I would probably say, “Get our lingering house projects and yardwork done before the holidays hit. Take more time to have fun and make eye contact with my sons. Go on a date with Robyn. Get my edits done so I can hire a proofreader and cover designer for this book project.”

What do I intend for this part of the day (i.e., between now and our next meal)?

Generally, I wouldn’t think like this. But if I took the time for it, I’d say - get the minimum cleaning done so we can take a family walk and play a game together.

Because I don’t get specific at this granular, intra-day level, and set an explicit intention for the next few hours before I eat the next meal, I bullshit. Usually on my phone.

If I don’t set specific intentions for the immediate few hours, It’s like my brain says, “I don’t know exactly what comes next. Do I want to make a plan that’s in line with my favorite hobbies and long-term plans? Do I want to make the most of my workday afternoon? Uhhh, naw. I’ll just look at videos of college kids doing trick shots with golf balls bouncing off of cookware and check my e-mail instead.”

The Takeaway: Intention in the Immediate

This is the big lesson. We have to have clear, strong intentions for the long-term but also for the time that’s right in front of our face. This is true at home, in our work, and in our community organizations. Some people are good at setting longer-term intentions. Others are better at setting immediate, short-term, intentions. But the truth is, we really need strong intentions for both.

If we don’t set clear intentions, especially at the level of the next few hours, we bullshit. And for me that usually means bullshitting on my phone.

But it could manifest as something more subtle than scrolling on a smartphone. At home, it could be cleaning stuff I don’t really have to clean, or just turning on the TV in the background while I wash dishes - both are comfortable, but aren’t in line my strongest intentions.

At work, it could be attending useless meetings to feel busy without actually having to work, or doing mundane tasks which nobody cares too much about - both are comfortable, but they’re usually not what the best use of our time is.

All in all, I’m really glad I forgot my phone at the office for a weekend. It was good to have a reason to reflect on it. My test will be to set stronger intra-day intentions so I bullshit less and pay attention to my family more. I don’t have to be addicted to my phone, none of us do. If we take the time to set clear intentions in the immediate-term that ladder up to our longest-term intentions, we can minimize our bullshit hours and spend that time doing things we really love, things that really matter, and things to connect with the people we care about deeply.

We Are Everyday Artists: Seizing the Canvas of Daily Routine

What is an artist?

Three things define an artist: a point of view, refined craft, and canvas. This is my interpretation, and I'll elaborate shortly. Here’s a thread on ChatGPT for a summary of different schools of thought on what an artist is.

We can be artists in our day to day lives. Parenting can be artists’ work. Leadership can be artists’ work. Yes, artists create plays, music, paintings, and dance - but fine and performing artists are not the only artists there are.

We are all capable of being artists within our respective domains of focus. We should.

Artist = point of view + refined craft + canvas

Artists have a point of view. A point of view is a unique belief about the world and the fundamental truths about it. Put another way, an artist has something to say. A point of view is not necessarily something entertaining or popular, but I mean it as a deeper truth about life, the world, ideas, or existence itself.

A point of view might be and probably should be influenced by the work of others, but it’s not a point of view if it’s copied. To be art, the artist must internalize their point of view.

Artists have a refined craft. Artists must be able to bring their point of view to life and communicate it in a novel, interesting, and compelling way. Bringing their point of view to life in this way takes skills and practice. And it’s not just technical skills like a painters brush technique or a writer’s ability to develop characters, part of the skill of being an artist is the act of noticing previously unnoticed things, or, the ability to connect deeply with emotions, feelings, and abstract concepts.

A refined craft might be and probably should be influenced by the work of others and exceptional teachers, but it’s not a refined craft if it’s mere mimicry of someone else. A refined craft is something that the artist has mastery in.

Artists have a canvas. The point of view that an artist brings through their refined craft must be manifested somewhere. Painters literally use canvasses. For dramatic actors, their canvas is a stage performance. For muralists, their canvas is the walls of large buildings.

However, those mediums do not have to be the only canvas. For a corporate manager, their canvas might be a team meeting. For someone cooking a family dinner, their canvas might be the dinner table - both the food and the surrounding relationships. For a parent, their canvas might be their nightly bedtime routine. For someone just trying to be a good person, their canvas might be their bathroom mirror or journal, where they reflect on how their actions have impacted others.

And for what it’s worth, a canvas doesn’t have to be the center of a performative act. A canvas is merely the medium. Who sees the medium, and its level of public transparency, is an entirely different question.

Examples really bring what I mean to life. I’ve asked ChatGPT to apply the Artist = point of view + refined craft + canvas framework to a handful of people. This link will take you to an analysis of Frida Kahlo, Jay-Z, Steve Jobs, JK Rowling, Oprah Winfrey and others.

We need artists

What I find so compelling about artists is they move society and culture forward. In some ways, people who operate as artists are among the only people who can progress us forward. Why? First, artists operate in the realm of beliefs, which means they can change the deepest parts of people’s minds. Second, because artists bring a novel perspective to the table, they’re people who cut against the grain and challenge long-held norms, by definition. Artists make a difference by making things different..

This is exactly why I think we ought to operate as artists, especially in our daily lives as parents, colleagues, and community members. I believe things ought to be different and better. Kids, on average, deserve better parents. People working in teams, on average, deserve better colleagues and leaders. Communities, on average, deserve a better quality of life.

We are fortunate to be alive now, but there is room for improvement. Daily life for children, workers, and citizens ought to be much better because there is still so much unecessary drudgery and suffering.

Moreover, there is insufficient abundance for everyone to pursue a career as a fine artist or performing artist. Conventional art is invaluable, but not feasible for most to pursue professionally or as a hobby. For most of us, the only choice for us is to act as artists at home, work, or in our communities.

Again, I think examples bring it to life. Here are three personal examples that illustrate that we can think of ourselves not just as parents, leaders, or citizens, but as artists. (Note: my examples don’t imply that I’m actually good at any of these things. It’s an illustration of how one might think of these disciplines as art).

As an artist-parent…

I believe…that I am equal in worth to my children and my job is to love them and help them become good people that can take care of themselves and others. I’m merely a steward of this part of their life, and that doesn’t give me the right to be a tyrant.

Part of my craft is…to reflect questions back at them so they can think for themselves. So if they ask, “Should I ride my bike or scooter on our family walk?” I might reply, “What should you ride, buddy?”

My canvas…is every little moment and every conversation I have with my kids.

As an artist-leader at work…

I believe…our greatest contributions come collaboratively, when we act as peers and bring our unique talents together in the service of others.

Part of my craft is…creating moments where everyone on the team (including our customer) has time to speak and be heard - whether in groups or 1-1 behind the scenes..

My canvas is…team meetings, 1-1 meetings, and hallway conversations where I am in dialogue with colleagues or customers.

As an artist-citizen…

I believe…we will reach our ideal community when there is leadership present on every single block and community group.

Part of my craft is…find new people in the group and ask them to lead something, and commit to supporting them.

My canvas is…neighborhood association meetings, conversations while walking my dog, and the moments I’m just showing up.

We can be artists. Even if we can’t paint, even if we can’t dance, even if we can’t write poetry - we can be artists.

How we become everyday artists

The hard question is always “how”. How do I become an artist-parent or artist-leader? This is an important and valid question. Because these ideas of “point of view” and “craft” are so abstract and lofty.

What has made these concepts practical to attain is starting with my mindset. We can act as if our environment is a canvas.

So no, the team meeting at work isn’t just a meeting - it’s a canvas. And no, the car ride to school isn’t just 15 minutes with my sons to kindergarten or daycare drop off, it’s a canvas. These are not ordinary moments, I need to tell myself that I’m an artist and this is my canvas.

Because when I treat the world like a canvas, it goads me into considering what my point of view is. Because what’s the use of a canvas without a point of view? The existence of a canvas persuades me to form a point of view.

And when I think about my point of view, it nudges me to consider and hone my craft. Because what’s a point of view without the ability to bring it to life? Once I have a point of view, I naturally want to bring it to life.

Treating the world around me like a canvas is both under my control and the simple act which snowballs me into practicing as an artist in everyday life.

If you think being an everyday artist has merit, my advice would be to pursue it. Just start by taking something ordinary and make it a canvas. Because once we have a canvas and take our canvas seriously, an artist is simply what we become.

Photo by Anna Kolosyuk on Unsplash

The Art of Adjusting: Our Journey from Zero to Three Kids

From the outside looking in, the transformation from a couple to parents, and then to a family of five, might seem just like a change in numbers. But the journey of adjusting to each addition, the evolving dynamics, and the never-ending learning curve is a tale unto itself. Every family has its unique narrative, and ours is filled with moments of joy, chaos, discovery, and reflection.

People often ask about our journey – perhaps out of curiosity, or maybe because they're embarking on a similar path. By sharing our story, I hope to offer some insights and perhaps provide a sense of camaraderie. Parenting, after all, is a shared experience. No matter how many children you have or plan to have, it’s beautiful and impossibly hard. I've taken this opportunity to reflect on our changes, the big and small adjustments, and the lessons we've learned along the way.

Whether you're here seeking understanding, relatability, or just a story, I invite you to join us on our journey from zero to three kids. I love talking about this because I usually learn something by being asked to reflect on it.

In each phase, we've had to fundamentally rethink our roles—as parents, partners, friends, and colleagues. Every phase has required different adjustments. I’ve shared some of our experiences here. Have yours been similar? Different?

Comparing notes with other parents is really helpful to me, so if you’re so inclined - I’d love to hear what you think in the post comments or in the comments on Facebook.

Moving from Zero to One: Schedules Became Crucial

The biggest adjustment moving from no children to one child was schedules. Oh lord, was that hard. The entire rhythm of our day changed, becoming centered around the rhythms of our son.

This was so much more than “not sleeping.” How and when we socialized radically changed. How and when we had to get home from work also saw significant shifts. The pace with which we moved through the day became much slower because we were on “baby time.”

The personal adjustments I had to make were largely centered around work. I had to set boundaries around my work schedule because of drop-off duties. If I ran late, I would miss reading Robert a story and putting him to bed. I also realized that my needs were no longer the center of the universe.

In addition to our schedule's rhythm changing, it was a significant mental and emotional adjustment (read: ego check) to let go of the flexibility and decision-authority over my time. As someone who has been independent my whole life, I grieved the loss of freedom over my time and personal autonomy—even down to when I could use the bathroom.

One thing I'm glad we didn't compromise on was our passion for travel and adventure. Travel, especially to see or spend time with family, is non-negotiable for us. That was one aspect we didn’t adjust; we continued our daytime adventures. We even took a 10-month-old to Japan, which, looking back, seems audacious, but that was non-negotiable. It was something our son had to adapt to.

Moving from One to Two: No Slack in the System

When Robyn and I had one child, we could muscle through without having to change everything drastically. But with the arrival of our second child, there was no slack left in our system. There was no longer a quiet time; someone in our household was always awake or had a need. With a second child, the opportunities for quick naps or swiftly loading the dishwasher vanished, straining our family system. It's no surprise; systems without slack tend to be fragile.

Robyn and I found ourselves adjusting and transforming many of our individual and shared habits. We had to create and refine systems. Logistical systems came into play, including semi-automated grocery lists, whiteboard calendars, and chore wheels. We delved into Eve Rodsky’s system from her book Fair Play: A Game-Changing Solution for When You Have Too Much to Do (and More Life to Live) even adopting her flashcards. These tools and others made us more efficient and disciplined, ensuring we still had moments to recharge individually and as a couple.

Above all, we focused on managing conflicts. We prioritized our weekly temperature checks, revisited our five-year vision regularly, and committed to addressing issues head-on, turning towards each other, especially during misunderstandings. The crux of our adjustment was nurturing the courage to speak honestly and remain emotionally present, particularly when faced with hurt.

Moving from Two to Three: Navigating Dreams and Inner Demons Amidst Chaos

Parents often quip that introducing a third child means shifting defense from "man-to-man" to "zone." Suddenly, with three kids, Robyn and I were outnumbered. Our life was a whirlwind of chaos.

This phase was more about acceptance than change. Our vision of life underwent a transformation. Dreaming of a perpetually clean house? Unrealistic. Juggling a demanding job and being a hands-on parent? A choice had to be made. Aspirations for rapid career growth had to be balanced against family time. And the home projects I'd hoped to save on by DIY-ing? Either hire a professional or set them aside.

These dreams and life yardsticks had to align with our reality. Despite being well-off and having considerable family support, realizing we couldn't "have it all" was a pivotal moment. Accepting our third child meant reimagining our dreams. Our family had tangibly, unquestionably, and irreversibly became the cornerstone of our aspirations and future vision. This shift was profound, given the pressure I had placed on career goals, community involvement, and personal achievements.

However, this chaotic phase prompted major parenting adaptations. At least one of our children always seemed to be navigating a major transition or facing emotional challenges. With three kids, there's always a storm brewing. Such turbulence often brought out the worst in me, rather than my best. I fell back into negative behavior patterns and made numerous parenting missteps. Moments arose when I'd ponder, "Am I this guy? Am I going to accept being this guy?"

This chaos demanded introspection. My internal world underwent a shift, prompting me to confront deep-seated fears, angers, and skill gaps. We sought therapy, and became a Dr. Becky Good Inside family. And slowly, we began walking the long road to change.

How We Adjust

Naturally, my reflections often circle back to the theme of adjustments. Adjustments are vital, but the process is far from trivial. So, how do we make these shifts?

Firstly, a vision is paramount. How do you envision the future? Taking time to dream, both alone and with loved ones, is essential. We need direction, and clear picture of the ideal future; without it, there's no reference point for when change is needed. The moments Robyn and I have spent articulating our dreams have been some of the most rewarding in our marriage.

Secondly, for effective adjustment, clear priorities are paramount. We all harbor grand dreams and visions, but reality doesn’t always align. The world is filled with trade-offs, constraints, and unforeseen events. Time and resources are finite, so we can’t achieve everything we desire. To navigate these challenges, we must prioritize the dimensions of our dreams. It’s these priorities that serve as a compass, guiding which adjustments to make.

For instance, faced with the demands of parenting and career, which takes precedence? Robyn and I chose to adjust our career paths to be more present for our children. While this wasn’t our initial plan, our priority of being active parents necessitated this change. Such decisions, pivotal in shaping our lives, are rooted in understanding our core priorities.

Lastly, genuine listening complements our prioritization. To assess whether we need to make adjustments we need accurate feedback. Are we veering in the wrong direction? We need information to know whether an adjustment is urgent. That information might be explicit like a bank statement or cholesterol panel, or it could be through observation of our kids’ feelings and behavior, or even information gleaned from personal reflection and discernment.

Adjusting is an art form and is ongoing, evolving with each phase of life. I'd love to hear your thoughts, whether you're a new parent or have had a decade's worth of experience. I'm sure each of you has your unique tales, moments of revelation, and personal strategies that you've leaned on. Whether you're just starting your family or have been on this journey for a while, I'd love to hear from you.

Discussion Points:

1. Journey Reflection: If you have children, what were the most significant adjustments you made with each addition?

2. Learning Moments: Were there any unexpected lessons you learned along the way?

3. Balancing Acts: How have you balanced your personal dreams and aspirations with the needs of your growing family?

Feel free to share in the comments below or reach out on Facebook. Let's continue the conversation and learn from each other's experiences.

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Key Takeaways:

• Moving from Zero to One: Adjusting to the rhythm of your child is paramount. Personal sacrifices, especially around time and autonomy, are inevitable.

• Moving from One to Two: Systems and routines become critical. External tools and relationship checks (like Fair Play) can be invaluable.

• Moving from Two to Three: Embracing chaos and re-evaluating personal dreams and professional aspirations are essential. Prioritizing family becomes a central theme.

Photo by Julian Hochgesang on Unsplash

The Ball, The Boys, and Me: A Journey Back to Playfulness

Something happened to me, slowly, over years. I stopped being fun.

I was never close to being muppet-level fun, or even sitcom-level fun, but I was at least average. But this weekend, I finally realized how far I’ve fallen, and how much of a stiff I’ve become.

This realization, poetically, all started with a ball.

It’s as if it was magnetic. Within minutes of showing up at the park, a first or second grader approached Robert after noticing the ball at his feet.

“Hey, you wanna play soccer?”

And then, our Kindergartner began shedding his armor of quiet and shyness. His confidence and voice gradually returned, his personality emerging from behind his protective shield.

And for the next 40 minutes, he had a buddy. Sure, Bo came back and forth to the safety of outstretched hand. Mostly, though, he didn’t need me. The ball helped him transform - from being a little boy hurt by words and elbows on the playground, into just a little boy, running and smiling.

That’s the magic of the ball.

The magical, magnetic ball is his life preserver when he’s lost in a new place. The magic ball does the heavy work, bringing others into his world, when he’s too afraid to invite them in. The ball gives him a focus point, an entry point into friendship and being part of a group.

The magic of the ball, any ball, is that when a ball arrives, play follows. The ball is a vessel, the conduit, for the magic of play.

Play is liberation. It lets us run, skip, express, create, and be. Play is fun. It brings joy, relief, refuge, and laughter. Play is medicine. It helps us bond, repair relationships, recharge, and heal.

I also need this magic.

Bo already manifests my two biggest neuroses: the need to be perfect and the need to be affirmed by other people’s praise. I transmuted these shackles onto him because of something I’m role modeling - he’s too young to have just inherited these behaviors from the culture.

I’m not even trying to be, and I’m so damn serious all the time. I focus, plan, and do dishes in an almost militant manner. Do I ever have fun and play around? If I do, it’s when my sons are already asleep.

But how do I even play? How do I take a status meeting and make it feel a little more like play? How do I take the chore of washing dishes and make it into a game? Somewhere along the way, I became a robot that does tasks and managed a scheduled instead of a person who plays around.

How could I have let this happen? To be sure, I consider myself a lucky man. My life has a lot of comfort, joy, meaning, and love. But what happened to fun? Somehow, fun is something I used to be. Play is something I used to do.

I don’t want to live like this. How did we let ourselves live like this? When did it happen? How do I get out of these chains of drudgery and seriousness?

One answer, it seems, is right in front of me. I have to be more like them. I have three sons, and they play all the time. For some part of the day, I need to put my serious face away and just mimic them. I need them to be my role models, instead of me trying to be theirs.

They are the vessel; they are my conduit. They, my sons, are my magic ball. Through them, I can find the part of me that is fun again. They, if I let them, can be the liberators of the bondage of seriousness I didn’t even know I had.

Photo by Robert Collins on Unsplash

The Dynamic Leader: Parenting Lessons for Growing a Team

In both life and work, change isn't just inevitable; it is a vital metric for assessing growth. My experiences as a parent have led me to a deeper understanding of this concept, offering insights that are readily applicable in a leadership role.

Children Grow Unapologetically

As a parent, it’s now obvious to me that children are constantly evolving, forging paths into the unknown with a defiance that seems to fuel their growth. Despite a parent’s natural instinct to shield them, children have a way of pushing boundaries, a clear indicator that change is underway. This undying curiosity and defiance not only foster growth but necessitate a constant evolution in parenting styles.

Today, my youngest is venturing into the world as a wobbly walker, necessitating a shift in my approach to offer more freedom and encouragement, but with a ready stance to help our toddler the most dangerous falls. Meanwhile, my older sons are becoming more socially independent, which requires me to step back and allow them to resolve their disputes over toys themselves. It's evident; as they grow, my parenting style needs to adapt, setting a cycle of growth and adaptation in motion.

The Echo in Leadership

In reflecting on this, I couldn't help but notice the clear parallel to leadership in a corporate setting. A leader's adaptability to the changing dynamics of the team and the operating environment is critical in fostering a team's growth. If a leadership style remains static, it likely signals a team stuck on a plateau, not achieving its potential.

A stagnant leadership style not only hampers growth but fails the team. It is thus imperative for us as leaders to continually reassess and tweak their approach to leadership, ensuring alignment with the team's developmental stage and the broader organizational context.

This brings me to a critical question: how often should a leader change their style? While a high frequency of change can create instability, a leadership style untouched for years is a recipe for failure. A quarterly review strikes a reasonable balance, encouraging regular adjustments to foster growth without plunging the team into a state of constant flux.

Conclusion: The Dynamic Dimension of Leadership

In the evolving landscapes of parenting and leadership alike, adaptability emerges not just as a virtue but as a vital gauge of growth and effectiveness. Thanks to my kids, I was able to internalize this pivotal point of view: understanding the dynamic or static nature of one's approach is central to assessing leadership prowess.

For leaders eager to foster growth, the practice of self-assessment can be straightforward and significantly revealing. It is as simple as taking a moment during your team's quarterly goal reviews to ask, "How has the team grown this quarter?" and "How should my leadership style evolve to support our growth in the upcoming period?"

By making this practice a routine, we can ensure that our leadership styles remain dynamic, evolving hand in hand with our teams' developmental trajectories, promoting sustained growth and productivity.

Photo by Julián Amé on Unsplash