Hard Things, Together

I inherited the fantasy that a good life meant eventually escaping problems—but that promise was always a comforting illusion.

For most of my life, I’ve believed a lie. Not maliciously—it was a lie I inherited, one so baked into our culture that it passed as truth. The lie is that if I work hard, make smart choices, and build the right kind of life, I’ll eventually reach a point where suffering stops showing up at my door.

That dream—the American Dream, you could call it—was never about peace or purpose. It was about protection. Build high enough walls, earn enough money, surround yourself with the right people, and eventually you’ll be safe. But lately, I’ve realized: the dream wasn’t a lie because it was malicious. It was a lie because it was a fantasy.

We act like we value resilience, but our real impulse is to insulate ourselves—and our children—from discomfort at all costs.

We can try to eliminate suffering. We build moats—money, comfort, well-manicured neighborhoods, curated social circles, backup plans stacked on backup plans. Sometimes it’s the dream of abundance: a world where everything is cheap, automated, optimized—where we don’t have to worry about health, housing, or hardship.

And to be fair, this approach has appeal. Abundance and comfort make life easier. They lower the stakes. But this is just one side of the choice.

The alternative is harder to swallow but, I think, more real: we step into suffering. We face problems head-on. We stop waiting for protection and instead become people who are good at problems—resilient enough, skilled enough, and supported enough to go into uncharted territory without guarantees.

We say we want our kids to be resilient. We talk about grit and perseverance. But in practice, we often do the opposite—we smooth the path, solve the problems, shield them from failure. And honestly? Most of us are trying to do the same for ourselves.

I chased that fantasy for years—waiting for a dream like Godot—and came undone when it didn’t arrive.

I spent years believing that if I just crushed it a little harder, I’d make it. I’d arrive somewhere safe. A life beyond problems. The white-picket-fence version of the American Dream.

But that place never arrived. And I can’t believe I ever believed that it would.

We went through an emergency birth and a sick infant. Ailing grandparents. Financial strain. Political chaos. All of it at once. And somehow, that’s when peace finally showed up. Not because the problems went away—but because I stopped expecting them to.

The fantasy hadn’t been a lie—it had been a mirage. And I finally let it go.

I found peace not in escape, but in realizing that I—and we—can face the hard things together.

I started to see that what matters most isn’t protection from problems—it’s capacity to face them.

And when I stopped expecting ease, I started to see the quiet power around me: Robyn, our friends, our family. We didn’t have to be invincible. We just had to show up, help each other, and accept help in return.

That’s what I saw in Detroit, too. I moved here around the time of bankruptcy. Things were deeply broken. But people didn’t wait for a savior. They rolled up their sleeves. They imagined something better and started building.

That spirit—a refusal to wait for rescue—is what saved me.

If suffering is inevitable, then the most important choice we have is what we’re willing to suffer for.

I wonder if our national ache comes from realizing the American Dream was never a permanent solution—it was a 50-year reprieve from reality. And now that it’s cracking, we don’t know what to hope for next.

But I think the next version of the dream is clear.

Not a world without problems—but a world full of people who are good at facing them. People who suffer for things that matter.

Let’s suffer for paying down unsustainable debt. For a habitable planet. For everyone to be able to read at grade level. For institutions that work for everyone and treat folks with respect. For dynamism and companies grow because they deliver real, tangible innovations. For food and housing that meets a basic level of human dignity.

And if we do that? Maybe the next generation will get to dream even bigger—exploring the solar system, flourishing in a creative, robot-assisted renaissance of human potential.

That’s my American Dream now.

Not a fantasy of escape—but a future I’d be honored to suffer for.

The American Dream Is Alive

It’s easy to believe the dream is dying. Many imply that it is. But it’s not. It’s alive.

It lives in the pews of the church that welcomes anyone—not just in words, but in action. Even me, someone who has never been baptized. When the priest heard my story, my journey as a spiritual nomad, the first thing he said was, “No matter what you decide, know that you are welcome here.”

It’s in the scribbled pencil and crayon of a child’s unprompted thank-you card for the crossing guard at school.

It’s in the quiet scrape of a shovel clearing snow from a neighbor’s driveway, expecting nothing in return.

It’s in the voice of a volunteer soccer coach, teaching kids to love the game the right way. And maybe even more so in the moment when a kid teaches the coach something back.

The dream breathes in every public servant who moves mountains—not for power or recognition, but simply because the person in front of them needs help.

It’s there whenever one person gives another a gift—of time, of forgone income, of a loaf of bread, of unconditional love, of a Christmas present that truly means something.

It’s woven into every play, poem, song, and film that longs for love, kindness, respect, honesty, and humility. It’s in the best stories we tell—especially the ones about the sublime, and maybe even the divine.

It’s in the kind stranger at the grocery store, who smiles as she rings you up.

The dream is alive in the small mercies of love. When your wife forgives your mistakes and your bad days. When someone asks, How are you?—and actually wants to hear the long answer.

It lives in the person who holds the door open for you, even if it means they’re now one step further back in line.

This dream—this dream to grow and help others grow, to share and live peacefully, to earn and then generously give—is alive. It hides in plain sight, its light so soft and steady that it’s easy to miss. But I see it.

And I won’t let myself stop seeing it.

Because the other option is always there. The temptation to get pulled into the fight, the game, the zero-sum world where winning means taking and shadows are cast intentionally to make everything darker.

That’s one way to live.

But there’s another way. Simpler, but harder.

Keep being a light.
Keep seeing the light.
Keep dreaming of light.

Surplus should be shared

Friends,

The (over)simplified way I think about American politics is that it comes down to surplus. At the heart of it, we crave more than we need—more money, more time, more mental energy.

Before we dive in, know that this post—and my podcast episode this week—aren’t about taking sides. I’m not interested in dissecting policies or election outcomes here. Instead, I want to explore how we even think about politics and the core values that drive it.

Because to me, these “mega-questions” sit right at the center of our political landscape.

1) How do we create surplus?

How do we generate more money, more time, or more mental energy than we need—both individually and collectively? This question, in many ways, drives policy decisions, economic systems, and even social programs. Everyone wants surplus; the debate often centers on how best to achieve it.

2) What do we do with that surplus?

Once we have more than we need, do we keep it for ourselves or share it? Should surplus be directed toward those with similar beliefs, or should it be shared broadly to support the common good? And what about future generations? How much of our surplus should we put into investments we may never personally benefit from?

These questions echo through every political debate, as people argue over what’s fair, what’s efficient, and who deserves what. Even when we disagree, so much of it comes down to our different ideas about these same questions.

As for me, I don’t have a neatly packaged answer or specific policy I’m here to advocate for. But here’s what I do know: I want to live beneath my means and share my surplus with others.

In this week’s podcast, I share a story about Halloween on our block—a magical night made possible by neighbors who give their time, money, and energy to make it memorable for everyone. They choose to share their surplus with the community, creating something special. I admire them for it, and it makes me think about how I want to be a little more like that myself.

Here’s the link—I hope you’ll give it a listen: Halloween and Surplus.

With love from Detroit,

Neil