We're in the era of falling in love again

I Have Fallen in Love, Again

On quiet weekend mornings, I stand at the stove, often with a spatula in hand, flipping pancakes. Robyn comes downstairs in her pajamas, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She smiles, tilts her head, and walks over to me with her arms outstretched. Without saying a word, we hug right there in the kitchen.

It’s not one of those young, giddy embraces. It’s a hug worn in by years—familiar, steadfast, with the kind of patina that only time and shared struggles can create.

This is what love looks like now.

And I’m falling in love with her again.

It’s a love I’ve rediscovered, not just because of who she is, but because of who we’ve both become. In this new era of our lives, she is still Robyn—but also someone new.

The Beauty of Changing Eras

I started to understand why I’ve been feeling this way over the Thanksgiving weekend. Something has shifted—not just in our relationship, but in our entire world.

We’ve entered a new era.

In our home, the signs are everywhere. We’re going to be parents to a newborn for the last time, and the weight of that reality feels both solemn and profound. Our sons have transitioned into school-aged kids, with piano lessons, soccer games, and social lives. Even our house itself has transformed—we’ve remodeled and repaired, shaping it into the place we’ll live for decades to come.

As individuals, we’ve changed too. Robyn and I are no longer just contributors at work; we’ve both shifted toward leading others. I hear it in her voice when she’s on a conference call—steady, calm, full of gravity that she’s earned over years of experience. Her team leans on her not just for answers but for her wisdom, and it shows in the way she carries herself.

And me? I finally got my book, Character by Choice, out into the world after seven years of working on it. It feels surreal to see it finished. That process stretched me in ways I didn’t expect, but it also revealed a new grittiness for sticking with something for years at a time with no guarantee of success that I didn’t know I had in me.

The changes of this era haven’t always been easy, but they’ve revealed so much beauty. Like the quiet strength Robyn shows every day. The way she hugs our sons or me—not just as a gesture, but as a statement of presence and love, even when she’s exhausted. Or the way she listens to friends who are newer parents with such intense warmth that it lifts them up without them even noticing. These things were always part of her, but this new stage of life has brought them to the surface.

But it’s not just us.

Our close-knit family and friends are evolving, too. Our siblings are becoming parents, which will soon add to the gaggle of kids running through our lives. With each new arrival, our family grows—cousins, nieces, and nephews weaving together a new web of connection and joy.

At the same time, our parents are navigating their own shifts. Robyn’s parents are caring for aging loved ones while preparing to move into homes that fit the lives they need now. My mom is still grappling with life after my father. Despite her health and strength, she’s navigating the reality of aging—for her and her siblings. Even things she’s done her whole life, like traveling back and forth between India and the U.S., aren’t as simple as they used to be.

It feels like everyone we know is moving into a new chapter at once.

And it doesn’t stop there.

Society is shifting all around us. Politically, both the Trump and Duggan eras are coming to an end within the next four years, making way for what’s next in the country and Detroit. Technologically, we’re stepping boldly into the age of AI and the wonder of tools like the James Webb Space Telescope, showing us the universe in ways we never imagined.

Change is everywhere, and it’s compelling all of us to grow in response.

Entering a new era doesn’t demand growth from us in an adversarial way. Instead, it calls to us gently but insistently, urging us to uncover new parts of ourselves. As the world around us changes, it doesn’t obligate us to change—that’s a choice we make—but the influence of a shifting context is undeniable.

Robyn’s quiet strength, her firm tenderness—it was always there, but this moment in time has brought it to the surface. And in seeing her anew, I’ve found myself falling in love with her all over again.

This is the beauty of changing eras. When everything shifts, we have the chance to become something new and to notice the people we love in new ways. The struggle of change—the hard work, the sacrifice, the heartbreak—gives us a rare gift: the chance to see life, and each other, with fresh eyes.

Marking the Era

My father used to say there’s no free lunch, and he was right. Change doesn’t come easily. To move into a new era, we have to let go of the old one. We have to embrace the challenges and celebrate the rhythms as they shift around us.

But here’s what I’ve learned: the struggle is worth it.

There’s a brilliance in how Taylor Swift brought this lesson to life through her Eras Tour. From all I’ve read and heard from friends, her concert marks eras, celebrates them, and embraces the growth that comes from moving forward. She so beautifully illustrates how the struggle of moving through eras is worth it.

When we mark the era—when we take the time to notice the passing of one chapter and the beginning of another—we honor the transformation. We honor what we’ve lost and what we’ve gained.

And in doing so, we give ourselves the chance to fall in love again.

So, my friends, don’t fear the reset. Lean into it. Notice the beauty it reveals in our lives and the lives of those we love. And when you look back on this new era we are all in, I hope you find yourself saying: It was worth it.

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.

How Long We’ve Been Doing This

One day, we’ll be talkin’ about how long we’ve been doing this.

It’ll be in the quiet moments, like me cooking a lazy Sunday dinner while you’re working on a jigsaw puzzle nearby.

Or in the loud ones, like cheering on the sidelines at a soccer tournament, because it’s one of ours out there.

There’ll be days we’re just listening to country radio, holding hands as we drive to the coffee shop.

One day, we’ll be talkin’ about how long we’ve been doing this.

We’ll reminisce about getting a night out with old friends at Mario’s—the cozy restaurant we went to once, and it became ours.

And I’ll think of how you always bring the Fage Greek yogurt recipe we love for biscuits and gravy to brunch, in that cast iron pan that’s turned into “that old cast iron pan.”

There’ll be the quiet, spontaneous moments too, like you wrapping me in a hug while I’m sitting at the table writing a blog post (just like you did today).

Some things will stay the same, like family dinner at a crowded table with bumpy cake for a birthday—or pineapple, if it’s June.

There’ll be walks with the dog who still insists on taking us out at lunchtime.

And, of course, our family meetings that always seem to end with a cleaner house—or our temperature checks that always end with a kiss goodnight.

I know the years ahead will bring big changes—retirement, new adventures, and more gray hair than we have today.

But I hope that through it all, some things stay just as they are now. I hope, God willing, we’ll still be talking about how long we’ve been doing this, and how long we’ve been building this life together—one little tradition at a time.

What if death wasn’t certain?

Friends,

I was driving the other day when a thought hit me.

Death feels unpredictable, doesn’t it? We have no idea when it’ll come.

But it’s also the most predictable thing there is—it’s the only thing we know for sure is coming.

But here’s the thing—it’s not just certain that we’ll die. We even have a rough window for it, right? Most of us can expect to go somewhere between 70 and 100 years old, and almost no one makes it past 110.

But what if that wasn’t the rule anymore?

Imagine this: a new treatment for longevity. You’d have to take it by 25, but here’s the kicker—it only works for half of us, and we can’t even tell who it’s working for.

This kind of life? It would be tough—devastating, even.

I can’t imagine not knowing whether I’d have to live without Robyn for 100 years. Just thinking about it—it’d tear me apart.

And what about my kids? Their kids? Would I end up burying generations of my own family because I lived to 500?

Then there’s friendships. Would they cross generations too? Or would we all start isolating, afraid to get close to people when we had no idea how long they’d be around?

Money—would we work forever? Could we even retire?

And politics? Would having immortals who cared about the extreme long-term make things better? Or would culture fall apart because the thread of shared experience stretched too thin?

I don’t have the answers. This idea—this uncertainty about how long we might live—it’s unsettling in ways I didn’t expect.

But what about you? How does this land for you? What would it mean to live in a world where death was no longer the one certainty we had?

With love from Detroit,

Neil

I’ve fallen in love, again and again.

The years in my mid-twenties, when Robyn and I fell in love, were some of the best of my life. Looking back, that whole time felt like a smile.

Eight years ago this week, Robyn and I were wed at an old Jesuit church in downtown Detroit. This was the Gospel reading we chose, Matthew 7:24-25:

"Everyone then who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house on the rock. And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on the rock."

We chose this reading deliberately. Fresh off the sudden passing of my father three months before our wedding day, we had already been through the gales and floods of a big storm. The notion of “in good times and bad” wasn’t just an abstract concept to us—our young relationship had already lived through both.

We had at least some notion of the good and bad days ahead. We knew that there would be more death and grief ahead. We didn’t know exactly what parenting would be like, but we did have some idea of the intense joy and struggle it would entail.

We knew that jobs would come and go with varying levels of stress and accomplishment. We knew that we’d have fun passing time around Detroit with friends and neighbors. And, perhaps most importantly, we knew that “family first” would be a guiding principle for our life together, and with that commitment would come love and sacrifice.

We chose that passage for our wedding Gospel reading because we wanted to anchor our marriage into the “rock” of God and love so we could celebrate the good days and weather the bad days we knew would come.

We didn’t know exactly what was coming or when, but we knew it would.

All that said, something happened over the last 8 years that I never predicted, and honestly, it completely blindsided me.

I never imagined, after that first season of falling in love, that I’d fall in love with Robyn again. That I’d feel that rush of romance after we had long passed the days of being love birds and our honeymoon phase.

But I have. As we’ve lived through each new season of our life together, I’ve fallen in love with Robyn again and again.

And I’m so grateful.

The reason why this happened is simple: we’ve each changed, a lot. Of course, our core principles remain intact. But holy cow, so much has happened these past 8 years. The entire context in which our lives are set has changed, how could we not be different people?

All this change has made things novel and fresh. It has given us an opportunity to fall in love again and again, in every new season. That’s a choice: we’re choosing to grow together instead of apart, and that has perhaps made falling in love the second, third, and fourth times even more exciting and beautiful than the first.

And what a silver lining that is.

Because I know I’m getting older. I see it and feel it regularly. Like when with each new haircut I notice a few more grey hairs. Or in how my hangovers are less frequent, but last much longer.

All these are mile markers that remind me that every day I’m a day closer to the end of this beautiful life.

But damn. It makes aging so much more bearable to know that as we grow old we are growing older together. And that as our seasons change we will get to fall in love several more times throughout our life.

If we must trade our youth for age, it is a blessing to realize that we get this gift to fall in love, again and again.

The Steady Years: Strengthening Marriage in Comfortable Times

There are no existential threats to our marriage, and maybe that’s why I feel like this phase is so dangerous.

We are no longer newlyweds. We are no longer new homeowners. We are no longer new parents (or dog-parents). We aren’t going to be sending our kids to a new school for at least 8 years. We aren’t new anythings, and if everything goes to plan, we won’t be new anythings for a while.

Our life is in a spot where it’s pretty settled in as “parents of young children”. We won’t have kids that are either into high school or have all of them into kindergarten for 4 to 6 years. Neither of us are in a place where we’re likely to have rapid career growth - partly by choice.

Our marriage is feeling really settled in, with very little that may rock the boat unless something tragic happens in our extended family, God forbid. The water ahead isn’t placid, but we’re aren’t in stormy waters either. It feels like we’re just in a place of “keep the chains moving” or “one foot in front of the other” or “turn the crank.”

In a way, our lives are so stable. After the past decade with tons of change, it feels so bizarre to think that a season of sustainability and relative peace could be dangerous to our marriage. But I think it is. This seems like a time where it could be so easy to just do what we’ve always done. For things to get boring. For things to get not just comfortable, but so comfortable that we float and drift, without even realizing that our marriage isn’t anchored.

I worry that it would be so easy to mindlessly go through the motions for the next 4-6 years. That we get to 2030 and our marriage is stiff or slightly zombie-like, because we’ve gone half a decade getting so in the groove that we no longer have to give 100% attention to our marriage and family life.

I don’t think the way out of this is to seek crises. All the crises we’ve had have certainly made our marriage stronger, starting with my father’s passingly nearly 8 years ago. Even though that season, and other difficult seasons, have made us stronger - it came at high price: sadness, suffering, anxiety, and wounds. Looking for crises is an option, but that can’t be the best way to keep deepening and strengthening our marriage.

At the same time, I don’t think the full solution is to amp up novelty either. We could go on lots of fancy trips. We could eat out and go to the theater a lot more. We could move to a new house, just to liven things up. We could do any number of things to spice daily life up. But would that really lead to strength?

Sure, novelty is fun, and if we’re laughing and having fun it’ll make things feel good and positive. We’ll be able to keep things from getting stale. We definitely need some level of new and fresh - we’re only human.

But our time and money have constraints - it’s not unlimited. We can’t buy novelty indefinitely.

And moreover, how much can novelty strengthen our marriage? Surely, there are diminishing returns after a certain point. After a certain point, have we really deepened our connection or brought something more of ourselves to the marriage? At what point does novelty become a crutch or a stopgap?

I think there is a third way to strengthen marriages in these stable-but-could-be-dangerous years without entirely depending on crises or novelty: little sparks.

I figure, maybe I could try to just dial in extra deep for little moments of our days and weeks. You know, just throw in a little extra. Maybe when I’m making a pizza, I try some black pepper on the crust in addition to garlic salt. Maybe, it’s a little “I love you” post-it note I could hide in Robyn’s sock drawer every once in awhile. Maybe I try just a little bit harder to be extra specific when Robyn asks me, “how was your day, Honey?” It could even be just remembering to make real, genuine, loving eye contact at least once after the kids go to bed and we’re talking.

I really mean little sparks as just that: little. Nothing grand or flashy. Just little, intentional, things that lock me back to a state of attentiveness. Little sparks that say to Robyn, “I know our lives feel pretty similar every week, but I’m not daydreaming through it, I’m here with you in it.”

These little sparks are probably even me just proving to myself that I’m not mailing it in and that I’m digging deeper. That I’m paying attention. That 100% of me is still here.

These years, God willing, will be stable and not riddled with crises, grief, or existential threats to our marriage. But there’s no free lunch. If we have stability, it means we have to fight against the calcification that these stable-but-could-be-dangerous years could catalyze.

These years, where our kids are little, will certainly be some of the sweetest that we will have, and they already are. But we can’t let our marriage atrophy through it. That’s not a price I’m willing to pay. I want to make these little sparks so that once these years are over, we’re not going through the motions of our marriage for the rest of our days, relegated to reminiscing about the good ol’ days where our kids were little.

No, I want to be stronger and deeper in love and marriage than we were when we started this season of our life. This time doesn’t have to be dangerous, it can be a time of renewal if that’s what we make it. We can renew our marriage if we ride out the crises, add a dose of novelty, and stay committed to making those little sparks in our daily life.

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.

In the lingering, there is love.

One of the greatest acts of love is to linger.

When we linger we are saying, “Let us stay here, together. The time we have is better together. Let’s cheat our departure for just a little longer. With you, this moment is complete.”

This is what we do in our Michigan goodbyes which makes the end of a dinner party 20 minutes instead of the time it takes for a quick handshake. We want to chat a little more, hug a little longer and with an extra squeeze if you live far away - so I know it’ll say with you until you make it home. We want to hear one more story about our grandfather or our college days and laugh one more time together while we can. This is a mark of a family and not people who are simply related.

With you this moment is complete.

As much I wish our kids went to bed faster and didn’t rouse us awake when they slip under our covers, so gently, before sunrise, it still brings tears to my eyes thinking about it now. That is how they linger and the most honest way they show us that they really do love us. Don’t grow up so fast, my sons because each morning is one day closer to when you soar away from this place.

With you, this moment is complete.

I remember so fondly the lingering we would do in the fraternity house or our senior house, after the party or last call at the bar. When we’d eat our grubby burritos and play FIFA or become Guitar Heros. Most of the time, I preferred that time to the party itself. It was in the lingering that we became brothers. It was in the lingering that we formed a lifelong bond, that survives across the time zones that separate us today.

With you, this moment is complete.

Even at work, there are some times we linger in fellowship or in pursuit of the magical moment of “aha!” The meeting after the meeting, where we are free to be ourselves and speak as equals. It’s some of the only time we aren’t compelled to spend together, making it feel rare and special. It is in the lingering where we put away our masks, and finally get real - and that’s energetic and joyous.

With you, this moment is complete.

And you, my love, are who I most want to linger with. This is what we have always done. Just a little longer with our glasses of wine. Just a little longer with our walk around the neighborhood at lunch time. Just one more song, one more kiss, one more smile, one more whiff of your perfume that smells like warm vanilla sugar.

With you, I will never have enough time. I will take every extra breath together that we get. You, my love, are who I most want to linger with.

With you, this moment is complete.

Photo by Tim Mossholder 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

Holding onto forever

ACT I

I appreciate things I can hold. I mean this literally.

I savor burritos and breakfast sandwiches - these are the foods that I enjoyed with my father and remind me of him, down to the detail of us both dousing them with hot sauce. I relish the feel of a tennis racket in my grasp, gripped to perfectly that the racket feels like it’s gripping back - the tennis court was where I could find peace and freedom, before I even knew what meditation even was.

I like pens, pencils, and chef’s knives - because words and a meal prepared for others are two of the only ways I know how to tell someone I love them. All those three objects - pens, pencils, and a good knife - feel less like implements and more like extensions when I handle them. Then take on the rhythm and flow of my heartbeat and tapping toe, as if they’re a part of my body.

With the things I hold, I develop a symbiotic relationship. I fuse with them somehow - I become a little of them, and they become a little of me. This connection brings a feeling of peace, serenity, and security.

My whole life may resemble that one chaotic drawer in the house, filled with knick-knacks, rarely used items, and tiny screwdrivers that only see the light of day in a frenzy. But when I'm holding something in my hand, I've got it. And when I've got the thing in my hand, I start to feel like I've got this. The act of the body changes the act of the mind.

I, quite literally, cherish things I can hold. But I also mean this metaphorically. I appreciate buffer and the freedom it provides, borne from a lifetime of needing to feel control and security. I prefer to save rather than spend. To this day, I pack one more pair of underwear than the number of nights I'm traveling. I’ll pack a rain jacket even when it’s sunny. I like to be prepared. I like to hold onto extra.

I think I do this because I know what it feels like to lose. When I was young, money was tight. It was tight again when the recessions hit Michigan. Our brother, Nakul, was taken from us too soon, as was my father. In some ways, the seriousness with which I was raised makes me feel like the innocence of childhood slipped away prematurely.

When I hold things, I' feel like I’ve got them. And when I've got them, I can tell myself for a little while that nobody else can take them. Now, I finally have a world - my wife, my children, my family, good friends, my health, a livelihood, and a few dreams - that's worth holding onto.

And I'm going to hold them in the palm of my hand, gripping them tight enough so that nobody can ever take them away from me.

I intend to hold onto them forever.

ACT II

Everything feels like forever when you're a child.

Even a summer vacation, with all its bike rides and fireflies, seems endless. Middle and high school, infused with a sense of invincibility, appear as though they'll never run out. Every long car ride, every grocery queue, every football practice - every single thing is long.

Childhood is the part of our lives that feels like forever.

And for you three, so much of that forever is shaped by your mom and me. The golden, fuzzy forever you experience - your memories of childhood - isn't entirely up to you. Part of it is your responsibility, sure. But a lot of it is ours.

And so I wonder - what will you three, my sons, remember about what forever felt like?

I want you to remember being held because to be held is to be loved. I want you to recall that you were loved. I want you to feel loved. I want you to be loved, and I want to love you.

Holding onto someone and being held is not a small thing. It, in a very physical way, proves that we are bonded. It proves that we are together and committed to each other. It demonstrates, with certainty that I care about you because I am here. The Jesuits talk about finding God in all things, and I think embraces are an example of what they mean in this teaching. There is something divine about being held, because to be held is to be loved.

You will have memories of fun, laughter, and joy, of course. You will experience snow days and summer nights. You'll have spring flings and Friday night lights. You'll have moments with your toes in Burt Lake and in the backyard grass on Parkside, ice cream dribbling down your chins. You'll have all this. I promise you'll have all this.

But when I think about my own childhood, the only thing that endures enough to be more than a memory but a feeling, a deep-seated sensation, is love. Love is what endures.

Even a single moment of true, unconditional love is what carries you when you want to give up or when you feel like all you can do is surrender everything. Just one moment of love is enough to save us.

I want you to remember being held because being held is to be loved. So that no matter what, you have that. When you think of the part of your life that was forever, I want you to feel like holding onto it. I want you to feel like holding onto forever.

This is why I must hold you, all three of you, forever.

ACT III

Nothing feels like forever now that we're grown. We have a clock, and it's ticking. Tick tock, tick tock.

When we’re drinking wine after the kids go to bed, I often say that last weekend feels like "forever ago," but that's not really true. Our days are full. Our nights never seem long enough to rest. Our weeks and weekends are packed enough to trick me into thinking time is passing slowly.

I notice this the most in photographs now. We look different than we did not long ago. I see it in our hair and skin. Our postures. The settings in which those photos were taken.

Seven years have passed since my favorite photo of our wedding day was captured. It's the one on our mantle, the black and white image in the silvery frame, where we're on the river, and you're embracing me from behind, around my neck and shoulders, your mehendi-adorned hand visible. I'm smiling at you over my right shoulder, looking up at you, as if you're the sunshine. It reminded me of what forever can feel like.

We've aged seven years since then, and luckily it doesn't look like more. But it feels like it should have only been two, maybe three years since that photo by the river. Tick tock, tick tock.

We hug and hold each other often and spontaneously. We naturally find our way to an embrace. It could be in the kitchen while the pasta is boiling, or for a few minutes in bed after you've showered, and I'm still lying in my pajamas. You hold me, and I hold you.

These moments, where we're holding each other, don't stop the clock. The clock moves ahead. The alarm rings. But during those moments, when we're holding onto each other, we're reminded. It takes us back to that photo by the river, where I am smiling, and you look like sunshine, in the moment that reminds me of forever.

And sometimes, when we were there in those embraces that remind me of forever, I don’t want to leave. I want to stay there. I feel safe there, loved there. To be held, after all, is to be loved.

But at the same time, what would our lives be if we did not have the world around us, if we just kept it to us in that embrace, just you and me?

If we did not have our children or our families? Or if we didn’t have our friends and neighbors? Or even kind strangers? To embrace them we have to open up and expand our hearts from just us, to give more than we think we have. To hold onto them, we have to let go.

I have to remember sometimes, that not everyone is trying to take you all away from me. Not everyone is a threat to what we finally have. I can hold on while still letting go, at least for as long as it takes to share some of the love in our hearts with others.

This ability to hold on and let go first felt like a paradox, but I think now that it’s merely a leap of faith. It is okay to make this leap, I know this now, because we will always get back to holding each other. We will come back to an embrace of each other. And we will get back to this place that reminds me of forever.

Photo by Marcel Ardivan on Unsplash

In-sourcing Purpose

When it comes to being a husband and father, doing more than just the bare minimum is not difficult. At home, I want to do much more than mail it in.

The obvious reason is because I love my family. I care about them. I find joy in suffering which helps them to be healthy and happy. I believe that surplus is an essential ingredient to making an impactful contribution, and with my family I give up the surplus I have easily, perhaps even recklessly. I love them, after all.

Photo Credit: Unsplash @krisroller

And yet, love doesn’t explain this fully. The ease with which I put in effort at home taps into a deeper well of motivation and purpose.

With Robyn, our marriage is driven by a deeper purpose than having a healthy relationship, or perhaps even the commitment to honoring our vows. We find meaning in building something, in our case a marriage, that could last thousands of years or an eternity if there is a God that permits it. We’re trying to build something that could last until the end of time, until there is nothing of us that exists - in this world or beyond. We’re trying to make a marriage that’s more durable than “as long as we both shall live.” We find meaning in that.

Though we’ve never talked about it explicitly, I think we also find meaning in trying to have a marriage that’s based on equality and mutual respect. It’s as if we’re trying to be a beacon for what a truly equal marriage could look like. I don’t think we’ve succeeded in this yet; I’m certain that despite our best efforts, Robyn still bears an unequal portion of our domestic responsibilities. But yet, we try to find that elusive, perfectly equal, and mutually respectful marriage and we find meaning in that pursuit.

As a father, too, I find purpose and meaning that exeeceds the strong love and attachment I have with my children. I find it so inspiring to be part of something that spans generations and millennia. I am merely the latest steward to pass down the love, knowledge, and virtues of our ancestors. I find it humbling to be part of a lineage that started many centuries ago, and that will hopefully exist for many centuries in the future. Being one, single, link in this longer chain moves me, deeply.

I also believe deeply in a contribution to the broader community, to human society itself. And there too, fatherhood intersects. Part of my responsibility to humanity, I believe, is to raise children that are a net force for goodness - children that because of their actions make the world feel more trustworthy and vibrant. Through my own purification as a father, I can pass a purer set of values and integrity to our children, and accelerate - ever so slightly - the rate at which the arc of humanity and history bends towards justice. This is so lofty and so abstract, but yet, I find meaning in this.

These sources of deep purpose make it easy, trivial even, to put forth an amount of energy toward being a husband and father that a 16 year old me would find incomprehensible.

Finding this deep and durable source of purpose has been harder in my career, though I’m realizing it might have been hidden in plain sight all along.

I often felt maligned when I worked at Deloitte, especially when it felt like the ultimate end product of my time was simply making wealthy partners wealthier. At least Deloitte was a culture of kind people, and also had a sincere commitment to the community - I found some meaning in that.

But in retrospect, I think I missed the point. Deloitte, after all, is a huge consultancy. Its clients are some of the largest and most influential enterprises in the history of the world. Deloitte also produces research that is read by leaders and managers across the world. The amount of lives affected by Deloitte, through its clients, is probably in the billions. While I was there, I had an opportunity - albeit a small one - to affect the managerial quality of the world’s largest companies. That is incredibly meaningful. In retrospect, I wish I would’ve remembered that when I was toiling away on client projects, wishing I was doing anything else to earn a living.

While working in City government, sources of purpose and meaning were easier to find. It was easy to give tremendous effort, for example, toward reducing murders and shootings. I was a civilian appointee, and relatively junior at that - but we were still saving lives, literally. But even beyond that, I found meaning in something more humble - I had the honor and privilege of serving my neighbors. That phrase, serving my neighbors, still wells my eyes up in tears. What a gift it was to serve.

And now, I work in a publicly traded company. We manufacture and sell furniture. These are not prima facie sources of deep meaning and purpose. In the day-to-day, week-to-week, grind I often find myself in the same mindset as I was at Deloitte, asking myself questions like, why am I here, or, am I wasting my time?

And yet, I also realize that with hindsight I would probably realize that meaning and foundation on which to assemble a strong sense of purpose was always there, had I cared enough to look for it.

Why, I have been thinking this week, is it so easy to to find meaning purpose at home, but so difficult at work? There must be a deep well of meaning from which to draw, hidden in plain sight, why can’t I find it?

At home, I realized, we are free. We have nobody ruling us, but us. We are free to explore and think and make our family life what we wish it to be. I think and talk openly with Robyn about our lives. We reflect and grapple with our lived experiences and take it upon ourselves to make meaning from it. We aren’t waiting for anyone else to tell us what our purpose as partners, parents, or citizens.

In a way, at home, we in-source our deliberations of purpose. We literally do it “in house”. We know it is is on us to make meaning of our marriage and our roles as parents, so Robyn and I do it. We have, in effect in-source our search for meaning and purpose.

At work, I have done the opposite.

In my career, I have outsourced my search for meaning and purpose. I’ve waited, without realizing it, for senior executives to tell me why what we’re doing matters. I’ve whined, in my head at least, when the mission statements and visions of companies I’ve worked for - either as an employee or as a consultant - have been vacuous or sterile.

In retrospect, I’ve freely relinquished my agency to create meaning and purpose to the enterprises for which I have worked. What a terrible mistake that was. Why was I waiting for someone else to find purpose for me, when I could’ve been creating it for myself all along?

When companies do articulate statements of purpose well, it is powerful and I appreciate it. My current company has a purpose statement, for example, and it does resonate with me. I’m glad we have one.

But yet, that’s not enough. To really give a tremendous amount of discretionary effort at work, I need to believe in something much more specific to me. After all, even the best statement of purpose put out by a company is, by design, something meant to appeal to tens of thousands of people. I shouldn’t expect a corporate purpose statement to ignite my inspiration, such an expectation is not reasonable or fair. No company will ever write a purpose statement that’s specifically for me, nor should they.

Rather than outsource my search for meaning and purpose, I’ve realized I need to in-source it. Perhaps with questions like these:

What makes my job and working as part of this enterprise special? What’s something about it that’s so valuable and important that I want to put my own ego, career development, and desire to be promoted aside and contribute to the team’s goal? What can I find meaning in and be proud of? What about being here makes me want to put effort in beyond the bare minimum?

Like I said, I work for a furniture company - certainly not something glamorous or externally validated . And yet, there can be so much meaning and purpose in it, if I choose to see it.

We are in people’s homes and we have this ability to rehabilitate people’s bodies and minds. We create something that brings comfort to other people and for every family movie night and birthday party - the biggest and smallest moments in the lives of our customers and their families, we are there. That’s worth putting in a little extra for.

And we’re a Michigan company, headquartered in a relatively small town. I get to be part of a team bringing wealth, prosperity, and respect to our State. I can’t tolerate it when people from elsewhere in the country snub their noses at Michigan, calling us a “fly over” state. I find meaning in that competition to be an outstanding enterprise - why not have the industry leader in furniture manufacturing and retailing be a Michigan company?

Without even considering the meaning and joy I find in creating high-performing teams that unleash people’s talent, there is so much meaning and purpose that’s hidden in plain sight - even at a furniture company. But that meaning is nearly impossible to find unless we stop being dependent on others to create meaning for us - we have to bring the search for purpose back in house.

How interesting might it be if everyone on the team created their own purpose statement, rather than depending on the enterprise to provide one for them? What if companies helped their employees create their own purpose statement instead of making one for them? I think such an approach would be interesting and, no pun intended, meaningful.

We do not have monsters inside us

The first time I had the delusion, was probably around the time I started high school. I don’t remember what preceded it, I just remember thinking, “there’s something untamed and dark inside me.”

As I’ve aged, I’ve come to realized that I’m not the only man who has felt the grip of something inside them, small to be sure, but something that feels like evil.

For decades now, I’ve believed this about myself as a man: I have this tiny little seed, deep down, in my heart. That seed is a little root of evil and I must not let it grow. I know there is a monster within, and I must not let it out.

I don’t know from whence this deluision came. But it came.

The delusion reawakened when I started to seeing press about a new book, Of Boys and Men by Richard Reeves, which is about the crisis among men we have in America. I haven’t read the book, yet, but here’s some context from Derek Thompson at The Ringer:

American men have a problem. They account for less than 40 percent of new college graduates but roughly 70 percent of drug overdose deaths and more than 80 percent of gun violence deaths. As the left has struggled to offer a positive vision of masculinity, male voters have abandoned the Democratic Party at historically high rates.

Or this from New York Times columnist David Brooks:

More men are leading haphazard and lonely lives. Roughly 15 percent of men say they have no close friends, up from 3 percent in 1990. One in five fathers doesn’t live with his children. In 2014, more young men were living with their parents than with a wife or partner. Apparently even many who are married are not ideal mates. Wives are twice as likely to initiate divorces as husbands.

I come away with the impression that many men are like what Dean Acheson said about Britain after World War II. They have lost an empire but not yet found a role. Many men have an obsolete ideal: Being a man means being the main breadwinner for your family. Then they can’t meet that ideal. Demoralization follows.

For more than a year, before this book was released, I’ve been grappling with some of its core themes. I might not call my own life a crisis, per se, but I struggle with being a man in America today.

I have been wanting to write about “masculinity” or “the American man” for some time, but have struggled to find the right frame and honestly the guts to do it.

A different version of this post could’ve been about how lonely, and isolated I feel and how hard it has been to maintain the ties I have with close, male, friends from high school, college, and my twenties. Or I could’ve written about the pressure of competition in the workplace and the way other protected groups are supported, but I and other males are not, though we also struggle.

I might’ve written about the confusion I feel - I am trying to operate in a fair and equal marriage with Robyn, but we have no blueprints to draw from because society today and what it means to be a man feels so different from the time I came of age. A different version of this post might’ve be political and angry, pushing back against the stigma I feel when I’m gathering with other men - for example, sometimes I feel like getting together in groups of men is something to be ashamed of because it’s assumed that groups of men will devolve into something chauvinistic or destructive and “boys will be boys” and masculinity is “toxic.”

[Let me be clear though: abusive, violent, exploitative, or criminal behavior is absolutely wrong. And the many stories that have been made public about men who behave this way is wrong. And I’d add, men shouldn’t let other men behave that way, toward anyone. I do not imply with any of the struggles I’ve referenced above that any person, man or women, is exempted from the standards of right conduct because they are struggling.]

What I do imply, is that the struggles that are talked about in public discourse about the crisis of men is real to me, personally. My life does not mirror every statistic or datapoint that’s published about it, but directionally I feel that same struggle of masculinity.

As I’ve searched for words to say something honest and relevant about masculinity, what I’ve kept coming back to is that delusion I’ve believed that there is an evil and dark part of me, even if it’s small and buried deep down, that exists because I am a man. The negative ground that all my struggles of masculity come from is the belief that there’s a monster inside me, and that the balance of my life hangs on not letting him out of the cage.

For me at least, this is the battleground where the struggle of my masculinity starts and ends. No policy change is going to solve this for me. No life hack is going to solve this for me. No adulation or expression of anger is going to solve this for me.

If I want to get over my struggle with my masculinity and difficulties I feel about being a man in America today, I have to dispel the belief that there’s a monster inside me. I have to prove that I am not evil inside and that belief is indeed a delusion. The obstacle is the way.

But how? How do I prove to myself that there’s not a monster, that I was born, inside me?

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Our neighborhood is full of old houses, built mostly in the 1920s. And fundamentally, there are two ways to renovate an old house. You either paper over the problems, or you fix them and take the house all the way down to the foundation and the studs if you have to.

As it turns out, the only way you really make an old house sturdy is to take it down to the studs, and build from there. Papering over the issues in an old house - whether it’s old pipes, wiring, or mold - leads to huge, costly, problems later. The only way is to build a house is from good bones.

With that model in my head, I thought of this reflection, to hopefully prove to myself - once and for all - that I do not have the seeds of evil and darkness, sown into me because I was born a man.

The rest of this post is my self-reflection around three questions. I share it because I feel like I need to try out my own dog food and demonstrate that it can be helpful. But more than that, if you’re a man or someone who cares about a man, I share all this in hopes that if you also believe the delusion that you were born with a monster inside, that you change your mind.

For sure, every person is capable of terrible things. But we, as men, don’t have to believe the delusion that we were born with a monster inside us. We have to stop believing that. We can build our identity as men around the parts of us that are most good.

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What are the broken, superficial parts of me that I can strip away to get down to the core of the man I am?

I can strip away the resentment I have about being raised with so much pressure to achieve. I can strip away the bizarre relationship I have with human sexuality because as an adolescent the culture around me only modeled two ways of being: reckless promiscuity or abstinence, even from touching. I can strip away the anger I have because as a south Asian man, I am expected to be a doctor, IT professional, and someone who never has opinions, something to say, or the capability to lead from the front. I can strip away the self-loathing I have about being a man - I can be supportive of womens’ rights and opportunities without hating myself. I can strip back all the times I tried to prove myself as a dominant male: choosing to play football in high school, doing bicep curls for vanity’s sake, binge drinking to fit in or avoid hard conversations, trying to get phone numbers at the bar, or talking about my accomplishments as a way of flexing - I do not need to be the stereotypical “alpha male” to be a man. I can strip away my need for perfection and control, without being soft or having low standards.

I can strip away all pressures to prove my strength based on how I express feelings: I do not have to exude strength by being emotional closed, nor do I need to exude strength by going out of my way to express emotion and posture as a modern, emotionally in-touch man - I can be myself and express feelings in a way that’s honest and feels like me. I can strip away the thirst I have for status, my job title and resume is what I do for a living, not my life. I can strip away the self-editing I do about my hobbies and preferences - I can like whatever I like, sports, cooking, writing, gardening, astronomy, the color yellow, the color blue, the color pink - all this stuff is just stuff not “guy stuff” or “girl stuff.” I can strip away the pressure I feel to be a breadwinner, Robyn and I share the responsibility of putting food on the table and keeping the lights on, we make decisions together and can chart our own path.

Once I strip away all the superficial parts of me, and get down to the studs, what’s left? What’s the strong foundation to build my identity, specifically as a man, from?

At my core, I am honest and I do right by people. At my core I am constructively impatient, I am not obsessed over results, but I care about making a better community for myself and others. At my core, I am curious and weird - that’s not good or bad, it’s just evidence that I have a thirst to explore no ideas and things to learn. At my core, I value families - both my own and the idea that families are part of the human experience. At my core, I care about talent - no matter what I achieve extrinsically I am determined to use my gifts and for others to use there, because if the human experience can have less suffering, why the hell wouldn’t we try? At my core, I believe in building power and giving it away and I am capable of walking away from power. At my core, I care most about being a better husband, father, and citizen.

Now that I’ve stripped down to the studs, what mantra am I going to say to replace my old negative thought of, “I was born with a monster inside me that I can’t let out of the cage?”

I was born into a difficult world, but with a good heart. I am capable of choosing the man I will become.

Photo Credit: Unsplash @bdilla810

This is why we do the hard days

“This is why we do the hard days.”

I felt a certain lightness coming on immediately after Robyn said this, on our lazy walk back from the neighborhood coffee shop, her Au Lait in hand. We haven’t done this Saturday ritual in months, but today - warm, autumnal, and with nowhere else to be - is the perfect day for it.

“Tell me more,” I said with intrigue, with as much tenderness and charm as I could muster.

“I’m just here, basking in this beautiful family. I’m so happy and at peace. We’re all together. We’re outside and it’s beautiful. And the leaves are peak color. This is literally the dream.”

I want to remember days like these. Days when we can just bask in the simplest, most unremarkable, pleasures. Days when it easy to see that our family is not beautiful because it’s particularly different or special, but because it’s ours.

When Robyn asks me how I’m doing, I pause. And then I have what feels like a revelation.

I don’t have to justify being here.

My whole life I’ve been doing things to try proving that I deserve to be alive. But I don’t. God gave me this life as a gift, and even though he will take me from this world he will not erase the life that I had. He brought me here and I don’t have to pay him back.

Anything I do here is not an obligation, at least to God, I think. He gave me the entirety of the gift up front, with no takebacks. The pressure is off, in a way. I don’t have to do things to earn my life.

What I do with this life, I realize, has always been a choice. Whether I pay it forward is a choice. What I do for a job or what I choose to learn is a choice. What I choose to contribute is a choice. How I choose to treat others is a choice. And I know that if I choose to pay it forward, it will require sacrifices. Paying it forward will not be easy. Paying it forward is an acceptance that there will be extremely hard days. Paying it forward is a choice and realizing this after years of feeling guilty and inadequate is liberating.

I try, extra hard, to remember days like these, precisely because they’re not particularly noteworthy. I would forget them if I didn’t write about them. But days like these, where we’re just here, are the most profound I think. These days are ones where God sends a couple little winks - whether it’s the sunshine, the feeling of love and attachment to my family, or sound of leaves crunching under paws and little feet - that remind me that his gift has already been given.

“I’m good. Really good.” I say to Robyn. I look at her and I realize that I’ve started smiling.

She really did put it perfectly. This is why we do the hard days.

“Friends of friends are all friends”

“Friends of friends are all friends”

This is one of the enduring bits of wisdom my friend Wyman has taught me. And sure enough, at the friends’ night the evening before his wedding, we were, indeed, all friends.

This has been the case at the weddings and bachelor parties I’ve been to over the years. I get along swimmingly, without fail, with the friends of my closest friends. And the most fun I’ve had at weddings are usually preluded by an energizing, seemingly providential, friends night. This has been a pattern, not a coincidence.

I think the underlying cause of this is stories, and how we want to be part of stories that matter.

Weddings are great examples of stories that matter. Robyn and I still talk often about stories from our own wedding.

Like the bobbing poster sized cutouts of our heads that our friends Nick and Liz found and the heat it brought to an already sizzling dance floor. We remember the quick stop we had at Atwater brewery for post-ceremony photos, that our entire family showed up at, and the pints of Whango we had to chug on our way to our wedding reception. And I’ve learned to laugh about how my very best friends let me get locked in the church after our wedding rehearsal.

But just as often, we reminisce over the stories of other weddings we’ve attended, where we were just part of the supporting cast, rather than the protagonists.

We remember how we scurried across Northern California to attend a Bay Area and Tahoe wedding in the same weekend. We remember the picnic in a Greenville park and how we climbed a literal mountain for the marriage of Robyn’s closest childhood friend. We relive trips to places like Grand Rapids, Chicago, and Milwaukee and the adventures we’ve had with old friends we reconnected with at destinations across the country.

Weddings are more than just significant, however. They are also collective stories, where the narrative is made from the interwoven threads of an ensemble cast, rather than a single strand dominated by the actions of one person. The bride and groom may be the protagonists, but for a wedding the rest of the ensemble and the setting is just as important. That everyone can be part of the story is exactly the point.

All the best stories, I think, are collective, ensemble tales. The story of a wedding. The novel East of Eden. The story of my family. The story of America. The stories of scripture. The story of a championship athletic teams. The stories of social movements to expand rights and freedoms all across the world. The story of Marvel’s Avengers. The story of great American cities like Detroit, New York, and Chicago. The story of a marriage. The story of our marriage.

These stories are all made up of interwoven threads and an ensemble cast, and that’s what make them transcendent. Collective stories have archetypes and themes that everyone understands, and that’s what makes them powerful and magnetic.

I think the deep yearning to become part of a meaningful, transcendent, collective story is why friends of friends become friends at weddings. The yearning opens our hearts and minds to new experiences and brings out the truest and purest versions of ourselves.

But more broadly than that, collective stories also explain why we see people making seemingly irrational and painful sacrifices for something larger than themselves. The desire to be part of a collective story drives people to do everything from serve their country, commit to a faith, travel thousands of miles to be home for the holidays, or take on a cause that others think is lost.

Being part of a collective story is a very special type of human experience that brings a deep, grounded, and peace-giving joy. Giving someone the chance to be a part of a story like that is one of the greatest gifts that can be given.

We are reimagining what it means to be a man

In the age we live in, what it means to be a man is being completely reimagined. And as a result, what we are trying to do as men - particularly as husbands, fathers, and citizens - is nothing short of remarkable. We are actively reinventing, for the first time, the role of men in society.

I struggle a lot with this.

On the one hand, I am a man. Being a man is a salient part of who I am and how I view the world. This may indicate, to some at least, that I’m less evolved and not as “woke”, if that’s the right word, than others among us. I’m not able to hold a world view that gender is entirely a social construction or that we should create a world that ignores the very concept of “men”. I’m not entirely sure what being a feminist or male ally entails, but I’m pretty sure I’m not that, exactly, either.

At the same time, I reject what being a man means today. And I’m not comfortable with the grotesque baggage that being a man is inseparable from. The criticisms of men and masculinity are legitimate, and that’s an understatement.

Men have controlled and abused women, for most of known history it seems - whether it was politically or through sexual violence. Marriages between men and women, generally speaking, have not be fair or equitable, ever. The glass ceiling is real - I see my women and my female colleague hindered and treated outright badly, in ways that men aren’t. I don’t want to be that kind of man.

But it seems to me, that for the first time, at least some men are trying to take on this tension - identifying with being a man, but rejecting its harmful externalities - and act differently. I don’t know if it’s a majority of men or even that a lot that are trying to reimagine what it means to be a man, but I’m certainly struggling through this tension. So are a lot of my friends and colleagues and it’s something we talk about. So it can’t be an immaterial amount of men who are trying to figure this out, right?

I love the mental model of using an OKR (Objective and Key Results) to set clear goals (you can get a nice crash course on OKRs, here). And so I tried applying it to “being a good man” - this is what being a “good man” means to me:

When I was done, I had a “whoa” moment. The OKR I created, I realized, is quite different than what I would assume the stereotypical man of the 20th century would create if he were doing the same exercise. Hell, it’s quite different than what my own father would probably create. Like, can you imagine the men of 1950s sitcoms (or even 1990s sitcoms) talking about fair distribution of domestic responsibilities or parenting without fear tactics?

I can’t. Most of the protagonists in those shows had wives who didn’t work outside the homes - the contexts in which those characters were cast is wildly different than our own.

And that’s what makes what we’re doing remarkable. We’re trying to envision a different future - and live it ourselves - without having any sort of role model on what this reconception of what it means to be a man can look like. It’s even more remarkable and complex because it’s not just heterosexual men in same-race relationships that are figuring this out. Gay men and men in interracial or interfaith relationships are also figuring out how to be husbands, fathers, and citizens in this time of cultural flux around what it means to be a man.

I couldn’t talk to my own father about this anyway (God rest his soul), but even if he was around he couldn’t be my role model for this journey. Despite my father being the most honest and perhaps the kindest man I’ve ever met, he was still swimming in a culture with remarkably rigid gender roles. All our male role models were, because that was the culture of the times.

But beyond our own uncles, fathers, and grandparents, we don’t have stories in our culture to draw from for role models, either. There aren’t novels with strong, male protagonists that are trying to redefine manhood in the 21st century, that I’ve found at least. On the contrary, every novel I’ve heard my friends talk about with male protagonists were from detective novels, historical fiction, thrillers, or from science fiction - hardly relatable to men trying to recast their male identities.

There are great male role models from the canon of 20th century literature and culture - Atticus Finch of To Kill a Mockingbird, Aragorn from Lord of the Rings, Reverend John Ames from Gilead, or even Master Yoda from Star Wars are favorites of mine - but those characters are in the wrong context to really help us navigate the process of reimagine manhood as well. Atticus and Yoda are not really dealing with contemporary circumstances, obviously, as much as I really am inspired by their example.

Honestly, it seems like the Marvel Cinematic Universe and its superheroes going through real struggles and making real sacrifices are the closest role models we can look to as men trying to be better men. Maybe that’s why I like those films so much. But it’s hard and probably ego-inflating for me to relate to comic book superheroes. We need, and have to have something better than Marvel movies, right?

My wife loves the titles from Reese Witherspoon’s book club, and I honestly love hearing the stories of the novels she’s reading. All the titles are written by women and have strong female protagonists. I would love to have a similar book club, but with strong male protagonists trying to reimagine what it means to be a man. But what novels do we even have to choose from?

So fellas, what we are trying to do is remarkable. We’re not trying to navigate to a new place, as much as we’re trying to make a map to a place that’s never been visited.

We need to talk about it, blog about it, and podcast about it. Some of us have to write novels about it, or make music and movies about it. We have to leave a body of work for the next generation of men to draw upon. We have to leave our sons, nephews, students, players, and grandsons a place to start as they continue this remarkable journey of reimagining manhood that we’ve started.

Equality begins at home

Women are not treated fairly in America.

The splitting of daily domestic responsibilities is one way that this unfairness manifests (there are many more), and it’s the one area I kinda sorta understand so I’ll stick to this narrow subject.

In the past year, two unexpected things happened to help me learn this unfairness existed, even in our own home. First, I was furloughed from my job. My wife became our primary breadwinner and I picked up the role of lead parent, plus 20 hours a week of contract work. Second, Robyn became my office mate and I began seeing up close the tax domestic responsibilities put on her.

I never actually understood “mom brain” until I was trying to do what Robyn had been doing since Bo was born: juggling like 5,000 different details and bids for her time. It’s more than a full time job. But beyond that, it shreds your brain and zaps energy.

I lost a measurable amount of weight within week of becoming lead parent. It was hard to be at my best, because I was mentally and physically blitzed, every day.

And, I felt less valuable, honestly, despite Robyn’s best efforts to make me feel honorable and appreciated. Our culture doesn’t make domestic work heroic, even though it is.

Women bear a disproportionate amount of these domestic responsibilities in America. This is a fact. I liked to think I was some sort of exception and this was not true for us, that somehow our distribution was fair despite the odds.

Wrong. I was lying to myself. Our split of home duties wasn’t egregiously unfair, but they weren’t fair. Which we are working on and have been for the past year. It was tough to read as a man, but if you’re interested in this idea, check out the book Fair Play for a ton of stories and a framework for working toward a fair arrangement.

Of course, what “fair” looks like varies by family. A family with historic gender roles can be as fair or unfair as a family with both partners working outside the home. Both can be great setups, but both can also be unfair - usually for women.

This unfairness makes women pay a tax on sharing their talents with the world. It’s just much harder to contribute something - whether at work, through community volunteering, or through a hobby or passion - when you have a case mom brain induced by an unfair balance of domestic responsibilities.

Robyn, still, gets interrupted more when I’m on duty with the kids because she’s the one they want to kiss their boo-boos. Robyn, still, gets her day hijacked more by “emergencies.” Robyn, still, gets more judgement if we have a messy house, messy kids, or miss some sort of caregiving responsibility.

And so she’s taxed on being able to contribute her talents fully. And because she’s my officemate now, I see firsthand how she has to work harder at everything to make the same contribution I can. Which isn’t fair.

The worst part is what the world is missing out on, by treating women unfairly. Whether it’s through a job, a hobby, or community effort, our culture taxes the gifts and talents of women. The loss of that taxation of talent is probably measured in the billions and trillions of hours, dollars, or quality of life years.

So what do we do differently? And by we I mean my brothers, because I’m writing to other men - husbands and fathers, specifically - today. I think we have to do the work with our partners to determine what’s fair in our own families. Because I’m convinced equality has to begin at home.

And it’s for real really uncomfortable to talk about, because even though we may think we have a fair situation going (I did), we probably don’t (we didn’t). And I felt a lot of guilt realizing Robyn was paying a tax on her talents, directly because of me. I was unintentionally harming her. And owning up to that sucks, but don’t we owe that to our partners and the other important women in our lives?

But gender equality is really good for us, too. We have more social permission to be part of home life. Like being fathers or caregivers. We can say, “yup, I can work on this, but after dinner and bedtime”, or, “no, I can’t make the call because my wife has a commitment and I’m watching my kids” with less stigma.

I think if we do the work at home, more equal public policy like paid family leave, childcare support, or reforms to prevent harassment and domestic violence probably follow in spades. Because we’ll have walked that road with our partners and will be emphatically motivated to advocate their interests, because now we understand more of the tax they pay.

This year has opened my mind to the win-win generated by gender fairness and equality, however that’s defined for our individual families. The sacrifice is us doing the difficult work to make things fair at home. But that sacrifice will be so worth it if we choose to make it.

How we make big decisions in our household

This is how we, meaning Robyn and I, make decisions in our household. It’s a technique that I learned from Prof. Maxim Sytch during our intro Management and Organizations class in business school. In his course, we learned about how to make good decisions, even though we humans have cognitive biases. It’s a process.

The key to making good decisions is to think about the criteria we should be using to make the decision, before evaluating the decision itself.

To this day, it’s one of the most foundational and important skills I’ve ever learned. Ray Dalio, founder of Bridgewater Capital, talks about this concept a lot too.

Lately, I have been thinking about how we make voting decisions (we generally make them poorly), and I will dig into that later - without advocating for a particular candidate. But before that, let’s talk about buying a house to setup the concept.

How we bought a house

To buy a house could’ve seen a bunch of houses and made a pro and con list with the ones we liked. The problem with that approach is that not all pros and cons are equally important. And when you make a list of pros and cons, it’s hard not to think of each factor as being equivalent.

If we hadn’t thought about which factors mattered most, in advance, we would’ve been susceptible to getting hustled by someone trying to sell their house on the factors they wanted to emphasize, rather than the ones we cared most about.

More concretely, this scorecard is we used to make our decision:

This logic is fairly simple. We created a list - in advance - of all the factors of the house we wanted to score against (not all are displayed here). As we attended showings of each house, we scored each house on a simple scale of 0 to 3.

Deciding the scoring criteria in advance was helpful, because important things like “commute”, “proximity to greenspace”, and “neighbors” were not obvious to us as important considerations until we started making a list.

You can’t see this directly from the image, but there’s a very simple weighting to create the weighted average. The average of all the house features (like bathroom power outlets, move-in ready, etc.) are weighted at 50%. Then our very subjective criteria of “feels like home” (which was a feeling of coziness, and being able to imagine raising a family there) was 50%.

This is not a perfect scorecard. In fact, in retrospect it’s quite flawed because the weighting is not specific or particularly robust.

But notice this: check out the scoring of houses D and E. If we looked only at the average of house features, house E was a better choice. When we included the “feels like home” weighting, house D was a better choice. And guess what we ended up picking - house D. If not for this scorecard, we might’ve ended up in the wrong house!

Either way, house E would’ve been a lovely place to live, but we often think how lucky we are to have landed where we did. The scorecard prevented us from making a lesser choice, based on the factors that mattered to us.

Job Hunting

The most recent time I used this decision-making approach (and actually wrote out a scorecard) was when I was job hunting. Here’s the scorecard I used then:

You can see that this scorecard is a little more robust. Every factor is individually weighted. I started by scoring my current job, and then all other alternatives. And, thank goodness I listed out a set of weighted criteria because:

• There was a time I was thinking about taking over my family’s small business. It was really attractive because it was lucrative and I could be an entrepreneur. But when I scored it, it became obvious that I would never be able to see my family because I’d have to commute 1.25 hours every day. The scorecard prevented me from making a switch for the wrong reasons.

• During my job search, I found a really cool job that I had a good shot at. But when I scored it, even though it sounded great and was pretty high status, it was a bad fit because of skill set. When I became really honest with myself (Robyn helped me do that) I walked away from the final round interview. The scorecard prevented me from making a switch out of desperation and because my ego really wanted a flashy title.

• You can see some greyed out factors. Those were factors I had from previous job searches. By being specific about factors, I realized that my life had changed and that some factors didn’t apply anymore. It was okay to use new criteria for a new situation! This realization was huge.

The moral of these two stories is simple - thinking about the factors to consider and putting a weight on them in advance was a way to make a less-biased decision. In our house decision or my job search, we could’ve talked ourselves into anything - so much played into our biases, egos, and the expectations of others we felt we had to live up to. Making the scorecard thoughtfully in advance helped us keep our heads right when the pressure was on.

The Lesson

Robyn and I now have repeated this process over and over, every time we make an important decision. We don’t start with the decision. We start with asking ourselves, “what are the criteria we should use when making this decision? What are the most important criteria?”. We learned that this was a way that made it much more likely that we’d make a good decision.

We used this approach when deciding when we would send our kids back to day care (or not). We used this approach when deciding how to negotiate interpersonal conflict with family and friends. The decision, we learned, is all in the criteria and the weightings. Once we debate those, we quickly figure out what data we still need to make a decision. Once we plug those data gaps, and put them into our decision scorecard, the decision becomes very easy.

And now that we’ve put this approach of really debating criteria into regular practice, it’s easier to apply the approach, on the fly, for littler decisions.

In fact, if you want to give this approach a test run, here’s something to try. The next time you’re choosing a basic item while grocery shopping (like soup, salad dressing, or pasta sauce) try to lay out some criteria and weights. It will feel oddly challenging, but the results of your reflection may surprise you.

The Lesson for Voting

As I said at the top, I’ve been thinking a lot about this for voting. The most important parts of this post are already covered, so if you’re not interested in hearing about how this applies to voting, please stop now. Thank you for reading this far, if you have done so.

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It seems to me that for the vast majority of my life I debated the pros and cons, and perhaps policy stances, when deciding who to vote for. Which as we saw above, is not a great decision making process because it’s pretty easy to fall into my own biases. This election, I tried something different. Let’s take the presidential race for example.

I knew that I would be biased for/against certain candidates. So I forced myself to think about the criteria to vote for President in advance. I didn’t do a formal scoring on a piece of paper, but here’s a representation of my rough model (without weights):

• Executive / Managerial Skill - will they be able to effectively run the executive branch?

  • Can they pick a competent team to fill appointments?

  • Are they able to hold other managers accountable for results?

  • Are they able to cast a clear vision for the organization?

  • Do they seem to understand operations, metrics, scorecards, and other managerial systems?

  • Do they even care about their role as the chief executive of a workforce with hundreds of thousands of people?

• Political Skill - will they be able to form coalitions with the Congress, the States, industry, interest groups, and other nations to solve important problems?

  • Are they able to build rapport with stakeholders and constituents?

  • Do they understand how to use public politics, the press, and the bully pulpit effectively?

  • Do they understand public opinion and how to navigate it?

  • Do they have a demonstrated past of forming effective coalitions?

• Character and Integrity - are they fit to wield tremendous amounts of power?

  • Are they going to follow the law? (e.g., others won’t abide by the law if the President doesn’t)

  • Do they embody the virtues and culture I hope for the whole country to have?

  • Will they do the right thing, even when it’s difficult or not convenient? Do they have the courage do what’s right, even if it means being unpopular?

  • Do they admit when they are wrong, adjust, adapt, move on, and do better next time?

  • Are they able to have good judgement during a crisis?

• Intent - assuming they are able to accomplish results ethically, would they move the country in a direction that I agree with?

  • Do they prioritize effective government?

  • Do they prioritize government integrity?

  • Do they prioritize long-term problems like infrastructure, climate, R&D, and budget?

  • Do they see the world through the lens of freedom, welfare, and American families thriving?

I thought about what my scorecard of criteria was for weeks. I honestly considered both candidates (I hope). And I came to a decision. And, I had a much different set of criteria for other races, because the criteria I would use to evaluate a Senator, a Judge, a University Regent, or a Prosecutor is much different than what I would use for the presidency.

I don’t say all this to try to convince anyone to vote for a certain candidate for any office (I would happily do that in person, and if you know me, you’ve probably voted already anyway so I’ve missed my opportunity even if that’s what I wanted to do).

What I would suggest though is that the lesson of buying a house and job hunting applies to voting. What we should be debating is not individual choices (and getting into nasty fights about those candidates), we might do better by debating what the right criteria are. What I would hope is that you challenge my criteria of factors as being correct or bogus, and submit your own criteria to the same scrutiny.

That’s the kind of debate I want to seed. It’s what I think would move us out of pettiness and polarization. Actual candidates matter, but maybe it would advance the conversation more if we put individual candidates aside for a minute and talked about our scorecards - and then tried to thoughtfully learn from and persuade each other about what we think the correct criteria should be.

Talking about decision criteria has completely transformed how Robyn and I make decisions in our marriage and for our family, I suspect that it could have similarly transformative effects in our civic lives.