High Standards Matter

I’ve been part of many types of organizations in my life and I’ve seen a common thread throughout: high standards matter. 

Organizations of people, - whether we’re talking about  families, companies, police departments, churches, cities, fraternities, neighborhoods, or sports teams - devolve into chaos or irrelevance when they don’t hold themselves to a high standard of conduct. This is true in every organization I’ve ever seen. 

If an organization’s equilibrium state is one of high standards (both in terms of the integrity of how people act and achieving measurable results that matter to customers) it grows and thrives. If its equilibrium is low standards (or no standards) it fails.

If you had to estimate, what percent of people hold themselves to a high standard of integrity and results? Absent any empirical data, I’ll guess less than 25%. Assuming my estimate is roughly accurate, this is why leaders matter in organizations. If individuals don’t hold themselves to high standards, someone else has to - or as I said before, the organization fails.

Standard setting happens on three levels: self, team, and community.

The first level is holding myself to a high standard. This is basically a pre-requisite to anything else because if I don’t hold myself to a high standard, I have no credibility to hold others to a high standard.

The second level is holding my team to a high standard. Team could mean my team at work, my family, my fraternity brothers, my company, my friends, etc. The key is, they’re people I have strong, direct ties to and we have an affiliation that is recognized by others.

To be sure, level one and level two are both incredibly difficult. Holding myself to any standard, let alone a high standard, takes a lot of intention, hard work, and humility. And then, assuming I’ve done that, holding others to a high standard is even more difficult because it’s really uncomfortable. Other people might push back on me. They might call me names. And, it’s a ton of work to motivate and convince people to operate at a high standard of integrity and results, if they aren’t already motivated to do so. Again, this is why (good) leadership matters.

The third level, holding the broader community to a high standard, is even harder. Because now, I have to push even further and hold people that I may not have any right to make demands of to a high standard. (And yes, MBA-type people who are reading this, when I say hold “the broader community” to a high standard, it could just as easily mean hold our customers to a high standard.)

It takes so much courage, trust, effort, and skill to convince an entire community, in all it’s diversity and complexity, to hold a high standard. It’s tremendously difficult to operate at this level because you have to influence lots of people who don’t already agree with you, and might even loathe you, to make sacrifices.

And I’d guess that an unbelievably small percentage of people can even attempt level three. Because you have to have a tremendous amount of credibility to even try holding a community to a high standard, even if the community you’re operating in is relatively small. Like, even trying to get everyone on my block to rake their leaves in the fall or not leave their trash bins out all week would be hard. Can you imagine trying to influence a community that’s even moderately larger?

But operating at level three is so important. Because this is the leadership that moves our society and culture forward. This is the type of leadership that brings the franchise to women and racial minorities. This is the type of leadership that ends genocide. This is the type of leadership that turns violent neighborhoods into thriving, peaceful places to live. This is the type of leadership that ends carbon emissions. This is the type of leadership, broadly speaking, that changes people’s lives in fundamental ways.

I share this mental model of standards-based leadership because there are lots of domains in America where we need to get to level three and hold our broader community to a high standard. I alluded to decarbonization above, but it’s so much more than that. We need to hold our broader community to a high standards in issue areas like: political polarization, homelessness, government spending and taxation, gun violence, health and fitness, and diversity/inclusion just to name a few.

And that means we have to dig deep. And before I say “we”, let me own what I need to do first before applying it more broadly. I have to hold myself to a high standard of integrity and results. And then when I do that, I have to hold my team, whatever that “team” is, to a high standard of integrity and results. And then, maybe just maybe, if the world needs me to step up and hold a community to a high standard of integrity and results, I’ll even have the credibility to try.

High standards matter. And we need as many people as possible to hold themselves and then others to a high standard, so that when the situation demands there are enough people with the credibility to even try moving our culture forward. And that starts with holding ourselves, myself included, to a high standard of integrity and results. Only then can we influence others.

Gratitude and grief for slow-feeling time

My thirty-third year was not actually longer or shorter than any other trip of mine around our sun. Every day I was thirty three, still had 24 hours in it and it still had three hundred sixty five whole days, each with a sunrise and sunset.

And yet, thirty three will be the age I held onto the longest.

It was the year that we put everything on hold. We held off on house projects and trips. We held off on swim lessons and soccer practices. Instead, it was just us, our family, our close friends, and our neighbors. And  everything was slow-feeling. It was like we could savor each day just a little more because we were holding off on letting our lives change with the seasons.

But I don’t think I’ll remember this longest-age-I-ever-was year, exactly as the year of “slow-feeling” time. I’ll remember the year that our boys realized they were brothers. I’ll remember the year Myles became a walking, talking, bruiser and Bo got his big-heart and his imagination. I’ll remember the year Robyn and I had so much time together, and we started this ritual of turning to each other and saying, “Hey babe, it’s a good life.” I’ll remember the year Riley finally trusted me enough to become father and son.

It was all so slow-feeling because we were just stewing and simmering in all of it - all the muck and the tantrums and the love, tears, chocolate chip cookies, and all the grief and singing and hugs, and uncertainty and glorious monotony. That is what I will remember from the age I held the longest.

The day I turned thirty-four we played tennis at the park. It was our immediate family. Our boys running to and fro, Robert minding the net with his new racket, for the first time. And perhaps symbolically, I literally ran out of the soles of my shoes. And none of us said it, but playing tennis as a family was like the unofficial end of this year that was stewing, and simmering, and slow-feeling. We pulled the pot from the stove and that was that.

In short spurts I’ve noticed this gift of slow-feeling time starting to fade away. Our friends are starting to become busy again. We are running more errands or heading into offices every once in awhile. We’re talking about swim lessons and soccer practices like we were 18 months ago. We’re doing house projects and planning trips. Our friends and family are starting new jobs, moving cities, and making moves again. The sizzling and crackling of fast-feeling time is coming back.

And I have had this chewing feeling that I haven’t been able to put my nose on until today. It’s grief. 

I’m thirty four now and the year of my longest held age, in all it’s muck and wonder, is over. With all the relief of vaccines, and reopening, and reunions, life has resumed it’s forward motion, yes. The year of slow-feeling time is over.

And I know I can’t hold onto my boys at this wonderful age any longer. They’re going to make up grow their way through lost time. Robyn and I will have more days where we are ships passing in the night. Riley’s snout will get grayer, and so will I. Everyone we love will be busier.

And it won’t be any faster or slower than it ever was. But it will feel faster. It will feel like I’m having to let go more. It will feel like a changed season and a new era. And it all will feel too fast, just like it did before I was thirty three.

And I guess what I’m asking for, Father, is a blessing. A blessing of friendships that endure as the seasons change. The blessing of having time feel slow every now and again. The blessing of gratitude for glorious monotony. The blessing of memories and stories and celebrations we can remember as our hair grays. 

Thank you, Father, wherever you are out there, for the gift of slow-feeling time and the chance to understand it so early in life. Please bless us with more birthdays to cherish and the good sense to age with grace.

The rare second chance we all have

As our family “gets back to normal”, I’m having to relearn how to get on with other people. Like, literally yesterday we had a few people over for a 5k and pancakes after and my muscle memory was rusty; I shook hands without making eye contact. I’m just out of practice, and I think most of us feel this way.

As I’ve gone through these growing pains, I’ve come to be skeptical of this idea of “getting back to normal.” After all, prior to the pandemic I was not a perfect husband, father, citizen, or friend. And if I wasn’t the best person prior to all this, why would I wan’t to just get back to living that life or back to being that guy?

Most of us crave second chances in life, and now we all, simultaneously, have one. We all have a mulligan on our relationships. We all have an opportunity to make a new sort-of first impression. We all had a long pause our social relationships and now we have the chance to be better versions of ourselves as we rekindle old ties and nurture new ones. We, all at the same time, have this rare opportunity to have a soft-reset in our social and community lives. 

Instead of just “getting back to normal”, I want to be a better friend than I was before. Because, how often do second chances come along?

I want to not let rekindled relationships with college friends just fizzle out. I want to stay open to meeting new neighbors while on walks, instead of just waving hello and keeping it moving. I want to be a better listener, and put my phone away when I’m with others. I want to send more, “hey, I was just thinking about you” texts. I want to be more courageous and really share deeply and make others feel safe enough to share, too. I want to keep deepening with the family and friends that we leaned on (and leaned on us) in the past year.

And before the pandemic, too many of my social were relationships were comfortable, because most people I know act like me, think like me, and talk like me. Maybe that’s not what I want to do from now on. Maybe I could really dig in and pen my heart to those people that are good souls, but make me uncomfortable in some way. And maybe too, I can let go of relationships of obligation faster and let some folks simply pass by on their journey; it’s okay to just cross-paths once with some.

And yet, before the pandemic I started to subscribe to the idea of “no new friends.” Because honestly, I felt stretched and I couldn’t nurture the friendships I had enough. Maybe, just maybe I can dig deeper and find a way to nurture whatever friendships I have - whether they’re strong or weak ties - in a way that is sensible and caring, without hiding behind a door that’s closed to new people. 

Maybe this time around I can be better than the friend I was before. 

It’s just astounding to me how rare a second chance like this can come around - it’s a chance to be better without the fear and shame that can often come in tow with personal and cultural transformation. 

Instead of thinking of this spring as the time we all “got back to normal”, I would rather think of it as the time we, after a long and lonely winter, emerged wiser than we were, and got back to the important work of creating a world we are proud to pass on.

Preparing to be married indefinitely

Love songs use words like “always” and “forever” but indefinitely is all we get.

I always want to think that Robyn and I will be married and love each other always and forever. Including in the afterlife, and all through whatever comes next, until there is no more next left to have. I want to believe this, even though we really don’t have any say in the matter.

Living for indefinitely is a bit of a paradox. Because you have to plan for forever, not knowing whether you’ll make it past next week. And so much can happen between now and next week - I could be vaporized by a laser, eaten by a dinosaur, or drowned in a pool of chocolate pudding, or undergo one of many more conventional methods of death. We could do something so cruel to each other that our marriage dissolves. The universe might must...stop. We don’t really know, because nothing is definite.

I always have thought of the phrase, “live like there are 10,000 tomorrows all of which that may never come” as a paradox that fits when contemplating how to live a life.

But how? How do we prepare for a life, marriage, and maybe and afterlife together that lasts indefinitely. How do we prepare for anything that is indefinite?

All I can think of is a two principles: make adjustments and manage exponential growth.

Making adjustments to me, is all about the process of realizing our marriage is imperfect and trying to change the underlying behaviors which lead to fissures. To me there’s certainly a process for managing these fissures (we use temperature check, for example). Certainly things like “communication” and “conflict resolution” are important skills.

But the more important, overlooked factor here I think, is the humility it takes to acknowledge that our marriage needs to be worked on every day. Every interaction we have is a chance to work on our marriage. We cannot take days off. Processes like temperature check don’t work if we don’t humbly believe we actually need to utilize them.

And the principle of managing exponential growth, to me, is the understanding that both good and bad things can snowball quickly and that we should act accordingly.

Of course, it’s obvious that problems in a marriage can spiral out of control quickly. And so, obviously, it’s important to solve problems quickly, before they get big. The old adage of “never go to bed angry” is a good rule of thumb that Robyn and I really believe in.

But exponential growth can also be positive, and we need that reserve of goodwill to carry us through hard times. Just as we can’t let problems spiral out of control, we can’t let opportunities to strengthen our marriage and create joy - even little ones - pass by.. Little things - like writing a little note, or making a special treat, or saying I love you at an unexpected time - these all build on each other to create joy and love.

There are probably hundreds of these tiny little interactions every day, and those opportunities for joy and love can’t be wasted. We need to give positive exponential growth a fighting chance to happen. We can’t wait for grand gestures to grow our love and trust - they’re not enough to help our marriage at least, last indefinitely.

As it happens, the idea of managing exponential growth also is rooted in a mindset of humility. Because by trying to managing exponential growth, we’re acknowledging that negative exponential growth could crush us and that our marriage is not naturally dynamic enough to survive without positive exponential growth, either.

It seems to me, the key to a marriage that lasts indefinitely is to deeply and truly respect the challenge and then act accordingly. For many years I have wondered where that sort of humility comes from. Like why do some people have it and some people don’t? Humility, to me, seems like one of the most important dispositions to have when participating in human relationships.

It’s the subject of deeper reflection, but I think listening and observing the world around us (even the ugly parts) and experiencing real pain and loss are two things that help humility to germinate in a person.

Kegerators, Enrollment, and Becoming Better

There are two general strategies for making the world we live in better: make better systems or make better people.

More on that after the break - first a story about a kegerator.

—

We took a walk during our neighborhood yard sale and stopped to chat with some neighbors we know from a few blocks over.

“Did ya’ll sell anything?”

To which they replied energetically, “yes, we finally sold our kegerator!”

“Who was this person that bought it? Were they fresh out of school or something?”

”No it was actually an older guy, who was landscaping in the neighborhood. He already had one and he’d been looking for a second one for a long time. He bought it and threw it in his trailer.”

Of course, I thought. A pretty good predictor of who might buy a kegerator is someone who already has one. For whatever reason, they’re already enrolled in the journey of having a kegerator. Maybe they brew beer. Maybe they like throwing parties. Maybe they are amateur chemists who have to keep large vats of liquid cold.

Whoever they are, kegerators are already part of the journey they are on. They’re already sold on them.

—

I believe there are two general strategies for making the world we live in better: making better systems or making better people. And by my observation, there are plenty of people trying to make better systems and not that many people trying to make better people. And also by my observation, good, honest, kind, loving, respectful, courageous, persistent people tend to to be better at making systems and cultures better.

And so that brings me to the journey that I am on. I am trying become a better husband, father, and citizen - at home, at work, and in my neighborhood. That’s my life’s work. It’s my jam and my struggle. It’s my hard, long, lifelong slog. That’s why I write this blog. It’s a journal reflecting on this long walk that I’m on to become better.

Why I share this blog is for others - those on a long walk of their own, or those supporting someone trying to become a better husband, father, or citizen. It’s my attempt at being a lighthouse. By sharing what I have learned and connecting with others my hope is that all of us rise together.

I’ve proven to myself that I’m committed to this journey. For the first time in 15 years of blogging, I’ve published consistently. This post is well beyond my 52nd consecutive week of publishing a post. I’m in it for the long haul.

If you’re on this long walk to become better what can I do for us? Is it writing more or going deeper? Is it getting us together on a zoom call so we have support? Is it starting a book club? Is it organizing a conference? Is it creating software to solve a common problem we face?

There is no meetup for people like us. There is no seminal volume for people like us. There is no watering hole for people like us, that I’ve found at least. Right now, we’re isolated, venturing into uncharted territory, wondering who else is out there that’s on this long walk too.

I am eager to hear from you so we can all rise together. You can leave a comment here, find me on social media (linked on this website) or email me at neil.tambe@gmail.com. There are others, and I’m committed to bring us together in a meaningful way over time.

-Neil

A choking son; My brother’s keeper

I knew it was only a matter of time until one of our sons had a real choking scare. And it finally happened yesterday, when one of our boys put a quarter into his mouth, playfully, but then couldn’t breathe.

It was while I was cooking breakfast. The boys and I were in the kitchen and I was turning some hash browns over in a cast iron pan. And my back was turned to them for maybe 10 or 15 seconds. When I turned to check back, he was doing the sort of quiet, gasping head bob when you’re trying to dislodge something in the throat.

I struck his upper back sharply once. Then twice. And the quarter - and I’ll remember it forever, it was one of those state quarters for Idaho - popped out. And just like that, in another few seconds, it was over. My son and I melted into each other, him in shock, me trying to be stoic and calm, even though I was coming back from a feeling of free-fall inside.

It was the shortest worst moment of my life. I was about the same age when I choked on a hard candy lifesaver and I remember it vividly, still. He and I will both remember this, forever, I think. I woke up from sleep last night and couldn’t stop replaying it in my head for 30 minutes straight, until I tried reimagining us taking that quarter between both our palms, while on our knees intertwined in the kitchen, using magical energy to make it disappear away.

—

The scariest part of choking is that it literally makes someone helpless. As in, the act of choking makes it impossible to shout for help, and therefore makes one help-less. To even notice someone is choking you have to be very close to them, any more than a few yards away, literally or figuratively, and you can’t see or hear their signals.

I knew this day would come, someday. So when I’m on duty with the kids, I don’t like being away from them for any measurable period of time. Even if I’m immersed in something, like cooking breakfast, I always have one eye and one ear in their direction. Because I knew this day would come, and knowing it would has haunted me since our first son was born.

The scariest part of someone choking is that it makes them helpless. To notice someone is choking you have to be around to notice them. That’s all I’ve been thinking about for the past day straight.

And it has led me to reflect more broadly. Who am I choosing to notice? It is just my wife and kids? Is it my family and close friends? What about my neighbors? What if I, literally or figuratively, saw someone choking and help-less at a park or while out shopping? Would I notice them? Who am I noticing? Who am I choosing not to notice?

This whole experience of choking - both living through my son’s scare and reliving my own - has got me thinking about my relationship with the world outside myself. And I think this idea of noticing rhymes with the spirt of the phrase “I am my brother’s keeper.” Who we choose to notice is our brother or sister, someone we don’t cannot be. Who we choose to notice matters. Who I am choosing to notice and not notice matters.

There’s a chasm between who I ought to  notice, who I choose to notice, and who I actually notice. It’s humbling and intimidating to think how big that chasm might be.

This chasm, it seems, is one way to represent the challenge of trying to be a good person, day to day, in the trenches of real life. Who am I choosing to notice and not notice is an indicting, messy, moral question. But it’s one, I think, worth walking toward, with intention into the unknown, instead of running away from.

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.

Coaxing my best self to show up

Historically, the time between hitting the snooze button on my alarm and getting out of bed has been the worst part of my day.

One of two things usually happens. One, I might immediately open my phone and start scrolling through facebook, which gets me amped because of the memes and sensational posts. Or, my mind starts to run through my to-do list, and I feel like garbage out of the gate because I’m always behind and that’s the first emotion I’m feeling to start the day.

Either way, I never fall back asleep, which makes me feel even worse because I’ve wasted 9 (or 18 or 27) minutes of my day on top of putting myself into a bad mood. This cycle repeats, every day. 

And every day our culture is like Lucy pulling the football out from under me, and I’m Charlie Brown thinking today is different and ending up on my ass before I’ve even put my slippers on.

This past week, I’ve been trying an alternative snooze cycle.

I’m in bed, my eyes are closed, and I’m cycling through my day. But instead of dreadfully asking, “what do I have to do today?” I’m thinking, “what would my day look and feel like today if I were being the best version of myself?”

And I visualize in my head, myself, going through my day at my best. Hour by hour, I’m feeling my attitude and my body. I’m imagining how I am treating others. I’m thinking about how I’m approach the day’s work if I’m at my peak. I’m thinking about times when my day is going to spiral out of control, and I’m feeling in my bones how to bring it back to balance. I’m thinking less about what I have to do, and more about how I’m going to act.

It’s a dress rehearsal for the day. And it takes about 3 minutes.

I remember from dance recitals  growing up, what dress rehearsal feels like. It’s different than rehearsals at the studio, because you’re in the space you’ll be performing and you’re actually wearing the clothes and costume as if it’s the real thing. It’s as close to the real thing as it gets without performing in the actual show.

But there’s less pressure because it’s not the recital; you know it’s not the real show. Which makes it a risk-free rep. But dress rehearsals are amazing because they help your body know what the real thing will be like, for the most part. So when the real show happens, you’re as ready as you can be.

I tried “dress rehearsal for the day” visualization once, and I was hooked. I’ve done it every day since. As I went throughout my day, after the first morning of doing this exercise, I felt like I was in a prepared posture instead of a defensive one. When things started going badly during my day, it’s like my mind and body had muscle memory kick in to recognize that something was wrong and self-correct.

The truth is, I have not been at my best for the past few months. I have been getting angrier at my children more quickly. Resentment piles up faster when I perceive an affront of disrespect from my family or at work. I am more overwhelmed by my to-do list. I have been in a state of general malaise more days out of the week, then I was a year ago. And like most mortal men, when tension piles up, it leads to conflict more often than it would otherwise.

And I don’t want more conflict in my life. I don’t want to be that resentful husband. I don’t want to be that angry father. I don’t want to be that self-absorbed neighbor or colleague.

The problem is, life has trade offs. In addition to not wanting to feel so much tension, I don’t want to give up on the priorities I care about that give me this tension in the first place. Nor do I want to to accept this tension and have a short fuse basically all the time.

There’s one way I see out of this trade off, and that’s to be my best self: behaving with a better attitude and a clearer mind throughout the day. Because my best self is better equipped to deal with this tension than my average self is. My best self creates growth and love from tension, my average self gets washed over by it.

But it’s not easy to get him to show up all the time, even though I want him to. Which is not unique to me, I think. I think a lot of us want our best self to show up more often.

This dress rehearsal visualization has helped my best self show up more regularly (at least a little), which is why I wanted to share it with others.

Riley’s lesson in fatherhood

Riley couldn’t stand to be alone with me for at least three solid months after we first adopted him. Riley happens to be a dog, by the way. We don’t know exactly why, but we suspect he had some bad experiences with men before he became part of our family.

I remember one morning, I was feeding Riley before work. At the recommendation of a friend, I had been in the habit of feeding Riley from his bowl with my hand. Apparently, that’s a technique used by handlers of military and police dogs (or something like that) that builds trust between the dog and their partner.

This particular morning, Riley was refusing to eat. He wouldn’t eat anything from my palm. I distinctly remember, I was on the linoleum floor in the kitchen of our tiny apartment, literally on my hands and knees, trying to coax Riley to eat. Dude wouldn’t budge.

And so we sat there. 5 minutes went by, then 10, and 15. Maybe even 20 minutes had passed. I was fuming because Riley was refusing to eat and I needed to hop in the shower to avoid being late for work. And yet, nothing. Kid wouldn’t eat, and would just point his snout in the opposite direction, rebuffing my offer of kibble for breakfast. I was losing my mind, and getting progressively angrier.

When I was at my wit’s end, I had this idea. What if I “spoke Riley’s language” and growled and howled at him. I figured that if I showed enough aggression, it might startle him into eating - you know, put him on the defensive.

In retrospect, this was obviously a terrible idea and a horrible approach to even contemplate. Looking back on it, I can’t believe I even tried it, because it’s obviously callous. Unsurprisingly, it had no effect. Riley still wouldn’t eat.

And during this excruciatingly stupid experiment, I had an epiphany. I realized that I couldn’t control Riley. Even though he was a dog, and even though I had pretty much all the real power in our relationship, I literally couldn’t control him - I couldn’t make him eat.

But in addition to not having the ability to control Riley, I realized that I didn’t want to control Riley. Because as I growled and got in Riley’s face on our kitchen floor, I realized that to control Riley, I might have to go the distance. I might have to make him submit to me. I might have to get in his face for weeks. I might have to yank his collar and threaten him or shame him with persistence. Because in Riley’s case, I knew he wouldn’t budge easily; it was clear his issues with men were deep-rooted.

To control him, I realized, I might put myself on a slippery slope that started with a desire for obedience but ended in physical or emotional abuse. Because if Riley kept refusing food, for example, I’d have to increase the intensity of whatever control tactic I was using. And if I had to exert dominance to control him for something like food, some other behavior of obedience was probably next. And then, what would be there to stop me from crossing the line from control to abuse?

The alternative, I decided in that moment, while I was literally hand-feeding Riley on my knees in our apartment, was to treat Riley as an equal. Not equal in the sense that he was a peer - after all, I do have a duty and responsibility to take care of and raise Riley - but as someone worth of equal treatment and respect.

Which is a radically different perspective, especially for a dog. And it looks really different to raise and care for a dog if I’m trying to treat him with equal respect, rather than trying to control him. In practice, it meant that I had to earn his trust to eat from my hand, rather than trying to bully him into it. I had to be incredibly consistent with trying to calm him down on walks in the neighborhood rather than yanking him around on his leash every time he stopped to smell a rock or chase a squirrel.

As is said by Mary Poppins, in the iconic film, I had to be “always firm, but never cross.” And that takes tremendous patience, nudging, trust, and self-control. And honestly, everything takes so much longer when you’re actively trying not to control him. And it took months to even get Riley to show any signs of progress or positive feeling toward me.

And, if I’m being transparent - there have been lots of  times since that morning in the kitchen where I’ve exploded at Riley and regressed into this dynamic where I utilize control tactics instead of tactics governed by the principles of equal treatment and respect. 

And I don’t how it would’ve turned out if I had kept trying to control him, but Riley and I do have a great relationship now - he trusts me and I trust him.  Everyday is still a challenge (especially when the mail carrier shows up in the middle of a Zoom call), but it’s okay that our relationship is still a work in progress.

The lesson from all this has been profound, as I’ve become a father to our sons. I realized the situation with Riley was more generalizable: if I want to control anyone’s behavior - Riley’s, our sons’, my colleagues’, my wife’s or anyone else - it might require me to abuse them at some point. Which leaves me with a choice: try to control someone and risk crossing a line, or, let go of wanting to control them in the first place.

But actively choosing not to control someone is difficult, as any parent would probably attest. When our sons are yelling at me, kicking me, and sometimes literally trying to spit in my face, I want to control them so that they stop. When we’re late to go somewhere, I want to control them so that they pick up the pace. At these high-pressure times It’s really hard to treat them as an equal, because it’s honestly incredibly inconvenient to do so. Having control of them would be so much easier!

And this approach of treating my sons as my equal is incredibly hard, for a few reasons. For one, sometimes my children need me to take control of a difficult situation because they’re too young to assess or handle the consequences of their actions. And controlling a situation and controlling them is a slippery slope in and of itself. But perhaps more so, I feel like I’ve been programmed to control my kids, not treat them as equals. The language and concepts our culture uses around children reinforces obedience and control. We’re expected not to have our kids throw tantrums in public. We use the words “mommy” and “papa” in the third person which reinforces the positional, hierarchical relationship between parent and child, at least somewhat. And in the back of my mind there’s always this simmering pressure of wanting my kids to be “successful” so they can earn a living and be independent someday, yes, but also because I know my children are a reflection on me. So yes, I feel like there are cultural tailwinds that encourage me to “control” our children.

But that experience on the floor trying to growl Riley into eating his breakfast left a lasting impression in my mind. I can’t shake the thought that control over someone else might require abusing them, in some way, eventually. And so I’m trying to imagine, “if I parented our sons not as peers but still as equals, what would that look like?” I’m still trying to figure it out, but it’s involved a lot of “I messages”, candor, patience, and transparency.

And honestly, I’m still really terrible at this approach to parenting. I slip into control-freak mode often with Bo and Myles, especially when we’re around hot frying pans, vehicular traffic, and sharp objects. But I think it’s worth it to keep trying. 

Because what happens when they’re adults if all I’ve done their whole lives is try to control what they do? They’ll eventually have the freedom to make their own choices, would they know how to handle that freedom if I’ve stolen the chance for them to explore it their whole lives? I feel like I owe it to them to try, and fail my way through it. Hopefully, someday I’ll get it right.

Who is low-potential, exactly?

There are lots of organizations that have programs for “high-potentials”, cohorts of “emerging leaders”, or who’s who lists for “rising stars”.

But lately, I’ve wondered: if we have programs for “high-potential” talent, who is “low-potential”, exactly? It’s audacious to me that we consider anyone low-potential. 

With the right role, coach, opportunities, and expectations, my experience suggests that just about anyone can grow and thrive and make a tremendous contribution to whatever organization they are part of. Moreover, in my experience the most important ingredient needed for someone to be “high-potential” is that they want and are motivated to grow and be better.

It seems to me that a better approach than creating high-potential programs or leadership development cohorts that are exclusive is to design them in such a way that anyone who wants to opt-in and put in the work can participate.

And wouldn’t that be better anyway? Aren’t our customers, colleagues, shareholders, and culture all better off if everyone who wanted to had a structure where they could grow to their fullest potential? Even if not everyone ends up being a positional leader, don’t we want every single person in our companies to be better at the behavior of leading?

I don’t buy the excuse that it would take too many resources to design structures for developing potential that’s inclusive rather than exclusive. Software makes interaction much cheaper and scalable. People are really good at developing themselves and learning from their peers, given the right environment. And, in my experience most people are willing to coach and mentor someone coming up if that person is eager to learn and grow.

I definitely would want to be persuaded in a different direction,.however. Because to me, employing the best ways to prevent human talent from being wasted is worth doing, even if it’s not my idea that wins.

But again, if someone is truly motivated to grow and make a greater contribution, who of those folks are low-potential, exactly?

The Artist’s Choice

To continue as artists, we have to keep making a choice to be out there on a lonely limb. Because artists, by definition I think, break new ground. Artists explore ideas and techniques that haven’t been done before. To be artists we have to create tension and push cultural boundaries further. It’s what we do and it’s our job.

The hard part about pushing boundaries is that it requires some level of independence and that cultural distance can be isolating.  We cannot do our job pushing the boundaries of ideas and culture if we’re beholden to them. And so we have to set ourselves apart from orthodoxies or operate in the spaces between worlds. For me, this  manifests in a feeling of, “I feel like I can exist almost everywhere, but I don’t belong anywhere.”

And so the choice. We can be artists that create tension and push the edges of things or we can be craftspeople that masterfully create something that’s already accepted - not both.

To be clear, I don’t apply this definition only to who we conventionally think of as “artists.” Sure, photographers, painters, actors, dancers, musicians, and sculptors are all artists. But so are the chefs, computer programmers, corporate strategists, public servants, doctors, parents, physicists, and teachers that push up against the conventional wisdom of their domains to explore new ground.

In addition to being lonely, choosing to be an artists has frustrating trade-offs. The idea of a “starving artist” captures it well. 

It’s hard to be paid handsomely for your work when you’re pushing boundaries, because the world doesn’t know it wants to pay for this weird, uncomfortable thing we’re exploring. If we’re lucky, maybe the world will develop a palate for what we’re doing while we’re alive, or even we’ve gone ahead. But maybe it never will.

I have felt this tension in my own vocation. I don’t really fit in anywhere in a corporate setting, even though I’ve always worked in them. I don’t have a career aspiration that’s as simple as, “I want to be a CFO” or “I want to run my own company.” A lot of the time, I don’t think my colleagues have any idea what to do with someone like me, because my skill set and aspirations are bizarre and hard to fit into existing functions. 

I suspect that if I told people at work, “the aim of my work is to bring goodness to the world by creating high-performing governments and help organizations to stop wasting talent.” They’d be like, “what the hell are you talking about?”

But that’s the choice, isn’t it? We could probably be wealthier than we are, or have more status than we do now by just creating what we know people already like. 

But that wouldn’t be art.

Asking for directions, when it matters

I have probably had to ask for directions while traveling, less than 10 times in my life including trips to foreign countries. This is an incredible feat. We have Google to help us with this sort of question. And because we have Google to help us with this, I think I’ve also been asked for directions less than ten times in my life. 

And by extension, I’ve rarely, if ever, had to say to someone, “I’m lost, can you help me?” And finally, to wrap up this observation, I’ve also probably never had to ask someone, “You look lost, can I help you find your way?”

And when it comes to getting to where we intend to go, like when it’s finding a new restaurant, or getting to a friend’s house in a new city, maybe it’s not a huge deal that we don’t have much practice asking for or giving directions. Maybe it’s nice that we are rarely “lost” or see someone who appears to be lost. On the surface, at very least, this seems like a good development.

But it dawned on me, what if the stakes were higher? What if we need directions on something that isn’t easily found on the internet? Say if we don’t know where to begin on a new project, and we need directions on this. What if we’re “lost” in our marriages or in fatherhood. What if our friends or family are veering toward a dark path, and we need to tell them they look lost?

These four scenarios - asking for directions, giving directions, admitting I’m lost, or identifying someone who is lost - are hard to begin with. It’s hard to ask for help, it makes me feel foolish. And it’s awkward to tell someone, “you look lost, but don’t worry, I’d like to help you.”

If I don’t have to do these things that often because we have Google, can I be sure I even know how to? It’s unsettling to think I may be out of practice asking for or giving directions. Because there are times, I’m sure, that it’s going to actually matter.

The essential role of aunts and uncles

I have come to appreciate aunts and uncles more lately, because now I see the effect that they have on our sons. 

I am just in awe of how loved the boys feel by their aunts and uncles, whether they are blood-relatives or just close friends that care about our children as if they were blood family. And the love of an aunt or uncle is different than what we can give them, it’s something more generous perhaps. It’s as if the boys know, “you are not my parents, but you care about me and love me for who I am anyway, and that makes me feel safe and valued.”

Seeing the special love of aunts and uncles in the lives of our boys, has reminded me of my own aunts and uncles. I never could put words to it before, but I feel that same special, freely given, unconditional love from them. Thinking about it in retrospect, the love and support of my aunts and uncles has been a stabilizing force in my life.

I remember when my car broke down on the way into New York after college - miles away from the George Washington Bridge - and my Masi and Massasahib and extended family rescued me from a shady mechanic shop in the middle of North Jersey. 

Or when my uncles in India deliberately ripped on American domestic policy to get a rise out of me and make sure I had some fire and fight in me. Or all our family friends who subtly reminded me I was a good kid in the middle of high school, by letting me sit and listen and hang out while they talked about scientific discovery, foreign affairs, or literature.

Or when Robyn’s aunts and uncles pulled me in and made me feel like part of the family, even from the very first family dinner I met them at by telling me stories and asking me questions. And they showed up at my father’s funeral as if they had known me my entire life.

I think what’s special about the love of aunts and uncles is that it’s redundant, affirming, and honest. It builds stability and resilience because it’s not the primary, day-in-day out sort of relationship you lean on. But it’s there, waiting to catch you, and to pick you up. And at times, it’s only an aunt or uncle who can really sit you down and get you out of the muck because they are able to have unconditional love but also enough distance and objectivity to call it like they see it.

It’s this combination of redundancy, affirmation, and honesty that makes aunts and uncles so important for a family’s culture. Theirs is a moderating influence that kicks in when things are going wrong.

And the more I think of it, the more I believe that every organization and community needs people who play the role of an aunt or uncle to thrive. In a company, for example, “aunts and uncles” are the people who take an active interest in you and give you advice, but don’t manage you directly. I can think of dozens of people who have been that sort of guide from afar, for me or others. When you mentor and develop others for whom you aren’t directly responsible, it’s such a gift to the culture of the company.

The same dynamic exists in a city. There are plenty of people who don’t have formal responsibilities over something but raise people up anyway. It could be neighbors who aren’t a block captain, but throw parties on their block and keep an eye out for neighborhood kids. It could be successful business owners who give advice behind the scenes to those coming up, outside of the auspices of business incubators and mentor programs.  It could be the elderly couple in the church parish who invite newlywed couples to have dinner once or twice a year and help to nurture them through the ebbs and flows of marriage. These little acts are gifts that build the culture of a City and make the community more resilient. Which, it seems, is exactly like what aunts and uncles do.

I organize my life around three pillars - being a husband, father, and citizen. But what I’m realizing is that “uncle” is a really important role that fits within this framework, that I want to be intentional about - despite how invisible that role may be.

Status fights and wasted talent

Companies, and really any organization, can function like a fight for status. This “fight” plays out in organizations the same way whether it’s a corporation, a community group, or a typical school cafeteria.

There’s a limited number of spots at the top of the pecking order, and the people up there are trying to stay there, and those that aren’t are either trying to claw to the top or survive by disengaging and staying out of the fray.

If you’re engaged in a fight for status there are two ways to win, as far as I can tell: knocking other people down or promoting yourself up.

Knocking other people down is what bullies do. They call you names in public, they flex their strength, they form cartels for protection, and they basically do anything to show their dominance. They become stronger when they make others weaker.

This is, of course, easy to relate to if you’ve ever been to middle school or have seen movies like Mean Girls or The Breakfast Club. However, the same sort of dominating behavior that lowers others’ status occurs in work environments.

“Bullies” in the work environment do things like interrupt you in a meeting, talk louder or longer than you, take credit for your work, exclude you from impactful projects, tell stories about your work (inaccurately) when you’re not there, pump up the reputation of people in their clique, or impose low-status “grunt work” on others. All these things are behaviors which lower the status of others. In the work environment, bullies get stronger by making others weaker.

The other way to win a status fight is to promote yourself up and manage your perception in the organization. In the work environment, tactics to promote yourself up include things like: advertising your professional or educational credentials, talking about your accomplishments (over and over), flashing your title, hopping around to seek promotions and avoid messy projects, or name dropping to affiliate yourself with someone who has high status.

Let’s put aside the fact that status fights are crummy to engage in, cause harm, and probably encourage ethically questionable behavior. What really offends me about organizations that function as a status fight is that they waste talent.

In a status-fight organizations people with lower status are treated poorly. And when that happens they don’t contribute their best work - either because they disengage to avoid conflict or because their efforts are actively discouraged or blocked. 

Think of any organization you’ve ever been part of that functions like a status fight. Imagine if everyone in that organization of “lower status” was able to contribute 5% or 10% more to the customer, the community, or the broader culture. That 5 to 10% bump is not unreasonable, I think - it’s easy to contribute more when you’re not suffocating. What a waste, right?

Of course, not all organizations function like a status fight and I’ve been lucky to have been part of a few in my lifetime. I think of those organizations as participating in a “status quest” rather than a “status fight”. In a status-questing organization, status actually creates a virtuous cycle rather than a pernicious one.

A status quest, in the way that I mean it, is an organization that’s in pursuit of a difficult, important, noble purpose. Something that’s aspirational and generous, but also exceptionally difficult. 

In these status-questing organizations the standard for performance (what you accomplish) and conduct (how you act) is set extremely high, because everyone knows it’s impossible to accomplish the important, noble, quest unless everyone is bringing their best work everyday and doing it virtuously. 

And when the bar is set that high, everyone feels the tension of needing to hit the standard, because it’s hard. Whether it’s to achieve the quest or be seen by their peers as making a generous contribution to the organization’s efforts, everyone wants to do their part and needs the help of others. 

And as a result, the opposite dynamic of a status fight occurs. Instead of knocking other people down, people in a status-questing organization have no choice but to coach others up, which ultimately raises everyone’s status. 

If you’re on a noble quest, there’s plenty of “status” to go around and the organization can’t afford to waste the contribution of anybody in the building - whether it’s the person answering the phone or a senior executive. In a status-questing organization, the rational decision is to raise the bar and coach instead of throw other people under the bus.

And what’s nice, is that in an organization with that raise-the-bar-and-coach-others-up dynamic is that the bullies don’t succeed, because their inability to raise and coach is made visible. And then they leave. And so the virtuous cycle intensifies.

So if you’re in an organization that feels more like a high-school cafeteria than an expeditionary force of a noble, virtuous quest, my advice to you is this: raise the bar of performance and conduct for the part of the organization you’re responsible for - even if it’s just yourself. And once you raise the bar, coach yourself and others up to it. 

And when you do that, you’ll start to notice (and attract) the other people in the organization who are also interested in being on a noble quest, rather than a status fight. Find ways to team up with those people, and then keep raising the bar and coaching up to it. Raise and coach, raise and coach, over and over until the entire organization is on a status quest and any “bullies” that remain choose to leave.

Of course, this is one person’s advice. Looking back on it, it’s how I’ve operated (but I honestly didn’t realize this is how I rolled until writing this piece) and it’s served me well. Sure, I haven’t had a fast-track career with a string of promotions every two years or anything, but I have done work that I’m proud of, I’ve conducted myself in a way that I’m proud of, and I have a clear conscience, which has been a worthwhile trade-off for me.

—

Note: this perspective on equality / the immorality of wasted talent is well-trodden ground, philosophically speaking. John Stuart Mill (and presumably his contemporaries) wrote about it. Here’s an explainer on Mill’s The Subjection of Women from Farnam Street that I just saw today. It’s a nice foray into Mill’s work on this topic.

Snapping out of social comparison

When I’m stuck in a rut of feeling like I don’t measure up to others’ accomplishments, the advice of “remember how lucky you are” or “don’t compare yourself to others” or “focus on being the best possible version of you” just doesn’t work for me. It never has.

And in general I suppose those are good pieces of advice. They just don’t help me get out of a cycle of comparing my accomplishments to the people I went to school with or am friends with on LinkedIn.

Most Saturdays, these days at least, we go on a family walk. We live a few blocks away from a neighborhood coffee shop and we go after breakfast. Bo gets a hot chocolate with whipped cream, Robyn gets a coffee with milk, and I treat myself to a mocha - it is the weekend after all. Riley gets a extra long walk with extra time for smells and Myles is content just looking around and feeling the breeze go by as he rides in the stroller’s front seat.

And today, instead of trying to convince myself to stop feeling down about not being as accomplished as my peers, I started to wonder about trade-offs. After all, I made choices - for better or worse - that led to the spot I’m in today. And I wondered, if I had made different choices, what would I have had to sacrifice?

And I quickly realized, if I had made different choices that led to more professional success (which is mostly what drives my feelings of insufficiency, relative to my peers) I would’ve probably had to give up two things: living in Michigan and being a present husband and father. Which are two sacrifices I was absolutely not willing to make.

More or less, this was the thought exercise I went through:

And sure, after doing this exercise there were a few things that I regret and would do differently, like working harder on graduate school apps or sacrificing some of house budget for lawn care (I am irrationally embarrassed about how much crabgrass and brown patches we have on our lawn).

But by and large, thinking about the sacrifices making different choices would’ve required helped me to snap out of the doom loop of social comparison. Trying to ignore the feeling of not measuring up never works. Think about sacrifices and trade offs, was remarkably helpful.

If you also struggle with measuring yourself up to others’ accomplishments, I hope this reframing of the question is helpful to you too.

When I’m feeling used up

As a general rule, I don’t advocate for myself. It’s not that I avoid it or find it uncomfortable, I never really think to do it. The reason why, making a long story short, is that I’m a people-pleaser. I’m motivated more by making someone’s day than I am by a feeling of personal accomplishment.

To be clear, this is a personality flaw. Because I am a people-pleaser, I end up feeling used and used up a lot. Other people ask for my time and energy and my default position is to say yes, which leaves me feeling depleted.

This is a choice, with trade-offs.

How I respond when I feel used up is also a choice.

On the one hand, I could start saying no. I could protect my time and energy by setting boundaries.

On the other hand, I could insist upon reciprocity. Doing so would make day-to-day life more of a give-and-take rather than a mostly-give and sometimes take.

And seemingly paradoxically, I could give more. By digging deep and giving more, I could practice and get better at expanding the boundaries of my very little heart, and learn to give without receiving just a little more.

In reality, I should probably do some amount of all these things. Honestly though, I hope I don’t have to set boundaries or insist upon reciprocity. I hope instead that I can dig deep within and give more when I feel used up. I hope I’m dutiful enough to give to others, even if it means bearing more weight and sacrificing status or personal accomplishment.

I don’t know if the sinews of ethics and purpose holding me together can sustain that. I am definitely a mortal man, and not a saint. But still, I hope that I can dig deep and give more. It seems to be the choice most likely to create the world I hope to live in and leave behind.

But the revelation here is that it is indeed a choice. I feel so much pressure from our culture that the way to handle feeling used up are things like, “say no” or “self-care” or “manage your career” or “give and take” or “know your worth”.

And all that probably has a time and a place for mortal men like me. But that’s not the only choice. This choice is what I’ve found comforting.

Another way to handle feeling used is to live by wisdom like, “service is the rent we pay” or “nothing in the world takes the place of persistence”or “no man is a failure who has friends” or “be honest and kind” or “the fruits of your actions are not for your enjoyment”.

How I respond to feeling used up is a choice.

Inputs of good communication

As I walked upstairs to get dressed and brush my teeth this morning, I said to Robyn, “The tea is steeping, I just put it on.”

It’s common knowledge that poor communication usually leads to strained relationships, especially in marriage. And it dawned on me that I had been thinking about communication in our marriage without much depth.

The key I had been missing was understanding that the practice of good communication, structurally, has to do more with listening and self-awareness than an act of communication itself.

So back to the tea. I made a choice to tell Robyn that I had just put on our morning tea to steep, even though I wouldn’t be upstairs long and Robyn would obviously see that I had put the tea on, if she had gone into the kitchen.

So why did I tell her?

Well, earlier that morning Robyn and I had a conversation about tea and that I would make it. From that conversation, I could tell she was looking forward to having a cup of tea. From past experience, I know that she likes her tea to steep for a certain amount of minutes - usually at least two but no more than 5 or 6.

And I also realized that if I didn’t tell Robyn that I had put the tea on just then, she wouldn’t know exactly when I had. So if I ended up getting stuck upstairs - which I did in this case, flossing and putting away some clothes, I think - our tea may sit steeping for too long. Which means it would be overly strong and would be colder than we wanted it.

In this case, again, the communication I made was simply telling Robyn that I just put on our tea to steep. That turned out to be good communication, because it led to us having tea exactly the way we like it and we had no stress over me starting the tea and letting it steep to long - I didn’t feel guilty about it and Robyn wasn’t let down.

I didn’t think much about telling that to Robyn. That communication emerged organically, because I paid attention to what Robyn was saying about tea - both this morning and historically. And, I was thinking about how my action, going upstairs for a tooth brushing and a change of clothes - might affect her. And as a result of those two practices of listening and self-awareness, I blurted out a simple sentence about the status of our tea without thinking about it.

At the same time, Robyn acknowledged that I went upstairs and took it upon herself to finish our cups of tea so it was perfect by the time I came back downstairs. Because we were both listening and self-aware, we communicated well and having a lovely cup of tea this morning.

And of course, this one interaction would not have made or broken our marriage. But an otherwise stale interaction became a bid of love and mutual respect. I got to make Robyn tea and she got to finish it - we were both grateful to each other and felt loved by each other. And this was one small moment, but all these little interactions add up and fill up the piggy bank of trust in our relationship.

So yeah, good communication is great. But “good communication”, I’ve realized, is not just an exercise in expressing yourself clearly in words or body language. Listening and self-awareness are two structural inputs of good communication. 

So if we want to communicate better we should focus there - rather than just trying to “communicate more” or “communicate better”. Good communication can’t help but emerge when we listen and try to understand the impact we have on other people.

And for sure, Robyn and I have lapses and don’t communicate well sometimes, so I don’t mean this story to be self-aggrandizing. Instead, I share this story because we all know that relationships, especially marriages, depend on good communication. Most people I’ve encountered who advise that, however, do so without being specific about where “good communication” comes from or how to actually get better at it.

Walk beyond me

Myles,

8 days ago, my boy, you took your first steps. It was a Saturday. Your mother and I were in the family room with you on the floor and we were playing with Hot Wheels or magnets I think while your brother napped.

And you were up, holding onto your mother. And then you reached out to me, with your mouth-open smile, balanced, and took four steps toward me.

And we were so proud and happy for you. You are growing, and you are starting to cleave away from us, already, and take your own path in life.

But I want you to know, Myles, that those steps are not for me. You do not need to take steps - literally or figuratively - to please me. I am your father, but your life is not for my pleasure.

And you are our second child, as you know. And as it happens, your brother took his first steps in almost exactly the same place, in our family room. And you, son, need not follow in his footsteps, either. You are your own person, with your own gifts. We already see this. You and your brother are best friends, even now and I am overcome with a deep joy that you will be able to walk together in life. But you are each your own. You are each one of a kind.

It was a very sweet memory for your mother and I to have, to see you and hold you as you took your first steps. But this letter to you, also, is not for my pleasure. I want you to remember, yes, that your steps are not for me and nor do you have to follow the footsteps of your brother. But equally, I write this so you can remember that your steps are not fully yours alone either.

I hope you realize that the steps you take, matter. I hope you realize that you have the capability to carry others forward as you walk. I hope you choose to walk toward goodness and with righteousness with every step you take. I hope you walk with conviction and take steps in a direction that push our community and the human race forward. And I hope you relish the journey of love, honor, and service that is symbolized by the taking of a long walk.

But more than anything, Myles (and I mean this for your older brother too) that one day, you will walk past me. And you must walk past me. It is difficult for me to even acknowledge that one day I will not be able to walk with you. One day, I will be feeble and my footsteps will falter and I will return to our common father.

But know this: I want you to walk beyond the rim of the mountain where my life ends. I will carry you and your brother as far as I can. But as I falter, you must continue. You must walk beyond me. And don’t for a moment believe that I resent that you will reach lands and truths I will not. I will not look upon my departure from discovered to undiscovered country as a sunset of my own life. I will see that moment as the light of morning, where the moon and night ends, yes, but are eclipsed by a greater light.

You have taken your first steps, Myles, and you are well on your way. I will treasure the steps I get to take with you. But one day, when I return to dust, walk beyond me.

Love,

Your Papa

When our kids have hard days

The first words he said to me, as he had the purple towel draped generously over his wet hair and entire frame, were,

“It was a hard day, Papa.”

And then he melted into me, and I, on one knee, wrapped my arms around him and started to rub his back - both to help him dry off and comfort him. And we just stayed there, hugging on the bathroom floor for awhile.

And that’s one of the saddest type of moments I think I’ve had - when you’re kid is just sad. And yes even at three years old and change, he can have hard days and recognize that those days were hard. 

And it wasn’t even that I felt and explosive, caustic sadness, where you feel the sadness growing and pushing out from core to skin. Like a sadness that smolders into my limbs and mind, and makes them feel like burning. 

It was a depleting sadness, where I started to feel my heart shrinking, my bones and muscles hollowing, and my face and skin starting to feel...transparent maybe. It was a sadness that made me feel like I was disappearing.

When your own children - the ones you have a covenant with God and the universe to take care of - are truly sad, it’s a feeling you want to pass as quickly as possible, and never want to have again.

And when I realized that I “never want to feel this way again”, I started to get these two primal-feeling urges.

First I wanted to “fix it”. And “fixing it” has two benefits. First, it just stops this horrible feeling of depleting sadness. Because if I fix it, my son isn’t sad anymore, and therefore I’m not sad anymore.

But also, if I were the one who failed my son somehow and caused him to fall into this genuine sadness, fixing it is my redemption. Fixing the sadness is what helps me to feel like I’m not to blame. Because if I’ve fixed the external problem causing his sadness - the problem wasn’t me, it was that thing. Fixing it gives me the illusion that I’m the hero in this story, not the villain.

But beyond wanting to fix it, there was a more insidious urge, that crept on me slowly, was to believe this falsehood of, “maybe he’s just not ready” or “maybe we need to protect him more”. 

And the fuzzy logic of that urge is this: If my kid is sad, there’s something out there that he can’t handle yet. And if I hold him back from going back out there, he’s less likely to have a hard day. Then he won’t be sad. And then I won’t feel this depleting sadness either.

But the problem with both of these responses is that if I find a way to let myself off the hook, it also deprives him of the opportunity to grow, and muddle his way through his sadness. Our kids will have hard days, and those days will suck. And on those days, we have to bring our best selves as parents. Because that’s when our kids need us to guide them, and love them, and coach them, and encourage them. And, many of those times we won’t be good enough; we will fail as parents and coaches. And they will have to muddle through that sadness for a longer. And we will feel depleted for longer, too.

But, damn. From those hard days, and that sadness, comes strength and confidence for our kids. Once they muddle through sadness, they have one more datapoint to add to their model to remind them that they can do this, they can figure this out, they can be themselves, they can be at peace, and they can rise up and through adversity. 

And even though my instinct is to help my sons avoid sadness, I cannot let that instinct win. Because that instinct is selfish. What that motive truly is, is me wanting to avoid that horrible, depleting sadness that comes when your kids are sad. 

Because these kids will have hard days. They will be sad. And even though my instinct is to make it stop as quickly as possible, and to never let this happen to them ever again, I must resist that selfish urge to fix their problems for them.

What I really need to do is comfort them, encourage them, love them, and coach them, and show them that no matter what happens I will be with them in this foxhole of sadness until they find a way out, no matter what.

And that I will be there, and support them in a way that doesn’t deprive them of the chance to come out of it stronger, kinder, and wiser.

The pizza stone, snowblower, and being that kind of man

Two gifts I’ve been using a lot lately are a snowblower and a (2nd) pizza stone. Both were Christmas gifts from our parents in recent years.

The extra pizza stone has doubled our oven’s throughput for making pizza. Which is convenient for us a nuclear family, but it isn’t essential on a weekly basis. Where it makes a big difference is when we’re hosting - say close friends or family. Having that 2nd stone gives us the capability to throw a pizza party. 

Similarly, the snowblower is convenient - especially on days of large snowfall - but not essential. I can muddle through with just a shovel if I really need to. Where the snowblower makes a huge difference is for our block. 

Our next-door neighbors and we have an unwritten code: whoever gets to the shoveling first takes care of the others’ sidewalk. This makes it easier for whoever comes out second, and it clears more of the sidewalk, earlier in the day, for people walking down the block. Having the snowblower makes it much more possible for me to honor that neighborly code.

With the snowblower, I can basically guarantee I’ll be able to remove snow from our house, as well as for each of our next-door neighbors in about 30 minutes. Without the snowblower, it might take me closer to two hours on a day of heavy snowfall to manage that same task.

Receiving the stone and snowblower wasn’t a particularly flashy ordeal. Both were extremely generous and practical gifts, but it wasn’t particularly exciting to receive something so mundane, in the moment of unwrapping the present on Christmas day.

But these sorts of gifts, I’ve realized, are much more than practical. I’ve come to think of them as exponential because they give us the ability to give to others. In this example, the 2nd stone and snowblower has made the amount of times we’ll end up throwing pizza parties or helping out our neighbors over our lifetime exponentially greater.

I’ve thought recently, how humble one must have to be to give an exponential gift. When someone says “thanks for the pizza, it was great” I don’t, after all, make it a point to say something like, “You’re welcome, it would probably wouldn’t have happened if our parents hadn’t got us a 2nd pizza stone for Christmas 3 years ago.”

Or talking to our neighbors across the fence, I would never in a 100 years say something like, “No problem, I was happy to get your snow while I was out. The credit really goes to our parents who got us this snowblower. It would have been much harder to help you if not for their gift.”

And it’s not like I frequently say to our parents, “oh thanks for those gifts, it’s really helped me to be a better friend and neighbor.” Maybe I should, but that’s not really the sort of exchange I’d probably naturally have in real life.

Nobody knows the impact these gifts from our parents have had. Our parent’s probably don’t even realize it.

Essentially, when you give an exponential gift like a 2nd pizza stone or a snowblower, you can’t expect to get credit for it. This is much different than say a more novel gift that other people notice, like a consumer electronic or a very nice piece of new clothing.

Take a sweater I got this Christmas, for example. People noticed and said things like, “that’s a nice sweater, is it new?” And I could reply with something like, “oh yeah, I’ve loved it - it was a great Christmas gift from our parents.”

That sort of affirmation doesn’t happen with exponential gifts. Which is why I think giving an exponential gift takes tremendous generosity and humility, because the gift-giver isn’t recognized for it, nor might they even know how impactful their gift was.

And as I started contemplating this, I began to wonder - am I humble an generous enough to give gifts that nobody will ever know I was responsible for? And let’s put aside Christmas and birthdays and get to the big stuff.

What about in my job? Am I unconsciously holding back on making a contribution that I know won’t help me land a promotion? Am I working hard, just so I can get a pat on the back? 

Do I volunteer in my community because I relish the credit and respect it provides, or because it’s just the right thing to do? Are there things I do, only because of how someone else might see it on instagram? Am I humble and generous, or am I just a peacock and a brat who gives only to get back reciprocally?

I don’t know how to know this, not yet at least. I think this problem - of knowing whether our own actions are done for their own righteous sake or because of the rewards we expect for them - is one of the essential, practical, moral struggles that we all face.

But I feel strongly that it’s important to try understanding this, and acting differently - more humbly and generously - if we can. Because exponential gifts are transformational in real people’s lives, and they transform the culture we live in for the better. I want to be humble and generous enough to give an exponential gift that I never expect to get any credit or recognition for. 

I want to be that kind of man.