Our simplest, most beautiful, dreams

My brother shared the simplest but deepest gratitude at Thanksgiving dinner this year. He said he was grateful for traditions, because on days like Thanksgiving, many people have nowhere to go. He had people to spend time with, and many — including some he knows — do not.

This is perhaps the most basic of our dreams as human beings. It is so fundamental, it may also be an aspiration of many living creatures: that there are others you love, who love you back.

This is a dream, so simple, so elemental as to be forgettable. And yet, it moves us to tears when we realize it has become real. This is something I weep about weekly: the simplest, most universal dream in our world.

But there are more.

Another is freedom — to gather, to worship, to speak, to speak out.

Yet another is movement — to be healthy enough to walk around and go here and there.

There is the simple dream to grow — to learn, to read, to unlock the potential within us.

There is the dream to create — to make something, whether art, an idea, an invention, or a family — something good we can give or leave behind for others after we’re gone.

And finally, we dream of peace — to be whole, content, and in right relation with others, the natural world, and perhaps with God.

To love and be loved, to be free, to grow, to create, to have peace — these are the simplest of dreams. Nothing fancy, nothing complex — but still beautiful.

It does not surprise me that these are the things older people, who have had ample time to experience both joy and suffering, advise us to pursue. These are the dreams we all share, the ones that bind us, when life washes away lesser desires.

I think we miss the plot sometimes. I certainly do. We forget that what we value most is simple.

Instead, we so easily get wrapped up in the pursuit of complicated products, laws, policies, systems, and programs. We get obsessed with the minutiae of the world and forget how it ladders up to our simple, more grounded desires. AI is a convenient example of this. The world has gone mad with AI, seemingly for its own sake, rather than as a means to some more purposeful end.

To be sure, AI and other powerful ideas — like nuclear power, bioengineering, economic growth, and perhaps the idea of America itself — are important. But how often do those things get remembered in the context of love, daily freedoms, creativity, flourishing, or peace? We often lose the plot, distracted by the mystery, power, and shine. We squabble and lust over the most abstract of things and lose sight of the simple dreams we’re all after.

Whether in politics, business, civic life, family life, or communities of faith — we don’t have to chase and optimize that which is minute. We don’t need to get wrapped up in layer upon layer of abstraction within economy, technology, theology, or any other word that ends in “-y” or “-ism.”

This is what I love about the holidays, and especially Thanksgiving: we’re reminded of the simple things that matter most, the ones we so easily lose sight of. Even as we grow the economy, build better governments, and chase bold innovation, we mustn’t lose sight of the simple reasons why we do it all.

To love and be loved, to be free, to grow and flourish, to create, to have peace. These are the simplest, most beautiful, of dreams.

We can’t let these dreams be lost, and become afterthoughts of progress. All our striving, all our squabbling — it’s for these dreams.

Mercy, Unasked

Mercy

I have never asked for mercy once in my life—until today. Not from a person, and not in prayer. Not once. A surprisingly vivid memory from high school is a microcosm of why.

I was hanging out with a bunch of other guys from school in my friend’s basement—for our weekly post-school afternoon of the Nerf Combat League. (Yes, it was a real thing, and yes, it was awesome.) I can’t remember why, but I ended up wrestling someone. Which is surprising, even now, because I haven’t wrestled anyone before or since.

Obviously, I was pinned quickly. The guy wrestling me, Mike, kept saying, “Tap out, tap out!” And I didn’t—not until my trachea started to tighten and saliva dripped from my mouth.

Mike said something like, “You didn’t tap out. Respect.”

That’s what it’s like for a teenage boy—you take pride in not asking for mercy. Mercy is just not a currency you exchange in. It’s not that anyone is anti-mercy; it’s that the concept of mercy may as well not exist. If anything, you’re supposed to be the one powerful enough to grant mercy to someone else. And some even sadistically relish being the one who inflicts suffering, itching for the payoff of someone begging for a reprieve.

As awful as a world would be where no one shows mercy, I think it would be even colder—more dystopian—if no one even asked for it. Looking back, the fact that I can’t recall ever asking for mercy—in any situation—feels deeply warped.

—

Those who are truly holy and noble, I believe, are the ones who show mercy even when it’s not asked for.

Reflecting on this today, I realize I’ve certainly been the beneficiary of mercy I didn’t ask for. Because during this past year—the longest and hardest of our lives—angels have shown up. Constantly.

There have been friends who offered warmth. Family who bailed us out of binds. Colleagues whose dad jokes doubled me over with laughter. Neighbors who looked in on us. Other parents at the school or on our soccer team who have our back—and let us have theirs.

Mentors who guided me through a formation of faith and immense professional challenge. Even strangers in public who found ways to encourage me when I was solo with the kids at the grocery store. And perhaps most of all, there’s Griffin’s magnetic, earnest smile—a joy so pure, it feels divinely gifted.

These are two of the most important lessons of the year, and both are about mercy.

• First: to ask for it. Such a simple lesson, yet so enigmatic.

• And second: that there is mercy all around us that we never asked for.

To be that kind of person—an agent of mercy, whether sourced from God, from our soul, or from wherever you believe mercy comes—who offers it unasked…That, I believe, is the high watermark of holiness we can reach as mere mortals.

Originality is the only game left

I will never beat the algorithm.

Practically none of us who create will — whether we’re writers, musicians, artists, filmmakers, actors, playwrights, acrobats, comedians, dancers, or anything else. I’m tired of trying.

I will never be more efficient than generative AI. I will never be able to buy enough digital ads to break through, nor will I ever be chosen by a publisher who vaults me to relevance. I will never be able to bullshit and write something I don’t believe just because I know people want to hear it.

Some say AI will ruin art and bankrupt creators. I’m actually excited for the effect AI will have on art and artists.

For us human beings, there’s only one play left in the playbook: be ourselves — our plain old original selves.

We can’t beat the computer on any other front. No one else, and no machine, can be us. The game is over, and it seems like the one remaining edge we have is to stop playing the game - of catering to the zeitgeist or waxing sensational - and be original.

What little leeway we had to optimize our way into an audience will vanish as AI-generated expression floods every medium and every distribution channel — cheaper and faster than any human artist.

But I think that’s liberating.

Why bother chameleoning who we are as artists if we can’t win doing that anyway? It’s better to just do our thing and create for the audience that values our thumbprint and voice.

I can only speak for myself — an amateur but extremely serious artist on the margins — but I’ve felt a kind of permission I’ve never felt before: to just let it rip. No more anxiety, self-editing, and asking my ChatGPT editor to reassure me of my chops as a writer. The new playbook is to listen deeply inward and just write.

So why not? I’ll never beat AI at its game — being more efficient, more personalized, and telling people what they want to hear — so why play? My guess is that anyone who sees themselves as an artist, rather than an entertainer, feels this at some level. If this is what the marginal artist feels, I think that’s great.

If those of us — like me — who feel the pressure to chase clicks just throw in the towel on beating AI, it might lead to the greatest wave of original work the world has seen in generations.

If AI has left us no choice but to be original, damn am I excited.

Psalm for Whispers

“He got more chocolate chips than me! I don’t want to wear a belt! THAT’S NOT FAIR!”

In these moments? Lord help me. But what if my sons only scream because they have to?

Maybe it’s not them being young and emotionally immature. Maybe it’s because everywhere they ever are—even in the quietest rooms—there is always screaming.

The world has been full of loud machines for decades, but now they scream.

Machines that beg for you to use them, even when you don’t want to. Phones are the obvious one. The notifications aren’t just little red dots; they are screams for attention—trying to get you to interact with apps, or spam calls, or scrolling advertisements.

But it’s not just the phone anymore. Anything that is “smart” is clever enough to speak up and scream back at me—the lights, my tagged keys, even the air purifier screams for its filter to be replaced.

Even in the quietest of rooms, there is always screaming.

With the volume already up, businesses are screaming louder for attention so that we buy or sell or borrow or lend. Charities scream at us to donate and patronize. Politicians scream in their own ads, but also in the newscasts and posts that we watch freely. Even some faith leaders amp up what should be an inherently peaceful message—by screaming it instead of preaching it.

Even in my own head, there are screams that nobody else hears, but my children and wife see me suffering from them. The screams of the to-do list. The sink full of dishes. My job that’s never satisfied. My hungry stomach craving breakfast that I can only eat standing, as I make my big sons’ cheese sandwiches for their lunchboxes.

Do you ever hear the screams, too?

There is the screaming of the pages my heart desperately needs to write. Or my soul that yearns to hear the crunch of leaves and the songs of the trees at the park—anything to noise-cancel the screaming. There is the shower I need to take, my skin craving the feel of bar soap, warm water, and a shave.

Even in the quietest of rooms, there is always screaming.

And so of course our kids scream. To be heard, they have no other choice. The latent volume level of the world around us—with every object, person, and organization jockeying for attention—is screaming.

Maybe it’s not them that need to be quiet, but the screaming surrounding them that does.

Perhaps the most important new skill we need as parents in the early 21st century is the skill of turning the volume down—tuning the sound of all the screaming noise from a 10 to a 1.

The way we get our kids to stop screaming is by creating the equivalent of a library in a space we share with them. A place quiet enough—figuratively speaking—where they don’t have to scream. Where there is no competition for their voice. Where my ears, heart, mind, and soul can even hear when they whisper.

This is why prayer, meditation, journaling, simple walks in the woods, and other contemplative practices are so important. These are the ways we learn how to turn down the volume.

Yes, it is true—at least in the world we live in today—even in the quietest of rooms, there is always screaming.

But there are ways to turn down the volume.

And we owe it to those we love and who love us—especially our kids—to turn down the volume. So, with us at least, they don’t feel like their only option is to join in on the screaming.

Even if the world around us keeps screaming, we don’t have to let it stay loud. We can turn it down—until we can finally hear our children whisper.

A Mantra For Those Who Feel Squeezed

I think I’m at least 80% accepting of the fact, finally, that I won’t be a wealthy man. We’re blessed, and affluent by most standards, but our base budget is certainly humbled by the fact that we have four kids.

And this tension—between feeling like we’re making it but still feeling stretched—also exists with our time.

We show up for our kids and help out our family, friends, and neighbors as much as we can. But we also always feel like we’re drowning—the laundry, dishes, and daily grind are never stable. Despite the fact that we’d admit we’re doing our best and doing a decent job, it never feels like enough.

And despite all this, I still feel so much selfish guilt.

I don’t serve anyone in need whom I don’t already know, in any meaningful way, though my faith and my own moral sensibility demand it. I have let down friends—all the time, lately—it takes me months to call someone back or set up lunch, catch up over drinks, or deliver a meal to help out friends who are new parents.

We are part of the squeezed middle—we’re not living month to month with our money or time—but we don’t have enough time or money to easily trade one for the other. We’re squeezed.

And I don’t mean this as a “middle class” issue, per se, because there are plenty of families wealthier and poorer than ours, both in time and money, who feel squeezed. From investment bankers to blue-collar workers, I know families across the spectrum who feel this same pressure.

The squeezed are a surprisingly large cohort who feel stuck because they can’t trade time for money or money for time.

Leaving a Penny

I think the only way out of this is to help each other—even when it feels like no more than a penny’s worth. Little things matter. I’ve seen it in my own life.

There are a few families on our soccer team that carpool to practice. Freeing up one night per family, per week makes a difference. When other families at our school keep an eye out for our kids and we keep an eye out for theirs, it makes a difference. When someone comes with their pickup truck to help move some furniture, it makes a difference.

All these little things are like those old cups at grocery stores that said, “Have a penny, leave a penny. Need a penny, take a penny.” Little things that show up where you’re squeezed matter a great deal.

And something that feels small to us—like just giving a penny—can feel like receiving a gold coin to someone else.

For example, me shoveling my older neighbors’ snow barely registers as 20 minutes of extra work for me, but it’s unbelievably helpful to them so they aren’t beholden to unreliable help when they need their driveway clear to go to a doctor’s appointment.

Similarly, it felt very small to her when a good friend and neighbor came over to watch our kids for 20 minutes when Griffin was born and Robyn was conveyed by ambulance from the living room to the hospital—but to us, it was worth more than a bag of gold.

When we leave and take pennies, it relieves the squeeze. These little pennies are hardly worth just one cent—they’re often worth their weight in gold. “One cent” can feel like salvation when you’re being crushed.

I feel squeezed every single day of my life.

If I could afford to throw more money at problems, I would. But most of my problems wouldn’t get that much better with more money—grocery delivery doesn’t save me a trip because it’s never right, and I’d never be willing to outsource going to my sons’ soccer games, even if we could afford it.

And I’m unwilling to detach either. I’d rather live with the guilt of not meeting my commitments to my friends and people in need, rather than pretending like it doesn’t matter. Because it does. I don’t want to be less squeezed just for me, I want to also be there to stick up for those who have no penny to give.

I don’t think changing laws can help us, in the immediate anyway. I don’t think AI will save us either. The financial windfall that will allow me to gain hours of my time back is never going to come. And I’m tired of waiting for a hero to save me. We are the only heroes we’ll ever get.

The only way this works is if we help each other.

It’s good enough for it to be in small ways. These small acts of support are the only real alchemy I’ve ever seen work. Because when we leave a penny, it’s not one cent we’re leaving—we’re leaving something for someone else that’s worth its weight in gold.

So if you’re feeling squeezed, we need to stick together. Remember this mantra: take a penny, leave a penny. We are all we’ve got, and we are enough to get through this.

And We’re back at Hogwarts

Seeing our older sons experience Harry Potter and the Sorceror’s Stone for the first time has been magical. Robyn finished the first book with them tonight.

Seeing the story through their reactions has made me see some timeless lesson in new ways. These are the best ones.

The story is powerful because we are part of it. We are dropped into the story as if we are joined to Harry somehow. It’s immersive and builds unquenchable intrigue. We feel like we’re there and desperately want it to be real.

For example - our oldest thinks maybe, just maybe, he will get a letter by owl inviting him to be a first year at Hogwarts. We learn how the events unfold as Harry does. Harry, Ron, and Hermione feel like they actually are our friends and we are part of Gryffindor house. Would the story inspire and resonate across generations if it was told at us, rather than feel like it was happening to us? No! I think this is why Star Wars also feels so timeless (and makes for a great theme park) we feel like part of it.

This is a lesson for any team we are trying to inspire - we have to make them feel like they’re part of it, and they have to also want it to be real.

There are great wizards from every house, and heroes in unlikely places. Sure, since Harry is the narrator, of course we’re going to hate Slytherin when we read it as children. But, we keep telling our sons - Gryffindor is not the only good house. If they are sorted into a house, with an online quiz or figuratively in life, they key is picking the environment that gets the greatness out of them, not just doing what they perceive is the only “good” answer.

Similarly, as readers we believe that Snape is awful and Neville is nice, but a sissy when we first meet them. Great strength and courage and kindness is often hidden, or, it takes the right circumstances for it to show itself. There are more heroes than just Harry, and there are more great houses than only Gryffindor.

There is no one right path. This is a lesson I need to be reminded about my own life and career - especially when I succumb and o comparing myself to my very esteemed colleagues and classmates.

And finally, I had forgotten and certainly didn’t realize the wisdom in Dumbledore’s speech at the end of term feast when I first picked up the book. Yes, it’s so true that it takes great bravery to stand up to our enemies but also, it takes great bravery to stand up to our friends. What a relevant lesson today, in the culture we live in, just as relevant as it was when The Sorcerer’s Stone was first released. How different might our world be if we stood up to our friends when their decisions were not in the right?

What a wonderful gift bringing the tales of Harry Potter back into our lives has been.

Why we all want to retire

It should not be a surprise that most people feel somewhere between indifference and dread about their jobs.

First, there’s power asymmetry by design. That means we should expect to be treated badly or exploited - because when one person is more powerful than another, this is what happens.

Second, that we are loved conditionally is expected. We are rewarded and praised if we achieve the result others want. And if not, we are ostracized or removed.

At work, these are normal things.

If we subject ourselves to power asymmetry and conditional love, shouldn’t we expect to dread it?

Unless our work situation is wildly different from the norm, it’d be crazy not to dread it.

Those “bad people” may surprise us

I expected Jay to be guarded and callous, and at a minimum indifferent toward me — because that’s what our culture taught me to expect. But he wasn’t. Jay surprised me.

Jay — let’s call him that — has been a source of hope ever since, because when people surprise you, it shows that not everyone you’ve been taught to distrust truly deserves it.

He was on probation for a violent crime and only a few years younger than me. He was also a gunshot victim, attached to a catheter and urine bag because of his injuries. The cane he walked with was leaning against the table next to him.

I spent 20 or 30 minutes breaking bread with Jay nearly 10 years ago at a community event I attended while working as a civilian at the Detroit Police Department.

The first surprise was that he was even open to chatting when I sat down for dinner next to him. He was also so vibrant — hopeful, even. He said he had a child and wanted to find a way to provide for them, no matter what it took.

He had an unforgettable warmth and smile for anyone, let alone someone who had been through so much. Years later, I am still surprised by who he was, compared to who I expected him to be.

Whether we believe strangers are good people or bad people is of great consequence.

This is one of the most deeply embedded beliefs that poisons our culture in America, I think. We collectively believe everyone else — those not like us — must be bad, not to be trusted.

And what happens when we can’t trust those other people? We need weapons and protection from them. We need to lock them up. We need to build walls and ensure those evil people stay away.

And it’s easier to justify treating them with cruelty or exploitation — because hell, they’re bad people anyway.

In my life and travels, I’ve heard enough strangers’ stories to believe the opposite. In addition to Jay, there’s Gerry, whom I met at a bookstore — he moved to Detroit to pursue a dream of reducing shootings, and I still keep in touch with him. Everyone has something about them that is extraordinary, if we’re willing to listen.

I hope, at least, that everyone is open to the possibility that the person in front of them may surprise them — open enough to change their mind about someone they’ve been taught is untrustworthy.

Because when we do, maybe we don’t need all those weapons or walls to feel safe from all those people out there we’re so sure are bad. With an openness to surprise, we can actually work out our differences without simply trying to bully them and exert power until they submit.

I don’t think it’s our obligation to trust everyone. But to be trustworthy and work to be trustworthy? I think that’s the greatest gift we can give our great grandchildren — because a more trustworthy and trusting world requires fewer guns, less fighting, and less anger.

We can’t give up on the hope borne of surprise. We can’t give up on the hope that people we fear might turn out to be good.

Fill The Cup, Brother

Is the cup half full or half empty?

What a self-absorbed little riddle — as if a glass gives a damn about my optimism.

It’s one of those falsely profound clichés of self-awareness — the kind you toss out after you’ve already asked about the weather.

Because the truth is, the cup isn’t half anything. It’s just not full. All that talk about half full and half empty is just stalling — a way to avoid the work of actually filling it.

If there’s any question worth asking, it’s this: what fills the cup?

There’s the cheap stuff — the elixirs that vanish the second they hit the air: dominance, vanity, hedonism, booze.

Then there’s the good stuff — the richer elixir. Sacrifice. Eye contact. Service. Prayer. Creative expression. Movement. Nature. Reconciliation. These are the grounded things that squeeze juice from the fruits of love, justice, and light.

I often think about that reflection exercise — the one where you imagine yourself on your deathbed. Thinking about who’s there, and what we’d be thinking in that moment, helps clarify what might fill our cups now.

I tell myself this:

Feel the pain and suffering of your last illness. See the faces of your grown sons, your brothers, and your sisters. Feel Robyn squeezing your hand with hers.

In those moments, will waxing poetic about optimism or pessimism be what we want? No. Will we crave one more chance to assert dominance? No.

We’ll be clawing for one more chance at the good stuff. On our deathbeds, we’ll do everything we can to fill our cups a little more — cherishing every drop.

So why, right now, do we pretend those debates are worth having?

No amount of talk will change how much is in the cup or what elixir is in it.

Should we eat well, sleep well, and keep moving? Yes. Write once a week to keep ourselves sane? Sure. Do what we need to do to patch the holes in our own cups? Absolutely.

But damn.

Brother, don’t be fooled by all the people who talk like they’re too busy for their kids, who treat parenting like a chore. Don’t mimic those who drown themselves in work without setting boundaries, then draw an audience to complain about it. Don’t give up, settling for narcissism instead of agency.

Do none of that.

Fill the cup, brother.

No amount of talk will change how much is in the cup or what elixir is in it.

Every moment of every day, fill the cup. That’s what we do.

Real or Not, We Believe In Magic

This may be the year our oldest son, Robert, discovers the truth about Santa Claus.

The other day, he told Robyn that he thinks Mickey Mouse is just someone in a mouse costume. “Mickey isn’t real,” he said, with both pride at figuring it out and a touch of sadness for what it meant. And of course, Santa Claus is the next mythology he’s bound to question.

But aren’t Mickey and Santa real—because the magic they represent is real?

There was awe and wonder in the moment our family stood together watching the Fantasmic show and fireworks over Cinderella’s Castle. Robert, in a full measure of his three-year-old earnestness, looked up at us, his eyes gleaming in the dark, and said:

“I am the magic.”

We all felt it—our kids and us, as full-grown adults. That was magic, and it was real.

There is magic on Christmas morning, as there has been every year of my life, because it’s tradition. And when presents appear under the trees of families struggling to pay their bills—gifts from anonymous strangers—what else can we call it but magic?

Mickey Mouse and Santa Claus aren’t real in the same way George Washington or the Grand Canyon are real. They are symbols. They’ve only ever existed as symbols.

But the magic they create is real. The beliefs and ethos they carry are real. Maybe asking if they are real isn’t even the right question.

The better question is: do we believe?

Do we believe in what they represent?

Do we want to be part of the magic they create?

If so, does it really matter whether they are real or imagined?

And isn’t the same true for so many other things that aren’t tangible? For liberalism or capitalism—philosophies that only exist if people believe in them, yet have unlocked freedom and prosperity for billions? What about the fables and legends we pass down through generations, like our grandparents’ sacrifices in war—or even Star Wars? For God and faith traditions? For virtue and character?

Maybe these things are “real” like a rock is real, maybe not. Maybe as symbols they are real, maybe not.

What matters to me is the magic they create. That, if nothing else, is real.

So when my son asks me if Santa is “real,” I think I’ll tell him: Real is not the point. Real or not, I believe in Santa Claus, in Mickey Mouse, and in all the other beautiful, wonderful, magical things that make life meaningful.

And when I tell him that, I hope he realizes that even if it’s not real, it’s okay to believe in magic. And maybe one day, he’ll share the same thing to his own kid.

Griffin, a Diagnosis, and the Gift of New Eyes

When I tell people about our youngest son’s Down syndrome diagnosis, many people say, “I’m sorry.”

They don’t know what else to say.

But there’s no need to be sorry. He’s alive and well, we love him, and we’re glad he’s here.

And yet, I still understand and appreciate it when someone says, “I’m sorry.” Because even if they have never had a child with Down syndrome—or any other kind of condition that leads to developmental delays—they have some intuition that it’s going to be hard.

We all do, because we have lived in this world.

We all intuitively know that the world is not built for people like Griffin. We know it’s hard to always see doctors, and that some people will treat him badly. His life—and ours—won’t follow the “normal,” well-trodden path and that will, at times, be very hard.

The past eight months have already given me a preview of this tension: between who Griffin is and how the world is built.

Griffin is normal—just somewhere else on the wide bell curve of what life looks like. He was conceived and born as any other child. We made no alterations to him—he’s here as God made him.

Yes, he has a diagnosis. But that doesn’t mean he’s broken. He isn’t defective—he’s simply different. Just like kids with cystic fibrosis, dyslexia, deafness, or any other “diagnosis”—these kids were simply born this way. That is normal, even if different.

And this goes beyond medical diagnoses. Some kids are taller or shorter. Some are gay or straight. Some are different levels of athletic, artistic, or scholarly. All kids are different, on a boundless amount of dimensions.

All of these kids—and all of us as adults—fall into the category of “we were born this way” in one dimension or another. Made by God this way, by no choice of our own.

So there are people just born a certain way, and yet, we also intrinsically know that those same people will have to go through inevitable hardship because of how they were born interacts with the world we live in.

But it’s not all struggle. Robyn often reminds me that some things may actually come easier for Griffin—like kindness, joy, and forgiveness. He has this lightness of being I can’t explain, but I see vividly.

Still, some of the hardship just doesn’t seem right—for Griffin or for anyone else who was “born this way.” Especially the hardship rooted in having their needs overlooked or unconsidered.

Those needs show up everywhere—from schools and playgrounds to healthcare, websites, public parks, airports, road signs, and even neighborhood newsletters. These choices shape whose lives get to flourish.

Because on a planet with over 7 billion people and in a country of over 300 million, there will inevitably be so many differences and spectrums.

Every day, in small and big ways, we make consequential choices about who’s in and who’s left out.

Whose needs are considered and whose aren’t? Do we only build for people like us, or do we stretch to include those we don’t yet understand?

Of course, our lives and our world have trade-offs. There isn’t unlimited time or money. But there are a lot of smart people who care, who have time and a willingness to innovate to break trade-offs. And in many cases, there’s money we’re already spending that could be spent differently. We just have to see with different eyes.

Playgrounds are a good example of this, and something I see with new eyes now. There are ways to make playgrounds so that many different types of kids can play together. You just have to make different and creative choices about materials, structures, and things like seats on swings.

I see so much more clearly now—even if in a very small way—the ways in which people born “normally,” but differently in a particular kind of way, are overlooked because they are easy to ignore, or are less “squeaky” than I am.

And it doesn’t sit right with me. But I do get it. The more people we include, the more complex our decisions are. We have to be smarter and more creative to make a website that everybody can use well enough, compared to just what the majority can use.

But that still doesn’t sit right. I am not God, after all. Why do I get to decide who’s worthy, important, or loud enough to be included? I may not be able to break every trade-off and create some sort of prosperous utopia that works brilliantly and cheaply for everyone. But it doesn’t seem right to me to not even try—before overlooking, whether deliberately or simply because I’ve allowed myself to remain ignorant—the needs of someone in need. Which, aren’t we all, in some way or another?

Griffin’s Down syndrome diagnosis has given me the eyes to see this profound choice—who’s in, who’s out—more clearly. And more importantly, it gave me the eyes to see that I was more ignorant of my own ignorance than I thought I was.

But in addition to a realization about justice, Griffin has also helped me realize something about joy.

I can’t explain it, but Griffin has joy. And his joy honestly feels different. I don’t know why—whether it has to do with Down syndrome, or if I’m blinded by the fact that he’s our last child, or what. But his joy is different in a very special way.

Which is to say, the world would lose something extraordinary if he had never been born—or if his gifts were overlooked and never nurtured.

And not just Griffin. Every child—born “different” or not—has something extraordinary within them. Every adult too. When we overlook entire groups of people, we rob the world of that brilliance.

So, in addition to not being able to accept the injustice of deciding who’s in and who’s out, who am I to rob the world of these extraordinary things? The comfort of my own ignorance is certainly not more valuable than that.

Being Griffin’s father has already humbled me. Seeing the world through his eyes has taught me that I have a long way to grow in two important ways.

First, I ought to stretch whose needs I consider as widely as possible.

Second, I should assume I don’t understand other people’s needs and gifts as well as I think I do.

So instead of “I’m sorry,” after someone shares a tough reality, maybe it’s better to say:

“I honestly don’t understand what you’re going through. How are you all doing?”

Maybe that will open my heart even wider to understand, love, and include them.

“Thoughts and Prayers”

A good world doesn’t just happen. It’s built by people who take responsibility and follow through.

The language we use when failures occur tells us a lot. The words people use, particularly from leaders, signal whether someone is dodging responsibility or accepting it.

Let’s say we’re looking for confidence that good things are ahead. After a failure, what would you rather hear?

Something like this?

• “It’s all those bad people’s fault we failed.”

• “Don’t worry, this was a one-time thing.”

• “The victims shouldn’t have put themselves in that position.”

• “It’s not my job to deal with this.”

• “It is what it is.”

• “I’m sorry you feel upset.”

Or something more like this?

• “I made a bad call, and I’m sorry.”

• “We failed, and we’re going to make this right.”

• “We’ve learned from our mistake, and we’re doing these three things differently, starting today.”

• “The responsibility lies with me, and nobody else.”

• “I’m sorry that my failure hurt you.”

• “This is the plan, and how you can hold me accountable.”

I think we’d all prefer the second set of responses, not the first. It’s no contest.

We gain confidence after a failure—or even a tragedy—when someone takes responsibility. And we should because leadership is responsibility.

The worst possible sign, I think, is when the same failure repeats itself and nobody ever takes responsibility. In those instances we shouldn’t expect any good to happen, ever.

“Thoughts and prayers” and “we condemn this act” are turns of phrases that are often shared when tragic failures, usually of a political nature, occur. And I think it’s perfectly natural to think of and pray for others after a tragedy (I do), and, to condemn actions that merit condemnation.

But neither phrase is a measure of responsibility. And for what it’s worth, I’m skipping a political analysis because no interest group has a monopoly on accepting or avoiding responsibility after failures.

After a failure, I need to hear someone take responsibility to believe good things are coming. Though we may fail at it, as I do, this is the standard we also must hold ourselves to, especially when the people around us need us or expect us to lead.

Find the magic

It still stings a little when I drop our kids off at school.

I can’t bear to part with them, even now. Not even for a few hours. Because I don’t actually know if I’ll see them again.

That fear of never getting to say goodbye comes from losing my dad suddenly. I was on my way to get a haircut in a snowstorm the night before he passed.

I was going to call him, but it was snowing, and it was late, and I’m sure I had to work, too. So I didn’t.

We left it somewhere with a text like, “Love you, I’ll call you tomorrow.”

And then tomorrow never came.

And this is why I can’t leave for anywhere, even to drop off a letter in the postbox four stop signs away, without saying “I love you” to everyone in the house - even our dog.

Which is all to say, I have thought obsessively about what I say to my kids when I drop them off at school, in case they are the last words I ever say to them.

In case I am stolen from them, I want them to have memorable last words from their father so they don’t have a wound that will never heal, like I do.

I’ve tried so many unnatural, contrived-but-heartfelt phrases that were either too cerebral, too long, or both. And finally it came to me this summer vacation.

“Find the magic.”

This fits what I want to tell them perfectly.

Find the magic means - go look for it. Listen with your whole heart. There are extraordinary things around us, and every person has extraordinary things in them. There is God in all things.

The magic is the secret sauce. It is source of all good things. Of all joy. Of all redemption and reconciliation. Of all the suffering we overcome. Of all creativity and beauty. Of all love and laughter.

There is magic everywhere, so go find it.

—

The first time we went to Disney World, Robert was almost four. And as many families do, our last moment at the park is always at the Magic Kingdom, watching the fireworks over Cinderella’s Castle.

And there we were, on Main Street USA, as the music and lights were hitting their crescendo in the buildup to the finale. And there was song playing that had a dramatic pause in the melody. And we heard the singer sing, “You are the magic.”

And one of the best memories I’ll ever have happens next.

Robert, turns to Robyn, his eyes as full of innocence and wonder as they could possibly be, and says,

“Mommy, I am the magic.”

And therein lies the hidden message of, “Find the magic.”

Boys, if you’re reading this, this is one of those posts that’s an insurance policy of sorts. A little bit of love and guidance tucked away in case I’m gone too soon.

When I said “find the magic” you never needed to look far. The most wonderful and powerful magic has always been close.

You are the magic.

I have seen it your whole lives, and knew it before you were born. You boys have been the greatest store of magic I have ever known.

The magic I have been asking you to find, has been and always will be the magic in you.

When I Am the King

The fastest way to understand a group’s culture is to look at how the most powerful and the least powerful treat each other.

Parents and children.

Priest and congregation.

Boss and employee.

Politician and citizen.

In all these realms, how the most powerful and the least powerful treat each other tells you what you need to know.

When you look at the most powerful, do they truly listen?

Do they lift others, or do they bully?

Despite what they say, do their actions reveal care for others—or only a hunger to preserve their own dominance?

And the least powerful—

Do they challenge authority for a higher purpose, or merely seek the crown for their own heads?

Do they move with agency, rage, or a stupor of learned helplessness after years of being beat down?

Are they—even visible?

How do the most powerful and least powerful treat each other?

We judge others all the time. I do, and so do you—though we hopefully we try to be more holy than that.

But this question must turn inward, because we are not always the least powerful, however much we’d like to believe it.

The person who shapes the culture most, in my own life, is the one in the mirror.

If I am a parent, a boss, a leader in any form—how do I treat those with less power?

That tells me all I need to know.

When Signals Outweigh Substance: The Trap of Identity Debt

Who are we, really?

We live in a world where it’s easier than ever to signal who we are — through what we say, post, wear, or share. But if those signals don’t match our actions, we slip into something I call identity debt.

Like financial debt, identity debt piles up when we borrow against an image we haven’t earned. And just like money debt, it eventually comes due. Fail to pay it back, and you don’t lose your house — you lose your reputation, your confidence, even your sense of self. That’s how you end up in an identity crisis: quarter-life, midlife, or otherwise.

The challenge today is scale. There are more ways than ever to build an image without the substance behind it — more ways to go into identity debt.

Social media is the most obvious culprit, but it’s just the tip of the iceberg. We’ve built entire systems that reward posturing and signaling over real action. A few examples:

• Products as props. From Etsy finds to custom sneakers, nearly anything can be personalized to signal who we are.

• Edited selves. Technology lets us alter photos and appearances, presenting healthier, wealthier, smarter versions of ourselves.

• Broadcasted preferences. Spotify playlists, Goodreads ratings, Yelp reviews — every choice is a broadcast of identity.

• Endless content. We curate movies, news, and podcasts that give us things to talk about without requiring us to do anything.

• Monetized identity. With LLCs, platforms, and digital marketing, anyone can brand themselves as a coach, consultant, or influencer — whether or not there’s real expertise underneath.

All told, it’s never been easier to construct an identity without doing anything. The hype machine doesn’t just exist — it rewards us for feeding it.

We now have an endless credit line for identity debt. Talking and signaling can easily overshadow the slower work of real action — so much so that even a normal, hardworking life can feel drowned out by hype.

I know because I do it too. I post books on Goodreads, scroll Facebook, even use AI to polish resumes or draft marketing plans for my own projects. The signals flow almost automatically.

The strange thing is the solution is simple. Easy to name, hard to live out.

I’ve wrestled with this in my own life, and part of how I worked through it was by writing a book about how we can intentionally build our own character. And if I’ve learned anything, living this out is very possible, but it takes work.

To stay out of identity debt, we have to:

• Be real in how we present ourselves — so our signals reflect the truth, not a distortion.

• Envision the life we want, then live it — instead of hyping it, spinning it, or posturing about it.

• Step out of artificial spaces. Choose genuine human connection instead.

• Be honest with ourselves. Do the hard work of character — becoming the truest, strongest version of who we want to be.

All of this is easier said than done. And that’s exactly the point: reality is harder than hype — but it’s also where meaning lives.

Talk less. Do more. Pay down your identity debt before it bankrupts you.

Anyone Can Go Zero to Sixty. The Real Skill Is Sixty to Zero

If you’re from Detroit, you learn about going zero to sixty from a very early age. We’re car people here.

And around here, how fast a car goes from zero to sixty MPH is a big deal. It’s a measure of speed, power, and legitimacy. Zero to sixty is a proxy for respect, and one of Detroit’s contributions to the American idea of success.

Why go if you can’t go fast? Why be, if you can’t be fast?

One moment at our kitchen table with my sons showed me a different path.

—

A week ago, our boys were in a slurping phase. Everything they drank, they slurped. Robyn and I protested, and they kept testing us on it.

One afternoon, I lost it and demanded the smoothie cup, erupting from zero to sixty in less than two seconds.

Unlike in muscle cars, in parenting, going from zero to sixty is rarely the goal. It’s what breaks trust, triggering senseless yelling and tears.

I hate myself when I do that.

I don’t know how it happened, but for some reason — luck or divine intervention, probably both — I calmed myself from sixty to zero just as fast as I accelerated.

It was a stunning feeling. I’d never done that before, never had that physical sensation of rapid deceleration.

As an adult, and as a parent, the skill of controlled, rapid deceleration is essential. It violates my Detroit upbringing to say this, but how quickly we go from sixty to zero is far more important than how quickly we go from zero to sixty.

Usually, rapid deceleration — for me at least — is uncontrolled. Probably for most of us. I say something that makes one of us weep, or grab my son’s shoulder in a way that spooks him, or slam my fist into the table hard enough for the pain to jolt me into a pause.

That’s the emotional equivalent of a car hitting a tree.

Controlled, rapid deceleration, on the other hand, is like having a race car with really good brakes.

In relationships and parenting, we ought to be like skilled drivers who know when and how to brake — not reckless ones who blow through the guardrails.

The good part is, I think we can practice this. Over the past week, I’ve tried it a dozen times. First, I make my body go to sixty in a second — clenching my teeth, muscles, and fists. Then I do the opposite, relaxing fully in the same amount of time.

I can’t prove it works, but I now know what deceleration is supposed to feel like in my body.

I don’t have some profound conclusion here, except for this: parent to parent, adult to adult — practice deceleration.

In America, anyone can go zero to sixty. The real skill is learning to go sixty to zero.

Even though there’s no applause for it, we ought to practice it anyway. Who cares if nobody will ever know? We will. Our kids, our partners, our families will. Our colleagues will.

Having a better, more peaceful life is worth it — even if the world never notices.

How we count our lives

How we count up and measure our life evolves over time.

As babies, it’s something like: how many hours has it been since our last feed, diaper change, snuggle, or nap? If that number stays low, we are content. If not, we cry.

In our young childhood, it’s: how many, and how cool, are our Christmas presents? Because when you’re a kid, that feels like a proxy for everything—love, stability, fun, and standing with others.

Then, it’s all about “likes” and counting those up: how many friends we have in real life, how many “friends” we have on a social network, SAT score, GPA, how many girls/boys who “like us like us.”

Then early adulthood carries the same obsession with visibility and validation—but with higher stakes: salaries, our résumé, hearts on our latest Instagram post, how many copies of our self-published book we sell, our dating prospects, how many beers we can chug in a night, how many “amazing experiences” we can have.

The next step in the evolution of how we count our lives is the hardest because it’s the most nuanced.

On the one hand, the next evolution, if we’re lucky enough to notice it, is about moments of quiet joy, peace, and sacrifice. Like: how many times a week does my heart feel warm? How many times does something happen where I laugh or cry? How many times can I find peace in the quiet of everyday joys like a dish of toast and beans or a walk outside? How many people have I quietly supported and helped to grow? How many people do I get to see that I hug? How consistent am I in really being myself and having intimacy and depth with someone else—or with God?

And what’s hard about this particular evolution is that it’s easy to fool ourselves into thinking we’re there. There’s a lot we can do that seems like quiet peace and joy that’s just narcissism or indulgence with a veneer of grace.

Things that we want and probably need, but can quickly become extravagant, like: date nights, vacations, boys’ weekends, weekends where the grandparents take the kids so we can “get some stuff done.” Perhaps the achievements of our children, or the kids’ birthday parties we go to—or all the weekend excursions to give our kids the “perfect” childhood.

We can count those things up and feel like that’s an evolution into quiet joy and peace, but it’s not. Or we think that to create peace, we need to put our feet up on the beach and take a selfie of us with a mojito. That could be a quiet and peaceful and intimate moment—but we don’t need the mojito for it. These moments look like joy, but they’re just a middle-aged version of indulgence, social currency, or productivity.

I am very guilty of confounding vanity for intimacy, as I think many are. I still struggle so much with thinking that I just have to put in all this work and make all this money, so we can have that life of joy, peace, and intimacy that Robyn and I dream about—a life rooted in closeness to family, learning through travel, high-quality time, and serving others.

“Kids and these dreams are expensive,” I say to myself in my head and over conversations at cocktail parties.

Kids certainly aren’t cheap, but perhaps they’re not expensive either—I just believe they are. Life isn’t cheap, but it isn’t expensive—I just believe that.

My kids do want to do fun things, like go on vacations or have cool shirts with their favorite characters on them. And our sons eat a lot (a LOT—and they’re not even teenagers yet). But they also often just want hugs, to be listened to, to learn and be taught, to be outside, to have someone read them bedtime stories.

A life with family and children isn’t cheap, but these things that really matter to them aren’t as expensive as I think. It’s easy to fool myself into believing the indulgences of middle age are the same as moments of quiet and joy—but they aren’t.

Getting this evolution of how I count my life right has been the trickiest because it’s so easy to fool myself into believing my heart has actually opened and I’ve actually evolved.

I was with our 90+ year-old grandmother yesterday, and she said so many times—so many times—over the course of the evening how lucky she was. I get the sense that she feels nearer to the end of her life than she ever has, despite her remarkable health. She’s almost 96, and still lives independently and has her wits about her, which I suppose would make anyone feel like every day is a bonus at the end of a good, long life.

And perhaps that’s the last evolution in how we count our lives—one only the wisest of us reach.

After we learn to appreciate quiet peace and joy and intimacy, we must learn to truly value that we are here. Just that we are here—no more, no less. And to really believe, with our whole being, that every day is a gift.

At the end of our lives, when we’re taking stock of it all, maybe the final wisdom is just this: waking up and saying, “I must be one of the luckiest people alive.”

Witnessing our kids’ suffering

Witnessing the suffering of others—and how we react when it happens—is a skill.

Unfortunately, it’s a skill that’s underrated—and perhaps not even named—for how important it is, especially for us as parents.

I’ll give this skill we need a name: witnessing.

Let’s imagine a simple example: our child is upset because their favorite flavor of potato chips is out of stock at the grocery store.

An obviously damaging response would be:

“Screw you, stop complaining. You have no idea how small this is or how good you have it. Shut up, go sit alone in the corner, and feel stupid until you figure it out.”

A seemingly more considerate—but equally damaging—response would be:

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry. Let me do whatever I can to help you deal with this. Should I drive 15 minutes right now to find that flavor for you?”

The first response makes them feel valueless.

The second infantilizes them, giving them evidence to believe they’re incapable of enduring anything hard.

The problem is, both of these approaches absolve us—as parents—of the horrific feeling we get when our kids suffer.

The first allows us to disconnect from the feeling.

The second allows us to solve the problem and make it go away.

Both prevent growth. Both delay the issue of suffering and compound it.

Because instead of helping them deal with suffering now, we displace it—until we’re gone.

The urge we have, as parents, is to end suffering as quickly as possible.

But we can’t. We have to let it run its course.

Of course, like with any other human being, if someone is in mortal danger, we must intervene.

But as parents, we do this too quickly. Or at least I do.

I end the suffering—not because my kids can’t deal with it, but because I can’t.

So what do we do instead?

If we don’t tell them to suck it up, and we don’t cater to their every need, what do we do?

I think the answer is hard, but not complicated.

Just show up and listen. That’s the balm.

Be next to them. Listen.

Offer comfort, ideas, and—if they’re open to it—stories about our own mistakes. I think all wr need to do is be there and stew in that suffering with them.

Unfortunately, this prolongs our discomfort and stifles our sense of control as parents.

But it’s the better, third way: to let them live their lives—a little more with each passing day.

Letting go, without disappearing.

That’s the delicate ballet we dance as parents: to witness their suffering without taking it on as our own.

When we witness—not control, and not ignore—our kids’ suffering, we find a delicate place we can occupy.

That’s both the place where our kids learn. And where we grow our character and mettle as parents.

The cost is our sadness, and sometimes our sanity.

But if witnessing—not ignoring and not controlling—allows our kids to grow in courage, and forces us to strengthen and purify our own souls, that is a price worth paying.

A sentence I bet you’ve never heard

“I need to be a little wealthier first, then I’ll be an honest, loving, disciplined, and other-focused person.”

I’ve never heard anyone say this. I bet you haven’t either.

It feels ludicrous to even write. Nobody actually thinks this way. You are either trying to be a good person or you aren’t.

Character is not something, in real life, that you put off until life gets more comfortable. We are either one of those people right now or we aren’t.

And how do we know we are? If we look in the mirror and ask honestly: “Was I a good person today?”

Asking the question is a small but powerful act of showing up, and in my experience is at least 60% of what it takes to have character.

All the accountability we need is to look in the mirror and be honest.

Am I that person or am I not? For real?

-

If you’re someone who already looks in the mirror with honesty, you’ll want to read the book I wrote. It’s good enough to charge for, but I self-published it and chose to offer a free version — because the introspection it triggers is an investment the reader makes.

Our Favorite Tree

One day, while walking our dog Riley, Robert said, without any prompting, “This is my favorite tree.”

It stood in front of a neighbor’s house on our regular walking path. A man about our age happened to be visiting his aunt who lived there, and we struck up a conversation.

The tree is a towering giant, even among the tall trees that have stood in our neighborhood for generations. It has thick grooves of bark, with branches that nearly overhang the entire street.

It has a large knot at eye level that has probably been there since well before even I was born. And even the tallest person we know couldn’t wrap their arms around it if they were to hug its trunk.

The visiting neighbor smiled, probably thinking of his own memories of childhood, and said to Robert, “For sure, little man. Every kid needs a favorite tree.”

And I added—with an unexpected nostalgia, given how little time I spent outside growing up—“They sure do. And you picked a good one.”

This happened years ago, probably when Robert was three or four—just old enough to walk, but still young enough to spend part of a long walk in a stroller.

And yet, I still think of this moment often—even on days when we don’t pass the tree with Riley, and I’m just reflecting on how much our sons have grown.

Maybe I remember it because I never had a favorite tree and it comforts me that he does.

Growing up, I didn’t live in a neighborhood with many old trees, and I didn’t spend extended periods of time outside. I was always at dance rehearsal or watching TV, I guess.

I was discouraged from climbing trees at the park; I’d been taught early on that climbing was dangerous. And I was without a sibling to egg me on, pushing out of my seriousness and into an adventure, let alone into the limbs of a good climbing tree.

So now, Robert’s favorite tree is mine, too.

I’m glad it wasn’t too late for me to have one. I’m grateful that childhood wasn’t entirely lost to the business of growing up.

And I’m grateful Robyn knows how to guide me toward what a childhood ought to look like—with play, with wasted time, and with real time outdoors.

“Let’s let them be kids a little longer,” she gently reminds me of how little they still are.

Years later, our walks have changed.

Now we have kids on scooters and bikes, and sometimes they’re the ones holding Riley’s leash.

But even after all these years, I still give the tree a gentle tap as I walk by.

It’s the only way I know how to say thank you.

I’m grateful to it—for what it symbolizes and what it has given me: a childhood lost, then found, then regifted through my sons.