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.

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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?

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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.

My Karaoke Favorites

I started a “Karaoke Favorites” playlist some years ago. It’s full of songs I love to sing—whether while in the car, washing dishes, or if I’m really lucky, at an actual karaoke bar.

Here’s the link—it’s good:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1ZQC5uEW7XFEgYlwPWcGPv?si=xWp8MKqoQNSDeTVvHphsHw&pi=5uZpPxqKR9W9U

It’s interesting to look at what the songs are about. Here are a few examples:

Hole in the Bottle (Kelsea Ballerini) is a fun drinking song, about unwinding— after a hard day.

Beautiful People (Ed Sheeran f. Khalid) is about the stresses of fitting in with high society, when it doesn’t reflect who you are.

Refrigerator Door (Luke Combs) is about how all the photos and notes on your refrigerator tells the story of your life and what matters to you.

Hey Laura (Gregory Porter) is a desperate, yet charming track about a man who can’t get over a love, Laura.

Need a Favor (Jelly Roll) is the song of a self-aware sinner calling on God after he gets into another bad situation.

Here Comes The Sun (The Beatles) is about the sun emerging from a cold winter—a beautiful thought both literally and as a metaphor.

My Wish (Rascal Flatts, recently re-released as a duet with Carly Pearce) is a parent’s wish for their child’s life.

All I Know So Far (P!nk) is another song written for the artist’s child, sharing bold wisdom on how to live a free, meaningful life—from mother to child.

Knee Deep (Zac Brown Band f. Jimmy Buffett) is about getting away from the world to the refuge of blue water, blue skies, and a beach.

One Last Time (from Hamilton) is about the strength and courage of George Washington choosing not to run for a third term—and how to say goodbye.

Fill Me In (Craig David) is about young, lustful love.

Extraordinary Magic (Ben Rector) calls out the invisible grace, beauty, and future the singer sees in someone he loves.

Life Goes On (Ed Sheeran f. Luke Combs) is a heartbreaking track about grieving a loss.

There are over a hundred more on the playlist. I’m biased, but they’re all great.

The rest of the songs are invariably about love, loss, friendship, overcoming struggle, or something that radiates beauty.

It’s worth noting—and the whole point of me writing this—is that the songs we love to sing—our karaoke favorites—aren’t about work.

They aren’t about celebrating tyrants or liars. They aren’t about stealing or reveling in the exploitation of others. They aren’t about that feeling when your complicated Excel formula works.

When I am in my head, overworking and obsessing about something, this is what I remind myself: nobody would write a song about the bullshit I worry about.

If nobody would write a song worth singing about it, maybe I can let it go.

The Seasickness of the Soul

There’s a feeling I’ve come to know well, one I feel on Sundays—but it’s not the scaries.

It’s not just the dread of going back to work, but something deeper. It’s that feeling I get when I don’t know whether I’m able to live and be myself or whether I have to perform. It’s that feeling we get—when we can’t quite tell what is real and what is theater—and it’s not anger or frustration exactly.

It’s less like anger and more like nausea. Not of the body, but of the mind and spirit. It’s a nausea that comes from the blurring of what is real and what is not—and the disorientation that causes.

This epistemic nausea is not the same as moral disgust. I don’t mean the feeling of being sick to your stomach when someone does something so ethically wrong that we are repulsed.

I mean something amoral and dizzying, more akin to being on a boat in choppy waters. The longer we’re on the boat, the more exhausted we get trying to keep steady, and the more we feel like we’re going to throw up. It’s not a repulsion to injustice, but a seasickness of the soul.

To be clear, here’s what I mean by theater and reality.

Theater is the realm of our lives where the point is applause and selling tickets—at least for the people on stage. For the audience, the point is to be entertained, and perhaps to feel something, anything, novel as they deal with the overwhelming drudgery of reality.

At its best, theater is also about ideas—putting a magnifying glass to one small aspect of reality, critiquing it, and showing us a better way.

Reality is less glamorous, but it’s the source of meaning and joy. Reality is the realm where the point is to survive, to love and be loved, to act in a way that makes us and our ancestors proud, to find peace, and to serve others. What makes this hard is that living is struggle.

And to be even more clear, I don’t think the mere existence of theater or the inevitable suffering of reality is the source of this nausea. The nausea comes from when we don’t know whether we’re in reality or theater. Trying to decipher the truth when the two blur makes our heads spin. That dizzying state of being is what causes epistemic nausea.

I was thinking of writing a whole post on the different ways reality and theater blur. There are many obvious examples: reality TV, social media, and the posturing that happens in politics, business, and religon.

And there are more subtle examples too—like the “relationships” people form with AI chatbots, the “friendships” we have with people we may spend time with but who don’t actually know us. Or even the intense pressure and expectations we put on ourselves or our children to perform and achieve.

But does an abstract discussion picking apart the nuances of theater and reality really matter?

Those of us out here in the real world—trying to figure out when to buy groceries during the week, how to pay for day care, fit in 30 minutes of exercise so we don’t gain weight as our metabolism slows, and save money by fixing our damn washing machines before our kids run out of clean underwear—we don’t have time to sit around theorizing. We need to know what this nausea is and how to manage it.

To deal with epistemic nausea, I see one of two options.

The first is: we can escape into theater. We can surround ourselves with the fantasyland of performance, telling ourselves whatever stories we want to believe to feel how we want to feel. To be clear, this does numb the nausea.

The problem with fully replacing reality with theater—perhaps not obviously—is that we never really live. We never really love. We never really serve. We may never suffer, but we never build the character that comes only from overcoming it. I don’t want all that to be pretend. I want to live my life, not perform it as a character in a world I’ve made up.

The other option is, honestly, to just deal with it. If we can’t escape, we must navigate. If this epistemic nausea is a dizziness akin to sea sickness, we have to be sailors. And what do sailors do?

They have anchors to hold steady. To me, unconditional love is an anchor. When I’m nauseous, I turn to my family. Yesterday, when I was particularly seasick, we celebrated our brother’s birthday as a family. When we had a consequential appointment for our newborn, I wanted to call my mom with the good news. Being part of unconditional love—both ways—is an anchor.

Sailors also have rudders. To me, rudders are character: a set of convictions, values, and habits we hold to. It’s saying—no matter what happens, no matter what may or may not be real—I’m going to act like this. No matter who is in front of me, I’m going to treat them like this. However rough the seas, this is who I’m going to be.

Finally, just like boats, we can leave a wake. This is a metaphor about leadership and culture that I really value.

A boat can head into rough waters and leave the trail of water behind it calmer. We can do that too. We don’t have to participate in the misdirection and blurring of reality and theater. When we are in the realm of real, we can be real—instead of posturing, signaling, and bullshitting. And when we are in the realm of theater, we can be honest about what we’re doing and let our performance move the culture forward by challenging the worst parts of reality. That makes the difference between theater and reality clearer—not more blurry.

This epistemic nausea of the mind and soul debilitates me. But can any of us really control it?

Complaining about social media, what famous people do and say, or the distortions of reality made possible by AI doesn’t move us forward. What we can do is anchor with unconditional love, build a rudder of character to keep us straight, and of course, leave a wake—so we leave the seas behind us calmer than the ones we headed into.

We can’t stop the storm, but we can sail through it.

We can’t stop the blurring of reality and theater—but we can at least do this.

Share Something Sacred

It’s a beautiful moment when you realize, “our kids are friends now too.” Especially because so much has to go right to even have a chance at a multigenerational relationship.

We had a moment like this yesterday with Jeff and Laura—two of our oldest friends. Between their family and ours, we have eight children ranging from pre-teen to newborn. Only two pairs overlap in age: our two oldest and their two youngest.

Robyn paused us to look out at them, and there they were: all playing kickball, shouting, and laughing in our tiny Detroit backyard. It was the first time they truly felt like friends instead of tentatively spending time together because the adults wanted to hang out. Getting to this moment took years.

This got me thinking: what had to be true for this to happen?

First, you need siblings, cousins, or old friends from a time in your life before kids. Then, you have to have kids yourself. Next, your friends have to have kids too. And on top of all that, you still have to be friends—and in touch—by the time it all lines up.

And that’s just the prerequisite for a shot at a multigenerational relationship. It’s the price of entry.

But even that’s not enough. Multigenerational relationships require shared places. Relationships bloom in a time and place—especially when it’s across two generations, not just one.

Jeff and I, for example, lived in the same dormitory and were roommates for two years in our fraternity house. Later, we all lived in the same loft apartment building in Detroit’s New Center. It was at their dinner table, too, where I wept during the most broken moment of my twenties—the scene where everything I wrote about in Character by Choice: Letters on Goodness, Fatherhood, and Becoming Better on Purpose evolved from. And now, our kids share backyards, parks, and the pitch as soccer teammates.

We have different shared places with siblings, cousins, and then old friends we’ve maintained relationships with. There’s our grandparents’ houses with our cousins; Myrtle Beach and Petoskey, where Robyn used to vacation with her friend Lauren—and now our kids share those places too. There’s “up north,” Florida, and our homes, where we host bi-weekly family dinners and our kids are getting to know their brand new cousins.

To grow, multigenerational relationships need shared places. But shared places, I believe, still aren’t enough.

To span generations, relationships require something sacred.

Multigenerational relationships need more depth. They need gravity—something that draws you together—to last. This is even more essential across generations. You need a reason to stay connected: within the adult generation, within the kids’ generation, and across both. Everyone has to be drawn in and willing to fight for the relationship, especially because the grind of daily life makes even casual relationships difficult.

Liking the same band isn’t enough. A shared interest in sports, a hobby, or a history of drinking beer—none of these are enough. Shared ancestry isn’t enough—plenty of siblings and cousins don’t maintain strong ties. Shared history isn’t enough—plenty of longtime friends have kids that don’t gel. None of these create the gravity needed across generations.

What does draw people together, even over generations, is sharing something sacred. A higher creed, conviction, or core belief—sometimes religious, sometimes not. Shared suffering and its overcoming—that can be sacred, too.

With Jeff and Laura, we’ve never spoken about it explicitly, but looking back, we’ve always shared a belief in living a moral, other-focused, integrated life—demonstrated by nurturing parenting, deep faith, and equal partnership with our spouses. Now, we also have fellowship in our faith and walk together as followers of Christ. We instill these values in our children. We share something sacred—and now our children do, too.

With Robyn’s siblings, we share a belief in the unshakable importance of family and the holiness of quality time, traditions, and being active. We’ve never discussed this outright, but we have rituals that speak to our shared belief in human flourishing—setting goals, nurturing diverse interests, sacrificing for others, living with integrity, becoming values-driven leaders. This came from our parents and is rooted in us, and will continue in all our children. We share something sacred—and our children will too.

That sacred something is the gravity that holds multigenerational relationships together. It keeps us close, even when the machinery of daily life pushes us apart. It gives us something bigger than the relationship itself—something to bind us and band together for.

We need that gravity to help relationships grow and avoid the entropy that inevitably sets in—especially across generations. To have that beautiful moment where we realize, “our kids are friends now too,” we need more than shared history, shared interests, or even shared ancestry.

We need shared places.

And most of all, we must share something sacred.

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And here’s an extra thought because it’s Father’s Day…

I think this idea of sharing something sacred extends beyond multi-generational relationships. It matters for individual relationships too.

I was thinking about what I would write today, insufferably, at 5am, lying awake in bed because I somehow wake up earlier on weekends than on workdays. And I wondered, what is the specific sacred thing I share with each member of our family? Do I share anything sacred with them at all? Will our relationship have gravity even after they don’t have to live under my roof and eat our groceries? Will Robyn and I grow apart as empty nesters?

This was a good exercise: what do I share with each member of my family that is sacred?

With Bo, I share a voracious curiosity and thirst for knowledge. We also, at this point, share a deep sense of faith. He’s shepherded me spiritually as much as I have him.

With Myles, we share an attitude of talent development and determination - I can see this already. He is incredibly oriented around self-improvement in the same way I am, and not for the purpose of being better than others, but from the belief that it’s immoral to not develop our gifts and activate our potential. This is sacred.

Robyn and I, of course, share our vows. Which are self-defining as sacred. But even beyond this, the dream we have for our life - and the values of family, mutual respect, and serving others that underpin that dream - are sacred to us.

With Griffin, his special beautiful life is sacred as is his bravery. I know already that he will be the child we have that teaches me something, most consistently, because of the challenges he may face - which will be equal but markedly different than our other sons. His sacredness is coded in his DNA and in the bravery he has had from birth. We will be connected by this shared experience of suffering his whole life.

But what about Emmett? I panicked a bit when I thought about him. Do we share something sacred? I started tossing and turning in bed, uneasy because nothing came to mind quickly. What do we share that is sacred? Why can’t I think of anything?

What if there wasn’t anything sacred that we shared? Would we drift apart? Would we become one of those pairs of father and son that become more like old roommates than family, over time?

I eventually thought of something sacred we share - an orientation and appreciation of self-reflection and a tuning into the feelings of others - but the lesson remains.

With our kids and partners, if we want a relationship that persists through every phase of life, we have to share something sacred. We have to nurture that sacredness as they grow. And if we don’t know what that specific, sacred thing is yet, we have to find it.

Success Isn’t Flashy—It’s Footwork

Footwork is underrated.

In most sports broadcasts and among fans, footwork doesn’t get nearly the attention it deserves. And I get it—footwork is boring.

One exception is a sport I love: tennis.

In tennis, even on national broadcasts meant for wide audiences—including casual fans—announcers often talk about footwork. And for good reason: footwork is directly tied to winning. If you don’t move well, you can’t get in position to hit the ball cleanly. You lose points, and eventually, the match.

IThe best tennis players are relentless about footwork. Their training shows during matches.

The difference between good and bad footwork is obvious in tennis. But outside of sports, “footwork” is just as important—and just as underrated.

Footwork in life isn’t about sprint drills, obviously. It’s the invisible prep and uncelebrated routines that make everything run more smoothly.

Here’s what “footwork” can look like at home:

• Making a grocery list and checking the pantry

• Packing a bag or ironing clothes the night before

• Taking five minutes to slow down before bed so you can sleep better—or right after waking up, so you’re less grumpy

• Drinking enough water, eating fresh produce, and getting enough fiber

• Putting commitments on the calendar—and saying no to prevent over-scheduling

• Getting to bed on time

• Doing a weekly temperature check

• Keeping clutter off the floor and putting things back where they belong

• Listening fully when connecting with family

• Scheduling dates

• Saying please and thank you

• Hugs, kisses, high fives

• Apologizing and making up after an argument

• Upholding screen time, junk food, and language rules

• Eating dinner together regularly

And here’s what it can look like at work:

• Keeping tasks transparent and centralized, with a clear owner

• Setting a small number of clear goals

• Prioritizing ruthlessly

• Sending agendas before meetings

• Debriefing after milestones

• Telling others what you expect—and asking what they expect of you

• Checking references

• Listening to teammates and taking time to build relationships

• Proofreading before sending a document or email

• Explaining why something matters

• Talking to customers and frontline staff

• Coaching regularly—not just once a year

• Clarifying action items, deadlines, and owners after meetings

• Laying out options and making the hard decisions

• Communicating changes before they happen

These things aren’t flashy—but they’re what put us in position to succeed.

Sure, the big things matter: the dream vacation, the multi-million-dollar project. And we should talk about them. Celebrate them. But what usually causes those things to fall apart?

We all know the answer: bad footwork.

The good news? We can get better at it.

Pick one thing—whether it’s loading the dishwasher or sending out clear post-meeting notes—and work on it relentlessly until it becomes muscle memory. Then move on to the next.

We all need better footwork. And we can get it—just like elite tennis players.

Because the difference between succeeding and failing—at home, at work, and on the court—is rarely luck or the world being unfair. It’s usually footwork.

More Perfect Days

Robyn and I have had a string of what we call “perfect days” lately—simple but deeply satisfying. Days that just feel good by the time they end. They’re rarely grand or lavish, just perfect.

And we’ve had a few of them lately, perfect in their own way, despite the chaos of the past few months.

Yesterday, for example, we had a bunch of kids’ soccer games, a BBQ with Bo’s team and all the families at our house, and then an impromptu visit from two of our siblings.

Last weekend was a lovely mix of yard work, a trip to Eastern Market, planting transplants, an impromptu play date at the park with close family friends, and a round of tennis.

And all of this is happening amidst the grind we’re in—Robyn managing a slew of doctor’s appointments for our newborn Griffin, and me in an intense work season that’ll stretch through at least August.

This string of “perfect” days within our uniquely hectic season nudged me to reflect: what are some other “perfect days” I remember?

There was the day we all went to Eastern Market and then had a charcuterie dinner on the Detroit Riverwalk.

Or the day we were engaged—with a visit to the Motown Museum, a nice meal where two of my brothers serenaded us tableside, and then our whole family meeting us at the place we met for a drink to end the night.

Or the day we played soccer in the garden at my family’s house in India, when Robyn’s whole family and a huge percentage of my extended family were under the same roof for a few days.

Or the day we met our longtime family friends, the Chins, at the splash pad to end a long weekend with a picnic dinner.

And then there are the times camping in National Parks, where every day feels like a perfect day—and our makeshift meals taste better than anything we could’ve made in a full kitchen at home.

I started reminiscing, but then a pattern emerged.

My perfect days tend to be outdoors. They’re always with family and friends. They include good music, good food, and movement. They’re patiently paced, with space for impromptu adventures.

My perfect days have a formula, really:

• Get outside

• Move around

• Be with people you care about

• Eat, drink, and be merry

• Don’t rush

I realized this isn’t complicated—it’s attainable. Even every weekend. And what’s oddly reassuring is that these perfect days tend to emerge—I rarely see them coming.

***

This week I called my uncle—as I do every week. He’s really more of a father to me. My younger sister happened to be there—she was in Delhi, about to fly to visit our older sister in Australia. We spoke briefly, and something in her voice I hadn’t noticed before, struck me.

For the first time, I realized—her voice had grown. I could hear how life had worn it in, softened its edges. She’s not old, but she is older. We are older.

And it took me back to how I remember her when we were kids, all hanging out at my grandparents’ house in India. The house with stone floors and a roof that sounded like a drumline when the monsoon rains poured.

Where we would sing, dance, and occasionally play cricket in the hallway. Where we would all eat from one steel plate on the floor at dinner and then talk late into the night about our fears, dreams, and the life we had lived since we were last together.

I still weep when I think about the joys of visiting my grandparents’ house, with my aunts, uncles, and brothers and sisters. Those days are long gone. We’re not old now, but we’re older.

I see that aging in the mirror after every haircut Robyn gives me, because the balance between salt and pepper shifts just a little every time.

I’ve found myself mourning the passage of time as my next birthday draws near. At 38, I’m now squarely in that grey zone—not sure if I’m closer to the beginning or the end of my life.

And it scares me. I want to go back. To those perfect days I know are real, because they’ve already happened.

But then it hit me.

“I’ve had perfect days.”

And I’ve had lots of them, at every phase of my life. Most of us—even if we’ve had hard times, or been short on money—have had perfect days.

Which means: at every age, I’ve had perfect days ahead of me that I didn’t see coming.

And now, I’m old enough to see the pattern to unlock perfect days: nature, love, food, drink, music, and slowness.

This has been the key to accepting the age I’m about to hit: I have perfect days ahead of me. We have perfect days ahead of us.

The older I get, the more perfect days I will have. The older I get, the more I will understand the rhythm of them. The older I get, the better I get at making them happen.

The key question here, which I’m now old enough to have the wisdom to ask, is: what do my perfect days have in common?

If we can answer that—quietly, honestly—it might be the key to not dreading the inevitability of aging. If I can get that question right, I may even look forward to getting older.

Because age hasn’t just brought me perspective. It’s brought me patterns. And now, I can see them. I can feel when I’m in the middle of a day I’ll want to remember because it’s perfect.

Perhaps that’s one way to translate what growing older really is—learning to notice, in real time, the days we’ll call perfect.

To Grow, Our Boys Need Space

We bought transplants for the garden at Eastern Market today.

And it was Myles — the one who, for all previous seasons, wanted to eat Sungold tomatoes from the vine without tending to it — who told me the moment we were home, “Let’s go plant the garden, Papa.” And so we did.

We started by weeding. Just Myles and me. And he weeded with the diligence and intensity he had when he was scoring goals on the pitch at his soccer game earlier that day. Eventually Robert came to help us, and we made quick work, getting the dirt in our hands and hair as we went.

I have always made the mistake of crowding the garden. Too many plants close together does not a harvest make. I remembered this as we were raked and ready to tuck our transplants into the bed of their new home.

But then Griffin stirred lightly on the baby monitor — his gentle call a reminder that it was my wife’s time to rest, and mine to care for him. The marigold had just gone in. The boys were ready, shovels in hand, looking at me for what came next.

I moved fast, laying out the transplants in a loose grid, spaced just so, trusting they’d follow the pattern. I took a breath and stepped away.

As I walked inside, I was proud — and nervous. What if they argued? What if they moved everything around, or gave up halfway? What if I came back to a half-dug mess instead of a garden ready to grow?

But when I returned, I found them brushing dirt off their hands, cheeks smudged, smiles proud. The garden was planted. They had been listening. They had been learning. And they had done it with care and instinct and joy.

All those times they played instead of pulling weeds, whined instead of helping — I thought they weren’t paying attention. But they were. They were learning. All this time, they were growing. And now, somehow, they’ve grown. How did that happen?

It seems to me that for a child to grow, a conspiracy of beautiful things must come together — much like the plants in our garden. They need love and warmth, like the sun. They need their thirst for knowledge and learning quenched, like the spring rains drench in the early season. They need spirit to invigorate them, like the air activates photosynthesis. And of course, they need a rich and diverse and nurturing community — and a peaceful place to sleep — like the garden bed nestled between our rose bush and the garage.

I used to obsess over the fertilizer. The super nutrients. The enrichment. The classes, the “educational” toys, the vacations, the schools, the tutors — everything we could offer to help them get ahead and grow taller. And sure, fertilizer matters. But it can’t replace sunlight, water, air, or good soil. And too much of it? It throws everything off. It disturbs the delicate balance.

And of course, they need space. Room to grow. They need me to step away — to let them plant the garden while I’m inside the house. They need the space to make scrambled eggs, even if some of it ends up outside the pan and there’s a little eggshell they have to dig out with a spoon.

I can’t forget the lesson of this planting day. Our caring hands brought them here — to this garden where we work and hope and pray for love, knowledge, spirit, peace, and community. Yes, they need enrichment to grow tall and strong.

But just as much, they need space.

Who’s In, and Who’s Out?

Each of us—myself included—draws a line somewhere: a boundary between who belongs and who doesn’t. Who’s in, and who’s out?

It’s not just a social question—it’s moral, political, and spiritual too.

To us as social animals: Who will I treat with respect—and even associate with?

To our inner souls: Who has intrinsic worth, and who doesn’t?

To the policymaker: Who gets to participate as equals in public life—and share in public goods?

To followers of Christ: Whose feet am I willing to wash?

Every version of these questions asks us to take a position—on human dignity.

And in our daily lives, we all answer them through our choices, whether intentionally or not.

Humans have grappled with these questions for generations.

But these questions are especially urgent now—because of the sweeping transformations that may reshape the human race within our lifetimes.

We need to be concrete in our values before these changes come—so we’re not tempted to rationalize our way into betraying them when the stakes are at their peak and “winners” and “losers”emerge.

We need to take a position on human dignity—before AI, AGI, and humanoid robots are advanced enough to replace human bodies and even human connection at scale.

We need to take a position on the intrinsic value of life—before therapeutics emerge that could extend human lifespans by decades, or even indefinitely.

We need to take a position on our relationship with Earth—and its natural resources—before we expand to other worlds and risk exporting a disregard for life and dignity beyond this planet.

So who’s in—and who’s out?

Our family and friends?

People who annoy us? “Weirdos”?

People who can help us get “ahead”?

Those who went to a rival school—or cheer for a rival team?

What about people with questionable integrity?

Who’s in and who’s out?

Returning citizens?

Foreign nationals?

What if they are chronically sick—or infectious?

What if they’re uneducated?

Or homeless? Or poor?

Who’s in and who’s out?

What about children—and others who can’t advocate for themselves?

What about people with “disabilities”?

What if it’s a genetic condition—versus someone who drove drunk and ended up paralyzed?

Who’s in and who’s out?

What about people who voted for “the bad guys”?

What about criminals? What if they’ve repented?

What about people who have committed heinous crimes—like massive fraud or genocide?

What about someone we could exploit—if we wanted to?

What about someone we’re afraid of—for any of a thousand rational or irrational reasons?

Who’s in and who’s out?

Even if it costs us money, is in comfortable, or requires sacrifice?

Where do we draw the line?

Who do we treat with dignity and respect?

Who’s in—and who’s out?

Resting Joy Face: What Traveling with Four Kids Taught Me About Joy

SOMEWHERE ABOVE THE ATLANTIC — With four sleepy kids in tow and a long journey ahead of us, I expected stress. Instead, we found kindness. Over and over again.

There was the compassionate and creative Delta agent who somehow found us a way to North Yorkshire with five seats to rebook after a flight delay forced a missed connection. There was John from Mercer Island, who insisted on buying us a piece of chocolate cake and told stories about his bootlegging great-grandfather from Detroit.

There was the barista who saw me wandering with two water bottles and sought me out to fill them. There were over a dozen wedding guests and hotel workers who went out of their way to greet us and share how handsome our sons looked in their suits. The staff at our grandmother’s care home brought us tea and ice cream during our visit and were forgiving of the soccer ball we lost over the fence.

And that’s not even to mention our family—those who traveled with us or spent gleeful time with us all weekend.

There was kindness and grace lurking, it seemed, around every corner.

Part of this, I’m sure, is that we’re not an ominous or intimidating group. Our kids very clearly have a spark of light and warmth that others recognize. Robyn and I are often frazzled, but we tend to carry a peaceful presence nonetheless.

Some people talk disparagingly about women (usually) with a “resting bitch face” (RBF)—that look of default grumpiness.

But I’ve come to believe in something else:

“Resting Joy Face.”

That’s what I’ve started calling it—the unmistakable glow of someone whose default posture is joy, peace, and kindness.

If the inner monologue of someone with RBF is something like, “I want to talk to you for as little time as possible because I’m better than you,” then the inner monologue of RJF might be, “I’m glad you’re here, and I’m glad to simply be here.”

Over the years, I’ve worked hard to change my own inner monologue—from insecurity and arrogance to one of gratitude. That inner work is hard. But it can be done. We can change our inner world—and we should.

That’s the core belief that undergirds my book, Character by Choice: Letters on Goodness, Fatherhood, and Becoming Better on Purpose. Writing it was, in itself, an act of inner work.

But you don’t need to write a book. We can work on our inner lives in so many ways. We can meditate and journal. We can pray or practice daily gratitude. We can spend time in nature and build better habits of deep listening.

There are many paths to a resting face that conveys joy—both secular and sacred. Joy can be taught, learned, and earned.

I share all this because naming this look—resting joy face—made it more real to me. I can now see it more clearly in others, and I feel more aware of when I have it (or don’t) myself.

And most importantly, seeing it so concentrated in such high doses reminded me that it’s worth working on. Life feels more tolerable—and more beautiful—when we cultivate joy and share it.

It’s work that feels more and more essential—just as important, if not more so, than any schooling, college degree, or job training. Inner work is just as vital as professional development. Earning our joy is just as important as earning a living.

I’m someone who sins. Let’s be clear about that. But I’ve spent years doing the inner work—journaling, writing, praying, asking questions, meditating, listening—the whole bit. It’s made a difference. I know that if I can do it, so can you.

If you’re already someone who focuses on inner work, you don’t need my convincing. But if you’ve been avoiding it, I’ll leave you with this:

Inner work is hard—maybe the hardest work we can do. But I swear on my life: it’s worth it.

So if you ever catch a glimpse of Resting Joy Face in someone—or feel it in yourself—know this: it’s not an accident. It’s the fruit of inner work. And it’s worth every moment of struggle it takes to cultivate it.

—

If you’re ready to go deeper, Character by Choice is a book I wrote for myself, but decided to share because it’s a guide for inner work I knew others would value. You can purchase it or download a free PDF [http://www.neiltambe.com/characterbychoice].

“I Don’t Know Who I Am, Papa”

A week ago, I asked Robert a question—probably after he repeated some schoolyard curse word and I got irritated:

“Is that who you are?”

And he looked at me, more graciously than I deserved, and said:

“I don’t know, Papa. I don’t know who I am.”

That hit me hard.

Because honestly—how the hell is a 7-year-old supposed to know who he is? I immediately backed off the pressure I was putting on him and said, “You’re right, buddy. Figuring out who you are is hard, and it takes time. I’m here for you, and I’ll help you through it.”

That’s a big promise. So I’ve been sitting with it: How do I actually help him figure out who he is?

And how do I do that when I don’t always know who I am either?

Bo is a bit of an old soul, and he’s cerebral too - a bit like me. Which is to say he want to be a good man, I see this in him so clearly already. But he needs guidance more than a mandate, just like I did.

What I realized this week is that one of the most powerful tools we have as parents—maybe the most important one for shaping character and identity—is to make choices visible.

Character Is a Trail of Choices

In my teens, I used to think character was something you built through lessons, lectures, maybe even discipline. But with the hard earned wisdom of experience, I see it’s just as much revealed as it is shaped:

Character is just the pattern that emerges when we examine our choices. Since most of our choices in our lives are small ones, we mostly build character in small moments.

Small things—how we react to bad news, how we respond to a sibling’s fart, what we say when we first see our kids and wives in the morning—these are the data points. That’s who we are.

We can say we’re one thing, but the truth is in the choices. Are we calm or reactive? Kind or sharp? Curious or dismissive?

The data doesn’t lie.

What I Learned: Stop Critiquing. Start Surfacing Choices.

Before this clicked for me, my default parenting move was critique. I’d say things like:

• “Don’t play basketball on the stairs.”

• “Don’t walk around with your privates hanging out of your pants.”

• “Don’t talk to your mom like a pterodactyl.”

Sometimes it worked. Mostly, it didn’t do much. And I realized—it wasn’t helping my kids grow. It was just conditioning them to wait for external correction. And even if I wanted to, I won’t be there to boss them around forever, at some point I’ll be gone.

They need to learn how to make choices on their own.

So today, when they’re veering off-track, I did my best to hold off on critique. I started with a question instead:

“What are your options?”

Where else can you play ball that isn’t the stairs?

What other options do you have for how to wear pants?

How else could you tell mommy you’re upset?

This question does something powerful. It interrupts the reflex. It reminds them that they don’t have to just bounce from one triggered reaction to the next. They have agency. They can choose.

And so can we.

And sure, I also laid down the law today a few times too, like when our older two kids were cutting cardboard and left scissors on the floor. Those had to be put away now, no questions asked.

But most moments aren’t like that. In most moments there’s time to push pause by asking “what were your options?”

Kids Will Choose Well—If They Can See Their Choices

I don’t believe kids want to be little tyrants. They don’t want to hurt others or disappoint themselves. Neither do adults, by the way. But they often don’t see the options clearly—because emotional reactivity blocks the view.

This is why asking “What are your options?” is such a powerful move. It puts them in the driver’s seat. It lets them choose who they’re becoming.

And over time, those little choices start forming a shape. That shape is character. And when they look back at that pattern and that shape they can start to know who they are, and perhaps even who they want to become.

The Takeaway for Me (and Maybe for You)

This week, I learned something simple but profound:

Our job as parents isn’t to define who our kids are. It’s to help them see the choices that define them.

We don’t need to hand them a script for every right move. We just need to help them slow down, notice the moment, and see that they have a choice. Because that’s where agency begins. That’s where character starts to take shape.

And if we can do that—even imperfectly, even once in a while—I believe they’ll grow into strong, kind, thoughtful people.

People who know who they are.

People we’re proud of.

And more importantly, people they’re proud to become.

This is Our Shibboleth

Something we say, my love, is, “It’s a good life.”

No matter what sort of difficulty or time of ease we are in, we find a way to say this.
It’s as simple as a bumper sticker, but it feels much more than a catchphrase.

I feel the way I felt when we were at the altar exchanging wedding vows, nine years ago this week, every time I say it.
It’s not just a family slogan — it’s a renewal of our marriage vows.
It’s proof that we are doing this together, in good times and bad, in sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer.
We said this, we say this, and we will say this through all the ups and downs of our life together.

Why?
Why have we been able to say this—with full conviction, all the way into our bones?

First, we have made so many adjustments.
We’ve made mistakes in how we treat each other and as parents.
We’ve made mistakes in our jobs and with money.
We’ve made mistakes in how we’ve treated others.
But the difference has been, I think, that just as surely as we’ve made mistakes—we’ve adjusted.
We’ve learned to vision the future.
We’ve learned to talk about deeply terrifying problems.
We’ve learned to accept each other’s humanity and mortality.
And we’ve learned how to do simple life things like share a bathroom, a kitchen, and a calendar.

That, of course, is the practical side of how we’ve mustered something to cherish every day of our marriage.
There is also a bit of the divine.

The other reason we have been able to swear by the idea that "it’s a good life” is because we’ve seen what we have, and we truly believe that what we have is enough.
We have not dwelled on everything we lack.

We’re blessed.
We have a big family.
We have enough money to meet our basic needs and a little extra, despite the grueling cost of child care.
We have good neighbors and good friends.
We have each other.

There are plenty of things we don’t have.
We don’t have a house on a lake, or a path to retire by 50.
We don’t have endless solitude or a life free from grief and hardship.
We don’t have jobs that are always easy or hair untouched by grey.
We don’t have a lot of free time, or the effortless cool we might have once had.

But what we have is enough.
We have chosen to see abundance, not absence.
And that choice has built our good life.

I hope, my love, that when I tell you I love you, you believe me just as much today as you did when we were married, before God and our closest friends and family nine years ago.
Because I do.

But there’s something I don’t say enough — something I want you to know, deep into our ninth year:
I am grateful, down to my bones, that I am enough for you.
You make me feel, every day, that I am enough for you.
That I don’t have to strive for what we don’t have.
That who I am, and what we share, is enough.

And you — you have always been, and will always be, more than enough for me.

The truth is, our good life has already filled my cup, over and over again.
To love you and be loved by you is enough.
To have been your husband and the father of our children is enough.
To belong to you, and to have you belong to me, is enough.

This ninth anniversary feels especially sacred.
It’s our first with all four of our sons here — a house alive with life and love — and we have certainly earned our stripes.
We have lived enough life to feel frustrated by the rough rolls of the cosmic dice.
But even after the hardest months of our marriage, we still find ourselves in a moment, almost every day, where we can embrace and whisper, “It’s a good life.”

And that — that enduring whisper — is a gift.
This is not just our slogan, but our shibboleth — the watchword for the life we have dreamed about.
It’s our daily renewal of our vows, and the way that we honor the gifts our union has given us.

So today, my love, I want to celebrate it.
I want to celebrate us and what we've created together.
And I want us always to remember:
No matter what happens, no matter what we face, it’s a good life.

Three Lessons from a Benevolent Universe

I try to remember that everyone is going through something and has gone through something.

No matter how wealthy or poor, how powerful or meek, how healthy or sick—everyone suffers. And at times, suffers brutally. Grief, loss, and addiction affect everyone—whether it's presidents or paupers.

This is the first lesson I learned about suffering: if everyone suffers, and suffers gravely, then I have an opportunity to help them mend just by treating them with dignity. And practically speaking, I can’t handle having a different MO for people who I like and respect and trust, and for people who I distrust or even find repulsive.

My soul can’t code-switch in the same way that my language can.

If I try to selectively treat some people with dignity and not others, it feels like my character splits in two—like a self-inflicted Jekyll and Hyde. I lose myself. So I try to offer the same dignity to everyone. It’s all or nothing—not because it’s easy or even comfortable, but because it’s the only way I know how to stay whole.

What to make of suffering itself, though?

I had this thought experiment in the past week—which has been the most intense we may have ever had. Our family is entering a season of tremendous challenge, and equally tremendous joy.

And as I look to the horizon ahead, I had one of those raw, reflective daydreams that stripped my heart down to naked honesty.

Let’s assume there is a higher-order being that influences our lives, orchestrating at least some of the suffering and joy we experience. Let’s further assume that this being actually does care about us and wants us to thrive.

If you are a theist, that being could be a benevolent God. If you are a non-theist, maybe you still hold space for the idea that something greater—life itself, the universe, some force beyond understanding—is trying to help us grow.

If we assume that there is a benevolent being that truly cares about our long-run best interest, and that being is intentionally influencing the suffering and joy in our lives, there must be some reason.

So what are they trying to teach us?

I can never know for sure, but I think it’s something like this—something about how we are in relation to others:

Learn to take care of yourself.
Take care of others.
And let others take care of you.

Or—
Learn to be a light.
Help others find their light.
Let others find the light in you.

Or even—
Learn to laugh at yourself.
Help others laugh.
Let others help you laugh.

Each part of the triad points to a different kind of human bonding.

To love the self is to become a vessel—open to love, radiant with light.
To love others is to offer them that light.
To let others love us—that’s the hardest. It requires trust.
It asks us to believe that we’re worthy, and that others are safe enough to let in.

Again, I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think that benevolent higher being is trying to teach us this—though too often, our actions wrongly suggest otherwise:

Learn to make money.
Take money from others.
Prevent others from taking your money.

Or—
Learn to live in the shadows.
Put others in darkness.
Fight the people who put you in darkness.

Or—
Learn to create fear.
Project fear onto others.
Shield yourself from the fearful others.

The first triad is a lesson inviting us into trust, love, and connection. The alternative traps us in a cycle of fear.

The first is an open hand; the other is a dagger at the neck.

The point is in how we are in relation to others. I don’t think the suffering and joy the benevolent being is throwing our way is to teach us to be in a state of conflict and exploitation. I think what they’re trying to teach us is to be in a state of harmony and intimacy.

Every experience of suffering and joy follows this pattern of pedagogy:
Experience love.
Love others.
Let love in.

Not one, not two, but all three:
Learn to love (an act of the self).
Love others (an act onto others).
Let love in (an act of others onto us).

We can’t graduate with just one of these lessons—we need all three. Hinduism has taught me this. So has Catholicism. Even my reflections as an indifferent agnostic in my early twenties taught me this.

Life has taught me, through all gives and takes from us, that we need all three threads of this triad, braided together.

As I grapple with the road ahead for our family, we are starting down tremendous suffering—but probably more than our fair share of joy, too. In prayer, contemplation, and written reflection, I’ve come to this conclusion again and again—including this week—and more strongly every time.

Maybe there is nothing out there. Maybe there is. Your beliefs and your guess are as good as mine. But it is helpful to think as if a benevolent being is trying to teach us something.

Because the conclusion I’ve come to—over and over—is powerful and instructive:

All this suffering and joy reminds us that the meaning of it all is to refine our relation to others—
By experiencing love,
Loving others,
And letting love in… again and again.

Gosh Darn It Pizza: What a Botched Pie Taught Me About Grace

The kids were hungry. And as they hurried into the kitchen and chirped at me for another snack, I withheld another slice of cheese and assured them I was close.

And then, with dinner on the line, I screwed up.

I had rolled the crust so thick, it felt like a beanbag. After three minutes of pre-baking, the bounce-house-looking crust rolled and was caught over the edge of the pizza stone. When I went to pull it out, the crust separated from the base so badly I thought it was beyond repair.

And I yelled. Loud enough that the big three boys heard me through a brick wall outside and came running. Robyn came to my aid too—assuring me that we still had one pizza in good shape and offering to grate some cheese for me.

The truth? It wasn’t really about the pizza.

It was about everything else: the stress of our newborn’s health and surgeries, the onslaught of demands at work, the unpredictable news cycle, and being weary from solo parenting most of the day. This pizza was the one thing I knew I could do right that day. And when I botched that too, it broke open the anger I’d been ignoring.

I had worked so damn hard for that dough, however deformed it was. I didn’t want to just pitch it.

I tried to make the best of it by ripping off the pillowy, bounce-house-scale crusts and making them into breadsticks. This left the pie crustless, jagged, and super thin. I added sauce and fixings to both pies and thought—let’s see how this goes—as I peeled them back into the oven for their final bake.

The family laughed supportively as I introduced the “Gosh Darn It” pizza to our Saturday night table.

I took off my apron and moped to the table, setting out everyone’s water bottles, still feeling the sting of the moment. Bo turned to me—so sweet, so kind, so gentle—and said, “It’s SO good, Papa. These breadsticks are the best. I love Gosh Darn It pizza.”

And in that small moment, my spirit rose.

Suddenly, my anger and embarrassment became relief. It was all fine. We were all together, eating pizza—and that’s really all anyone wanted.

Our house is its quietest when everyone starts on their first slice on pizza night. And as everyone happily munched away, I wondered: maybe “Gosh Darn It” pizza just accidentally became a new tradition.

Sometimes great new things come from mistakes we made the best of.

—

But as I reflect a morning later, there’s more to learn here about growth.

As I see it, this story is a good metaphor because we are all Gosh Darn It pizzas. Me, you, my kids, your kids—all of us.

We’re all so imperfect. Many things about each of us feel like a flaw or a mistake. We all screw up, and our charge to grow—spiritually and morally—is to become something better by making the best of our mistakes. That’s all we can do.

Inner work—that slow, winding journey toward becoming more whole—doesn’t follow a straight path. It’s like a long walk through the woods. It’s cold and windy, and you can’t do it alone.

If not for my family—checking on me, helping me, encouraging me, and offering me grace—my deformed dough would’ve become garbage instead of Gosh Darn It pizza.

And this is what I want to remember most about that Saturday night: we’re meant to walk this winding path toward goodness together, because what transforms us is the grace from those sitting next to us—even when, and maybe especially when, we’re just trying to turn some imperfect dough into a Gosh Darn It pizza.

Time Isn’t Just Precious. It’s Freedom.

If you want to dominate someone—really dominate them—control their clock.

Not just how many hours they have, but the rhythm of their life. Interrupt their mornings. Hijack their focus. Scramble their sense of flow. Make their time unpredictable, reactive, chaotic. Do that long enough, and they’ll lose track of themselves.

This isn’t advice. It’s a warning.

Because this is happening to us. Every day.

We talk about money as a form of power—and it is. But we rarely talk about time that way. And we should. Because time is where character is built. How we use it shapes who we become—for better or worse.

When someone else controls our time, they start shaping our character.

Some people respect our time. They show up when they say they will. They ask for our attention instead of grabbing it. They give us room to say no. Others? They drop things on us last minute, run meetings long, change plans on a whim, manufacture urgency. They don’t just steal our time—they steal our pace. And some of them know exactly what they’re doing.

This can be casual. It can be unconscious. Or it can be a form of deliberate mind control.

Either way, it’s on us to protect ourselves. After a few months of having a newborn mixed with a toxic news cycle, I finally realized what was happening—and that we can choose differently. Here’s how I’ve started to do that.

First, set your default rhythm.

Pre-block the calendar for deep work. Guard time for meals. Protect a few slow moments in the day. We need to build our rhythm before the bids on our time roll in. Otherwise, we’ll only ever react to the world.

Second, audit your rhythm-breakers.

This was the big one for me.

Who or what is constantly pulling you out of flow? It’s worth naming them—because once we name them, we can decide what kind of access they deserve.

Here’s my list right now:

• Me (when I don’t protect my own time)

• My wife

• My kids

• Work—especially senior leaders

• Soccer practice

• The weather and seasons

• My dog

• My kids’ school

• Illness

• Bills

• Entertainers and influencers

• Marketers and advertisers

• Telemarketers

• Sports broadcasts

• Political actors, speeches, and announcements

• My dietary choices

• Appointments (doctors, dentists, shops, government agencies)

Some of these we choose. Some we don’t. Some we want to give more access to—others, we need firmer boundaries with. But the act of reflecting, listing, noticing? That’s the first defense. Rhythm starts with awareness.

I’m fine having my time hijacked by a kid who wants to kick a soccer ball after dinner. I’m not fine giving that same access to a blustering politician or a LinkedIn influencer trying to amp me up about salary and status. One interruption builds relationship. The other creates chaos and anxiety. That difference matters.

Because this isn’t just time management. Our character is at stake.

In Character by Choice, I explored how character isn’t built in the big, heroic moments—it’s built in the margins. In the pauses. In the slowness of ordinary life. That’s where curiosity, love, and listening grow. That’s where we cultivate goodness.

But if we’re always hurried and hijacked, we don’t get to those margins. We don’t reflect. We don’t hear. We don’t connect. We just react.

Seedlings don’t grow well when sunshine and water are erratic and unpredictable. Neither do we.

This might sound like a small thing. Saying no. Blocking time. Holding a rhythm. But I don’t think it is.

It’s a lever. A quiet one. But powerful.

Because time is where character is built. If someone else owns our time, they start to control our intention. And if our days are always frantic and fractured, the kindest parts of us—the curious, generous, loving parts—are suppressed.

So here’s a suggested first step: take an honest look at your rhythm. Who controls your clock? Who deserves to? And what boundaries—loving, firm, deliberate—do you need to put in place to protect the part of you that’s trying to be good?

That’s the work ahead for us. It’s small. But it’s sacred.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I keep coming back to this:

What are we actually trying to do as parents?

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

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

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

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

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

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

When It Got Real

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

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

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

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

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

OKRs for Parenting Goodness

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

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

Here’s how I break that down:

• Love them unconditionally

• Be a role model—we become good people too

• Help them become lifelong learners

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

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

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

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

🧠 Be There, Literally

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

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

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

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

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

💬 Be Fully Present

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

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

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

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

🧩 Make Them Think

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

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

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

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

🎓 Make Them Teach

Teaching builds mastery—and confidence.

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

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

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

🙏 Please Share Your Wisdom

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

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

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

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