What is family? What is holiness?

There is a T.S. Eliot quote our pastor shared at a homily recently that stuck with me.

“Half the harm that is done in this world is due to people who want to feel important. They don’t mean to do harm—but the harm does not interest them. Or they do not see it, or they justify it because they are absorbed in the endless struggle to think well of themselves.”

There are a lot of ways to define what a family is. One is this: family are the people to whom you do not need to prove that you are important.

This touches on a fear that undergirds how I show up as a father. I fear losing a son to suicide—that they’ll feel their life is unimportant. The pressures of being kid today, that are beyond what I ever carried, rattle me. I want them to know that they matter to me, that I love and value their mere existence, without condition, without pretense.

To embrace someone as important, without requiring them to prove or justify it, takes a kind of moral strength. It’s easier—though not trivial—to love your spouse and children this way. But what about friends? Neighbors and colleagues? Strangers? Enemies? What about those who try to violently hurt, exploit, and abuse us? What about them?

To value and love them is harder. To embrace them in a way where they do not have to prove and justify their importance? I think that’s a way of defining another elusive concept: holiness. To embrace, wholly, those people who are not already part of your community, and that may even try to destroy it? To see the value and human dignity in them? Without condition or pretense?

That’s holiness.

—

With all this, I wonder.

How much of injustice, of violence, perhaps of senseless suffering even, disappears. Just disappears, if those who yearn to be seen and valued feel important. Without condition and without pretense.

How much of that disappears with holiness?

Races Worth Finishing

Our cousin, Tom, just finished the Cocodona 250 — a 250-mile ultramarathon that runs through the mountains and desert of Arizona.

Tracking his progress throughout the week and seeing him cross the finish line early Saturday morning on a YouTube livestream was absolutely incredible. Like an instant chills-and-tears kind of moment. Because it is, after all, a grueling race. Competitors have to go with little sleep for several days to finish, slogging through the terrain of the course nearly around the clock. A runner even died, sadly, on the course this year.

The winner was truly elite, finishing the course in about 56 hours — a record. But in races like this, for most of the competitors, being the winner isn’t the thing that matters. For difficult races like these, the victory is maybe to hit a new personal best, but most of all just to finish. Victory is simply to finish.

And the way so many people come together to get these athletes across the finish line is astounding. There are the race organizers and an army of volunteers. There are support crews and pacers. Then there are friends and family there in person cheering the racers along the route, hugging them at the finish. So many people come together to get a few hundred athletes to go a few hundred miles from one end of the Arizona desert to the other.

Mind you, this is not a transactional thing. Whether it’s an ultra, the Olympics, or even just a local marathon, people care deeply about helping these athletes finish the race. To me, this is humanity at its best — when a community comes together to help someone do what they set out to do, to help them finish the race. This archetype of a race, where the goal is finishing rather than winning, is a special type of journey to be part of — whether as a racer, the crew, or a cheerleader.

These races are also beyond athletics. We are part of them. We can be part of them without having to be or know elite athletes.

It is the race where the village is getting a child to read, graduate, or finish college. It is a community of faith walking together and helping each other lay down their arms and find peace. It is the web of friends and often strangers who pull together to get a family that is grieving tragedy back onto their feet, or to get a friend past a cancer diagnosis and into remission.

It was in the Apollo and Artemis missions to send people to the moon and return them safely back. It is helping our elders age and die with dignity. It is in the long arc of a true artist’s journey, where they toil and sacrifice to make something that tells a truth that hasn’t been told. It is in the journey of someone injured in the line of duty learning to walk again, or someone brokenhearted learning to love again. It’s the journey of couples struggling with infertility finding a way to start a family, finding one, or at least finding acceptance for what they cannot change. This is every journey of recovery from addiction. It is every race that starts with failure and ends with becoming whole.

It is a race that Robyn and I are running to finish with a marriage that is beautiful, loving, and sacred. This is why lots of us cry at weddings. We are there to witness the beginning of a race that we want someone we love to finish. And it is a race with each child in our life that we care for. Some set out to change the world. Some set out to be good people or to create a family of their own. Some set out for exploration and adventure. And for those kids with the deepest needs and the brightest light, they set out to live the fullest, healthiest, most independent life they can. They too are on a journey where the goal, the triumph even, is simply to finish a complete life as a complete person.

This is the point in drafting where I take a break because I’m weeping. Maybe you are too. And why do I weep? Why do we weep about these journeys of finishing?

Because these are the races that matter. The lion’s share of all the love, joy, living, dying, growth, lightness, and beauty happen on these types of journeys. These are the stories that, if we are part of them — whether we are the racer or the crew or just there to cheer — help us feel like we were ever truly alive. That we were here for something. We need something more than just to “win” to have honored something so small, but so sacred, as a life.

It is a blessing to be here for these journeys, to be part of these races, whether closely or from afar.

Congratulations to the finishers. To those who finished the Cocodona 250, and those who tried but couldn’t. Most of all to our brother, Tom.

But a toast, too, to those who came to a starting line, whether as a racer or to support someone who was. To everyone who saw a difficult journey ahead and decided to be part of it — not to win it, not for applause, but because it was a race worth finishing.

Thank you for your courage and your spirit. Thank you for letting me be part of your journey, and for being part of mine. And thank you most of all for starting something that makes a sacred, human life come alive.

What I Learned In Ten Years of Marriage

Staying happily married comes down to one behavior.

In times of suffering, or joy, or even in the mundane—do I turn toward my partner, or away from them?

In the past ten years married to Robyn, this is what I’ve learned. It all comes down to a simple thing that happens dozens of times a day. Turning toward builds intimacy and nurtures love. Turning away builds resentment and undermines connection.

The key question then is this: how do I turn toward my partner, consistently?

The first “how” is uncompressed, emotionally available time.

In other words—time together that isn’t rushed.

To turn toward requires being in the same place long enough to actually confide about a struggle or savor a joy. And not just that—we have to be there. There’s no space for turning toward if we’re silently preoccupied with work or the kids or chores.

There are many obvious examples of this—going on dates, therapy, and more. But I don’t think it always requires talking.

Turning toward can happen while just being in the same room, even silently—as long as the time is uncompressed and both partners are emotionally available. Maybe that’s reading next to each other. Maybe it’s holding hands while walking the dog. Maybe it’s just sitting on the couch at the end of the day without rushing to the next thing.

The second “how” is building the mentality, the systems, and the trust to deal with conflict.

Unresolved conflict is a killer, obviously. But it’s also more nuanced than that, and there are many habits to stack beyond just “good communication.”

I think it starts with a mentality of gratitude and generosity.

You have to genuinely assume that your partner is doing more, suffering more, and trying harder beneath the surface than what you can see. You have to assume good intent even when you feel wronged. You have to train your mind—and sometimes force your heart—to find reasons to appreciate them.

That posture matters because it moderates our natural inclination toward defensiveness in moments of conflict. It’s why we start our temperature checks with gratitude.

Resolving conflict also requires self-discipline.

It’s not just Robyn’s job to bring her issues to the table. More often, it’s on me to be the type of person who creates a safe enough space—one of genuine care and understanding—so that when she is emotionally vulnerable and needs to talk about something hard, she trusts that I will love her in that moment.

I have to be healthy and stable enough to make a space sacred enough for her to share her heart and soul.

And the roles flip.

When I’m in that vulnerable place, Robyn has to do the same. When we both give more, listen more, and take on more than what we perceive to be our fair share, our marriage wins.

There are so many skills and practices that support our ability to manage conflict.

We swear by a weekly temperature check. But it’s also getting enough sleep, eating well, exercising. It’s listening well and using “I” statements. It’s having good role models—friends and family who set me straight when I’m angry or off base. It’s journaling, prayer, or other forms of discernment and expression that turn down my own anxieties.

Managing conflict comes down to having the mentality, systems, and skills to actually resolve it—and both partners giving more than 50% in that effort.

Unresolved conflict turns you away from your partner. So we have to resolve it, and we have to stack every habit we can to make that more likely.

The third “how” is having a vision for the future.

Building a life and a way of living that we both want is an incredibly strong force for turning toward each other.

Something Robyn and I talk about a lot—and even do reflection exercises on—is:

What do we want our life to be like in five years? Ten years? When we’re retired? When we’re old and gray?

How are we doing? Are we building the life we imagined? What does it feel like?

Down to the details—what do we want our life together to be, and are we actually living it?

Having a shared dream is a powerful relationship magnet. It builds energy and excitement. It also ensures that we’re both moving toward a place we actually want to go.

And that dream has real, practical consequences.

When you see it clearly, it shapes decisions—big and small—and those decisions compound.

We chose a smaller house in a diverse, friendly neighborhood, even though finding a good school has been harder and more expensive. We’ve traded more time with family for fewer cultural experiences and life in the city. We’ve gone on fewer dates out and chosen less luxury so we can hopefully retire a little earlier.

We’ve made our kids share a room so they spend more time together, and so we feel freer hosting guests. We overseed the grass so it can stand up to the backyard soccer our boys love to play.

Seeing the dream clearly shapes these big and seemingly insignificant decisions. And those decisions, over time, reinforce the dream we’re trying to build.

It becomes a virtuous cycle.

We talk about it. We get excited about it. It turns us in toward each other. We make decisions, and the dream becomes more real. And so we’re drawn in even further.

A clear, compelling dream also helps us make sense of sacrifice.

I could probably have made more money if we had moved to a coast after business school, or if I hadn’t gone into public service. Robyn could have worked full-time after we had kids instead of being in a flexible work schedule. We would almost certainly be less tired if we had a smaller family.

We could spend less time at soccer fields. We could skip church more often. We could have chosen “easier” paths in a hundred different ways.

But that’s not our dream.

We make these sacrifices, and they are more palatable—more meaningful—because we can see how they fit into the life we are trying to build.

There are moments, in the middle of the chaos, when we can look at each other and say: this is the dream.

And that acknowledgment creates a bond. It helps us appreciate what each of us is carrying—individually and together. The dream binds us and turns us toward each other.

—

Turning toward each other is not trivial. Marriage is hard.

In a world of constant rushing, shifting expectations around family and gender roles, distraction, and self-promotion, it can feel like the deck is stacked against it. Even if you choose the right partner, even if you are mature enough to be married—it is still really hard.

Maybe that’s part of why so many marriages fail.

And at the same time—we all can do this.

We can have healthy, thriving marriages. We can learn to turn toward each other. We can help each other learn a better way to live and to be married people.

I’ve been blessed to learn a lot in our first ten years of marriage—through joy, and through real hardship. We’ve been shaped by mentors, and by a community that has loved and nurtured our marriage deeply.

We are lucky.

Lucky to have each other. And lucky to be surrounded by many couples who model what a loving, generous, and committed relationship looks like.

My hope in writing this is to solidify what I’ve learned so far—and, in some small way, to take the love and wisdom that so many people have poured into us and pay it forward.

Love, Radical and Unrelenting

After a three day work trip, I landed too late. I would have to wait another day to see my family, who had already gone up north for a weekend with friends.

It was too risky to drive four hours in the frigid cold only to arrive after midnight.

So I drove home, left my luggage in the car, slept until four, made a cup of tea, and was out the door by 4:25.

Everyone was eating breakfast when I arrived at the cottage, weary. I saw Robyn first, and as I fused into her shoulder it felt as if my soul was remembering her, rising with lightness upward from the soles of my feet.

I have felt this love of pure lightness before.

But then, I kneeled to greet my three oldest sons who were playing on the family room floor. And they hugged me with a type of love I’ve never experienced.

They vaulted onto me. Their love was urgent and rough. It was unbridled, given with no limitation. It was cut roughshod, reckless even.

This love they showed me, with all four of us tumbling over the carpet and squeezing our arms around each other, matched the pent up energy of a banshee. This love was not gentle. This love was like a waterfall that could not be dammed. It was like lightning. It was radical and unrelenting.

I have never experienced love like this, where none of us were holding anything back.

As I look back on this, I find great comfort and wisdom in the existence of this radical and unrelenting love. It teaches that love need not be patient and kind. It affirms that love can be this unrestrained.

You see this sometimes at the international arrivals lobby at airports. Families wait for their loved one to emerge from behind a closed door, maybe a soldier returning from a deployment, and they weep in each others arms without any regard for who is watching. They just pour everything they have, all at once.

Shouldn’t we love others like that? Our closest ones of course, but also everyone, especially the least of us? Shouldn’t we show love as if unchained, with a total disregard for self-editing? Isn’t it the pinnacle of love to be so unconditional that it’s relentless?

Love can be a form of lightness, lifting our souls from the earth. But it can come in the form of something radical and unrelenting. To experience both is to experience something perfect.

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.

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.

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.

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.

---

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.

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.

Why 100 Marbles Help Me Accept Life and Death

There are 100 marbles in these two jars. Here’s what they mean.

I went 26 years before Robyn and I started dating, which is why there are 26 peacock-colored marbles at the bottom of the jar on the right.

Then, we were together for three years before we had kids. That’s what the next three marbles are for. They’re a vibrant yellow because those years were our first golden years—just the two of us.

After that, there are 27 multi-colored confetti marbles. These are for the years we’ll have kids in the house. I can’t believe a quarter of them have already moved from the jar on the left to the jar on the right.

Next, there are 24 more golden marbles for the years Robyn and I will have together as empty nesters before I turn 80—just the two of us, again. Real talk, but that’s about how long the Social Security Administration says I’ll live based on my age and sex.

And then there are the clear marbles. There are 20 of them, representing the bonus years—if I’m lucky enough to get them. Living from 80 to 100 isn’t guaranteed, but if I make it, those years will be a mix of divine blessing and pure luck.

Finally, there’s one marble sitting between the jars. That’s this year. Beside it is a card with my New Year’s resolutions on it—those are a huge deal in our family.

I think it’s important to have reminders—clear ones—of our own mortality. Death is certain. It’s a painful thought, yes, but ignoring the truth is worse. Pretending I’ll live forever would guarantee that I’d look back with regrets.

I swear, honest to God, I’m the calmest I am all day when I step out of the shower and see the marbles. I see the “Year of Joy” marble between the jars and it reminds me to play in the basement with my sons after dinner. I remember I need to sweat everyday, to move, to take care of my body.

Those marbles bring me back to a place of radical honesty about my life, my death, and my choices—choices I’m making right now.

If we can accept the hardest truth—that we’re going to die—what else would we ever need to lie to ourselves about? When we accept death, every other problem in life becomes easier to face.

In my experience, the suffering of problems is almost always less than the suffering of avoiding them. Grief, divorce, loss—those are brutally hard, but avoiding them? Blaming other people for them? Lying to yourself about them? That’s worse.

Here’s the thing: we don’t have any real choices until we accept where we are. Denial is a dead end. It keeps us stuck. But once we accept reality, we can start to choose differently.

If “I love you” is the most powerful sentence in the English language, then “I am where I am, but I’m not going to live like this anymore” might be the second.

When we accept hard truth, we don’t need to spin stories about our lives or control other people. We don’t need to make enemies out of others just to avoid fighting the battles inside ourselves. We don’t need to live in a fragile state of fantasy and delusion. We can just get on with it.

And this is where I’ve landed: accepting death is the foundation for living a life of love, character, peace, and responsibility. Why? Because we can take all that energy we would’ve spent avoiding the truth and spend it improving our souls and making things better around us. If you’re more interested in power, status, or avoiding struggle, this radical honesty probably isn’t for you. But if you want something deeper? Start with death.

I use marbles because I’m a visual person. Maybe you need something else—a quote, a photo, time spent with people who are sick or dying. Maybe you need to go to church more or adopt a dog, knowing they’ll go first.

Whatever it is, my friends, find a way to face mortality. Because when we can accept that, we’ll have the courage to face everything else.

I’m not saying any of this is easy, but I am saying it’s worth it. Radical honesty isn’t warm and fuzzy. It doesn’t look great in an Instagram post. But it’s real.

And being real with death is the best place to start.

How to become the richest man in the world

There’s an appeal to living life purely through arm’s-length transactions.

We agree on terms, make an exchange, shake hands, and we’re done. No recurring obligations. No one owes anyone anything. It can easily be how we operate in many situations: buying a new pair of jeans, running a garden club, working a job, or splitting chores with our wives.

A life of deals and agreements can feel in control, efficient, even profitable in a sense.

But I don’t want this.

I want my life to have strings attached. I don’t want to live at arm’s length from everyone else. I don’t want to depend on the market or a series of transactions to bring companionship, compassion, or joy into my life.

I want to be enmeshed. I want to watch my brothers’, sisters’, and friends’ kids when they need a date night out. I want to know the next time I hug someone in my family or anyone else I always hug is going to be soon.

I want to accept meals after we have a baby and reciprocate that kindness to the next ten families in line. I want my neighbors to call me when their computer monitor is broken, and I want to lean on them when I need a ride to the airport, and Robyn has to take the kids to a piano lesson.

I want to stay up later than I should to hear one more story over beers with my buddies, especially when they’re visiting from far away. I want the DCFC clubhouse to feel like our country club because that means we’re showing up for soccer practices, and cheering not just for our sons but also their teammates.

I want the gentle nudge—and the pressure—to show up to Mass or open car doors in the school drop-off line, knowing the kids and other dads notice when I’ve been MIA for a while. I want to linger places, even at work, just to ask someone about how they and their family are doing.

I want to pour my love and laughter into someone who is struggling, even though it obligates me to the scary reality that, maybe—just maybe—I’ll have to open my heart and let it in when someone notices my grief and suffering and pours it right back.

These are the scenes from a life with strings attached.

This is what I want for us. I want us all to work hard and build just a little surplus—of money, love, time, and health—so we can take that extra and give it away.

Doing that isn’t how we become wealthy. In fact, we’re probably better off keeping people at arm’s length if wealth is our goal. Why? Because it’s easier to extract money from people when we stick to the terms of the contract. Our pesky emotions and feelings of attachment won’t dull our killer instincts, so to speak.

So intertwining ourselves with others—stringing ourselves to them and them to us—may not be the best way to become wealthy.

It is, I’d argue, how we become rich.

We're in the era of falling in love again

I Have Fallen in Love, Again

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

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

This is what love looks like now.

And I’m falling in love with her again.

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

The Beauty of Changing Eras

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

We’ve entered a new era.

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

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

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

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

But it’s not just us.

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

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

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

And it doesn’t stop there.

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

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

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

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

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

Marking the Era

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

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

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

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

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

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

How Long We’ve Been Doing This

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What if death wasn’t certain?

Friends,

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

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

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

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

But what if that wasn’t the rule anymore?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With love from Detroit,

Neil

How To Grow Our Hearts

“It’s kind of like the Grinch,” I told my oldest son.

“When we have another kid, God helps us grow our heart so that we can love and support each of you 100%.”

Bo gave me that perplexed brow that he always gives me when he’s punching above his weight while processing a complex idea. Luckily, he understood and trusted me enough to take a leap of faith and believe me.

Truth is, I get why he was so torn. Soccer has been his thing: for fun, for confidence, and for having our whole family be his fans. And now, Myles, two years his junior, was encroaching on a precious source of love and stability by having his first game. For Bo, soccer was no longer just his thing.

He needed to understand that our love wasn’t a limited resource—our hearts have grown big enough to fully support him, Myles, and their younger sibling. Like the Grinch, our love expands with every child, every moment, growing larger as life calls for it.

But I could see his hesitation. He was still trying to understand how this worked. How does our heart grow? How do we become the Grinch? Where does that process even begin?

So, where do we start? I believe it begins with making sure we aren’t turning into ‘black holes’ of emotional energy—the kind of person who constantly drains others because their own heart feels empty. We all know that person—the one who pulls love and attention from anywhere they can, but can never seem to hold onto it. To truly let our hearts grow, we need to stop the leaks in our own cup and learn how to fill it.

Once we’ve learned to hold onto love and stop draining it, we realize something else: love is all around us, waiting to be noticed. It’s easy to fall into the trap of believing the world is cold or that people can't be trusted—after all, negativity shouts louder. But if we stop and pay attention, we’ll see that love is quietly everywhere.

In my experience, the ugliness just seems louder, drowning out the love that’s quietly waiting to be seen. If we actually pause and look, we’d notice that so many people are eager to share love—they’re just waiting for a small sign to open their hearts. I’ve seen this firsthand in the smallest moments.

When I go for a run, for example, I make a point to give a thumbs-up to cars and pedestrians as I pass by. People almost always wave back—90% of the time, they respond. And I remember doing a ride-along with the Detroit Police when I worked with them. Even in the roughest, most violent neighborhoods, there would still be one or two houses with cut grass and flowers, standing as a beacon of love and care.

When I’ve stopped and paid close attention, it’s clear—love is everywhere, like water behind a dam, waiting to rush forward. It’s in the small gestures, the people around us, just waiting to be released. But love doesn’t just sit there; it does something magical. For me, that magic has two parts. First, love starts to mend the leaks in our emotional cups. Where there were once holes—places where fear, doubt, or loneliness drained us—love flows in and seals them up. The more I’ve opened myself to love, the less I’ve felt those leaks, and the more whole I’ve become.

That’s the first part of love’s magic: it stops the leaks.

The second part is when love begins to pour in, like a river rushing into an open cup. Once we slow down, notice the love around us, and give just the smallest signal that we’re ready for it, love bursts in. It fills our cup, and when it overflows, that flood of love makes it easy to share with others.
And that’s when our hearts start to grow. Just like the Grinch, our hearts expand to hold all that love, naturally growing larger so we can give even more of it away.

Then it’s inevitable for our hearts to grow, like it did for the Grinch.

To my old friends

Occasionally, we will bump into each other at a game or perhaps at the market. Or, we’ll be in your town and none of our kids will be sick and we’ll meet up at a park.

And maybe, it’ll be on a zoom call with all our pals who can make it. Or, perhaps in one of its fleeting uses, Facebook will remind me that it’s your birthday.

One of my sons, after awhile will ask, “how do you know them, Papa?”

And I’ll get to say one of the phrases in the whole of the English language that is the most special to me:

“We’re old friends.”

I am lucky enough to have old friends from three places I’ve lived: Rochester, Ann Arbor, and Detroit. We’ve lived in Detroit for 13 years this fall, longer than I’ve lived anywhere and certainly long enough to be “old friends.”

I was laid up sick this weekend, and as my fever was peaking above 103 degrees and I didn’t even have the energy to fall asleep, I listened to Ben Rector’s live album, thought of you, and wept - like I am now. How I miss you, so desperately.

I think of you so much more than I let on. I am so sorry that it can be years sometimes before I’ll pop up out of my hole. I’m so sorry I’m not better.

The reason why, is one I owe you.

My dreams have come true. All I ever wanted, I realize now, was a family. And we have one. It has been a beautiful, messy, hilarious, journey. Here, tucked away in Detroit, my life has been made.

I want to be here, in my hole, soaking up every moment.

There’ll be times when I’m about to text or call and one of my sons will rope me into a soccer game in our basement. We’ll laugh. And then it’ll be bedtime, and then it’s dishes time, and then I’ll be wiped but glowing with happiness as Robyn and I spend 30m together if we can - and the moment will have passed.

I don’t mean this to be an excuse, but it is a reason.

So to my old friends, I miss you. I love you very much, and will think of you often - I promise.

Until we meet again,

Neil

Days Like These: A Father’s Wish

I forget sometimes how large I loom in their world. But on this Father’s Day, I am reminded of it, and it’s something I don’t want to forget.

All my sons put so much effort and care into my Father’s Day present. It helped me remember that, no matter who you are, as a young kid, the people who raise you are your whole world. Mothers and fathers are just…giants to a kid. All children explore this, fascinated and in awe. That’s why all kids put on their parents’ shoes and mittens and walk around in them.

“Maybe someday,” we wish, “these will fit and I’ll get the chance to be like them.”

Mothers and fathers are giants to a kid.

This is such a gift of love, not just for our joy and hearts but for the people we will become in the future.

I’ve been thinking about how this year, on my birthday, my perception of age changed. When we’re young, the first change comes when you realize how awesome it will be to be older: bigger, stronger, and more free. Then you hit the invincibility years of your twenties, wishing to stay 27 or 28 forever.

Next come the years of control—or lack thereof, I suppose. There’s not enough money, not a good enough job, the kids grow up too quickly, and you find yourself nervously joking about the increasing gray in your hair or talking about revisiting old haunts to recapture fleeting youth.

Then my 37th birthday hit, and my perception of age changed again. It was a birthday where I thought, “Damn, I’m just glad to be here for it.”

Why? Because I became very conscious of how our table grew more crowded this year, not less. This year, we’ve added children, brothers, and sisters to our table of friends and family. And we lost almost nobody. I’m old enough now to realize how rare and precious birthdays like this one will be from here on out.

So yes, when I blew out the candles on my pineapple birthday cake this year, my wish was: “Thank you, God, for letting me celebrate this birthday. My wish is for my next birthday to be like this one, with our table more crowded, not less.”

One of my greatest fears about death now is not the pain, suffering, and uncertainty that surrounds it—though that’s still a real fear. I have started to fear that a birthday will come—especially if my friends and family are gone, and I’m the last one standing—where I won’t wish for another one.

That’s the final change in our perception of age: moving from a place of peace and gratitude for our life—where we’re just happy to be here—to hoping for death to come peacefully, but also soon. I don’t want to ever slip into that last phase of age. I hope this last birthday, where I was just happy to be here and hoped for another birthday, is the last time my perception of age meaningfully changes.

No matter what happens, I know today that I have mattered to my sons. Days like these, marked by little celebrations and small gestures of love, remind us that we mattered to someone—whether it was our kids, friends, family, colleagues, or neighbors—that we loomed large.

These little Father’s Day gifts, like the ones I received today, are more than just presents. They are symbols we can hold onto as we age, reminders that we loved and were loved. These symbols of love will always give me hope and a feeling of worth, a reason to keep wishing for more birthdays. Because we were loved once, there’s always hope that each day we wake up, there will be that light of love again—whether it comes to us or is the light we carry and gift to others.

15 Slow Seconds Is Enough

Instead of taking 5 minutes to read my blog post this week, please take 15 seconds to just take a pause. Notice something so that you can make a memory of where you are right now.

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The reason for this deliberate non-post? It’s because one of the building blocks of human bonding is attention. Relationships only form when we pay attention. Love blossoms in the here and now.

I remembered this after attending a very special family wedding where the bride and groom gave us the gift of presence by asking for the ceremony to be phone-free.

This is an image of a dog offering up a glass of water. Take one more brief moment to look at it and plant it firmly in your mind.

Now, when you and I inevitably see a dog or a glass of water this summer, let’s use it as a trigger which gives us the permission to take 15 seconds, shake out of whatever we were thinking about, and get back to the present moment.

Once we’re back to the here and now we’re ready for love and fellowship.