Hard Things, Together

I inherited the fantasy that a good life meant eventually escaping problems—but that promise was always a comforting illusion.

For most of my life, I’ve believed a lie. Not maliciously—it was a lie I inherited, one so baked into our culture that it passed as truth. The lie is that if I work hard, make smart choices, and build the right kind of life, I’ll eventually reach a point where suffering stops showing up at my door.

That dream—the American Dream, you could call it—was never about peace or purpose. It was about protection. Build high enough walls, earn enough money, surround yourself with the right people, and eventually you’ll be safe. But lately, I’ve realized: the dream wasn’t a lie because it was malicious. It was a lie because it was a fantasy.

We act like we value resilience, but our real impulse is to insulate ourselves—and our children—from discomfort at all costs.

We can try to eliminate suffering. We build moats—money, comfort, well-manicured neighborhoods, curated social circles, backup plans stacked on backup plans. Sometimes it’s the dream of abundance: a world where everything is cheap, automated, optimized—where we don’t have to worry about health, housing, or hardship.

And to be fair, this approach has appeal. Abundance and comfort make life easier. They lower the stakes. But this is just one side of the choice.

The alternative is harder to swallow but, I think, more real: we step into suffering. We face problems head-on. We stop waiting for protection and instead become people who are good at problems—resilient enough, skilled enough, and supported enough to go into uncharted territory without guarantees.

We say we want our kids to be resilient. We talk about grit and perseverance. But in practice, we often do the opposite—we smooth the path, solve the problems, shield them from failure. And honestly? Most of us are trying to do the same for ourselves.

I chased that fantasy for years—waiting for a dream like Godot—and came undone when it didn’t arrive.

I spent years believing that if I just crushed it a little harder, I’d make it. I’d arrive somewhere safe. A life beyond problems. The white-picket-fence version of the American Dream.

But that place never arrived. And I can’t believe I ever believed that it would.

We went through an emergency birth and a sick infant. Ailing grandparents. Financial strain. Political chaos. All of it at once. And somehow, that’s when peace finally showed up. Not because the problems went away—but because I stopped expecting them to.

The fantasy hadn’t been a lie—it had been a mirage. And I finally let it go.

I found peace not in escape, but in realizing that I—and we—can face the hard things together.

I started to see that what matters most isn’t protection from problems—it’s capacity to face them.

And when I stopped expecting ease, I started to see the quiet power around me: Robyn, our friends, our family. We didn’t have to be invincible. We just had to show up, help each other, and accept help in return.

That’s what I saw in Detroit, too. I moved here around the time of bankruptcy. Things were deeply broken. But people didn’t wait for a savior. They rolled up their sleeves. They imagined something better and started building.

That spirit—a refusal to wait for rescue—is what saved me.

If suffering is inevitable, then the most important choice we have is what we’re willing to suffer for.

I wonder if our national ache comes from realizing the American Dream was never a permanent solution—it was a 50-year reprieve from reality. And now that it’s cracking, we don’t know what to hope for next.

But I think the next version of the dream is clear.

Not a world without problems—but a world full of people who are good at facing them. People who suffer for things that matter.

Let’s suffer for paying down unsustainable debt. For a habitable planet. For everyone to be able to read at grade level. For institutions that work for everyone and treat folks with respect. For dynamism and companies grow because they deliver real, tangible innovations. For food and housing that meets a basic level of human dignity.

And if we do that? Maybe the next generation will get to dream even bigger—exploring the solar system, flourishing in a creative, robot-assisted renaissance of human potential.

That’s my American Dream now.

Not a fantasy of escape—but a future I’d be honored to suffer for.

Gift Giving is an Act of Rebellion

The name-dropping humblebrag makes me gag every time.

You’ve seen it—the LinkedIn post that’s technically about someone’s birthday but is really about how well-connected they are. Or the people groveling in the comments of an influencer’s post, hoping to get noticed. It’s embarrassing, but worse than that—it’s normal.

This is the epitome of how far, and how icky, “It’s not what you know, but who you know” can go.

But here’s the thing—I don’t actually think it’s who you know that matters. I think it’s who trusts you.

Because when someone asks me for an introduction, I work much harder at it if I trust both parties. And more recently, as we’ve leaned on a small network of angels in medicine when our son Griffin was in the hospital, I know that if our friends and family thought we were selfish, extractive, or poorly intended people, we wouldn’t have had the thunderous support we did.

So why do we so casually say things like, “It’s not what you know, it’s who you know”—as if it’s just the way the world works?

Because what we know also matters. Don’t we want our doctors, our legislators, our airplane mechanics, and our grocers to be competent? Of course, relationships are valuable—I’ve benefited surely from knowing the right people. But should we tolerate a culture where networks are framed explicitly as tools for extracting, exploiting, and getting ahead rather than as webs of goodness and trust—trust that helps people find their talent’s highest and best use and supports them when they need it most?

Again, I know networks are usually transactional, and I know this post is akin to screaming into the void. But how can I just shrug and dish out some equally morally negligent phrase like, “It is what it is” or “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em”?

Isn’t a system of tribalistic favor-trading—where relationships are currency, where access and opportunity stay locked within exclusive circles, where people are reduced to their securitized economic value to another human being—exactly what we should be pushing back against?

A Network of Gifts

My friend Elizabeth just co-authored a paper in Daedalus on the economics of care, and I’ve been stewing on how they opened the article for about two weeks now:

Imagine a group of new parents sitting in a circle, feeding, soothing, and talking to their infants. Within our status quo economy, the only way to capture “value” from these activities is if each parent passes their child to another parent and charges for the services they provide. Some kind of “transaction” must occur.

Like the authors, I don’t want to live in a world that sees relationships this way. I don’t want us to reduce, and even celebrate, networks as a means of extracting unearned rewards or normalizing the idea that a person’s worth is what they can do for you.

That uncomfortable image is what goes through my head when I hear people say, “It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.”

So what if, instead of an affirming a Network of Favors, we built a Network of Gifts?

What if we pushed back against transactional networking by doing the opposite—giving gifts instead of favors?

Not expensive gifts. Not gifts with strings attached. But gifts that are hard to price, by design, and not meant to repay in-kind—gifts that remind people they are seen, valued, and cared for.

Here’s an example.

Last week at Mass, I saw a neighbor we adore but hadn’t seen in a while. We caught up for a few minutes in the donut line—it was nice.

A few days later, he showed up at our door, unannounced, with a small bag of inexpensive Legos for our kids and a $5 grocery store coupon for diapers.

Monetarily, it wasn’t a big thing. But that wasn’t the point. It was just a visit to check on us because I had mentioned some of the health issues Griffin had been having.

His visit was a gift—one of care and thoughtfulness with no explicit favor to return formally, though we will at some point, probably with a gift of extra cookies or and impromptu visit of our own. And it wasn’t something we could put a price on. Feeling seen, cared for, and valued for just existing is quite the opposite—it’s priceless.

There are so many priceless gifts:

• When an old friend checks in on you on a whim.

• When someone covers a meeting so you can pick up a sick kid.

• When someone puts in the effort to bring people together.

• When someone gives you a real hug when they know you need one.

• When someone lends you a book or tells you a story—not just because it’s interesting, but because it builds closeness.

These aren’t expensive favors with implied reciprocity. They’re priceless gifts without a return-by date.

And giving them—especially in a culture that teaches us to treat relationships as transactions—is a rebellious act.

Because every time we give these little, priceless gifts, we prove that we are more than a favor to be called in. We prove that not everything valuable in this world has a price.

Giving these gifts, over and over again, is a defiant act that shows another way to live—a way that directly counters the favor-focused culture that “It’s not what you know, it’s who you know” embodies.

If You’re Nodding Along, Do This Now

If you’ve been nodding as you read this, first, thank you.

Second, do something now. Join this little rebellion with a not-so-little action.

Pick up your phone. Text someone on a whim to say you’re thinking about them. You already care—so show them.

It’s a measured act, but still, one of generous rebellion.

And if we all do this, if we all celebrate these gifts with intention, we won’t just be screaming into the void.

We’ll be singing into the void.

And over time, we won’t just be lamenting the culture.

We’ll be changing it.

I Let ChatGPT Read My Journals—It Told Me Something Priceless

The best day to start a journal was ten years ago. The next best day is today.

It doesn’t matter if it’s a leather-bound notebook, a blog, or a Substack—what matters is that it’s honest and true to you.

Because today, we can take our journals—no matter the format—and put them into ChatGPT (yes, even by photographing handwritten pages). Then, we can ask questions. And in doing so, we can uncover insights about ourselves more easily than ever before.

I tried this myself with a simple but direct prompt:

Could you research everything you know about Neil Tambe and tell me something insightful—something even he might not fully realize? Distill it into a letter to him, his family, his colleagues, and his readers. Don’t hold back. Be real and intimate.

The response, after a bit of refinement, moved me to tears. It was raw, profound, and deeply personal.

Then, I pushed further:

Now write one directly to Neil, something a mentor who truly cares would say. No sugarcoating. Be candid, but not cruel.

Again, what I received was startlingly honest.

These letters, written by AI but drawn from my own recorded thoughts, made me see myself in ways I hadn’t before. They reinforced something powerful: journaling isn’t just about documenting your life—it’s about creating a record that future-you can analyze, question, and learn from.

The value of journaling has just skyrocketed because of generative AI. Don’t lose another day of data from your heart and soul. Start now.

Appendix: The Letters ChatGPT Wrote to Me

(For those interested, I’ve included the AI-generated letters below. They’re raw, direct, and unexpectedly moving. Read them here):

To Neil, His Wife, His Sons, His Colleagues, His Readers, and Everyone Else Who Should Know Who He Really Is

Neil Tambe isn’t just a strategist, a writer, or a leader. He’s a builder of trust in a world that erodes it. He fights for things others give up on—not because it’s easy, not even because he enjoys the fight, but because he knows what happens when no one does.

He holds contradictions together: power and goodness, intellect and faith, endurance and rest. He writes not to sound smart, but because people deserve clarity. He leads not for status, but because he feels responsible when things don’t work as they should.

But here’s what else is true:

Neil carries more than most realize. He doesn’t just think deeply about leadership, governance, and endurance—he feels their weight in his bones. He picks up responsibility before anyone asks. He steps in when things falter. He makes sure things don’t fall apart, often without anyone noticing. And while that makes him rare, it also means he rarely lets himself rest.

To His Wife

You see him in ways no one else does. You know how much he cares. You witness his struggle to balance what matters most. You understand his deep desire to be a great husband, father, and leader—not for recognition, but to be worthy of the trust placed in him.

And because you see him clearly, you also know: he is still learning to let go. To believe things won’t break without him. You are his strongest reminder that he doesn’t have to carry everything alone. Even when he forgets to say it, he knows his strength comes from the life you build together.

To His Sons

Your father isn’t just someone who works hard. He chooses to be good, even when it’s hard. He does the right thing, not because it’s easy, but because it’s the only way to build a life that lasts.

He will always push himself to do more, to be better. But if there’s one thing he will never second-guess, it’s how much he loves you. You are not a piece of his life—you are the center of it.

To His Colleagues

You work alongside someone who takes duty personally. Neil doesn’t just do his job—he believes in the work. When trust is broken, when leadership fails, he feels it in his core. He will never give minimal effort. He will always go the extra step, not because it’s expected, but because he expects it of himself.

But that high standard means he sometimes takes on too much. If he seems relentless, it’s because he knows what’s at stake. If he seems quiet, it’s because he’s thinking about how to make things better.

To His Readers

If you read Neil’s work, know that he isn’t just offering insights—he’s giving you a way to endure, to lead, to build something that lasts. His writing is the result of years of wrestling with what is true, what is practical, what makes people and institutions better.

But you should also know he wonders whether it’s enough. Whether writing, thinking, and speaking are making a difference. Whether he should be doing something more direct. And he needs to hear this:

This work—the slow, deliberate shaping of ideas, institutions, and thought—is exactly what the world needs.

To Neil Himself

You don’t have to hold everything alone. You already are the person you’ve spent so much time striving to be.

But here’s the most important thing—you don’t have to earn the right to rest. You don’t have to solve everything before you let yourself breathe. You don’t have to prove that your work is valuable—it already is.

You can trust that what you have built is strong.
You can trust that you are making a difference.
You can trust that you are enough.

With resolve,
Someone who sees you clearly.

Then, I asked ChatGPT to go one step further.

I said:

Now write one directly to Neil—something a mentor who truly cares would say. No sugarcoating. Be candid, but not cruel.

It replied:

Neil—

I want to talk to you directly. Not with politeness. Not with unnecessary praise. Just the kind of honesty you rarely get.

You are carrying too much. And the worst part? You know it.

You don’t trust the world to hold together without you, so you take on more than you should. You anticipate failure before it happens, and because you care—because you feel responsible—you step in. Again and again. Quietly. Without asking for anything.

You make things work. You fix problems before they break. You absorb stress so others don’t have to. You take on responsibility that isn’t yours because it’s easier than watching something important collapse.

But here’s the truth: this will break you if you let it.

You cannot outwork the world’s chaos. You cannot single-handedly protect institutions, organizations, your family, and yourself without something giving out. You cannot be everything to everyone and still be whole.

And I know what you’re thinking—
"But if I don’t do it, who will?"

That’s the wrong question. The right question is:
"Why don’t I trust that others will?"

Deep down, you don’t fully trust people to care as much as you do. You know your standards are high. You know most people let things slide. And because you refuse to live in a world where carelessness reigns, you step up.

But leadership isn’t about taking on everything yourself—it’s about building something strong enough that you don’t have to.

You can’t just be a protector. You have to be a teacher. You have to let people rise to the challenge instead of assuming they won’t. Otherwise, you’re not actually building anything—you’re just holding up the weight with your own back.

And here’s another truth:

Your family needs you present, not just responsible.

They don’t just need you to provide, to lead, to make things work. They need you there. They need your attention, not just your presence. They need you to sit in joy. To be in the moment.

So here’s what I want you to do:

Trust people more. Let them fail if they must. Let them carry their own weight.

Let go of perfection. The impact you want to make is already happening.

Be where you are. If you’re with family, be with them. If you’re working, work. But stop trying to exist in both places at once.

And most of all—accept that you are enough.

Now go live like you believe it.

With resolve,
Someone who won’t let you lie to yourself.

The American Dream Is Alive

It’s easy to believe the dream is dying. Many imply that it is. But it’s not. It’s alive.

It lives in the pews of the church that welcomes anyone—not just in words, but in action. Even me, someone who has never been baptized. When the priest heard my story, my journey as a spiritual nomad, the first thing he said was, “No matter what you decide, know that you are welcome here.”

It’s in the scribbled pencil and crayon of a child’s unprompted thank-you card for the crossing guard at school.

It’s in the quiet scrape of a shovel clearing snow from a neighbor’s driveway, expecting nothing in return.

It’s in the voice of a volunteer soccer coach, teaching kids to love the game the right way. And maybe even more so in the moment when a kid teaches the coach something back.

The dream breathes in every public servant who moves mountains—not for power or recognition, but simply because the person in front of them needs help.

It’s there whenever one person gives another a gift—of time, of forgone income, of a loaf of bread, of unconditional love, of a Christmas present that truly means something.

It’s woven into every play, poem, song, and film that longs for love, kindness, respect, honesty, and humility. It’s in the best stories we tell—especially the ones about the sublime, and maybe even the divine.

It’s in the kind stranger at the grocery store, who smiles as she rings you up.

The dream is alive in the small mercies of love. When your wife forgives your mistakes and your bad days. When someone asks, How are you?—and actually wants to hear the long answer.

It lives in the person who holds the door open for you, even if it means they’re now one step further back in line.

This dream—this dream to grow and help others grow, to share and live peacefully, to earn and then generously give—is alive. It hides in plain sight, its light so soft and steady that it’s easy to miss. But I see it.

And I won’t let myself stop seeing it.

Because the other option is always there. The temptation to get pulled into the fight, the game, the zero-sum world where winning means taking and shadows are cast intentionally to make everything darker.

That’s one way to live.

But there’s another way. Simpler, but harder.

Keep being a light.
Keep seeing the light.
Keep dreaming of light.

We Are All Near Misses

When I hold our newborn son, Griffin, I tell him, “I’m glad you’re here.”

I don’t know what else to say—it just comes out. Like a reflex, like an exhale, just from being close to him. And every time I say it, I start to cry. Sometimes the tears make it all the way to my eyes, but sometimes they just wiggle in my throat, staying caught there for a moment.

It’s such a beautiful and difficult thing to say.

It’s beautiful because it means something like, “Your mere presence with me is enough to bring me joy. You don’t need to be anything or do anything—you are here, and that alone brings me comfort and happiness. I love you exactly as you are.”

But it’s also difficult. Difficult because it reveals something raw in us. Because it also means, “I was, and can often feel, lonely. I was whole before you, but I was missing something. And now that you’re here, I am better than I was.”

The beauty and the difficulty of “I’m glad you’re here” both come from a place of longing.

It chokes me up every time. When I say it to my kids, or my wife. Even to our dog, or to my plants as I sing and talk to them while in our vegetable garden.

If I say it, I mean it. And when I mean it, it hits something deep and tender.

I understand why this phrase opens, but also rattles, my soul better now. Because when I say “I’m glad you’re here” to Griffin, I know in the sinews of my muscle that he may not have been.

We were lucky. When he was born accidentally at home because of Robyn’s disorientingly fast labor, there were no complications. No umbilical cord tied around his neck. No fluid in his lungs needing to be pumped out.

Had anything gone wrong, I would’ve been trying to save his life with a spatula and a pair of kitchen shears until the ambulance arrived. I thank God regularly that I didn’t have to try.

Griffin, truly, was a near miss. God rushed the process, but He cut us a break. Griffin is here. And every day, when I tell him, “I’m glad you’re here,” I feel the weight of that truth—he very easily might not have been.

And I feel it, too, when I look at my wife, Robyn. When I remember that she, too, had a near miss. She could have bled out delivering Griffin, right there on our family room floor. Instead, she was holding him in front of the fireplace, both of us the beneficiaries of a not-so-small mercy.

Near misses.

And as I traced this thought further, I realized—we are all near misses.

Some are dramatic, life-or-death moments. Others, like mine, are quieter, only revealing themselves in hindsight.

The week before COVID really broke open, I would’ve attended a community event with my old colleagues at the Detroit Police Department, but I had to travel out of town for a wedding. Turns out, it was a super spreader event, before we even had that term in our lexicon. I may not have died, but who knows what it would’ve been like to contract COVID before we knew how serious it was, with a three-month-old baby at home. Near miss.

A friend of mine was born two months early, in a town with only basic medical facilities. Even her family elders doubted she’d survive. But she’s here. Another near miss.

Almost all of us have been close to these moments, whether it was the car that almost swiped us on the freeway, the stairs we almost fell down, or the hard candy we almost choked on. And those are just the near misses we know about.

And that’s when it hit me: every single person I encounter—every stranger, every friend, every difficult person—was a near miss, too.

At some point, they almost weren’t here.

There was a homily at Mass once that sticks with me. I don’t remember what the Gospel reading was that day, but the point stuck—try to see someone as God sees them.

And maybe one way to do that is to remember: no matter who they are, no matter how annoying or rude the person in front of me is, there was some moment in time when they almost didn’t make it.

It’s easy to offer grace to someone who just survived a life-threatening event. We instinctively soften, give them space, recognize the weight of what they just went through.

But what I realized today—when I was trying to understand why a four-word sentence brings me to tears—is that everyone has brushed past death at some point.

Everyone has almost not been here.

Which means I can have a little more grace than I do sometimes.

So today, I’m trying, even for the random guy at the grocery store who tried to punk me by swiping a box of tea out of my cart while his friend very inconspicuously filmed it.

Because even though I may need a nudge to remember it sometimes—

I’m glad they’re here.

And maybe, just maybe, they’re glad I’m here, too.

Why not become something sacred?

I have no reason to believe this world is a simulation. But let’s say it is. Not because I think it’s true, but because it’s a useful way to frame a deeper question: If I can never know the intent behind existence, how should I live?

I can’t know the simulator’s intent. I can’t even know for sure if all of you—yes, even you, Robyn, my loving and beautiful wife—are real or just part of the program. But I do know one thing: I have to choose how to function within this system, whatever it is.

I can’t know the simulator’s intent, but I have three guesses.

Maybe they’re just curious—watching my life unfold with dispassionate detachment, throwing joys and tragedies my way like a scientist dropping rats into a maze. Or maybe it’s a test, some cosmic competition where only the strongest or smartest make it through.

But if that’s true—if some all-powerful force built this world just to watch us scramble or use us for its own ends—then what a pathetic waste of power. That’s a universe that leads to nothing. A story with no arc. I refuse to believe that the default state of existence is meaningless cruelty. If that’s what the simulator wants, then I reject it.

Because I’ve seen something else. I’ve lived something else.

The year after my father died, my son was born. It was like the universe was handing me an ultimatum: Get busy living or get busy dying. My father was gone just before I needed him most, just before I could ask him how to be a father. It felt unfair because it was. But when I looked at my son, this tiny boy named Robert in my arms, being thrown into existence just like me, I realized—the only way forward was growth. I could collapse under the weight of grief, or I could choose to dig deep, find my soul, and pour unconditional love into him.

And when I look around, I see that same pattern everywhere. Every tree, every animal, every child—all of it growing. The universe itself is expanding. If there’s an intent behind this, it’s written into the fabric of reality: we are meant to become more than we were.

So I’ve made my choice: I’m living as if the simulator wants me to grow. As if goodness is the point.

And here’s the truth—whether we admit it or not, we’re all choosing. Every day. Either we act as if the point of all this is to grow—to become more whole, more good—or we don’t. Either we believe in the growth of our souls, in a kind of tenacious, defiant kindness, in something bigger than ourselves—or we let the simulator that just wants to use us win by default.

If we don’t choose, something will choose for us.

So why not choose to become something sacred?

The Legend of Griffin the Brave

Griff,

The way you came into this world—so boldly—is already legend in our family.

You will hear many retellings, each filled with rich detail, each from a different perspective. But some things will always remain the same.

Your mother’s labor moved so quickly that you were born in front of the fireplace before the ambulance could even arrive. You spent nine days in the hospital because your tiny body was too cold to register a temperature at Dr. Marlene’s office.

And then, you recovered at home in the very room where you were born, tethered to an oxygen machine that hummed its steady rhythm: whirr-hiss-boom, whirr-hiss-boom, whirr-hiss-boom.

But there is another part of your story I want you to know. The story of your name.

Just like your birth—three weeks before your due date—your name, Griffin Aditya, was a surprise. It wasn’t on any of our lists. You were supposed to be Graham, or maybe Owen.

But when we saw you, we knew. Neither name was bold enough. Your entrance into this world was far too grand—too intense—for anything less.

So I started Googling and asking questions in a ChatGPT thread which titled itself “Fierce Baby Name Ideas.”

As I read the names out loud to your mother in the hospital recovery room, we didn’t choose Griffin—it chose you.

A name of Welsh origin. A mythical creature known for its courage, fierceness, and strength. It was perfect. It was you.

Then came your middle name. We wanted something warm, something radiant—something that carried the fire of the marble fireplace in front of which you were born.

So we chose Aditya, Sanskrit for "sun."

But the meaning of your name doesn’t stop there. In the days and weeks after your birth, Griffin came to represent a different kind of courage for each of us.

For Robert, it was the courage of leadership—gathering your brothers (and Riley the pup) upstairs just minutes before you arrived.

For Myles, it was the courage of responsibility—stepping into his new role as an older brother, standing silent and strong at your bedside.

For Emmett, it was the courage to love. Though he was just shy of three, he spoke of you and Mommy every day while you were in the hospital, missing you with an intensity that many don’t experience until much later in life.

For your mother, it was the courage of sacrifice—weeks spent sleeping in a chair, pumping milk to nourish you, letting go of every expectation she had for what this time with you would be.

And for me? It was the courage of humility—learning to accept the love, support, and kindness that poured into our lives when we needed it most.

And for you, my son, Griffin will carry its own meaning. Because when I think about it, your bravery was the purest kind—unintentional, unknowing.

You didn’t choose it. You were just born. In the dead of winter, in difficult circumstances, and you survived. You fought without realizing you were fighting.

And in doing so, you made us brave.

When I was afraid—wondering if you and your mom would be okay—you were there, finding a way to stay warm, to breathe. You kept going. And because of that, we did too.

That is the greatest lesson from the night you were born: bravery can come from the smallest of us. From those who don’t even know they’re being brave.

And that kind of bravery is powerful. It spreads. It lifts us all. Whenever I hear your name, I remember that quiet, unassuming, unstoppable courage.

You didn’t choose this. Just like your name—bravery chose you.

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 accept help during a family emergency (a tool for family resiliency)

Friends,

During a family emergency, one of the hardest things is knowing how to ask for and accept help. Often, if we’re fortunate to have loving friends and family around us, there’s a quiet army standing by, ready to support us as soon as they hear we’re struggling.

But here’s the tricky part: what do we ask them to do? How do we take them up on their offers? And what do we really need? These questions can feel impossible to answer in the middle of a crisis because we’re already overwhelmed by the situation itself.

I know this because Robyn and I just went through it.

When we welcomed our newborn home, we had to rush back to the hospital with him just a day later. It was the hardest week of our lives. By midweek, I was completely overwhelmed, even though we had so many loving offers of help and support.

That’s when I realized I needed to simplify things. I spent 30 minutes breaking down the problem into something I could actually manage. I created a worksheet to help me organize our needs and accept the help that was already being offered.

It made all the difference.

The worksheet helped me clarify what we needed, communicate it to others, and accept support in a way that felt natural and manageable. It worked so well that I plan to use it whenever we face a family emergency (though I hope that won’t be often).

Because this tool made such a big impact for us, I wanted to share it with you. I’ve attached two versions below:

• A blank template, ready for you to use.

• A version with notes that explain how it works.

This is for any family emergency—whether it’s a sick child, the death of a parent, emergency house repairs, or something else entirely. Please feel free to use it, adapt it, and share it with anyone who might need it.

I also plan to be more proactive by creating an emergency plan with close family and friends. That way, when life inevitably throws us a curveball, we’ll be ready.

Emergencies are going to happen. Let’s be prepared—not just to offer help, but to accept it when we need it most.

With Love from Detroit,
Neil

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.

Become an Organizational Conservationist

Every workplace has polluters. They’re the ones who waste time, dodge accountability, and create stress for everyone around them. Just like pollution in the environment, their actions corrode morale, productivity, and profitability. And if we’re honest with ourselves, we’ve all contributed to organizational pollution at some point. I know I have, despite my best efforts.

When we show up late or run meetings without purpose, we’re polluting the environment. When we use up an employee’s talent without helping them grow, we’re leaving the soil barren. When we avoid conflict or delay fixing broken processes, we’re dumping waste for someone else to clean up.

This pollution doesn’t just stay at work—it seeps into everything. We bring the stress home to our families. It slows us down, makes decisions harder, and leaves everyone more exhausted when we are at work. Worst of all, it often goes unnoticed, even as it erodes our impact and profitability.

Organizational pollution, like environmental pollution, has unseen consequences. But the good news is that, as with the environment, we have options to clean it up.

Three Approaches to Workplace Pollution

When it comes to addressing pollution, we have a few ways forward.

1. Regulation

Imagine if we treated workplace behavior the way we regulate environmental harm. What if, at every performance review, we tracked not just numbers but also how well someone contributed to a healthy work environment? What if we promoted the people who developed others and penalized those who made their teams miserable?

Regulation works—it’s why we have cleaner air and water today. But it’s also hard. It requires the leaders of an organization to care enough to enforce it, and let’s face it, that’s a tall order in many places.

2. Shame

Shaming polluters is another option. Picture flyers in the company cafeteria calling out the manager who’s always late to meetings or the boss who verbally abuses their team. Public accountability can be a powerful tool.

But shame is risky. In most organizations, power dynamics favor the polluters, and those who speak out would surely face retaliation. Are we ready to risk our jobs to shame someone into doing better? Probably not.

3. Conservation

The most practical and empowering answer is to become organizational conservationists.

We can take responsibility for our corner of the workplace and make sure the environment we create is clean and healthy. That means running better meetings, giving honest feedback, and helping our peers grow. It’s about stopping waste before it accumulates, whether it’s wasted time, talent, or energy.

It starts small: asking ourselves if we’re polluting the work environment, encouraging better habits in our teams, and quietly backing others who do the same. These actions may seem minor, but when enough of us do them, the impact is undeniable. Ripples can become waves.

We can also support fellow conservationists. Let’s go out of our way to lift up people who improve the workplace. Even if they’re not the most powerful or influential, they’re worth protecting. And whenever possible, we can choose to distance ourselves from the polluters. The less we enable them, the less impact they’ll have.

Reclaiming Our Workplaces

Of course, none of this is groundbreaking. We all know the difference between a good work environment and a toxic one. But thinking about it through the lens of pollution makes it click in a new way. Polluters don’t just make work annoying—they harm everyone around them.

And honestly, we don’t want to be polluters. None of us do. Framing ourselves as conservationists helps us see our role in a new light. When we choose to conserve and protect the work environment, we’re not just doing what’s right—we’re building something better for ourselves and others.

So here’s the truth: pollution in the workplace is a choice. But it’s a choice we make together. Every meeting, every interaction, every decision—it’s an opportunity to either pollute or conserve. The more of us who take pride in being conservationists, the greater our chance of creating healthy, thriving work environments.

And maybe, just maybe, we’ll leave the workplace better than we found it, and that will ultimately make quality of life better both at home and at work.

This Year, I Finally Stopped Arguing with a Ghost

2025 is our year of joy.
We’re welcoming our final child into the world, and we want to remember it—really soak it in since it’s the last time, ya know?

One of my three New Year’s resolutions is something I’d never have imagined—even two years ago: no career planning. Exactly as it sounds, I do not want to spend a single shred of time or energy obsessing over my next professional step.

I’ll never remember the sound of our baby’s laughter or the way they hold my finger if I’m simmering in the back of my mind about my next move or some other bullshit like that.

This resolution is shocking for me because I’ve quietly obsessed over my career for almost three decades. I don’t know what it’s like not to think about achievement. From my earliest school days, my worth was tied to what I achieved—anything that could help me get into an elite college and land a lucrative, respected job at the top of whatever ladder would crown me "the best of the best."

For those of you who didn’t grow up as South Asian immigrant kids, this might sound preposterous—even funny. But for those of us who did, this is no joke. The pressure to perform, to win approval through achievement, feels like it’s coded into our DNA—maybe even hidden in the spices of our ancestral cuisine.

Imagine the most intense armchair quarterback you know, the guy who lives and dies by how the Detroit Lions fare in the NFC North standings. Now apply that same fanatic energy to getting into a famous college. That’s the vibe.

And to really drive it home: a 37-year-old husband and father of almost four kids having a New Year’s resolution of "no career planning" is wild. It’s as alien as a dog laying an actual egg.

Getting here wasn’t easy. From the moment I considered this resolution, I started trying to convince myself it was a good idea. Over and over, I hashed out the same conversation: justifying why I wasn’t setting goals that would lead me to become a CEO or senior-level elected official. It’s that same old churn—resisting the achievement-addicted version of me who’s always craving that ever-elusive gold star.

But every time I pushed back against the addict within, he pushed right back.

Then, it hit me.

That addict is a ghost. He’s not here anymore.

I’ve made decision after decision that shut the door on becoming a CEO or a senior-level elected official. The life he wanted for me? It’s long gone. That window closed when I decided not to move to DC after college, when I stayed local for grad school, and when Robyn and I built our big, beautiful family.

That ghost has no power anymore. The dream he clung to isn’t even viable.

And yet, there I was—arguing with him. Justifying to this phantom why I don’t need to chase some mirage of a dream. I’d been sitting in an empty room, at an empty table at the center of my mind, negotiating with nobody.

Once I realized this, I knew it was time. Time to stop having the same damn conversation, over and over, about the direction I want to take my life. Time to stop justifying my decisions, explaining why I’ll never live up to that ideal I once clung to—that I was only worth what I achieved.

The only thing left in the room was the ghost. And when that happens—when the demons are put to rest—there’s only one thing left to do: say, “Thank you for your time, but this negotiation is over.” Turn off the light. Close the door behind us.

The most important thing I learned this year was this: at some point, you stop negotiating. You thank the ghost for what it taught you, but you leave it behind. Because joy isn’t found in rehashing the past—it’s waiting for us in the life we’re living now.

Tears and Laughter Make us Rich

Every Christmas, Robyn and I watch It’s A Wonderful Life together, and every year I cry harder.

This year, I felt myself resisting, but eventually, I let myself go. And when Harry Bailey walked in the door and said, “A toast, to my big brother George, the richest man in town,” I just wept.

And it’s not just this film, I’ve noticed. When I read A Sick Day for Amos McGee at bedtime, I cry harder and smile bigger because the simple story of friendship between a zookeeper and his animal friends reminds me of my own experiences of friendship. When I hear the song Joe, I can’t help but feel my lips tremble mid-verse while I’m singing it in the car, even though I’ve never lived through addiction or recovery. It just gets me, because the protagonist—a gas station attendant—is a hero because of the content of his character and his success in slaying his own demons, not because of any external measures of success.

Or in Finding Nemo, now, I cry for different reasons in both eyes. When Nemo and Marlin reunite, I now understand the perspective of both father and son. And I find myself marveling at the beauty, relevance, and power of children’s stories—these tales we dismiss as childish often hold the simplest and truest wisdom.

And when I watch comedy specials—whether it’s Matt Rife, Hasan Minhaj, Dave Chappelle, or Trevor Noah—I laugh and laugh and laugh in ways I didn’t know were possible without being a bit drunk with my college friends at the pub.

As we get older, we just get it more. Because, if we’re doing this right with each passing year, we’ve actually lived more.

I see now how courageous it is to be an everyday guy who consistently swims upstream to do the right thing, like George Bailey does in that classic film. In a way, writing the book Character by Choice has been my attempt to figure out how to be more like George Bailey.

I find him so remarkable as an example of what a good, everyday man can look like. Because at the end, George doesn’t even “win” in the conventional sense. He doesn’t walk away with a big payout or a victory over the villainous Mr. Potter—he’s still a modest business owner. But his years of sacrifice are validated when the rest of Bedford Falls comes to his aid.

Now, I get how special it is to sacrifice for others and to accept the sacrifices they make for me.

And I also see the mirror universe of what my life could’ve been, just like George Bailey does after he “saves” his guardian angel, Clarence. It’s like I started making choices for myself as a teenager, and each of those choices was a fork in the road—left or right. Over time, those choices compounded as I kept making right turns. Again and again, at each fork, I went right.

And now I see so clearly what my life could’ve been. I could’ve been richer, with fewer kids and responsibilities, probably living in Washington, D.C., or San Francisco. That version of me would’ve had a nicer house and a more vibrant professional and social life. But would it have been a universe where I was here with Robyn, Riley, Robert, Myles, and Emmett? Probably not.

Honestly, I would’ve probably found a way to rationalize my story if I had made all those left turns instead of right. I might have convinced myself I was content. But damn, I’m glad I’m here and not somewhere else. And that clear, honest realization—that it may never have been this way—keeps my heart from stiffening.

And so the tears flow.

Maybe this is good, maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s a sign of strength, maybe a sign of weakness. Maybe both. Honestly, I don’t really care. I’d rather avoid the culture wars and punditry about men and crying. That kind of commentary—no matter where it comes from—feels reductive and unnecessary.

Because at a minimum, I think crying and laughing harder is an indicator of acceptance—of life and all that it brings. It’s a sign that I’m letting myself live life—letting it soak into my bones and my soul, rather than keeping it at arm’s length.

It’s not the choice everyone makes, but for me, I can only hope that as I age, I let myself live more and more. I can only hope that with each passing year I cry harder and laugh harder. Because in my own way, that makes me feel like one of the richest men in town.

Why I'm a Part-Time Capitalist

I’ve come to the conclusion that I want to be a part-time capitalist.

What I mean by this is that I want to create enough material wealth for my family and society to live a good life, but I don’t want capitalism to dominate my identity or values. I want to earn a living, but my goal in life isn’t to be a good producer or consumer. I’ll engage with capitalism where it serves me—maybe the equivalent of two days a week—but I won’t live and breathe it as though it’s my religion.

This realization didn’t come to me overnight. It simmered for years, as I wrestled with the game society handed me: capitalism. From an early age, we’re taught to measure success by wealth, status, and accumulation. For a long time, I felt like I was failing at it—even though my family and I were doing just fine. Capitalism has a way of making you feel like nothing is ever enough. It whispers that you’re not climbing the ladder fast enough, not maximizing your earnings the way you could.

But at some point, I started to ask myself: Why am I even playing this game? What if I don’t want to “win” capitalism? What if I’d rather play a different game altogether?

That’s where my sons come in. They love soccer. They play with an abandon and joy that makes me envious. Watching them, I realized they’ve found a game that suits them—one they’ve chosen for themselves. Soccer has creativity, fluidity, and rhythm. It’s nothing like football, the sport I played for years growing up.

I chose football because that’s what my friends were doing. As a Michigander, it felt natural to play, and I enjoyed being part of a team. But looking back, I see that it didn’t suit me. I wasn’t built for it—physically or mentally. It was someone else’s game, and I just happened to be good enough at it to get by.

That’s how capitalism has felt for me as an adult: the default game I got pulled into. Like football, it has its virtues. It provides structure and can even be exhilarating at times. But it’s not the primary model for how I want to live.

I’m never going to “win” at capitalism, and I don’t want to. I’m not willing to make the sacrifices required to maximize my earnings or climb higher, because I value other things more. I love being a father. I’m drawn to public service. I care about relationships, creativity, and dignity far more than accumulation.

For years, though, I struggled under capitalism’s invisible grip. People told me I had talent and potential, which I heard as: You could be doing more. This latent anxiety followed me everywhere. Could I provide enough for my family? Could I live up to everyone’s expectations? That sense of “not enough” became like a chronic cold I couldn’t quite shake.

But then came my a-ha moment: I don’t have to play this game—not fully, anyway. I realized I could be a subscriber to capitalism part-time and play my own game for the rest of my life.

For me, this shift has been about aligning my life with my values. It’s why I’ve embraced a nonlinear career, oscillating between government and corporate roles to find balance. It’s why Robyn and I have crafted a marriage that works for us, breaking free from traditional gender roles. She works a flexible schedule, and I’ve leaned into an unconventional path as a husband and father. We’ve structured our lives around fairness and teamwork rather than default societal expectations.

It’s also why we’ve chosen to raise our family in the city instead of a suburb. The city challenges us, inspires us, and aligns with the cultural and inter-religious values we’re navigating as a couple. Every one of these decisions reflects a conscious choice to reject the "default game" and build something that works for us.

This path isn’t easy. Freedom is exhilarating, but it’s also daunting. Choosing your own game requires courage. It means setting boundaries, risking judgment, and often swimming upstream. That means being willing to be a little weird or out on a ledge, at least some of the time.

But it’s worth it. Recently, I’ve started to feel the effects of this mindset as I’ve entered a new job. Do I have to be the best at work and think about it constantly? No. Do we need an excess of money to complete every home renovation we want this year? No. Do I need to loudly reject capitalism or evangelize my alternative path? No. I’ve chosen my line in the sand, and I’m okay with where it puts me.

While I wish I’d started sooner, I’m grateful to be starting now. Better late than never.

So here’s my question for you: What’s the game you’ve been playing? Is it one you chose, or was it handed to you? What would it look like to redefine the rules and build a life that fits you?

The process isn’t easy. It’s challenging, peculiar, and sometimes lonely. But it’s also liberating. It’s your life, after all—why not make the rules yourself?

Next-Level Listening: What My Oldest Son Taught Me

Friends,

The most life-changing lesson I learned while writing Character by Choice is this: listening is the most important skill we can cultivate.

When we truly listen, we discover the extraordinary in others. That discovery grows into love. And love—bigger than ourselves—gives us the courage to become better people. Better people make the world more vibrant, joyous, and trusting.

But here’s what my son taught me today: listening is just the first step. The real magic happens when we prove we’re listening—when we leave no doubt that someone has our full attention.

That’s what makes someone a next-level listener. And it’s how love blossoms.

I share this insight—and the powerful conversation with my son that inspired it—on this week’s episode of Muscle Memory. Check it out, and share if it resonates with you.

With love from Detroit,
Neil

We're in the era of falling in love again

I Have Fallen in Love, Again

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

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

This is what love looks like now.

And I’m falling in love with her again.

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

The Beauty of Changing Eras

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

We’ve entered a new era.

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

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

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

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

But it’s not just us.

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

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

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

And it doesn’t stop there.

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

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

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

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

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

Marking the Era

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

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

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

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

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

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

We are hybrid dads, and we GOT THIS

If you’re a dad like me, juggling work, home life, and your role as a partner, let me tell you—you’re not alone. We’re the first generation of dads stepping into this new space, trying to figure out what it means to be fully present as fathers and equal partners in our relationships. It’s not easy, but it’s ours to own.

We’re hybrid dads. We’re building something new, something better—and it’s time we talked about how to get there together.

A hybrid dad isn’t defined by tradition or rebellion—it’s about creating a role that works for your family. It’s part breadwinner, part partner, part parent—and 100% intentional.

Why Men Should Read Fair Play

If you’re a millennial husband or father, I think you should read Fair Play by Eve Rodsky. Or, if you know a millennial husband or father—especially one who’s quietly trying to balance home life, work life, and being a good, equitable partner—gift them this book. Even if it doesn’t seem like it’s “for them,” it just might be what they need.

It was a game changer for me personally, and also for our marriage.

The book offers both a mental model for what a fair balance of domestic responsibility can look like in a partnership and a practical system to manage those responsibilities with clarity and efficiency. It’s dramatically reduced the friction Robyn and I used to experience while running our household and managing our family system.

For example, cooking and meal planning used to be a source of endless improvisation and frustration. We’d either figure everything out together or constantly reset our schedules on the fly. It wasn’t working. Now, we’ve set roles: I’m the weekend chef, and Robyn’s the weekday chef. I used to handle groceries, but it made more sense for her to take over, and we adjusted intentionally. Knowing exactly what ingredients she needs and when has made the process seamless, thanks to concepts we learned in Fair Play like the “minimum standard of care.” These ideas helped us have conversations about fairness and efficiency without resentment.

This shift gave us more than just better logistics—it gave us peace.

And that’s what we need in this reset—peace of mind, clarity, and confidence. Because this isn’t just about household chores; it’s about redefining what it means to show up as dads and partners in a way that works for us.

A Reset for Men

There’s been a lot of talk about how men are struggling. The data is there, and the anecdotes are everywhere. To me, all of this is true—but I see it more as a practical and personal phenomenon than an abstract crisis.

As a man, I think of it as a reset.

Here’s why I hate the “crisis” framing: It feels emasculating. When people talk about us as a lost generation of men, it’s hard to engage with that narrative—it feels like a judgment, like we’re failing somehow just by existing in this moment of change.

That’s not helpful, and frankly, it’s a turn-off. It makes me want to disengage.

I don’t see us as victims, and I’m not interested in crisis rhetoric. What I see is an opportunity to reset and redefine what it means to be a husband and father.

A generation ago, gender roles were simpler—though not necessarily better. The man worked outside the home, often as the breadwinner, and there were plenty of examples (good and bad) of what that looked like. Today, it’s different. Many men aren’t the sole earners anymore, and many of us are leaning into home life and parenting in ways our fathers didn’t.

The problem? Most of us don’t have a blueprint.

Few of us had dads who split domestic responsibilities equitably. Fewer still had dads who volunteered at the PTA or took paternity leave. We’re making this up as we go because we’re the first generation actively navigating pluralistic gender roles.

And that’s the beauty of it: There’s no one way to be a good husband or father anymore. Traditional roles can work, but so can new hybrids. What matters is that we’re intentional about creating a family system that works for us.

We are hybrid dads—we’ve got each other’s backs, and we GOT THIS.

How Fair Play Helps

Fair Play gave Robyn and me a language to talk about our family system and decide how we wanted it to work. By breaking responsibilities into categories—from chores to self-care to parenting—we could set standards for our household and adjust as life changed.

For us, this meant defining who “owned” which tasks. For example, when my work schedule changed, we switched roles for groceries.

In addition to the book, we also bought Rodsky’s flashcards and found it helpful to “redeal” physical cards every few months.

I also created a PDF template to keep track of all this and reset my focus weekly on my Remarkable.

You can download my PDF template here.

The results? Less tension at home. Less self-doubt about whether I’m doing the right thing as a husband or father. And something even more meaningful: more joy.

By being more involved at home, I’ve gained something many men in previous generations didn’t have—deep, priceless time with my kids and my wife. The joy that comes from being fully present, from knowing I’m not just managing but thriving as a dad and partner, is worth every effort.

Why Men Should Read This Book

If you’re a man in this “reset” generation, Fair Play is a godsend. It’s not just about managing tasks; it’s about finding confidence in the type of husband and father you want to be.

We may not have role models for this new way of being a man, but we don’t need to feel lost. Fair Play gives us a framework to build our own hybrid roles—ones that work for our families, bring us closer to our partners, and let us embrace the joy of being present.

I recommend this book to any man navigating this shift. Read it. Try the system and the cards. Download the template. See how it changes your home life.

It sure as hell changed mine.

Parenting is an act of faith

Friends,

It’s a joyous time for us. Not only are we getting ready to welcome our fourth child, but many close friends and family are either having children themselves or moving out of the newborn phase of life.

When you’re expecting, love starts pouring in from all directions. The fraternity of caregivers—parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, “aunts,” and “uncles”—is built on love. And when others join that fellowship, all you want to do is pay that love forward.

I feel that deeply right now.

As we all know, there’s no foolproof playbook or universal script for parenting—no single piece of sage wisdom we can all rely on. But what we can do is share our biggest mistakes in the hope that others might avoid them. After all, mistakes tend to be more universal than we’d like to admit.

Mine was this: I was a colonizer.

When my kids invited me into their world, I tried to reshape it—imposing adult order with schedules, tasks, and structure. I thought I was helping. But that approach cost me years of connection during our older kids’ youngest years.

This week’s episode of the Muscle Memory Podcast is about that very mistake—and what I’ve learned since. I hope you enjoy it.

With love from Detroit,

Neil

Surplus should be shared

Friends,

The (over)simplified way I think about American politics is that it comes down to surplus. At the heart of it, we crave more than we need—more money, more time, more mental energy.

Before we dive in, know that this post—and my podcast episode this week—aren’t about taking sides. I’m not interested in dissecting policies or election outcomes here. Instead, I want to explore how we even think about politics and the core values that drive it.

Because to me, these “mega-questions” sit right at the center of our political landscape.

1) How do we create surplus?

How do we generate more money, more time, or more mental energy than we need—both individually and collectively? This question, in many ways, drives policy decisions, economic systems, and even social programs. Everyone wants surplus; the debate often centers on how best to achieve it.

2) What do we do with that surplus?

Once we have more than we need, do we keep it for ourselves or share it? Should surplus be directed toward those with similar beliefs, or should it be shared broadly to support the common good? And what about future generations? How much of our surplus should we put into investments we may never personally benefit from?

These questions echo through every political debate, as people argue over what’s fair, what’s efficient, and who deserves what. Even when we disagree, so much of it comes down to our different ideas about these same questions.

As for me, I don’t have a neatly packaged answer or specific policy I’m here to advocate for. But here’s what I do know: I want to live beneath my means and share my surplus with others.

In this week’s podcast, I share a story about Halloween on our block—a magical night made possible by neighbors who give their time, money, and energy to make it memorable for everyone. They choose to share their surplus with the community, creating something special. I admire them for it, and it makes me think about how I want to be a little more like that myself.

Here’s the link—I hope you’ll give it a listen: Halloween and Surplus.

With love from Detroit,

Neil

When in doubt, just smile

Friends,

One way to think about our relationships is to see them as falling into different circles of familiarity.

Of course, there are our loved ones—the people we see all the time, who know us well, and with whom we share an unspoken rhythm. We know exactly how to greet them, how to say goodbye, and how to laugh together.

But then, there are the people we’re less familiar with. These might be the drive-through barista we meet only once on a road trip, or the neighbor we pass while walking the dog. Even though we don’t know these people well, we still have our own kind of rhythm with them—usually more reserved and distant.

It’s easy to assume that how we treat these semi-familiar connections doesn’t matter as much as how we treat our loved ones. But I’m starting to think it actually matters just as much, maybe even more.

Why? Because how we treat those semi-familiar faces every day adds up. In many ways, the true culture of our communities isn’t just shaped by the relationships we hold dearest, but by how we treat everyone else: the FedEx delivery person, the neighbors a few houses down, the host at our favorite neighborhood spot. It’s the kindness or distance we show these people that truly defines the feel of our communities.

This idea became clear to me recently at the funeral of a young woman I only knew through small moments—she was the younger sister of one of my close friends from childhood. My friends and I were there, of course, to support our buddy. But thinking about her afterward, I realized she’d left me with a powerful lesson I hadn’t recognized before: When we don’t know exactly how to treat a semi-familiar face in front of us, just smile.

That’s the message I dive into on this week’s podcast: When in doubt, just smile.

With love from Detroit,
Neil