Author: macrodkey

Adventure Is Closer Than You Think

If you’ve been following along for a while, you probably know about our Saturday Morning Matchas tradition. Our family loves exploring coffee shops together, and lately I’ve been searching for a gluten-free coffee shop where I could actually enjoy the pastries with everyone else.

Yesterday we found one.

A little place in Point Loma called Phattie’s.

Parking was a bit of a mess, but we eventually found a spot a couple of blocks away and walked over to the coffee shop. We ordered a gluten-free scone, a brookie, and a strawberry donut, along with a couple of matchas for Jillian and me while Brooks and Joseph shared an electric lemonade.

It may not sound like much, but after a long time of watching everyone else enjoy pastries while I sat them out because of my gluten allergy, it felt pretty special to simply join in.

From there we headed over to Cabrillo National Monument.

We wandered through the visitor center, stopped by the monument itself, climbed to the old lighthouse, looked out over the kelp beds, and took our time enjoying the ocean views. There was no rush to get anywhere else. It was just our family spending the morning together in one of the most beautiful places in San Diego.

Sometimes we forget that people travel from all over the world to visit places that are only a short drive from our front door.

Driving home, I realized how easy it is to overlook the place we call home.

We don’t need to board a plane to visit the beach, the mountains, the desert, or even a national park. It’s all right here.

We have the opportunity to give our boys incredible experiences without booking flights, reserving hotels, or spending months planning a vacation.

Yesterday wasn’t a vacation.

It wasn’t even a special occasion.

It was simply a Friday morning that Jillian and I both happened to have off from work.

While thinking about that, I came across an article from Food, Wine & Travel Magazineb about exploring your own backyard instead of always chasing the next faraway destination. It reminded me that adventure isn’t measured by how many miles you’ve traveled. Sometimes it’s simply about seeing familiar places with fresh eyes. Yesterday wasn’t memorable because we went far. It was memorable because we slowed down long enough to appreciate what was already around us.

Somewhere along the way, we start believing adventure has to be big.

Hawaii.

Disneyland.

Europe.

The next big vacation.

And while I hope our boys get to experience those places someday, there are incredible places they’ve never explored that are less than an hour from our driveway.

A few days ago I wrote Why Ordinary Days Matter More Than Big Moments, and I think yesterday became another reminder of that lesson. We spend so much time waiting for the next extraordinary experience that we sometimes overlook the extraordinary places already surrounding us.

So I started wondering…

When Brooks is older, will Cabrillo National Monument mean any less to him than another national park he visits someday?

Will Joseph feel like he missed out because we chose a staycation over a cross-country vacation?

Probably not.

Because climbing the lighthouse yesterday was exciting.

Walking along the cliffs and looking down at the waves crashing below was exciting.

Searching for whales.

Discovering old military bunkers.

Looking through the eye of a torpedo.

Running down the trails.

It was all an adventure.

Children don’t measure adventures by distance.

They measure them by wonder.

While writing this article, I also came across a piece from Banner Health encouraging parents to prioritize experiences over possessions. One idea especially resonated with me: children often remember the time we spend with them far longer than the things we buy them. Yesterday wasn’t memorable because we spent a lot of money or traveled very far. It was memorable because we explored together.

When we got home, Joseph went down for his nap.

The tile guy was still working on our bathroom.

Brooks and I went outside and played soccer.

We had dinner.

Put the boys to bed.

And I sat down to work on this project.

In many ways, the day ended like any other weekend day.

But somehow it was also filled with adventure.

Adventure isn’t measured in miles.

It’s measured in curiosity.

It’s measured in saying yes to opportunity.

It’s measured in leaving the house, exploring somewhere new, and being fully present while you’re there.

A few days ago I wrote The Scale Isn’t the Scoreboard, reminding myself that life can’t be measured by a single number. Yesterday reminded me of something similar: memorable days can’t be measured by how far we traveled or how much money we spent.

The boys probably won’t remember the name of the coffee shop.

They won’t remember how many steps we took.

They won’t remember how long we stayed.

But they’ll remember climbing the lighthouse.

They’ll remember looking out over the Pacific Ocean.

They’ll remember running down the trails.

They’ll remember discovering something new with Mom and Dad.

Because children don’t remember itineraries.

They remember adventures.

And sometimes the best adventures are the ones waiting just a few miles from home.

Continue the Journey

If today’s story resonated with you, you might also enjoy:

Further Reading:

Food, Wine & Travel Magazine – “Travel Locally: Why You Should Explore Your Own Backyard”
https://fwtmagazine.com/travel-locally-why-you-should-explore-your-own-backyard/

Banner Health – “Give Your Child Experiences, Not Material Things”
https://www.bannerhealth.com/healthcareblog/advise-me/give-your-child-experiences-not-material-things

The Belt Isn’t Earned On Test Day

Brooks had karate class last night. Jillian brought him while I met them there after work so she could take Joseph home and get dinner started. My mom also came to watch for the first time.

Class started like it always does—with a discussion about stranger danger, some warm-ups, and then into their regular drills.

Brooks has really been enjoying karate this summer. A couple of his friends have been taking the class with him, and every week he looks forward to going. He was definitely having fun last night, but as class went on it became more and more apparent that he wasn’t remembering the moves or how to perform them correctly.

He kept looking over at me sitting on the benches, and I did my best to help by awkwardly miming the punches, kicks, and blocks from my seat.

It wasn’t working.

He finished class with a smile, we said goodbye to his friends and Grandma, and then headed to the car. On the drive home I knew we needed to have a conversation about practicing at home.

For some reason, karate isn’t like baseball to him.

If I ask Brooks if he wants to play catch or swing the bat, the answer is almost always yes.

Ask him if he wants to practice karate…

Not so much.

I told him his belt test was coming up in a few weeks and was honest with him.

Without practicing, I didn’t think he was going to pass.

I didn’t want to be too harsh. He’s only six years old, and I’m incredibly proud of him for showing up every week, trying something new, and most importantly, having fun. I still believe that enjoying what you’re doing is the most important part of youth sports.

But I also want him to experience the satisfaction that comes from working toward something and earning it.

While writing this article, I came across a thoughtful piece from The Simple Dad about encouraging kids to embrace failure through a growth mindset. One idea really stood out to me: our job isn’t to protect our kids from struggle, but to help them see that improvement comes through effort. That’s exactly what I hope Brooks learns from karate. Whether he passes this belt test or not, the real lesson is discovering that getting better almost always starts with practicing something you’re not very good at yet.

Unfortunately, he was still resistant to the idea.

So, being the dad, I had to make a rule.

Before tablet time each day, he has to go through each of his karate moves once.

Safe to say…

I wasn’t his favorite person in that moment.

While writing this article, I also came across a piece from Invicta Karate about the importance of practicing outside the dojo. Their point was simple: class is where you’re introduced to the techniques, but real improvement happens through the repetition between classes. Reading that made me smile because that’s exactly the conversation Brooks and I were having in the car. The belt test happens in front of an instructor, but the confidence to pass it is built at home.

As we drove home, I couldn’t help but think about my own life.

My mom laughed and reminded me that I was the same way when I took karate as a kid.

Apparently, not much has changed.

How many times have I expected to get better at something without really practicing?

How many times have I wanted the result more than I wanted the work?

I’m not going to become a better writer if I don’t keep writing.

I’m not going to become a healthier person if I don’t continue taking care of myself.

I’m not going to become a better husband or father if I don’t intentionally work at those relationships every day.

A few days ago I wrote The Scale Isn’t the Scoreboard, reminding myself that success is bigger than one number. Yesterday I wrote Some Days Ask More of Us Than We Expected, a reminder that life will occasionally interrupt our plans. Both of those lessons point to the same truth:

Progress still requires practice.

We all have a belt we’re chasing.

Maybe it’s a promotion.

A finished novel.

A healthier body.

A stronger marriage.

A closer relationship with our kids.

Whatever it is, we all want the belt.

What we don’t always want is the practice.

We want success without the work.

Instant gratification without the repetition.

Recognition without the discipline.

Life just doesn’t work that way.

That’s one of the reasons I started The Young Napoleon Project in the first place.

Over the last month I’ve written every day.

Read every day.

Walked every day.

Done my push-ups, sit-ups, and squats every day.

None of those things are particularly exciting on their own.

They’re practice.

And slowly, almost without noticing it, the practice is changing me.

Earlier this month I wrote The Reset Never Came, promising myself that I wouldn’t start over every time life got hard. Since then I’ve learned that progress isn’t built by dramatic moments of motivation. It’s built by ordinary days of consistent effort, something I explored in Why Ordinary Days Matter More Than Big Moments.

Brooks may only take karate for one summer.

If that’s the case, then maybe one day he won’t remember all of his kicks, blocks, or forms.

But that’s okay.

Because karate isn’t the lesson.

The lesson is.

Every sport he plays.

Every hobby he picks up.

Every dream he decides to chase.

Will ask the same thing of him.

Put in the work.

Practice consistently.

Keep showing up.

Improvement comes from repetition long before it comes from recognition.

The belt isn’t earned on test day.

It’s earned on all the ordinary days before it.

One day Brooks is going to earn that belt.

I don’t really have any doubt about that.

And when he does, I’ll be sitting on the bench cheering louder than anyone else.

Not simply because he passed the test.

But because of all the work no one else saw.

Because that’s what I’ll really be celebrating.

And maybe that’s a lesson all of us need to be reminded of from time to time.

Continue the Journey

If this story resonated with you, you might also enjoy:

Further Reading:

The Simple Dad – “Encouraging Kids to Embrace Failure: A Dad’s Guide to Growth Mindset”
https://thesimpledad.com/encouraging-kids-to-embrace-failure-dads-growth-mindset/

Invicta Karate – “Unlocking Excellence: The Advantages of Self-Practice in Karate Beyond the Dojo”
https://invictakarate.co.uk/unlocking-excellence-the-advantages-of-self-practice-in-karate-beyond-dojo/

Some Days Ask More Of Us Than Expected

Yesterday started like almost every other day.

I didn’t want to get out of bed, but eventually I pulled myself up. I stepped on the scale, did my stretches, push-ups, sit-ups, and squats, got ready for work, dropped Brooks off at my sister-in-law’s house, and headed to the office for my usual protein shake and matcha.

There was nothing to suggest the day would be any different.

But when I got to work something just felt off.

I didn’t feel like myself.

I was anxious and restless. I tried to convince myself it was just nerves about USA’s World Cup match later that evening, so I walked down to the cafeteria for some scrambled eggs in an effort to get my mind off things.

That didn’t work.

Throughout the morning, even while walking during my breaks, I couldn’t shake the feeling.

I know this feeling well. I’ve dealt with anxiety since I was a kid. Over the years I’ve gone to therapy and I take medication to help manage it, and thankfully it’s something I’ve had under control for quite a while.

After my lunchtime walk I came back inside, ate my yogurt and string cheese, and cleaned up my desk.

Then I felt it coming.

A panic attack.

My chest tightened.

My arms tingled.

It felt like a fog had settled over my brain.

This wasn’t my first panic attack. I had several in succession a couple of years ago, but I hadn’t experienced one in over a year.

My mind immediately raced to thoughts of going to the emergency room.

Instead, I stayed where I was.

I kept breathing.

I picked one spot on the wall and focused on it.

Slowly the symptoms began to fade, but when they did I was left feeling anything but normal.

When I woke up yesterday morning, I thought I knew exactly what kind of day I was going to have.

Work.

Family dinner.

Watch the soccer game.

Get ready for tomorrow.

Work on things here while watching television with Jillian before bed.

We make plans.

Sometimes life has other ideas.

We wake up assuming we know what’s waiting for us.

More often than not, we’re wrong.

Some days bring unexpected celebrations.

Others bring heartbreaking news.

Some become stories we’ll tell for years, while others become days we simply try to survive. Earlier this month I wrote Some Days You Just Survive, and yesterday reminded me that those days don’t disappear just because we wish they would.

Yesterday I had my first panic attack in over a year.

But the day wasn’t over.

I still had work to finish.

I still had to meet with the contractor working on our bathroom.

I still had to celebrate my nephew’s birthday.

I still wanted to cheer on the United States during the World Cup match.

I still had two little boys who needed to get ready for bed.

Life rarely pauses while we’re trying to catch our breath.

As much as the panic attack disrupted my day, it couldn’t stop the rest of life from happening around it.

And maybe that’s the lesson.

We don’t get to dictate what happens to us throughout the day. Unexpected phone calls, bad news, injuries, panic attacks—life has a way of reminding us that we’re not in control of every chapter.

As much as we may start the day feeling fearless, motivated, strong, and confident, there’s no guarantee we’ll end the day feeling that way.

And that’s okay.

We should expect that life will occasionally ask more of us than we planned to give.

What we should expect from ourselves is that we keep showing up.

Not because we feel okay.

Not because we don’t need time to process what happened—because we absolutely should take that time when we need it.

But because there are people depending on us.

Our kids need us.

Our partners need us.

And ultimately, we need ourselves to keep showing up so we can work through whatever life has placed in front of us.

While writing this article, I came across a piece from Her View From Home titled “Here’s to the Dads Who Show Up.” It celebrates the who quietly continue showing up for their families day after day, often without recognition. Reading it reminded me that fatherhood isn’t about having perfect days. It’s about continuing to be present, especially when the day has been anything but perfect.

I also found an article from Mindful called “How to Be a Resilient Parent.” One of the things I appreciated most was that it wasn’t about pretending difficult emotions don’t exist. It was about acknowledging them, taking care of yourself, and continuing to move forward with intention. That’s a philosophy I hope to keep learning throughout this project.

Yesterday I wrote Why Ordinary Days Matter More Than Big Moments, and I still believe that.

Yesterday was an ordinary day.

It just happened to go sideways.

I wasn’t the best version of myself for the rest of that day.

But I was the best version of myself that I could be given the circumstances.

Sometimes that’s enough.

Earlier in this project I wrote The Scale Isn’t the Scoreboard, reminding myself that one number doesn’t define success. Before that, I wrote The Reset Never Came, a promise that one difficult day wouldn’t erase all the progress that came before it.

Yesterday tested both of those lessons.

Ordinary days matter.

That doesn’t mean they’re always easy.

Today I woke up again.

Jillian laid with me for a few minutes before I got up.

I stepped on the scale.

Did my stretches.

My push-ups.

My sit-ups.

Ate breakfast.

Dropped Brooks off at my mom’s house.

And headed back to work for another ordinary day.

Not because yesterday was easy.

Not because I wasn’t nervous another panic attack could happen.

But because every day is worth the effort, even when you don’t know what’s coming.

Every day has the potential to ask something unexpected of you.

Yesterday certainly did.

Tomorrow will have the chance to as well.

So take a moment to dust yourself off.

Ask for help if you need it.

Take care of yourself.

Then get up and show up again.

Because some days ask more of us than we expected.

And tomorrow might ask again.

Continue the Journey

If this story resonated with you, you might also enjoy:

Further Reading

Why Ordinary Days Matter More Than Big Moments

When I look back on my life and the memories I’ve made, you might assume I remember the big moments.

And to an extent, you’d be right.

The trip to Hawaii when I was a senior in high school.

The many RV trips through the Southwest with my aunt and uncle.

The weddings I’ve attended.

The funerals.

Christmas mornings.

Birthdays.

Those moments deserve to be remembered.

But when I think about the memories that bring me the most joy, those aren’t the first ones that come to mind.

Instead, I think about drinking coffee with my grandparents around their dining room table.

Playing checkers with my grandpa on the back patio.

Making cookies with my grandma.

My uncle teaching me to body surf.

My dad coaching my baseball teams.

Going to work with my mom and getting to eat lunch in the cafeteria.

The ordinary moments that maybe weren’t so ordinary after all.

Because while the big moments deserve to be remembered, that’s not where life actually happens.

Over the last four weeks of writing these articles, I haven’t written much about extraordinary days.

I’ve written about looking for the robot at Lowe’s.

Walking the boys to the baseball fields.

Swimming lessons.

Coffee shop dates.

Playing cribbage with my dad.

Family hikes.

Papa Pandas.

Monday night softball.

None of those days started with the intention of creating a lifelong memory.

I was simply living my life.

Maybe that’s exactly why they’ll be remembered.

As parents, we’re constantly trying to create magical moments.

Family vacations.

Trips to the zoo.

Christmas mornings.

Birthday parties.

We spend months planning experiences that we hope our kids will remember forever.

But what if that’s not what they’ll remember most?

What if, years from now, they remember holding your hand on a walk?

Throwing rocks into a stream.

Getting ice cream after running errands, something I wrote about in When Errands Turn Into an Adventure.

Playing Catch at the neighborhood ball fields.

Reading one extra chapter before bed.

Doing push-ups with Dad before the cartoons came on, like I shared in Little Eyes Are Always Watching.

What if we’re working so hard to create extraordinary memories that we overlook the ordinary moments that are quietly becoming extraordinary to them?

While writing this post, I came across a wonderful article from The Artful Parent called “8 Everyday Moments Children Remember More Than Parents Realize.” It reminded me that children often attach meaning to the moments we barely notice—the conversations around the dinner table, bedtime stories, neighborhood walks, and all the little routines that quietly become part of their childhood.

That idea is also supported by research from Harvard’s Center on the Developing Child. Their work on “Serve and Return” explains that children grow through thousands of small, responsive interactions with the adults who care for them. Healthy relationships aren’t built during one incredible vacation. They’re built one ordinary moment at a time.

Honestly…

Wouldn’t that be great?

Because most of our lives aren’t extraordinary.

They’re busy.

We go to work while our kids go to school.

We come home to homework and housework.

Practices.

Games.

Laundry.

Dishes.

Bedtime.

And because life feels so busy, we convince ourselves that we need to escape it every once in a while to make memories.

But maybe we’ve been looking in the wrong place.

Maybe memories are made around the dinner table.

On walks around the neighborhood.

By reading one more story before bed.

By letting them stay at the creek five minutes longer.

By giving them a hug before school.

By buying a small treat while you’re already out running errands.

If that’s true, then we don’t have to wait for vacation to build a childhood they’ll remember.

We can do it today.

Tomorrow morning I’ll wake up, go through my morning routine, have breakfast, take Brooks to my mom’s house, and head to work.

After work we’ll probably have dinner.

I’ll do a few things around the house while a soccer game plays in the background.

Then I’ll help put Brooks to bed while Jillian puts Joseph down.

On paper…

That sounds like a completely ordinary day.

But what if Brooks decides to do push-ups with me again?

What if something funny happens over breakfast?

What if we spend dinner laughing about our day?

What if Brooks and I celebrate the same goal during the soccer game?

What if he reads more of the bedtime story to me than I read to him?

What if what began as an ordinary Tuesday quietly becomes one of the days he’ll remember years from now?

I’m done waiting for extraordinary moments.

Instead, I’m going to pay better attention to the ordinary ones.

Because life isn’t lived between vacations.

It’s lived on Tuesday nights.

And I have a feeling that’s where the memories are made.

Continue the Journey

If this story resonated with you, you might also enjoy:

From My Reading List

Every once in a while I come across an article, book, or podcast that makes me stop and think. If today’s post resonated with you, you might enjoy these as well.

The Scale Isn’t The Scoreboard

Yesterday I stepped on the scale and it had gone up again.

I launched The Young Napoleon Project twenty-eight days ago and had only managed to lose one pound.

But instead of getting frustrated, I got honest with myself about what had actually been happening over the last four weeks.

When I think about it, my diet really hasn’t been all that great.

There have been family barbecues, birthday parties, Papa Pandas events, Father’s Day, ice cream date with the family, milkshakes after a rough day, and takeout when making dinner just wasn’t going to happen. If I’m being completely honest, I’m not surprised that I’ve only lost a pound.

What does surprise me is everything else that has happened over those same twenty-eight days.

I’ve written and published twenty-eight blog posts.

I’ve averaged more than 11,000 steps a day, reaching my 10,000-step goal on all but four days.

I’ve completed more than 400 push-ups, sit-ups, and squats simply by adding one repetition every day.

I’ve read nearly 800 pages by committing to just twenty-five pages a day.

I’ve built systems that help hold me accountable instead of relying on motivation alone.

I’ve taken the boys on walks, to the baseball fields, to the zoo, on family hikes, and on coffee shop dates.

I’ve built habits that I’m consistently tracking, and maybe the biggest accomplishment of all is that this project has now lasted longer than any previous attempt because The Reset Never Came.

The scale can only measure one aspect of my life.

That’s why it isn’t the scoreboard for this project—or for the man I’m trying to become.

Imagine if I had lost forty pounds this month…

…but I hadn’t done any writing.

I hadn’t read a single page.

I hadn’t built this project.

I hadn’t played catch with Brooks, gone swimming with Joseph, or spent evenings walking with my family because I was consumed with calories, macronutrients, workouts, and the next number on the scale.

Would that really have been a successful month?

I don’t think so.

Because I’ve lived that version of success before.

Years ago, I lost the weight.

I reached my goal.

But I did it in a way that wasn’t healthy for me physically or mentally. I restricted myself so much that life stopped being enjoyable. I exercised so intensely that I hurt almost every hour of every day.

The number on the scale went down.

But so did the quality of my life.

When I restarted this journey, I promised myself it would be different.

This time I wasn’t just trying to lose weight.

I was trying to build a sustainable life.

A way of eating that allows me to enjoy birthdays and family dinners without giving up on my goals.

An exercise routine that gives me the energy to coach my boys’ baseball teams instead of leaving me too exhausted to play catch in the backyard, something I wrote about recently in Playing Catch.

A lifestyle that lets me write every morning, read every day, be present with Jillian and the boys, and still become healthier over time.

That’s what victory looks like now.

Not just the number on the scale.

I’m not saying losing weight isn’t important.

It is.

I need to lose the weight.

I’m not saying I don’t need to be more accountable with my diet.

I do.

And I’m certainly not saying the scale doesn’t matter.

Because it does.

It just isn’t the only thing that matters.

If you think about sports, baseball has a scoreboard.

But the scoreboard doesn’t tell you everything.

The best hitters in baseball fail seven out of every ten at-bats.

Teams that make the playoffs still lose dozens of games every season.

Yet those players still step into the batter’s box.

They still show up after losses.

They still give maximum effort.

The scoreboard doesn’t measure hustle.

It doesn’t measure the extra work that happens before anyone ever walks onto the field.

It simply records one part of a much bigger story.

The bathroom scale is exactly the same.

It measures my weight.

It doesn’t measure whether I’m becoming the husband I want to be.

It doesn’t measure whether I’m becoming the father I want to be.

It doesn’t measure whether I’m keeping promises to myself.

It doesn’t measure whether I’m building habits that my boys are watching every morning, something I reflected on in Little Eyes Are Always Watching.

It doesn’t measure whether I’m building a life I’m proud of.

So I’m going to keep stepping on the scale every morning.

I’ll celebrate when the number goes down.

I’ll honestly evaluate why it went up.

Then I’ll put it back under the bathroom sink and go live my life.

Because the scale isn’t the scoreboard I’m using anymore.

When this project is over, success won’t be determined by one number.

It will be determined by the life I built along the way.

Continue the Journey

If this story resonated with you, you might also enjoy:

Further Reading/Listening:

Why Fathers Need Friends

As a kid I had a lot of friends. There were friends from baseball, church, classmates that I got together with for birthdays, pool parties, and play dates. But as I got older some of those friendships disappeared. I became introverted and shy, had trouble talking to people I didn’t know, and that probably only got worse through high school. By the time I entered adulthood, I didn’t have many friendships I could fall back on.

Then in college I reconnected with some people I had known when I was younger, joined an already established group of friends, and created some strong bonds that would eventually be tested once we started getting married and having kids of our own. Suddenly, Friday nights out, random baseball games, and last-minute rounds of golf became much harder to come by. We had to become intentional about making plans. Friendships became more group-text based and less face-to-face.

Since then I’ve missed those friendships—not because they’ve gone away, but because the connections aren’t as frequent. I turn down more invitations than I accept because of family commitments, something already on the calendar, or sometimes because I’d simply rather be home with Jillian and the boys. That’s a choice I’m making, and I don’t regret it. But I do recognize the tradeoff.

Thankfully, I have a few recurring events on my calendar that give me the opportunity to reconnect with friends. They get me out of the house, give me a chance to talk with other dads, catch up on life, vent about work, celebrate our kids, and occasionally enjoy an adult beverage together. I’ve written before about Papa Pandas and about my Monday Night Softball team. Looking back, I realize those weren’t really stories about a volunteer group or a softball team. They were stories about friendship.

Yesterday Brooks and I went to a birthday party for one of his buddies—the son of one of my closest friends. Most of the adults there were people I used to spend countless hours with, and now I only see them on special occasions. Driving home, I found myself wondering:

What happened?

Why do friendships become so much harder to maintain as we get older?

Why is it so difficult to make new friends as adults?

As it turns out, this isn’t just my experience. Over the last several years, researchers have begun talking about what some call the “male friendship recession.” One widely discussed survey found that the percentage of men reporting six or more close friends has dropped dramatically over the past few decades, while the number of men reporting no close friends has steadily increased. (fatherhoodframework.substack.com)

I think the answer is actually pretty simple.

Time.

And opportunity.

As kids, we’re surrounded by potential friends every day. We spend six hours sitting next to classmates, run around together at recess, head to baseball practice after school, go to church on Sundays, attend youth groups, karate classes, Scouts, birthday parties, and play dates. We’re constantly placed in environments where friendships naturally develop, and our biggest concern is usually just having fun.

As adults, we’re the ones taking our kids to school before heading to work. We spend eight hours behind a desk or on a job site, then rush to daycare pickup, make dinner, shuttle kids to practices, help with homework, get everyone to bed, and collapse under the weight of the day. Weekends are filled with games, tournaments, grocery shopping, yard work, paying bills, and trying to carve out a little time with our spouse before Monday rolls around again.

There simply isn’t much room left.

Friendships have to become more intentional as adults. They rarely happen by accident anymore. If we want to maintain the relationships we’ve built—or create new ones—we have to make space for them on the calendar just like we do doctor’s appointments, baseball practice, or date night.

And that intentionality matters.

Research has found that fathers who maintain close friendships tend to feel less isolated and are better equipped to handle the stresses of raising young children. One large survey found that nearly a quarter of fathers reported feeling isolated after becoming dads, while fathers with close friendships experienced lower stress and better overall well-being. (Ipsos)

That’s why I don’t see friendships as a distraction from being a good father.

I see them as part of becoming one.

Spending time with friends gives me the opportunity to vent a little, laugh a little, and realize I’m not the only dad navigating tantrums, sleepless nights, youth sports schedules, and all the uncertainty that comes with raising kids. It reminds me that other dads have the same fears, the same hopes, and many of the same questions that I do.

When I come home after those nights, I’m usually more patient.

A better listener.

A better husband.

A better father.

Papa Pandas isn’t just an excuse to get out of the house for dinner and drinks.

Softball isn’t just a way to get some exercise.

They’re communities.

They’re support systems.

They’re reminders that I don’t have to figure this whole fatherhood thing out by myself.

When I wrote Every Season Comes to an End, I reflected on the friendships I’ve built through Papa Pandas and how one day my season there will eventually end. That only reinforced something I’ve been learning over the last year: friendships don’t survive because we care about them. They survive because we continue showing up.

One day my kids will be older, and hopefully life will slow down a little. Maybe my friendships will begin to look more like my dad’s old Minute Men softball team—a group of guys who still get together for lunch decades after they stopped playing. I hope so.

Until then, I’m going to keep being intentional about maintaining the friendships I already have while remaining open to new ones.

Because in the end…

It isn’t really about the meetings.

Or Monday night’s batting average.

Or the dinners.

It’s about showing up for the people who make my life richer, challenge me to become a better man, and remind me that I don’t have to navigate fatherhood alone.

When I come home after those dinners, meetings, or Monday night games, I’m not just a guy who got out of the house for a little while.

I’m a better husband.

A better father.

And, I hope, a better friend.

Continue the Journey

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Further Reading

If you’d like to explore this topic further, these are excellent resources:

The Reset Never Came

If I’m being honest with you, yesterday was not a great day for this project.

It started off well. I got to sleep in a little while Jillian got up with the boys. I had my regular breakfast and followed my usual morning routine of weighing in, taking progress pictures, and doing my morning stretches. Then, as a family, we headed to Joseph’s swim lesson at the Salvation Army Kroc Center. We cheered him on from the side of the pool before catching up with my brother-in-law and sister-in-law while my nephew had his lesson.

From the outside, it looked like a good day.

After we got home I managed to get a little project work done, but then things slowly unraveled. I overate at lunch, snacked throughout the afternoon, wasted time lying on the couch, and that was all before Jillian and Brooks left for a birthday party. Joseph and I could have gone for a walk or played in the backyard, but instead we watched soccer and barely moved.

Jillian brought home takeout for dinner, and by the end of the night I found myself scrambling just to accomplish the bare minimum on my daily goals. Several of them—including my reading and step goals—went unfinished.

When I went to bed, I couldn’t stop asking myself what had happened. How had I let the day get away from me like that?

Over the last decade I’ve had too many days like that to count, and they almost always ended the same way.

I would erase everything.

The habit tracker.

The completed to-do lists.

The progress.

Sometimes even the blog.

Then I’d convince myself that if I just started over tomorrow, I’d finally do everything perfectly.

Of course, that never happened.

Sooner or later another imperfect day would come along, and I’d find myself standing at the same starting line all over again.

A few days ago, in Some Days You Just Survive, I wrote that not every successful day feels productive. Sometimes the goal isn’t to move forward—it’s simply to make it to tomorrow.

Yesterday, I finally had the chance to prove whether I believed that.

As I lay in bed thinking about all the times I’d started over before and everything I’d built during the last twenty-five days of The Young Napoleon Project, I realized something.

Perfection isn’t reality.

Progress is.

So I didn’t hit the eject button.

I didn’t erase weeks of hard work.

And when I woke up this morning, I didn’t start over.

I simply picked up where I had left off.

That may not sound like much, but to me it means everything.

This isn’t really about one bad day.

There will be more.

This is about changing my relationship with failure.

For years, a mistake meant I wasn’t perfect.

If I wasn’t perfect, I had failed.

And if I had failed, the project was over.

Now I see things differently.

Failure lasts a day.

Tomorrow is another opportunity to keep going.

When I started this project twenty-five days ago in Day One, I made myself one promise: there would be no more resets.

I’d made that promise before, but I had never kept it.

Yesterday was the first real proof that I meant it.

I’ll have to keep proving it to myself again and again, because there will be more disappointing days ahead.

There will be more missed workouts.

More bad meals.

More unfinished to-do lists.

But those days no longer get to decide the outcome of the project.

They’re just pages in the story.

As I wrote recently in Little Eyes Are Always Watching, my boys aren’t just learning from my successes. They’re watching how I respond when things don’t go the way I planned.

Maybe that’s the lesson I needed too.

Success isn’t about keeping a perfect streak.

It isn’t about staying on my diet every day.

It isn’t about working out every single day or putting this project ahead of everything else in my life.

Success is refusing to give up after a disappointing day.

The biggest success of the last twenty-five days isn’t the weight I’ve lost.

It isn’t the blog posts I’ve published, the words I’ve written, the systems I’ve built, or the goals I’ve checked off.

Maybe the biggest success is that I can have a day like yesterday…

and simply continue today.

The reset never came.

And I think that’s the biggest victory of all.

Continue the Journey

If this story resonated with you, here are a few more reflections from The Young Napoleon Project:

Every Season Comes To An End

Last night I had a Papa Pandas event. It was a send-off for the dads whose kids are graduating from the elementary school and moving on to middle school. They’ll still likely come to meetings and support the Papa Pandas moving forward, but their time as dads with children at the school has come to an end.

We celebrated with dinner and drinks, and a few of us stayed until almost 11:00 watching the World Cup, talking, and enjoying one another’s company before I finally called an Uber and headed home.

As I sat around with these dads, who have now become friends, I couldn’t help but think back to my first meeting almost two years ago.

When I wrote about Papa Pandas a few weeks ago, I talked about walking up to that restaurant not knowing who I was looking for until I spotted a couple of guys wearing Papa Panda hats. I didn’t know any of them. I didn’t know if I’d fit in.

Now it’s one of the best decisions I’ve made.

Saying goodbye to a couple of the dads who welcomed me into the group—the same dads I’d worked alongside blowing up balloons for Panda Prom, setting up projector screens for movie night, and organizing school events—made me realize something.

Not that long ago…

they were the new dads walking into their first meeting.

Just like I was.

And somehow, without anyone really noticing, enough time had passed that their season at the school had come to an end.

That thought hit me harder than I expected.

One day Brooks will finish elementary school.

A couple of years after that, Joseph will too.

My time will come to move from active member to Papa Panda alumnus.

I’ll still come to meetings because these guys have become much more than a dads group. They’ve become friends. Just like I wrote in Softball on Monday Nights, friendships don’t survive because they’re important. They survive because people continue making time for one another.

I’ll still show up.

I’ll still welcome the new dads walking into their first meeting.

But it won’t be the same.

I’m not ready to think about that because it means my boys are getting older.

And as much as I wish I could keep them little…

I can’t.

We spend so much time taking the kids to school, picking them up, coaching their sports teams, taking them to karate, reading bedtime stories, helping with homework, and simply being there whenever they need us.

Sometimes it feels like we’ll be doing those things forever.

But we won’t.

Every one of those moments has a season.

Eventually they’ll have cars of their own.

They’ll stay up later than we do.

They’ll outgrow youth sports.

The bedtime stories will end.

The walks to the baseball field that I wrote about in Playing Catch will become less frequent until one day we don’t even realize we’ve taken the last one.

It’s hard to imagine that much time passing.

But it’s exactly what we want for our children.

We want them to grow.

We want them to become capable, independent adults.

Even if getting there means leaving behind the seasons we love the most.

The Papa Pandas was created to support dads while their children are in elementary school. It’s become much more than that because of the friendships we’ve built, but its purpose is still tied to a season of life.

One day I’ll attend my last meeting as the dad of an elementary school student, just as the dads we celebrated last night already have.

For now, though, I’m going to enjoy the season I’m in.

I’m going to appreciate the people who make it better.

I’m going to keep showing up.

Because the goal isn’t to hold onto the seasons that have passed.

It’s to be fully present and thankful for the one we’re living right now.

Related Posts

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  • Papa Pandas — How one dinner invitation turned into a community of dads and lasting friendships.
  • Softball on Monday Nights — Why friendships survive when we keep making time for one another.
  • Playing Catch — The ordinary evenings that someday become our favorite memories.

Little Eyes Are Always Watching

As part of my morning routine I do some push ups, sit ups, and squats. Normally I go back to the bedroom and do them after Jillian finishes getting ready, but the last couple of days I’ve been doing them in the living room after getting the boys up and turning on their morning cartoons.

Yesterday Brooks was sitting on the couch when I got down on the floor next to him to start my routine. He said, “Wait, Daddy,” and started climbing off the couch. I immediately thought he was going to jump on my back because usually when I get down on the ground it’s like Bruce Buffer has just announced the start of the next great UFC fight.

I told him, “Please don’t, Brooks. We aren’t wrestling this morning.”

He looked at me and said, “No… I was gonna do push ups with you.”

So he climbed down, got on the floor beside me, and started doing push ups. His form was pretty entertaining, but who am I to judge? Mine probably isn’t all that great either.

With push ups done, it was time for sit ups. Brooks tried with everything he had but just couldn’t quite get one. So he waited until I finished and asked, “What’s next?” Then we stood up and finished with squats side by side.

He didn’t do them with me this morning—maybe he was sore—but it made me think about all the little moments when those little eyes are watching you.

Like when I catch Joseph staring at me out of the corner of my eye at the dinner table. It’s a good reminder to eat my vegetables so he’ll at least try his. Or when I give Jillian a hug and a kiss and the boys come running from the other room to squeeze themselves between us. Or when another driver does something I don’t appreciate and, before I say anything out loud, I look in the rearview mirror and see the kids staring back at me.

They’re always watching.

Yesterday’s push ups reminded me of something I wrote a few days ago in Playing Catch. I hope Brooks doesn’t remember his batting average years from now. I hope he remembers the walks to the ball field and that Dad was always out there with him. Maybe these little moments work the same way. The push ups themselves won’t matter, but maybe the example will.

We spend so much time trying to teach our kids. We correct them when they misbehave. We remind them how things are supposed to be. We tell them to try harder when they’re struggling with sports, learning to read, or putting together a Lego set. We tell them to be kind to their brothers, to say hello when someone says hello to them, and to remember their “please,” “thank you,” and “excuse me.”

We hope they learn those lessons.

But what about the lessons we don’t even realize we’re teaching?

The ones they learn simply because they’re watching us.

I wrote on Father’s Day about the lessons my own dad taught me. When I really thought about it, most of those lessons didn’t come from speeches. They came from fishing trips, baseball games, summers working together, and watching the way he treated other people. Looking back, I learned far more from what he did than from what he said.

Maybe that’s what this project is really about.

On the surface, it’s about me getting healthier, becoming more organized, writing more, creating better habits, being more disciplined, and becoming the best husband and father I can be.

But maybe it isn’t about me at all.

Maybe by trying to improve my own life, I’m quietly showing my boys how they can live theirs.

Because they’re always watching.

Not just on the good days either. As I wrote in Some Days You Just Survive, they’re also watching how I respond when I’m frustrated, tired, impatient, or struggling. They don’t just see my successes. They see how I handle my failures too.

Brooks may or may not get down on the floor with me to do push ups again, and he may never remember that one morning when we exercised side by side. But hopefully he’ll remember that Dad tried to stay healthy.

If he sees me reading, writing, doing the dishes, cleaning the bathrooms, showing up for my family, and treating people with kindness, respect, and patience, maybe those things will become normal to him too.

Because little eyes are always watching.

And maybe the greatest gift we can give our children isn’t telling them how to live.

Maybe it’s simply showing them.

Related Posts

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  • Playing Catch — Why the memories we make on the walk to the ball field matter more than the game itself.
  • Father’s Day — Looking back at the quiet lessons my own dad taught me simply by the way he lived.
  • Some Days You Just Survive — Because our children are watching how we handle the difficult days just as much as the good ones.

Playing Catch

Depending on the week, and the calendar, I try to take the boys out after dinner one night. Sometimes we walk around the neighborhood or explore one of the local schools. Other nights, like our recent trip to Lowe’s, an ordinary errand somehow turns into an adventure. Last night, though, we ended up somewhere that has become familiar to all three of us—the baseball fields.

Brooks has a private baseball lesson this weekend, and we really haven’t had much time to practice since his last one. So he carried his glove and I carried mine, while Joseph carried a bright green bouncy baseball that he wasn’t letting go of for anything.

We headed over to the tee-ball field where the fences are still up because the All-Star teams are playing. One of the teams was practicing on the field next to us, so we stood and watched for a few minutes before Brooks and Joseph took turns throwing me the ball. Eventually Joseph lost interest and wandered over to the dugout, where he was perfectly content to sit in the dirt and entertain himself.

Brooks and I practiced fly balls, ground balls, and throwing mechanics. Having coached baseball for most of my life, I can’t help but try to correct every throw, and eventually he gets tired of hearing it. So we took a break.

Then Brooks invented a game.

I stood at the plate pretending to swing an imaginary bat before tossing the ball. Sometimes it was a ground ball. Sometimes I threw it high in the air. Brooks would field it, fake the throw to first, and then toss it back to me.

After a while he wanted to hit instead. Except instead of pretending to run to first, he was actually trying to make it all the way around the bases before I could retrieve the ball and tag him out. He quickly realized the secret was throwing the ball somewhere I couldn’t easily reach. After chasing a few intentionally launched balls into the outfield, I decided that particular game wasn’t nearly as much fun for me as it was for him.

Eventually we went back to ground balls while Brooks attempted a few tricks he’d seen watching Banana Ball. Before long it was time to head home. Joseph was done playing in the dirt—though the dirt certainly wasn’t done with him. He walked over, told me to take my glove off, grabbed my hand, and simply said,

“Let’s go… see Mama.”

So we did.

On the walk home we stopped to play hide-and-seek among the trees lining the ball fields, studied the map outside the community garden, and slowly made our way back for baths and bedtime.

Later that night, after the boys were asleep, I pulled out my phone. I had taken a few videos of Brooks throwing, but as I scrolled backward I found older videos too—his helmet hanging over his ears, swinging his first little bat.

I’ve played baseball for almost ten years. I wasn’t very good.

Then I coached for another ten years.

Now I’m coaching Brooks.

I don’t know how long he’ll play baseball. Right now he loves it, and as my dad always told me, “Keep playing until it isn’t fun anymore.”

That advice has stayed with me all these years.

When Brooks eventually looks back on baseball—whether that’s five years from now or fifteen—I hope he doesn’t remember his batting average, the wins and losses, the errors, or the strikeouts.

I hope he remembers the walks to the ball field.

The made-up games.

Trying Banana Ball tricks.

His teammates.

And me being out there with him.

Because when I think back on my own childhood, those are the things I remember most about playing baseball with my dad as my coach. The older I get, the more I realize that the memories that matter rarely come from championships or statistics. They come from ordinary evenings spent together.

Years from now, when baseball is over for both of us, I don’t think I’ll remember every practice or every game.

I’ll remember walking to the ball field with my boys.

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When Errands Turn Into An Adventure
Father’s Day
The Zoo With Dad