Yesterday started off great.

We got up with the boys, had breakfast, and then Joseph and I headed off to his swim lesson. We had a blast in the pool together. After swim, we met Jillian and Brooks at the coffee shop where the boys shared a scone and a smoothie while Jillian and I enjoyed our matchas.

The plan was simple: the library, a relaxing afternoon at home, and then a play date at the rec center with Brooks and his friends.

We did all of those things.

But the day was far from easy.

Joseph is going through a phase where being separated from his mom is a challenge, even if it’s only for a few minutes. So when I put him in my car after the coffee shop while Jillian and Brooks got into hers, he wasn’t happy.

At the library, Jillian went to look for a book while I stayed with Joseph. The moment he realized she had walked away, he took off after her.

Getting back in the car afterward didn’t go much better.

He was just having a hard day.

We think maybe he had water in his ears from swim lessons, or maybe he was overtired. Whatever the reason, things just seemed off.

The nap didn’t help much either.

Later, at the play date, he was perfectly happy playing on the playground, going on the swings, and climbing through the fire truck. But the moment he went looking for Jillian and discovered she had stepped away to use the bathroom, the tears started again.

And if I’m being honest, by that point I was frustrated.

Not frustrated with him.

Just frustrated.

The kind of frustration that builds throughout the day until you realize you need a break.

So I excused myself from the play date and walked home.

I had dinner, watched some soccer, and waited for Jillian and the boys to get home.

Then I let that frustration get the better of me.

I asked Jillian to bring home milkshakes and instead of working on the project, I sat in my chair scrolling Instagram.

Not exactly a productive evening.

As I sat there later that night, I realized something.

This was the kind of day that used to derail me.

The kind of day that would convince me to start over.

I would have looked at the milkshake, the missed work, the frustration, and decided the whole thing was ruined.

I would have convinced myself that if I could just start fresh tomorrow, everything would be different.

But that’s the trap.

Because there will always be days like this.

There will always be difficult days.

There will always be setbacks.

There will always be frustration.

The goal isn’t to build a life where those days never happen.

The goal is to learn how to keep going when they do.

So instead of blowing everything up, I did enough.

Not great work.

Not exceptional work.

Enough.

Enough that I wasn’t moving backward.

Enough that I could wake up today and keep going.

And as I sit here writing this, I realize yesterday wasn’t nearly as bad as it felt in the moment.

I got to take Joseph to swim lessons.

We went to the coffee shop as a family.

We visited the library.

I published a blog post.

We spent time at the playground.

There were a lot of good moments mixed in with the hard ones.

I just couldn’t see them at the time.

Some days you don’t thrive.

Some days you don’t make huge amounts of progress.

Some days you don’t feel particularly patient, productive, or successful.

Some days you just survive.

And that’s okay.

Because survival counts too.

Today I went on a family hike.

Today I’m celebrating Father’s Day with my dad.

Today feels a whole lot better.

But I only got to today because I didn’t quit yesterday.

Sometimes that’s enough.

The other night was moving along like most others. I had come home from work, changed clothes, and hung out with the boys while Jillian finished making dinner. We ate, Brooks finished first—per usual—and then anxiously waited for Joseph to finish so they could have dessert. Joseph almost always finishes dinner last.

After a small treat, the boys and I put on our shoes and headed out for a walk. I try to take them at least one evening a week so Jillian can get a few things done around the house. That night Brooks wanted to walk past a friend’s house, so we set off down the street.

As we passed by the rec center, we ran into my sister and her family. They had just finished flag football practice and were heading home. After visiting for a bit, the boys and I continued our walk.

It was a long walk for Joseph, so I periodically picked him up and carried him. We passed by Brooks’s friend’s house, but they weren’t outside. Two houses later was my Uncle Rick’s house, and he and my aunt were home. My cousin was there too, checking out the progress they were making on their remodel.

My uncle invited us inside to take a look.

What I didn’t realize was that while we were touring the house, he had quietly slipped out to the backyard and hidden “treasures” for the boys to find under statues and among the decorations.

When we finally made it outside, he led them on a treasure hunt that resulted in a handful of gems and cool rocks.

Hiding treasures is just one of the many things that “Papa” Rick does for my boys.

And as I watched them search through his backyard, I couldn’t help but think about all the things he did for me when I was a kid.

I have so many fond memories of Uncle Rick.

He taught us how to body surf at the beach.

He took us to garage sales and taught us how to negotiate for a better deal.

There were hikes in Idyllwild, slip n’ slides in the backyard, ping pong games in the garage, and countless trips to the movies.

I still remember seeing my first double feature with him. I also remember seeing The 13th Warrior with Uncle Rick and my cousin Luke—a movie we had absolutely no business seeing at our age.

Those are the kinds of memories that stick with you.

I’m grown up now, and I’m an uncle myself.

I try to show up for my nieces and nephews’ sporting events. I roughhouse with them at family gatherings. I teach them silly jokes the same way Rick used to teach me.

And when they’re older, I look forward to taking them places, teaching them new things, and supporting them every step of the way.

I’ve been blessed with the family I have.

Between my grandparents, parents, aunts, and uncles, I couldn’t have asked for a better support system or more love than I’ve received throughout my life.

But having Uncle Rick living so close when I was growing up—and even closer now that I have kids of my own—is something I’ll never take for granted.

Because of him, I got experiences I’ll never forget.

And now my boys get to have experiences with Papa Rick that they’ll remember for the rest of their lives.

At the same time, I get the opportunity to create those kinds of memories with my own nieces and nephews as Uncle Brian.

Some treasures are hidden in a backyard.

Others are the people who hide them for us.

Two years ago, when Brooks started school, I went to the parent orientation meeting. They talked about ways for parents to get involved, such as the Foundation and the PTA.

Being an involved parent is important to me, so I considered joining one of those groups. But my sister, whose kids also attend the school, suggested something else.

“You should join the Papa Pandas.”

The Papa Pandas are a group of dads from the school who meet at a local restaurant on the third Thursday of every month for dinner and drinks. The group is responsible for a few events throughout the year, including movie night on the blacktop and the end-of-year dance, known as Panda Prom. They also host an annual dodgeball tournament against other schools’ dads groups and help out with projects around campus when teachers need an extra hand.

It sounded right up my alley.

So I showed up to that first meeting.

I was nervous walking in, but the group was incredibly welcoming. By the end of that first school year, I felt like I had found my place. Now another year has passed, and I’m still attending meetings, playing on the dodgeball team, and showing up for poker nights. The dads I met through the group have become good friends—people I see at school drop-off, school pick-up, and school events throughout the year.

In fact, I’ve become one of the dads trying to convince other fathers to come out and join us.

Our meeting for this month was last night.

Even though school is out for the summer, we still meet. Attendance is usually lighter this time of year, and only four dads showed up. But that was okay.

We talked about the send-off event we’re hosting next week for the dads whose kids are graduating out of the school. We discussed next month’s poker night and ways we could have a presence at this year’s parent orientation to recruit new members.

But most of the evening wasn’t spent talking about school.

It was spent talking about our glory days as kids, old action movies, the World Cup, the Padres, and our children’s sports teams.

We had dinner, shared a few drinks, laughed a lot, and eventually headed home.

As kids, making friends is easy.

You sit next to someone in kindergarten, play on the same baseball team, or live on the same street. Before you know it, you’ve spent years together.

Adulthood works differently.

College, careers, marriage, children, mortgages, and responsibilities all compete for our time. Those childhood friendships don’t necessarily disappear, but they change. Conversations become text messages. Hangouts become occasional dinners. Life gets busy.

Making new friends as an adult is even harder.

Most of us spend our weekends with our families and our weekdays at work. Opportunities to build new friendships become fewer and farther between.

That’s why groups like the Papa Pandas matter.

We have a standing night every month that’s already on the calendar. We have a common purpose that brings us together—our children and their school. We volunteer, plan events, and support the community around our kids.

But we also get something for ourselves.

We get a chance to spend time with other dads.

To have a drink.

To tell stories.

To talk about life.

To take our minds off responsibilities for a few hours.

That sense of community is important.

Honestly, I think every dad could benefit from having something like it.

When I started The Young Napoleon Project, I said it was a solo mission. Nobody knew about it and I was doing it on my own.

But the more I think about it, the more I realize that’s not entirely true.

I’m the one doing the work.

I’m the one taking the walks, tracking the habits, and writing the blog posts.

But this project is about building a better life, and a better life includes the people around me.

My family.

My friends.

The Papa Pandas.

They’re all part of this journey.

They’re reminders that none of us are meant to do everything alone.

Last night, four dads showed up.

Not because they had nothing else to do.

Not because work had been easy.

Not because there weren’t dishes to wash, errands to run, or responsibilities waiting at home.

They showed up because they made the time.

To spend an evening with friends.

To talk about their kids.

To support their community.

And to take a little time for themselves.

It’s a community of dads.

And the longer I’ve been a dad, the more I understand how important that is.

Maybe next month there will be seventeen of us.

Maybe there will be two.

Either way, I’ll be there.

This week is the break between the preschool year ending and the summer session beginning. So Jillian and Joseph are off, and Brooks is already on summer vacation. Yesterday, however, Jillian needed to work to get the preschool ready for Monday.

Instead of asking the grandparents to watch the boys, I took the day off.

I had been trying to decide what to do with them and eventually settled on the zoo. We have annual passes and go fairly often as a family, but I had never taken both boys by myself before.

I wasn’t entirely sure how that was going to go.

We packed up the backpack with water and snacks, loaded the wagon into the car, buckled in the boys, and set off on our grand adventure.

Getting into the parking lot was hectic and the lines to buy tickets stretched out in front of the entrance. Thankfully we were able to walk right through with our passes and head inside.

We immediately turned away from the crowds and headed toward the elephants and lions before the exhibits became too busy.

Only a couple of elephants had made their way outside and the lions were sound asleep on their platforms, but Joseph was thrilled to see them anyway while Brooks was already eager to move on to the next exhibit.

We crossed the bridge and caught our first glimpse of the panda before stopping for a snack. Brooks and I shared some popcorn while Joseph worked his way through a variety of snacks from the backpack.

From there we bounced from exhibit to exhibit, lingering at the penguins as they darted through the water and stopping to admire the turtles and waterfall before moving on.

As we made our way through the zoo, I was reminded of something.

There is a big difference between taking one child somewhere and taking two.

There is an even bigger difference when one child is six and the other is two.

Brooks still had plenty of zoo left in him.

Joseph was beginning to run out.

After a while Joseph had done enough walking, so I loaded him into the wagon for the climb up the hill past the monkeys. Brooks wanted a ride too, but there was no way I was pushing both boys up that hill.

We made it to the top where we saw a baby koala, the giraffes, and a rhino cooling off in his pool. Joseph was fascinated by this and kept shouting that the rhino was taking a bath.

Eventually I let Brooks climb into the wagon as well for the trip back toward the front of the zoo, but it didn’t take long before Joseph decided that sharing the wagon was unacceptable. Brooks hadn’t done anything wrong, but Joseph couldn’t keep walking, so Brooks drew the short straw and had to get back out.

That’s life when you’re the older brother.

We stopped to see the orangutans and the warthogs, but by then both boys were running out of steam and, if I’m being honest, so was I.

So we called it a day.

We headed back to the car, loaded up, and started the drive home. I put on Danny Go and spent the ride reaching into the back seat to keep Joseph entertained so he wouldn’t fall asleep and ruin his nap later.

Parenting is sometimes a very glamorous job.

When we got home, Joseph couldn’t wait to tell Jillian about the rhino taking a bath.

Brooks wanted to talk about the penguins.

We had seen plenty of animals, shared a snack while watching the tour buses drive by, caught our first glimpse of the panda, and somehow survived my first solo trip to the zoo with both boys.

All in a little over two hours.

We didn’t see every animal.

We didn’t make it to every exhibit.

We didn’t even make it into the kids’ area, which honestly may have been for the best.

But that’s okay.

The goal wasn’t to conquer the zoo.

The goal was to spend a day with my boys.

We saw some animals, laughed at Joseph licking the glass at the baboon exhibit, made a few memories, and came home with two tired kids.

I’d call that a successful day.

Next time we go to the zoo, Jillian will be with us and we’ll be back to playing two-on-two.

But it’s nice to know that if I need to, I can take them on my own.

Even if it means leaving a little earlier than planned.

Yesterday morning I stepped on the scale and saw a big drop, 3.2 pounds exactly, which brought me down 5.6 pounds overall since the start of this project.

Weight loss is a huge part of this project. I have a goal weight that I am working toward while tracking my steps, calories burned and consumed, macronutrients, and supplements. So seeing a big drop is encouraging. It’s exciting. It’s the payoff for the work that I am putting in.

But it can also mess with my mind.

Instead of simply being encouraged by the number on the scale, I immediately begin wondering how much weight I can lose by the next day and how much faster I can reach my goal weight. Suddenly I’m living days, weeks, and months into the future instead of grounding myself in today.

This isn’t just about weight. It’s a pattern that I consistently find myself falling into, putting the cart before the horse, so to speak.

Instead of writing a page or two of a book, I start thinking about the ending.

Instead of focusing on today’s habits, I wonder when I will reach my goal weight.

Instead of concentrating on today’s actions, I wonder when I will have the entire project built.

I’m wanting to achieve things now that I can’t realistically hope to accomplish for six months, a year, or even longer.

This is one of the things that plagued me during previous attempts to launch this project. Instead of focusing on what needed to be done today, I would spend my time thinking about what I was going to accomplish in the future. I became so focused on the destination that I never allowed myself to enjoy the journey toward it.

That hasn’t happened during this attempt.

This time I have remained focused on completing the next action. Taking the next step. Moving the project forward one action at a time.

So when I saw that number on the scale and my mind immediately jumped to how quickly I could lose more weight, I stopped myself.

I reminded myself that this isn’t about losing the weight by tomorrow.

It’s about building a sustainable diet and exercise regimen that allows me to lose the weight over time and maintain it once it’s gone.

It’s not about self-publishing a book tomorrow.

It’s about spending some time writing today, even if it’s only a few hundred words.

I’m not going to achieve my goals of losing weight, writing books, becoming more organized, becoming more financially secure, and being the best husband and father I can be overnight.

Those goals take time.

And if I consistently put in the work, I’ll eventually get there.

Consistency looks like completing my morning routine.

Going for my daily walks.

Spending time with my family.

Being present in the moment.

Writing blog posts.

Hitting my reading goals.

None of these things are heroic.

They are ordinary tasks repeated over and over again.

But that’s how progress is built.

Small actions compounded over time become larger results.

Tomorrow there will be another weigh-in and my weight could fluctuate either way. There will be more steps to walk, more workouts to complete, and another opportunity to get it right.

But that’s tomorrow.

Today I just need to keep showing up.

Doing the work.

Taking the next step.

I’ve spent most of my life chasing finish lines. The older I get, the more I think the secret is much simpler than that.

Just take life one day at a time.

This past Sunday we went for a family hike.

Hiking is something that Jillian and the boys have been doing for a while on their own, not something I was ever particularly interested in. But this weekend we were looking for something to do as a family and I thought, let’s give it a shot. So I suggested a hike.

We got up early so we could beat the heat, drove to Mission Trails, and set out on the trail.

Immediately I was reminded why I wasn’t sure hiking with kids was going to be my thing.

Within the first hundred feet we had already stopped half a dozen times to look at cool rocks, stink bugs, and random plants.

I struggled with that for the entire hike.

I wanted to keep moving.

Get my steps in.

Make good time.

Reach the finish line.

But kids don’t think like that.

They aren’t out there to get exercise. They’re out there for the experience. They want to see what nature has to offer, look for animals, and explore.

At one point Brooks even decided that the mountain bike tracks on the trail had been left by aliens and that we were following in their footsteps.

The boys were exploring.

I was hurrying us along.

As an adult—and especially since launching this project—my life revolves around metrics.

The scale.

The steps.

Calories burned.

Pages read.

Actions completed.

Tasks finished.

And that’s okay. Part of being an adult is measuring progress and handling responsibilities.

But hiking wasn’t about any of those things.

My kids don’t know what those numbers mean, and they certainly don’t care.

As I urged everyone onward after a break by the creek, I remember thinking that we still had a long way to go. I interrupted rock skipping and tadpole hunting because we needed to keep moving.

A few minutes later the trail ended.

I had rushed everyone along for a finish line that was practically right in front of us.

I missed the moment because I was in a hurry to finish.

At the trailhead, Jillian asked if we had time to stop by the visitor center because the boys wanted to show me everything inside, or if I was in a hurry to get home.

I deserved that.

So I changed my attitude and let the boys lead the way.

Inside were exhibits filled with stuffed animals that lived in the park, motion sensors that played animal sounds, and a tunnel lined with carvings of wildlife where the sounds echoed through hidden speakers.

Joseph kept walking through the tunnel saying, “I don’t like that.”

Then he would immediately walk through it again.

And again.

Because he absolutely did like it.

There is a lesson somewhere in all of this.

Not everything needs to be timed, tracked, and optimized.

Not every walk is about step counts and calories burned.

Not every activity has to produce a measurable result.

Although this one did.

It reminded me that sometimes we get the chance to experience something new, and when we do, we should try to see it through the eyes of a child.

A child who thinks every rock should come home and join a collection.

A child who believes tire tracks might have been left behind by visitors from another planet.

A child who can spend twenty minutes looking for tadpoles without ever wondering whether it’s productive.

There is value in letting time pass unnoticed.

There is value in being present without worrying about how long something is taking.

This project is about a lot of things, but at its core it’s about becoming the best husband and father I can be.

This past Sunday I tried.

And at times I failed.

But I also learned something.

This Father’s Day we’re going on another hike.

And this time I’m going to worry a little less about where the trail ends and spend a little more time enjoying the people walking beside me.

Yesterday, after a family hike, Jillian needed to run to the store and I was watching a World Cup game on TV. The kids had already had some tablet time that morning, so we asked them to find something else to do.

Joseph chose to play Hungry Hungry Hippos and cause general chaos in the living room.

Brooks, meanwhile, came out of his room carrying his baseball and Pokémon card binder and announced that he was going to draw some Pokémon cards. He grabbed some paper and crayons and set himself up at the kitchen table.

He was quiet for quite a while before finally saying, “Okay, I’m done. Do you want to see my book?”

So I got up and walked into the kitchen to find that he had recreated several Pokémon from his cards onto sheets of paper, drawing them in his own style and coloring them in.

They turned out great, and he was incredibly proud of what he had created.

I think he had drawn four or five different Pokémon by the time he was finished. He eventually wrote their names on the pages, stapled everything together into a book, and later brought it to the family barbecue so he could show everyone and have them sign the back for him.

I took a picture of him standing there coloring those pages and immediately had flashbacks to being a kid myself.

My dad’s parents lived about twenty minutes from us. Not far, but far enough that our visits usually happened once a week or so.

My grandfather had emphysema and was on oxygen, which limited what we could do together. We played checkers on the patio, dug through his fishing gear, and watched shows like Walker, Texas Ranger and Lawrence Welk.

But one of the memories I remember most clearly is sitting at their dining room table with the “funnies” spread out in front of me.

I would have the newspaper comics, a blank sheet of paper, and a box of colored pencils.

Then I would sit there and draw what I saw.

I would copy the characters from the comics onto my own paper, recreating them the same way Brooks was recreating those Pokémon yesterday.

I’m sure I made my own books and comic strips too, proudly showing them off to my grandparents when I was done.

Somewhere along the way, that love of drawing followed me into adulthood.

I eventually enrolled in an animation program in college, convinced that drawing might become a career. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out. The competition was fierce, and the more my work was critiqued, the more I lost the passion that had made me want to draw in the first place.

Eventually I left the program and came home.

These days I don’t draw much beyond the occasional doodle.

It’s funny how life comes back around.

It feels like just yesterday I was the one sitting at a dining room table drawing characters from the newspaper. Then, actually yesterday, it was my own son standing at the kitchen table doing the same thing I had done all those years ago.

I don’t know what Brooks will do as he gets older.

I don’t know if he’ll continue drawing or if this was simply something fun to do on a Sunday afternoon.

What I do know is that he felt a pure sense of enjoyment and accomplishment from what he created.

He was proud of it.

He wanted to show it off.

And there is something wonderfully innocent about that.

It’s something many of us lose as we get older.

We stop creating for the simple joy of creating. We start worrying about expectations, outcomes, criticism, and whether what we’re making is good enough.

Kids don’t think that way.

They sit down with some paper and crayons and see what happens.

Watching Brooks reminded me what that feels like.

It was fun getting a glimpse of that creativity and freedom again.

And I hope he holds onto it for as long as he can.

Because once it’s gone, it’s surprisingly difficult to get back.