Tag: Family

His Words Were Soft And Few

Today would have been my grandfather’s birthday.

Papa Mac passed away 25 years ago when I was 17 years old and a senior in high school. I still remember my dad sitting my sister and me down in the living room to tell us. It might have been the first time I had ever seen him cry.

It doesn’t seem possible that it was that long ago. Twenty-five years is long enough to forget a lot of things, but it’s also long enough to realize which memories never fade.

Memories like going camping, where my dad and Papa Mac would load my sister and me into that old green truck with the camper on the back. We’d drive up to the lake, get our campsite set up, sit around the campfire, fish along the shoreline, and tell stories while we waited for the fish to bite.

Other times we’d be at my grandparents’ house, sitting on the back patio as Papa Mac taught us to play checkers. His famous phrase was always, “Touch man, move man.”

One of my favorite memories is of Papa Mac coming to watch me play baseball. He had emphysema and was on oxygen, so he couldn’t walk over to the fields. Instead, he’d park on the street overlooking them and watch through his binoculars. Standing at second base, I’d turn around between pitches and see him sitting there.

The one thing all of these memories have in common is his presence—but also the quiet.

Papa Mac wasn’t a man of many words. He wore hearing aids, and because they amplified all the sounds around him, he would often turn them off.

Instead of talking, I got to watch him.

I watched him meticulously sort through his fishing gear, explaining what everything was for. I watched him count out the pills he needed each day while letting me put them into his pill organizer. He watched me copy comic strips from the newspaper, helped me assemble school projects, and patiently listened while I babbled on about whatever happened to be on my mind.

He may not be with us anymore, and he never got the chance to meet his great-grandchildren, but the lessons he taught, the stories he told, and the pocket knives he passed down have all become part of the story I now share with my boys—the lore of Papa Mac.

Just a few weeks ago, we were hiking when I came across a plaque explaining that the trails had been built by the California Conservation Corps, a group my grandfather joined after moving to California. It was one of those unexpected reminders that his influence still surrounds me.

His memory lives on through me—and all around me.

We don’t realize it when we’re kids.

We don’t realize our grandparents won’t always be there.

We think of them as eternal. We think they’ll be there for graduations, birthdays, weddings, and holidays. In reality, we’re fortunate if they get to experience even a few of those moments with us. Some people never get to share any of them with their grandparents at all.

Today would have been his birthday.

He would have been 112 years old.

When I was a kid, I was certain he’d live that long.

As an adult, I know what’s really important.

I want Brooks and Joseph to get as much time with my dad as I got with my grandfathers, because one day those ordinary moments will become the stories they tell their own children.

In honor of Papa Mac’s birthday, I wanted to share a song I wrote about him.

Happy Birthday, Papa Mac.

I Still Carry Him With Me

Verse 1

Sitting on the shore, casting into the air
Lines in the water, memories made there
Telling stories as the campfire burned
Passed down that knife, a history learned

Verse 2

Out on the patio, checkers on the board
He watched in silence as my hands moved forward
Before my turn he’d say, “touch man, move man”
Then let me choose and helped me understand

Verse 3

Playing second base, waiting on the next pitch
Turned towards the street cause that’s where he’d sit
In the car, he had his binoculars framed
Watching every inning of my game

Chorus

His words were soft and few
He quietly showed me the way
Learning what I was meant to do
I still carry him with me today

Bridge

Never knew how much I’d miss those moments
The time we spent and the stories we told
I still think of him when I’m sitting alone
And cherish those memories as treasures I hold

Final Chorus

His words were soft and few
He quietly showed me the way
Learning what I was meant to do
I still carry him with me today

I Still Carry Him With Me.mp3Download

Just The Two Of Us

I recently had an unexpected day where it was just Brooks and me.

Those days are becoming rare. Usually our days involve both boys, or we’re all doing something together as a family. But not this time.

Brooks is six and trying to figure out who he is while soaking up influences from television, his cousins, and his friends. Listening can be a challenge. So can attitude sometimes. Before we started our day together, we talked about that. I didn’t want this opportunity for one-on-one time to become another day of correcting behavior. I wanted us to simply enjoy being together.

We started by taking Joseph to school, and then it was just the two of us.

We grabbed breakfast at our favorite coffee shop where Brooks enjoyed a muffin and a smoothie while we talked. We took pictures together and, at his request, had AI turn us into different characters. Then we headed to the store to pick out a birthday present for one of his friends. Of course Brooks left with something too—a World Cup stuffed animal. I’m still a bit of a pushover when it comes to things like that.

The rest of the day looked pretty ordinary.

We stopped for gas.

Went to the bank.

Grabbed lunch.

Delivered an envelope full of Pokémon cards that Brooks had addressed himself to his cousins.

Stopped at the grocery store.

Finished the afternoon at the library where his kindergarten class met up to watch a presentation about the science of bubbles.

From the outside, it probably looked like I was just running errands.

And maybe I was.

But it was also something else.

It wasn’t a grand adventure.

We didn’t do anything extraordinary.

We didn’t turn every stop into a game or every errand into a treasure hunt.

We simply spent the day together.

That opportunity doesn’t come around nearly as often as it used to.

Sure, Brooks and I still watch soccer together, play in the backyard, go to baseball practice, and take family walks around the neighborhood. But those moments usually include Jillian, Joseph, teammates, or friends.

This day was different.

It was just the two of us.

I honestly couldn’t tell you everything we talked about.

What I remember is that we never stopped talking.

There were ridiculous sing-alongs in the car while Brooks tried to decide what his next walk-up song should be.

We wrestled.

We laughed.

We joked.

And somewhere between the coffee shop, the grocery store, and the library, I realized something.

The older Brooks gets, the more I realize that being a father is constantly changing.

Some days he needs comfort.

Some days he needs correction.

Some days he needs someone to laugh with.

Some days he needs someone willing to say no.

The difficult part is figuring out which father he needs today.

Part of me wants him to stay my little buddy forever.

But I know that’s never been my job.

My job isn’t to keep him six years old.

My job is to help him become the man he’s meant to be.

We don’t get to decide who our children become.

We get the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to walk beside them while they figure that out for themselves.

We don’t get to make their mistakes.

But we can help them pick up the pieces afterward.

We don’t get to make their decisions.

But we can prepare them to make good ones.

We don’t get to walk every road for them.

But for a little while…

We get to walk beside them.

Brooks is six today.

One day he’ll be sixteen.

Then twenty-six.

There will come a time when an entire day with Dad isn’t something that simply happens because schedules lined up.

Those days become fewer.

That’s why this day mattered.

Not because of the errands.

Not because of the grocery store.

Not because of the bubble show.

Because for one ordinary day…

It was…

Just the two of us.

Continue the Journey:

If this story resonated with you, here are a few more reflections on fatherhood, growing up, and the moments that quietly shape the relationships we have with our children.

While They Still Ask

There will come a day when your children stop asking you to play one more game, read one more story, or come outside with them. Until then, those simple invitations are some of the greatest gifts a parent can receive.

A Son and a Father

The relationship between a father and his son is never static. As our children grow, our role shifts from protector, to teacher, to coach, to mentor—all while learning to let them become who they were meant to be.

When Errands Turn Into an Adventure

Sometimes the most memorable days aren’t vacations or elaborate plans. They’re ordinary trips to the coffee shop, the grocery store, or the bank that become unforgettable because of the person standing beside us.

It Was Just Tuesday

Yesterday I headed home from work, got changed, and spent some time with the boys while Jillian made dinner. We sat around the table together, and afterward I took the boys for a walk around the neighborhood and through the baseball fields. We ran into some friends, stopped to visit for a while, and then headed home to get the kids ready for bed. After they were asleep, Jillian and I laid down together for a while before getting up to finish a few things around the house, watch a show together, and call it a night.

It was Tuesday.

No special occasion.

No big event on the calendar.

Just a normal evening at home with my family.

Today I found myself thinking about the version of me that existed before I got married and had kids.

What did he think life would look like?

What was he chasing?

If I’m honest, I don’t think he could have imagined this.

Back then I probably pictured coming home from work, grabbing something to eat on the way, sitting on the couch watching a Padres game with friends, and calling it a good night. I don’t think I could have imagined being married to a woman I could only have dreamed about, raising two incredible boys, eating dinner around the family table, taking evening walks through the neighborhood I grew up in, building the blog I had always wanted to write, or working every day toward becoming healthier.

If someone had described that life to me back then, I’m not sure I would have believed it was possible.

We spend so much time dreaming about promotions, bigger houses, vacations, accomplishments, and the future that we overlook another kind of dream entirely.

The quiet ones.

The dreams that don’t arrive with some grand announcement.

They simply become normal.

Family dinners.

Bedtime stories.

Evening walks.

A spouse asking how your day was.

One day you wake up and realize those moments have become so routine that you barely notice them anymore.

But years earlier…

They were the life you were hoping to build.

We spend so much of our lives looking ahead, chasing the next goal, the next milestone, the next achievement—things we can celebrate and tell people about.

Meanwhile, the dreams that matter most are sitting across the dinner table telling you about their day.

This blog was always a dream of mine.

For years I imagined writing about adventures, milestones, and extraordinary moments.

I never imagined I’d be writing about an uneventful Tuesday.

But maybe that’s because I finally understand what I was really chasing.

It wasn’t excitement.

It wasn’t recognition.

It wasn’t some picture-perfect future.

It was this.

Dinner around the table.

A walk with my boys.

Talking with neighbors.

Watching a show with my wife before bed.

Years ago I spent a lot of time wondering what my life might look like someday.

Today I know.

It looks a lot like Tuesday.

Continue the Journey:

If you enjoyed this article, you may also like:

The Gift of Being Nearby

Some of the most meaningful moments with the people we love don’t happen because we planned them. They happen because we’re close enough to simply be there when life unfolds.

Why Ordinary Days Matter More Than Big Moments

Life is rarely defined by vacations, birthdays, or major milestones. More often, it’s shaped by the quiet routines and everyday moments that slowly become our most treasured memories.

A Life, Not a Collection of Parts

The most fulfilling life isn’t one where work, family, health, and personal goals compete for attention. It’s one where those parts begin working together to create something greater than any one of them could alone.

Lunch With Dad

Earlier this week my mom asked if there was a day she could bring Brooks to have lunch with me at work. It’s something we’ve done every once in a while over the last couple of years, and yesterday happened to be that day.

They picked up sandwiches from our favorite deli and headed down to the cafeteria before letting me know they were there. I went down to meet them, and when I walked in Brooks got so excited and motioned me to the empty seat next to him. He was already devouring his sandwich, knowing he had fruit snacks waiting for him at the end.

The three of us finished our sandwiches before heading back upstairs to my office. Brooks admired his and Joseph’s artwork hanging on my wall, spun around in my office chair, put on my headset for a picture, and asked if he could visit the treasure box we keep for our pediatric patients. We walked over there, and he picked out a little toy for himself, one for his brother, and grabbed a couple of stickers before we headed back toward the front of the building. I gave them both a hug, watched them walk back to the car, and then headed inside to get back to work.

Watching Brooks at the office reminded me of when I was his age.

Occasionally my mom would bring me to work with her. She worked in the personnel office, and I would sit at the front desk drawing pictures. Whenever someone came in, I got to buzz them into the back office. When lunchtime rolled around, we would head to the very same cafeteria Brooks ate in yesterday and order hamburgers from the grill.

I felt so important sitting at the front desk. So popular walking around the office with everyone knowing my name. I got to see where my mom worked and be a part of her world.

Going to work with my dad was a very different experience.

He was a flooring installer, and for ten dollars an hour, a package of gas station donuts for breakfast, and McDonald’s for lunch, I got a firsthand lesson in what hard physical work really looked like. With Dad, I came home sore and exhausted with a new appreciation for hard work. With Mom, I came home feeling like I had spent the day on an adventure into the grown-up world.

Looking back, I’m grateful I got to experience both. My dad showed me what hard work looked like. My mom invited me into the world she stepped into every day. Those experiences were different, but they both helped shape the person I became.

It’s funny how life comes full circle.

My mom gave me a glimpse into her world away from home, and now I get to do the same for Brooks. As kids, we’re lucky enough to have experiences like these given to us. As parents, we get the opportunity to create them for our own children.

Yesterday I watched Brooks walk the same halls, sit in the same cafeteria, and light up with the same excitement I felt when I was his age.

Maybe Brooks will remember eating sandwiches in the cafeteria. I remember the hamburgers.

And maybe one day he’ll bring one of his own children to work.

If he does, I think he’ll understand exactly why yesterday mattered.

Continue the Journey:

  • Donuts With Dad — Sometimes the smallest traditions become the memories our children carry the longest.
  • The Zoo With Dad — Ordinary afternoons often become the stories we remember years later.
  • Copying Pokémon Cards — Watching Brooks enjoy something I once loved reminded me how childhood has a way of coming full circle.

A Masterpiece And A Work In Progress

It feels like just yesterday that we brought Brooks home from the hospital. It was the beginning of the pandemic, and for weeks it was just Jillian, me, and this tiny little boy sitting in our living room trying to figure out how to be parents. We had no idea what we were doing.

That was more than six years ago.

Today I took Brooks up to the fields for hitting practice as he prepares for his first season of Rookies in Little League. At the same time, Joseph took his first swimming lesson in the next level class. Somewhere along the way, those tiny babies became little boys.

It’s amazing how quickly children change.

One day you’re celebrating their first steps.

Before long they’re running laps around the house.

One day you’re reading bedtime stories.

Before long they’re reading them back to you.

Somehow, the things that once felt impossible quietly become ordinary.

And now, when I look at my boys, I don’t just see who they once were or who they are today. I also see who they are becoming.

I picture Brooks growing up on the baseball field, becoming more confident, making lifelong friends, and discovering the man he’ll one day become.

I picture Joseph graduating from preschool, walking into elementary school, trying new sports, and slowly finding his own interests and personality.

But we’re not there yet.

Right now, I’m trying to enjoy the season we’re in and let the future wait until we get there.

The other day I came across a quote that hasn’t left my mind:

“You can be a masterpiece and a work in progress simultaneously.”

If I had to guess, I’d say that most people read that quote and immediately think about themselves. They think about who they are today while striving to become someone even better.

That isn’t where my mind went.

I immediately thought about Brooks and Joseph.

They make mistakes.

They get frustrated.

They fall down.

They learn.

They grow.

They test boundaries.

They surprise me.

They’re works in progress.

But when I look at them, I don’t see unfinished people.

I see masterpieces.

There are hard days and wonderful days. There are moments that require correction and moments that deserve celebration. There are times when they test every ounce of my patience and other times when they remind me exactly what matters most.

None of those moments change how I see them.

They are, and always will be, my masterpieces.

But if that’s true about my kids…

Why can’t it also be true about me?

Why am I so much harder on myself than I am on them?

Why do I extend grace so freely to my children but withhold it from myself?

Why can’t I believe that I can be both a masterpiece and a work in progress at the same time?

For me, that’s where The Young Napoleon Project comes in.

This project isn’t about fixing a broken life.

It’s about continuing to shape a life that’s already worth living.

It’s an opportunity to become healthier, pursue my writing, become a better husband, and become a better father—not because I’m incomplete without those things, but because growth is part of living.

I’m still becoming.

That doesn’t mean I’m broken.

It simply means the painting isn’t finished yet.

Brooks and Joseph are growing up right before my eyes.

Before I know it, they’ll be teenagers.

Then adults.

They’ll continue changing long after they’ve left home.

But I have a feeling that whenever I look at them, I’ll see every version of them all at once.

The baby we brought home from the hospital.

The little boys running through the living room.

The young men they’ll someday become.

They’ll always be works in progress.

And they’ll always be masterpieces.

Maybe that’s what love really is.

Looking at someone who still has so much growing left to do…

…and seeing the masterpiece anyway.

And maybe we’ve been masterpieces all along too.

Don’t Let Your Storm Get Your Kids Wet

I was scrolling through social media the other night when I came across a quote that stopped me in my tracks:

“Don’t let your storm get your kids wet.”

I found that to be profound because it’s something I struggle with more often than I’d like to admit. After reading it, I sat with it for a while and decided that I needed to be more intentional about who I was showing up as in front of my boys.

Yesterday put that to the test.

I don’t talk about work much here because it’s not really relevant to what I’m trying to build, but yesterday was a frustrating day. Without going into detail, I just felt like I was destined for something more, and that feeling weighed on me heavily as the day went on. I ended up leaving work late and getting to Brooks’s karate class just in time.

He did great.

He has been practicing all week, and it showed. He was more confident, more focused, and had clearly improved.

But with where I was mentally, I found myself focusing on the things he could still be doing better instead of celebrating how far he’d already come.

On the drive home, I started talking about those things before I caught myself.

I was letting my storm get him wet.

I made the conscious decision to stop and instead praise the improvement, because that’s what he needed to hear.

When doing research for this post, I came across an article from Lead You First about praising effort instead of innate ability. It argued that recognizing persistence, improvement, and hard work encourages people to keep growing rather than fearing mistakes. That is what Brooks needed from me in that moment. He didn’t need another list of things to do better just because that what I had chosen to focus on. He needed to know that the work he’d already put in mattered. It reminded me of something I wrote in The Belt Isn’t Earned on Test Day. Progress isn’t measured by perfection—it’s measured by growth.

After dinner, my mind immediately shifted back to everything that still needed to be done. I was behind on my work for this project. I had skipped my daily reading during my breaks because of how frustrated I’d been at work. I hadn’t taken enough steps. The dishes still needed to be done. The trash cans needed to go out. I still had to get ready for tomorrow.

I could feel the storm clouds gathering.

The boys were in the living room, so I walked out and sat on the couch. Brooks climbed up beside me. I could tell he wasn’t there to cuddle.

He was there to create chaos.

And in that moment I had a decision to make.

Do I brush him off and leave him standing out in the rain, letting him get soaked too?

Or do I open an umbrella and keep us both dry for a little while?

For the next thirty minutes we wrestled across the couch as he tried to escape through fits of breathless laughter. Joseph eventually joined the fray until Jillian whisked him away for his bath.

The work was still waiting for me.

But so were my boys.

That moment reminded me of A Life, Not a Collection of Parts. Spending time with my boys wasn’t taking me away from the project—it was part of the life this project is supposed to help me build.

Later that evening, after the kids were in bed and the chores around the house were finished, I sat down to work on things here and came back to that quote.

“Don’t let your storm get your kids wet.”

My kids shouldn’t become collateral damage because I had a rough day.

That’s not fair to them.

I’m not saying that as dads—or moms—we should bottle up our emotions, because that isn’t healthy either. Our children should know that adults have hard days. They should see that it’s okay to be honest about how we’re feeling.

In doing some further reading I found an article from ReachLink about what it calls “dad rage.” One point that stood out to me was that anger is often a secondary emotion, masking things like stress, exhaustion, disappointment, or feeling overwhelmed. That resonated with me because, if I’m honest, the frustration I carry home usually isn’t about my kids at all. It’s about everything that happened before I walked through the front door. Recognizing that doesn’t excuse my reactions, but it does help me understand them—and gives me the opportunity to respond differently.

Our emotional responses to things outside our homes aren’t burdens our children should have to carry.

If I’m being honest, this isn’t something I’m naturally good at.

I wear frustration on my face.

When I’ve had a bad day, people can usually tell.

Whether it’s stress from work, my back hurting, frustration while coaching, or simply running out of patience as a dad, my storms have a way of becoming everyone else’s weather.

And that’s something I want to change.

We all have storms in our lives.

The question is…

Who are we allowing to get soaked by them?

It also made me think back to There Is Always One More Thing. The work is always waiting. The responsibilities never disappear. But that’s exactly why we have to be intentional about the people standing in front of us instead of carrying the weight of everything still left to do.

My boys are going to grow up, and one day they’ll understand just how difficult life can be. They’ll experience disappointment, stress, heartbreak, and frustration for themselves.

I want them to know it’s okay to be emotional.

I want them to know it’s okay to be honest.

I want them to know it’s okay to cry, to struggle, and to have hard days.

But I also want them to know that we can choose how much of those storms we allow to fall on the people we love.

I know I’ll get frustrated again.

I know there will be more difficult days.

That’s life.

But I hope I become better at recognizing the storm clouds over my own head and opening the umbrella before the rain reaches my boys.

Because my bad day doesn’t have to become theirs.

And maybe one day, when they’re fathers themselves, they’ll remember not that I never had difficult days, but that I tried my best not to let those days define our time together. In many ways, that’s the same lesson I hoped to pass along in Little Eyes Are Always Watching—our children are learning from far more than the words we say.

Continue the Journey:

Further Reading:

Lead You First — “How to Praise Your Kids and Team to Increase Effort, Persistence and Motivation”

https://leadyoufirst.com/how-to-praise-your-kids-and-team-to-increase-effort-persistence-and-motivation/

ReachLink — “Dad Rage: Understanding and Managing Anger as a Father”

https://www.reachlink.com/advice/anger/dad-rage/

A Life, Not A Collection Of Parts

Yesterday I got home from work and it was obvious that Brooks was tired. He had spent the day swimming with his cousins and didn’t have much left in the tank. I got changed, we sat down to dinner, and afterward, instead of diving into my usual evening routine, we decided to have a family movie night.

The work was still there.

The dishes.

The writing.

The project.

The chores.

They could all wait for two hours.

Instead, it was Trolls 3 and taking turns with kids in my lap as we watched, danced, and sang along with the movie.

To say that I wasn’t thinking about this project during the movie would be a lie. I’m always thinking about what I could be doing next. But for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I should have been doing something else. I didn’t feel guilty for sitting there. I didn’t feel like I was falling behind.

That’s different than it has been in the past.

During previous attempts to launch this project, every minute I wasn’t moving it forward felt like a minute I had wasted. The project slowly began to consume my life.

This time, I’ve realized something different.

The project needs to be integrated into my life, not consume my life.

In researching the idea of integration, I came across a Forbes article about how work-life integration being different than work-life balance. Rather than trying to divide life into perfectly equal compartments, the article argued for building a life where the different parts support one another. That stuck with me because I am not trying to choose between this project and my family—I am learning that the goal of this project is to make me better for my family. 

A few days ago I wrote There Is Always One More Thing, where I realized that the work is never really finished. Looking back, I think this is the next step in that lesson. If the work is never going to end, then I have to learn how to live while it’s still unfinished.

Because the purpose of this project was never to become someone who only works on the project.

The purpose is to become a healthier, happier, and more present husband, father, writer, and man.

Sometimes that means sitting on the couch with my boys, laughing through Trolls 3.

I’ve always tried to separate my life into categories: Family. Health. Marriage. Career. Writing. And I still think there’s value in that. Work should stay at work. Family time should be protected. You and your spouse need time together. It’s even how I built The Young Napoleon Project, dividing it into different departments that reflect the major areas of my life.

But that doesn’t mean those parts exist in isolation.

They overlap.

They influence one another.

Becoming healthier gives me more energy to be present with my family. Writing helps me think more clearly. A strong marriage makes me a better father. Spending time with my boys reminds me why I’m working so hard in the first place.

They’re not competing priorities.

They’re different pieces of the same life I’m trying to build.

That realization also reminded me of Adventure Is Closer Than You Think. The goal of that day wasn’t simply to visit Cabrillo National Monument. It was to spend meaningful time together as a family. The adventure wasn’t separate from the project—it was part of it all along.

My writing matters.

My health matters.

My marriage matters.

My boys matter.

None of those priorities are competing for my attention.

They’re all reasons I started this project in the first place.

While thinking about that, I also read an article from Becoming Minimalist about living intentionally. One of the ideas that stood out to me was that intentional living isn’t about doing more—it’s about making sure the things that matter most actually receive our attention. That felt like a good reminder that building a better life isn’t about perfectly balancing every responsibility each day. It’s about choosing to invest your time in the people and pursuits that align with the life you’re trying to create.

We only get twenty-four hours in a day, so naturally some days will lean more heavily toward work. Other days might be focused on family, health, or writing. The goal isn’t to give every part of your life equal time every single day. The goal is to make sure none of the parts that matter most are neglected for too long.

That doesn’t mean every day will feel perfectly balanced. As I wrote in I Finally Stopped Waiting to Feel Motivated, some days require discipline simply to keep moving forward. Other days require the discipline to recognize that your family deserves your full attention. Both are important.

Life isn’t lived in perfectly balanced twenty-four-hour blocks.

It’s lived in seasons.

Sometimes those seasons last a day.

Sometimes they last much longer.

When the movie ended, I still got my work done around the house. I put Brooks to bed. While Jillian went for a walk, I got ready for today. Then I sat down and worked on Beneath The Silt before finishing the night watching a show with Jillian.

Everything that mattered got some of my time.

Not equally.

But intentionally.

And that’s enough.

Because sometimes the most important work isn’t sitting at your desk.

Sometimes it’s sitting on the couch with your kids, laughing at Trolls 3 for the twelfth time.

That’s something I hope Brooks and Joseph remember long after they forget which movie we watched, just like I wrote in Why Ordinary Days Matter More Than Big Moments. The ordinary evenings are often the ones that quietly become the memories that last.

The Young Napoleon Project isn’t about building a better project.

It’s about building a better life.

Continue the Journey:

Further Reading:

Forbes — “Work-Life Integration Could Soon Replace Work-Life Balance”


https://www.forbes.com/sites/forbesbooksauthors/2023/11/27/worklife-integration-could-soon-replace-worklife-balance/

Becoming Minimalist — “Living Intentionally”

https://www.becomingminimalist.com/living-intentionally/

There Is Always One More Thing

Yesterday was a long day.

By the time five o’clock rolled around, I was tired, cranky, and ready to be home. On the way home I had to stop at the bank, then swing by my parents’ house because the tire pressure light had come on in the car and my dad has an air compressor.

By the time I finally walked through the front door, dinner was already on the table.

I didn’t get the chance to change clothes.

I didn’t get a chance to decompress.

I just walked straight from the car to the dinner table.

The kids weren’t doing anything out of the ordinary.

I was.

I was tired.

Sensitive to every noise.

Already frustrated before anything had actually gone wrong.

Before dinner I had promised the boys that we’d go for a walk around the neighborhood afterward, even though it was the last thing I wanted to do.

You could hear it in my voice as we walked out the door.

I didn’t want to go.

And before long…

Neither did the kids.

The walk was stressful. The boys weren’t listening. Joseph was all over the place, keeping me on edge every time we got close to the street. By the time we made it back home, I was completely drained.

Instead of doing what I needed to do, I collapsed into my chair until it was time to put Brooks to bed.

I managed a smile.

An “I love you.”

A hug.

A goodnight.

Then I walked back into the kitchen and remembered everything that was still waiting for me.

The dishes.

Taking out the trash.

Getting ready for tomorrow.

The evening chores.

Brooks woke up twice after I put him down, and by the time everything finally settled, it was after nine o’clock.

I collapsed back into my chair and mindlessly scrolled social media until it was time for bed.

It was, without question, my worst night since starting this project.

A few days ago I wrote Some Days Ask More of Us Than We Expected. At the time I was talking about panic attacks and life’s unexpected challenges. Looking back, I realize some days don’t overwhelm us because of one major event. Sometimes it’s simply the weight of one small responsibility after another until there’s nothing left in the tank.

Why is it that there is always one more thing to do when you don’t have the energy to do anything at all?

Another bill.

Another dish to wash. 

Another load of laundry.

Another chore.

Another conversation.

Another decision.

It never really ends.

When we’re kids, life feels simple.

There’s school.

Maybe homework.

A baseball practice.

A game.

Then tomorrow starts over.

As adults, we’re never really finished.

Because there isn’t a finish line.

We think…

If I could just get caught up…

If I could just finish everything…

Then I’d finally be able to rest.

But adulthood doesn’t work that way.

The list doesn’t end.

It simply continues to grow.

While reflecting on that idea, I came across an essay from The Growth Canvas titled “Why You Feel Like Your Work Is Never Done.” One of the things that resonated with me was the reminder that the feeling of being behind often has less to do with the amount of work in front of us than the expectations we place on ourselves. There will always be another task waiting. The challenge isn’t eliminating the list—it’s learning not to let the list define our stopping point.

That realization reminded me of something I wrote in I Finally Stopped Waiting to Feel Motivated. I spent years believing there would eventually be a perfect day to do all the work. But more often than not, the work simply asks us to show up with whatever energy we have left and that work is never going to be finished.

Success isn’t crossing ever to do item off the list.

Success is deciding what matters most today, doing that, and giving yourself permission to leave the rest for tomorrow.

As I continued thinking about this, I also read an article from LifeAt titled “Why Catching Up Keeps You Stuck (and What Actually Helps).” It challenged the idea that one day we’ll finally get caught up and everything will feel under control. Instead, it argues that constantly chasing “caught up” can keep us from being fully present in the life we’re already living. That idea felt especially relevant after yesterday because I realized I wasn’t looking for a free evening—I was waiting for a life that doesn’t really exist.

That doesn’t mean the unfinished work defines you any more than one bad day defines your progress. I came to that realization while writing Your Body of Work Is Bigger Than One Bad Day. The list may remain unfinished, but that doesn’t mean you’re failing. It simply means you’re living a full life.

Some things get finished today.

Some tomorrow.

Some next week.

And some…

Never.

Tomorrow there will still be dishes.

Bills.

Laundry.

Blog posts to write.

Kids to raise.

The list will still be there.

And we have to be okay with that. 

Because life isn’t what happens after the list is finished.

Life is what happens while we’re slowly working our way through it.

Maybe that’s why The Reset Never Came. Not because I finally reached the end of the list, but because I stopped believing there ever would be one. Instead of waiting for life to become manageable before living it, I’m learning to build a meaningful life right in the middle of the unfinished work.

Continue the Journey:

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

Further Reading:

The Growth Canvas — “Why You Feel Like Your Work Is Never Done”

https://thegrowthcanvas.substack.com/p/why-you-feel-like-your-work-is-never

LifeAt — “Why Catching Up Keeps You Stuck (and What Actually Helps)”

https://newsletter.lifeat.io/p/why-catching-up-keeps-you-stuck-and-what-actually-helps

The Best Trails Are The Ones You Didn’t Plan

Yesterday we went for a family hike at Mission Trails, choosing a trail we had never explored before.

Standing in one particular rocky section of the trail, I suddenly wasn’t a forty-one-year-old dad anymore.

I was a little kid again.

I was back at Lake Jennings and Lake Cuyamaca, camping with my dad and grandpa. My sister and I would wander along the shoreline, climb over giant rocks, cut through the brush, and explore whatever happened to be around the next bend. We rarely knew exactly where we were going, and that was part of the adventure.

Yesterday, hiking with Brooks and Joseph, I had that feeling again.

We had planned to hike the Grasslands Trail. Starting from the dam, we were supposed to climb the stairs, complete the one-mile loop, and head back.

Instead…

We missed the turn.

Or maybe we ignored it.

Either way, we just kept walking.

The trail led us across wooden bridges, through clusters of trees, and eventually to a section where the path disappeared beneath the rocks. Brooks hopped from rock to rock while Joseph tackled them as if each one were Mount Everest. Before long we found ourselves looking down at the dam from the Grasslands Trail before making our way back toward the main path and eventually to the car.

It wasn’t the hike we planned.

It was better.

What struck me most wasn’t the scenery.

It was the difference between how the boys approached the trail and how Jillian and I did.

Brooks and Joseph were perfectly content to keep walking.

Sometimes they ran ahead.

Sometimes they stopped to examine a stick, a rock, or a patch of dirt.

Sometimes they wandered off the trail because something looked interesting.

Not once did they ask where we were going.

Meanwhile, Jillian and I had our phones out studying the trail map, trying to figure out where the path led. We even stopped to ask other hikers if they knew what was ahead.

Somewhere along the way, adults become uncomfortable with not knowing.

Maybe that’s just my anxiety talking.

Or maybe it’s something many of us slowly learn.

Before trying a new restaurant, we read reviews.

Before leaving the house, we check the weather.

Before taking a road trip, we map out gas stations and rest stops.

Before buying something, we compare prices.

We spend so much time trying to eliminate uncertainty that we sometimes remove the mystery from the experience itself.

Children don’t do that.

They see a trail.

And they start walking.

While writing this article, I came across an essay by Tim Mathis titled “Why Do People Go on Adventures? It’s So Simple That Even a Child Could Understand.” One idea especially resonated with me: children don’t need elaborate reasons to explore—they’re naturally curious. Somewhere along the way many of us trade that curiosity for certainty. Yesterday reminded me that maybe we’ve got it backwards.

That unfamiliar trail gave us something no map ever could.

Wonder.

Every turn raised another question.

Would there be another bridge?

Another climb?

Another overlook?

Where does this trail actually go?

The adventure wasn’t waiting at the destination.

It was living in the unanswered questions.

While thinking about that, I also came across a wonderful article from Local Passport Family about raising curious and creative kids. One of their ideas was that curiosity grows when children are given opportunities to explore, imagine, and discover things for themselves. Watching Brooks and Joseph yesterday reminded me that they weren’t looking for the destination—they were completely captivated by the journey.

As I thought about it later that evening, I realized I approach much more than hiking this way.

I want to know how the book ends before I write the first chapter.

I want to know exactly how much weight I’m going to lose before I commit to healthier habits.

I want to know whether an idea will succeed before I invest my time in it.

I want certainty before I begin.

But life rarely works that way.

A few days ago I wrote The Belt Isn’t Earned on Test Day, about trusting the process instead of focusing only on the outcome. Yesterday I wrote Adventure Is Closer Than You Think, reminding myself that meaningful adventures don’t require traveling across the country. This hike added another lesson to that list.

Sometimes you have to start walking before you can see where the trail leads.

That’s how writing works.

That’s how marriage works.

That’s how raising children works.

That’s how building a healthier life works.

That’s how building a better life works.

You don’t get the whole map.

You get the next step.

Yesterday I was hiking with my boys.

Thirty years ago I was hiking on camping trips with my Dad.

Maybe thirty years from now Brooks and Joseph will be out on a trail with children of their own.

I hope they leave room for a little uncertainty.

I hope they don’t always feel the need to know what’s around the next bend.

Because sometimes the best memories begin with a simple decision to keep walking.

And sometimes…

The best trails are the ones you never planned to take.

Continue the Journey

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

Further Reading:

Tim Mathis – “Why Do People Go on Adventures? It’s So Simple That Even a Child Could Understand.”

https://www.timmathiswrites.com/post/why-do-people-go-on-adventures-it-s-so-simple-that-even-a-child-could-understand

Local Passport Family – “Inspiring Imagination: 5 Tips for Raising Creative, Curious Kids”

https://www.localpassportfamily.com/2019/05/inspiring-imagination-5-tips-for-raising-creative-curious-kids.html

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