The First Time Doesn’t Count

Everyone remembers their firsts.

Most people take time to celebrate those occasions.

Maybe it’s the first workout, after telling yourself so many times that you were finally going to make it to the gym.

The first blog post, after dreaming about launching a blog for years.

The first kiss of a budding romance.

The first day at a new job you had always hoped to get.

The first time your child sleeps through the night… and so do you.

We love our firsts, and rightfully so.

They are memorable.

They are exciting.

They feel important.

And they are.

But maybe not for the reasons we think.

Those firsts deserve to be celebrated because they take courage, effort, and determination.

But the first workout doesn’t make you healthy.

The first page doesn’t make you a writer.

The first trip to the coffee shop with my boys didn’t make it a family tradition.

What firsts do is introduce you to possibility.

They show you what could happen.

Who you could become.

So if our firsts don’t change us…

…what does?

The second time.

The tenth.

The hundredth.

Because repetition turns singular events into habits.

Habits into patterns.

And patterns eventually become identity.

You stop saying, “I worked out last night,” and become someone who works out.

You stop saying, “I wrote a blog post,” and become a writer.

Your identity isn’t built by dramatic firsts.

It’s built by ordinary repetitions.

My first post didn’t become The Young Napoleon Project.

But dozens of posts later, I’m beginning to build something.

My first workout didn’t change my body.

But weeks of showing up are beginning to.

One walk with my boys…

One trip to the baseball fields…

One bedtime story…

One Band-Aid on a skinned knee…

None of those things made me a father.

Showing up every day for my boys and being present in their lives did.

First comes the individual event.

Then a pattern begins to emerge.

And finally…

…an identity is born.

Maybe you’ve been waiting for a first.

Waiting for some dramatic moment that changes everything.

But the first isn’t what changes you.

So do the workout.

Write the blog post.

Have the conversation.

Take the walk.

Then do it again.

And again.

See what happens.

See who you become.

Because while the first may not change everything…

It matters.

Every meaningful life begins with a first.

But meaningful lives are built by refusing to let the first become the last.

Continue the Journey

If this article resonated with you, here are a few more reflections that continue the conversation:

Day One — Every meaningful journey begins with the courage to take the very first step.
The Decision Was Already Made — The choices that shape our identity are rarely dramatic. They’re the ones we quietly make over and over again.
The Difference Between a Hobby and a Calling — The pursuits that matter most become part of who we are through years of faithful repetition.
Kids Are Born Delusional — Before repetition can transform your life, you have to believe that transformation is possible in the first place.

Kids Are Born Delusional

You were a kid once.

What did you want to be when you grew up?

Can you even remember?

Over the last couple of years, my son has wanted to be a baseball player, a police officer, a drag racer, and who knows what else.

And every time he tells me what he wants to be, there isn’t a hint of doubt in his voice.

He’s certain.

Until he’s certain about something else.

Kids don’t hedge their bets.

They don’t apologize for dreaming.

They’re all in.

Somewhere, a long time ago, we were those kids too.

We dreamed with certainty.

We had no doubts.

No reservations.

We were going to be cowboys even though we’d never ridden a horse.

We were going to be astronauts with no understanding of outer space.

We were going to be lawyers before we knew what the law even was.

And then something changed.

But when?

It’s not like we can point to one morning and say,

“That was the day I decided to be more realistic.”

“That was the day I lowered my expectations for my own life.”

It happened slowly.

Quietly.

Almost invisibly.

Growing up teaches us many valuable lessons.

We learn how to read.

We learn math.

We learn responsibility.

We learn that we won’t always win.

We learn how to work hard.

We learn that life is full of compromise.

Those lessons matter because they shape the people we’re becoming.

But somewhere along the way, we learn something else.

We learn limits.

Not physical limits.

Imagined ones.

The people who teach us those limits usually aren’t trying to hurt us.

They’re parents trying to protect us.

Teachers trying to prepare us for the real world.

Friends who don’t want to be left behind.

Sometimes those limits come from failure.

Embarrassment.

Humiliation.

Loss.

Comparison.

None of them are usually malicious.

They’re simply born from experience.

But together they begin whispering the same message:

People like you don’t do things like that.

That’s the real tragedy.

It isn’t that children dream too big.

It’s that many adults stop dreaming before they ever discover what they might have been capable of.

Dreams go from certainty…

…to unlikely…

…to impossible.

Maybe growing up shouldn’t mean believing in ourselves less.

Maybe it should simply mean understanding that extraordinary dreams require extraordinary effort.

Children already have the belief.

Adults have the discipline.

Imagine what could happen if we managed to keep both.

We smile when children tell us what they want to be when they grow up.

Not because it’s funny.

But because we quietly doubt it’s possible.

Maybe instead of smiling, we should ask ourselves a harder question.

What did you once believe you were going to become…

…before someone convinced you otherwise?

And maybe the next time a child tells you they’re going to change the world…

Don’t be the first person to teach them their limits.

Because maybe kids aren’t born delusional.

Maybe they’re simply the last version of ourselves before the world convinces us to dream smaller.

Continue the Journey

If this article resonated with you, here are a few more reflections that continue the conversation:

Day One — Every meaningful journey begins with believing that change is still possible.
Winning the Wrong Argument — The hardest battles are often the ones we fight against our own limiting beliefs.
Every Opportunity Begins With Risk — The dreams worth pursuing almost always require the courage to risk failure.
Hallways Aren’t Meant To Be Homes — Believing something is possible is only the beginning. Eventually, you have to step through the doorway and pursue it.

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.mp3 Download

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.

Every Opportunity Begins With Risk

This week I took a risk and put myself out there. I saw an opportunity worth pursuing, and despite my nervousness and anxiety, I sent the message. I asked the question, and I was rewarded for taking that chance. It wasn’t luck. It was action in the face of uncertainty.

We’ve all faced uncomfortable moments. Moments where something worth having sat directly across from our own insecurities and doubts. We imagine being ignored, turned down, or told no. We worry that we’re imposing on someone else or putting them in an uncomfortable position. In those moments, the opportunity may exist, but it isn’t real because we haven’t yet made the decision to pursue it.

Then comes the decision. You put yourself out there. You make yourself vulnerable. You expose yourself to rejection or awkwardness. Sometimes you’re rewarded with acceptance, and afterward you wonder why you waited so long. It wasn’t nearly as big of a deal as you had made it out to be. Then another thought creeps in: how many other opportunities have you missed simply because you weren’t willing to accept a few moments of discomfort while waiting to see what might happen?

I think about my kids. They don’t see the risk; they only see the reward. When Brooks walked into his first karate class, he didn’t know if he would like it. He was nervous. He didn’t know anyone. But if he had never walked through those doors, he never would have discovered something he genuinely enjoys. Children are often willing to try first and worry later. As I wrote in Brooks’s First Tae Kwon Do Class, the hardest part wasn’t earning the belt—it was walking through the door for the very first time. As we get older—even by the time we’re Brooks’ age—that begins to change. Doubt slowly creeps in. Our confidence starts giving way to thoughts about what other people might think if we fail or embarrass ourselves. The older we get and the more rejection we experience, the easier it becomes to focus on the opportunities we’ve missed instead of the ones we’ve seized.

As I thought about it, I realized how many of the best parts of my life began with accepting that same risk. Going back to school for my bachelor’s degree, and later my master’s, while working full-time and starting a family. Coaching Brooks’ baseball team. Walking into my first Papa Pandas meeting. Starting this blog one more time after nearly a decade of false starts. None of those moments felt comfortable beforehand. Every one of them was worth it afterward.

Every opportunity asks us to take a risk before we can enjoy the reward. The hardest part isn’t saying yes to the opportunity—it’s saying yes to the uncertainty that comes before it. As I shared in I Finally Stopped Waiting to Feel Motivated, waiting until we feel ready often means waiting forever. Growth rarely begins with confidence; it begins with the decision to act anyway.

Looking back, I’m far more grateful for the opportunities I experienced because I was willing to accept the risk than I am bothered by the times I was rejected. Because you can’t reap the reward without first accepting the risk.

Continue the Journey:

If you enjoyed this article, you may also like:

Brooks’s First Tae Kwon Do Class
Sometimes the hardest part isn’t earning the belt—it’s finding the courage to walk through the door for the very first time.
I Finally Stopped Waiting to Feel Motivated
Waiting until we feel ready often means waiting forever. Growth usually begins with action, not confidence.

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.

Every Season Has Different Dreams

When we were kids, we all had dreams about what we wanted to be when we grew up.

For a while I wanted to be a cowboy. Not the Dallas Cowboys kind—a real cowboy.

Then I wanted to be a lawyer.

A stockbroker.

Eventually I went to school for animation.

Turns out…

I’m none of those things.

Today my dreams look very different.

Now I dream about providing for my family.

Being a good husband.

Being a good father.

Writing books.

Building this project.

Creating a life I’m proud to wake up to every morning.

If you could take a snapshot of my life today and show it to my younger self, I think he’d be excited about a lot of it.

He’d see that we became a husband.

A father.

A homeowner.

That we live in the same neighborhood where we grew up.

That we coach our son’s baseball team.

I think he’d smile.

But I also think he’d have questions.

He’d probably ask,

“What happened to all those other dreams?”

The honest answer is…

Life happened.

Some decisions I made in my late teens and early twenties changed the direction of my life.

Some opportunities came and went.

Some dreams quietly faded.

At one time, I looked at that as failure. After reflecting on it, I realized it wasn’t that I had fallen behind—it was that my dreams had changed. That’s an idea I explored further in The Myth of Falling Behind.

Because while some dreams disappeared…

Others arrived that I never could have imagined.

The younger version of me dreamed about being a husband and father.

But he couldn’t possibly have imagined what it would actually feel like to fall in love.

Or to hold his newborn son for the first time.

Or to hear little feet running through the house on a Saturday morning.

Those weren’t dreams.

Those were experiences waiting for me on the other side of life.

Today Brooks wants to be a baseball player.

A police officer.

Most recently…

A drag racer.

He’s six.

I’m sure next year he’ll have another dream.

And another after that.

I hope he does.

Because I don’t want him to stop dreaming.

Dreams aren’t promises.

They’re possibilities.

They help us imagine a future that’s bigger than today.

As we grow older, though, our dreams begin to change.

While thinking about this, I came across an article in Psychology Today exploring how our lives often gain meaning as we age. One idea that resonated with me was that as we accumulate experiences, relationships, and responsibilities, our sense of purpose naturally evolves. Reading that made me realize my dreams didn’t disappear—they simply matured alongside the life I’ve been fortunate enough to build.

Not because we’ve become less ambitious.

Because we’ve become more experienced.

We’ve loved.

We’ve failed.

We’ve succeeded.

We’ve discovered what actually matters to us.

When I was younger, success looked like becoming someone impressive.

Today, success looks like coaching Brooks’ baseball team.

Writing another blog post.

Finishing my novel.

Reaching my goal weight.

Building a strong marriage.

Being present for my boys.

Those dreams don’t compete with one another anymore. Like I wrote in A Life, Not a Collection of Parts, they’re all pieces of the same life I’m trying to build.

Those dreams aren’t smaller than the ones I had when I was twenty.

They’re deeper.

They’re shaped by the life I’ve lived and the people I’ve loved.

It’s a realization that echoes something I wrote in A Masterpiece and a Work in Progress. Growth doesn’t erase our worth—it simply adds depth to who we’re becoming.

I think that’s true for all of us.

I also came across an article from Tiny Buddha about letting go of expectations that no longer serve us. It made me think about how easy it is to judge ourselves by the dreams we had years ago instead of asking whether those dreams still reflect the people we’ve become. Sometimes growth isn’t about holding on tighter—it’s about giving ourselves permission to dream differently.

We shouldn’t expect to want the same things at forty that we wanted at fifteen.

The world changes.

We change.

Our dreams should change too.

Some dreams should still be wildly ambitious.

The kind that stretch us and pull us forward.

Others should be grounded enough that we can celebrate them as we achieve them.

Maybe that’s what growing up really is.

Not giving up on the dreams we had as children…

But allowing them to grow up with us.

Because every season of life asks something different from us.

Every season gives us something new to hope for.

I’m still chasing my dreams.

They just don’t look the way they used to.

And I think that’s exactly the way it’s supposed to be.

Continue the Journey:

The Myth of Falling Behind — Why meaningful lives rarely feel “caught up.”
A Masterpiece and a Work in Progress — Learning that growth and worth are not the same thing.
A Life, Not a Collection of Parts — Building a life where our dreams complement one another instead of competing for our attention.

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:

The Belt Isn’t Earned on Test Day — Why growth deserves more attention than perfection.
A Life, Not a Collection of Parts — Learning that family time isn’t separate from our goals; it’s one of the reasons we pursue them.
There Is Always One More Thing — The responsibilities never end, so we have to choose how we show up despite them.
Little Eyes Are Always Watching — Children learn more from our example than from our advice.