Tag: Intentional Living

The Story Behind Tomorrow

Do you have something that starts tomorrow?

Something you’ve been looking forward to. Something that fills you with the same nervous excitement you used to feel on Christmas Eve, the night before your birthday, or the day before leaving on a family vacation.

Whatever begins tomorrow has the potential to change your life.

Months from now, if you stay committed, people might notice the weight you’ve lost. They might see a stronger physique, a finished book, a thriving business, or a website that didn’t exist before. Maybe those are just the things I hope to see in my own life, but whatever your “tomorrow” is, people may one day look at it and say, “That’s where it all began.”

But they’ll be wrong.

Tomorrow isn’t really the beginning.

When does change actually begin?

It’s not with the first workout or the first pound lost on the scale. It’s not when you finish the first chapter or publish your first article online.

Those might be the first signs of change.

But change starts in the invisible moments.

Think back to the first time you admitted something needed to change. When you wondered whether you really had the strength to commit to something new. When you looked at your schedule, counted the cost, said goodbye to certain habits, quietly hoped this time would be different, or finally found the courage to ask for help.

No one thinks of these as the moments where change began.

But they’re the reason tomorrow exists.

We all make the same mistake.

We celebrate the first visible milestone as the start of something new, when those milestones are really just evidence of work that has already been happening in the shadows. The mental work. The preparation. The research. The internal struggle between the anxiety of trying something new and the comfort of remaining the same.

We celebrate the harvest.

We rarely celebrate the planting.

That’s because people don’t see the author before they see the book. They don’t see the business before the doors open. They don’t see the graduate before the diploma or the marathon runner before mile one. Every visible achievement is the product of invisible work.

So tomorrow you may be starting something new. It may be Day One for you.

People may think that’s where your journey begins.

But they’re only seeing the first visible page…

…of a book you’ve already been writing.

The moments that change our lives are rarely the ones everyone notices. They’re the quiet decisions made in solitude and silence. The commitment you made to yourself while sitting alone. The preparations you made when no one was watching. The choice you made before you even knew whether you could change.

Tomorrow may be the first thing people see.

But it isn’t where your story started.

Continue the Journey

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

  • Day One — Every meaningful journey begins with the decision to start, even when the path ahead is uncertain.
  • The Reset Never Came — Why waiting for the perfect time to begin often becomes the biggest obstacle to making progress.
  • Winning the Wrong Argument — The internal conversations that convince us to delay the very life we’re trying to build.
  • I Finally Stopped Waiting to Feel Motivated — Lasting change doesn’t begin when motivation arrives; it begins when we choose to act anyway.

Winning The Wrong Argument

Every time I make a decision that I later wish I hadn’t, there is a conversation first.

It’s never out loud. It’s that everlasting debate that goes on inside my head, like the old cartoons where the devil sits on one shoulder and the angel on the other.

The angel says, “Let’s go work out. Stick to the diet. Work on the book.”

The devil is quick to respond.

“I’m tired.”

“I’ll start tomorrow.”

“Just one more snack.”

“You’ve had a long day.”

“You deserve a break.”

And before long, the devil has won the argument before the angel even saw it coming.

The interesting thing is that the devil never tries to convince me my goals aren’t important. He simply convinces me that today should be the exception. That one workout won’t matter. That one evening without writing won’t make a difference. That tomorrow will somehow be easier than today.

We imagine discipline as something silent. As determination. As strength. As if it never questions itself.

But discipline has a voice too.

Every day, it’s an argument between comfort and growth; an unending debate between two versions of ourselves.

The issue is that the antagonizing argument isn’t wrong.

We are tired.

We are overly stressed.

We are busy.

We’ve had a long day.

With everything going on, we are overwhelmed.

The argument isn’t irrational. It’s real.

And that’s exactly why it’s so convincing.

That’s why the devil is usually the favorite in the debate.

Because the argument makes perfect sense.

But when the argument that makes the most sense in the moment wins—when tiredness and overwhelm overcome extra effort—the win is actually a loss.

You have won the right to sit in your chair and watch television.

To skip the workout.

To leave another chapter unwritten.

To put things off until Monday.

You won the argument.

The problem is that life doesn’t keep score by arguments won.

It keeps score by actions taken.

The workout doesn’t happen because your excuse was convincing.

The book doesn’t gain another chapter because you made a good case for waiting.

The life you want isn’t built by the reasons you had for delaying it.

It’s built by what you actually did.

You won the argument…

But you lost the war.

For years I put the diet off until Monday, watched television instead of writing, searched for perfection instead of progress, and waited for inspiration and motivation to drive my efforts.

And I had an argument for myself every single time.

An explanation that made complete sense.

One that I accepted as good enough.

As truth.

Years later, I was still stuck in that endless loop.

The thing is, the devil on your shoulder never really goes away.

That conversation happens every day, with every decision and every choice.

The difference isn’t that the voice disappears.

The difference is that it no longer gets the final vote.

Because once you recognize the argument for what it is, you have a choice. You can keep winning the same debate you’ve won a hundred times before, or you can finally let the other voice finish speaking.

Because the most dangerous arguments aren’t the ones we lose.

They’re the ones we win while arguing against the life we actually wanted.

So be careful which arguments you win.

Some victories cost far more than they’re worth.

Continue the Journey

If this article resonated with you, you may also enjoy:

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.

The System Isn’t Sacred

Yesterday I had to admit something I didn’t want to.

The Young Napoleon Project wasn’t going to become the project I had spent the last ten years imagining.

That was surprisingly hard to accept.

Not because the project was failing.

But because the picture I had carried in my head for a decade wasn’t real anymore.

For years I had envisioned every detail of this project. I had planned the action tracking, the scoreboards, the data collection, the documentation, and even redundancies for the redundancies because I wanted to capture everything. I wanted complete control over the process.

Then I finally launched the project.

And after six weeks of actually living it, I realized something I never could have learned while planning it.

It was too much.

Not because I wasn’t willing to work hard.

Because I had built a system that demanded so much attention that it was beginning to compete with the very life it was supposed to support.

Somewhere along the way, I realized I was spending so much time documenting the project…

that I wasn’t actually living it.

So I started removing things.

I eliminated redundant tracking.

I simplified my systems.

I stopped documenting the same information in multiple places.

Not because those things were bad ideas.

Because they were getting in the way of the things that mattered most.

They were taking time away from my writing.

They were taking time away from the fitness goals I had allowed to slip.

They were taking time away from being present with my family.

Making those changes should have been easy.

Instead, it felt like I was giving something up.

The strange thing about plans is that after we’ve lived with them long enough, they stop feeling like plans.

They start feeling like promises.

We convince ourselves that success isn’t simply reaching the destination.

Success becomes following the exact route we imagined.

That’s where we get ourselves into trouble.

We become so committed to the process that we forget why we created it in the first place.

Businesses can’t cling to outdated processes simply because they’re familiar.

Parents constantly adjust routines as their children grow.

Travel plans change.

Careers change.

Life changes.

The people who continue moving forward aren’t the ones who never change their plans.

They’re the ones willing to change them when reality demands it.

For a while, I thought abandoning parts of my original plan meant admitting I had been wrong.

Now I think the opposite.

Those ten years weren’t wasted.

They gave me the vision.

But once the project became real, reality became a better teacher than imagination.

The system was never the project.

The scoreboards weren’t the project.

The trackers weren’t the project.

The spreadsheets weren’t the project.

Those things were simply tools meant to help me become the person I wanted to become.

And when the tools stopped serving that purpose…

They needed to change.

Six weeks ago I started this project with what I believed was the perfect blueprint.

Less than two months later, much of that blueprint no longer exists.

The dream does.

I chose the project over the systems.

I chose writing over documenting.

I chose to make room for my health instead of protecting routines that were no longer helping me.

For ten years I thought protecting the blueprint meant protecting the dream.

I finally realized they aren’t the same thing.

The blueprint can change.

The dream doesn’t have to.

Continue the Journey:

If you enjoyed this article, you may also like:

A Life, Not a Collection of Parts

It’s easy to divide life into separate categories—work, family, health, hobbies—but the most fulfilling life isn’t built by keeping those pieces apart. It’s built by learning how they fit together.

I Finally Stopped Waiting to Feel Motivated

Waiting for motivation kept me standing still for years. Progress finally began when I stopped chasing the perfect feeling and simply started doing the work.

The Coach Can’t Do the Work

The right tools, the right systems, and the right coach can all help you move forward. But in the end, no one else can do the work that only you can do.

The Coach Can’t Do The Work

I am going to be starting a personal training program in the next week or so, and yesterday I had my first call with my trainer. Being honest, I was nervous. I had never worked with a personal trainer before, but the conversation was great and also a little unexpected. Instead of just talking about exercises and nutrition, we talked about my goals, the habits I want to build, the mental aspect of getting healthier, my history with weight, and what I hope to achieve in the future.

As exciting as the call was, and as motivated as I am to work with this trainer, I’m still the one who has to put in the work. That’s something I’ve struggled with my whole life when it comes to my health.

The trainer can write my workouts, answer my questions, help keep me accountable, and encourage me when I’m frustrated. But he can’t lift the weights for me. He can’t choose what I eat every day. He can’t walk the steps I need to walk. He can’t say no to the junk food or turn off the TV so I can go work out. He can be a guide, but I still have to choose to follow.

I’ve done it before. In what feels like a past life, I lost 170 pounds. I was determined. I was resilient. Then I wasn’t. Some of the weight came back, and with it came frustration and disappointment.

Since then, I’ve read books about motivation and discipline. I’ve listened to podcasts. I’ve watched countless videos. I know what it takes to get back to where I want to be.

Information has never been the problem.

Turning that information into action has.

Often we think success comes from the tools we use along the way. The right pen or computer will help us write more. The right planner will keep us organized. The right app will keep us on task. Maybe the right coach will finally help us reach our goals.

Those things absolutely help.

They make the path clearer.

But they can’t walk it for us.

This project has never been about finally discovering the secret that erased years of failure. There isn’t one.

The progress I’ve made has come from doing the work day after day. From refusing to quit when things got hard. From not accepting defeat when I fell behind. From allowing the process to evolve instead of abandoning it because I was too stubborn to change.

The tools I’ve chosen have helped me get this far, but they aren’t the reason I’m here.

This trainer will be no different.

He gets to be on my team. He gets to challenge me, encourage me, and help me decide what I need to do to reach my goals.

But I still have to do the work.

The tools you use can help you write. They can help you stay organized. They can help you stay on task.

But if you don’t do the work, the tools can’t do it for you.

A coach, a trainer, or an accountability partner can all cheer you on. They can believe in you, even on the days you don’t believe in yourself.

But when it’s time to do the work…

You’re the one who has to do it.

And when you do, you’ll have something no one can ever take away from you:

The satisfaction of knowing you earned it.

Continue the Journey:

If you enjoyed this article, you may also like:

  • I Finally Stopped Waiting to Feel Motivated
    Motivation may get you started, but lasting change comes from taking action even when you don’t feel like it.
  • Stay in the Game
    Progress belongs to those who refuse to quit. Once you’ve committed to the journey, the work still has to be done one day at a time.
  • Every Opportunity Begins With Risk
    Hiring a coach, starting a new program, or chasing a goal all begin with uncertainty. The next step is doing the work that turns opportunity into progress.

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:

They Don’t Have To Understand

Today’s post is built around a quote that I recently came across:

“Protect your peace and your vision because not everyone will understand either.”

This one had me thinking because it resonated with where I am in this project.

Not because I’m receiving criticism or doubt for what I’m trying to accomplish…

But because I’m not hearing anything at all.

This may come as a surprise, but I can count the number of people I know personally who truly know about The Young Napoleon Project on one hand.

I’m intentionally quiet about what I’m doing here.

My wife, my parents, and a few select others know that I’m writing a book and that I have this blog. A few more know about the work I’m putting into getting healthier.

But that’s about it.

No one really knows what The Young Napoleon Project truly is because I’ve been hesitant to actually talk about it.

This project didn’t start last month.

As of writing this, I’m technically on Day (43), but I stopped counting the number of times I’ve launched this project and never made it to Day (43).

I first had the idea for this project well over a decade ago—before I got married, before I bought a house, before I had kids.

People who see this project today are seeing the latest, and hopefully greatest, iteration of it.

What they don’t see are the countless restarts along the way.

The abandoned notebooks.

The unfinished brainstorming sessions.

The ideas that never made it past the first page.

The quiet hope that every restart would finally become the one that lasted.

They see pieces of my story, but I’ve lived the entire tale.

Maybe that’s why this project means so much to me and looks so ordinary to everyone else.

And yet, despite rarely sharing my “why,” I still catch myself expecting people to understand it.

But how could they?

They haven’t been inside my head to experience the defeats and frustrations.

They haven’t felt the anxiety that comes with starting over or the joy that comes with believing this time might be different.

They haven’t carried this dream with them for over a decade while wondering if it would ever become reality.

They haven’t fought the emotional battles I’ve fought over my own shortcomings or experienced the mental fatigue that repeated failure can bring.

It’s unreasonable to expect someone to understand where I’m coming from when I’ve never really shown them where that is.

And that’s not just true for me.

We all carry dreams.

Maybe yours is to lose weight.

Start a business.

Go back to school.

Change careers.

Run a marathon.

Build a family.

When people look at you, they see what you’re doing today.

They don’t see everything that led up to this moment.

They don’t see the struggle.

They haven’t watched you fight.

They only see one chapter of a story you’ve been living for years.

Here’s the thing:

People don’t need to understand your dream or your vision for it to be worth pursuing.

You don’t need their approval.

You don’t need their recognition.

Because your dream is incredibly personal to you.

It doesn’t have to be a secret.

You can tell everyone about it if you want.

But you can’t expect them to spend every day in the trenches of a battle they’re not fighting.

People can support you.

They can encourage you.

They can cheer you on.

And they can do all of that without fully understanding your why.

While thinking about this, I found myself coming back to Simon Sinek’s TED Talk, Start With Why. He argues that our “why” is what gives our actions meaning. We often think our “why” exists so we can explain ourselves to other people, but maybe its more important purpose is reminding us why we started when no one else fully understands what we’re building.

I also came across this essay from A Life of Lovely about why we don’t always need to explain ourselves to everyone else. It made a point that resonated with me: not every dream needs to be defended or fully understood by other people to be worth pursuing. Sometimes the people who matter most can support us without fully understanding what we’re carrying.

You are the only one who has to know your why.

You are the only one who can’t give up on yourself.

For me, this project isn’t just a blog.

It isn’t just a book I’m writing.

It isn’t just losing weight.

It’s my attempt to build my life intentionally. Part of that has meant accepting that I’ll probably never finish this project, something I explored in The Myth Of Falling Behind. 

It’s also my attempt to accomplish something I first set out to do over a decade ago and am still fighting to achieve today. Ironically, the dream itself has changed over those ten years, something I wrote about in Every Season Has Different Dreams. The destination evolved, but the desire to build a meaningful life never did.

No one will ever understand why it matters to me as deeply as I do.

And that’s okay.

Maybe someday people will understand why this mattered so much to me.

Maybe they won’t.

The same goes for your dream.

Either way, we both have to keep going.

We have to wake up tomorrow and take the next step toward our dreams and our vision.

Because that’s what matters to us.

And no one else has to understand that.

Continue the Journey:

Further Reading:

Simon Sinek — Start With Why (TED Talk)

https://youtu.be/u4ZoJKF_VuA?is=O32TQ6Jl0PQmJfpl

A Life of Lovely — Why You Don’t Need to Explain Yourself to Anyone

https://alifeoflovely.com/why-you-dont-need-to-explain-yourself-to-anyone/#google_vignette

Overthink The Good Stuff

Guess what?

I overthink things.

I know… you’re shocked.

If you read my post about Why The Young Napoleon Project then you know I share a trait with General George B. McClellan: we were both overthinkers and overplanners.

My anxiety?

Well… that doesn’t exactly help either.

I can get lost overthinking the smallest things.

Did I say the wrong thing?

Should I have sent that text?

Did I make the right decision?

Then I can spend hours thinking about everything that might be waiting for me tomorrow.

I imagine I’m not alone.

Like so many people, I tend to obsess over tiny moments that probably don’t mean nearly as much as I convince myself they do.

You know what’s sad, though?

We rarely overthink the good stuff.

I don’t have Brooks’ and Joseph’s laughter replaying on a loop in my head.

I don’t constantly revisit the quiet moments Jillian and I share together.

I don’t spend hours remembering the funny things Joseph says or the way he says them.

Those moments come into my life…

And then they’re gone.

Meanwhile, anxiety, fear, and worry seem to live in my head rent-free.

Some of that is chemistry.

Some of it is simply the way our brains are wired.

While researching this, I came across an article in Psychology Today explaining why our brains naturally gravitate toward negative thinking. It pointed out that our minds are wired to pay more attention to potential threats than positive experiences—a survival instinct that made a lot of sense thousands of years ago, but one that can easily leave us replaying our worst moments while overlooking our best ones.

Our minds are trying to protect us.

They’re scanning for danger.

Preparing us for tomorrow’s meeting.

The unexpected bill.

The difficult conversation.

Sometimes they’re trying to teach us something.

“Remember that mistake you made yesterday? Think about it for the next three hours so you never make it again.”

And honestly…

There’s some value in that.

We should learn from our mistakes.

We should approach unfamiliar situations with healthy caution.

Sometimes there really is a good reason to worry about something on tomorrow’s calendar.

But left unchecked, our minds can convince us that our worst moments deserve the most attention.

What if we trained our minds a little differently?

What if we intentionally spent time replaying the good moments instead?

Not to ignore our problems.

Not to pretend life is perfect.

But because those moments deserve our attention too.

In my reading, I came across another article from Verywell Mind about learning to savor positive moments. One of the things that stood out to me was the reminder that joy often doesn’t require bigger experiences—it requires paying closer attention to the ones we’re already having. The more intentional we are about noticing and lingering in those moments, the more likely we are to remember them later.

They deserve to be appreciated.

They deserve to be remembered.

What if you spent just five minutes every day thinking about your kids laughing?

The love you share with your spouse.

Good news you recently received.

The ordinary moments when, for just a little while, nothing was wrong.

What would happen?

Would your outlook change?

Would you feel a little lighter?

Would your day be just a little better?

I think it might.

The moments we replay become the stories we tell ourselves about our lives.

If we come home from work and only replay everything that frustrated us, how can we expect the rest of our evening not to be colored by that frustration? It’s also why I wrote Don’t Let Your Storm Get Your Kids Wet. The stories we replay don’t always stay inside our own heads—they often shape how we show up for the people we love.

If we replay only our failures, eventually we’ll begin believing we’re failures.

If we spend all night overthinking tomorrow’s problems, we’ll wake up already convinced it’s going to be a bad day.

And in doing so, we’ll miss the moments that could have made it a good one.

But what if we intentionally replayed moments of joy instead?

What if we celebrated the small wins?

What if we got excited about what still lies ahead?

What if we filled our minds with the memories that remind us life is good, even when it isn’t perfect?

When I look back on this project, I realize I’ve spent a lot of time writing about ordinary moments instead of extraordinary ones. It’s something I’ve explored before in Why Ordinary Days Matter More Than Big Moments. The memories that shape our lives usually aren’t the spectacular ones—they’re the ordinary moments we almost overlook.

Walks around the neighborhood.

Playing catch.

Reading bedtime stories.

Quiet evenings with Jillian.

Those moments are my life.

Some days are harder than others.

Some stories are painful.

But if I only focused on those moments, I’d completely miss the ones that make this life so beautiful.

So yes…

Tomorrow I’ll probably wake up and still be an overthinker.

That isn’t changing overnight.

I’m forty-one years old.

If it were that easy, it probably would have happened by now.

I’ll probably replay some small mistake I made today.

I’ll probably worry about something waiting for me tomorrow.

But I’m also going to try to be more intentional about replaying the good stuff.

The laughter.

The walks with my boys.

The quiet moments with Jillian.

The conversations I’ll someday wish I could have one more time.

Because those moments are the best part of my life.

And if I’m going to overthink anything…

I’d rather it be the good stuff.

Continue the Journey:

Further Reading:

Psychology Today — “3 Reasons Why Your Brain Loves Negative Thinking”

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/social-instincts/202512/3-reasons-why-your-brain-loves-negative-thinking/amp

Verywell Mind — “How to Savor the Moment”

https://www.verywellmind.com/how-to-savor-the-moment-3144633

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:

Further Reading:

Psychology Today — “Do Our Lives Gain Meaning as We Age?”

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/supersurvivors/202103/do-our-lives-gain-meaning-as-we-age

Tiny Buddha — “Letting Go of Expectations and Pursuing What You Really Want”

https://tinybuddha.com/blog/letting-go-of-expectations-and-pursuing-what-you-really-want/