The Reset Never Came

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

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

From the outside, it looked like a good day.

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

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

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

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

I would erase everything.

The habit tracker.

The completed to-do lists.

The progress.

Sometimes even the blog.

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

Of course, that never happened.

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

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

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

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

Perfection isn’t reality.

Progress is.

So I didn’t hit the eject button.

I didn’t erase weeks of hard work.

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

I simply picked up where I had left off.

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

This isn’t really about one bad day.

There will be more.

This is about changing my relationship with failure.

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

If I wasn’t perfect, I had failed.

And if I had failed, the project was over.

Now I see things differently.

Failure lasts a day.

Tomorrow is another opportunity to keep going.

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

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

Yesterday was the first real proof that I meant it.

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

There will be more missed workouts.

More bad meals.

More unfinished to-do lists.

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

They’re just pages in the story.

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

Maybe that’s the lesson I needed too.

Success isn’t about keeping a perfect streak.

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

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

Success is refusing to give up after a disappointing day.

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

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

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

and simply continue today.

The reset never came.

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

Continue the Journey

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

Day One — The promise that this project would be different from every attempt before it.
Some Days You Just Survive — Why making it to tomorrow is sometimes enough.
Little Eyes Are Always Watching — The example we’re setting, even on the days we fall short.

Little Eyes Are Always Watching

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’re always watching.

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

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

We hope they learn those lessons.

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

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

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

Maybe that’s what this project is really about.

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

But maybe it isn’t about me at all.

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

Because they’re always watching.

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

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

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

Because little eyes are always watching.

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

Maybe it’s simply showing them.

If you enjoyed this post, you might also like:

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

Playing Catch

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

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

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

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

Then Brooks invented a game.

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

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

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

“Let’s go… see Mama.”

So we did.

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

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

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

Then I coached for another ten years.

Now I’m coaching Brooks.

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

That advice has stayed with me all these years.

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

I hope he remembers the walks to the ball field.

The made-up games.

Trying Banana Ball tricks.

His teammates.

And me being out there with him.

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

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

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

A Son And A Father

Yesterday was Father’s Day.

I slept in a little later than Jillian and the boys before coming out to find a fun gift on the table and a hand-drawn card from Brooks and Joseph. We spent the morning hiking at Mission Trails before stopping for coffee, pastries, and smoothies. It was a great start to the day.

Later, Jillian had to go into work for a bit, so it was Daddy Duty on Father’s Day. I made lunch, broke up a few sibling disputes, and hung out with the boys before Joseph went down for his nap. Then we headed to my parents’ house for a Father’s Day barbecue filled with family, soccer, and the usual chaos that comes with a bunch of cousins running around together.

Before we knew it, the day was over.

Father’s Day was simpler when I was a kid.

You were the one making the card.

You were the one running around with your cousins.

You were the one being reminded to wish your dad, your grandpa, and your uncles a happy Father’s Day.

Now things are different.

I’m still a son on Father’s Day, but I’m a father too.

One thing hasn’t changed, though, and that’s the opportunity to spend time with my dad.

That’s a gift not everyone gets, and it’s not something I take for granted.

My dad worked incredibly hard throughout his life to provide for our family. He helped with homework, coached my baseball teams, took us camping and fishing, and played catch in the front yard. Now I find myself doing many of those same things with my own boys—walking to the ball fields to practice, coaching tee-ball, taking Brooks to karate, and taking Joseph to swim lessons.

As a kid, I never really understood how much else he had going on.

As a dad, I do.

And it gives me a whole new level of appreciation for everything he did for us.

When I sit down and think about my memories of my dad, I realize most of them come with lessons attached.

Sitting on the shore of a lake with our fishing poles in the water taught me patience and how to appreciate silence.

Golf taught me that if you want to get better at something, you have to practice before it matters.

Baseball taught me that the things we do outside of work and responsibility should be fun or they aren’t worth doing.

Pocket knives taught me to be prepared.

The summers I spent working with him taught me work ethic.

And the conversations we had taught me honesty and integrity.

I wonder how many lessons I’m passing on to my own boys without even realizing it.

Maybe that’s how it works.

Maybe the most important lessons aren’t the ones we sit down and intentionally teach.

Maybe they’re the ones our children learn simply by spending time with us.

I’m still learning from my dad today.

But I’m also aware of how fortunate I am to be in this season of life.

I get to have my dad around while being a dad myself.

My boys get to spend time with their grandpa.

I get to look backward and remember being a kid with my dad while also watching my own kids make memories with him now.

That’s not something everyone gets to experience.

Yesterday there were moments when we celebrated me as a father.

There were moments when I was busy being a dad.

And there were moments when I got to be a son celebrating my own father.

I’m grateful for every one of them.

So to all the dads out there: appreciate the time with your kids.

And if you’re fortunate enough to still have your dad around, appreciate that time too.

One day you’ll realize what a gift it was to be both a son and a father at the same time.