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Businesses can’t cling to outdated processes simply because they’re familiar.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

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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.

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.

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.

A Life, Not A Collection Of Parts

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

The work was still there.

The dishes.

The writing.

The project.

The chores.

They could all wait for two hours.

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

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

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

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

This time, I’ve realized something different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They overlap.

They influence one another.

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

They’re not competing priorities.

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

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

My writing matters.

My health matters.

My marriage matters.

My boys matter.

None of those priorities are competing for my attention.

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

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

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

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

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

It’s lived in seasons.

Sometimes those seasons last a day.

Sometimes they last much longer.

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

Everything that mattered got some of my time.

Not equally.

But intentionally.

And that’s enough.

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

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

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

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

It’s about building a better life.

Continue the Journey:

There Is Always One More Thing — Learning that life doesn’t begin once the to-do list is finished.
Adventure Is Closer Than You Think — Why meaningful family experiences are part of the life we’re building, not distractions from it.
I Finally Stopped Waiting to Feel Motivated — The different forms discipline can take as we pursue a better life.
Why Ordinary Days Matter More Than Big Moments — The quiet evenings often become the memories that last the longest.