Don’t let anyone bully you out of sharing your story.

Now, you should never feel compelled to share things about yourself that you're not ready to share. But sharing your story is a gift. It can be a gift for yourself and for others.

Some might call this a testimony.
Others may call it being an advocate.
Sure, maybe don’t let it become your whole identity.
You’re so much more than just one piece of your story.

But never for a second allow anyone to convince you that your story isn’t worth sharing.

One of the most heinous lies we believe is that we are alone. Mine and Megan’s struggle with infertility taught me this.

Anytime I’ve opened up about my own struggles, whether with becoming parents, or my weight, or fatherhood, or my mental health, or my spiritual journey, or imposter syndrome, or any number of other things, being open has led to beautiful moments of connection with others. Mostly encouragement for me and sometimes for them, too.

If you have any sort of platform and want to use it for something good, do it.
Don’t let haters discourage you. It says way more about them than it does about you.

Sharing about my life on social media isn’t a natural thing for me, surprisingly enough. I’d much rather be a lurker. But I have precious friendships built upon my willingness to be open publicly about the things I’ve struggled with.

Call it cringe if you want (sometimes even I do), but if I hadn’t allowed myself to lean into my weirdness at times, really lean into my cringiness, I would have robbed myself and others of some pretty special moments along the way.

Does that annoy some of you? I’m sure it does. But maybe that just means we’re not each other’s type of people. And that’s okay. Because I’m just here looking for my people.

Everyone is working an angle, it seems.

People always have an agenda. They want something. They are trying to position themselves. They are trying to convince you, or manipulate you. There are always strings that are being pulled and plans in the works.

It’s fine, I suppose. We all want something. We all need things. We’re all just doing the best we can to get a little bit ahead. We’re trying to keep our heads above water, or get ahead a little bit, or achieve our dreams, or any number of other clichés so true they no longer really mean anything.

Some might think people like me are obtuse, oblivious to what’s really going on. Would I rather you just be straight with me? Of course. But that’s not the point. Maybe I’m just seeing where our interests happen to intersect, complementary angles that might just be able to create a shape that’s worth something.

I’ve had to learn to keep a few degrees of separation, though. Because even I have a line. Experience has given me an acute understanding of things. I used to think other people were congruent, because that's how I choose to live my life. You never have to calculate where I stand or what I’m up to. You get the same me at work or at play.

Please forgive me for the tangents. I just never realized navigating through life would take so much geometry.

They say the secret to a good marriage shows up in a pan of brownies.
Well, no one else really says that. But I do.

I was delighted this weekend to see a batch of brownies show up in our kitchen. They were some fancy type of brownie. Don’t ask me what kind. I just saw they were a bit more elevated than Megan’s favorite go-to Trader Joe’s mix.

My wife had taken a small piece out of the center. All the brownie edges were still intact. This is how I know we are meant to be together.

A middle piece is Megan’s preferred choice when it comes to brownies. She likes the soft, gooey middle while I prefer the crisp, chewy edges. She cuts her piece right from the heart of the pan. I think the “As Seen on TV” All-Edges Brownie Pan is brilliant. We complement each other perfectly.

Now, we’re still alike, sometimes a bit too much, on things that matter. We share the same values and outlook on life. We have similar family goals and support each other personally and professionally. We share a deep love for Ted Lasso. So, yes, we’re aligned on the most important things. I mean, we do both like brownies, after all.

This is what I mean by “a good marriage shows up in a pan of brownies.” Maybe for you it’s more like the olive theory or the IKEA test. What matters is that you complement each other in a relationship. You’re different, yet the same.

That is, until you happen to have kids. Then they devour all your brownies.
At that point, it’s every parent for themself!

My little boy takes my hand as we walk toward soccer practice. He’s a little nervous as he sees each of the fields filled with increasingly older kids. “You don’t have to go all the way over there,” I reassure him. “Your field is here with kids your age.” He drags me, my lawn chair in tow, out to the middle field anyway. His coach bends down to ask him his name as dad and his chair slip off to the sideline.

These moments sneak up on you. Small moments when you observe something big about life. Sometimes the lesson hits you like a soccer ball upside the head, sometimes it’s a little more subtle.

I watched my five-year-old hesitantly warm up to his new coach, slowly learning that he can’t just pick up the ball or take a water break whenever he wants. He’s more engaged than he was last year during soccer. The little boy is growing up. “That went better than expected,” Dad thought. The assistant coach fixes the laces on the boy’s cleats. Oops, dad must not have tied them very well.

I attended a Catholic funeral recently. I was comforted by the routine of it all. It wasn’t my routine, but I appreciated the liturgy.

Liturgy is a pattern. At least that’s my nondenominational understanding of things. A pattern of repeated practices that remind us of what’s true about God, and about life, and about me. Prayers, Communion, songs, and Scripture carefully repeated.

The repetition shapes us over time.

We often think it’s the big moments that change us. And I suppose that’s true. Big moments do often change the trajectory of our lives. But I’ve learned that it’s the little things, day after day, that quietly mold us.

Bedtime stories and family dinners. Holding your kid’s hand or putting (well, wrestling) them to bed each night. It’s the simple walk with your spouse. Or the encouraging call or text from a friend.

It’s these little moments, repeated over and over, that actually shape who we ultimately become.

A lifetime of little liturgies.

I have this magic gift. Whenever I walk into a messy room, I snap my fingers and everything snaps into place. The trash is trashed. The laundry laundered. Clutter decluttered. All in an instant. I don’t know if it’s telekinesis, reality warping, or simply an army of enchanted cleaning fairies. The job is just done. The mess is gone.

Now you might wonder why the bedroom clutter, piles of laundry, or stack of dishes are able to reach such unwieldy levels when I possess this magical gift. Truth is, I never consider this ability until things have gotten out of hand, until the thought of having to clean up the mess is almost paralyzing.

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve snapped my fingers when I’ve faced an overwhelming mess, hoping for a little magic. Even at 40, I still snap. “Maybe this time,” I think. “Maybe this time it’ll actually work.”

It’s never worked.
But I always do it.
Just in case.

I never learn my lesson. The real magic would be cleaning the mess before it spirals out of control. Folding the laundry in a regular routine. Tidying the house before the kids’ toys stack up. Doing the dishes before a few turns into a few dozen.

The mysterious souls who consistently keep up with household chores are sorcerers in my book. They’ve truly mastered the dark arts.

I don’t know why I defer uncomfortable activities until their dread turns into despair. It’s more than mere laziness. More profound than simple procrastination. Avoidance rules my life. Why do I believe that some future version of me will handle all this better than today’s me?

It’s deeper than just dishes and laundry, clutter and trash. Household chores are just the most visible version of this lie I believe.

Deep down, I’m convinced it’s worth real suffering later to avoid small discomfort today. I would never word it this way. My brain is much too clever for that. But I believe it all the same.

I avoid uncomfortable conversations until life’s little issues boil over, burning people close to me. I neglect my health (and avoid the doctor’s office) until my weight and lab work show things have gotten out of control. I put off simple problems at work, letting them grow into needless complications.

Avoid it now. Deal with it later. Maybe things will magically get better, and we’ll all live happily ever after. I believe in this sinister fairy tale. I’m personally, professionally, and profoundly under its spell.

I try to snap my fingers to clean up the mess. I’m desperate to avoid the hard work required when things have gotten too far out of hand.

It’s never worked.
But I always do it.
Just in case.

There are no quick fixes when we’ve allowed neglect to take root. Things would have been so much easier if we had done the daunting work as it appeared. We understand this. But we didn’t do it. We don’t do it.

I know I should have taken care of the mess while it was still small. I should have kept up with the laundry and dishes. I should have eaten better. I should have scheduled the appointment and had the conversation. I should have dealt with this problem before it became the problem.

So, yes, the real magic would have been dealing with things before they got out of hand.

But what I should have done no longer matters.
What matters is what I’m going to do to clean things up now.
And how I’ll choose to handle the next mess differently.

I can’t snap my fingers and fix things in an instant.
All I can do is roll up my sleeves and get to work.

Today is Day 50 of my personal 100 (Week)Day Writing Challenge.

Halfway there! 🎉🥱

I wanted to look back at what I’ve written before moving on to the next fifty. Some pieces have meant more to me than others. Some were more fun to write. A few were me pushing myself to try something new.

Getting a little uncomfortable

The Deaf Ear was a very different kind of writing for me early on. It’s simple, but I dug a little deeper into myself and my own experience for the imagery. I was trying something outside my comfort zone.

It’s not necessarily a piece I expect a lot of other people to love. But I was proud of the result. There’s something satisfying about trying a different way of writing and coming away with something that somehow feels right.

Enough is Enough might be the piece I’m most proud of. I wanted to communicate something deeply personal while using as many plays on the word enough as I could.

Finding words for things I believe

Give a Damn is quite possibly my favorite piece from this whole process so far. It’s something I believe to my core, and I’m happy with the way I was able to communicate it.

Scooting Over was my first real attempt to explain an idea I’ve carried around for a while: The Kids’ Table. I call it an idea. Maybe it’s more of an emerging core value. I tried to get a little more personal with this one.

I’ve also enjoyed making time to write through some of my core values about leadership and my profession:

• Stop Making Things So Clear

• Do we really want to lead?

• To experience the best of people, you have to take the worst of them, too.

Sometimes I’ve been straightforward. Sometimes I’ve tried to have a little more fun with the delivery. I’ve appreciated having a reason to slow down and put those beliefs into words.

The Skeleton of a Leader grew out of my experience with Leadership West Virginia last year. The program had a real impact on me, and I was happy to finally give some of those thoughts a place to live outside my brain.

The boys keep teaching me

The most meaningful writing for me is still the writing about my boys.

Fatherhood has taught me more than I ever could have imagined. Some of those lessons have found their way into these pieces:

• Why Don’t We Have Pandas?

• Little Puns & Growing Punchlines

• Taking the Squiggly Way

• Backyard Campouts and Bedrock Memories

• One First Day and Two Growing Boys

I’ve been working on different skills throughout this challenge, but this type of writing comes most naturally to me. I love exploring a small but very real moment that illustrates some deeper wisdom.

My boys are forever my best teachers.

Having some fun

K-9 Landmines is about our dog.

She’s a good girl.

This was one of the more fun pieces to write.

An Acquired Taste came from wanting to write something lighter but still real. Something relatable and, hopefully, a little interesting.

Coffee it is.

Fifty more

I’ve briefly considered stopping my challenge here. 50 is a nice round number. I’ve learned so much about writing and about myself. I’m also tired. And busy. There’s a reason days 49 and 50 of my WEEKday writing challenge are coming on a Saturday and Sunday. I’m glad I gave myself some wiggle room.

I want to give myself more time per piece in the future. More research. More reflection. Let something sit for a while and come back to it. I may eventually rewrite some of these pieces. I know I’ll at least revisit them.

But I’m going to try to stick with it. Try to keep learning and keep farming my own inner world to see what other thoughts and ideas I can harvest.

Most importantly, I’ve fallen in love with writing. I’m infatuated with the creative act itself. I love the artistry and the act of communication. I don’t know if I’d call myself a writer. And if I am, I don’t know what kind of writer I’ll one day be.

If I could give you some communication advice today, my friend, it would be this:

Please stop making things so clear.
Stop focusing so much on having a single message.
And stop making that one message so dang compelling.

I know your [insert business, organization, nonprofit, church, or bake sale here] has many things going on. Important things. Fascinating things. Yes, we’re all interested in every little thing you have to offer.

Your communication should be like the Cheesecake Factory menu. Overwhelm me. Make me cry. Don’t stop until my eyes glaze over like I just downed the rest of my wife’s tiramisu cheesecake after I’ve already had my own.

Sure, most of us don’t have time for all your things. Nor are we your target audience. In fact, I will probably never go to Sister Mildred’s Quilting Expo. I have never quilted. I do not know Mildred. She isn’t actually my sister. But please give me the full agenda down to every stitch.

And please, tell me how this all got started 75 years ago. I can’t tell you how relevant that is to me. Start at the beginning. Or even earlier. Tell me what Mildred’s grandfather did for a living. Very relevant, indeed.

And no, I don’t need you to think through why I might care. Just throw the details at me without considering that I might ask “so what?” Just blurt them out like a 5-year-old babbling about Minecraft. Yes, I’m still on the edge of my seat 15 minutes into my son’s diatribe about mobs, creepers, and whatever the heck a chicken jockey is.

My kindergartener has mastered communication strategy. I strongly recommend you adopt his methods for your very important business.

Whatever you do, please don’t give me a clear call to action. Heavens, no. If a small spark of interest happens to flicker within me, make me work for it. It should be like a puzzle. People love puzzles.

Signing up for your event should be like the movie National Treasure. But instead of the Declaration of Independence, I’m searching for your online sign-up form.

Please, don’t make any of this seem personal or human. It’ll distract from the details. And do not, under any circumstances, tell a story. Certainly not. You wouldn’t want me to get inspired or motivated or any unseemly thing like that.

Better yet, just give your facts to ChatGPT and let the chatbot tell you what to say. It will give you all the relevant emojis. And, hey, have it create a flyer while you’re at it. You can post it on social media with a QR code.

Sure, I know it’s not super convenient to scan a QR code with your phone’s camera while doomscrolling social media on said phone. And, yes, you can just put your link in the social media caption or “in the bio.” But that’s much too convenient. And the cool kids use QR codes. So, you must certainly have that.

So, if you want to be really, really good at marketing, please stop communicating a clear and compelling message. What does Nike, or Coca-Cola, or Apple know anyway? Amateurs, really. Much too simple. Much too focused. You can do so much better than that.

If you want more pro tips, talk to Mildred’s nephew. His great-grandfather was a bookkeeper. His contact information is somewhere in the monthly newsletter.

Meg and I had this conversation just the other night. She had spent a night away recently for work. It was just us boys for the evening. All went well. I mean, they’re still alive. That’s a positive, right?

We’re big proponents of the it’s not babysitting if they’re your kids philosophy when it comes to dad handling the kiddos. But let’s be honest, my wife is certainly the more responsible of the two of us. If nothing else, her superpower is remembering all the things. Mine seems to be forgetfulness.

But I didn’t take offense. Of course she worries. That’s what moms do. That’s what parents do. I worry about the little guys when I’m not around, too. But I wasn’t offended because I know my wife trusts me. She proves it over and over. Because she takes it a step further than just saying the words “I trust you.” She actually entrusts things to me that are important to her. In fact, her boys are her whole world. I know how deeply she trusts me because she entrusts me with them.

Trust (as a verb) means “to place confidence in” something. Entrust means “to commit to another with confidence.” It’s a subtle difference, but I think it has huge implications.

You can trust someone. You can believe they’re capable, and honest, and responsible, and even good. But entrusting asks something more. It asks you to put something you care about in their hands.

Trust is one of those things that’s hard earned but easily lost. There’s no scientific formula for it. The only way I know to build it is by doing the hard work of being trustworthy. And the surest way I know to show that you trust someone is to entrust them with something that matters.

I trust a bunch of people in my life. But there are very few things that are important to me that I actually entrust to others. Maybe it’s about control. Maybe it’s fear. Whatever the case may be, it’s easy to get stuck in the same old routines. It’s not quite if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself, but it’s pretty dang close.

And I guess that’s the whole thing. We don’t entrust things to people because we’re not quite ready to make that commitment.

It’s not that we don’t have confidence in people. We just don’t quite have enough confidence to act, to actually commit.

Things that make me suspicious:

1. Milk nearing its expiration date.

2. My wife when she says she’s fine.

3. Someone who makes themselves the hero of every story.

The first two of these terrify me. The last infuriates me.

I can’t tell you how many presentations, sermons, or personal encounters I’ve endured where the person holding court always manages to be the wisest, kindest, most generous person in every story they tell.

They always knew exactly what to do. Or always had the right thing to say. Their advice? Always spot on. Their hunch? Always prophetic. My eyes couldn’t possibly roll any further back into my head.

It’s certainly possible that I’ve become a little jaded as I’ve grown older. You can call me a curmudgeon if you want. But I truly don’t believe anyone is that impressive. No one I’ve ever known has been anyway.

The best storytellers are those who tell their real story. They share the good with the bad. The story where they changed. Where they struggled. Where they grew. Tension is the linchpin to every great story. And some of the best tension comes when someone admits they made a mistake, didn’t measure up, or simply got it wrong.

The struggle is the story’s real gift. Growth is what inspires us.

Nowhere is this more important to me than those who speak from the pulpit. Speaking for God is a weighty responsibility. The goal isn’t to make people think you’re awesome. The goal is to help them see how awesome God is. And how God loves them even though they really aren’t fine. I say this with every bit of love I have…it’s not about you, brother.

Maybe I’m just jealous. Envious of people who have their lives together and always seem to know what to say. That ain’t me. I’m a mess. But I’m trying. I’m growing.

I’m not perfect. And I doubt you are.

Our stories shouldn’t pretend to be, either.

“I got him.” Our ten-year-old said to my wife.

Megan was guiding our younger son to the school bus for his first day of kindergarten. But big brother had different plans. He gently placed his hand on his little brother’s back between his shoulders. Just like his dad has done a million times for him when guiding him through a crowded space or dangerous parking lot.

Big brother is typically the first one on the bus. He likes to rush to the front of the line. But today there’s something more important. He finds himself at the back, last one to board the bus at his stop. If he minds, he doesn’t show it. He helps little brother navigate the steps up onto the bus, the first steps toward his first day of school.

I watch as they both get on. I see big brother say something to his little brother, and little brother’s head disappears as he takes one of the seats up front with the other younger kids.

Big brother walks toward the back of the bus to hold court with his friends. I wonder for a moment if that’s the real reason for big bro’s altruism…ensuring that his annoying little brother doesn’t infiltrate his sacred friend time.

But I see the fifth grader look behind him as he’s walking to the back of the bus. He’s checking on the kindergartener. He sees him talking with a brand-new set of potential friends. Big brother goes and takes his seat.

The bus driver barks for the other kids to sit. They had started shuffling around when someone new joined their ranks. Satisfied, the driver closes the door, and the big yellow bus heads up the road toward my little guys’ futures.

Little brother is a a bit young for kindergarten. Megan and I have gone back and forth on whether we should wait a year to start the freshly five-year-old in elementary school. We know intellectually he’s ready. We’ll see, in time, if he’s mature enough. We say a little prayer for his teacher.

Later on, little brother told us his favorite part of the day was not having to wear his seat belt on the bus. He beams with his trademark mischievous grin. This somehow perfectly encapsulates our son, and seems downright poetic when I think about it. We’ve let our little boy go on his next big adventure.

We feel like little brother is ready. His parents wonder if they are. Mom seems to struggle a bit to let go of little brother’s hand, dad is nervous to take his guiding hand off the little boy’s shoulders. But at least for this one year when both boys are together at the same school, we know big brother’s got him.

I’ve heard people say they like mundane work.
That, to them, monotony is like meditation.
Sounds like madness to me.

I don’t do well with the mundane.
I find it, well, boring.
I suppose it is kind of built into the meaning of the word.

Anytime I have to do something that requires zero mental stimulation, my mind starts shouting like the Preacher in Ecclesiastes. “Meaningless! Meaningless! This is all Meaningless!”

But, just like the Preacher, I’ve learned that there can be purpose in what seems pointless.
That there can be profound meaning in the mundane.

From my earliest childhood memories, I’ve been good at making connections and assigning meaning. I feel deeply and think emotionally, searching for something more in even the most pedestrian moments. I feel most at home when I’m asking the big questions, more comfortable in the depths than just skimming the surface. Wonder comes as naturally to me as breathing.

One of my wife’s favorite bits of wisdom is to “be where your feet are.”
Sometimes it’s hard to be present when your mind is always on the move.

I’ve made a conscious effort this year to be more mindful, to take care of the more tedious tasks, and, honestly, let my brain get a little bored sometimes. I’ve let myself slow down and have taken my foot off the gas mentally. I’ve spent more time reading, walking, enjoying. I’ve been trying to look up and appreciate the people and things and circumstances that surround me. Even in the midst of stress, I’ve tried to be more centered.

A funny thing has happened. The more I’ve stopped trying to chase what I thought was important, the more important the things right in front of me have proved to be.

Maybe there is meaning in the mundane.
I just need to stop searching long enough to find it.

I’ve never been to Disney World.
They say it’s the most magical place on earth.
I’m sure it’s wonderful.
I think I’d love it.

But even without seeing it for myself,
I don’t think I’m okay with it holding the title.
Because there are two spaces that I think are truly magical.
Parks and Libraries.

I believe parks and libraries are one of the few things we’ve actually gotten right.

Parks and libraries ignite the imagination.
They put books and resources at our fingertips.
They give us a place to connect with nature.

Parks and libraries are free resources.
Available to all at no cost.
Protected for every one of us to enjoy.

Parks and libraries level the playing field.
They provide access and dignity.
They are places where everyone belongs.

If that’s not magic, I don’t know what is.

I love to read books.

Nonfiction. Fiction. Biography. Business. Memoir. Self-Help. You name it.

I like to read in the morning during a walk (a practice becoming more difficult with the beginning of the school year and my inability to peel myself out of bed).

I like to read before I go to bed at night, and I like to read when there’s down time during the day.

My mental health has greatly improved since replacing nightly doom scrolling with a dose of Fredrik Backman, and my nerves much calmer since replacing facebooking with books that talk about the craft of writing.

The biggest winner of all has been my attention span. Which had been so neglected for much of my adult life that it might as well have been on life support.

Filling my time with reading helped me feel lighter.
Which has made hitting the ground feel more like a thud.

Despite my best efforts, the allure of the algorithms come calling. Pulling me into the latest trends or my friends’ most recent updates. Before I know it, I’ve squandered my reading time. Sacrificing my attention span and mental well being on the altar of quick dopamine hits and targeted ad hooks.

Lying in bed or sitting on the couch, I give my sacred reading time back over to scrolling. Feeling a bit heavier with each double tap and swipe. “I really do want to finish my book,” I think to myself before switching over to Instagram to start the process over again, pulling to refresh to see if there’s anything else, other than my book, that I’ve missed.

I haven’t figured out what exactly draws me back in. I don’t know if it’s the dopamine. Or the validation. Or the FOMO. Maybe it’s a little bit of it all.

Maybe the algorithms have figured me out.
Maybe they know me better than I know myself.

“Have you been cranky lately?” My friend Jackie asked as he burst into my office earlier this week. I wasn’t sure if this was a legitimate question or an accusation.

Jack didn’t give me time to answer before he continued his train of thought. We’ve both been on GLP-1 journeys in an attempt to care for ourselves a bit better. “I just have a short fuse. Just ripping into people.” He continued on with theories about needing to eat more protein and drink more water. We concluded that we both use food like a baby’s blanky when we’re stressed.

That evening my boys were bickering with each other. Arguing over something dumb. They weren’t listening to anything I had to say. I was annoyed and went to snap at them like I’ve done way more often lately than I would like to admit. But I stopped myself.

Jackie’s words echoed through my head. I remembered the look that comes across my eldest son’s face whenever I yell. Confusion, some fear, and maybe a bit of judgment. I took a deep breath and addressed the situation in a more mature fatherly way. I was pleased with myself.

Until bedtime.

Same routine as before. Bickering. Not listening. Whining and arguing while simultaneously ignoring me.

“ENOUGH!” erupted out of me.
I’m sure the neighbors heard.
My boys quickly jumped up and fell in line.

Mission accomplished, but at what cost?

Now, I’m not one who thinks it’s a horrible thing to yell sometimes as a parent. Kids do need tough love every now and then. There are times you have to jolt them to get their attention. But, like Jackie, I’ve found myself being a little cranky lately. And my boys often get to experience it even if they were only indirectly in the wrong.

I’ve made it a point to apologize to my boys when I’ve messed up. But I still discipline them, too. I'm not perfect. And it's frustrating that getting healthier is making it harder to be the kind of father my boys need.

So, yes, Jackie. I have been cranky lately.
But I’m doing my best. And trying to do a little better each day.

Hopefully, that’s enough.

I hated salt and vinegar chips as a kid.

I never understood why someone would hate their own tastebuds so much as to want to obliterate them with such a strong flavor. Give me some plain ruffles or a bag of Snyder’s honey bbq any day. But I preferred to keep the chemical cleaner taste out of my mouth.

But, time is a funny thing. And getting older brings all sorts of surprises.

Salt and vinegar chips are my favorite now.

I don’t think too many of us are born loving coffee. Or a good bourbon. Or blue cheese. It’s almost like you have to fight through the taste for a while before your tongue can catch up to the flavor.

There are things I crave as a 40 year old man that would have destroyed a younger version of me:

Honest feedback.
Tough accountability.
Ten minutes alone with my own thoughts.
A hard conversation I’ve been putting off.
Being proven wrong.
The exhaustion after a hard day’s work.
Being told no.
Putting myself out there to try something new.
Reading a book.
Recovering from failure.
Laughing at myself.
Respecting someone else’s boundaries.
Admitting I don’t know.
Learning from my mistakes.

Sometimes, the older you get, the more you realize an acquired taste is often one of the best ones.

I am a big fan of cognitive offloading. It’s the act of using an external tool to reduce the amount of effort my brain has to put in to remember things. Calendars. Lists. Reminders. Bookmarks. Phone contacts. I even think writing has become cognitive offloading for me in a way. With all these ideas, worries, thoughts, and beliefs swirling in my head at a rapid pace, having a place to keep a living version of what I think and value frees up a bit of RAM in my head.

I am, however, a big hater of cognitive surrender. This phrase has become popular as of late in describing people who blindly follow whatever output AI gives them without actually thinking through it critically. The AI’s output becomes their output.

But I don’t really want to talk about AI. I think the hype around artificial intelligence and our insistence on utilizing it in unproductive ways is a symptom of cognitive surrender, not the actual disease.

There are studies that indicate utilizing external tools to hold memory can help us achieve our intentions, that the exercise of storing what we want to remember somewhere else can provide protection from our thoughts running amuck in our brain. Now, listen, I’m not a scholar, or a scientist, or even all that smart. So don’t take my word as fact. I’m just a nerd trying to figure out my life! But the anecdotal and scientific data I can find leads me to believe that external tools can make my ever overworked brain a little more efficient. So, to me, cognitive offloading gets a hearty thumbs up.

But at some point a line exists. I don’t quite know where this line is positioned. Maybe it depends on the type of tasks. But it’s the line where cognitive offloading becomes cognitive surrender. Where we’re no longer using external tools just to help us remember and be more efficient. It’s when we outsource all of our thinking to the machine or the tool. Where we let the tool do our thinking for us. This isn’t just about AI. We’re constantly looking for something, or someone, to hand the keys to our thinking to.

We outsource our worldview to the pundits, to preachers, gurus and philosophies. We look to a chatbot or self-help article to tell us our next steps. We want to fast forward through the thinking and arrive at the conclusion without going through the journey of wrestling with the ideas. We do this with our work and with our lives. Instead of freeing up our RAM, we leave our CPU on idle.

Efficiency is good.
But insight is better.

When we outsource our thinking to tools, we sacrifice our own insight on the altar of efficiency.

No one warns you that getting older is pretty much one little life crisis after another. You wrestle with aging, with death, with purpose, with mattering. We never run out of things to wrestle with. Life is like a Royal Rumble in that way. There’s always something new running into the ring ready to throw us over the top rope.

One of the toughest opponents you face when you age is the narrowing of possibility. When you’re young, life is all potential. But the older you get, your options dwindle. I’ll never get to be an astronaut. Or a weather man. Or an NBA player. Or a Ninja Turtle. All things I once thought I’d be. With any luck, I have a lot of living left to do. But that living won’t be done in space or fighting foot soldiers in the sewers.

I’ve never been one to get too concerned about age. It’s just a number after all. So when I turned 40 last year, I honestly didn’t think much of it. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say that hitting the next decade hasn’t at least nudged me to think about my mortality. How much time I have left. And, yes, have mini anxiety attacks over what I’m going to do…or not be able to do to be more accurate…for the rest of my life.

But a thought hit me one morning. If I live and keep working until I’m 65, I still have more career left in front of me than I do behind me. I’m sure I’ll blink and we’ll have gone over the hill. While one can think about growing older as the narrowing of possibility in their life, I find it more helpful to think of it as a narrowing of focus.

We like to feel in control. We worry about getting bored. We come up with all kinds of reasons for hitting the eject button on some version of ourselves. Getting older feels restrictive, the options dwindle, but it’s a gift too. It makes us spend our time more wisely, focused in on what actually matters.

Maybe it takes a lifetime of wrestling to figure out what you want to be when you grow up.

I’ve long considered myself a reader.
I like to read. I like to go to bookstores. I like buying books.
But, in previous years, I’ve really struggled to read.
So I said I was a reader,
But I think I mostly just like the idea of having read,
I like the thought of being a reader.

I think leadership is similar.
We like to lead. We like the reputation. We like being in charge.
We think we want to be leaders.
But we struggle to actually lead.
I wonder if sometimes we mostly just like the idea of having led,
Maybe we just like the thought of being a leader.

I believe I was born to be a shepherd. Not the actual sheep type of shepherd. I don’t think I have the proper work ethic for farm work.

I believe I was born to be a shepherd in the pastoral sense. A shepherd of people. Sure, involved in a church, my faith requires that. But mostly in the general sense. I find myself most fulfilled when I’m helping others find their way. Not in a bossy way or know-it-all way, but in a caring and guiding sort of way. This, at least for me, is what it means to lead.

There are many ways to lead. We shouldn’t let a silly thing like our personalities stop us from serving others by leading. Leadership is less a trait and more of a posture. You can be a visionary leader, or a tough leader, or a great communicating leader, or a detail-oriented operational leader, or any number of different type of leader. But I believe to my core that a leader must be a servant leader.

Peter was referencing church pastors in these verses. But, if you’re like me and believe that God is the one who created all of this (gesturing generally toward all of this), it only makes sense that the principles He gave for leading His church would be principles applicable to all walks of leadership life.

We don’t have to be leaders. But if we are willing, it means we watch over those we’ve been entrusted to lead. We don’t lead to pursue selfish gain (well, we shouldn’t anyway). We lead to serve. It’s not about bossing people around. It’s about being who people need to get to where they want to be.

Leadership can look many different ways in many different contexts. But leadership is leadership at its core. The basics stay the same whether you’re Ted Lasso or Ted in accounting.

Because no matter where you happen to be leading,
People don’t belong to you.
Your staff isn’t yours.
Your influence isn’t yours.
Leadership is stewardship.
It’s about guiding and providing for the people who trust you.

Wanting to have read isn’t the same as reading.
Wanting to have led isn’t the same as leading.

Many of us have long said we are leaders.
We like to lead. We like the reputation. We like being in charge.
We think we want to be leaders.
But we struggle to actually lead.
Maybe we mostly just like the idea of having led.
Maybe the real question is: do we really want to lead?

People are complicated.
Strange even.

We all have our quirks.
The things that make us tick.
And the things that drive us nuts.
But as odd as people are,
They’re often quite great when you take the time to look.

Some humans are funny,
and some not so much.
Some create.
Some tinker.
Some organize.
Some strategize.
Some are aloof,
and others are always alert.

The things that make people great,
can also be the things that grate on other people’s nerves.
Someone’s spontaneity may be exhilarating,
But it can also be exhausting.
Attention to detail is a gift,
But it can also feel like hell.

Truth is, our greatest strengths and our greatest weaknesses are merely two sides of the same coin. Our kryptonite is often our superpower left unchecked. The best of me is often all tied up with the worst of me. It’s a cruel dance, but the best among us have learned it well.

So when people frustrate us, it’s good to remember,
To experience the best of people,
you have to take the worst of them, too.

Isaac and I have put our tent up in the backyard every year since he started kindergarten. The tent was my Father’s Day gift that year. Our little tradition started out with just me and Ike. He invited a couple of friends the next year and then a few more. Eventually little brother joined us…although this year he decided to sleep inside with mommy right as I stretched out on the air mattress I’m way too old to sleep on.

It’s a simple little ritual. Throw up the tent, get a few games, and provide plenty of snacks. But I hope it becomes one of those big bedrock type memories my boys carry with them into adulthood. The memory of their dad and their mom taking the time for the little things.

With any luck, they'll one day realize these little things really are the big things.

As the campout has grown, dad’s role has shrunk. It was just a boy and his father our first year. Then I became the activity mastermind, there to keep the little minds entertained for a few iterations. Now I mostly just get popcorn and yell to shut the door or zip up the tent when they go in and out. Time is such a funny thing.

I guess that’s parenting, though. The little devils will drive you mad. You’re all they need in the world when they start out. Then, slowly, other people begin to matter more in this particular moment. And while I still have a few (hopefully) good years left before mine start out on their own, you definitely start to feel the shift. Subtly at first, but then more and more. I suppose you’re still always there as an anchor, always a beacon toward home. But they venture a little farther out as each year ticks by.

I try to think about what I needed when I was my boys’ age. What I thought I needed back then, and what I believe I really did need with the benefit of hindsight. It’s all I know to do. I don’t think many of us parents feel like we know what the heck we’re doing.

When I was my boys’ age, I think I just needed to know that someone was in my corner. That there was someone I could rely on. That no matter what happened, there’d be someone there to catch me if I fell.

I didn’t need grand. I didn’t need over the top. I didn’t need anything showy. I just needed someone that I always knew loved me, that I always knew would show up for me. Someone consistent. Someone steady. For me it was my grandfather. I’m grateful that my boys have a whole list of people they can lean on. I will make for damn sure that I am counted among them.

So, as tempted as I was to slip into my activity director mode with the boys at this year’s campout, I stepped back. I let Ike do his thing…and barked at Ian when he would sabotage the big boys’ games because they weren’t doing what he wanted to do.

They used to need me to make the fun happen. And now I’m just there to make the space so they can bring their own fun. I stood back instead and watched my boys be kids with some of their buddies. And I let them know I was there if they needed anything.

I hope they always know I’ll be there.