We were driving the winding mountain road between his school and home when my son said the words I’ve been both dreaming and dreading since I first held him in my arms.

“When I’m a grown-up, I want to be just like you.”

I used to imagine him saying those words. I thought I’d feel proud. Instead, I felt hollow.

The day he was born was the happiest day of my life. It was the realization of a lifelong dream. It was, in its way, a signal that I’d “made it.” I had married a wonderful woman. I was making money. I owned a home. And now, I was a father.

Four years later, navigating those mountain road curves, my life trajectory had reversed. A combination of bad luck and poor decisions left me unemployed. Months of sending resumés, sweating through interviews, and standing in line at job fairs have sucked the pride from me and left me grasping for strategies to maintain strength and resolve. I’ve recognized that while I was doing well four years ago, I’d arrived there without a map—following winding whims, just as I had done my whole life.

In elementary school, bullied and tormented for my awkwardness and disability, I wanted a work uniform and boots just like my dad’s. In high school, I mimicked the popular kids in hopes they’d accept me. I managed to fit in, barely, but I was so focused on being “cool” that my grades suffered. In college, I tried to project an air of mystique. In public, I quoted Kerouac and grew long hair and a goatee to try to look like Johnny Depp. In private, my undiagnosed mental health issues unraveled me. Desperate for acceptance, I had spent most of my life mimicking others instead of becoming myself. I didn’t see anything about me worth amplifying. Only failures.

It took nearly a decade of slow growth for me to become the version of me that my wife met and married. And even that was barely a rough draft. Still aimless. Still, deep down, I was unconvinced that I was anything more than a failure in a mask.

The day my son was born, I felt a first hint of an identity I could be proud of. I was a dad. But since then, anytime I recognized anything of myself in him, I panicked. Because I couldn’t see myself in his smile or his goofiness or his sweetness. I saw myself in the inattention, the whining, the craving for coddling over independence.

As we rounded the last big curve toward our house, I glanced in the rearview mirror. He looked back at me with his beautiful blue eyes and smiled.

“I love you, buddy.”

“I love you, too, Daddy! Soooooo much!”

As sometimes happens, this jolt of realization hit me: I’m thinking about this all wrong. When he says he wants to be just like me, he doesn’t know all of the failures. He doesn’t know how I got here. He knows what he sees. He’s mostly oblivious to the parts of me I’m ashamed of. Looking back at me in that mirror, he sees the man who pushes him on the swing, kisses his boo boos when he falls, reads him bedtime stories, and lies with him until he falls asleep.

And then another jolt: I have to remember that for every failure, there was a resurgence. I’ll never be done failing, but I’m done navigating whims. I have direction now, and I can move forward with intention. I must rebuild myself from the ground up. The void inside me that I used to fill with borrowed identities can now be filled with patience, courage, and honesty. It’s time not just to model, but to become the kind of person I want my children to be, so I can help them navigate life’s curves with confidence and get back up when they fall. And I can give them something I never had—a map to find who they are.

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“Sit right in your chair or you’re gonna fall.”

This refrain played on repeat at our dinner table for weeks. My perpetually distracted four-year-old couldn’t stay still—wiggling, leaning back, even sitting backward once or twice. Then one night, mid-wiggle, he was gone.

KERPLUNK. Then came the scream—more surprise than pain, but it couldn’t have felt good.

My wife helped him up. “Are you okay?”

Through sniffles: “Yeah.”

“We told you to sit right,” she said after a hug. Then, cupping his cheeks: “What did we learn?”

This is an idealized moment, but it’s exactly the kind of parenting we aim for. We practice gentle parenting — a term I’ve used before — but lately I’ve been watching a new label gain traction: F* Around And Find Out (FAFO) Parenting.

A recent viral Wall Street Journal piece explains it like this:

“FAFO is based on the idea that parents can ask and warn, but if a child breaks the rules, mom and dad aren’t standing in the way of the repercussions.”

It lists examples like letting your kid walk home in the rain if they don’t want to wear a coat and throwing away their dinner if they don’t want to eat. It’s easy to see how this could go viral.

I see two reasons it’s catching on:

1. Flashy branding.

2. The promise of instant gratification—consequences that happen now, not later.

And I get the appeal, especially for parents of older kids. My oldest is four and a half. We haven’t been at this long, but even we’re exhausted by the constant stream of conflicting advice. Our son has gotten better at resisting rules, and our almost-two-year-old daughter’s independence and stubbornness have tested us in new ways.

So for parents of tweens or teens, FAFO parenting feels like an oasis in a desert of trial and error.

Parenting writer recently summed up the frustration:

“I’ve never been able to get into the gentle parenting, Dr. Becky of it all. Maybe it works for some people, but not for my family. I am all about understanding and validating emotions and feelings, but I also think kids need consequences, time-outs, sometimes bribery, and some yelling. I’ve talked to so many parents who have told me the Dr. Becky and gentle parenting approaches have made them feel like failures, and that sucks.”

It’s a fair critique. Gentle parenting does use natural consequences, but they’re not always immediate—like the chair example—and that delay can feel unsatisfying in the heat of the moment.

But some FAFO counterexamples in the WSJ piece are more unsettling than instructive. One parent describes throwing her 13-year-old into a pond, clothes and all, after he kept squirting her with a water gun.

The article closes with another parent suggesting that biting a child back is an appropriate response to biting.

These moments come from a basic parenting impulse: teaching lessons that land. But for me, they cross from letting reality teach into creating reality to make a point.

And science doesn’t back them up.

Child psychologist , in a rebuttal, acknowledged that FAFO’s core idea has merit — but warned that these examples conflict with decades of research:

“Research has consistently shown that physical discipline is always counterproductive since children simply learn that aggression is a way to solve problems.”

In our house, we don’t believe in physical discipline. But that doesn’t mean we let our kids do whatever they want. Gentle parenting is highly criticized due to a misunderstanding of what it is. It’s betrayed by the word gentle. That word, in some parents’ eyes, might equate it with “never say no, participation trophy, snowflake” culture that’s been demonized for decades. But that’s not what it is. Anyone familiar with my work knows that my wife and I pride ourselves on teaching our kids to deal with failure and build resilience. And this isn’t in tension with gentle parenting. The entire philosophy is built on a foundation of boundaries. Author —widely credited with popularizing gentle parenting—sums it up this way (emphasis mine):

“Gentle Parenting is not permissive parenting. Children do not always ‘get their own way’. Parents do not say ‘yes’ all of the time, because they are scared of the upset if they say ‘no’. In fact, often they can be more strict, with more boundaries in place than others ... There is no point in having boundaries if you do not consistently enforce them. These limits give children a sense of security, and they are vital. ”

I don’t know if we have more boundaries in place than others, but my wife and I do enforce the ones we have. We do this through the natural consequences in the chair example, but also through things like giving our children guided choices (“Do you want to turn the TV off now or in five minutes?”), redirection (“How about we do this instead?”), logical consequences (“You make a mess, you clean it up”), and sometimes even time-outs. My wife calls our version of time-out “time-ins” because instead of sending them to their rooms alone, one of us goes with them and discusses the problem. We want our kids to know they’re heard, if not understood. And we want to help them understand their actions.

These don’t always work. Nothing in parenting is perfect, and we’re adapting and evolving our strategy as our kids age. A parent of a 15-year-old might think we have it easy.

But one thing we’ll never abandon is one thing that descriptions of FAFO seem to lack: acknowledgment and recognition of emotions.

“Although consequences may be helpful, parents should never neglect emotional coaching and connection,” Goodwin writes. “Talking about and supporting your child’s emotions has so many benefits, including improving children’s emotion regulation and behavior.”

And yes, it’s exhausting. FAFO plays to that exhaustion—it’s the quick hit, the shortcut. But do we want to take shortcuts with our kids?

FAFO has caught fire on the internet because it sounds freeing. Parents often feel caught in this torture chamber of feeling like they need to be perfect. FAFO doesn’t only permit imperfection, it advocates for it. And that’s appealing. But, as I say over and over: Perfection isn’t possible. You will fail. But you can recover. The key is fostering healthy connections. Repair. Let your kids know that you screw up, too, and show them how you recover.

I’d be so happy if I one day lost it and yelled at my kid, and in the midst of my apology, he cupped my face in his hands and said, “What did we learn?”

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"But the fireflies will be sad!"

I had just told my son it was time to come in and get ready for bed. He had spent the first 30 minutes of twilight running through our backyard chasing fireflies. His goal was to have them land on his hand, blink, and then move on. No jars here. Just gentle hands. Unlike me at his age, to my son, fireflies aren't trophies. They're friends. And now he was afraid of letting his friends down.

"I know, buddy. But they'll be okay, and you'll be back tomorrow."

Rather than allowing myself to be present and attentive to my son's quest for glowing compadres, I'd spent the time still dealing with leftover guilt from a breakfast fight with him the previous morning. My son had long moved on, but I couldn't shake the nagging sense that I should have done better. I was still so far from the dad I wanted to be.

As we climbed the deck stairs to re-enter the house, my son noticed a firefly hovering around his shoulder.

"Look! He's following us!"

It flew just ahead of us and hovered around the door, then back toward my son as I tried to usher him in.

"He wants to come in! Come on, friend! Daddy, can he stay in my room?"

"I don't think the firefly wants to sleep in your room. His family is out here."

As it usually does, it took some doing to get him settled down for bed. My annoyance showed, but I did my best to keep it at bay as I opened Silly Sally, our current storytime obsession.

"Silly Sally went to town, walking backw-"

"DADDY! HE'S HERE!"

"Buddy, don't interrupt. Who's here?"

"My firefly friend! He came to my room!"

My son was gazing with wonder at the far wall, but I didn't see it. I tried to keep my annoyance at bay by reminding myself he's four. His perspective is that the universe revolves around him. Of course, the firefly would follow him in. He's the lead in this movie.

I let it go and continued reading the book.

Later, after the book was shut and my son's head finally hit the pillow, I waited for him to fall asleep and tried to remember a time when I felt at the center of the universe. I guess we all do, from time to time, but more and more as we get older, many of us start to feel expendable to the grand scheme, especially in circumstances like those I currently find myself in, where things haven't exactly gone as I'd hoped.

Whenever I head down this line of thinking, I tend to retreat. But this time, something in me made me sit with it. And after the initial storm of self-loathing passed, my perspective shifted. I began a debate with myself, the thesis of which I'll present here.

Whether your beliefs lean spiritual, scientific, or at some point on the spectrum between the two, you can't deny that—as Wendell Berry said— "we live within an order and this order is both greater and more intricate than we can know."

Whether intentional or not, a denial of your identity is a disruption of this order. I've written before on Sympathia—the interconnectedness of the universe. In this culture, it's easy to feel disconnected. Individualist culture breeds a sense that we need to bring worthiness to our existence. We must compete for our place in the world. Collaboration shows weakness. However, after years of fighting, you may not feel like you’ve made progress—or worse, like you’ve fallen behind. If you're anything like me, you grew up believing you were the central character in your own story, and now that you're grown, you've lost the plot.

You don't feel the sense of importance you thought you would or you once did. But just because you don't feel it doesn't mean it isn't there.

You opened your eyes today. More importantly, at least one other human opened their eyes today, and it's your job to make sure it happens again tomorrow. You might feel unworthy of that role and many others you're playing each day, but your very existence within the roles you play is proof of your worthiness. The reason you haven't understood this before is that you were correct in thinking a story was playing out, but you were mistaken in thinking the story is about you. You are but an extra—at best, a supporting actor. Our culture of social media curation and manufactured longing has caused even the most confident among us to experience some sense of self-doubt and self-hatred.

This is especially true for dads, often cast in the role of the sidekick—the Robin to Mom's Batman. Culture places us on a conveyor belt toward a self-fulfilling prophecy. It's so easy to feel like there's no point in trying to do better because Mom is the best.

But if we can turn off the fire hose for a bit and take a moment to make friends with the person we are, our life's script—the one we might've considered long lost—will once again start to write itself. We will understand our role not from a frame of self-importance, but from one of communal essentialism. An effective parenting partnership never consists of two Michael Jordans both calling for the ball as the clock ticks to zero. Good parenting happens when—excuse the continued 90s Chicago Bulls metaphor—Tony Kukoc meets Horace Grant and both can roleplay their way to the title. To be our best selves, we must be prepared to play whatever role we're given. To borrow another line from Wendell Berry, "We live the given life, and not the planned."

I pulled myself out of my Bulls-themed existentialist trance and noticed my son had finally fallen asleep. As I dimmed his lamp and turned to sneak out of the room, I saw a bright light out of the corner of my eye. Sure enough, there was a firefly in the room with us the whole time. As I left the room, I thought my four-year-old and this firefly might understand their roles in the universe in a way I've long forgotten. And perhaps we'd all be better off if we tried to recapture it—not in a jar, but with gentle hands.

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"I want cheese and jam on toast!"

It was 8:30 p.m. My four-year-old was tucked into bed, and I lay next to him with a copy of Mini-Bluey, the picture book based on the Bluey episode, open to the first page.

In the book, Bandit was making breakfast for his kids. He had just told Bluey hers was ready—cheese and jam on toast. My son, of course, decided I should make it immediately.

As a compromise, I offered to make it for him the next morning.

Before the story gets messy, I should address the elephant on the page:

I haven't written for two months. I've spent that time focused on staying afloat. The past seven months have been brutal. Managing depression, ADHD, and BPD while navigating life as a disabled parent of two toddlers would be enough. But add persistent financial stress and the weight of a world on edge, and things get heavy fast.

My family's metaphorical boat has been taking on water for the better part of a year. When I stopped writing, it was because I felt like we were stranded in a canoe in the middle of the ocean, and the bottom sprung a leak. As the leak grew, this newsletter became a bucket I was using to try to throw the water out, rather than find a way to patch the hole.

That's where I was on April 23, the day I last published a newsletter. Although things are better now, there is still considerable work to be done. The hole isn't fully repaired. But I decided it was time to start writing again when I recently re-read something I wrote back in early April:

I have to build what I've never had: structure—anchors and guideposts to keep me from drifting. I have to establish and maintain effective routines. I have to exercise, eat right, meditate, and sleep enough. And I have to keep writing. Well, I don't have to. In fact, you'd think it would make the rest harder. Sometimes, it does. But it's also essential.

That passage stings. Less than three weeks after it was published, my routines, structure, and regular writing rituals had all gone away. The truth is, I've never lacked self-awareness. What I struggle with is self-discipline, which takes me back to the toast.

I woke my son up at 6 a.m. and told him his breakfast was ready. He got up without a word and headed for the kitchen. When we got there, he stared at the perfectly toasted slice of ciabatta topped with melted cheddar and strawberry jam.

"What is this?"

"It's cheese and jam on toast."

"I want soup."

"I don't think you'd like soup with this. It's not grilled cheese. Just take a bite."

"I want SOOOOUUUUUUP!"

I'm not sure why I expected more from a four-year-old. He had no idea what cheese and jam on toast was. For some reason, I sometimes find myself applying mature logic to my kids and fighting their natural, illogical tendencies. But here I was, before sunrise, already locked in a battle against something I couldn't defeat.

I won't give a beat-by-beat recap, but for the rest of the morning, there was yelling, slamming doors, and my fight with my son carried over to a battle with my wife.

And then, they were gone. She took the kids to daycare and went to work without saying goodbye. It was my worst morning as a dad. The leak I'd spent two months tending to—and nearly sealed—was now gushing more than ever before.

I spent the day in a daze. I cried. I fought the urge to go pick him up from daycare and wrap him in a huge hug.

Better sense prevailed, and in the meantime, I recommitted to controlling my reactions instead of trying to control my son. The overwhelm of the past seven months has left me feeling trapped. I needed to regain my freedom.

Later, when my son was home, he'd already forgiven me. We went outside, and I got on his level. Looking into his eyes—those shining blue eyes, barely touched by the pain of the world—I wondered why it was so hard to recognize my mistake in the moment. But now wasn't the time to dwell. It was time to repair.

"Buddy, I am so sorry for the way I acted this morning. I love you so much. I should never treat you that way."

"And I'm sorry for yelling at you."

I explained that he didn't need to be sorry. I was the grown-up. He was still learning to control his emotions. I'm supposed to be the one who models that control.

"Daddy, I just love you. When you get mad, it hurts my heart."

Choked up, I struggled a bit to reply.

"It hurts my heart, too, buddy. I'm gonna do better for you."

I asked him for a hug. Then he took my hand and we walked through our garden.

As I immersed myself in the moment, watching my son amble among the trees and flowers, I remembered a very relevant quote: "Freedom has its life in the hearts, the actions, the spirit of men and so it must be daily earned and refreshed," Dwight Eisenhower said, "else like a flower cut from its life-giving roots, it will wither and die. Freedom is the opportunity for self-discipline."

I didn't find redemption in that moment. Just relief. A glimpse of the dad I want to be, holding hands with the boy I'm trying not to fail. Eisenhower was right—freedom isn't given, it's a responsibility. And if I want to be free from this pressure that sometimes feels crushing, all I can do is keep showing up, day after day. I'll fail again. But if discipline is a daily act of love, then I'll keep it up as best I can—for him, for me, for us.

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The Book, the Hook, and the Boy: Part II

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The tick became almost audible when my wife closed the book, and my son fell asleep.

I sat in my son's room on the glider rocker—anxiety growing—as my wife and son lay in bed. My wife had just finished Chapter 12 of Peter Pan. Captain Hook and his pirates ambushed the Piccaninny tribe as they guarded the Lost Boys' underground hideout. After massacring the Piccanniny, Hook orders Smee to bang the tribe's victory tom-tom, luring the Lost Boys out under the assumption the Piccaninny had won.

Hook had spent the entire book obsessed with "good form," but time was ticking. The croc was closing in. The pirate was desperate.

As I thought about Hook's degenerative state, it took me back to my own history with the Peter Pan story and how much I've changed. I've known of Peter Pan for as long as I can remember. My grandma made me watch the Mary Martin musical version when I was five. I had a passing familiarity with the Disney film. I became a fan in 1991 when I was seven. I sat in the theater, entranced by Robin Williams in Hook. I was immediately obsessed. So many kids idolized Rufio, but I was a Pan fan—even though Williams doesn't become Peter Pan until an hour, 40 minutes, and 26 seconds into the film.

As I always did, I took my obsession to the max. I begged my mom to buy the VHS when it came out. I watched it incessantly, forcing the kids at my mom's in-home daycare to watch it with me. Then I would put on a camo t-shirt and green pants, and the other kids would follow me to our backyard, where a row of trees next to the road was the Lost Boys' hideout and the picnic table was the Jolly Roger. We spent the whole summer of 1992 immersed in Neverland. I had Hook toys and even Hook bedsheets. I slept on illustrations of Pan, Hook, Rufio, and Thud Butt until I was 12.

Now, I'm 40. I realize now that I still identify with Robin Williams' character, but the version from the first hour and 40 minutes. The version of Peter that became a pirate. Not because I hate that my kids act like kids, or that I'm obsessed with work like Peter Banning, but because—like Peter Banning—I've lost the ability to play like I used to.

I have cerebral palsy diplegia. It limits flexibility and range of motion in my legs. Thanks to innovative surgeries, my legs weren't as limited as a kid. I walked with a pronounced gait, but I could run and jump. Not nearly as well as other kids, but I could.

As an adult, I can't run or jump, in part because I lack the discipline to keep up with stretching and exercise. I can't chase my son and can barely keep up with my daughter, who learned to walk a few months ago.

Outside, it's harder. I spend most of it sitting on the deck, watching my son run with the dog, or standing still, pushing my daughter on the swing.

And like Hook, I feel the clock ticking. Instead of a crocodile, the clock lives inside my head. It's not a metaphor for the inevitability of death. It's a metaphor for the inevitable loss of mobility if I stay on my current path. I've been aware of this for a while. I've spent most of my adult life forming structures—lists and routines to keep myself moving. I've created a detailed map of ways to preserve the little mobility I have left or perhaps even gain more. Promises to myself, and now to my family, that I haven't been able to keep.

Chapter 12 of Peter Pan hit hard because I saw myself in Captain Hook. Despite his evil, ruthless nature, Hook held on to one rule: good form. In chapter 12, his desperation to finally defeat Peter caused an unraveling. His downfall was believing he could break this rule and still survive.

The difference, of course, is that while I had my own version of "good form"—routines, structure, a path to better health—I haven't followed it. I wasn't giving anything up. I was refusing to live it in the first place. But like Hook, I believed I could still survive on some level. And like Hook, the fear that haunts me is the clock running down.

There's still time. Like Peter Banning, I can reclaim my childhood, at least in part. I may never run again, but I don't have to lose my ability to walk. I don't have to struggle getting down on the floor or back up. I don't have to sit on the deck.

The first step is to accept my limitations and realize I'll never reclaim the days when I stood on my picnic table in my camo shirt, fighting Hook. If anything, I'll still play the role of Hook—not in real life, running from the clock, but in my son's imagination, inside his own Neverland, as he finds his inner Peter Pan.

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Paternal Progress participates in the Bookshop.org affiliate program. When you buy books through the links in this newsletter, I may earn a small commission—at no extra cost to you. I only recommend titles I believe can support your growth as a parent. For more, see my Sponsorship & Affiliate Policy or explore the full list on the Bookshelf. Thank you for supporting my work and local bookstores.

The Book, the Hook, and the Boy: Part I

My son held a pink clothes hanger and a Christmas kaleidoscope—accessories for a world only he could see. My wife held a book—a window to a world she couldn't wait to show him.

They lay next to each other in bed, both full of excitement.

"Peter was not quite like other boys; but he was afraid at last," she read as she neared the end of chapter eight of Peter Pan. "A tremor ran through him, like a shudder passing over the sea; but on the sea one shudder follows another till there are hundreds of them, and Peter felt just the one. Next moment he was standing erect on the rock again, with that smile on his face and a drum beating within him. It was saying, 'To die will be an awfully big adventure.'"

The gravity of the cliffhanger didn't quite register with my son. He's only four, after all. He had found his way into Peter Pan through "Jake and the Neverland Pirates," the Disney Junior take on J.M. Barrie's magnum opus. My wife jumped at the opportunity to fully immerse my son in Pan. She pulled her special copy of Pan from the bookshelf—the MinaLima illustrated edition with interactive elements. My wife let out an audible gasp and a shrill-but-quiet "no, no, no," when my son ripped the fold-out map of Neverland, but he loved it.

Even with the torn map, she kept reading. As I listened to her, I could hear in her voice the reverence of someone who's been reading a story their entire life—because she has.

She guesses she was about seven when she was first introduced to the Peter Pan story through her dad.

She can't remember if it was the play or the book first. All she knows for sure is her gateway to Pan wasn't the 1953 Disney film, as it is for so many. She insists she read the book before she saw any screen adaptation, falling in love with the character and the story as J.M. Barrie wrote it.

Since then, she's been more than a fan.

Once, during a short layover in London, she convinced her mom to go with her to Kensington Gardens to experience the place where Barrie created the myth and where the famous statue of Peter Pan stands today. And on her only trip to Mickey's Not-So-Scary Halloween at Disney World's Magic Kingdom, with innumerable costumes to choose from, she couldn't bring herself to dress as anyone else but Pan.

She has Pan shirts, trinkets, decorations, and a Pan coffee mug. When I met her, she wore a necklace with an acorn charm—a reference to the "kiss" Peter Pan gives Wendy in the story.

I've known she loved Peter Pan from the moment we met, but these past two weeks are the first time I've experienced the story alongside her and seen it for what it is to her.

It's not just nostalgia. She doesn't love Peter Pan because it reminds her of being a child—she loves it because it makes childhood feel sacred. As she reads, her relationship with the story almost seems to change in real-time. Watching her read the story to my son is like seeing her passing on a sort of family inheritance. Something she enjoyed with her father, and now her son enjoys with her, like Wendy passing stories on to her own Lost Boy. Where she used to feel longing for her own childhood to never end, now she yearns for our son to stay young, curious, and imaginative for as long as possible.

As parents, it’s easy to miss how quickly our kids grow. It's a beautiful escape to imagine a land where childhood lives forever. And while our son lives in that world now, we know he won't forever.

As my wife and I feel our son's childhood ticking away, I find myself drawn to a character I never thought I'd relate to—Hook, forever pursued by the tick of his own clock. Not because I fear death, but because I fear losing the ability to move, to chase them through the grass, lift and carry them, to be physically part of my children's world. That clock doesn't just chase Hook. It chases me, too.

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Paternal Progress participates in the Bookshop.org affiliate program. When you buy books through the links in this newsletter, I may earn a small commission—at no extra cost to you. I only recommend titles I believe can support your growth as a parent. For more, see my Sponsorship & Affiliate Policy or explore the full list on the Bookshelf. Thank you for supporting my work and local bookstores.

It’s easy to say “mistakes are how we learn.”

It’s harder to live that truth when our pride’s on the line.

When something goes wrong, many of us default to deflection, distraction, or defeat. But in those moments, our children are watching—and learning.

They need to see that trying again isn’t something to fear. That failure doesn’t mean the story’s over.

As Jessica Lahey writes in The Gift of Failure:

“When your kids see you stretch yourself, even if you fail in the process, they will be more likely to stretch themselves. Better yet, let them see you continue to stretch yourself after you fail so they will understand that failing at a task does not mean that the person is a failure.”

Our kids learn persistence from how we behave when things fall apart. They learn resilience by watching us keep going. They learn courage by watching us stretch.

So when you stumble—don’t hide it. Try again.

Let them see the whole story.

Your attention is a signal.

They'll learn to look for flaws if you always point out what’s wrong.
If you stop to appreciate beauty, effort, or kindness, they’ll learn that those things matter.

You don’t have to fake positivity. You have to be intentional about what you let your kids see you value.

In The Danish Way of Parenting, authors Jessica Joelle Alexander and Iben Sanahl call this reframing—shaping how kids interpret the world by showing them what’s worth focusing on.

“The language we use is extremely powerful. It is the frame through which we perceive and describe ourselves and our picture of the world,” they write. “All change involves a change in language. A problem is only a problem if it is referred to as a problem.”

One of my favorite children’s books, What Do You Do With a Problem?, expresses this idea in a kid-friendly way.

“When I got face-to-face with it, I discovered something,” the narrator says. “My problem wasn’t what I thought it was. I discovered it had something beautiful inside. My problem held an opportunity!”

If we constantly comment on their messes, flaws, and fumbles, they will learn that those are the things that matter.

If we instead use those moments to validate their efforts and teach them how to improve, we will also help them become more confident and resilient.

What you notice becomes their mirror. Choose your reflections wisely.

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The legendary coach John Wooden’s favorite poem is one every father should hang on the wall. It begins:

It’s called “A Little Fellow Follows Me,” and it captures one of our deepest responsibilities as dads: modeling the kind of person we hope our children become.

I’ve shared before how hard this is for me, but awareness matters. As Kristen Race explains in Mindful Parenting, mirror neurons in our children’s brains reflect the emotions they see in us. Even our internal reactions can leave a mark.

The Stoics taught that while we can’t control what happens—or even our emotions—we can always choose how we respond. That choice, repeated daily, shapes who our children become.

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Paternal Progress participates in the Bookshop.org affiliate program. When you buy books through the links in this newsletter, I may earn a small commission—at no extra cost to you. I only recommend titles I believe can support your growth as a parent. For more, see my Sponsorship & Affiliate Policy or explore the full list on the Bookshelf. Thank you for supporting my work and local bookstores.

It happens to us all.

We’ve had a tough day at work. Money is tight and bills are due. A fight with your partner, the car is acting up, or even something as simple as a headache.

Any number of things might cause us to lose patience with our kids. Everyone does it. Inside every parenting book, you’ll find at least one confession from the author—usually a parenting “expert”—that they, too, yell at their kids occasionally.

Each time we lose our patience, we risk losing our children’s trust. But the good news is, if we do blow up, all is not lost. As Dr. Becky Kennedy outlines in her book Good Inside, the key is repair.

“Our parenting doesn’t have to be defined by our moments of struggle,” she writes. “It should be defined by whether or not we connect with our kids after the struggle, and whether we explore how those moments felt to them and work to repair the rupture in the relationship.”

It’s never too early—or too late—to repair a strain in our relationship with our children. Apologize, explain, and reconnect. You will falter, but you don’t have to fail. A father’s patience is tested daily. A child’s trust is built the same way.

Don’t lose trust. Repair.

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Paternal Progress participates in the Bookshop.org affiliate program. When you buy books through the links in this newsletter, I may earn a small commission—at no extra cost to you. I only recommend titles I believe can support your growth as a parent. For more, see my Sponsorship & Affiliate Policy or explore the full list on the Bookshelf. Thank you for supporting my work and local bookstores.

Happy Sunday, Progressors!

(That’s you—the one who opened this email or clicked the link. You showed up, and in doing so, you became a Progressor.)

It’s been a big week for this little newsletter. Paternal Progress debuted at #28 on Substack’s “Rising” list in Parenting, and for the first time, a post crossed 100 views—now approaching 350 as of this writing. It's a small number, but I’m stunned. I’m grateful. It wouldn't have been possible without you.

Let’s take a look at the week in full.

(Before you go, check out some big news about upcoming content below.)

This Week's Posts

A roundup of everything published to the site in the past week

My Work

Monday

Wednesday

Friday

This week, I tried a new experiment: cross-posting great writing from some of my favorite fellow Substack parenting writers. Thanks to everyone who gave permission for me to share their work on Paternal Progress. I think the experiment went well, and I’ll likely continue it.

Shared From Others

Tuesday
The Childcare Crisis No One Prepared You For
by

Thursday
The One About Post-pandemic Parenting
by

Saturday
When Fear Sounds Like Love
by

Weekly Recommendation

Something I read, watched, pondered, or prayed on that helped me make a little progress this week.

This morning, Gareth at posted the latest edition of his fantastic Dear Dad series. This edition brings us a letter from of to his younger, pre-dad self, and it’s well worth a read.

You’ll learn that being a dad isn’t about how much you get done or how perfectly you balance it all. It’s about presence. About patience. About choosing to show up again and again, even when you feel like you have nothing left to give.

And you’ll learn, slowly, over time, that you are not failing.

Be sure to check out The Screen Free Dad and , hit subscribe, and drop them a line to let them know I sent you.

One more thing...

A preview or parting thought to carry you into the coming week.

Now, for the news

Next week, I'll take a break from the usual Monday/Wednesday/Friday essays to focus on something special I've been building for a while. It'll be in the same vein as the personal reflections you've read here before, sprinkled with a little pixie dust.

It's ambitious, and it needs my full attention.

But I'm not going dark.

This coming week, I'll publish a short Paternal Precept daily. These bite-sized reflections are built for quick hits of clarity, intention, and encouragement. Think of them as a daily breath in the chaos.

So, no essays. Just one sharp sentence a day to carry into your parenting life. But stay tuned for the big project, April 21–25.

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Lately, our mornings have felt too peaceful.

I make my morning coffee. I pour my son some juice in a coffee mug. My wife, daughter, son, and I step outside to breathe in the spring air. It's become part of our morning routine. We dress the kids, prepare them for the day, and then spend a few minutes enjoying our backyard. And it feels… unsettling.

As we sit, insulated in our fenced-in yard, the world around us feels like it’s on fire.

An escalating trade war. Civil liberties are under attack. People are being imprisoned for what they say—or who they are.

Meanwhile, we drink coffee. We listen to the birds. We watch the sun peek over the mountains and observe the carpenter bees floating between the flowers. Then, we move on with our day.

In the current climate, it's easy to wonder if carrying on as though nothing is wrong is an ethical choice. If we let the anxiety set in, it isn't hard to spiral into despair. Can't we do more? As fathers, we want to protect our families and—if we're truly virtuous—our communities. Is it wrong to just live our lives and go through our routines as if we're nothing more than carpenter bees?

Carpenter bees are oblivious to human affairs. Like most wild creatures, they live despite us. They eat, nest, reproduce, and repeat.

In the process, they inconvenience us, burrow into wood, and damage our property. Unlike honeybees, they don't gather nectar to make honey or serve a hive. They do it just to feed themselves. They seem selfish and destructive. But that’s only our perspective—what they take from us, not what they give to the world.

As it happens, carpenter bees are extremely efficient pollinators, more so in many cases than the honeybee. They fill in the gaps when other bee populations decline. Though they appear useless, destructive, and selfish, they play a vital role in the ecosystem. Of course, they are ignorant of their broader impact. They're just doing what's necessary to survive—because that's what living things do.

And that's what we're doing, too. It may not feel like activism, but we serve a broader purpose by caring for ourselves and our children.

The ancient Stoics had a word for this: Sympatheia. It’s the belief that everything in nature is interconnected and that our actions, however small, contribute to the whole. It reminds us to focus on what we can control—and let go of what we can’t.

So, while we should absolutely remain engaged and informed, we can't let our emotions stand in the way of our duties as parents, partners, and people. That's not turning a blind eye. That's acknowledging the world's brokenness while refusing to be broken by it.

So, I'll wake up tomorrow morning, make coffee, pour my son some juice, and breathe in the spring air. The carpenter bees will buzz and tend to what's theirs. And we'll tend to what is ours—because that's what living things do.

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It looked like the post-apocalyptic aftermath of the fast food wars.

McDonald's bags, Taco Bell wrappers, and Domino's Pizza boxes blanketed the ground. A black cat emerged from the corner with a KFC chicken bone in its teeth.

But this wasn't a barren hellscape at the end of humanity. It was my apartment a year before I met my wife.

Almost a decade later, my choices in home decor have improved, but inside, it still feels like I’m navigating fog.

And that fog isn’t just distraction. It’s clinical. I’ve been diagnosed with severe depression, ADHD, anxiety, and Borderline Personality Disorder. The combo makes emotional regulation and basic discipline feel impossible to manage on some days. I wasn’t medicated back then. I’d tried, but the ADHD meds dropped my weight from 145 to barely over 120. I stopped taking them because, well, it’s hard enough to barely function without looking like a skeleton doing it.

I’m on meds again now. But surviving the gauntlet takes a hell of a lot more than a prescription.

My brain resists structure. I talk too much. I drift mid-sentence. I answer my wife before I’ve even heard the question. My ego needs applause before it does the dishes. Emotional regulation and discipline don't come naturally. They don’t show up on command. It’s only after a long, stubborn fight that they show up at all.

And yet here I am, raising kids. Strangely, with them, I’m not the same wreck. I’m calmer. More present. More understanding. Somehow, it's easier to do for them than it’s ever been to do for myself. Of course, they’re four and one. As they age, it’ll be harder to stay regulated. So I have to do the work.

I have to build what I’ve never had: structure—anchors and guideposts to keep me from drifting. I have to establish and maintain effective routines. I have to exercise, eat right, meditate, and sleep enough. And I have to keep writing. Well, I don’t have to. In fact, you'd think it would make the rest harder. Sometimes, it does. But it’s also essential.

Since I started this newsletter two months ago, I’ve done more parenting research than I did in the prior four years of my parenting life. I've learned how to validate emotions, repair connections, and foster motivation. Most of it focuses on the external side of parenting—the part where you interact with your kid. And while many of the books mention "modeling" the behavior you want to see, few—if any—acknowledge how hard that can be for those of us still learning to function.

I’ll never use my mental health issues to excuse failure—especially not in parenting—but pretending they don’t make everything harder is a lie. I’ve cried more times than I can count, questioning whether I have what it takes to help guide my kids to a better life than the one I’ve lived. My parents did their best. But I’m only now, at 40, beginning to understand the internal walls I need to break down to get where I want to go.

Meanwhile, I’m filling the gaps. I’m hiding my shortcomings. I hope my words reach the places my actions miss—at least for now—because I am doing the work. I’m in therapy. I’m reflecting daily. I’m defining my path and course-correcting in real time.

My case is extreme, but this is the work we all have to do. In his autobiography Born to Run, Bruce Springsteen discusses his struggle to accept his father’s flaws. "In analysis, you work to turn the ghosts that haunt you into ancestors who accompany you," he writes.

When I distill my goal as a parent down to its essence, it’s this: I refuse to be a ghost that haunts my children.

I can't promise perfection. I can't even promise consistency. But I can promise effort. I can promise that I’ll try to bring order to the chaos inside me each day—not for applause or ease, but because my children are watching. And what they need from me is not a flawless father, but a present one. One who stumbles—but stands again. One who fights the internal war with honesty, with intention, and without surrender. If I can do that, maybe I won’t become a ghost. Maybe I’ll become something else: a living example that even the storm-tossed can choose the direction of their sail.

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Paternal Progress participates in the Bookshop.org affiliate program. When you buy books through the links in this newsletter, I may earn a small commission—at no extra cost to you. I only recommend titles I believe can support your growth as a parent. For more, see my Sponsorship & Affiliate Policy or explore the full list on the Bookshelf. Thank you for supporting my work and local bookstores.

Right after we landed in Kauai for our honeymoon, my wife looked around the Lihue airport, sighed, and said, "I'm sad this is going to be over."

We had just arrived, and already she was mourning the end. At the time, I didn't understand it. We were newlyweds, childless, still blissfully unaware of how time speeds up once you become a parent.

Now? I get it.

Parenthood is a blur of fleeting moments and shifting phases. We cherish the "firsts"—the first steps, the first giggles, the first days of school—even as we grit our teeth through the sleepless nights, tantrums, and messes. And yet, whether we're enjoying the moment or just surviving it, one truth remains: it doesn't last.

An ancient story with roots in many cultures perfectly encapsulates this paradox. A king sought an unconditional truth to inscribe on his ring—something that could be true in his best and worst moments. After a long search, his advisors returned with four words: This too shall pass.

I try to remind myself of this often. No matter what my kids are doing, from the joy of learning to blow their first bubble to the struggle of keeping them from trying to drink the solution—it will all be over almost before it seems to begin.

So, how do we keep ourselves grounded in good and bad moments? Before offering my take, I should note that I'm not an expert on present-moment awareness. Sometimes, I find myself scrolling my phone or lost in work or home life stress when I should savor time with my family. And almost every time my kid throws himself on the floor in end-of-the-world agony over something as simple as a cookie before dinner, I catch myself dreaming of the day he starts to understand how he should—as my dad says—not "sweat the small stuff."

Another of my dad's mantras often helps me when I remember it. "Keep your eyes up." Imagine you're a batter standing at the plate against an erratic pitcher. If you lose focus for even a second, you may miss a chance to knock the ball out of the park. You also may miss a chance to jump out of the way of a wild pitch careening at more than highway speed toward your skull.

To me, especially in parenting, "keep your eyes up" doesn't just apply to the literal physical act but also a mental state of awareness and, maybe more importantly, acceptance. When we're with our kids, we need to remain aware of what's in front of us so we don't miss anything, from small moments of joy to miraculous milestones. But if we miss something (which is inevitable), we have to give ourselves grace and accept that we can't be present—physically or mentally—100 percent of the time.

Whenever I feel down about missing out on something or forgetting something my kids did, the words of the Stoic philosopher Epictetus help me stay centered: "It's not events that upset us, but our judgments about them."

This is also helpful when times are tough. Especially when kids are very young, we need the awareness to understand that they haven't learned emotional regulation, and it's our job to model it for them so they can. And if they throw a tantrum at a family gathering, wreck a display in the grocery store, or don't understand basic decorum during a wedding ceremony, we need to resist not their actions but our denial of their actions. We often default to panic in public, telling ourselves, "This can't be happening," and feeling the eyes of 100 strangers burning holes into our skin.

Instead, we need to accept that societal expectations of children are unfair and unrealistic. A public tantrum doesn't mean your kid is a bad kid. If you see a young kid at a gathering who remains quiet and composed, it's less likely that they're better than your kid than it is that they are afraid of what could happen to them if they aren't. Tantrums, both public and private, are part of a child's growth, and resistance to them can teach kids that "emotions are bad," making it harder for them to learn healthy self-regulation techniques they can carry into maturity.

We can't freeze time. We can't stop tantrums or force milestones. What we can do is shift how we see them. Whether it's a joyful moment we want to bottle up or a public meltdown that makes us want to disappear, we can return to a simple truth—this too shall pass.

And maybe that's the gift. When things are hard, we can breathe and remember they won't last forever. And when things are good, we can be fully in them, knowing how precious and short-lived they are.

So today, try to keep your eyes up. Be where your feet are. And meet each moment—good, bad, or bewildering—with grace.

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This Week's Theme: The Stories We Tell

One of the best things about being a parent is the opportunity to tell stories, whether reading to your kids, making up stories for them on the fly, or telling others stories about them.

Monday

Wednesday

Friday

Weekly Recommendation

Something I read, watched, pondered, or prayed on that helped me make a little progress this week.

At the end of the day, friendships don’t need to be complicated. They just need to exist. A good friendship isn’t always about deep, soul-searching conversations every time you meet up. It’s about having people you can count on, even if it’s just to shoot the breeze or share a laugh.

So send that text. Make that plan. Friendships don’t just happen - they’re built.

– , “The Fatherhood Friendship Gap”

This week, I connected with , who writes . His piece from a week ago on the power of music spoke to me, as I've spent recent beautiful East Tennessee mornings with my family on our deck listening and dancing to Queen, Ray Charles, Father John Misty, John Denver, Kendrick Lamar, and quite possibly my favorite song of all time, among others.

This isn't directly dad-related, but this week, my wife turned me on to the Hulu show Mid-Century Modern. It's a loving tribute to The Golden Girls, with Dorothy, Blanche, and Rose replaced by three gay men played by Nathan Lane, Nathan Lee Graham, and Matt Bomer. Sharp writing, great performances, and a deftly-wielded laugh track make this possibly the best multi-cam sitcom I've seen in at least 25 years. The icing on the cake is Linda Lavin, who plays the Sophia role through eight episodes and blows it away. Lavin died during filming, and the show's handling of her death in episode nine might be the best work I've seen adjusting to the death of a main character in a TV series.

If you like The Golden Girls, make time for this one. If your kids are young, make sure they've gone to bed, as this show is rated TV-MA, mostly for language and probably a little for subject matter.

One more thing...

A preview or parting thought to carry you into the coming week.

This is my third month writing Paternal Progress. I started in February with a loose plan to share relatable, helpful stories about my experience as a dad. With the demands of fatherhood, I wasn't sure I'd be able to keep it up, but so far, so good. The newsletter is steadily gaining a following (32 subscribers as of this writing), and I'm finding my voice with it. If you happened on this post and are not already subscribed, please consider a free subscription. I haven't paywalled anything yet and have no immediate plans to do so. I now offer the option to drop a $5 tip if you would be so kind, and hopefully, I'll have a few perks for paid subscribers soon.

I'd like to keep this going as long as possible, so I'd appreciate any support you can provide, even if it's simply sharing the newsletter with a friend.
Thank you so much for reading.

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"But there's a bear in the bathroom!"

My son warned us about the Bathroom Bear for days. The first time he mentioned it, it was playful. I told him to fight it. He went in, returned, and told us he had trapped it in the walk-in shower.

The next night, he fought the bear again. This time, I told him to flush it down the toilet. We heard the flush, and he came out smiling. Is that the end of Bathroom Bear?

No. Now it's bedtime. I lay in my son's bed, holding a copy of What Do You Do With a Problem? It's storytime, but he has to pee.

"Okay, buddy. You go, I'll wait here." I said.

"But you have to come with me!"

"Why?"

"The bear!"

"I thought you flushed it down the toilet?"

No. It's still in there.

In his eyes, I could see he wasn't joking. His fear was real, even if the bear wasn't. I told him to show me.

He pointed to the wall above the toilet. There it was—a small painting of a baby black bear—a leftover design detail from my mother-in-law's time in the house. It's the sort of thing that blends itself into the background—something so much a part of the decor that it often goes unnoticed—but not to a four-year-old.

"That's just a cute baby. It's not gonna hurt you."

"No, Daddy, it's a BIG bear!"

I took a beat, wondering how to move forward. How do I make him feel safe and get him into bed?

Then, I remembered the gift I'd found for him the first night in the hospital.

My son was six weeks premature. It was supposed to be a routine checkup, followed by a "date" at home with Qdoba burritos and a bad movie. Instead, the doctor diagnosed preeclampsia and ordered induced labor.

Between trying to calm my wife's terror and ensuring she had everything she needed, I wanted to find the perfect teddy bear. Searching for weeks, I hadn't settled on one. That night, I ordered a small, dark brown Vermont Teddy Bear. Delivered a few days later, the commotion surrounding the baby's birth pushed the bear into a box somewhere, where it stayed until we unpacked after moving from Milwaukee to Tennessee.

The bear finally found appreciation about a year ago. My son found it in his closet. I told him its origin story. He didn't fully understand, but for a few weeks, he loved the bear. When I asked him what we should call it, he smiled and said, "Black Teddy."

Black Teddy bounced around several places in the home for months, but the night of the Bear in the Bathroom, it sat by the fireplace hearth in our living room.

"Would you feel better if you could hug the bear?" I asked.

"Yeah!"

I told my son to wait and scurried to the living room. I returned with the bear, peeked its little head around the bathroom door frame, and said in a soft, terrible Southern drawl, "Hi there!"

"BLACK TEDDY!"

He remembered.

I told him the painting was Black Teddy, and he just wanted a hug.

For about two days, Black Teddy and my son were like that old My Buddy commercial. Teddy went to daycare and swim practice and was my son's go-to bed companion. The spell wore off, but it lasted long enough to end the terror of the bathroom bear.

I told my son to fight the bear before I understood his fear. When he showed me, I remembered my own fear. As a timid kid, I steered away from dark shadows. I refused to sleep in my grandma's spare bedroom, terrified of a small doll sitting in a rocking chair in the corner. I still have an unreasonable fear of dolls and statues.

But I've also learned the ultimate counter-punch to fear that defies logic: diversion. Sometimes, fear loses its grip when we link it to something non-threatening—even lovable. If we get enough practice, we may learn to use the same technique to conquer our own "bears in the bathroom."

Unexamined fear grows like a shadow. And often, what we're afraid of isn't the thing itself but what we've imagined it to be.

As parents, it's our job to teach our children courage without shaming their fear. A scared child needs warm empathy and clarity, not cold dismissal.

My son faced a bear in the bathroom, and I remembered the doll in the corner. The threats weren't real, but the fear was. The remedy isn't to deny it—it's to bring the fear into the light, give it a name, and offer it a hug.

That's how we teach courage: not by dismissing or minimizing the fear but by reminding ourselves—and our children—that we can choose how to see it.

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Paternal Progress participates in the Bookshop.org affiliate program. When you buy books through the links in this newsletter, I may earn a small commission—at no extra cost to you. I only recommend titles I believe can support your growth as a parent. For more, see my Sponsorship & Affiliate Policy or explore the full list on the Bookshelf. Thank you for supporting my work and local bookstores.

She's 18 months' worth of spunk, sass, and self-assuredness. She doesn't ask permission, and she doesn't hesitate. She does new things every day. She opens doors. She opens drawers. She opens the pantry. And she takes what she wants.

She's my daughter, and she fears nothing except bathwater.

The first time she set foot in the big bathtub, she slipped and fell, submerging her whole body. It was brief—less than a second—but enough to keep her from leaving her feet in the bath again.

We've tried a few tricks to make her feel more comfortable. Her brother bathes with her. We splash her, and she laughs. We play with bath toys. We fill the tub with bubbles. But she won't sit.

Last week, I decided to have fun with it. As my wife washed the kids, I pulled out my phone to try to make my wife laugh, if nothing else. I found a Kendrick Lamar soundboard and played the relevant lyrics from his song "HUMBLE."

"Sit down. Be humble."

My daughter didn't understand the lyrics, but her eyes shot toward me as soon as she heard the beat. A huge smile formed. Without any prompt, she started to move—first, just a steady head bob in perfect rhythm, then she grabbed the edge of the tub with both hands and swayed her hips back and forth.

When the sound ended, she yelled, "Uh oh!"—her auto-response if something she's enjoying ends.

I played the sound a few more times, then broke down and played the full song—the clean version. She never sat down, nor was she humble. She was confident, carefree, and full of joy. She twisted, she swayed, she bobbed, she bounced.

It reminded me of my favorite thing about toddlers. They're old enough to have a personality all their own but young enough to know of nothing but the present. They have no concept of the future, and the past doesn't hang with them long. They are the embodiment of one of my favorite bits of wisdom from "Ted Lasso:"

"Be a goldfish."

They have no concept of rules or social norms. Once they walk, the main limits to their exploration at home are child-proof locks and their short legs. More than once, my wife and I have witnessed a jumbo carton of Goldfish Crackers walking toward us, grunting. My daughter brings them to us from the pantry, hoping we'll pour her a baggie or bowl.

If we do, she'll exhibit another fantastic phase of toddler development and mimic what she's seen us do: make a sound that's her closest approximation to "Thank you!"

As soon as she's finished, she won't hesitate to start a new quest to the pantry or kitchen for her next snack. There are tears and screams when we deny her, but they never last long. She doesn't let a little rejection stand in her way. She keeps trying. And I love her for that.

As toddlers do, she never stops exploring. If she finds herself stuck or can't work something out, sometimes I'll let her keep trying to see if she finds a way. If she doesn't give in to frustration, she often finds a solution.

She loves cuddles and tickles, but once boredom sets in, she'll get up and leave the room to find something new.

But even the most independent kids have their limits. Once she's tired, she's clingy and moody. If we leave her alone for too long, she'll yell for us or cry out. Once she's rested or her social battery recharges, her independence returns.

It's a joy watching her in this phase. She's discovering new things, finding her footing, testing her limits—and ours. It's a reminder that early parenting is a tug-of-war between the desire for your kids to find their own way and your impulse never to let go. Our kids surprise and challenge us every day, and as much as I can't wait to see them attack the world in their own way, I try to remember to do as they do and remain present.

I have no doubt my daughter will find her version of success and grip it with both arms, just as she does with a carton of Goldfish.

As much as I want her to grow and gain even more confidence and independence, part of me hopes she'll fear the bathwater a little longer.

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I followed my son out of the garage, watching him sulk. As a writer, I couldn't help but note the juxtaposition of his body language against his bright red Lightning McQueen pajamas and the small, beat-up desktop Christmas tree he carried—on March 29. It was 9 p.m., more than an hour past his bedtime.

We'd come to the garage on a fruitless quest to find a Hot Wheels ambulance—no—the Hot Wheels ambulance. Not that one. The other one. The one that wasn't on the floorboard of my wife's car with eight other Hot Wheels, but instead lost somewhere at a friend's house almost an hour's drive away.

This was just one leg in the nightly parental quest: peace found only when the children are finally asleep. Bedtime is never easy, but it typically follows a basic framework: My wife takes our daughter, and I take our son. The baby collapses in under an hour, my wife comes in, and we double-team the boy.

Tonight, though, we've traded kids twice. As I followed my son from the garage to our kitchen, my wife held a metaphorical stopwatch as our 18-month-old ran gleeful laps from the glider rocker to the diaper pail and back repeatedly.

It was Dr. Becky meets pint-sized Monty Python.

My son shuffled up to the kitchen bar, lifted the tree to the counter, then shuffled on, heading to his room.

"Wait," I said. "You just want to leave it there?"

He turned, annoyed. "Myeah."

My wife came out and met my son in the hallway, confused.

"Why is there a Christmas tree on the counter?"

"My daddy said me to put it there!"

As I passed her, we exchanged glances, nonverbally acknowledging our mantra to the absurdity of parenting toddlers:
"Have kids, they said."

Several antics later, my son finally surrendered. As I lay beside him in bed, scratching his back, I marveled at how he adapted to the disappointment of not having the toy he wanted. A tabletop Christmas tree can't replace a Hot Wheels ambulance, but it was his way of gaining some sense of control. It wasn't the thing, but it was something. And sometimes, we need something to fill gaps left by things we've lost—or never received.

We all have gaps. How we fill them reveals who we are. At four, my son's gaps are shallow and well-defined. One for the Hot Wheels ambulance, another for the cookie we denied him at breakfast, etc. At 40, mine are larger and less defined—shaped by years of missed opportunities and lessons I never learned. But we share one gap: emotional regulation.

Because of this, he's no stranger to my tears. He's seen me cry countless times in his four years—one of the many joys of fatherhood while managing ADHD and Borderline Personality Disorder. While I wish it didn't happen so often, it's not new. I've always cried. I hope it teaches my son not to fear emotion because I grew up fearing mine, and it's no way to live.

I've never seen my dad cry. He's experienced unfathomable loss, nearly devastating personal injury, addiction, recovery, and family turmoil, and yet, he always presents as unshakeable. He doesn't show emotion, and he doesn't talk about it. Not to me, anyway.

He did his best with the tools he was given. I love him for that. But growing up as his emotional opposite, I felt inadequate, insecure, and ashamed. My ADHD diagnosis came at age 22. BPD at 39. I grew up without the natural tools for emotional regulation—let alone the learned.

While soothing my son to sleep that night, I made a few connections: I want him to see me as an emotional haven, but I don't see myself that way. Tenderness doesn't come naturally. I never looked to my dad for comfort. I never had a male role model for emotional management.

So I borrow what I can. I mimic my mom and my wife. I cling to strategies like Radical Acceptance. I carry pieces of Stoic philosophy, reminders from men long dead who also wrestled with what to do when life refused to meet them on their terms. Stoicism teaches us to focus on what we can control. I can’t control how I was shaped. But I can control what I choose to carry forward. My son chose a Christmas tree. And maybe he was on to something.

To him, the tree symbolizes hope, and hope is always useful to carry. Maybe the adult version of that hope is intention. Intention to take responsibility for our character, actions, and reactions and let what we do stand out—like a Christmas tree in March.

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This Week's Theme: Teaching What We're Still Learning

I had a lot of fun with this theme. Read all three newsletters at the links below.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Weekly Recommendation

Something I read, watched, pondered, or prayed on that helped me make a little progress this week.

at The Fatherhood Framework consistently produces thoughtful, engaging work that helps make you a better dad or parent or gives you something to think about. I can't recommend his work enough.
If I had to pick just one piece to recommend from the past week, it would be this one.

One more thing...

A preview or parting thought to carry you into the coming week.

As dads, responsibilities pull us all in a thousand directions. We have jobs, bills, and partners, and we never get a vacation from the hardest job we'll ever do: fatherhood. You're a lot of things: overwhelmed, stressed, tired... but you're not alone. We're all going through it. As the author John Green said:

“The nature of impending fatherhood is that you are doing something that you’re unqualified to do, and then you become qualified while doing it.”

The good news is that everything gets a little easier when you have a community. Traditional communities aren't easy to come by these days. That's why I wanted to start Paternal Progress and why there are a lot of other great dad-focused communities here on Substack and across the internet. If you're looking for connection and community, drop me a line, and I'll be honored to help.

I hope you enjoyed the new Progress Report. From now on, this newsletter will come to you each Sunday at noon EST to recap the week on Paternal Progress and maybe give you some things to do or think about. Do you know someone who might like to see this each week? Share it with them:

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