The Discipline of Showing Up
What a failed breakfast taught me about freedom, fatherhood, and starting over.
"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.