In the Space Between Ambition and Enough

“Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes… including you.”

Anne Lamott

I knew something was wrong when you started saying "pizza! pizza!"

Not because you wanted pizza. But because it was so random, so out of left field, that it was the only thing that could pull me out of my head.

This was a few years ago, when I'd gone back to TRG to serve as head of media. The first six months I was there, we averaged one person quitting every single week. Every week. I'd be sitting at dinner with you, or just hanging out after work, and my brain would be somewhere else entirely: How do I backfill this position? How do I stop others from leaving? How do I keep serving our clients like they deserve? How do I stop the bleeding?

And you would see it. See me not seeing you. So you'd say it: "Pizza! Pizza!"

It worked. For a moment. And then my brain would drift back.

That was one of the clearest signals I was failing to be present. As parents, especially with young children, we try to hide the struggle we're going through to help shield you from ours at that early age. But I was so clearly not hiding the swirl in my head. I was failing to be the dad I wanted to be. And in the process, I was failing you.

Your mom became my therapist during that time. Work dominated our daily conversations. Every bit of energy I spent trying to be present for you took away whatever I had left for her. And because she was supporting me, carrying the weight of my stress, I'm sure she couldn't reach out for her own support. She was carrying a ton too. And it was so unfair to her.

But here's the thing: I was good at that job. Not just capable, I was borderline really good at it. My team accomplished incredible things once we got some of the hurdles out of the way. I proved to myself what I needed to prove: I could do hard things. I could lead through chaos. I could build something meaningful even when everything was on fire.

The question I'm wrestling with now is: when do I do it again?

I haven't found peace like this since I became a manager for the first time, two years into my career. Since then: six agencies, over 150 direct or indirect reports, more than 30 brands, even more clients. Almost two decades of grinding.

And this is the first time in all those years that I've felt... light. And your mom, who carried so much of my weight during that storm—I hope she feels the lightness, too.

Part of it is my boss. He's the first leader I've had who has the same gift I try to have: the desire to do what's necessary to create better space for the people around us. He's even better at it than I am. He's a servant leader. He removes obstacles, not just for me but for everyone at the agency. And because of that, I've found something I didn't know I was missing.

I'm present again.

I'm listening to you when you tell me about what you colored or crafted that day. When you're hyped about something you just learned, something I probably knew once but might as well be brand new now, I can meet you at your excitement level. We're playing board games again. Switch games together. Telling stories. I'm just there with you, far more often.

I hope you feel you have more access to the real me. The one that jokes with you, plays with you, builds with you, fixes things (actual toys but also situations), teaches you things, learns from you. All the things that feel muted when my brain is somewhere else.

And now there's a possibility. A new role. Different from TRG, different responsibilities, different title. But similar in that it's elevated. Similar in that it comes with significant direct report responsibilities. Similar in that coworkers would need to think of me differently.

I think I'm the right person for it. There's a big part of me that wants it. I know I could do it well. I think I'd professionally thrive in it.

But I also know it's an unknown. And it's taken so long to find this peace.

It's not that I have no pressure now. The role I currently hold is significant. There is pressure. There is stress. But there's so much better balance. This is the first job I've had that allows me to take you to school sometimes. It sounds so silly and so small, but the change from “pizza! pizza!” to the stories we have when we’re in the car together, that made all the difference in the world to me.

Here's what gives me hope: the strong culture of the agency would remain. My boss would still be there, not just for me but for everyone. His ability to remove obstacles wouldn't change. That's different from what I've had before. It makes me believe balance is possible.

But it's still an unknown.

So the question isn't if I take the new role. The question is when. And whether I can maintain the balance I've finally found.

I used to think capability was the goal. That if you could do something, you should. That ambition and capability should always align. But I've learned something: my capability exceeds my ambition now. Not because I'm lazy. Not because I've given up. But because I've realized that being capable of something doesn't mean I owe it to anyone, including myself, to do it.

I don't feel the need to prove myself anymore. I've done that. At TRG, and before. I know what I can do.

What I value now is being able to be present in your life. And I was losing that ability. For years, I was losing it. And I didn't even realize how much until I found it again.

Capability creates obligation. People will need you. They'll count on you. Your ability to help will feel like a responsibility to help. And sometimes, that's right. Sometimes, stepping up is exactly what you should do.

But your main obligation is to yourself. Not in a selfish way. In a way that recognizes you can't pour from an empty cup. You can't be present for the people who matter if you're drowning in obligations to everyone else.

I'm choosing to prioritize being present for you because I know how happy that makes me. That's not sacrifice. That's recognizing what actually matters.

Here's what I want you to know:

Be self-aware of the tradeoffs. Really know them. Before you choose. Not just the career tradeoffs, but the life ones. The moments you'll miss. The mental space you'll lose. The version of yourself that might fade when you're in survival mode.

Because once you're in something, you'll make it work. You'll adapt. You'll survive. You might even thrive.

But you can't unsee what it costs.

When you're faced with this choice someday, between capability and peace, between what you could do and what you can sustain, between professional growth and personal presence, I want you to feel good about whatever decision you make for yourself and your situation.

Not because I understand it or approve of it. But because you've weighed it honestly and chosen what matters most to you.

For me, right now, what matters most is being here. Really here. Not just physically present, but mentally available. Not just surviving, but living.

I want the new role. I think I'd be great at it. And when the time is right, when I'm confident I can maintain the balance that took almost two decades to find, I'll take it.

But not yet. Not while the peace is still new enough to feel fragile.

Because it took so long to find this. And despite how much I want the role, I'm not ready to risk our peace.

Not yet.

Finding Your North Star

“The North Star doesn’t move, even when everything else does.”

Unknown

What is your north star?

Not where you want to go, or what you want to achieve. But what guides you when everything else is chaos? What keeps you grounded when the world around you is shifting? What helps you choose what to pursue and what to avoid?

In 2009, when I became a manager for the first time, I asked myself that question.

It was the first time I realized that I, in at least a small way, but maybe a big way, was going to change another person's career. That's a privilege. An honor. And it comes with real responsibility. I needed to find my own path before I felt it was appropriate to show someone else a path. So I dug deep.

I wanted something consistent I could return to, no matter how much everything else changed. A life strategy, not just career goals.

After a lot of reflection, I landed on three words: passion, beauty, and hope.

Passion is deep care. It's the things that stir my soul, not just interest me. It's what I can't help but lean into, even when it's hard.

Beauty is about seeing the world differently. There's beauty in almost everything if you look for it. I wanted to always be able to see it, appreciate it, be inspired by it, be in awe of it. Not just in art or nature, but in hidden moments: in the way people show up, in what struggle teaches you, in the silver linings that are easy to miss.

Hope is the light that keeps everything going. It's not just optimism or thinking positive. It's not just seeing the glass as half full. It's knowing that no matter how much water is in the glass, it will become the rain that can feed a whole forest. It's regenerative. It's the knowledge that even if things aren't great right now, we're going to be okay. More than that, it's hope for the extraordinary.

These three words became my framework. Not rules, but choices. A way to navigate when I didn't know what else to do.

And here's what I've learned: they're connected. When I lose one, the others help me find it back. They work together, not separately.

Almost twenty years later, these words still guide me. But they've evolved. They've deepened. I can see beauty in so much more around me now. My passion is more focused, more keyed in on what truly matters. And hope? I've realized how essential it actually is.

Here's how I saw them work together just recently:

I saw passion in someone I work with: a leader who genuinely cares about helping others, about being a force for good, about doing things the right way. I saw beauty in that. And seeing that beauty gave me hope. Hope that the path I was on wasn't just viable, but could be the reason for success. That caring wasn't weakness. That my principles could actually work.

One helped me find the others. That's how they're meant to work.

I'm telling you this, Lyla, not because I think these have to be your three words. They're my words because they're what I came up with, what resonated with me. They can be your words too, if they speak to you. But what I really want is for your north star to be what you believe in most, what pushes and pulls you toward what you want to be. Not just what you stumbled upon or were given.

I want you to know how valuable it is to have a north star. Something that grounds you when everything else is shifting. A framework for making choices, not just about what to do, but about who you want to be.

Your words might be courage, curiosity, and kindness. Or truth, growth, and connection. Or something I've never thought of. That's the point. They need to be yours in the way mine are mine: chosen, not inherited.

And they can evolve. People change. Your understanding deepens. What passion meant to me at 25 isn't quite what it means now. But the core is still there, just richer, more textured.

What matters is that you have something to return to. Principles that aren't constraints, but choices. A way of seeing the world that's distinctly yours.

Because there will be times you feel lost. Times when everything is chaos and you don't know what to do next. And in those moments, you'll need something consistent to hold onto. Not someone else's path, but your own.

Find your words. Write them down. Let them guide you. Let them evolve as you do.

And when one of them fades, let the others help you find it again.

That's what a north star does. It doesn't just keep you from getting lost. It helps you find your way back.

Being Without Struggle

“We’re human beings, not human doings.”

Unknown

It's Sunday afternoon. Nothing is wrong. No deadlines looming. No fires to put out. The house is quiet, the day is open, and I should feel good about that.

Instead, I reach for my phone. YouTube. A game. Something to fill the space.

And then the guilt: empty calories. Wasted time. I could have done something meaningful. But what? And why does "meaningful" always feel like it requires a problem to solve?

I read a book once where the author realized he was creating problems within his family just so he had something to fix. I don't remember the title, but I remember the jolt of recognition. I've done that. Not consciously, maybe, but I've done it. And even now, knowing it, I still do.

When you're a hammer, everything looks like a nail.

I've built a career on solving problems. That's the engine. I seek out the broken thing, the stubborn knot, the puzzle with missing pieces, and I make it work. It's satisfying. It's identity. It's also, apparently, a trap.

I see problems other people don't. That's useful. But here's where it gets tricky: sometimes I can see a problem and choose not to chase it. It's not the right time, not worth the cost, or just not fixable. But when I name that problem out loud, I give it to someone else. And they might not have my ability to let it go.

Last month, I told a coworker we weren't ready to take on a certain kind of business. I listed the gaps I saw. Now she sees them too. And because of that, we have real momentum to upgrade the whole agency. That's good. But there are still some things we can't change. And unfortunately, that will probably gnaw at her more than it does me.

I spread the pattern without meaning to.

With you, Lyla, I see it too. Our best time together is when we're solving problems. Cooking a new recipe. Organizing a space. Exploring a game that needs to be figured out. Creating a new design for the house. We do best with activity-based play, with something that needs to be done.

We've tried just being bored together. We both get restless.

Sometimes I wish we could just be. No problem to solve. No project to finish. Just sit in the quiet and be okay with that.

But I don't know how.

When there's no problem, I drift. My hours worked drop. My focus scatters. I reach for distractions, and then I feel guilty about it. Like I'm wasting time. Like I should be doing something productive.

But here's the trap: I'm avoiding the discomfort of not feeling productive. And that discomfort? That's where rest lives. Where thought lives. Where boredom lives. And there's real value in those things.

I shouldn't have to put my back against the wall to push forward. I shouldn't have to give myself no other option to reach the next gear. I shouldn't have to become a victim or create something to overcome. I could just show up. Because not all of life is struggle, despite there being plenty of it.

Marcus Aurelius, the Roman emperor and Stoic philosopher, believed that virtue should come from internal choice, not external circumstance. That who you are shouldn't depend on what's happening to you. That you shouldn't need an enemy to know your worth.

So who am I when there's nothing to overcome?

I'm still figuring that out.

But I have learned something. This year, we reimagined and rebranded the agency. It was a beautiful process. We articulated what makes us different, what we want to stand for, what impact we want to have. We let that process take the time it needed. And we landed on something I think the whole group was proud of.

That was building, not fixing. That was running toward something, not from something. And it felt different. Better.

And then there was Zion. (I've written about this trip before, but it matters here too.)

We took a trip to Zion National Park. We planned nothing, other than seeing the park. We found a hotel within walking distance, with a stream our balcony looked out onto. Every day, we visited the park in the morning, swam at the hotel in the afternoon, and just talked and hung out on the balcony through the evening. Very few screens, intentionally. We weren't there to accomplish anything other than just being there.

It felt different. It felt bigger.

Part of that was the nature surrounding us. Part of it was that it was my first national park. Part of it was vacation. But there was also a big part that was us intentionally creating that space to do nothing. A pause button that allowed us to catch up. I guess sometimes the best way to catch up is to slow down.

In some moments we didn't talk at all. Just looked at the shimmering water of the pool, the depth and height of the red rock, listened to the gentle rush of the stream passing by. And in that moment, where we created space to be bored with ourselves, I was anything but bored.

That's what I'm trying to learn. That's what I want for you.

Maybe the work isn't to eliminate the part of me that loves solving problems. Maybe it's to reassign it. To turn problem-solving into building, not just fixing. To find friction in craft, not catastrophe. To practice the discipline of naming a clear purpose when there's no emergency forcing it. And to know when to just stop. To just be.

I don't have this figured out yet. But here's what I want you to know, Lyla:

Your value isn't in what you overcome. It's not in how many problems you solve or how much you produce. It's in who you choose to be when nothing is forcing the choice.

I want you to find internal motivation. The kind that doesn't depend on struggle or deadlines or someone else's expectations. The kind that lets you sit in the in-between without reaching for distractions. The kind that's comfortable, not stress-free but not stressful either. That pushes you in a good way.

I want you to be able to just be. To know your worth without needing to prove it. To rest without guilt. To choose purpose without requiring a crisis.

I'm still learning how to do that. But I'm trying. And I wanted you to know that it matters. That learning to thrive without struggle is just as important as learning to overcome it.

Maybe more important.

Because courage isn't only for the hard days. It's for the quiet ones, where you have to choose to show up, to care, to be present, without anything forcing you to.

That's the work I'm still doing. And I hope, by the time you read this, you're better at it than I am. I hope you can sit on a Sunday afternoon with nothing to do and feel peace, not guilt. That you can be with the people you love without needing a project. That you know your worth without needing to prove it every day.

That would be something worth building toward.