The Art of Being Lovably Flawed

What Oscar the Grouch and Cookie Monster Taught Me About Building a Life

I am part of the Sesame Street generation, not the nostalgic, "remember when" generation, but the actual first one. I was there for the beginning, sitting cross-legged in front of our wood-grain Zenith television in 1969, watching something that had never existed before: a show that talked to kids like we had brains, that mixed education with pure silliness, and that populated a neighborhood with characters who were unapologetically, authentically themselves.

Ask me about my favorite Muppets, and I'll tell you without hesitation: Oscar the Grouch and Cookie Monster. Not Big Bird, despite his gentle wisdom. Not Kermit, despite his earnest leadership. The grouch and the glutton. The cynic and the chaos agent. The two characters who, even at age three or four, I somehow knew were telling me something important about what it meant to be human.

Decades later, as I reflect on the life I've built—the career choices I've made, the way I've tried to parent, the relationships I've formed—I realize how profoundly those fuzzy philosophers shaped my understanding of what it means to show up authentically in the world. More importantly, they taught me lessons I hope I have passed on to my own children.

The Grouch's Gift: Permission to Be Real

Oscar the Grouch was revolutionary, though I didn't have the vocabulary for it then. Here was a character who refused to perform happiness. In a world of relentless cheer, Oscar said, essentially, "Some days are garbage days, and that's okay."

He wasn't mean or cruel. He was just... grouchy. Honest about his mood, authentic in his preferences, and completely uninterested in making others comfortable with his state of mind. Oscar taught me that being real was more valuable than being pleasant—a lesson that would prove essential throughout my life.

When I found myself translating between temperamental programmers and impatient fundraisers, Oscar's influence was there. When I chose to sit in the political middle seat while others retreated to comfortable extremes, that was Oscar's gift at work. When I admitted to my team that I was struggling after losing my dear friend and colleague Yoko, rather than putting on a professional mask, I was practicing what the grouch had taught me: that authenticity creates deeper connections than any performance ever could.

To my children, I hope you've learned this lesson through watching me navigate both my good days and my difficult ones. When I write about feeling like Charlie Brown most days instead of pretending to be someone more optimistic, that's not pessimism—that's honesty. And honesty, even when it's not pretty, builds trust in ways that false cheer never can.

Cookie Monster's Chaos: The Power of Unfiltered Enthusiasm

Cookie Monster was Oscar's perfect counterpart: pure, unfiltered enthusiasm taken to absurd extremes. He didn't just like cookies; he was consumed by them. He made messes. He lost control. He spoke in fractured grammar and sprayed crumbs everywhere, and somehow, this made him more lovable, not less.

Cookie Monster taught me that passion doesn't have to be polite—a lesson that became the foundation for some of my most meaningful choices. When I decided to bring donuts to a struggling database conversion team on Fridays, that wasn't strategic planning. That was Cookie Monster-level enthusiasm for simply showing up and caring about people.

I see his influence in my obsessive Cubs fandom that defies all mathematical logic. In my willingness to drive cross-country with dogs in a U-Haul, turning a practical move into an adventure. In my decision to volunteer in Faith's computer lab not because I was the most qualified, but because I genuinely loved being there. Cookie Monster showed me that enthusiasm, even when imperfect, creates magic.

Kids, you've seen this in action—whether it was our elaborate Christmas traditions born from last-minute improvisation, or my insistence on keeping score at your baseball games when everyone else was just watching casually. What I hope you learned is that it's better to care too much about the things that matter to you than to care too little about anything at all.

Building a Career on Beautiful Disasters

The art of being lovably flawed became the foundation of my professional life, though I didn't realize it at the time. I built a career as a translator—bridging gaps between different types of people who needed to work together but spoke different languages. My success came not from having all the answers, but from being comfortable admitting when I had questions—and suspecting others did too.

When I started PRSPCT-L it wasn't because I was an expert. It was because I was willing to say, "I don't know everything, but maybe together we can figure it out." That simple acknowledgment of shared uncertainty became one of the field's most valuable resources.

My weekly donut tradition at Caltech exemplifies this approach. Faced with a team drowning in impossible deadlines and technical challenges, I could have brought in motivational speakers or implemented productivity systems. Instead, I brought Foster's Family Donuts every Friday for years. Not because it was strategic, but because it felt right. Because sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is show up with something sweet and say, "I see you."

That tradition worked not despite its simplicity, but because of it. Like Cookie Monster's single-minded pursuit of cookies, the gesture was so genuine, so unfiltered, that it cut through workplace cynicism and created real connection.

Parenting Through Imperfection

These same principles shaped how I tried to raise you. When Faith worried about how Santa would find us in California without a chimney, I didn't have a perfect answer ready. So we invented Magic Reindeer Feed and Santa's Magic Key—traditions born from improvisation and sustained by enthusiasm rather than expertise.

When my attempts to get Kailey to eat everything on her plate led to the notorious episode of hiding sweet potatoes in milk, I learned that being lovably flawed meant acknowledging my mistakes, laughing at them (eventually), and adjusting course. Some of my best parenting moments came not from having all the answers, but from being willing to figure things out together with you.

The St. Nicholas tradition we maintained wasn't about creating perfect memories—it was about showing up consistently, year after year, with both celebration and honest reflection. The "however" paragraph in St. Nick's letter, acknowledging that we all have room to grow, became a family touchstone because it made space for the full spectrum of human experience.

I hope what you learned from watching me coach Ted's Little League teams, volunteer in your schools, and navigate the various crises and celebrations of family life is that parents don't have to be perfect to be good. In fact, the opposite might be true: perfection creates distance, while lovable flaws create connection.

The Wisdom of Messes

What Oscar and Cookie Monster understood—and what I've tried to practice throughout my life—is that our flaws aren't bugs in the human operating system. They are features. The grouchiness that makes Oscar lovable is the same quality that allows him to cut through false cheer and speak uncomfortable truths. Cookie Monster's chaos creates joy precisely because it's so genuinely enthusiastic.

When I lost my temper on the baseball field, made mistakes in parenting, or had relationships that didn't work out, I wasn't proud of those moments. But they were real. And in that authenticity—followed by genuine apology and growth—I hope you learned something more valuable than you would have from a father who never made mistakes.

This is what I hope you carry forward: that being human means being imperfect, and being imperfect can be beautiful. That your flaws, acknowledged and owned, can become sources of connection rather than shame. That showing up as you are—mess, enthusiasm, cynicism, and all—creates deeper relationships than any polished performance ever could.

A Letter to My Children

As I reflect on the decades since those first Sesame Street episodes, I realize that Oscar and Cookie Monster didn't just teach me how to live—they taught me how to love. How to parent. How to build a career and a family and a life worth living.

They taught me that authenticity isn't just more honest—it's more effective. More connecting. More human. And maybe, if we're lucky, more fun.

Kailey, Ted, and Faith: you've watched me practice this art your entire lives. You've seen me succeed and fail, show up and stumble, get enthusiastic about things that probably didn't deserve quite so much enthusiasm. What I hope you've learned is that this is what love looks like in practice—not perfection, but presence. Not having all the answers, but being willing to ask the questions. Not avoiding mistakes, but owning them, learning from them, and moving forward together.

The art of being lovably flawed isn't really about being flawed at all. It's about having the courage to be seen as you are, the wisdom to know that everyone else is just as beautifully imperfect as you are, and the grace to build relationships—and a life—around that fundamental truth.

The Inheritance of Authenticity

I hope I'm passing on to you not a roadmap to perfection but permission to be gloriously, beautifully, lovably yourselves. To care deeply about the things that matter to you, even when others don't understand. To be grouchy when you need to be grouchy and enthusiastic when something deserves your enthusiasm. To make messes in pursuit of what you love and clean them up with humor and grace.

In a world that increasingly rewards performance over presence, I hope you'll remember what those fuzzy philosophers taught us: that the strongest relationships aren't built on mutual admiration of each other's perfection, but on shared acknowledgment of each other's beautiful imperfections.

Because in the end, the best version of yourself isn't the most polished version—it's the most honest one. And honesty, even when it's messy, even when it makes mistakes, even when it sprays metaphorical cookie crumbs everywhere, is always worth more than the most perfect performance.

Even if it makes a mess.

Especially if it makes a mess.

Three Things, One Ending

They say that in the end, only three things matter: how much you loved, how gently you lived, and how gracefully you let go of things not meant for you.

Normally, I'd roll my eyes at something like that — probably scroll past it on social media while muttering something cynical under my breath about inspirational fonts. But this time, it landed differently. Maybe because I’m sitting in the aftermath of another love story that didn't end with a bang, but with the soft unraveling of two people who genuinely tried.

We did love each other. That part, at least, is still true. Somewhere along the way, we carved out a space for each other — one that felt safe and light-filled, even if the world outside was chaotic. There were real moments of joy, partnership, laughter, and a quiet sense of “we’re in this together.” And I believed in it — in her, in us.

But somewhere in the middle of making space, we forgot to keep communicating.

I let the pressure get to me. Work was wild, unpredictable — the kind of stress that shows up in your jaw and your blood pressure and your dreams. And with her between jobs, I felt like I needed to carry it all — to be strong, to figure out a way to financially support both of us without adding to her burden.

So I stayed quiet.

I thought strength meant silence. That not telling her how hard it was would somehow protect her. I see now that it didn’t protect either of us. Instead, it just widened the distance. Turned connection into assumption, love into guesswork.

And she was carrying her own weight — heavy and invisible. Her frustration built like steam behind a closed door. The more stressed she got, the more it seemed like everything set her off: the kids, the dogs, the state of the world, and sometimes me. Instead of talking to me, she started talking at me. Or past me. Or not at all.

When things were hard, she began to compare me to her ex — expecting that I would let her down in the same ways, bracing for betrayals I hadn’t committed. And I couldn’t convince her otherwise. I didn’t always know how to show up in those moments. Sometimes I got defensive. Sometimes I just shut down. Sometimes I honestly didn’t know what I’d done wrong — only that I’d disappointed her, again.

So no, we didn’t end because we stopped loving each other.

We ended because we stopped talking.

And that brings me back to that third thing: letting go.

I’m not good at it. I hold on to words said in anger and texts left unanswered. I replay conversations looking for the moment I could’ve done it differently. But I’m trying to be better. To forgive her. To forgive me.

Letting go, I’m learning, doesn’t mean pretending it didn’t matter. It means accepting that it did — and still choosing to release the version of the future I once held so tightly.

So yes, I loved her. And yes, I tried to live gently beside her. And now, I’m trying to let go — not because the love wasn’t real, but because grace demands it. Because if only three things really do matter in the end, then I want to get this one right.

Even if it takes me a little while.

Richard Fredrick Boeke, October 19, 1932 - May 23, 2020

"Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards."

                                                    ~ Søren Kierkegaard

It’s only now, looking back, that I begin to truly understand the depth and meaning behind the moments we shared, Dad. When I was younger, they felt simple—like when you took our Cub Scout den to the 1977 BSA Jamboree at Moraine State Park. At the time, it just seemed like a fun adventure — making rope with David and our friends, learning new skills, and laughing as we discovered a few "new" words you might not have planned on teaching us that day. As we grew older, the moments became more challenging. But now, with time and distance, I see them all differently. That particular memory wasn’t just a fun outing; it was a lesson in patience, leadership, resilience, and love — the kind of lessons that you taught not through lectures, but through living example.

Kierkegaard was right. We move forward through life, not always knowing the value of each experience, not always understanding the meaning behind the choices we make or the words we speak. But when I look back now, so much becomes clearer. I see how the way you led, the way you showed up, the way you handled both joy and difficulty—all of it shaped who I am today.

I am so grateful for every lesson you tried to teach me—both the ones I took to heart and the ones I only came to understand later. I know I didn’t always recognize your wisdom in the moment, but looking back, it’s everywhere. Your presence, your guidance, your values—they’re in the way I try to raise my own children, in the way I try to treat people, in the way I live.

I hope you saw that in me. I hope you recognized that the kind of father I strive to be is, in large part, because of the kind of father you were. Our relationship wasn’t perfect—whose is? But your love was always there, steady and strong, and mine never wavered either.

Thank you for everything, Dad. For the memories, the lessons, and the love. I am so thankful I got to spend those last hours with you — to simply be near you, to say goodbye, and to let you know how deeply I care.

I promise I will keep living forwards—with the understanding I carry from looking back. I will continue to strive to be the best person I can be, because that’s what you taught me, and that’s how I will honor you.

Love you forever.

Remembering When Santa Couldn't Find Flipper

A Christmas Story About Loss, Hope, and the Magic We Can't Always Make

There's a Calvin and Hobbes strip that perfectly captures the quiet exasperation and reluctant love parents feel when trying to fix their child's world. It's night, and Calvin's parents are out in the woods searching for Hobbes, Calvin’s lost stuffed tiger. Calvin’s dad grumbles about how ridiculous it is to look for a toy in the dark, while his mom, flashlight in hand, calls out “Ho-o-obbes!” into the trees. In the final panel, she sheepishly admits how silly it feels, and Calvin’s dad replies, “I may be crazy, but I’m not as crazy as you.” It's a moment that’s both absurd and touching—two parents doing something ridiculous simply because it matters deeply to their child.

I think about that strip every time I remember the Christmas of the Missing Flipper.

The Crisis

Faith was about five, and we were doing last-minute Christmas shopping at the mall—that particular kind of December chaos where holiday music battles crying toddlers and everyone's running on caffeine and determination. Faith had brought Flipper with her, as she always did. He was her constant companion, a small gray dolphin I'd picked up years earlier from the gift shop at the Houston Aquarium during a business trip.

Flipper wasn't much to look at—standard stuffed animal fare, the kind you'd find in any aquarium gift shop. But to Faith, he was everything. He had the perfect amount of squishiness, the right weight in her arms, and that indefinable something that makes one toy irreplaceable while a dozen identical ones gather dust.

Somewhere between the food court and Santa's village, Flipper disappeared.

The realization hit like a physical blow. Faith's face crumpled in that way that makes your heart forget how to beat properly. We retraced our steps, asked mall security, checked lost and found. Nothing. Flipper was gone, swallowed up by the holiday crowds and the vast anonymity of shopping mall America.

The Promise

Standing in that mall, watching my daughter's world fall apart over a $12 stuffed dolphin, I did what parents do when backed into an impossible corner: I improvised. I made a promise I wasn't sure I could keep.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. Santa will find Flipper. He has helpers everywhere, and they'll look for him. Santa will bring him back for Christmas."

It was the kind of parental promise that feels necessary in the moment and terrifying immediately after. But Faith's tears stopped, replaced by that beautiful, trusting hope that makes childhood both magical and heartbreaking. She believed Santa could do what we couldn't.

The Search

I was confident this would be easy. I'd bought Flipper at the Houston Aquarium—how hard could it be to call the gift shop and order another one?

Very hard, as it turned out.

Flippers that didn't make the cut

The gift shop no longer carried that particular plush. It had been discontinued. The helpful employee suggested I try their website, other aquarium gift shops, maybe eBay. What had seemed like a simple phone call became a quest that would span two states and the entire internet.

I visited every toy store in Southern California. I bought dolphins from eBay sellers across the country. I examined plush marine life with the intensity of a marine biologist. Gray dolphins, blue dolphins, small dolphins, large dolphins—I acquired enough stuffed sea creatures to stock my own aquarium gift shop.

But none of them were Flipper. None had quite the right shade of gray, the same fin shape, the perfect degree of huggability that made Flipper irreplaceable. Each purchase was accompanied by a mixture of hope and growing dread as I realized the magnitude of what I'd promised.

The Letter

Christmas Eve arrived, and I still hadn't found him. Faith had asked about Flipper every day, her faith in Santa's abilities unwavering. I was going to have to tell her that even Santa had limits.

So I did what parents do when magic fails: I tried to make meaning from the disappointment.

Santa's letter explained that he and his elves had searched the whole world for Flipper. They'd checked toy stores and aquariums, looked in children's bedrooms and under Christmas trees. But sometimes, Santa wrote, when a special toy gets lost, it finds its way to a child who needs it even more—maybe a little boy or girl who didn't have any toys at all, who needed Flipper's comfort even more than Faith did.

Santa was sure Flipper was in good hands, making another child feel loved and safe. And while he couldn't bring back the original Flipper, he hoped Faith would give this new dolphin a chance to become just as special.

The Reality

Faith accepted the explanation with the grace that children sometimes show when adults are honest with them about hard things. She named the new dolphin Flipper 2 and dutifully carried him around for a while. But it was never the same. You can't manufacture the bond between a child and their chosen comfort object, no matter how much love and Santa magic you pour into the attempt.

Flipper Two was tolerated rather than treasured, a constant reminder of what had been lost rather than what had been found.

The Redemption

Faith & a Flipper, St. Nicholas Day 2006.

For a few years St. Nick, who is fond of brining good children stuffed animals on St. Nicholas Day, brought a new dolphin to bring to Faith—mainly to assuage my guilt. Soon enough, she found herself with a bed full of stuffed dolphins. She liked them all but my (and St. Nicholas') quest continued. Finally, a few years later, browsing yet another toy store during the holidays, I found him. Not Flipper—that ship had sailed—but his nearly identical twin. The same shade of gray, the same proportions, the same soft texture that had made the original so perfect.

This time, I didn't promise Faith that Santa had found the original Flipper. St. Nicholas simply left the new dolphin in her stocking with a small note: "Sometimes miracles take a little longer to arrive."

By then, Faith was older, wiser about the ways of the world and the limitations of holiday magic. But she accepted this dolphin with something approaching the old affection, and he became a gentle presence in her room—not quite Flipper, but close enough to bring comfort without the weight of impossible expectations.

The Lesson

In the Calvin and Hobbes strip, Calvin does eventually find Hobbes—his friend Susie had been taking care of him. But the relief comes only after Calvin has experienced the full weight of loss, the helplessness of searching, and the devastating possibility that his best friend might be gone forever. Sometimes the world does restore what's been taken from our children, but not always, and not on our timeline. The magic we create as parents—the reindeer feed, the special keys, the carefully crafted stories—works beautifully when we're building wonder. But it has limits when we're trying to heal genuine loss.

What I learned from the Great Flipper Crisis is that sometimes the most honest magic we can offer our children isn't the promise that everything lost will be found, but the assurance that they're strong enough to survive the losing. That love doesn't end when comfort objects disappear. That new attachments are possible, even if they're different from what came before.

New/Old Flipper

Faith is in college now, and one of the Flippers still sits on her dorm room bed—a quiet testament to the enduring power of comfort, even when it comes in unexpected forms. But I still remember the lesson of that Christmas—that parental love is powerful, but not omnipotent. Sometimes the best gift we can give our children isn't the restoration of what was lost, but the modeling of how to keep going when restoration isn't possible.

The magic we make works best when it celebrates what's present, not when it promises to undo what's past. And sometimes, that's enough.

Merry Christmas, and may all your important things stay found—but may you find strength when they don't.

In a Sad, Awful, Terrible Way...

Unfortunately, I learned very early that every life has an end. My grandparents were killed in an automobile accident when I was still in preschool. I was too young to fully grasp what death meant, but I understood enough to know that I wouldn’t see them again for a very long time. What I remember most vividly is how profoundly sad my mother was when my dad, my brother, and I boarded a plane to Long Island, where Grandma Boeke and my aunt and uncle would care for us for a week or so while my parents stayed behind in Chicago to try to sort things out.

That was my first encounter with loss—and since then, there have been times when I’ve had the gift of preparation. But more often than not, death arrives without warning. It doesn’t knock. It just takes.

This week was one of those unexpected moments. A good friend, a colleague, a woman who would have done anything for me—and I, for her—abruptly left us. There was no warning, no final conversation to soften the blow. Just absence. She was someone whose loyalty and love never needed explanation, whose quiet presence grounded me more than I realized—until now. And as the hours pass, it’s not just grief that weighs on me, but the ache of all the things left unsaid, the moments we never circled back to, the words I didn’t take the time to say.

She was more than my office assistant; she was, aside from my parents and children, the person I was closest to. I often called her my “work mom,” and that title was never an exaggeration. It captured the deep, steady care she showed me—and the unspoken way she looked out for me every single day.

For nearly ten years, she made me better at my job. She helped me stay organized, yes—but more than that, she helped me lead with clarity and grace. She anticipated needs before they were spoken, protected my time, and managed chaos with a calm that could steady anyone. She knew when to gently push, when to hold space, and when to simply listen. She was thoughtful, steadfast, and above all, a dear friend and an extraordinary human being.

Even in the best circumstances, nothing truly prepares you for the moment someone you love is gone. You might have the chance to say goodbye, to hold their hand, to speak the words that feel most important—but the silence that follows always feels heavier than expected. I wasn’t expecting closure when I went to see her in the hospital on Saturday morning, but when her husband told me she was in a prolonged state of unconsciousness with minimal or no awareness of surroundings, the finality of it struck me like a wave. The inability to say goodbye—to really say goodbye—left me hollow.

As I made calls to share the heartbreaking news with colleagues, I found myself overwhelmed by tears and a profound sense of sadness. I know those tears weren’t just about losing someone I loved—they were about everything left unfinished, unsaid, or undone. The pain of regret is sharp—and tragically, it cannot be corrected.

In the midst of this grief, I was reminded of a trio of Calvin and Hobbes comic strips I’ve never forgotten—ones that, remarkably, tell a story of loss, love, and quiet resilience through the eyes of a child. In the first, Calvin finds a dying raccoon and is comforted by his father as he begins to understand death. “I’m crying because out there he’s gone, but he’s not gone inside me,” Calvin says—words that feel especially true right now. When Calvin and Hobbes later visit the raccoon’s grave, Calvin says something quietly profound: “In a sad, awful, terrible way, I’m happy I met him... What a stupid world.” Finally, seeking comfort, Calvin leans on Hobbes and whispers, “But don’t you go anywhere.” Hobbes, like any true friend, simply replies, “Don’t worry.”

She was my Hobbes. And now that she’s gone, I don’t know who I will lean on.

Those moments, rendered in a handful of panels and a few words, hold the same emotional truth I’m grappling with now: that loss doesn’t just take someone from you—it reshapes your memories in shades of longing. But it also illuminates the love that was there, the presence that grounded you, and the grace that comes from having known someone truly good.

So if you are lucky enough to still have the people you love within reach, say what matters. Do what matters. Let your time together be free of the silence that regret so often feeds on. Because when the time comes—and it always does—you’ll want the comfort of knowing your love was known, your words were heard, and nothing truly meaningful was left behind.

A Different Kind of Love Story

There’s a particular kind of silence that follows heartbreak—not the cinematic kind with sad piano music and rain on the windowpane. I’m talking about the awkward, echoey quiet of love that never quite landed, or maybe just wasn’t ready to stay. The kind where you find yourself in the grocery store wondering why the salad dressing aisle is making you emotional. Just me?

After my divorce, I was sure I’d done the work. I’d journaled. I’d processed. I’d read things with italicized subtitles like Falling in Love for All the Right Reasons. So when I opened my heart again—tentatively, hopefully—it was to someone who, like me, had her own battle scars. It felt like the grown-up thing to do. Mature. Evolved. And yet… turns out, being ready to be loved is not the same thing as being ready to love yourself. That was a lesson I got to learn the fun way. More than once.

And then, as it loves to do, Valentine’s Day showed up. You know, that gentle, low-key holiday that celebrates love with $9 greeting cards and heart-shaped pizza specials. It’s great if you’re part of a couple. It’s... less great when you're trying to rebuild your sense of self from the rubble of a relationship that looked promising until it didn’t.

So this year? I’m not writing a card to anyone else. I’m writing one to me.

The last person I loved, I really believed she might be “the one who proved I’d healed.” (Spoiler: she wasn’t.) It was the first serious relationship after the divorce, and for a while, it had all the ingredients—laughter, late-night talks, the occasional shared meme that actually said something meaningful. But in the end, it fell apart in the most familiar way possible: two people, both still carrying pieces they hadn’t figured out how to fit together.

What hurt most wasn’t just the breakup. It was bumping—again—into that hard little truth: you can’t fix someone else’s inability to love themselves by offering up all your best emotional tools. I tried. Believe me. I brought a metaphorical emotional toolkit and everything. But no amount of my own healing was ever going to do the work for her.

I’d like to say I came to that conclusion quickly. But no. Like most life lessons worth learning, this one dragged itself out over several months and way too many long walks. Eventually, I remembered something I once read (probably while procrastinating other life decisions): the Greeks had three words for love. Eros (passionate romance), Philia (loyal friendship), and Agape (selfless, unconditional love). Most of us start off chasing Eros with the energy of a teenager at a Taylor Swift concert, hoping it’ll mature into Philia and maybe—if the stars align—Agape.

But here’s what nobody tells you: all of those require self-love first. And self-love? Not nearly as glamorous as it sounds.

Because after every heartbreak, I’d wind up back in that familiar mental cul-de-sac. You know the one: “Maybe I was too much. Or not enough. Or maybe I said something weird during that third dinner?” (You did, but that’s not the point.)

Eventually, beneath the self-doubt and rewinding of awkward conversations, I found something else: courage. Not the superhero kind. More like the “get out of bed and face the dog-hair-covered chaos of your life” kind.

Courage is what’s left when the fantasy fades and you’re just sitting there with your own reflection—and deciding that maybe you’re still okay. It’s saying, “Alright, maybe we’re not fine-fine, but we’re at least 'functional enough to make pancakes' fine.” Which, let’s be honest, is a win.

Self-love, it turns out, is less bubble baths and more boundary-setting. It’s forgiving yourself for staying too long. For ignoring red flags. For convincing yourself that if you just loved hard enough, it would all work out like a Nicholas Sparks novel (minus the tragic boating accident).

My road back to myself didn’t involve epiphanies atop mountaintops. It looked more like solo hikes, long talks with patient friends, and dogs who showed up every single time I needed a reminder that love doesn’t have to be complicated. It came in the form of family who showed up when I didn’t ask, and in the quiet realization that maybe the version of me who believed love could fix people wasn’t naïve—just hopeful.

But here’s the part I really didn’t want to admit: I kept choosing people who didn’t know how to love themselves, because some part of me still thought I had to earn love. If I was kind enough, funny enough, forgiving enough, it would finally stick. But love—real love—isn’t a reward. It’s not a punch card that gets you a free latte after the tenth heartbreak. It’s a mirror. And until I could look into it and say, “Yeah, I like that person,” I was always going to keep choosing reflections of my own uncertainty.

Valentine’s Day wants to be about couples. But what if we took it back? What if we celebrated all the kinds of love that don’t show up on a Hallmark card? Like the steady presence of family who remind you you’re still lovable. Or the unspoken comfort of dogs who curl up beside you like they’re guarding your soul. Or the quiet joy of realizing you don’t need a relationship to feel whole—just a decent night’s sleep and a good breakfast.

I stopped chasing. I stopped over-explaining. I stopped bleeding for people who knew how to take—but not how to hold.

And I started rebuilding. Not dramatically. Not with a grand Instagram reveal. Just steadily, and honestly, and on my own terms.

And along the way, I found pieces of myself I’d shelved—old joys, old jokes, old weird quirks that were always mine to begin with. I realized I wasn’t a half waiting to be completed. I was a whole, slightly bruised, fully functioning person with a Costco-sized supply of emotional resilience.

We talk about love like it’s a destination. But maybe the best kind of love starts quietly. Maybe it starts the moment you stop auditioning for someone else’s approval and start showing up for your own.

This isn’t a traditional love story. No meet-cute. No orchestral music. No dramatic declarations in the rain.

This is the story of how I started to rescue myself. Awkwardly. Imperfectly. With snacks.

And if love finds me again someday—which I believe it will—it’ll find someone who’s not waiting to be rescued. Not performing. Not shrinking.

It’ll find someone living a life that’s honest, open-hearted, and entirely my own.

So this Valentine’s Day, I’m not mourning what I lost. I’m raising a coffee mug to what I’ve built. A life that is mine. A heart that’s still open. A spirit that’s no longer waiting for permission to feel worthy.

That, I think, is a pretty good kind of love story.

Happy Birthday!

Sometimes, I am amazed that I actually continue to learn day in and day out. You would think that as I approach another year and another birthday, in the middle of my life, I would have learned all that I need to know and would be applying and imparting that knowledge.

But I am continually surprised by the fact that there are more nuanced meanings to the things that I thought I had already learned... For instance, I remember on my 16th birthday, my Mom gave me a hand-made paperweight with Raymond Duncan's quote:

"The best substitute for experience is being sixteen."

At first, I took this as a compliment; as a sixteen-year-old, I believed I should and could do anything. The meaning of those words was clear to me as a young adult... Go forth and do, don't let anything or anyone hold you back.

Then, several years ago, my oldest daughter turned thirteen, and for the first time, I realized the extended meaning of Duncan's words. Teenagers think they know everything (at least mine do) and can do anything. I know that I felt that way. But over time, experience showed me that I clearly didn't know everything, and some things should not be done (under any circumstance).

But that kind of experience only comes through trial (and error). So how the heck can you get a teenager to understand that? The answer is you can't. So the trick for me, as a parent, is to give my children the benefit of my experience without forcing it on them. Give them the space, time, and cushion to learn things independently- this is the magical parenting trick. And if I am being quite honest, I still don't have a handle on how to do this. With my two oldest kids in high school and my youngest just entering her own pre-teen years, we have too many fights because I haven't quite learned how to get them to accept some of my hard-earned experience, nor have I learned to just let go and keep my experience to myself.

However, I'm sure it made my Mom smile when I told her I "figured out" Duncan's words. I hope my epiphany gave her some satisfaction, knowing that by age 40, I had learned a lesson she started teaching me at 16. I only hope I am as successful with my kids.

Which brings me to my thoughts today, the anniversary of my birth. I've spent some time reflecting on the first half (or so) of my life this week. In particular, thinking about what the second half will have in store for me. I don't think this is uncommon for someone to do on his or her birthday. It is like a mid-year performance review at work.

But each time I start to reflect, I remember reading and discussing the words of Walt Whitman's poem, Youth, Day, Old Age and Night, in my high school American Lit class:

Youth, large, lusty, loving--youth full of grace,
force, fascination,
Do you know that Old Age may come after you with
equal grace, force, fascination?

Day full-blown and splendid--day of the immense
sun, action, ambition, laughter,
The Night follows close with millions of suns, and
sleep and the restoring darkness.

I am sure that the common interpretation of every student in my class was that Whitman's poem was an admonition to us (young people). What I remember from that American Literature lecture was the admonishment that "you won't always be young and that old age and death are approaching." The takeaway was to enjoy your fleeting youth because it doesn't last.

I know that when young people act selfishly, their "fleeting youth" is part of the reason. But that doesn't make the actions any less selfish. I worry that if the selfishness goes unchecked, it will grow into a pattern that will continue throughout their lives. At the same time, I can see that I was (on occasion) selfish, and I turned out okay (at least according to most).

So, while I do want my children to enjoy their youth, I also want them to learn from the mistakes I've already made. I do understand and recognize, in the logical part of my brain, that they need to make their own mistakes. But when they make choices that seem to be selfish to me, this paradigm of learning from experience does seem like a no-win situation.

What I'd really like my kids to learn is something that I know now, twenty-five plus years from high school, I know to be true: Youth is certainly fleeting, but life isn't always a zero-sum game. Most things are not a "me or them" or a "right or wrong" exercise. When I first read Whitman's words, I got it wrong. Youth is not at the expense of Age, nor vice-versa.

Just as I realized there is more than one meaning to Duncan’s experience quote, I know that Whitman's words have a more nuanced meaning...

There is beauty, strength, and wonder yet to be found for the young and the old. Whitman was not lamenting aging; he wasn't saying that night and age are stalking us, lying in wait to steal our grace, force, and fascination. His words have a deeper meaning. As we grow older and more experienced, all of these things can be found in abundance, in ourselves, in our children, in those we love, and who surround us -- each of them a bright star in the darkness of our individual nights.

As I blow out the candles on my birthday cake this year, my wish will be two-fold. First, I will wish to find better ways to impart my newfound wisdom to my kids (in ways that they won't see as lessons). Second, and more importantly, I will wish that the individual action, ambition, and laughter of every "sun" in my night sky not only measure up but burn so brightly that they exceed the grace, force, and fascination of the brightest day.

A Father-Son Journey: Baseball, Heartbreak, and Redwoods

Eel River in Humboldt Redwoods State Park

Sometimes the most meaningful trips aren't the ones that go according to plan. Our journey to Eureka, California for the 2009 Babe Ruth Pacific Southwest 13-Year-Old Regional tournament was supposed to be about baseball glory. Instead, it became something far more precious—a father-son adventure that taught us both how to find joy in disappointment and beauty in the unexpected.

The Road North

The drive up to Eureka was electric with possibility. I squeezed into our minivan alongside three of Ted's teammates, their energy infectious as they talked strategy and dreams of making it to the World Series. The hours melted away with teenage banter, music, and that particular brand of nervous excitement that comes before a big tournament. These boys had worked all season for this moment, and watching them—especially Ted—live in that bubble of pure anticipation reminded me why I love being a baseball dad.

Discovering a Different California

Before the games began, we had a chance to explore Eureka itself—a revelation for a bunch of kids from Southern California. This wasn't the California we knew. Gone were the palm trees and endless sunshine, replaced by towering redwoods, cool ocean breezes, and a misty climate that felt almost otherworldly to us high desert dwellers.

A Samoa Cookhouse server

We wandered through the historic Timber Heritage Museum to learn about Eureka's logging heritage. The boys were fascinated by the massive lumber operations that once defined this region, and seeing those enormous logs stacked along the waterfront gave them a new appreciation for the redwood forests surrounding us.

One evening, the entire team piled into vehicles for dinner at the legendary Samoa Cookhouse. Sitting at those long communal tables, being served family-style meals just like the loggers of old, was like stepping back in time. The boys devoured plate after plate of hearty food while listening to stories about the cookhouse's history. For kids used to fast food and chain restaurants, this felt like dining in a living museum. Ted was particularly impressed by the endless platters of food—though I suspect that had more to do with being a perpetually hungry teenager than historical appreciation.

Five Days of Baseball Drama

The games at Eureka Babe Ruth Field were a rollercoaster that would have made any screenwriter proud:

Game 1 (August 6): We opened strong, beating the host team Eureka 4-2. Ted slid safely into home in the fourth inning—a moment captured in a photo that still makes me smile. That slide somehow encapsulated everything about Ted's approach to the game: fearless, determined, and just a little bit reckless.

Game 2 (August 7): Reality check. Tri Valley shut us down 4-1. The boys were quiet that night, but you could see the fire in their eyes. One loss wasn't going to define them.

Game 3 (August 8): Redemption came in the form of a 13-5 demolition of Somervile-Yaqui from Arizona. The bats came alive, and suddenly we were back in contention.

Game 4 (August 9): A 15-8 slugfest victory over Madera put us in the championship game. The boys were flying high, and I was already mentally packing for the next round.

Then came August 11th. The championship game, a rematch against Tri Valley. Ted started at shortstop and then moved to the mound in relief. Just when everything seemed within reach, a line-drive back up the middle ricocheted off of Ted's knee...an injury...

I won't dwell on the details of that moment—any parent who's watched their child get injured in a sport they love knows that sick feeling. What matters is that we finished second, our World Series dreams ended, and suddenly it was just Ted and me facing a 12 hour drive home.

The Healing Power of Highway 101

Here's where the real story begins.

Instead of rushing home to nurse our wounds, we decided to make the most of our time together. Sometimes life's detours lead you exactly where you need to be, and our meandering journey south became one of my most treasured memories.

It was the redwoods that first worked their magic.

Standing among those ancient giants in Humboldt Redwoods State Park, our baseball disappointment seemed to shrink to its proper size. These trees had been growing since before baseball was even invented, surviving ice ages and droughts and countless human dramas. Ted posed by the welcome sign, in his hoody, and I watched him crane his neck up at the towering canopy, maybe gaining some perspective on what really lasts.

We could have spent hours in that cathedral of trees, talking or just walking in comfortable silence. Ted climbed over fallen logs the size of train cars, and for a while he was just a kid exploring, not an injured athlete carrying the weight of a lost championship. But we had many more miles to go...

On the way south, we stopped at the Charles M. Schulz Museum and Snoopy's Home Ice in Santa Rosa. Walking through the museum dedicated to the creator of Peanuts, seeing Charlie Brown dressed as a hockey player and Snoopy in his dapper formal wear, brought some much-needed lightness after the heaviness of the tournament's end. Ted humored his old man as I snapped photos, both of us finding comfort in Schulz's gentle humor and the reminder that even Charlie Brown knew something about dealing with disappointment.

One final stop before it got too dark was the Golden Gate Bridge. Seeing Ted pose there—still wearing that gray hoody, his injury making him move a little slower but his smile genuine—reminded me that some moments transcend wins and losses. The bridge stood there in the fog, magnificent and enduring, a reminder that some things are bigger than baseball.

The drive continued past the scenic bridges spanning San Francisco Bay, through foothills, mountains, and farmland valleys. We stopped for photos, shared gas station snacks, and talked about everything except baseball. Well, mostly everything except baseball.

The Gift of Going Slow

What strikes me now, looking back at those photos, is how this "disappointing" trip became something invaluable. If we'd won the tournament, we would have rushed off to the next competition. We would have missed the redwoods, missed the long conversations, missed the chance to just be together without the pressure of the next game looming.

Ted's injury was heartbreaking in the moment, but it gave us something we rarely had during those intense baseball years: unscheduled time. Time to be tourists in our own state. Time for a teenage son to let his dad take goofy pictures without rolling his eyes too much. Time to remember that the relationship matters more than the results.

The drive home took us the better part of two days, when it could have been done in one. We saw things we never would have seen, talked about things we might never have discussed, and created memories that have outlasted any trophy we might have won.

What Lasts

Ted's injury healed. The sting of finishing second faded. But those photos from our journey home—Ted by the Golden Gate Bridge, among the redwoods, grinning despite everything—those capture something that winning never could have given us.

Sometimes the best trips are the ones that don't go according to plan. Sometimes the most important conversations happen when you're not trying to have them. And sometimes, when your baseball dreams end in disappointment, you discover that the journey home can be the most beautiful part of the whole adventure.

The redwoods taught us something that day: the things that really matter take time to grow, and they're strong enough to weather any storm. Including the storm of a thirteen-year-old's broken baseball dreams and a father's broken heart. Resilience isn't about avoiding disappointment—it's about growing deeper roots that can sustain you through whatever comes next. Those trees had witnessed countless storms, countless seasons of loss and renewal, and they were still reaching toward the light.

But hearts heal, and memories grow stronger with time. And sometimes, if you're very lucky, you get to take the scenic route home.