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.