Having Someone’s Back

On loyalty, defending your people, and the courage it takes

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“Loyalty means I am with you whether you are wrong or right. But I will tell you when you are wrong and help you get it right.”

Unknown

There's a scene from the movie This is 40 that's haunted me for years.

Two divorced parents, barely on speaking terms, find themselves in a school meeting where their child is being criticized. Instantly, despite all their differences, they close ranks. They defend their kid with a ferocity that's almost primal. They know, deep down, their child might actually be in the wrong. But in that moment, none of it matters. The world is divided: us versus them.

I've always wished I could be that person. The one who instinctively closes ranks. Who defends first and processes later. Who doesn't need to understand the full story before knowing which side they're on.

But I'm not wired that way. And I've learned, sometimes painfully, what it costs when the people you love need you to be that person, and you're not.

Early in our marriage, your mom and I struggled with this. My mom, your grandmother, has different parenting approaches than we do. Generational differences, cultural differences, just different ways of seeing the world. And she couldn't quite keep her opinions to herself, even though I don't think she expected us to follow her approach.

I didn't try to side with her. I tried to explain where she was coming from. I wanted us to move forward with your mom's and my approach, but I didn't want my grandmother to feel unheard.

But in the process, your mom felt unheard.

She didn't need me to be a mediator. She didn't need me to help everyone understand each other. She needed me to be on her side. To close ranks. To say, "We're doing it this way, end of discussion."

And I didn't. I tried to be fair. I tried to see both sides. And in doing that, I made your mom feel like I wasn't really with her.

That's the tension I've never quite figured out: how to honor truth and nuance while also showing up for your people. How to be thoughtful without being a bad ally.

Recently at work, my team laid into a partner who hadn't delivered on what they promised. Six of us on the call versus primarily just him. They went line by line through the issues and didn't allow him to defend or explain. He took it all, but followed up with an email expressing disappointment, defending himself, diminishing the points my team had made.

Here’s the thing: a conversation had to happen. But maybe not that way. And I froze. I still don’t know what would’ve helped, but I know I should’ve tried.

This is my pattern, Lyla. I freeze in the moments that matter. My brain can't process fast enough. If I'm prepared, I'm fine. But on the spot, I can't find the words. And by the time I've thought it through, the moment has passed.

There was a time I got it right, though. Someone on my team made a mistake that cost the agency money. A dumb mistake that they caught themselves, shared with me, and were devastated about. My boss asked me to tell her who made the mistake so she could talk to them and essentially threaten their job.

I refused to give the name.

But here's the thing: I did it via email. I had thirty minutes to collect my thoughts, to figure out the right words. I told her I was ultimately responsible, and if she needed to fire someone for the issue, it should be me. I told her I'd rather have someone on my team who made the mistake and learned from it than someone new who could make the same mistake because they'd never learned that lesson.

She wrote back: "Thank you for your thoughtful reply. I think this matter is closed."

That's who I want to be. The person who takes the heat for their people. Who closes ranks without hesitation. Who defends first and sorts out the details later.

But I only got there because I had time to think. On the spot, I freeze. And the people who need me in those moments don't get thirty minutes for me to compose an email.

I think about my mom defending me with a teacher once. I've written about it before. But what I remember most is how it felt: proud that she was my mom, seen, supported, understood. She had my back completely, even if I was wrong. And that feeling, knowing someone will fight for you no matter what, that's everything.

I want you to feel that way about me.

But here's what I've learned: you can't figure out loyalty in the moment. If you wait until you're in the crisis to decide whose side you're on, you might freeze. You might try to be fair when someone needs you to be fierce.

So I've had to decide ahead of time. There's a handful of people in my life who get instant defense. No questions asked. No processing required. For them, I close ranks first and figure out the rest later.

You're at the top of that list. Always.

For everyone else, I need to understand before I defend. I want to see both sides. I want to be thoughtful. And that's okay for most situations.

But you need to know which kind of person you are before the moment comes. Not during.

Here's what I want you to know:

You might freeze too. In moments where someone needs you to defend them, your brain might not process fast enough. You might be too thoughtful, too fair, too slow to find the words.

So think about this now. Know your circle before the crisis comes. Decide who gets instant defense: no questions, no processing, just "I'm with you." Because if you wait until you're in the moment, you might hesitate.

And those moments live with you.

I'll always have your back. You're in my circle. You always will be. Even when I freeze, even when the words don't come fast enough, I'm on your side.

I just hope, when your moments come, you'll be better at it than I am.

Being Without Struggle

On learning to rest, be still, and know your worth without a problem to solve

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“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.

Building and Finishing

On the difference between building for joy and finishing what truly matters

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“Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can.”

Arthur Ashe

Last year, my dad brought over a router he'd had for years but never used. We were building a cabinet together—me, him, and you, Lyla—and we needed it to cut grooves for the shelves.

Neither of us had ever turned on a router before. So when I picked it up, my dad stood next to me with his hand on the plug, ready to yank it out if things went sideways. I flipped the switch, and the thing roared to life—this incredible surge of power vibrating through my hands, sawdust exploding everywhere. When I turned it off (didn't need the emergency unplug), we both just looked at each other, grinning like idiots, covered in sawdust, amazed by what we'd just done.

That cabinet is one of my favorite things we've ever made. It's also kind of a disaster.

It weighs a ton because we built it with 2x4s instead of lighter wood. The joinery is already cracking after less than a year. There's a gap between the doors that won't close properly. By any objective measure, it's flawed.

But I love it. Because we made it together. Because we figured it out as we went. Because it exists in our space, custom-built for our needs, and it works. The imperfections don't diminish it—they're part of the story.

There's a Japanese concept called Wabi-Sabi: finding beauty in imperfection, in things that are handmade and flawed and human. That cabinet is Wabi-Sabi. And there's real wisdom in that—in valuing the process over perfection, in building for joy instead of mastery.

But I've spent most of my life hiding behind that wisdom.

I'm a builder, Lyla. Always have been. Games, art, music, websites, processes, half-finished songs. If there's a through-line in my life, it's this: I like making things.

But I rarely build to mastery. I build to "good." Maybe "good enough." And if I'm honest, there's a reason for that: fear.

If I never give 100%, I never have to face the possibility that my best isn't good enough. I can always say, "Look how good this is, and I wasn't even trying my hardest." It's a built-in excuse, a shield against disappointment.

I know this about myself. And I wish I could change it.

When I was in Chicago, I went to an orientation at the Art Institute for an MFA program. I wanted it. I could picture the whole thing—the studio space, the late nights working on projects, the community of other artists pushing each other. I wanted to make art my work, not just my hobby.

But I never applied.

I told myself it was because I'd have to create a whole portfolio, which felt like too much work. Because I was already successful in my field. Because I didn't want to take on debt. Because I might not finish.

All true. All excuses.

The real reason? I was afraid to start something that would require 100% of me. Because what if I gave everything I had, and it still wasn't enough?

So I didn't start. And I wonder sometimes about the sliding doors version of my life—the one where I said yes to that fear, where we lived smaller materially but bigger creatively. I don't regret the life I have. I wouldn't trade you or your mom for anything. But I do think about it.

Here's the thing, though: I have given 100%. At least once.

It was during the pandemic. We were spending so much time in our living room, and I realized I hated being in there. The fireplace in the middle of the room made everything feel closed off and dark. People told us not to remove it. But I had a vision—what the room could be if we opened it up, if we let the light pour in.

So we did it. We went all in. Ripped out the fireplace, remodeled the whole space, ignored the advice that said we were making a mistake.

And it transformed everything. Not just the room—the whole house. The way we live in it, the way it feels. I can't believe we actually did it. We almost never do anything that big.

But we did. And I love being in that room now. I love the light. I love the space for our whole family.

That's what happens when you commit. When you stop hedging, stop holding back, stop giving yourself an out. You transform things.

You published a book this year, Lyla. You became the first published author in our family.

I watched you go from excited to struggling to almost giving up. And then something shifted. You had a deadline with your teacher, and you just decided. You put your mind to it and got it done.

I've seen you do this with other things too. You have this ability—once you really decide, you just do it. No excuses, no hedging. You commit and you finish.

I don't know if I'm more proud of what you created or that you actually did it. Both, I think.

But here's what I want you to know: when you were struggling, you still had an "out." You could have stopped. And part of you hadn't fully decided yet, even though you'd started.

The moment you decided—really decided—everything changed. That's the difference between meddling and finishing.

There's a time and place for discovery and meddling. For building imperfect cabinets with people you love. For trying new things without needing to master them. For finding joy in the process, even when the result is flawed.

But there's also a time for pursuit of excellence. For giving 100%. For committing to finishing something hard, even when you have an out.

The tragedy isn't imperfection. The cabinet can be cracked and heavy and still be beautiful.

The tragedy is letting fear keep you from finishing the things that matter.

Don't let the easy path—the discovery, the meddling, the "good enough"—steal your ability to commit when something deserves your 100%. You already know how to do this. You've already done it.

I just don't want you to lose that as responsibilities mount later in life. I think that's what happened to me. The excuses got easier. The outs got more reasonable. And somewhere along the way, I stopped finishing the hard things.

But you? You decided to finish your book. And you did.

Hold onto that. Know when to play and when to commit. And when something matters—really matters—give it everything.

Because the things you finish by giving 100%? Those are the ones that transform everything.

Just like your book. Just like our living room.

Just like the person you're becoming.