The Distance We Don't Talk About

in

On the unspoken gap that grows between people who love each other

"Love is not something we give or get; it is something that we nurture and grow, a connection that can only be cultivated between two people when it exists within each one of them."

Brené Brown

My sister sent an email once to our whole family, outlining who would be the guardian of her children if something happened to her and her husband.

It wasn't a legal document, but it felt like one. Formal. Final. A plan in writing.

I wasn't on the list.

There was no conversation before. No conversation after. The relationship must have felt so obviously distant that no conversation was needed. Of course it wouldn't be me.

My brother is the same. I'm not trusted to watch his children. I'm not on the list to pick them up from school. I'm not trusted with any significant oversight.

I tell myself it makes sense. Different cities. Different parenting styles. Different lives. But it says something, doesn't it? Something about how we see each other. About the quiet distances that have grown between us, even as we still call each other family.

I always thought family was everything. Not in the Hallmark-card sense, but in the way that, if the world fell apart, these were the people I'd call. My parents, my siblings, their families. My "ride or dies."

I never really pictured what that would look like as we all got older. I just assumed we'd be close. Maybe even closer.

And in some ways, we are. My sister is basically my best friend. But even with her, there are things I can't say. Things I won't say. Because she has a way of making it so that if you're not on the same page, then you aren’t in the same book. I'm afraid that if I share a tiny bit of moderation, or play devil's advocate on something I don't feel that strongly about, she might stop being friends with me.

And the idea of losing my best friend over something so small seems absolutely silly. So I just avoid certain topics altogether, because I don't really know where the line is.

There's a part of me that wonders how strong our friendship actually is if she could drop me over something that, in my mind, is not crucial for a friendship. And if I extend that out further, if my best friend is willing to drop me over something so inconsequential, how good are my other friendships really?

I don't seem to be anyone's first call. Even my closest friends have closer friends. I'm always in what I think of as the "second circle." Present, but not primary.

The pandemic made the distance with my siblings more visible. My brother wouldn't help me move a couch because he didn't want to come into our house, only to then have a larger outdoor party that seemed much less safe to me. I didn't know how to read that situation.

Then there was a time when your mom didn't include them in a birthday event, primarily because their son couldn’t be vaccinated yet and she was worried about what that meant for you.

While those are just two specific examples, both situations felt like overreactions to me. They showed how there were lines we didn't want to cross, in my mind, because relationships weren't worth the risk.

I know it's way more nuanced than that. But it just felt like the first time that both sides showed who they're willing to be risky for, and who they're not.

Maybe it's not a tragedy. Maybe it's just the truth of growing up, of building our own families, of loving people fiercely but also honestly. Maybe "ride or die" doesn't mean what I thought it did.

Maybe that's okay.

But here's what keeps me up at night: what we model for you. You don't have siblings, Lyla, so your experience of family will be different than mine. But you're watching how I navigate relationships. How I handle distance. How hard it is for hard conversations not to happen.

And I see the beginnings of distance with you, too.

Not pulling back, exactly. But there are things you don't trust me with. Things you share with your mom that you never share with me. Things I need to know, like when you scraped your knee at school one day and didn't want to tell me about it. I still don't know why.

There are other times where it makes more sense to me, especially if you think I'll get upset or want to have a conversation about something you'd rather avoid. And that kills me.

Because I did that. Clearly there must have been a reaction I had, a conversation I created, that made you want to avoid me. I did that. And I wish I didn't.

Right now, you still run to the garage to tell me you love me when I'm leaving for work. Sometimes when I get home, as soon as the garage door opens, you run out, jump in the car, and start telling me about THE THING that you’re enjoying in that moment. The genuine excitement to spend as much time together as possible—it melts my heart.

But I'm terrified that someday, you'll only want your nuclear family. Your own family. And I'll be in the "second circle" with you, too.

It would pain me to no end. But I'd also be proud that you made a decision for your own happiness, despite whatever obligation you might feel. And I hope I don't put that obligation on you.

Here's what I want you to know:

You don't owe me closeness. You don't owe me anything. The world doesn't owe you anything either. Despite not owing anything, we do things anyway, because it's what we want to have happen, because we care at a different level, because we choose to. But not because we owe someone.

I want to be close to you for the rest of my life. But I would never want to force spending time with me upon you if you didn't want that too.

Closeness, to me, means wanting to spend time with each other despite differences. Being okay with vulnerability. Trusting each other to look out for each other. Making time for each other. And in your case, I hope it means unconditional love from you to me, because I know it means that from me to you.

But I can't build that alone. And I can't assume it will just exist because we're family.

My siblings and I loved each other. We still do. I love them so much. But somewhere along the way, we stopped building the kind of closeness that would make us trust each other with our children. We stopped having the hard conversations. We accepted distance as inevitable instead of fighting for something deeper.

I don't want that with you.

So if there's ever distance between us, if you feel it growing, if I've done something, if there's something you need from me, I'm asking you to name it. Don't let it sit in silence like I did with my siblings. Give me a chance to understand. Give me a chance to change.

I'm willing to change pieces of myself to ensure we have a strong relationship. I don't say this lightly. There are very few people I'd be willing to change for. But you're one of them. You always will be.

I don't want you to fall into obligatory relationships. I don't want you to feel you have to be close with anyone out of etiquette or expectation. Be real with yourself. Prioritize yourself. But while doing so, also love other people. See and accept people's flaws, so long as those relationships don't turn toxic or abusive or one-sided.

And if you ever feel distance with me, reflect on why. If you feel comfortable, call me. Come visit me. Ask me to visit you. I don't think there's anything in life we can't work out with conversation. But we both have to want the closeness for that to work.

I hope I never do anything to compromise that want from you.

What I'm learning is this: family closeness isn't guaranteed by blood or proximity or history. It's built. Actively. Vulnerably. With hard conversations and grace for each other's flaws.

I failed to build it the way I wished it had been built with my siblings. Maybe we all did. And I'm terrified I'm failing with you.

But I want you to know, I want to build it. I'm trying. And if I'm messing it up, I need you to tell me.

Because you're worth changing for. You're worth the risk of vulnerability. You're worth fighting for closeness, even when it's not guaranteed.

I just hope you'll want to fight for it too.

But even if you don't, even if someday the distance grows and you choose your own path, I want you to know: I tried. I saw what happened with my siblings, and I tried to do better with you. And that trying, that fighting for closeness, is worth it whether or not I succeed.

Because you're worth it. Always.

In the Space Between Ambition and Enough

in

When your capability exceeds your ambition, and that's actually the goal

“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

in

How three words became a framework for every decision that followed

“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.