Not Happiness, But Balance

"Happiness is not a matter of intensity but of balance, order, rhythm and harmony."

Thomas Merton

For so long, I've pursued happiness. I have tried to chase it, live it. I've reflected, experimented, changed the way I live, changed the way I work, changed the way others work through the influence of my position.

But this week I watched a monk share his take on happiness. Not happiness, he insisted. Peace. His goal wasn't happiness, but balance. He said that wishing for only joy implies that sadness is something to avoid. A bold idea that life can exist without sadness. But he understood that sadness isn't something to avoid - it is the balance that is necessary in any world, in any life.

I didn't know how something so simple could be something I could have overlooked. The pursuit of happiness is both inspiring and gives hope. But it's also a wonderful example of how we can't find peace. When you're always pursuing, it's usually because you assume wherever you currently are is not a state of happiness. Otherwise you wouldn't be pursuing.

I love hope. It's a key part of who I am and what drives me. But peace is being content in what you have, while also being hopeful for what's next.

This is hard to hold. To be genuinely satisfied with where you are while simultaneously working toward something more. Most of us mistake one for the other - we think contentment means giving up ambition, or we think ambition requires dissatisfaction with the present. But I'm living in that space right now. I can be with you and your mom, relatively present in ways I wasn't before, while also contributing at a high level at work. There's excitement for what will eventually come, but I'm not forcing it. I'm not restless. I'm here, and I'm also moving forward. That's peace with hope. That's the balance.

Peace can be found in both joy and sadness. It can also be as elusive as a mirage in a desert. It's not something that needs to be pursued, but something to be found. Not found in that it is hiding, but found right in front of you. It is the forest amongst the trees.

When I left my previous job, I felt tremendous guilt. I was leaving a team I cared deeply for, that I fought for and with, that I wanted to keep working with. I felt pride for what we built and were still building. I was grateful - still am - for the opportunity to fight alongside so many people. But that fight took a lot out of me.

It took a month or two into my new job to fully reset, but in that reset I found peace. It wasn't the highest high. It was a level of evenness. Everything wasn't perfect, but it was a situation where peace wasn't just possible, but encouraged. It's still up to me to find that peace, which is more something you float in and out of, but I seem to be "in it" so much more these days.

I find it when I'm problem-solving, when I'm creating - not productivity for productivity's sake, but movement that feels like progress. And I find it every Sunday morning.

Your mom, you, and I go to a coffee shop every Sunday and I write, pen to paper, about anything I'm thinking about. I've been doing it over a year now. The first time felt special - novel, a treat. Now it feels like a second home. Not special in that same way anymore, but comforting. Like it's a part of me.

There have been times I've struggled to find things to write about, but honestly, they're fewer than I expected. And even in those moments, I just get something down on the paper, knowing it's okay if I literally never read that page again. The point isn't brilliance or masterpieces. The point is just to capture something. Anything. There's a wonderful combination of calmness before the world is fully awake, a small amount of people-watching, being there with the people I love most in the world and who love me most, the sensation of taste and smell that accompanies a well-crafted latte, and still having the purpose of capturing my thoughts... for me and no one else.

That practice has taught me something about peace. It's not about the quality of what you produce or even what you feel in the moment. It's about showing up, being present, and allowing whatever is there to be there. Some Sundays I write about profound realizations. Some Sundays I write about nothing at all. The peace comes from the practice itself, not from what the practice yields.

The mindset is fluid. The world is ever-changing. But peace is still. It's a calibration to remain steady, knowing that some bumps can't be steadied, but also knowing some of those bumps are necessary to push forward.

It's taken me too long to crystallize this: optimizing toward happiness is what we're taught, and at some level it makes sense. But the reality is that life is beautiful across the range of feelings and emotions. The full range of emotions is what makes the happiness truly happy.

Understanding why the balance of emotions is necessary takes time. Understanding the value of sadness and struggle takes even longer, but the value is always there. The sadness sharpens the joy. The struggle makes the peace more precious. It's up to us to find peace with each emotion, find balance in those emotions, and as a part of that, find peace itself.

You're incredibly in tune with your emotions already. At nine years old, you're so far past the emotional intelligence I had at twenty-five. But I notice you avoid negative emotions when you can. Who wouldn't? Most people spend their entire lives doing exactly that.

But I hope you'll be different. I don't want you to seek out sadness or struggle - that's not the point. But I hope you'll find peace within them when they come. Not peace as the absence of difficulty. Not peace as trying to rush through the hard parts to get back to happiness. But peace as the practice of being present with whatever is in front of you - the chaos and the stillness, the peaks and the valleys.

Peace is seeing that where you are right now, even if it's hard, even if you're hoping for something different, is exactly where you need to be. For your sake, I hope you learn this younger than I did.

The Distance We Don't Talk About

"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.

Having Someone’s Back

“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.