Find Your Hour

“I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world.”

E. B. White

There's a bike path near our house that winds through a park, along a pond and a creek, surrounded by trees. In the early morning, the path is empty, the dew still glistening on the grass. There are a couple of small wooden bridges that make just enough sound as my tires roll over them—a brief disruption to the quietness before everything goes smooth and silent again.

I remember the first time I just kept riding. Thirteen miles without thinking about turning back. The sun was peeking over the horizon, casting everything in that golden light that only exists for a few minutes each day. The world felt like it was standing still while I was in motion. And in that moment, everything made sense.

Not in a way I could explain or write down. Just clarity. Everything and nothing at the same time.

The everything is how important those moments can feel—bigger than the small tasks that surround me, the ones that sometimes seem massive. It puts life in perspective. The nothing is the fact that sometimes it takes nothing happening, that morning stillness, for me to see how big the world actually is.

I'm a sucker for sunrises. Everything just seems to make sense when I see them. And I can see them most clearly, sometimes the only time I can see them clearly, during those magical morning hours.

I didn't always wake up this early for myself. It started as necessity. I used to leave the house by 6:30 a.m. to get to work and beat rush hour traffic, which meant waking around 5. Getting to the office early gave me time to catch up on emails, do focused work with no distractions, get things done before meetings started piling up.

When hybrid work started, I just kept waking up at 5. But instead of immediately diving into work, I used the time for me. It started with meditation. Catching a sunrise. Or just enjoying a cup of tea while looking out the window.

Then I started working out. That was hard at first—making it a habit, pushing myself when I'd rather stay in bed. But over time, something shifted. My body started craving it. It became a needed part of feeling like I'd achieved something before most people were even awake.

There's something rational about it too. Working out clears my head for the day ahead. Gets the dopamine and endorphins going. And catching that sunrise? Vitamin D straight from the source. It's not just emotional, it's biological. My body and mind both need it.

Last Tuesday, I woke up at 5 a.m. Took my time drinking a protein shake, taking my multivitamins, putting on my knee brace and workout clothes. Went to the gym. Came home and iced my knee while listening to music and playing fetch and tug with Max and Domino. Took a shower. And when I walked into the living room, you were there, Lyla, greeting me with that big hug, just like the dogs had greeted me with all their excitement.

I was able to do so many things that I would have never made or had time for later in the evening.

Here's what I've learned: without that morning hour, I feel like I'm running to catch up with the day. Like I'm playing a game from behind. And typically, I never catch up. There's just a feeling that I can't get everything I want to get done, so everything feels rushed. Nothing feels like enough.

But when I start the day having already done something for myself—worked out, caught a sunrise, listened to music, just thought or wrote—I feel like I'm starting from ahead. I've already taken care of me. Now I can take care of us.

It took me a long time to understand why that matters so much.

There are so many hats you have to wear as you go deeper into adulthood, Lyla. Parent, partner, employee, friend, sibling. The hat that usually gets deprioritized or completely eliminated? "Me." The person you are when no one else is watching or needing something.

And honestly, I'm happy—truly happy—to deprioritize "me" for "us" after 7 a.m. and until I go to sleep. Our family is that important to me. But I need those morning hours first. Even if it's just an hour or two, the incremental gains that come from continuously doing, building, and making time for myself compound exponentially when it's done day after day.

You know I wake up early. And I love you to death, but I hope you never join me. Not because I don't want to spend time with you, but because if you do wake up early someday, I hope you make it YOUR time instead of "our" time. That time is too valuable to share, even with people you love.

Here's the reality though: even if you try to carve out time for yourself, things pop up. Many times things pop up. That's why first thing in the morning is so valuable. Rarely are things popping up before people wake up. You have to accept that there are certain times you "control" more because there are fewer opportunities for disruption. My morning routine is heavily influenced by that. It's not just about choosing mornings—it's about choosing a time when the world isn't asking anything of me yet.

Maybe you'll be someone who needs this hour. Maybe you won't. But if you ever feel like you're losing yourself in all the roles you play, in all the people who need you, remember: it's okay to carve out time to remember who you are.

It doesn't have to be mornings. It doesn't have to be exercise or sunrises or bike rides. It just has to be yours. And it has to be a time when the world is less likely to interrupt.

I can give everything else away—my time, my energy, my focus—as long as I've had those morning hours first. As long as I've seen the sunrise, felt the world stand still, remembered what clarity feels like.

Find your hour. Protect it. Make it yours.

Building and Finishing

“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.

Truth, Lies, and the Space Between

“The best stories are true. But not all truths need to become stories.”

Unknown

Last week, you showed me a piece of art you'd made, Lyla. I told you it was incredible.

It was good. I was proud of you. I wanted you to feel all the warmth I felt looking at it. I wanted to encourage you to make more, to keep showing me your creations, to know that I see what you're building.

But was it incredible? Or was I embellishing because I wanted the moment to land the way I felt it?

I've been thinking about this a lot lately. About the lies I tell. The small ones, the ones that slip out before I even realize I'm doing it. The ones that make stories a little bigger, pain a little sharper, moments a little more dramatic.

I lie sometimes. Not always consciously. Not always maliciously. But I do it.

Sometimes it's obvious: one step past sarcasm, so blatant that I assume no one could possibly mistake my actual words for truth. Sometimes it's so subtle even I barely notice. And sometimes, it's wrapped in something true, something I genuinely feel, but I've turned up the volume to make sure it's heard.

I've been thinking about how emotional truth and factual truth aren't always the same thing. That you can feel something deeply real even if the details aren't perfectly accurate. But where's the line? When does heightening truth become creating falsehood?

I think I've figured out a framework. It's not perfect, but it's what I've learned: If embellishment triggers a NEW emotion (one that the truth wouldn't have created), then it's manipulation. But if it HEIGHTENS an emotion that the truth already contains? That might just be storytelling.

When I told you your art was incredible, I was heightening my genuine pride. I wasn't creating a false emotion. But I wonder: am I teaching you that "good" isn't enough? That truth needs to be amplified to matter?

Years ago, I learned something at work. Someone had created a situation where they personally benefited in a way that was ethically questionable. It came to light after they'd left the company, but the information could have damaged people who had nothing to do with it, people who were trying to build something better.

About two years later, someone asked if I knew about it. I said I didn't.

It was a stupid lie. Of course I knew. But I didn't want that information weaponized against people who didn't deserve it.

I don't regret protecting those people. But I don't think lying was the right call either. Both of those things live in my head at the same time.

Because here's the thing about truth: sometimes it does damage. Like if someone asks you to compete against them as hard as you can because they want to beat you fair and square, but you know if they lose after trying their absolute hardest, it will crush them. They'll be so demotivated and deflated that they give up before they can actually beat you fair and square. And you want to see them get there.

That's a dangerous truth. But it's still a lie to hold back.

Another time, I told someone about that ethically questionable situation. I told them the truth, the full truth. And they just said, "That's how the world works."

They dismissed it. My truth didn't register as important to them.

For a moment, I wondered: should I have made the number bigger? If I'd doubled the amount, tripled it, would they have cared about the morality then? Would exaggerating have been justified if it made them see what was wrong?

But that's exactly the trap. That would have been creating a new understanding, not heightening the truth. I would have been manipulating them into caring about something different than what actually happened. That's where I would have crossed the line. That's where embellishment becomes deception.

People will try to manipulate you with "emotional truths" that are built on lies, Lyla. They'll tell you stories that feel real, that make you feel what they want you to feel, but the foundation is false.

Your truth matters. Even if someone dismisses it. Your experience is real. Your feelings are valid.

But factual reality still matters too. If someone tells you something happened that didn't happen, that's not just a different truth. That's living in a false world. And we correct people living in false worlds.

So when you're tempted to embellish, to make a story bigger so someone will really get it, ask yourself: Am I heightening a truth that's already there? Or am I creating a new understanding that isn't real?

I still struggle with this. I catch myself saying things that aren't quite true, and I try to clarify afterward, to make sure people know my intentions were good even if my execution was messy.

When I told you your art was incredible, I meant it. Not because every technical element was perfect, but because watching you create something, watching you decide what mattered to you and bring it into the world, that IS incredible to me.

Maybe the trick isn't avoiding embellishment entirely. Maybe it's making sure that when we amplify something, we're amplifying what's genuinely there.

The line matters. Truth matters. Even when it's complicated. Even when it's not enough on its own.

Especially then.