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.