A reflection on how a simple Dad’s Advice slide deck became the seed of this blog — a place to store wisdom, life lessons, and love for my kids to return to someday.
I’ve always carried this sense that I left home unprepared for the real world. No playbook. No practical wisdom. Just a quiet feeling of, “I guess I’m supposed to figure this out now.”
I don’t necessarily blame my parents. I know now they were doing their best. It was the prevailing parenting style at the time — and I’m sure I wasn’t great at asking for what I needed, either. That was a skill that came later, as I matured.
When I began to live more intentionally in my 40s (Book That Rewired the Way I Live →), I started to realize: I want my kids to have something practical to take with them when they leave the house.
I’ve always coached them, and I see no reason to stop when they leave home — that season is coming fast. I don’t see my role as ending when they become adults. I want to be in this with them for as long as I’m here.
It began as a simple PowerPoint called Dad’s Advice — a living document I plan to send to my kids when they’re ready to leave the house.
The very first slide is titled “If you read only one slide, remember this.” It says:
I LOVE YOU MORE THAN ANYTHING.
YOU ARE KIND, SMART, AND IMPORTANT.
YOU WILL DO GREAT THINGS IN THIS LIFE.
YOU MUST HAVE POWERFUL DREAMS.
This is the Dad voice I want my kids to hear in their heads long after I’m gone.
Then the deck goes on to cover the stuff I wish someone had told me — philosophy, finances, mindset, learning, relationships, productivity, courage, leadership. The practical and the soulful.
I always loved Ethan Hawke’s vibe as a dad in Parenthood — the kind of guy who’d say “Look three cars ahead and two cars behind” when teaching his kid to drive, or who’d make a homemade Black Album of Beatles solo songs for a birthday. That’s the spirit I want in my advice: useful, loving, human.
And today it hit me: that Dad’s Advice deck was really the seed of this blog.
I wanted a place to capture this stuff. A public storage locker for random life lessons, thoughts, recipes, philosophies — things that might outlive me. Things my kids can come back to someday. Things that might help someone else along the way.
On the last day of third grade, my daughter came home heartbroken — and reminded me just how deep a child’s heart can feel. A small story of grief, comfort, and boba tea.