Lesson Three: Words Matter
I never used to think much about the things I said in passing.
A quick joke. A frustrated comment. A promise tossed out, knowing I wouldn't follow through.
It was just part of moving through the day, managing everything, getting from one obligation to the next.
But somewhere along the way, I realized something uncomfortable:
The moments I barely remember are the ones they might never forget.
When you're a parent, husband, or mentor, your words hit differently.
With your kids, you're not just talking to another adult who can brush things off or rationalize why you're short-tempered.
You're shaping memories.
You're shaping who they become.
And if I'm not careful, the soundtrack of their childhood won't be the laughter, the adventures, or the encouragement — it'll be the moments when I was careless with my voice.
I think about my kids asking to fish.
Something so small.
A simple request to slow down and share time.
I tell them, "Yeah, we'll go soon."
But sometimes, soon doesn't come.
Work piles up, the weather turns, and life gets in the way.
I act selfishly. I choose me over them.
Then I realize.
They're not just asking to fish.
They're asking if they matter enough for me to carve out time.
Intent doesn't excuse absence.
Good intentions don't leave good memories. Action does.
That realization hits harder than almost anything else right now.
Because when I look back at my own life, the things that hurt the most weren't huge betrayals or loud failures.
It was the small things.
The broken promises.
The moments when someone important to me couldn't — or wouldn't — show up.
The things said in anger.
And I never want to be the reason my kids carry that same hurt.
I heard Bert Kreischer tell a story on 2 Bears 1 Cave about a father who won money in a raffle and was crying. Bert asked what was going on, and the man said that now that he has the money, he can throw a birthday party for his kid and be the dad that his kids think he is.
Not the flawed, stressed-out version.
Not the man weighed down by deadlines, bills, and self-doubt.
But the man they see when they look at him with pure belief.
Their hero.
That story gutted me.
Because that's what I want.
I want to earn how they look at me right now — before life teaches them to expect disappointment.
I want them to remember being chosen, even when the world was pulling me in a hundred different directions.
I want them to remember laughter more than lectures, promises kept more than apologies made, and patience more than temper.
I don't want a bad memory or traumatic event to cloud their picture of me and who I was when, one day, all they have of me are memories.
But that doesn't just happen by wanting it.
It happens by living it.
By catching myself when I'm about to snap.
By saying "yes" and meaning it.
By slowing down when every part of me wants to speed up.
By fishing, even if a dozen "more important" things are waiting.
Words matter.
Because years from now, they won't remember the emails I sent, the deadlines I met, or the nights I stayed late to fix something that seemed urgent.
They'll remember if I made them feel seen.
They'll remember if I kept my promises.
They'll remember if my words were a bridge — not a wall.
And maybe, just maybe, if I keep working at it, I'll get to be the man they already believe I am.
Maybe I won't close my eyes one night 30 years from now, desperate to do anything to go back in time and not break those promises, not say those words, and not fall short of expectations.