Dear Reader,

Hard night with Cléo.

If you’ve got young kids, you know the kind of tired I’m talking about.

I’m writing this in the morning light, sitting at my desk with my friend Simon’s new album playing in the background. It’s lifting me a bit—wanted to pass it along in case you need something good in your ears too. Here’s the link.​

And before I dive in, let me say this:
Thanks for being here. Thanks for reading these letters—even the long, messy, vulnerable ones like this.

Today’s not a tidy story. It’s more like… everything all at once.

Lately, I’ve been feeling this old ache.
A longing to be received in my fullness—without needing to perform, fix, or prove anything.

It’s taken me back to my teenage years, to military school.
That's when I first started journaling—they were little windows into who I was trying to become.
One day, someone found them. Read them. Mocked them.

And my system learned: it’s safer to dim down than be exposed.
To shrink.
To second-guess.
To perform instead of just be.

Which is why it feels wild that I’m writing this newsletter now—basically opening my journal again, this time by choice.

And maybe that’s how we heal.

This weekend I was with friends, people I love and trust.
And even then, I caught myself holding back.
Noticing how my energy shifts. Wondering if I’m being too much.

But later that day, I found a dandelion.

I remembered how, as a kid, I used to make little trumpets from them.
So I made one. Played a goofy note.
They laughed. Joined in.

That moment—goofy, open, childlike—became the most memorable part of the day.

I’ve been journaling a lot about this. Here’s what’s clear:

But they’re also the parts I’ve learned to hide, because somewhere along the way, I got the message that being free would be mistaken for being irresponsible.

That idealism meant immaturity.
That sensitivity meant weakness.

But here’s what I’m remembering:

I’m not irresponsible. I’m responsive.
I’m not immature. I’m in touch.
I’m not broken. I just wasn’t meant to prove my worth. I was meant to live it.

I’ve been calling this the path of the black sheep.
The one who steps off the path.
The one who doesn’t fit the mold.

Maybe you feel that, too.

It shows up when you raise your kids differently than you were raised.
When you start therapy, or a business, or speak your truth in a relationship.
When you say no to the roles you were handed, and yes to the life you’re shaping.

That’s not rebellion.
That’s repair.

And it’s sacred work.

A man wrote to me this week. He said:

I don’t have answers for the world.
But I do know this:

Every reply you send.
Every time you share your story.
Every time you choose presence over proving.

That matters.
That’s how we make a dent.

This isn’t about becoming someone else.
It’s about remembering who you are.
And letting that version speak, play, mess up, and lead.

Right now, I’m working on something new. A next step after the Rooted Dad Wake-Up Guide.

It’s called The Rooted Week.
A 7-day blueprint to help you build a more grounded, intentional family rhythm.

If you want to help shape it—reply.
If you have feedback, questions, ideas—send them my way.
This is a co-creation. You’re part of it.

I’ll leave you with this:

Let’s stop betraying it.
Let’s start leading from it.

Stay rooted,
​Mihai

Wake Up. Live Fully.

​

P.S. If you’re a fellow black sheep, trying to raise your family with more presence and less proving—thank you. You’re not lost. You’re ahead of your time.

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