Hey Reader,

It’s Monday afternoon and I’m writing before we leave for Greece tomorrow.
Aurélie, our daughter, my in-laws, and later my parents will all be there. It will be a real family gathering. I’m not planning to work much, so if you don't hear from me tomorrow, it's a good sign. I want to enjoy the food, the sea, and the few words of Greek I still remember from when I worked there. And maybe a date night with Aurélie while the grandparents take care of Cléo.

This letter comes after a difficult few days.
On Friday, Aurélie and I argued (badly). Then we spent the weekend with friends. Four families, a big house, children everywhere, the noise and joy that come with it. We call ourselves the in-the-woods gang.

But what stayed with me wasn’t from the weekend. It came from a short video my younger brother sent me. It spoke about fathers who show love through quiet work. Men who wake early and come home late, who fix what breaks, who never ask for help, who give everything so their children can live lighter.

At first I thought he sent it to inspire me. I told him this was not the kind of father I wanted to be. He said he sent it because it reminded him of our own.

Later he told me that our father had said he feels like a child, that everyone tells him what to do. Hearing that made me pause. I could see it clearly. My mother often corrects him, and I do it too. I talk to him as if I know better.

It made me sad. I see that he also feels it and maybe, for him, it is too late to change the patterns of his life. Still, I want to meet him where he is. When we see each other in Greece, I don’t want to fix him. I want to love him as he is. I want to ask for his advice, tell him what is happening in my life, and open a door for more honest conversation.

That moment made me look at what kind of father I want to be.
The quiet, self-erasing type of love no longer feels like the example I want to follow. The man who gives up his own dreams in the name of sacrifice may look noble, but he also disappears in the process.

I want something different for my daughter.
I want her to see a father who feels alive. Someone who follows what brings him joy, who speaks openly about hard moments, who shows love not only through work but through presence, words, and touch.

For me, being a rooted dad means holding both—loving my family deeply while living fully. It means protecting and providing, but also leaving room for faith, friendship, rest, and purpose.

I remember a scene in a movie with Steve Jobs where he says he doesn’t play an instrument, he plays the orchestra. That image has stayed with me. A rooted dad learns to play his own orchestra. He moves between work, family, faith, and community with awareness, trying to keep them in tune.

It is not about mastering one piece of life at a time, but learning to lead the whole. To live as a man who grows, protects, builds, and still feels alive in the process.

Each of us must write our own music. No book or letter can write it for us.
The earlier we start, the sooner we learn how to lead it.

So this week, I’m packing for Greece, looking forward to seeing my father, and ready to listen more than I speak.

​

One dad figuring it out, same as you.
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P.S. If this letter speaks to you and you’d like to see how it looks in practice, I shared a story from someone I worked with. You can read it here.

See more of my work at rooteddad.com​

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