A lesson I didn’t understand until I became a dad

When I go back to my parents’ place in Romania for Christmas, my mind goes straight to the house we started building when I was around twelve. It has been part of our family story for so long that it feels a part of the land itself.

I remember those early days clearly. The foundations went in first, and for a while everything moved with a kind of momentum. My uncle worked beside us, and family friends came over to help whenever they could. I built the walls of my own room, one row of bricks at a time, even if they turned out a little crooked. There was pride in that work, and also a kind of innocence. None of us imagined how long the project would drag on or how heavy it would become. We were caught up in the promise of a better life and didn’t see the size of what we had taken on.

As the years passed, the excitement faded. Progress slowed, money got tight, and the house kept asking for more than anyone could give. Almost twenty years have gone by now, and it is still unfinished. We did spend time there and even slept in it at different stages, but it never became the home we dreamed of. My two brothers and I grew up between a house under construction and an old one that was falling apart, never fully rooted in either place. Every visit brings the same feeling. I look at what we tried to build, and I feel grateful for the effort and sad that the place meant for our childhood never reached the point where we could grow into it.

Growing up with that unfinished house shaped more of me than I realised. It taught me what happens when a project grows bigger than the season you are in. The intention is beautiful, but the reality slowly bends under the weight. You think you are building something your family will one day thank you for, and then you look back and see that they never actually lived inside it. The structure was there. The home wasn’t.

I only understood the lesson much later, after becoming a father and trying to build something of my own. I could feel the same pull toward the big vision, the polished plan, the idea that I should wait until everything was perfectly lined up before taking the next step. It became clear how easy it would be to repeat the same pattern, to invest myself in something that looked impressive from the outside while the real life I wanted was unfolding in front of me.

The lesson stayed quiet in me for years. I followed the path that was supposed to be safe. I did what everyone around me expected. I focused on school, got the grades, and stepped into a career that promised stability and status. The military felt like a solid structure. It came with a clear ladder, a reliable income, and a sense of direction that made everyone around me proud. At twenty-something it looked like a life you could build on.

But the more time I spent in that world, the more I felt something tightening inside me. I managed the work and the people well enough. That part was never the issue. What bothered me was the sense that I was living inside someone else’s idea of a good life. I remember sitting at my desk some mornings and feeling a quiet dread. Not because the work was hard, but because I could see the next thirty years stretching out in front of me and none of it felt like mine.

Leaving that life was not a clean decision. It took me years to admit the truth to myself. It also meant going against my father’s advice and walking away from something everyone else understood as success. I was young enough to take the risk but old enough to know it would change everything. What I didn’t realise then was that I was already searching for a place to grow, the same way I wished our childhood home had become a place we could fully live in.

That choice sent me into a long stretch of exploration. I worked in tourism, traveled across 30+ countries, tried new jobs, volunteered in places I barely knew, and kept looking for a way of living that gave me energy instead of draining it. I also made mistakes. I lost thousands in scams, chased shortcuts that promised quick wins, bought courses that didn’t help, and kept trying to ‘fix myself’ through every book or workshop I could find. At the time it felt chaotic, but looking back I can see that I was trying to understand who I was outside the structure I had left.

All of that was still before I became a father. Life felt heavy back then, but it was nothing compared to the shift that happened when Cléo arrived. Suddenly my choices carried a different weight. The way I worked, the hours I kept, the energy I brought home, all of it started to matter in a new way. I remember looking at my job and realising how much of my time depended on someone else’s permission. I didn’t want that any longer. I wanted to be present for the small things, not racing through them on the edges of a tired workday. At the same time I knew I couldn’t jump into a big dream without a real foundation. I needed a path that made sense for our season, not another idea that would collapse under its own weight.

That was the moment I realised I needed to build something of my own, but build it differently than I had approached everything before.

I didn’t start Rooted Dad with a big announcement. In the beginning I barely talked about it at all. I kept it quiet because I needed to understand what I was building before I brought anyone else into it, especially Aurélie. I had spent so many years jumping from one idea to another that I didn’t want this to become another half-finished project. I wanted something that could hold the weight of our life together, not just my excitement.

Those first two months I worked in silence. I wrote, tested ideas, followed my curiosity, and paid attention to what gave me energy instead of what drained it. I didn’t want to repeat the mistake of building something too big for the season I was in. Our daughter was still so small. Our life was changing every few weeks. I wanted a path that could grow with us instead of pulling me away from the moments that mattered.

When I finally shared it with Aurélie, it felt different. I wasn’t handing her another blueprint for a house that would never be finished. I was showing her something real, already alive, something that reflected the kind of father and partner I wanted to become. She asked her usual practical questions and this time I had answers. Not perfect ones, but grounded enough that we could look in the same direction together.

That was the shift. I understood that building a business as a dad is nothing like building one when you are on your own. You can’t gamble with your family’s stability. You can’t build a giant structure and hope the foundation catches up. You have to move in a way that honours the season you are in. You have to stay close to what matters and build something you can actually live in right now.

I don’t want my work to become another unfinished house. I want to build something my family can walk into now, not a structure that keeps growing while the life inside it slips by. It feels clearer to me these days. I don’t need the perfect plan. I need something steady enough for our season and alive enough to grow with us.

What are you building right now, and is it something your family can live in today?

​

PS. One more thing. This year I joined a course that cost $10,000 and one of the things it includes is a December summit called Sell Your Smarts. It’s a week of workshops about what actually works in building an online authority business in 2025. Storytelling, speaking, email, YouTube, using AI without losing your voice, launches, all of it. They opened it to non-students for $1, and I’m joining anyway because I want to keep sharpening my work without falling into the noise again. If you want to join too, here’s the link.

​
​

​Unsubscribe | Preferences | Aristide Briand, Colmar, France 68000