The Stories We Tell (And Where They Lead Us)

After a recent little league game, I overheard a comment from the bleachers: “We lost because of the coaching, not the players.”And yeah—I’m not going to lie, that stung. But once I got past the defensiveness (and the brief fantasy of throwing my clipboard across the field), I realized something: that voice I heard? It wasn’t just coming from the bleachers. It was mine. It was the voice I used on myself. The voice of judgment. Of shame. Of never being enough.

When we’re kids, we learn fast. Not just math or manners—we learn how to survive. We’re wired for survival. And as kids, survival means belonging. So when we face challenges—whether it’s being too loud, too sensitive, too energetic, or too emotional—we don’t fight to stay true to ourselves. We adapt. Survival means fitting in. Playing it safe. Being who we need to be so we don’t get kicked out of the tribe.  And without even realizing it, we start writing a story about who we need to be to stay safe, accepted, and loved.

In my house growing up, I was a lot: Loud. Curious. High energy. I asked questions constantly. I took things apart just to see if I could put them back together.  But at home? That wasn’t seen as charming. That was seen as annoying. I was labeled a pest. A nooge. So I started dialing it down. At school, same thing—You were more likely to find me helping others than doing my own work.  "Needs Improvement" on every report card, mostly for being too much. So, I adapted. I got quieter. Played smaller. And so, the message was reinforced: Who I naturally was—was wrong. And guess what? It worked. At least on the surface. I didn’t get in trouble as much, didn’t make waves. But underneath? I was slowly building a version of myself that wasn’t really me. It was the story I thought I had to live. Not because I was bad—but because I thought being myself wasn’t safe.

Fast forward a couple decades—I’m a grown man, married, three kids, running a business—and still living out that same story. Playing it safe. Playing a role.Then one day, my world came to a screeching halt! My wife and I were ready to call it quits. Divorce was on the table. But instead of blaming or running, I finally asked myself: What the hell am I doing? It wasn’t that I was unhappy because of her. It was that I had never actually figured out who I was. So I made a decision: Do nothing.  Why would I make such life altering decisions when I wasn’t sure what I wanted?  Then I did what a lot of guys don’t. I stopped trying to fix everything outside of me and started looking inward. Coaching, Silent retreats, late-night journaling, therapy, breath work, you name it. If it had a price tag and made me cry in a circle of other men—I was in.

And here’s what I found: the story I was living was a solution to a problem I created as a kid. But that solution had become the problem (as it almost always does).The behaviors that once kept me out of trouble were now keeping me disconnected—from my wife, my kids, but mostly myself.I had built a mask so well, even I believed it. I convinced myself I was an introvert. Not built for closeness. But none of it was true. Just old programming, quietly making a lot of decisions on my behalf, deciding how I fathered, how I partnered, how I lived.

Now maybe you’re hearing this and thinking, "That’s nice, but what does it have to do with me?" Let me ask you this:

Are you the guy who always keeps it together, never lets them see you sweat?

Do you bite your tongue so hard at your kid’s baseball game it might just snap off?

Do you feel like no one really gets how much pressure you’re carrying?

That’s not just life. That’s a story. And maybe it’s time to rewrite it. Here’s the truth: Most dads are walking around believing these three big lies:

Lie #1: “It’s all on me.”

We don’t say it out loud, but deep down, most of us carry this quiet belief: If I don’t do it, it won’t get done. So we load ourselves up—provider, protector, fixer, coach, clown, rock, hero. And even when we’re drowning, we tell ourselves, “Just one more week, one more season, one more project.”

Then one day we snap. Maybe not big—but sharp enough for our kids to flinch. Cold enough for our partner to check out. And that’s the punch in the gut—we’re trying so damn hard to show up for them, but they’re getting the worst version of us.

Lie #2: “As long as I provide, I’m doing enough.”

Look—Don’t get me wrong—putting food on the table matters. But when your kid avoids you… when your partner feels more like a roommate… when your presence in the house feels more like background noise than connection—what are you really providing?

I used to think I was doing my job just by showing up. Now I know: it’s not about being in the room—it’s about being in the relationship. You’re not a walking paycheck. You’re not an upgrade from Alexa. You’re a father. And they don’t need your perfection—they just need your presence.

Lie #3: “Feelings are a liability.”

I grew up believing emotions were a problem to be solved. Or better yet, ignored. Crying? Weak. Anger? Dangerous. Sadness? Waste of time. So I got good at stuffing it all down—until it started leaking out sideways.

Here’s the truth: If you don’t deal with your emotions, they will most certainly deal with you. And usually not in ways you’re proud of. Our kids don’t need the old tough guy routine—they need to see that real strength means feeling without falling apart.

We all have stories we tell ourselves—stories about what it means to be a man, a father, a provider. Stories that shape our decisions, our relationships, and our legacy. And here’s the thing: There is no right or wrong, good or bad, true or false—there is only the story you’re telling yourself and where it’s leading you.If you feel exhausted, disconnected, or stuck, maybe it’s not because you’re failing. Maybe it’s because the story you’ve been telling yourself isn’t working for you anymore. 

The good news: You can always rewrite your story. 

The bad news: It’s not always an easy process.

The brain loves the status quo, even when the status quo is misery. So what’s the alternative? It’s not about becoming some enlightened guru. It’s about becoming aware of the story you’re living—and asking if it’s still serving you.

The way you father… the way you show up in your marriage… the way you treat yourself when no one’s watching—that’s your legacy. Not the car. Not the savings account. Not the lessons you bark at your kid from the couch. Your Legacy is the felt experience of being in relationship with you. That’s what lasts.

These lies don’t just keep us stuck—they keep our families disconnected. And when we’re disconnected, our kids grow up wondering what they did wrong—just like we did. But when we start letting them go, we don’t just become better fathers, partners, and men—we create a ripple effect that lasts for generations.

It takes courage. It takes curiosity. And yeah, it takes help. But if we want something different for our families, we have to start with something different in ourselves.If you’re carrying an old story that’s no longer working… Maybe it’s time to write a new one.

I never planned on coaching dads. But once I started rewriting my story, it became pretty clear—that the best thing I could do with it… was help other guys do the same. More connection, more calm, more clarity. Not because I figured it all out. But because I finally stopped pretending I had.  And I don’t say that to sell you anything—I say it because I know how hard it can be to figure it out on your own. So if you know someone who needs this, send them my way. And if that someone is you— No pressure. Just know I’m here when you’re ready.

G.