There's a moment that grows more and more apparent the older and busier I get, that I didn't used to notice. It's that 30 seconds between turning off my car and opening the door from the garage. On one side of that door is a hectic routine and a full workday…the emails, the meetings, the feedback that I'm still chewing on. On the other side are five kids, a partner, a dog who thinks I've been gone for a year, and a house at full speed and volume.
For a long time, I walked through that door carrying everything. I was physically home, but mentally wasted from the day. Somebody would run up to tell me something or ask me a question and I could only muster the old, “that's awesome, buddy.” The voice you use when you're nodding at a story you aren't hearing (I think kids know).
And one day I thought: the people I'm building all of this for are getting the version of me that's left over and I’m going to be really disappointed in myself for that someday.
The leftover version
I don't think anybody plans for it. You don't wake up and decide to give your best energy to your inbox and your worst to your family. It can just happen in the ludicrous speed of life. Work has deadlines and people far more unforgiving. Home is patient. Home will still be there. So home gets what’s left in the tank at 5:30 sometimes.
The tricky part is that the leftover version of you isn't a bad person. They’re just tired, maybe a little short. They want ten minutes of quiet before they can be fun. They say "in a minute" a lot. None of that is a crime, but add it up over a few years and it becomes a new personality…or at least one your family recognizes.
“Your family doesn't need a better you. They just want you.”
That line has become a kind of compass for me. I'm not trying to be a perfect dad who walks in glowing after a hard day. I'm just trying to make sure the person who walks through the door is actually there and cares.
My threshold
What helped me most wasn't a big life change. It was treating that doorway like a real transition instead of a blur…a threshold, if you want to be poetic about it.
For me, it starts on the commute home, all the way to the driveway. I try to mentally pack away the workday and listen to some music or my favorite podcast. When I make it to the garage, I take a deep breath, say the word “gratitude” to myself and remember that I want my family to know that I’m happy to be home. I may be exhausted, frustrated, or annoyed some days, but I do my best to not let them feel that.
Some days I need more than one breath. Some days I sit there for an end to a song or even meditate. I used to feel guilty about that, like stalling in the driveway was a failure or proof I didn’t like being home. But, if an extra few minutes of reset buys a whole evening of being present, and the best available version of myself…that's a trade I'll make every time.
It's not about hiding the hard days
Don’t hear what I’m not saying here, because this isn't about pretending. I don’t want to be a dad who acts like work or the “real world” never gets heavy. Some nights I walk in and say, "Hey, I had a rough one. I'm going to need a minute, let me check in with your mom and then I'm all yours."
That's real, and I think it teaches them something too. Feelings are real and we adults have them too. You can have a hard day and still choose how you treat the people around you. I just have to try my best to make sure that "in a minute" is a promise instead of a dodge.
I don’t think the difference between the leftover version and the present version is mood. I think it's intention. One just happens to you. The other is more of a decision, even if it's in your car in the driveway with the engine on, haha.
Try this week
What’s your “doorway?” Do you have one where you often arrive as a leftover version of yourself? Maybe it's walking in from work, maybe it's logging off a call, maybe it's seeing your spouse/partner after a long day. Before you cross it, take a breath and ask: what do I want them to feel when I see them for the first time? Then do a small thing that proves it to yourself.
We’re not going to nail it every day. I definitely do not. But the people waiting on the other side of that door aren't keeping score. They're just glad when you're really there.
I'm glad you're here, and I'm rooting for you.