My hands were shaking when I clicked send.
It was just an email — just a few paragraphs. But it marked the end of something that had lasted for years. A business partnership. A friendship. A vision I wanted to share, but maybe it was never really shared at all.
I spent days thinking about it. Hours writing it. And then, with one click, it was out of my hands.
I sat there, staring at the screen, thinking about how much adulting sucks sometimes. And then, from fifteen feet away, my youngest started belting:
“Take back the night…”
A Minecraft fan song. Something about bravery, battles, and pixelated quests. He was wearing a VR headset, flailing his arms playing Gorilla Tag, singing like it mattered more than anything.
And I just sat there.
He had no idea what I was carrying. I was working on untangling a knot of a thousand strands I’ve been tying for twenty-five years. One strand: the feeling that I failed a friend — someone I genuinely love. Another: I wasn’t sure if I should feel relieved or wrecked.
And he just kept singing. Kept playing.
Without realizing it (until recently), I’ve carried a hero complex most of my life. I remember running around the house as a kid with my favorite blanket knotted around my neck, pretending I could fly. Eventually, I hung up that cape — at least the literal one — in favor of a hundred other versions: provider, fixer, problem-solver, the guy who stays calm when the storm hits, even when — especially when — the storm is inside me.
The guy who takes the hits so no one else has to.
That version of me stayed up late fixing other people’s work. Overcommitted. Overdelivered. And called it love. I thought being the strong one was a compliment, when really it just meant I didn’t feel allowed to be anything else.
So when this recent decision came — when I knew the partnership wasn’t working, when I knew it was hurting more than helping — it felt like I was breaking something I was supposed to hold together. It felt wrong.
Because heroes don’t quit.
But then I heard my son singing.
That’s when the though hit me: what if this — letting go, not explaining, not fixing — was what saving myself from myself actually looked like?
Not heroic. Not admired. Not even understood by everyone involved, including me. Just… a decision to stop showing up in a way that was only harmful.
Pain equals purpose. That’s the lesson the hero complex teaches. That sacrifice is always noble. That being needed is the same as being loved.
But it’s not.
There are absolutely times when sacrifice is noble — when you carry something for someone who may never be able to return the favor. That kind of giving comes from love. From courage. From the kind of strength I will always admire.
But not all sacrifice is noble or necessary.
Sometimes being needed just means you’ve made yourself available to people who don’t return the favor. Sometimes being loyal means abandoning yourself. And sometimes, being the hero means you forget how to live a life where you get to matter, too.
I’m starting to believe that the real work isn’t choosing who to take the blows for.
It’s choosing who to live for.
My wife. My kids. Myself. The people who show up with effort, not just expectations. The people who love me without needing me to be invincible.
It’s strange — how something as ordinary as a Minecraft fan song could snap me out of my own narrative. But it did.
He sang about bravery while I tried to remember what that actually means.
He chased down pixelated gorillas while I tried to calm the one pounding on my chest.
He lives without shame or hesitation. He tells me all the time, “Dad, I’m okay with my weirdness.”
That song? Those swinging arms? I took them as permission to try again.
Later, after he peeled off the VR headset and walked into the room, he said:
“I haven’t sweat this much since the 1980s.”
He was born in 2015.
We both belly-laughed. It was ridiculous, impossible, and somehow exactly what I needed.
Because maybe the universe knows things.
Saving yourself from the hero complex isn’t about walking away from everything hard. It’s about remembering to laugh when you can. It’s knowing you don’t have to carry the load for everyone.
It’s hearing the love tucked inside a child’s nonsense — and letting it pull you back to the surface.
I still want to be someone who shows up in hard moments. I still believe in loyalty, commitment, and doing the work to repair what’s broken. But not at the cost of my health. Not at the expense of my family. Not in ways that leave me spiritually bankrupt and emotionally starving.
I don’t always get it right.
But I’m trying.
And for now, that’s something.
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