Standing at the kitchen sink is a great place to think. Sometimes, my wife will sit at the snack bar while I wash dishes. We talk about work, about life, about faith. Whatever’s on our minds.
Other times, I wash in silence. There’s a futility in it — washing dishes that won’t stay clean. That doesn’t mean I’m a subscriber to nihilism. Not even close. There’s a beauty — strange as that may sound — in my children leaving their dirty dishes on the counter for the thousandth time, no matter how many times I remind them to put them in the dishwasher.
Somewhere in the house, a phone’s buzzing. It’s funny how you can hear that vibration anytime a phone is sitting on a hard surface no matter where it is in the house. An email notification popped up on my own phone — probably a client looking for another discount.
I’ve spent a lot of my life waiting for some big change to come along and fix everything.
But we all know it almost never works like that.
The grace of starting small is really all you have.
I started my software development business because I landed a significant project. There was enough money, I thought, to bring in my two best friends and build something cool, something we could split the profits on at the end. For a moment, it felt like my leap into entrepreneurship was blessed from the start.
Then, we went over budget on a fixed-cost bid. We built the product — and it’s awesome — but the client still isn’t using it because there have been significant delays in other areas of their business.
When you’re building a business, most of the time there’s no big leap, no revolutionary breakthrough, no proof you’ve made it in a single, monumental instant. Most days look like sending out a proposal with a price that reflects what your time is worth — even if it’s a bit higher than your self-sacrificing comfort zone is comfortable with. Most days look like stopping in the middle of an email to ask your wife how her day was. Or pausing in the hallway to hear your youngest laughing with his friends, instead of rushing past because you have “important things” to do.
Growth doesn’t make a lot of noise. And it almost never comes with fanfare. It usually comes when you make the smallest choice: to stop, to breathe, to notice.
How many days do you wake up, blurry-eyed, and look at your phone or alarm clock, wondering why you’re already awake? That happened to me last night — except that it was still last night when I woke up. Asleep at 10:30 and awake scarcely an hour later, wondering why I was even awake. I relocated to a cooler spot in the house and slept in fits and starts until 3:45 am.
When I woke up for the last time, I thought to myself, “Well, today doesn’t have to be perfect, so it may as well start.”
I’ve written several times in the last month and a half about this weight I’ve carried for years: this need to prove my worth. To show that I can do it all — business, marriage, fatherhood, friendship — without breaking a sweat.
The older I get, though, the more I see how fragile that kind of pride is. It’s a kind of veneer that cracks the second life doesn’t go according to plan.
And does it ever go according to plan?
That’s why there’s grace in starting small. Small starts — baby steps — don’t need, want, or require you to be anyone you’re not. You just have to begin.
Some days, that might mean saying no to a project that doesn’t value your time. Some days, it means saying yes to a walk with your spouse when you feel pressure to keep working. And some days, it’s sending proposals you’re afraid will scare off a client — because you know your work is worth it.
Over the years, I’ve developed the problem of deriving too much of my self-worth from showing up with big wins for my employers. It’s led to a skewed self-image — seeing my personal worth in how much I can earn.
Quitting my job was a pretty big thing. But it set in motion a host of tiny, almost imperceptible changes: walking away from my desk throughout the day to find my wife and kiss her, or turning away from the laptop when my son wants to show me what he’s building in Minecraft.
And in that quiet realization, I see that my family isn’t keeping score. They never were. They’re just glad I’m here.
I don’t have this all figured out. I still lose the thread. I still fall back into old patterns of overwork and under-presence. I still forget why I’m in the canyon. We have bills to pay, and I think about money a lot. But I’m trying to see those patterns sooner. To name them for what they are: fear, not necessity.
Small choices. Tiny acts of courage. That’s where I’m starting.
A few nights ago, I dropped down next to my son’s bed, exhausted, but I grabbed the book anyway. We sat there, the two of us in the glow of his bedside lamp, and for those fifteen minutes, I wasn’t solving anything. I was just his dad.
And that was enough.
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