Punch-Resistant

As a father you feel the weight of everything, constantly. Add in grief, teenage kids, work bullshit. It adds up. It’s heavy. But when somebody asks, we’re ok.

Because we know how heavy shit can get. The last thing we want is to shoulder some of ours onto someone else and add to their load. So we just say we’re ok.

Not to be cold. Not to push anyone off or put distance between us. Just not putting our burden on anybody else. We’ve all got our crosses to bear. They’re all heavy. We carry them anyway.

When we start to crack, it usually comes out as anger. A thrown tool. A string of obscenities that’d make a sailor blush. Some fresh combination of fuck-yous and fuck-offs. And it used to happen to me a lot.

Then came the books — The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F\ck* is a great one — and countless hours with therapists. I learned a ton. Not just about myself, but about my feelings, my emotions, and how to actually handle them.

I learned to extend myself the same grace and understanding I hand out to everyone else. So now when I feel myself starting to crack, I stop. I ask what’s actually going on here. What am I feeling. How do I address it correctly — instead of surveying the room for what objects are punch-resistant.

It only takes a split second. But it’s enough to go from seeing red, chest tightening, ready to Hulk out — to breathing. Being present.

Stay Here. Keep Going.