What Happens When Dads Sacrifice Their Dreams For Their Children
By Bryan Ward, Founder of Third Way Man | 2 minute read | Photo by foxtwo
It's 2033.
Your firstborn is visiting, and as you sit full-bellied at the dinner table, you begin to reminisce.
You recount with laughter that campout when the tent leaked, that Florida trip when the minivan broke down, that old lawnmower you had to yank on a hundred times before it would finally start in a cloud of blue smoke.
And then comes a moment of silence as you're both reminded of the underlying cause, of the story beneath these stories: that money was always tight. That the only camping gear you could afford was that crappy $49 department store tent. That all you could afford to drive was that fifteen-year-old minivan that always smelled like gym socks.
Your chest begins its thudding. The old stab of guilt, the old anger at not having provided your family with a better life…
For a moment, your face falls.
But then, you trot out the old consolation: "Well, we didn't have much," you say. "But we had each other. At least I was there for you."
Your child has heard this line their entire life, each time responding with a dutiful nod.
But this time you see nothing but a pained pause.
And then, a new response ripples out of their mouth in a slow wake of devastation:
"But Dad, you WEREN'T there for us."
The words continue, like a knife slowly carving your flesh:
"I know what you tell yourself: that you chose to scale back your business and eventually shut it down, that you gave up your music and a lot of your other dreams so you could spend more time with us kids.
That you chose time with family over money and accomplishment.
But the truth is, you weren't there for us. I know you want to think we had this amazing frolicking childhood, full of "poor-but-happy" adventures, but that's not how I remember it.
I remember you going through the motions. I remember the forced smile, the feigned excitement. One look at your hollow eyes was all the proof we needed: you weren't there. Not really.
You were half-hearted, Dad, because you were playing it small. And even though you didn't want it to matter, didn't want it to bother you, it absolutely did.
You didn't know how to create a bigger life for your family, so you retreated to a smaller corner and pretended you never really wanted a bigger life anyways.
Worst of all, you put the guilt on me. You made it seem like being a father was so demanding, so all-consuming, that your kids made it impossible to achieve anything beyond mere subsistence, like it was us that kept you from greatness, not your own lack of will.
I never asked you to sacrifice your dreams for me. I never wanted to be your excuse for not reaching higher.
So, as much as I love you, and as much as I appreciate the time you did spend, I can't go on pretending that what you did was heroic or some kind of higher choice.
You settled, Dad. That is the hard truth. You gave up on creating a better life for us. You used us an excuse for playing it small."
***
That night, as your wife sleeps beside you, your eyes bore through the ceiling and out to the planets, bile in your mouth.
You feel deep, wrenching anger. In one 5-minute conversation, your firstborn took your long clung-to excuse and shredded it before your eyes.
And so you find yourself deeply lost in that old, familiar, excruciating way you did not know you were still capable of.
That old wound you thought to be healed has been broken wide open again, as bright and pulsing as the day of the first cut.
***
It's one thing to fail to create a life of abundance and expansion for your family through poor strategy or effort or circumstance. That can be changed, because you can always, at any moment, choose to forge a new path.
But when you absolve it in a sanctioning story… when you institutionalize that failure by weaving it into the very fabric of your family mythology… that is a tragedy that can poison generations.
So stop with the treasonous stories.
Stop with the story of your "loving sacrifice."
Stop with the story of how "I can’t do X because I have a family."
Stop putting the burden of your surrender on their shoulders.
No matter how squalid the house, no matter how scoffing your wife, no matter how destroyed or pathetic your career, no matter how vertical the walls of your pit, kill all temptation to settle and accept.
Kill the part of you seeking excuse.
Hold for yourself a standard of unrelenting expansion. Commit to a life of kingship and largesse.
1. Imagine in detail the highest level of health, wealth, fulfillment, adventure and reach available to you and your family.
2. Determine what courageous acts you can take today NOW, today, to move you and your family closer to that position.
3. Do it again. Every day, as long as you have breath.
And as you become again the man who climbs, you will find to your amazement that your striving leaves you not depleted but strangely fed: that the greater the work, the deeper and truer the rest.
Your problems will not grow fewer. In fact, they will multiply, and come to you in increasingly finer vintage. But as you face them… as you live out kingship… your commitment will make you finally fit for the task.
Your heart will pump clean, your eyes shining clear, your lungs rising like a blacksmith's forge. Because you see it now: you can trace the trajectory of your inevitable rise.
You are no longer the man who retreats behind cover of family. You are the man who advances, relentless, precisely because of them.
***
Good news: it's not 2033 yet. You have time.
So change your life.
Reboot your vision.
Ratchet up your commitment to making that vision manifest.
Take whatever scraps of light and heat you can find, ball them up, and build a new life.
Each day, as you rise from your bed, resolve anew.
Aspire. Endlessly.
Don't make your children your excuse for mediocrity. Make them your inspiration for greatness.
Refuse the cold ash: light your life on fire.
This is how it finally begins:
