Waiting

Story

I was three years old, standing barefoot in the front yard with my little brother.

My mom had gotten us cleaned up. We were wearing shorts and tank tops, and we knew why.

Dad was coming.

There wasn’t much to the yard. Just a little patch of grass, the sidewalk, and the street in front of our house.

So we waited.

My brother was younger. He was mostly happy running around the yard.

I was too, until I heard a car.

Every time one came down the street, I’d stop whatever I was doing and look.

Maybe this was him.

It never was.

The afternoon slowly turned into evening. Eventually, my mom opened the front door and told us it was time to come inside.

My brother went in.

I didn’t.

I remember crying and throwing a fit because I didn’t want to go inside.

But looking back, I don’t think wanted is the right word.

I needed to keep waiting.

Somehow, in my three-year-old mind, going inside meant I had given up.

If I wasn’t standing there, how was my dad supposed to find me?

How would he know I was still waiting?

My mom eventually picked me up sideways, carried me into the house while I kicked and cried, and closed the front door.

Observation

For a long time, I thought that story was mostly about somebody not showing up.

Lately, I’ve been thinking more about what I learned while I stood there.

I think I decided that waiting was an extension of patience.

And patience was good.

So I became extremely good at waiting.

I could wait for people to change.

I could wait for a bad situation to improve.

I could wait for a conversation to somehow happen without anybody starting it.

I could wait for something that should have been gone a long time ago to finally take care of itself.

And sometimes patience is exactly what a situation needs.

But sometimes waiting is just a way of not dealing with what is already true.

That’s harder for me to admit.

Because waiting can feel patient.

It can feel loyal.

It can even feel hopeful.

Meanwhile, years can pass while you stand in the same front yard, watching every car that comes down the street.

I’m still learning that patience and avoidance are not the same thing.

Sometimes patience means staying.

Sometimes honesty means going inside.

Sit with this

Is there anything in your life that should have been gone a long time ago, but you’re still waiting for it to take care of itself?

Pull up a chair,
Randy

Our Garage

I've been thinking about my grandpa's garage again.

Not because I miss working on old cars.

Although I do.

I've been thinking about how much of my childhood happened in that garage.

Sometimes he was working on one of his projects.

Sometimes he was helping me with one of mine.

Sometimes I was just sitting there while he worked.

What I remember most is that it never felt like his garage.

It felt like ours.

The tools weren't off limits.

The workbench wasn't off limits.

If he was working on something, there was room for me.

If I was working on something, there was room for him.

Sometimes he'd ask me to hand him a wrench.

Sometimes I'd hand him the wrong one.

He'd smile, tell me which one he was actually looking for, and we'd keep going.

Sometimes we'd hardly talk.

Other times, usually after he'd gotten pretty well into his cups, he'd start telling stories.

Stories about people.

Stories about work.

Stories about mistakes.

Stories about life.

Looking back, I think that's when most of the life lessons happened.

Not because he was trying to teach me.

He was just remembering out loud, and I happened to be sitting there listening.

If you'd asked me back then what we were doing, I probably would've said we were just hanging out in the garage.

I don't think either of us realized how much was happening in those ordinary afternoons.

Observation

I've realized that some of the people who shape us the most don't do it through speeches.

They do it by making room for us.

By letting us be there.

By treating us like we belong before we've done anything to earn it.

The garage taught me how to solve mechanical puzzles.

Looking back, I think that was just the vehicle.

What it was really teaching me was curiosity, confidence, and the habit of staying with a problem long enough to understand it.

I've spent a lot of my adult life trying to create spaces that feel like that garage—places where people don't have to perform.

They can just show up, be themselves, and pull up a chair.

Sit with this:

Who made room for you before you realized how much it mattered?

And who are you making room for now?

Pull up a chair,
Randy

The Armor

When I was very young, I learned how to protect myself.

Not consciously.

Just the way kids do.

I got pretty good at reading a room.

I learned what kept me safe.

I learned what to say.

What not to say.

When to speak.

When to stay quiet.

How to solve problems before they became bigger problems.

Looking back, I can see that I was building something.

I just didn't have a name for it yet.

It protected me.

Really well.

The problem was...it worked so well that it didn't let many people get close.

For a long time, I wondered why I could be around people all day and still feel alone.

I had great conversations.

I could make people laugh.

I could hold a room.

I could tell stories.

But there was always this little bit of distance that I couldn't explain.

Eventually I realized it wasn't other people keeping me at arm's length.

It was me.

Or more accurately...

it was the armor I'd built a long time ago.

The strange thing about armor is that it doesn't know when the battle is over.

It just keeps doing the job it was designed to do.

So when I finally started trying to take it off...

I felt exposed.

My feelings got hurt easier.

I felt vulnerable.

I felt, for lack of a better phrase, kind of naked and afraid.

There were moments when I wondered if putting the armor back on would just be easier.

But something else happened too.

The connections got deeper.

Conversations became more honest.

Life became more colorful.

I realized I wasn't just letting other people get closer.

I was finally giving myself permission to become more than the person the armor had been protecting.

Observation

I've realized that the things that protect us in one season of life don't always serve us in the next.

Sometimes they become limits we never intended to create.

Growth isn't always about learning something new.

Sometimes it's about having the courage to revisit something that once kept you safe.

Sit with this:

Is there anything you’ve built to protect yourself... that might now be limiting the person you’re becoming?

Pull up a chair,
Randy

Coming Soon!

Hyperactive Listening

I’ve had people tell me for years that I’m a good listener.

I never really thought much about why.

I just listened.

But the more I’ve examined some of the things I do almost automatically, the more I’ve started wondering where they came from.

And listening is one of them.

When I was a kid, paying attention helped me stay safe.

I learned to read a room. I learned to recognize changes in someone’s voice. I noticed body language. Facial expressions. The way somebody moved. The feeling when something in the room changed.

I was constantly gathering information.

I wanted to know what was happening, what might happen next, and whether any of it was going to affect me.

I didn’t have a name for it then.

I wasn’t trying to become a good listener.

I was just paying attention.

And somewhere along the way, something I learned to do because it helped keep me safe became something I was really good at.

I’ve started calling it hyperactive listening.

I still do it.

I notice pauses. Changes in someone’s voice. A shift in posture. A word they keep coming back to. Something they say now that connects to something they told me an hour ago.

Sometimes those things mean something.

Sometimes they don’t.

So I ask questions.

​

What’s interesting to me now is that understanding where this came from doesn’t make me want to get rid of it.

It just gives me more information about something I’ve been doing most of my life.

Something I learned to do because it helped keep me safe became something I genuinely value about myself.

I wonder how many other things are like that.

Sit with this:

What have you learned about yourself that makes more sense once you understand where it came from?

Pull up a chair,
Randy

Another Angle

I’ve been thinking about my grandpa’s garage again.

Not because I miss working on old cars.

Although I do.

I’ve been thinking about the way he looked at problems.

There wasn’t such a thing as a mechanical impossibility to him.

There were just puzzles.

Some of them were easy.

Some of them were frustrating.

Some of them took a lot longer than he expected.

But they were still puzzles.

There’d be a bolt that wouldn’t come loose.

Most people would look at it and say, “Well...I guess that’s stuck.”

He never did.

He’d grab another wrench.

Try another angle.

Maybe a little heat.

Maybe some penetrating oil.

Maybe he just needed to stop fighting it the way he’d been fighting it.

Because somehow that bolt got on there.

Which meant it could come off.

That was just how he saw the world.

If something was designed to go together...

it could come apart.

If it wasn’t working...

there was a reason.

We just hadn’t figured it out yet.

I don’t think I realized it at the time, but I carried that way of thinking into the rest of my life.

I’ve always assumed I can do everything...

until I find out that I can’t.

Not because I think I’m good at everything.

Because that’s where I choose to start.

Then reality gets a vote.

Sometimes I find out I’m good at it.

Sometimes I find out I’m not.

Sometimes I discover I don’t even enjoy it.

All three are valuable.

None of them happen if I decide something is impossible before I ever begin.

​

Observation

Looking back, I don’t think Grandpa was really teaching me how to fix old cars.

He was teaching me how to approach problems.

I’ve realized that a lot of things we call impossible are really just problems we don’t understand yet.

Sometimes the answer isn’t more effort.

Sometimes it’s another wrench.

Another question.

Another angle.

The moment we decide something can’t be done, we usually stop looking.

Sit with this:

Where in your life have you confused frustration with impossibility?

What might change if, instead of saying,

“It can’t be done,”

you simply asked,

“What’s another angle?”

Pull up a chair,
Randy

The Mats Tell the Truth

The first time I met Professor Jimmy Norman wasn’t in a jiu-jitsu academy.

It was in my living room.

There was a wrestling mat rolled out on the floor, and he was showing a few of us some technique.

At the time, I was almost forty years old.

I’d spent my whole life being a pretty strong guy.

Strength had solved a lot of problems for me.

Then Jimmy reached over, took hold of my hand, and calmly moved it exactly where he wanted it to go.

I didn’t really get a vote in the matter.

He didn’t say anything.

He just smiled down at me.

I’ve thought about that smile a lot over the years.

Because in that moment, I experienced something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Helplessness.

Not because Jimmy was trying to embarrass me.

Not because he was trying to prove a point.

He was simply showing me reality.

Oddly enough, it didn’t make me want to quit.

It made me curious.

I wanted to understand how someone could do that.

More importantly, I wanted to learn how to keep from feeling that helpless again.

That moment changed my life.

Not because I learned a technique.

Because I learned there was a whole world I didn’t understand yet.

That’s still one of the reasons I love jiu-jitsu.

The mats tell the truth.

They don’t care how strong you think you are.

They don’t care how many years you’ve been alive.

They don’t care what story you’ve been telling yourself.

They simply reflect reality.

And reality, as it turns out, is a wonderful teacher.

Observation

Looking back, I think I’ve spent most of my life trying to avoid feeling helpless.

Jiu-jitsu taught me something different.

Sometimes the quickest way to grow is to willingly become a beginner again.

To admit there are things you don’t know.

To stop protecting your identity long enough to learn something new.

The truth doesn’t exist to humiliate us.

It exists to help us grow.

Sit with this:

Where in your life are you avoiding being a beginner...

because you don’t want to feel helpless?

What might become possible if you let yourself learn anyway?

Pull up a chair,Randy
​Randy

​

The Hardest Conversation​
​

For a long time, I thought the hardest conversations were the ones you had with other people.

The uncomfortable ones.

The ones where somebody might leave.

The ones where somebody might misunderstand you.

I’ve changed my mind.

I think the hardest conversation is the one you have with yourself.

Not because it’s dramatic.

Because eventually, the stories we tell ourselves start running into reality.

And reality has a way of making us pay attention.

You start noticing patterns.

You keep having the same arguments.

The same frustrations.

The same disappointments.

You blame different people.

Different jobs.

Different circumstances.

But the pattern keeps following you.

That was a hard realization for me.

Because it meant I wasn’t just living inside my circumstances.

I was living inside my own habits.

My own fears.

My own stories.

The strange thing is...

I didn’t feel condemned.

I felt relieved.

Because if I was part of the problem...

then maybe I could also become part of the solution.

That was the first truly honest conversation I ever had.

Not with another person.

With myself.

And every honest conversation I’ve had since then has been built on that one.

Observation

Self-awareness isn’t self-condemnation.

It’s simply agreeing to tell yourself the truth.

Not so you can beat yourself up.

So you can stop pretending you don’t already know.

Sit with this:

What’s one truth about yourself...

that you’ve quietly known for a long time...

but haven’t wanted to say out loud?

Pull up a chair,
Randy