Wayward Thought (001)
This Week I Failed At My Own Advice
Hey. Thanks for reading. Before I begin, I should say this: I’m just writing to figure things out. Writing helps me see what I actually think. This Substack is my public notebook; part sketchpad, part journal. Each post is me learning out loud about faith, discipline, and direction. Trying to turn my own moral injury into moral leadership, and build a framework in public. That’s it.
Some weeks it’s clear. Some weeks it’s a mess. You’re welcome to support through subscriptions, merch, or whatever I experiment with next; but no pressure. I’m just trying to live what I write. If something here helps you, take it. If it doesn’t, leave it. Either way, I’m glad you’re here. This is me doing the hard work of unbecoming the person I was never meant to be.
“You don’t need me. You just need to find your pace.” I said to my oldest daughter halfway through her first adult 5K Spartan race over the weekend.
Every year, I drag my four kids to at least one Spartan obstacle course race together. It’s not about competition. It’s about proof. Proof that they can do hard things.
This year, my oldest finally ran the adult course with me while her siblings took on the kids’ race. She’s old enough now to understand what she’s capable of, but still young enough to look for me every few steps. I ran beside her. Encouraged her. Coached her up a mountain, under barbed wire, and through the kind of fear that isn’t about the obstacle; it’s about failing in front of others.
At one point, I helped her carry a bucket up the hill, but gave it back on the way down. She found the limits she’ll train for next year and conquered the ones she could already own.
There was a moment when I said,
“Run your own race. I’m here.”
She nodded, her face caught somewhere between fear, determination, and exhaustion. Then she kept running.
And that’s when I realized: I was the one who needed to hear it.
I’ve spent years running; physically, professionally, spiritually, but not always toward anything real. Sometimes, I think I’ve just been running from myself.
Down the labyrinth of my own mind. Building a maze out of expectations, plans, and the false comfort of staying busy.
I’ve written frameworks on moral leadership, purpose, leadership, and faith, and yet this week, I failed at my own advice. Not publicly. Quietly. The kind of failure that happens when you know what’s right but keep looking for detours that make it easier.
The truth is, I’ve been hiding.
From God.
From silence.
From myself.
The word hypocrisy has been echoing in my head since a few weeks ago. Not in the modern, accusatory sense; but in the older one.
My understanding from ancient Greek theatre, the hypocrite was the actor who played a part while wearing a mask. That’s literally what hypocrisy meant: playing someone else.
And damn, I’ve worn some masks in my life. Honestly, the only one that ever helped was in basic training. The gas mask they let us wear into the chamber. For about thirty seconds, it felt safe. Then they made us take it off. You’ve never really known yourself until you’re standing in a cloud of tear gas, eyes burning, lungs screaming, realizing the air you’ve been avoiding is the same air you need to breathe.
I mean, if you have the time; check out this video of some basic training Army soldiers learning to trust their gas mask.
But, I digress.
As I reflect back many years now, that’s what taking off masks still feels like now.
Raw. Necessary. And maybe a little overdue.
The professional mask that says, I’ve got this. The father mask that says, I don’t have time right now. The husband mask that says, I’m fine. The faith mask that says, I’m strong.
But the truth is simpler and harder: I’ve grown tired of pretending I’m not tired and Romans 12:9 hit me a little different this past week than it hit me the first time I read it.
Love isn’t performance; it’s practice. It’s not what I say, but it’s what I do.
I’ve said, I love you, but haven’t always done the small things to show it.
I’ve said, I’ll do it, but haven’t had the discipline to follow through.
Those small fractures corrode trust. Each one adds a layer of moral injury. A slow erosion of self-respect.
So now, I’m rebuilding.
One tiny promise at a time.
Do it today. Do it again tomorrow.
Not to prove discipline, but to rebuild trust.
That’s what this year’s Spartan race became. Not a test of endurance, but a confrontation with honesty. Running beside my daughter, I saw myself: a man helping others find their pace while still learning to find his own.
At the final obstacle, she hesitated before jumping over the fire.
It wasn’t fear of the flames. I could see the familiar mask; it was doubt.
What if I can’t do it? I’m too tired. I recognized that look.
It’s the same one I’ve had staring down my own fires: of leadership, of faith, of marriage, of fatherhood, of rebuilding a life after giving everything to systems that measure worth by output, not integrity.
I’ve taught about moral injury, how it breaks your internal authority, but I hadn’t realized how much of mine had rusted. Iron can sharpen iron, but it can easily rust if not taken care of.
That’s when it clicked: the goal isn’t to avoid pain; it’s to be honest about it.
The pain isn’t the enemy. The mask is.
There’s where a proverb comes to mind that says,
“Foresight is better than hindsight, but insight is best.”
That’s what this weekend gave me: insight. Not the kind you put in a quote box. The kind that whispers, You’ve been running from yourself long enough.
I can’t gain new knowledge until I accept the lessons I already have. I can’t rebuild trust with others until I rebuild trust with myself.
That’s the hard work. The quiet work. The difference between what I write and what I live.
So I grabbed my daughter’s hand, and we jumped over the fire together.
Going into this week, I’m doing something different. No new goals. No optimization. No chasing inspiration or motivation.
Just ten minutes of stillness in the morning.
No phone. No noise. Just me and God; and the uncomfortable silence between us.
It feels like failure some mornings, because it feels like stillness. But maybe that’s the work. The kind that doesn’t hang on a medal wall, but lives in the quiet return to truth. But, could be completely wrong too. Thanks for showing up at the end of the article my dear friend, doubt.
Nevertheless thought;
When my daughter and I crossed the finish line, covered in dirt, scrapes, and sweat, she smiled and said,
“I finished. I can’t believe I did it. Maybe I’m ready for the 10K.”
I laughed. So proud.
I finished too I thought. Not the race, but the running away.
If you’re reading this: Don’t try to fix anything today. Just sit still long enough to notice what you’ve been running from. You might find that the race you’ve been dreading isn’t out there; it’s in here.
And maybe that’s where the real finish line starts.
If it helps, pass it to one person who’d understand.
That’s how Wayward Purpose grows — quietly, one honest share at a time.
Have a great rest of your week.