Years ago, we’d hired him to install hardwood flooring in our new sun room. He’d missed the nail and left a small hammer mark in the expensive wood. My wife and I assured him that it was fine. We actually like a few dings because it gives the floor character and shows that it’s real.
I’m working on adopting that perspective for myself. My instinct is to present a faultless, unblemished version of myself to everyone. But that’s not a true picture. It’s not reality. Letting my blemishes and imperfections show makes me more alive, more relatable, more real. The posts where I admit my failings and mistakes regularly get more engagement than my success stories.
It makes sense. With so much fake, filtered, and curated content online, there’s a real hunger for the real, the raw, the unvarnished. We respond to it on a visceral level because we know that’s our personal reality. We’re all lovable, beautiful, and worthy, but we’re also scarred, imperfect creatures with growth edges. Like draws like. Deep calls to deep. Truth satisfies in a way the manufactured never can.
As you consider what to share online and with those around you, drop your guard a little. Open up. Be vulnerable. Be real. Let your cracks show, because, as the saying goes, that’s where your light shines through. If you do, you’ll help create a more honest and meaningful world, and you’ll take another step toward Becoming Yourself.
In a familiar summer ritual of my childhood, Dad pulled his worn blue Chevy pickup into the lumberyard, and I followed him inside. A bell jingled as we entered, and from behind a counter, an older man with ginger hair and a quick smile said, “Hey Keith.”
They chatted amiably. Dad asked Red how “the boys” and “the shop” were doing. Red asked how things were going at the local high school where my Dad held court as the most popular and tenured teacher.
Eventually, Dad pulled out his ever-present notebook from the breast pocket of his work shirt and rattled off the supplies he needed for his current job. He ran a one-man (plus me) construction company during the summer to supplement his teaching income. Nodding, Red said, “Pull around back, and the boys will load you up. I’ll put it on your account.”
His name was Buck.
As a kid, I’d often follow my dad into the little gun shop in my hometown. I loved the smell of the place, a heady mix of oil and wood and blued metal. I liked counting the number of antler points on the deer heads mounted on the wall.
Behind the long counter stood Buck, his bald pate gleaming above his dark beard and glasses. I never saw him without his black leather vest. “Hey Keith,” he called out. He and Dad would chat about the news, the latest business to open in town, and the local school board.
Eventually, Dad would tell Buck the part he needed for a gun repair he was doing for a neighbor. Gun-smithing is another of my dad’s many talents. Buck would retrieve the part and say, “I’ll put it on your account, Keith.” We’d climb back in the truck, and if I was lucky, we’d go to McDonalds, the only fast food joint in town, for my favorite, a plain hamburger.
I remember those days fondly, mostly for the time spent with my dad, but also for the ways things worked. When jobs and daily errands often involved community and mutually supportive relationships. Where people knew each other’s names and were appropriately familiar with each other’s lives.
That’s largely missing today in our online-retail-big-chain-store-global economy. There are great advantages to those things, of course, but let’s not pretend that something good hasn’t been lost.
Me with my Dad and granddog Otis in September 2025
My daughter Kennedy and son-in-law Sam have chosen to live in a small town.They walk their dogs in their quiet neighborhood and stop to chat with neighbors. There’s a weekly “dog park play date” in Evelyn’s fenced backyard, where everyone’s dogs romp and wrestle while the humans chat about John and Maisey’s downstairs renovations, Bill’s latest work trip, and Sarah’s preparations for her bike ride across France. Kennedy and Sam shop at the local hardware store where you get a free bag of popcorn at the door. They trade Kennedy’s homemade sourdough for fresh eggs from Carson and Carley’s chicken coop.
I’m proud of them. At young ages, they’ve recognized the importance of community. Relationships. Mutual support. Their lives stir those fond memories of how my dad lived fifty years ago. It gives me hope and makes me smile.
My Dad with his great granddog Leonard
In our nomadic life, Lisa and I enjoy traveling the world, living on cruise ships, wandering global cities, and hiking beautiful places. That said, there’s something healthy and grounding about coming back to our daughter’s neighborhood, about living small and in community with these people who have adopted us as honorary-sometimes-residents. It’s a good life.
As you enjoy the gifts that modern times can bring, I’d encourage you to join me in looking for ways to slow down. To live smaller. Live simpler. Live in community. To take a lesson from my dad and Kennedy and Sam. I think your life will be richer for it, and you’ll take another step toward Becoming Yourself.
We’d eaten at the restaurant several times. The food was good and the location convenient, but the server was memorable for his sour mood. He’d waited on us before, and each time he radiated the same “I don’t want to be here” vibe.
This time, my wife discovered a toothpick in her taquito. Fortunately, it didn’t hurt her, and it had obviously been used during preparation before somehow getting rolled up inside. She decided not to say anything.
We finished our meal and went to the register to pay. As our server rang us up, his gruff demeanor fell away. “I saw the toothpick on your plate. I’m so sorry that happened. I don’t know how it got there, but it was clean, just used in prep.”
My wife assured him accidents happen and that it was okay. He replied, “Thank you for being a nice person. Most people aren’t. When something goes wrong, they get mad and write bad reviews and hurt our business even more.”
I asked him if he was the owner, and he nodded glumly. I told him I couldn’t imagine how tough it was to run a restaurant. His reply was startlingly honest: “I want to jump off a building. We never recovered from Covid. The rent is too high. We’re just barely getting by.”
We expressed our sympathy, gave him a nice tip, and said our goodbyes. As we drove away, my wife and I discussed how our perspective of the man had changed now that we knew what he was going through. I was reminded of a quote:
Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.
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When you come across a difficult person, try to withhold judgement. Remember that you don’t know what struggles they’re facing. The young, checked-out cashier might have just gotten rejected for the scholarship that was her only hope for college. The guy who cut you off in traffic may be a single dad racing home from his third job, trying to see his kids before they fall asleep. The older woman distractedly blocking the grocery aisle with her cart may have just buried her husband of fifty-three years. Give the grace you’d hope to receive when you’re not at your best. If you do, you’ll help create a kinder world, and you’ll take another step toward Becoming Yourself.
This post was originally published on June 29, 2024.
