Standing in the Fire

Momentum is loud. Meaning is quieter.

Yesterday was supposed to be calm. Clean lines. Clear lanes. Work, school, home, kids, stream. Each in their place.

Five minutes after logging in, the illusion burned.

Five issues in the first hour. Responsibility rolled in heavy. Irritation followed close behind. I had been waiting for other leaders to step up. They didn’t. My team deserved better.

Protective mode engaged.

The fires weren’t optional. They rarely are.

Yesterday reminded me of something I am still learning:
you don’t control the fires. You control how you stand in them.

So I stood.

Not without edge.
Not without heat.
But upright.

There was research I was inches from finishing; interesting, intoxicating work that would have felt productive. I closed the tab. Left it unopened. Some victories are invisible. I am learning to cull what glitters to protect what grounds.

At school, the pressure to preserve a perfect 4.0 pressed harder than I expected. I stared at my work longer than I should have. Replayed decisions. Wrestled disappointment. Somewhere in the quiet, I realized I needed to take the student gloves off and put the life gloves on. Bring scars to the sentence. Experience to the argument. Let my voice carry weight instead of hiding behind correctness.

Stoicism is everywhere lately. Control the controllable. Release the rest. It sounds simple. It is not.

The energy tax of yesterday was real. Fires at work. My wife unwell. The younger boys orbiting in need of supervision. Messages multiplying. Teams, email, text, Discord, all a constant chorus of “now.” School assignments waiting. Stream looming at dusk.

It wasn’t until dinner that I felt my feet find the floor again.

Later that night, I pushed the button for stream five minutes late because I was finishing a conversation with my wife. Some things are more important than punctuality. The stream was imperfect. Puzzles surfaced. Systems showed seams. The list of fixes grew longer instead of shorter.

Good.

I like puzzles.

Confidence is returning. It is not loud, not boastful, just steady. It was not my best stream. It was a stream. That counts.

And near the end, I realized I forgot to bring up Extra Life. The timed message failed. That is on me. Growth is not the absence of oversight. It is the refusal to unravel because of it.

Momentum feels like a rocket this month, ignition, lift, velocity. But I can see the landing pads now. Not just clouds. Not just sky.

Memento Mori hums beneath it all. Not as panic. As precision.

There are decisions I am deliberately deferring. When to bring Anthropology into the stream. How to balance school with personal research. Another book idea waiting patiently at the edge of my desk. Fires will flare again. Leaders will falter again. Messages will multiply again.

I cannot control any of that.

I can control how I stand.

And this morning, before the sun was fully up, I heard my name.

“Dad.”

Soft. Certain. Small footsteps padding across the floor.

Even though I was already awake, I stayed still.

A hand reached out. Warm fingers wrapped gently around my foot.

“I love you.”

It is a simple ritual born from harder history. From restless sleep and old reflexes. From lessons learned too close to the bone. What began as protection has become practice.

He touches my foot every morning now. Without fail.

Soft.
Sure.
Studied.

Children do not just hear what we say.
They study how we stand.
They memorize how we move.
They mirror what we model.

The more peace I practice, the more peace presses back.

If I am honest, this season does not feel like crisis. It feels like convergence. Fires refining instead of consuming. Pressure clarifying instead of crushing. Legacy whispering instead of shouting.

I feel the clock louder now. Not in fear, but in focus. Not in panic, but in posture.

I cannot stop time.
I cannot stop the fires.
I cannot stop the weight of responsibility.

But I can decide the man my children wake up to.
I can decide the leader my team watches.
I can decide the posture I practice when no one is looking, and when everyone is.

And this morning, when a small hand found my foot in the dark, I was reminded:

Meaning is quieter.
And it is always closer than momentum.

No answers yet.

Just attention.

This is where I’m writing from today.

Quietly disciplined.
Reflective.
Standing steady in the heat.