Presence Is the Real Gift
The Little Fist Pump I Cannot Forget
There is a video we keep in our favorites. One I come back to every Christmas, or whenever I need a reminder of what childhood joy looks like.
My oldest daughter, maybe four years old, walking from her room to ours on Christmas morning. She’s half awake but so excited she throws a little fist pump and does this tiny skip before bursting into our bedroom with the biggest smile.
That moment is burned into my memory.
Yes, a lot of her excitement back then was for the presents. Kids are allowed that. But for me, it became something different. It became a reminder of how magical this time of year feels to them. And how magical it once felt to me.
And sometimes I need that reminder.
Because like every parent, I catch myself going through the motions. Helping with homework. Picking the kids up from school. Sitting in another row of folding chairs at another school performance.
There are days I am physically there but mentally replaying yesterday, or trying to solve the next fifty things I need to do in the next thirty minutes.
The snowball starts fast.
And then I think of that little fist pump, that pure joy coming down the hallway, and it pulls me back into the room.
It’s my anchor. My reminder of what’s real. My version of the spinning top in Inception.
Not yesterday. Not tomorrow. The now.
What Presence Actually Means
Presence, as I understand it now, is not about stillness or perfection.
It’s a decision.
A decision to return to the room you’re already in. To give the moment your full weight instead of dividing yourself between ten imaginary futures.
And here’s what I’ve learned: presence is self-feeding. It feels good to be present. It’s not always easy to get there, but when you do, you want more of it.
Everything slows down. Emotions soften. Reactions become intentional instead of automatic. Details sharpen. Responses get truer.
Presence creates its own momentum. The more I practice it, the more I crave it.
But getting there? That takes intention.
The Performance Trap That Pulled Me Away
One of the reasons presence used to be difficult for me is because I carried this belief—almost an anxiety—that if I didn’t dominate the next presentation or close the next deal, everything would fall apart.
This dates back to my athletic career, specifically baseball.
If I didn’t go four for four or drive in the winning run, it wasn’t good enough. If I didn’t hit a three-run homer with no one on base, I felt like I hadn’t done my job.
That way of thinking is dangerous.
It’s hard to be where your feet are when your mind is racing into futures you can’t control.
That performance wiring serves me in some contexts. It’s helped me build a career, close deals, and push through difficult stretches. But it also pulls me away from the moments that actually matter.
I’m working on unlearning that. Not the drive. The fear underneath it.
Because the truth is, my kids don’t need me to be perfect. They need me to be present.
Letting Go of the Blueprint
Before I became a dad, I had this grand plan for what my kids would be interested in.
Sports. Hockey. Golf. A blueprint that made sense in my head.
And of course, that’s not how it works.
What actually happens is better. You can’t manufacture their passions. You can’t impose a path. You sit back, you show up, you pay attention, and you watch the things that call to them start to surface on their own.
Shepherding wonder looks nothing like I imagined.
My role has become beautifully simple: Be there. Ask questions. Support them through the good and the bad.
Sometimes that means pointing out the lesson in disappointment. Sometimes it means challenging them. Sometimes it means listening and letting them vent. Sometimes it means matching their excitement and giving it a little extra room to breathe.
But no matter what the moment calls for, the most important ingredient I bring is presence.
And the wild part? They can feel when you grow with them.
Kids have a radar for authenticity. When you’re learning alongside them—when ballet or music or art is new to both of you—everything deepens.
It adds fidelity to conversations, shared experiences, tiny moments in the car, bedtime talks, all of it. Their excitement and their deepening pursuits combine with the growth happening in me.
It creates an environment we’re all proud of. A place where you can fail, succeed, ugly cry, or jump for joy. As long as you’re being you, it’s safe.
My intuition as a father tells me that kind of environment matters.
The Parts of Me They Bring Forward
What surprised me most about fatherhood is how my kids bring out a side of me I don’t always access at work, where I have to be focused, serious, and determined. But they help me bring out the playful, joyful version.
I’m not Captain Serious all the time, but I can certainly default to intensity.
With them, that intensity softens into something lighter. They bring me back to simpler times. Their biggest problems are homework or the next test, and seeing that snaps me out of taking myself too seriously.
It’s grounding in a way nothing else is.
From the moment my oldest was born, everything changed. I knew instantly that my world had shifted. It gave shape to my why. It brought it to life.
It muted the noise and amplified what matters.
Becoming a dad gave me another angle. A softer one. It made me pause more, reflect more, pay attention.
I don’t do it perfectly, but it broadened me.
I’ve learned about music, art, and crafts, things I never thought would matter but somehow mean everything. They exercise parts of my brain that need it. They round me out.
Now if I could only master the ballet bun.
The Sacredness of Ordinary Time
I’ve been working on appreciating the ordinary times, ordinary moments in life, finding joy and peace in the regular days.
It’s like doing the dishes after a great meal everyone enjoyed. There’s meaning in the cleanup.
Advent dramatizes waiting, but the truth is the same: Without ordinary time, there is no special time. Without anticipation, there is no arrival.
Presence lets both feel sacred.
The father I imagined I would be was perfect. Never raised his voice. Never lost his cool. Always had the answer.
I fell short of that quickly, and I’m grateful I did.
Being human with my kids is better than being perfect for them. It gives me chances to circle back, own mistakes, and model honesty out loud.
I’d rather show them real integrity than perfection they could never live up to.
There is no time of year where all of this feels more vivid than Advent and Christmas.
Everything slows down. Work winds down. School takes a break. We stay up a little later watching movies and sharing hot chocolate. Stories from our childhoods come out more easily.
It’s a magical stretch of time that adds a little peppermint spice to everything.
We feel more connected. Life moves slightly slower in the best possible way. It pulls us into deeper presence almost without trying.
And it becomes so clear: presence matters more than presents.
The Legacy I Hope They Carry
More than anything, I hope my daughters carry presence, acceptance, and imperfection into their own lives.
I want them to know that not having the answer is okay. Failing is okay. As long as you’re present, as long as you own your mistakes and act from a place of service, almost anything can be forgiven.
I don’t want them growing up under some perceived larger-than-life shadow built from my W-2s or awards.
I hope they remember me as perfectly imperfect. Someone who made a lot of mistakes but owned them. Someone who wasn’t afraid of the hard conversation. Someone who could look them in the eye and say he was wrong.
If we can raise young adults who are conscientious, respectful, intellectually honest, and excited to elevate the room they walk into, then we’ve already won.
Presence is the foundation of all of that. It’s the stable base that allows every other trait to grow.
The Best Time Is Right Now
I think sometimes about the opportunities I’ve missed because I wasn’t where my feet were—moments lost to mental noise and future worries.
The old proverb says it best: the best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago. The second best time is right now.
I can’t change the moments I missed. But I can be here for the next one.
Present. Grounded. Awake.
That little fist pump still plays in my head most mornings. It reminds me that childhood wonder doesn’t last forever. That the magical seasons pass quickly. That one day, they’ll walk past our bedroom door without stopping.
But not today.
Today, I get another chance to be here. To notice. To shepherd their wonder and let them shepherd mine.
That’s the real gift.
A question for you: What pulls you out of presence? And what brings you back?
Hit reply, I’d love to hear your version of the fist pump moment.
— Stephen
The laundry list of to-do items during this season, or really any season, often pulls me out of presence….constantly feeling like I need to do all of the things to have the best day, party, Christmas, etc. when really all I need to do is sit and watch for a moment to see how something so simple like a small laugh of a child or a hug from someone I love can pull me back to the here & now.