Tag: dad-advice

Seeing the World Through a Child’s Sense of Fairness

On By Ian ToalLeave a comment

What One Morning Taught Me About Justice, Integrity, and the Quiet Power of Doing What’s Right

This is Part 3 of a 4-part series on incorporating Stoic principles into the life of my son. Each post explores one of the core Stoic virtues — continuing with Justice.

Fairness is a compass.
Justice is the way we walk with it.

We were getting ready for school one morning — a little behind, a little foggy in the head. I was pouring coffee when Bear came into the kitchen with a look that told me something was coming.

“Dad,” he said, calm but firm,
“you said we both have to make our beds before breakfast… but you didn’t make yours.”

He wasn’t trying to catch me.
He wasn’t being rude.
He was holding me to the same standard I’d set for him.

And he was right.

Not long ago, I might’ve brushed it off.
Told him, “Focus on what you’re supposed to do.”
Or given the classic adult line — I was busy. I’ll get to it later.

But my son has always had a strong sense of fairness.
At school.
On the playground.
In our home.

That morning, he wasn’t just focused on himself.
He was focused on both of us doing what we say.

Justice Isn’t Just for Judges

The Stoics believed Justice wasn’t about laws and punishments —
It was about how we live.
How we treat people.
How we show up, even when it’s inconvenient.

My son had already figured that out.

If someone cut in line, he noticed.
If a classmate got blamed unfairly, he spoke up.
If I skipped a step I said was important, he called it out — not to be difficult, but because it mattered to him.

And I almost crushed that instinct.

Not on purpose.

At first, when he pointed out things he thought were unfair,
I’d tell him to just focus on himself.
That he was in charge of himself and let others be in charge of themselves.
That he can’t control other people.

Which is true —
but not the whole truth.

Because kids see deeply.
They feel when something is off.
They care when things aren’t right.

And when we dismiss that…
We risk teaching them to stop caring.

What my son needed wasn’t to be silenced.
He needed help understanding what he was seeing.
Help learning how to move through the world where fairness matters —
But so does grace.
So does compassion.

Justice doesn’t mean policing the world.
It means walking through it with integrity.

A Daily Reset

So now we do a check-in each afternoon or evening.

Not just:
“Did you brush your teeth?”
But:
“Did we clean up after ourselves?”
“Were we respectful?”
“Did anything happen today that you want to talk about or felt wasn’t right?”

Then we talk about it,

really talk about it, and figure out how we felt and what he or I might have done differently next time.

And I give him the grace to say what he’s feeling or thinking, and if I feel he needs a different way of seeing what happened, I’ll steer the conversation in a way that helps him understand.

Because in his eyes —
and honestly, in mine too —

How you do one thing is how you do everything.

And the way we reflect on those things together —
honestly, openly, without shame —
that’s how we build the sense of justice,
one small moment at a time.

Try This Tomorrow:

For You:
Notice one moment where you could act with more fairness — especially when no one’s watching. Choose integrity. Follow through.

Together:
Ask your child to share something that felt unfair today. Then talk through it — not to fix it, but to understand it together. Talk about what integrity might look like next time.

Final Thought

Justice begins in small, quiet places.
A made bed.
An honest word.
A promise kept.

That’s where your child learns it.
And that’s how you show them the path forward.

Step by step.
Side by side.

Roots Before Wings: Helping Our Kids Build Resilience That Lasts a Lifetime

On By Ian ToalLeave a comment

By A Mindful Dad’s Life

The Quiet Lessons We Teach on Calm Days

Resilience isn’t built in the storm. It’s built on sunny days, in small, quiet moments when life feels easy and our kids feel safe.

Picture this: your child sits at the kitchen table stacking blocks, their tongue peeking out in deep concentration. The tower wobbles. It crashes. For a second, their eyes well up, frustration rising fast. And here’s the moment that matters: do we swoop in to rebuild the tower, or do we teach them how to take a breath and try again?

These everyday moments, when the stakes are low and the world feels safe, are where we lay the foundation for how our children handle life when it gets messy. The roots we plant today will help them to grow the wings they need tomorrow.

Why Resilience Matters

Life won’t always be kind to our kids. They’ll lose friends, miss shots, fail tests, get their hearts broken, and face disappointments we can’t shield them from.

We can’t promise to protect them from every storm, but we can teach them how to stand in the wind and the rain without breaking.

Resilience is more than “bouncing back.” It’s helping our kids understand what’s important, how to process their emotions, and take action even when life feels overwhelming. And the time to start isn’t when things are hard. It’s right now, when things are good.

1. Teach Perspective Before the Storm

Kids live in the moment, which can make small setbacks feel enormous. One of the greatest gifts we can give them is the ability to zoom out, to see that challenges are temporary and failures are part of growth.

  • Share your own stories of struggle and recovery. Let them hear how you failed, got frustrated, and figured it out anyway.
  • Use simple language: “This feels big now, but one day it won’t. You’ll get through this.”
  • Help them separate who they are from what happened. Missing a shot doesn’t mean they’re a bad athlete. Failing a test doesn’t mean they’re not smart.

Resilient kids see failure as information, not identity.

2. Help Them Name Their Feelings

Resilience isn’t about “toughening up”, it’s about emotional awareness. When kids can name what they’re feeling, they can manage it instead of being overwhelmed by it.

  • When your child is upset, ask, “What are you feeling right now?”
  • Validate their emotions instead of rushing to fix them: “I understand why you’re frustrated. That makes sense.”
  • Teach that feelings come and go like the weather. Sadness, anger, fear, none of them last forever.

When kids know that emotions are natural and temporary, they gain the confidence to work through them instead of avoiding them.

3. Celebrate Effort, Not Just Results

Resilience grows when kids learn that their worth isn’t tied to winning. By focusing on effort over outcome, we give them permission to keep trying even when things don’t work out.

  • Praise the process: “I’m proud of how hard you worked,” not just “I’m proud you won.”
  • Give them challenges slightly outside their comfort zone: fixing a toy, planning a family activity, or helping cook dinner.
  • When they succeed, focus on what they learned and how they felt along the way, not just the finish line.

Effort builds grit. Grit builds confidence. Confidence builds resilience.

4. Model What Moving Forward Looks Like

Our kids learn more from watching us than from listening to us. When we handle setbacks with patience, self-compassion, and problem-solving, we’re showing them the blueprint for resilience.

  • Talk out loud about your own challenges and how you approach them.
  • Admit when you make mistakes, and let them see you try again.
  • Show them that it’s okay to ask for help.

Resilience isn’t pretending to have it all together. It’s showing up, learning, and moving forward, even when it’s hard.

When the Hard Days Come

There will be moments when your child faces something you can’t fix. A friendship ends. A dream slips away. A door closes.

That’s when your groundwork matters most.

Because if they’ve practiced naming their feelings, shifting their perspective, and trusting their own ability to recover, they’ll already know what to do: breathe, feel, think, act.

And maybe they’ll even remember something you said in a quiet kitchen years ago:
“This hurts now. But you’re stronger than you think. And this is not the end of your story.”

And maybe in that moment, they’ll remember something you told them, and something you lived through. Because resilience isn’t just something we teach; it’s something we’ve had to earn ourselves.

Take time to share those moments with your child: the times you struggled, the times you stumbled, and the times you kept going. Let them hear how perspective, emotional honesty, and persistence helped you move forward. When they see that these lessons mattered in your life, they’ll carry them forward in their own.

Roots Before Wings

We give our kids roots: belonging, love, security. But we also give them wings: courage, grit, confidence, and hope.

One day, they’ll face a storm you can’t stand in for them. And they’ll rise, not because life got easier, but because you helped them practice being strong when life was calm.

Resilience isn’t built in the storm. It’s built in the sun. And it starts with us.

If this resonated with you, start today: notice the small moments, speak kindly through the little frustrations, and talk with your child about how they feel, even when everything’s going fine. Resilience begins when we choose to be present, not perfect.

What I Learned About Co-Parenting the Afternoon Everything Went Sideways

On By Ian Toal1 Comment

Some days co-parenting feels like walking a tightrope: balancing my son’s joy, his mom’s expectations, and my own mistakes. This was one of those days.

My son is stubborn. When he gets something in his head, there’s no changing it. It’s part of what makes him strong, but it’s also something we’re working on together: being more mentally flexible and learning to let others lead sometimes. That stubborn streak shaped how this afternoon went.

He’s been that way since the day he was born. During labor, the midwife determined that he was holding onto his umbilical cord. Every time there was a contraction, he’d tighten his grip until his heart rate dropped low enough for him to pass out. Then he’d release it, his heart rate would recover, and the cycle would start again. After many tense hours, they opted for a C-section. When I placed him on his mother’s chest afterward, the attending nurse watched him snuggle in, bump his body around to get comfortable, and said, “He likes what he likes. I can see that in him.” It was the first clear sign that our son was stubborn and wanted what he wanted.

It started simple enough. His birthday was tomorrow, and he’d been milking the “birthday week” for all it was worth. When I picked him up from camp, his mother texted asking if I had plans for him. I didn’t. She said she wanted to head to the Y at five to meet a friend and let our kids swim together. Sounded good to me, I’d even get a swim in myself.

When I told him we were going home so he could swim with his friend, he shook his head. “I don’t want to swim. But can we get a Holy Donut for my birthday?”

It was 3:38. We had time. But when we got to the Holy Donut, it was closed.

No problem, I thought. But he wasn’t giving up on birthday week treats. “What about Ben & Jerry’s?” he asked. I said no, no ice cream before dinner. But I offered a deal: we’d stop at Whole Foods, grab some cones, and get ice cream there, and he could eat it after dinner.

So we did. We picked up jerky for a snack, popcorn for later, and his ice cream. Then we headed home.

Ten minutes from the house, traffic came to a sudden stop on the highway. A mess of brake lights. We narrowly avoided a big accident. My son yelled from the back seat, “We almost got into an accident!” just as my phone buzzed.

It was his mom. “What’s taking so long?” she asked.

“We’ll be home in a few minutes, before five,” I said.

She sighed. “It’s not worth going to the Y now. I thought you’d be home sooner.”

By the time we got home, I told my son, “Go talk to your mom, maybe she still wants to go.”

But he shook his head. “I don’t want to go to the Y.”

Inside, he disappeared into his room, while his mom sat working on her laptop. A minute later, he burst back out, shoving me toward the door. “We’re doing a water gun fight,” he announced.

I laughed and told him I needed to change first, and make a quick work call in my car.

That’s when it happened.

As I walked through the house to change, his mother stood up from the couch, looked at me, and loudly whispered:

“You are such an asshole. I hate you.”

She walked away before I could respond, leaving me standing there stunned and frustrated, caught between wanting to defend myself and knowing it would only escalate things.

I changed, went to the car, and started my call. She came outside, made sure I saw her, leaned toward my window, scowled, and flipped me off before walking into the greenhouse.

My son climbed into the car a few minutes later. “Mom’s in the greenhouse,” he said. And then, as if nothing had happened, he grinned: “Ready for the water gun fight?”

We spent the next hour laughing, running through the yard, spraying each other until we were soaked. He finished the evening sitting under the outdoor shower, talking quietly to himself and playing with the water for 45 minutes.

When I finally went inside, his mother confronted me again. “You’re completely inconsiderate,” she said. “I shouldn’t let myself be surprised or angry—you just do whatever you want.”

I stayed calm. “I thought I was home in time for you to go to the Y. But you’re right—I should have texted you from the highway. That’s on me. I’ll communicate better next time.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Three Sides to Every Story

I’ve always believed there are three sides to every story. Like a coin, there’s Heads and Tails—two people’s versions of what happened—and then there’s the truth, which lives in the edge between them.

The truth here is that I was late. I should have texted. I could have been clearer about how long we’d be. That’s my side of the coin.

Her side? It isn’t really about being late. She’s been hurt before—deeply. She had a kid with a man who wouldn’t show up for days, didn’t communicate, and even taught his son to lie to her. That kind of betrayal leaves scars. So when I don’t text, it doesn’t just feel like poor communication—it feels like old wounds reopening.

And then there’s the edge of the coin—the part I have to live on for my son’s sake.

Because he doesn’t need whispered hate in the living room. He needs laughter in the yard—the kind we shared as we darted between trees, soaked from head to toe, his belly-laugh echoing louder than the spray of the water guns. He needs parents who can own their mistakes, even when it’s uncomfortable. He needs a father who stays calm when things get messy.

What I Learned

Co-parenting isn’t about winning arguments. It’s about breaking old cycles, even ones you didn’t create. And yes, I certainly had my part in why we are no longer together. I’ve made mistakes, learned from them, and am doing the work to grow past those old wounds and cycles.

For me, that means apologizing when I’m wrong, even if I’m frustrated. It means remembering that her anger isn’t really about me; sometimes it’s about a past I didn’t live, but still have to navigate. And, most importantly, it means choosing to focus on the moments that matter: the water gun fight, the outdoor shower, and the little boy who, for 45 minutes, was perfectly happy just being a kid.

That’s the story he’ll remember. And that’s the story I want to keep writing.

Why Kids Should Do Things That Scare Them

On By Ian ToalLeave a comment

Fear Is Not the Enemy—It’s the Doorway to Growth

Last summer, my son wasn’t ready to swim on his own. To break up a long drive on a hot day, we went to a calm, safe spot on the Saco River where I could dive in for a swim. He stayed on shore, watching. I offered to give him a ride on my back, but he shook his head no. Instead, he pointed to the rocks lining the river, seeing if I would jump from any rock he pointed to. He laughed as I jumped, each time asking me to go higher. Every splash was met with wide-eyed wonder, but he never came close to the edge.

Fast forward to this past Sunday. We went back to the same spot along the river, and I inflated a tube for him to float in. At first, I tied it to our dog’s harness and let her swim alongside me as she pulled him along. That worked well for about five minutes, until he started splashing her and she swam around in circles, then headed for shore. After unhooking her, she and I dove back in, her harness slung securely over my shoulder. We went downriver for 20–25 minutes before I pulled his float over to a small rock outcropping, where we had to climb up to get out of the river. I stood on a rock, maybe four or five feet above the water, and told him I was going to jump. He watched closely as I launched myself off, came up whooping and laughing, water streaming down my face.

This time, something shifted. He said he wanted to try.

He walked to the edge and peered down. “It looks really scary,” he told me.

And I believed him. Fear is real, especially the first time you stand at the edge of something unknown. I told him that sometimes everyone needs to do something that scares them. In truth, being scared and pushing past that fear helps reset our stress baseline, builds resilience, and strengthens our ability to grow. Research in developmental psychology and neuroscience supports that facing manageable fears promotes confidence, problem‑solving, and long‑term emotional regulation.

I treaded water and waited, watching my son as he closed his eyes… and leapt.

I was right there to catch him, but he didn’t need me. He came up from the water looking shocked, amazed, and, more than anything, proud. His face lit up with joy, the kind of joy that only comes when you’ve pushed past fear and realized you are stronger than you thought.

We climbed back up together, and this time he told me he was going to jump even higher. He smiled the whole way down, grinning until he hit the water.

A Small Moment at the YMCA

Just tonight, I was leaving the Y when I noticed a girl about my son’s age climbing over the top rail that surrounds the indoor track. She was working hard, stretching and pulling herself up, smiling as she went.

Her parent quickly said, “No, that’s not what that’s for.” The little girl climbed back down and slid between the rails instead, where it was safer.

I don’t think her parent did anything wrong; they were keeping her safe and setting an expectation. But I couldn’t help wondering what lesson the girl took away. Was it that climbing was dangerous? Or that the joy of effort isn’t worth the risk?

I thought of how many times I’ve let my son climb fences or rails higher than that, and how much confidence he’s gained from it. It reminded me that part of parenting is choosing carefully which fears to protect against, and which ones to let our kids meet head-on.

The Lesson

Fear is not the enemy. It’s an invitation to growth.

When kids do something that scares them—not recklessly, but with support—they learn that fear doesn’t have to stop them. They learn that courage is built in moments like this, when your heart races and your legs want to turn back, but you leap anyway.

And maybe most importantly, they learn to trust themselves.

💡 Parent takeaway: The next time your child hesitates at the edge of something new, don’t rush to pull them back. Stand beside them, believe their fear, and remind them: sometimes the scariest leaps turn into the best memories.

Your Kids Will Test You — And That’s a Good Thing

On By Ian ToalLeave a comment

By: A Mindful Dad’s Life

The first time my son really tested me, it caught me off guard. We were mid-conversation about something small (cleaning up his Legos, I think) and out of nowhere, he looked me right in the eye and said, “I don’t care.”

I knew in that moment he didn’t want to pick up the Legos, that much was clear. But it wasn’t really about the Legos. It was about me.

And for a split second, I felt that familiar adult urge: shut it down, take control, remind him who’s in charge.

But I caught myself.


Because this wasn’t defiance for the sake of defiance. This was a question in disguise:
“Are you still my safe place when I’m not easy to love?”

The Hidden Purpose of These “Tests”

Kids can’t always explain their feelings, so they push them outward. Sometimes that looks like talking back, breaking a rule, or going silent when you try to talk.

Underneath it all, they’re looking for answers to questions they don’t have the words for yet:

If I mess up, will you still show up for me?

Do you hear me when I’m struggling, or only when I’m well-behaved?

Can I trust you with the real me, even if the real me is messy right now?

The Reflex We All Have: And Why It Doesn’t Work

As parents, it’s easy to react from habit:

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

“Go to your room.”

“Because I said so.”

Those responses might stop the behavior for the moment, but they don’t answer the deeper question. In fact, they can teach the opposite: I’m only loved when I’m easy.

Over time, that pushes kids to hide their feelings, avoid honesty, and pull away when life gets hard. It also limits their ability to become a safe place for others. This can be especially challenging for boys, who may grow into men without learning emotional security or how to relate to others with empathy.

Meeting the Test Without Losing Yourself

This isn’t about letting your kid run wild. It’s about staying steady enough to guide them through the storm instead of joining it.

  1. Slow your reaction, here is where I usually take a breath. Pause before you speak. Remind yourself that connection comes before correction.
  • Get curious. Ask, “What’s really going on here?” Sometimes the anger is about something that happened hours ago, or about something unrelated to you.
  • Hold the boundary, keep the bridge. It’s okay to say, “I love you, but it’s not okay to yell at me.” Boundaries create safety when they’re delivered with respect.
  • Circle back. The real conversation often happens later, when the heat’s gone. Use that time to reconnect and help them name what they were feeling.

Why It Matters More Than You Think

Every time you pass one of these tests, you’re teaching your child:

  1. They can bring their whole self to you.
  • You can handle their big emotions without shutting them down.
  • Love in this family doesn’t vanish when things get hard.

That’s the kind of foundation they’ll carry into every friendship, relationship, and challenge for the rest of their life.

In the end, the test isn’t about you “passing” or “failing.” It’s about showing your child that when life gets messy, and it will, you’ll still be there for them.

Your Turn: Think about the last time your child “tested” you. How did you respond? What could you do differently next time to show them you’re a safe place, even when emotions run high? Share your thoughts with other parents, or start the conversation at your next family meal. The more we talk about this, the more we grow together.

Raised by Wolves – Staying in Your Lane

On By Ian Toal1 Comment

“My son ran the best race of his life… and then got disqualified. That moment made me rethink how much parents should push their kids in sports — and where the line is between encouragement and pressure. In this Raised by Wolves story, I share what happened, what the experts say, and the lesson that changed how I parent in both sports and life.”

By: A Mindful Dad’s Life

Last Saturday, my son competed in the state track and field championships. At eight years old, he’s already got a natural athleticism and a competitive streak that shows up when it matters. He qualified in three events: the 100-meter dash, the high jump, and the 4×100 relay.

It was one of those days that made me swell with pride, wrestle with self-doubt, and ask myself tough questions about the kind of sports parent I want to be, and to question the line between inspiring my child and unintentionally pushing too hard.

The Balancing Act Every Sports Parent Knows

I’ve always wrestled with the same question:


How do you encourage your kid to push themselves and strive for their best without pushing so hard that you take away the joy?

At the meet, I talked with another dad whose daughter is in the same situation. She’s talented, works hard, and yet he finds himself in the same constant debate: I want her to push harder, but I don’t want to make her hate it.

We both admitted there’s no perfect answer. The balance isn’t something you figure out once and then coast; it’s something you adjust every season, sometimes every week.

The Highs, the Lows, and the Lane Violation

In the 100 meters, my son cut 1.6 seconds off his personal best, a huge improvement, but still finished 14th. He was happy that he beat someone in his heat, and I congratulated him for how well he ran and his start.

In the high jump, he cleared 3′-1″. It was the height that qualified him for the states. He said after the event that he was disappointed he didn’t make 3′-2″. A lot of kids missed that height, so he wasn’t the only one walking off the field. He was disappointed that he hadn’t cleared 3’-2” and said he wanted to jump that height next year.

And in the relay, I saw something I’d been waiting for: that locked-in “I’m gonna win this” look. He took the baton with his team in 4th place, ran the hardest I’ve ever seen him run, and pushed his team into 2nd. The final runner brought it home with a 2-second lead.

Then it happened: the moment I won’t forget. After handing off the baton, he drifted into another runner’s lane, bumped another runner, and was disqualified. His team’s 1st place finish disappeared in an instant.

The coach had told them over and over: Stay in your lane. And I’ll be honest, I was disappointed. But I was also proud of how hard he ran his leg of the relay. I didn’t lecture him, I just asked what happened. He looked upset and shut down. On the ride home, he reasoned it away, saying the other team was going to lose anyway.

My Own Athletic Past

The next day, he let me talk to him about it. I told him how I was a swimmer starting at age seven, how I was disqualified more than once, and how I wasn’t very good when I first started competing.

My mother made me swim, no choice, no days off, and she demanded that I push myself to be the best. Eventually, I was. I loved the water and loved winning, but I had to find my own joy in it despite the pressure.

I don’t want to raise my son the way my mother raised me. I want him to have the will to improve and the grit to set goals, but I also want him to stay a kid, to try different sports, to laugh at practice, to discover what he loves without feeling like every mistake will be held against him.

What the Experts Say

It turns out this tug-of-war is something researchers have studied for years.

The American Academy of Pediatrics and sports psychology experts agree: children thrive when the focus is on enjoyment, personal growth, and skill development, not just winning.

When parents put too much emphasis on performance, kids are more likely to:

  • Burn out and lose interest in the sport entirely.
  • Experience anxiety that hurts both performance and confidence.
  • Drop out early, sometimes before they ever reach high school.

So what does work? Experts suggest a few guiding principles:

  1. Autonomy: Give kids a real say in which sports they play and how much they want to commit.
    Guideline: Offer options, ask for their opinion, and respect their choices, even if they change their mind.
  2. Effort over outcome: Praise hustle, focus, and learning, not just results.
    Guideline: Highlight small improvements and celebrate perseverance, regardless of the scoreboard.
  3. Shared goals: Set objectives together so your child feels ownership.
    Guideline: Involve them in deciding what they want to improve and agree on realistic, incremental goals.
  4. Perspective: Less than 1% of youth athletes compete at elite levels; the real win is building life skills, resilience, and friendships.
    Guideline: Remind yourself and your child why they play, for fun, health, and teamwork.

If you push too hard, you risk your child associating the goal with your approval rather than their own satisfaction. That’s not just a sports issue, it’s a parenting issue. In so many parts of childhood, from schoolwork to hobbies to friendships, our encouragement can either foster independence or create dependency on our praise. The challenge is making sure we’re building their self-motivation, not just their desire to please us.

One of the hardest questions parents face is where to draw the line when a child wants to quit mid-season. Commitment matters; finishing what you started teaches follow-through and respect for teammates. But there’s also value in recognizing when something truly isn’t the right fit. Experts often recommend a middle ground: require kids to finish the season they agreed to, then give them the choice to continue or switch afterward. It reinforces responsibility without locking them into misery.

When you combine these principles, you create an environment where your child feels supported, not controlled. They learn to push themselves because they want to, not because they fear letting you down. This balance builds lifelong motivation and a healthy relationship with sports.

More Than Just Track

This isn’t just about track for us. I’m also his flag football coach, and the same push-pull plays out there. I want to correct every mistake, tell him exactly how to get better, but sometimes, the best thing I can do is step back and let him figure it out himself.

Sometimes I get that balance right. Sometimes I don’t. But I’m learning, just like he is.

Staying in My Lane

Maybe the real lesson from that disqualification isn’t about track etiquette at all. My son has to learn to stay in his lane on the track.

And I have to learn to stay in mine as a father, guiding, supporting, and encouraging him to run his race, not mine.

If you’ve been in the stands, holding your breath, or yelling at the top of your lungs for your kid, you know this struggle. We want them to push. We want them to shine. But we also want them to love the game enough to come back tomorrow.

And maybe, just maybe, the key is remembering that our role isn’t to run beside them or ahead of them, but to cheer them on from our own lane while they find their way down the track.

Because at the end of the day, success isn’t about medals or times, it’s about raising a child who knows how to run their own race, no matter where life’s track takes them.

If this story resonates with you, I’d love to hear from you. Leave a comment and share what’s worked for your child.

Raised by Wolves: The Word I Swore I’d Never Say

On By Ian Toal1 Comment

By: The Mindful Dad’s Life

My son and I have a new favorite food, burritos from Whole Foods. We had one last weekend after a two-hour rock-climbing session, and it was hands down the best thing either of us had eaten in a long time. It’s become a bit of a ritual now: climb hard, burrito recharge.

Yesterday, after a 6-hour track meet, we stopped in again for a late lunch. We were both pretty hungry. My son ordered first. The woman behind the counter was Russian, I think. She was very polite, patient, and attentive. She listened carefully as he confidently asked for a half-pork, half-steak burrito with rice, sour cream, and hot sauce.

He had watched the burrito-making process closely the last time and thought he knew the routine. So when she placed the wrap in the steamer and turned away to grab something, he got a little impatient. Standing on a nearby display shelf, he said loudly, “Where’s the wrap, stupid?”

Without thinking, I grabbed him firmly by the shoulders and pulled him down.

“That is incredibly disrespectful and rude,” I said, my voice low but sharp. “You do not call someone stupid. You don’t know her, and she’s the one working to make your food. She would probably rather be someplace else, and she’s doing her best. You treat her with kindness and respect.”

He nodded silently, eyes downcast. I let go of his shoulders, and he walked a few steps away. A minute later, he came back and tried to play with me, like nothing had happened.

But something had happened: for both of us.

As we stood there waiting for our food, I found myself replaying the moment again and again. The moment cracked open something old in me, something buried deep but not forgotten. Was that the best way to handle it?

Because the truth is, I flinched when I heard that word. Stupid. That word lived in my house growing up. It lived in my mother’s voice. She called me stupid almost every day until I was 16, when I finally stood up and said, “I’m not stupid. I’m actually really smart.” Her response was to come at me with a broom handle. That day, for the first time, I was strong enough to stop her and walk away, unharmed and strangely proud. Proud that I had finally stood up for myself.

That word *stupid* carries a weight in my life. It was never just a word. It was a label, a weapon. So when I heard it from my son’s mouth, even casually, it hit like a wave. My reaction wasn’t just to his moment, it was to mine, still echoing years later.

And yet, my son is not me. He’s a child, not a threat. He was hungry, tired, and trying to be funny. He was pushing the boundary, not breaking it. And I, the man trying so hard to do this right, reacted from a place of pain instead of presence.

In no way do I ever condone the beating of children as a form of discipline. I was, hopefully, the last generation of children to have been beaten by their parents. I was hit with hands, fists, belts, my own toys, cricket bats, and broom handles. It left a very deep mark on my psyche that took years to heal, years to learn to trust, to love, and to feel safe again in my own body.

So I ask myself now: was it okay to grab him like that?

In that moment, it felt necessary. I wasn’t rough. I didn’t yell. But it was immediate and stern. I wanted to stop the behavior before it grew roots. And for boys, who often learn through movement and energy, sometimes a physical redirection can be helpful, but only when it’s calm, non-threatening, and followed by reflection. (That’s the part I didn’t do.)

Still, I know I could have done better. A touch on the shoulder. A quiet crouch to his level. A firm, respectful tone without needing to startle him. I could have protected the moment without letting my old wounds lead the charge.

That instinct I felt—the flash of heat, the pull to act—that’s the wolf in me. The part that learned, as a boy, that no one was coming to protect me, so I had to learn to protect myself. It kept me safe. It gave me strength. But that wolf, while loyal and fierce, now needs to learn how to be gentle around my son.

My son doesn’t need to be hardened to survive. He needs to be guided to thrive.

We never spoke about it again, but I made sure to thank the woman sincerely when she handed me my burrito. Not just for the food, but to show him how I treat others.

I’m still learning.

Still healing.

Still choosing the father I want to be, every single day.

And to any parent reading this who has ever questioned themselves, I see you. You’re not alone. The journey is hard sometimes, but you’re doing the work, and that matters more than perfection ever could.

5 Ways to Teach Kids About Healthy Body Image and Respecting Others

On By Ian ToalLeave a comment

1. Model Self-Respect in Front of Them

Kids copy what they see. Speak kindly about your own body—even if you’re joking. Avoid language like “I hate my stomach” or “I need to lose weight.” Instead, say things like:
“I’m proud of how strong I’m getting,” or “My legs helped me chase you around today!”
Let them see you treat your body as something to care for—not criticize.

2. Celebrate What Bodies Can Do

Help your child focus on function over appearance. Talk about how bodies let us run, climb, hug, dance, swim, and heal.
Ask them:

What’s something amazing your body did today?
This builds appreciation without tying their worth to how they look.

3. Avoid Judging Other People’s Bodies—Even Casually

That quick comment about someone’s weight on TV or in the grocery store? It lands.
Instead, shift conversations away from appearance and toward values:
“She seems like a kind person,” or “He’s really funny!”
Reinforce that we don’t judge others by their size or shape.

4. Teach Empathy Before Curiosity Becomes Hurtful

If your child asks why someone is “so big” or “has a belly,” gently explain:

“That’s their body, and it’s not polite to comment on how someone looks. We don’t always know what someone is going through, so it’s better to be kind than curious.”
Role-play responses to help them practice.

5. Praise Effort, Not Just Looks

Instead of “You’re so handsome” or “You look pretty in that,” try:
“You worked hard on that outfit!” or “You’re glowing after all that running!”
This encourages self-worth based on effort, creativity, and joy—not just appearance.

💬 Want a conversation starter for tonight?

Ask your child: “What do you love most about your body—not how it looks, but what it lets you do?”
Their answer might surprise—and inspire—you.

You can find the complete article here “Why is her belly so big?”

Why Is Her Belly So Big? Teaching My Son to Talk About Bodies With Kindness

On By Ian Toal2 Comments

The other day, my son stood in front of the mirror, shirtless, hands behind his head, flexing.
He turned sideways, checked his waistline, nodded approvingly, then looked at me and said matter-of-factly and said “I’m always going to have a slender waist.”

I smiled, because, yeah, he gets that flexing part from me. But then he followed it up with,
“Why are some people not in good shape?”

And that’s when I felt it. The moment.
The one where a simple question opens the door to something much bigger.

Curiosity Isn’t Cruel—But It Can Still Hurt

My son is eight, and like many kids his age, he’s starting to notice things.
Bodies. Differences. Who has muscles, who doesn’t. Who moves fast. Who doesn’t.

His mom, for instance, is on the heavier side. He calls her “fluffy” or “soft,” which, in his mind, isn’t an insult—it’s an observation. But the thing is, they’ve had some tension lately.
More than once, he’s asked her why her belly is so big.
And she’s taken it personally, which I understand. Because even though he doesn’t mean it cruelly, it still stings. Words from our kids can cut deeper than we expect.

He Gets the Flexing from Me

Studies show that kids start forming body image beliefs as early as age five. Whether they’re flexing in front of the mirror or repeating something they heard at school, they’re already learning what’s “good” or “bad” about bodies—often from us.

I’m not going to pretend I don’t care about how I look. I lift weights, track my workouts, and yeah, I flex sometimes too.
He sees that. Kids always see.
So when he checks himself out in the mirror or brags about his abs (he’s convinced he has a six-pack, by the way), I recognize that he’s learning pride in his body the same way I once did, by copying someone he looks up to.

That part’s not a problem.
It’s what comes next that matters.

The Dad Lesson: 3 Things I Want Him to Know

1. Health Is More Than Looks

We talked about what it really means to be “in shape.” That it’s not just about looking strong but feeling strong and confident.
“Some people run fast. Some can lift heavy things. Some people take longer to move or heal. That’s all part of being human.”
Bodies change. Bodies age. They carry stories we don’t always see—or even know to ask about.

Other People’s Bodies Deserve Respect

I told him:
“It’s okay to be curious, but asking why someone’s body looks a certain way can make them feel embarrassed or sad. Even if you didn’t mean to hurt their feelings, your words have power.”
We talked about his mom, about how she might feel when he asks about her belly.
And I reminded him that kindness isn’t just about hugs and nice words, it’s also about knowing when not to say something.

It’s Okay to Be Proud; Just Stay Humble

I want him to feel good in his skin. To love the body that helps him climb, swim, run, and wrestle me to the ground in our living room.
But I also want him to understand: muscles don’t make you better than someone else.
“You can be proud of your body, but never use it to make someone feel worse about theirs. Don’t compare yourself to anyone else. Everyone’s body is different—and that difference is what makes us special.” 

Bodies Are Personal—And Powerful

Research confirms that kids absorb how we talk about our own bodies. If they hear us complain about our weight or praise looks above all else, they learn to measure worth the same way. A 2020 study in the Journal of Adolescent Health found that parental comments about weight and appearance are directly tied to children’s body image—both positive and negative.

I keep thinking about how young this starts.
How quickly kids begin to measure themselves—and others.
And how easy it is, without meaning to, to pass on our own hang-ups or judgments.

It’s made me more aware of my own mirror time.
Of how I talk about my body in front of him.
Do I joke about getting old? Complain about my belly? Praise myself only when I “look good”?
Because if I do, he’s soaking it in.

What I Hope He Remembers

I hope he remembers that bodies are amazing, even when they’re soft, wrinkled, scarred, or tired. What makes a body “good” isn’t how it looks, but what it lets us do; hugging, laughing, holding hands, resting, and keeping going.
I hope he keeps flexing in the mirror, proud of what he’s building.
But I also hope he looks at others with softness, too.

The Bottom Line

Science backs this up: teaching empathy and body diversity reduces teasing and fat-shaming among kids. A 2019 study in Pediatrics found that children who learned about body differences and practiced empathy were far less likely to stigmatize or bully peers based on weight. This isn’t just about kindness—it’s about protecting mental health for the long haul.

Being a dad means catching these little moments and turning them into something bigger.
Not with a lecture. Not with shame.
But with presence. With love. With the long game in mind.

Because one day, my son’s going to be a man.
And when he looks at someone who’s different than him—bigger, slower, older, softer—I want him to see a whole person.
Not just a body.

If this story resonated with you, feel free to share it or leave a comment. Let’s help raise a generation that leads with kindness—not comparison.

Raised by Wolves – Teaching My Son (and Myself) to Ask for Help

On By Ian Toal1 Comment

By The Mindful Dad Life.

This story is part 2 of a series of posts that need to be written, both for my own reflections and to help me understand what kind of dad I want to be.

I started noticing it when my son was about four or five. He’d be sitting on the floor with his blocks, or drawing something he’d never tried before, and I could see him struggling—jaw tight, shoulders stiff, refusing to look my way. He wouldn’t ask for help.

And I recognized it instantly, because I was looking at myself.

I’ve spent most of my life with that same instinct, the one that whispers, figure it out yourself, don’t bother anyone, don’t show weakness. I never taught him that, not intentionally, but kids don’t just learn what we say; they pick up who we are. In a lot of ways, we pass on survival habits without even meaning to. Raised by wolves, indeed.

It took weeks “Weeks” of patient conversations to help him get comfortable asking. I’d sit beside him and say, “What can you figure out, and what can I help you with?” or “If you need help, remember, I’m right here.” At first, he’d shake his head and try harder on his own. But slowly, he started asking. Just once in a while at first, then with a little more ease.

And every time he asked, it felt like a small victory, not just for him, but for both of us.

Because if I’m being honest, I’m still learning this myself.

The Freeze

Not long ago, a friend of mine—someone I’d just helped with his art business plan and a new logo he’d been wanting for years—looked me straight in the eye and said, “Anything you need, man, just ask.”

I froze.

My mind went completely blank. Not because I didn’t need help, but because my brain didn’t know how to process that offer. I didn’t know what to say. And that’s when it hit me: this isn’t just habit, it’s wiring.

Why Men Struggle to Ask for Help

Science backs that up. Studies have shown that men are less likely than women to seek help, not just emotionally but practically, whether it’s asking for directions, reaching out for mental health support, or delegating tasks.

Some of this comes from how boys are socialized. Research published in Psychology of Men & Masculinities found that from a young age, boys are more likely to be praised for independence and problem-solving, while girls are encouraged to seek and offer help. By the time we’re adults, those patterns are deeply ingrained.

There’s also biology at play. A 2019 review in Frontiers in Behavioral Neuroscience discussed how testosterone and stress responses interact, often making men more likely to respond to challenges with a “fight-or-flight” reaction rather than a “tend-and-befriend” one, a pattern more common in women. In other words, when something’s hard, our instinct isn’t to ask for help; it’s to grit our teeth and push harder.

That instinct kept our ancestors alive. But for fathers, for men trying to raise kids in a healthier, more connected world, it can hold us back.

The New Pack

I don’t want to raise my son to be a lone wolf. I want him to know that asking for help isn’t weakness, it’s trust. It’s connection. It’s how we build stronger families, stronger friendships, stronger lives.

The truth is, we’re not meant to do it all alone. Wolves survive in packs for a reason.

So I’m trying to rewrite this for myself as much as for him. I’m practicing saying yes when someone offers to help, even if it feels awkward. I’m practicing asking for help before things reach the breaking point. And every time my son looks up and says, “Dad, can you help me with this?” I remind myself: this is what breaking the cycle looks like.

If I can teach him that strength isn’t just doing everything alone, then maybe that’s the legacy that matters most.

For Dads Reading This

If you’re like me, you probably freeze up too. Maybe you think you need to handle everything, to be the strong one all the time. But the strongest thing you can teach your kids is that strength also looks like leaning on people you trust.

Start small. Accept help when it’s offered. Ask for help in one thing this week, even if it feels uncomfortable. Show your kids that trust is strength.

Because we weren’t meant to do this alone. And neither are they.