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.