Let’s get something out of the way: I wanted to be a superhero. Not metaphorically. I mean, full cape, mask, and Batmobile vibes. I had the fake costumes, the towel capes, and the treehouse headquarters that doubled as Gotham. If you asked five-year-old me what I wanted to be when I grew up, it wasn’t a firefighter, a doctor, or even a businessman. It was someone who saved the day.
The True Essence of Fatherhood
Turns out, life doesn’t really give you a utility belt. And when I became a dad, I realized something even more humbling: My daughter doesn’t need me to be a superhero.
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She needs me to be consistent. She needs me to be kind. She needs me to be a man she can trust. A man who shows up, who keeps his word, who teaches her how to face life not by flying above it but by standing tall right in the middle of it.
The Myth of the Superdad
We’ve been sold this myth that we have to do it all. Be the breadwinner. Be the coach. Be the protector. Be the provider. Be the romantic partner who still plans date nights. Be the son who calls his mom. Sorry mom. Be the guy who gets up at 5 am to crush a bike ride while listening to a leadership podcast.
The list is exhausting. And the worst part? It’s fake.
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Because when we chase that kind of perfection, we become unavailable. We get lost in the hustle. We become men who are physically present but emotionally distant. And slowly, we start handing our kids an empty template: a version of manhood that looks powerful from the outside but is hollow on the inside.
Legacy Isn’t Built in the Big Moments
The word legacy gets tossed around a lot. But it isn’t your job title or your net worth. Legacy is your reputation in slow motion. It’s the story your kids will tell about you one day, not because they watched you close a big deal, but because they saw you close the dishwasher.
Legacy is built on the ordinary:
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● Choosing to tell the truth even when a lie would be easier
● Apologizing when you lose your temper
● Putting your phone down when your child walks in the room
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● Letting them see you pray
● Saying “no” to things that pull you away from them
It’s built on the unremarkable decisions that stack up over time to form the unshakable foundation of trust.
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The Power of Presence
Let me tell you what presence looks like in my house.
It’s 8:30 pm. I’m tired. She wants a bedtime story. I want to veg out on the couch. I know I’ll never regret choosing the story, but I also know I have to make that choice. Every. Single. Time.
Presence is a discipline. It means letting go of the pressure to make everything perfect and instead just being there. Not to fix. Not to perform. Just to be. And when you do that, your kids don’t just feel loved. They feel safe.
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And lately, bedtime in our house has taken a surprisingly creative turn, one powered by ChatGPT.
Each night, we enter in a cast of characters together, usually stuffies from her bed. There’s Big Poppa, the oversized squishmallow who used to be afraid of butterflies. Leon, the green round one who’s always up for an adventure. Clifford the big red dog. And Tulip, the glitter-horned unicorn with a dramatic streak. We feed them into the prompt and let GPT spin up something fun and wild.
Creating Memories
Sometimes it’s an epic adventure. Other nights, it’s something completely ridiculous. But lately? Lately, it’s been “Bed’s Got Talent”, our very own version of America’s Got Talent, starring the squishmallow crew. There are comedy acts, magic tricks, wild dance numbers, and a recurring bit from Reginald the Corgi that is hilarious. Sometimes Dad the Taco and Mom the Broccoli even make an appearance. As Siri reads the story to us, we grab the stuffies and act it all out. The giggles are nonstop.
Those giggles are core memories for me, no doubt about it. And while this one’s written for the dads, I’ve got to acknowledge the moms who are showing up day in and day out, too. In our house and so many others, it’s often the steady presence of a mother that sets the tone. None of this happens in a vacuum, and I’m grateful for the partnership that makes these moments possible.
And AI is here, so might as well teach her how to use it to entertain us.
Because the truth is, your kids need someone who chooses to show up, night after night, no matter how tired, and create something meaningful out of the ordinary.
That’s what legacy is made of. Not grand gestures, but small faithful ones.
So to the dads leading at home and in business: you don’t have to be perfect. Just present.
Because presence isn’t a personality trait, it’s a decision. And it’s one we get to make again tonight.
Integrity: The Trait That Outlives You
Here’s what else I’ve learned: Integrity is the quiet superpower. It doesn’t show up in capes. It shows up in consistency.
When your words match your actions, your kids learn they can trust you. When you own your mistakes, your kids learn they can too. When you model character over comfort, they see how to live with courage.
One of my mentors once told me, “Your character will preach louder than your words ever will.” And I’ve found that to be painfully and beautifully true.
But it’s not just about character. It’s about calling. I want my daughter to know what it looks like to walk in faith, not just by watching me pray, but by praying with me. Not just hearing me talk about values, but seeing me live them out when no one’s watching.
That’s the legacy I’m chasing. Not perfection. Not applause. Just the quiet, daily discipline of showing up with integrity and pointing her to something greater than both of us.
Leading at Home and in Business
I’ve worked in startups and stood in boardrooms. I’ve negotiated contracts and led teams. And I’ve come to believe deep in my bones that how you lead at home is the most important kind of leadership there is.
Because your home isn’t your escape from work, it’s your proving ground. It’s where the real you shows up.
That’s why I’ve made it a goal to have conversations about my day with my eight-year-old daughter. Not the boring rundown of emails and meetings, but the moments that moved me. I tell her about where I ran into obstacles, where I had to dig deep, and where I showed up for someone even when it was hard. I tell her where I won, too, but I make sure she hears the story behind the win, not just the headline.
I want her to know that leadership isn’t about having all the answers. It’s about being honest. Humble. Resilient. I want her to see that what I do out there only matters if it holds up here, at home, in the quiet moments, when no one’s clapping.
If you want to know what kind of leader you really are, ask your kids.
They’ll tell you, not with their words, but with their eyes.
And I want mine to look at me and see a man who leads with truth, with love, and with faith. Right where it matters most.
Your Kids Don’t Need a Superhero
They don’t need you to have all the answers. Or a six-figure income. Or a perfectly optimized morning routine. They don’t need Instagram-worthy vacations or a superhero dad with a podcast playlist and a protein shake.
They need you to be present. To be kind. To be steady.
They’ll remember the little things that felt big, like when you picked them up after a hard day, even if you had to finish a call in the parking lot. They’ll remember how you made it to their performance, even when your day was stacked. How you tucked them in and said “I love you” like it was a promise you planned to keep forever.
Those moments, quiet, repeated, seemingly unremarkable, become the soil where their confidence grows.
Fostering Great Fatherhood
They need a man who chooses them, especially when it’s inconvenient. A man who keeps promises, especially the ones that feel small to us but feel massive to them. They need to see you pray, especially when the day’s been heavy. To see what it looks like when strength comes from something deeper than grit or hustle.
So to the dads leading teams, chasing vision, and carrying pressure you don’t always talk about, don’t forget where your most lasting legacy is being written. It’s not in your title or your income. It’s in the in-between. The rides to school. The way you respond when they mess up. The way you show up when no one’s clapping. Fatherhood means so much more than just being there.
They won’t remember every toy or every trip. But they’ll remember how safe they felt when you were near. How seen they felt when you really listened. How proud they were to have you as their dad. Not because you were perfect, but because you were consistent. Because you were honest. Because you loved them like it mattered.
And when you lead with integrity, faith, and presence—not just when it’s easy, but when it costs you something, you become the kind of hero they’ll grow up wanting to become.
No cape required.
