Return to Breath

Chapter LXXXI · From The Pocket Dad: What I Learned Along the Way

Late September 2026

The two months following Bruce's birth were long — and I hadn't seen Maddie or Bronx for a month before that, either. Somewhere in there, three months went by without me seeing them on the weekend at all. Bruce had been so hard, and Mija and I were so exhausted, that driving all that way stopped making sense to us.

By the end of September, I'd finally had enough of waiting for the right time. I'd forgotten — there rarely is one.

I picked Maddie and Bronx up, and almost immediately, I felt calmer. Happier. We got home from a football game and fell into our usual routine — saying goodnight to Maya, watching the dogs run their zoomies around the living room. Maddie sat with Mija, sharing her life's updates — school, boys, her mom. Bronxton waited patiently for his turn to talk, playing chess with me in the meantime, or just hanging out with Maya. Then I'd listen to the same conversation get replayed to Mija, the one I'd already heard on the ride home. And me — smiling, happy, fortunate to have all four of my kids home under one roof again.

When it was all over and everyone was heading to bed, Bronxton hugged me. Long and wonderful. It felt good to be appreciated, even with nothing said between us. I could feel the stress melting off both of us.

I hadn't meditated in nearly three months. I hadn't had the desire, the energy, or the motivation to. But something about my son's hug melted away the anger I'd been quietly building inside myself. Anger at my own lack of patience. Anger at my negative thoughts. Anger at my wife, for her knee-jerk reactions born out of her own sleep deprivation. Anger at just about anything — if I thought it, I was sure to be mad about it.

Sometimes showing up, or sharing even a little compassion for someone else, is enough to show them what's possible. I'd forgotten my own mantra: return to breath. Return to equanimity. I'd forgotten that I am not my thoughts — and neither are you.

That Saturday morning, I woke up happy, made breakfast, and when the chance came, went downstairs and meditated. It was unremarkable — no jhana, nothing to report. Just pure equanimity and lovely breath. Recharging. I even worked through some emptiness exercises. Emptiness, I've learned, isn't a void — it's a tool. A way to become more compassionate toward others.

After meditation, Mija's parents watched Maya and Bruce for us. It gave us the time we needed to go do something with Maddie and Bronx. We went to the movies.

By the end of the weekend, I realized how much I'd missed my older kids. How different I'd become. I'd let the stress of Bruce's colic, the sleepless nights, get so far into me that I forgot what I was actually trying to do.

It's easy to get lost inside your own life, and the stress that comes with it. But if we can remember to return to breath — and not forget life's simplest secrets — we can hope for something like lasting happiness.