I had a conversation with an old friend today, and it brought me back to a lesson I’ve lived many times over, even if I didn’t always have the words for it.
The importance of being able to see ourselves in the people we hold closest to our hearts.
I’ve known this friend almost my entire life. He missed one year of mine. I’m a year older, which has become a running joke that holds value only in my own head. But the truth is, we were born almost exactly a year apart, share the same birthday, and grew up a block away from one another.
Our childhood was competition in its purest form.
Tree forts we built together became tree forts we fought in. I feel the same connection to his childhood home that I do to my own. I still remember the smell of monkey bread in the morning, followed by arguments over who was going to win at Mario Kart. His brother was the same age as mine, so the four of us may as well have been brothers. The neighborhood knew that if any of our parents got a call, all four of us were in for it.
Boys being boys.
I remember the smell of grass and dirt as my head was dragged across the ground and then doing the same to him. When competition failed, we resorted to full-on Neanderthal tactics. That was usually followed by forced apologies at each other’s houses, only to repeat the entire process the next day.
Some days were good. Some days were bad. But we always looked out for each other.
As rough as we were on one another, we would defend each other ruthlessly against any outsider. It was the first friendship of many, but it set the tone. I don’t think I would find that same caliber of character again until I joined the Marines.
But this story isn’t just about bravado, macho-ism, or childhood toughness.
Even now, we’ll go months without speaking, only to reconnect with a random phone call and pick up right where we left off. We both have families now. We both know the challenges of blended families. Many of the struggles I’ve faced, he’s faced too.
I was always gracefully hard on him with advice, with banter. But I’ve come to realize that what I gave him was what I wanted someone to give me.
When he was having a rough time, I’d tell him: There’s positivity in this. This is growth. You’re doing the right things. Sometimes the hardest path is the one we feel closest to. Like starting your own business.
I spoke to him as that childhood friend, trying to steer him toward the life his younger self dreamed of and would be proud of.
We didn’t become rock stars or NFL players.
But the father he had, the father he hoped to become, he became. He dreamed of riding dirt bikes and ATVs with his kids and friends. So he built that life.
And I’m proud of that man.
Looking inward, though, I realized something harder.
The expectations I place on myself are far more harsh, cruel, and unrealistic than anything I would ever place on him. When he made mistakes and reached out, I met him with truth, but never judgment. I met him with friendship.
Part of my healing has been recognizing that my inner guidance often lacks that same compassion.
So I began to guide myself the way I would guide my friend. A voice filled with hope, patience, and the belief that I could still be better.
When I struggle now, I try to reconnect with those relationships that shaped me. Most often my children. Not only so I can offer myself a message of hope, but so I can offer it outward as well. To strangers and even more obdurate , to those who have transgressed against me.
Meeting even our enemies with compassion creates the possibility that they, too, might feel seen. That they might recognize that beneath all the armor, we are all seeking the same thing: connection, understanding, and a sense of equal worth.
I adamantly believe that it starts by seeing ourselves through the eyes of our inner child.
And then, perhaps, seeing one another through theirs.
-Dan
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