This is the ninth entry in my Morning Drift series — a personal search and journal of gratitude, presence, and the shifting truths I find in sobriety. These aren’t polished guides or programs, just lived moments: presence, gratitude, reflections, frustrations, questions, and the daily work of finding balance.
My daughter leaves back to Montana in a couple of days. She’s 21, heading into the final semester of her senior year in college, and she’s on the dean’s list. I’m extremely proud.
That had me thinking this morning about recently having all the kids together. Not at a dinner—just hanging out—going back and forth, giving each other a hard time, reminiscing about things.
I often talk and write about gratitude. But when does gratitude become a reward? I’m very grateful for what my kids have become, and for the reward of seeing the work put into trying to help shape them.
I have three children—two 19-year-olds and a 21-year-old. They’re maturing, figuring things out, enjoying life. That, in itself, is one of the rewards.
When I was their age, I was on my own little Survivor show. I’d been on my own for a couple of years. I lived on the streets—nothing like you’re thinking. The mean streets of Tustin, in Orange County, California—and that’s sarcasm. Very different from a large metropolis. I had friends. I slept where I needed to. Sometimes in the back of cars.
When I look at my kids now, I see them with jobs, school, vehicles, friends, hobbies, passions. That’s rewarding.
And one of the things I found myself focusing on this morning was realizing I was actually happy hearing them bitch and moan.
They joke now about things I used to take them to do, but it’s always with fond memory. And I guess the lesson there is this: when you’re raising your children, don’t be afraid to take them somewhere they might think isn’t fun.
It still etches a memory somewhere deep. Their eight- or ten-year-old self might not enjoy it, but their nineteen- or twenty-one-year-old self remembers it. Later on, they might laugh and say, “Oh God, remember when Dad used to take us there?” The key is this—you don’t get that opportunity back.
That brings me to this weekend.
I went shooting at the range with one of my sons. I had a full-on conversation with my other son, which was great. And I went out to a hidden beach spot in San Diego with my daughter.
We had some coffee at a new place she knew about and absolutely loved it. We ended up at In-N-Out, which is a favorite of ours. We’re big foodies, but we don’t take ourselves too seriously about how seriously we take ourselves about food, so we found ourselves comparing In-N-Out to other regions.
She goes to school in Montana, so before she left, she obviously needed her In-N-Out fix. From there, we found ourselves down in the Sports Arena area of San Diego—not the greatest part of town, a lot of traffic, a lot of homelessness—and that’s when I found myself thrifting in a Salvation Army.
I’m not the guy who doesn’t like to shop. I actually enjoy it. I love farmers’ markets. I love swap meets. I’m not a big fan of the mall, but I’ll go. I’ll enjoy myself. I’ll find something. And I’m not the guy who gets impatient or pissed off when the people I’m with want to browse.
I get it. It might not kick in my endorphins, but I understand that others enjoy it. I’ll politely and patiently sit until we get to a shop or something that I like.
I’ve never been thrifting. I was looking at it in a kind of jovial way, like an overzealous garage sale. And yet, I walked away with about $26 worth of stuff, which was hilarious.
I found a shirt designed by an anime guy—I don’t even know who, and I’m not big into anime. We looked it up online, and it goes for about $156. I got it for five bucks. It’s a great shirt. I love it. I also grabbed a wall decoration for eight dollars for my apartment, which still has nothing on the walls.
That’s the last part of making it my own. I digress. I’m standing there looking around, and you know that part of you that judges yourself, thinking, What the fuck am I doing here? You laugh about it, even if you kind of hate it.
And then it hit me.
My daughter was doing to me exactly what I had done to them all those years ago. She was making me create a memory out of something I wasn’t one hundred percent sure I wanted to do—and I was actually having a good time.
I guess I’m old enough now to recognize that sooner rather than later. Driving to work this morning, recapping the weekend, I saw it for what it was.
You never know when the tables are going to turn and the lesson comes back to you—the very one you thought you were teaching them. That’s a reward. Gratitude comes with rewards, I guess.
The memory of my daughter taking me places, introducing me to things, is etched in my memory. It’s going to keep this smile on my face for the rest of the day.
It’s not the first time she’s turned me on to things I really enjoy. And I can’t say I didn’t enjoy the thrifting at the Salvation Army. It was fun, and I never would have done it without her suggestion—“no, we’re going over here, let’s do this.”
And that’s great. Because when I say it’s not the first time, it’s the first time I really realized how incredibly special that gift was—and is.
Tides and Truth... 