George Bailey was Onto Something

I’m pretty good at showing up for people.

At least, I try to be.

I try to check in. I reach out. I make the plans. I ask people to dinner, to lunch, to a movie—anything, really—just to stay connected. I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to be the one who keeps relationships moving, the one who follows up, the one who makes sure people feel seen.

I also know how to stay busy.

Maybe too busy.

Work. Rehearsals. Side gigs. Projects. Anything that keeps my hands full and my mind occupied. Because if I sit still for too long—if there’s too much quiet, too much downtime—I end up alone with my own thoughts, and frankly, that neighborhood can get a little dangerous.

And lately, underneath all the noise and movement, I’ve been asking myself a question I’m almost afraid to say out loud:

If I stopped reaching… who would reach for me?

At home, that question gets even louder.

I spend my days connecting with teenagers. It’s literally my job. I laugh with them, guide them, push them, encourage them—I know how to meet them where they are. I understand their chaos, their humor, their moods, their weirdness. For the most part, kids get me, and I get them.

And yet, somehow, I cannot seem to connect with my own seventeen-year-old son.

I ask him to lunch, to the movies, to mini golf—anything that might give us an hour together—and most of the time the answer is no. He’d rather be with friends, with his girlfriend, with literally anyone who isn’t me. And maybe that’s just seventeen. Maybe that’s normal. But normal doesn’t make it hurt less.

Every Sunday, he and Allyson have their thing—a Swig run. They go, they talk, they catch up. I tagged along twice, thinking maybe I could slide into that space, maybe just be part of it. The third time, I found out I wasn’t really wanted there because “it’s our thing.”

That one stung.

I’ve sat through volleyball games on bleachers that make my back feel like it’s filing a formal complaint with HR, because I want him to know I’m there. I show up because that’s what dads do. I wore the orange sweatshirt he bought me for Christmas to one of his tournaments because I thought it would mean something—that maybe he’d see I was trying.

Instead, I got made fun of for wearing it because apparently I was embarrassing him.

Cool. Cool cool cool.

And still, I go.

Because even if he’d rather chew glass than come see one of my shows—my thing, the thing I’ve built my whole life around—I still sit in those bleachers and cheer at his games. I still ask questions after. I still send him the pictures and videos I took throughout the match. I still try.

One night I asked him about something that happened during the game—a bad call by the ref that had the whole team fired up—and he looked at me and said, “Wait… you were there?” I laughed and said, “Yeah. I was sitting directly across from you, and I’m as big as a house. How did you not see me?” He shrugged and said, “Huh. Weird. Nope. Didn’t even see you.”

And honestly… maybe that’s the line that stayed with me the most.

For all the distance between us, ironically, the one recent, real conversation we had—the one where he really opened up to me—was about wanting to quit volleyball.

Not because he hated the sport. Not because he was lazy. Because he was frustrated. Burned out. Unsure. Human. His coach had put him through a lot of nonsense, and the first time we talked about it, I was actually on board with him quitting. I understood it.

But I also know how much he loves the sport. I know how much of himself he’s poured into it. And with only a few weeks left of his senior season, I honestly think he’d regret walking away.

So for once, I thought, Okay. Here it is. A door.

Not a big emotional father-son movie moment. Just a door. A chance to connect. A chance to listen. A chance to be let in.

So when I followed up later, it wasn’t because I was pushing an agenda. It wasn’t because I was trying to force some grand life lesson. I was going to encourage him to stay on the team. I just wanted to keep the conversation going because, finally, we were having one.

But before I even had the chance, I was told—in front of him—to stop. That I was pushing. That I needed to let it go.

And in that moment, I wasn’t just frustrated. I was embarrassed. Humiliated, honestly. Because it felt like the one tiny bridge I had managed to step onto got ripped out from under me while I was standing on it. So instead, as I walked back to my room, I hollered, “I was gonna tell him to stay!” Not exactly my proudest parenting moment.

But hurt has a funny way of making itself loud.

There’s a version of that same feeling at work, too.

Teaching—especially now—can sometimes feel like pouring yourself into a void.

I love what I do. I really do. Theatre, storytelling, helping kids find confidence and courage and a voice—that part still matters to me. Deeply. But if you’ve spent any time in education lately, you know the landscape has changed. Apathy is everywhere. Kids are exhausted. Teachers are exhausted. Everyone is overwhelmed, underappreciated, and running on fumes.

You pour your heart into lessons, productions, rehearsals, relationships—and half the time it feels like nobody notices. Or worse, nobody cares.

And it’s not just students. It’s adults, too. Leadership, systems, the constant “I need this right now” urgency. Drop everything. Rearrange your life. Make it happen.

And then… nothing.

No thank you. No acknowledgment. No simple human decency that says, “I see that you did this.”

Just the expectation that you’ll fall in line, get it done, and move on to the next fire to put out.

I interviewed for a coaching position recently—one I genuinely wanted, one I thought went really well. I was told I’d hear something by Monday. Monday came and went. I followed up Wednesday. And then… silence.

Maybe I got it. Maybe I didn’t.

Honestly, I’ve been here before. When I was waiting to hear about the job at Mesa High, I was told, “We’ll know by Friday.”

That “Friday” took three weeks.

Three. Weeks.

And I remember thinking the same thing then that I’m thinking now: how hard is it to send an email?

Not a dissertation. Not a formal sonnet. Just:

“Thank you for your time. We’ve gone another direction.”

Or—

“We’ll be in touch shortly.”

Or—

“Thank you for reaching out. We’re still figuring things out.”

Anything.

Anything is better than being ghosted.

And who knows—maybe I’ll surprise us all and my next entry will include an update that I actually heard from them and got the gig.

Stranger things have happened.

But until then, silence has a way of making people feel disposable.

Because at some point, it stops being about the job and starts being about dignity. About common courtesy. About remembering the Golden Rule still applies in professional spaces.

And I think we’ve normalized that far too much.

Somewhere in all of this, I started thinking about George Bailey.

Not because I’m standing on a bridge contemplating my existence—let’s not be dramatic. I like my life. I have a beautiful family, work I care about, people I love, and far too many Diet Cokes keeping this whole operation running.

But I understand the question.

That quiet, sneaky one that shows up when life gets still:

Does it matter that I’m here?

Not in some grand, existential, “What is the meaning of life?” kind of way. I mean in the ordinary, everyday spaces.

At home.
At work.
In friendships.
In marriage.
In parenting.

If I stopped reaching out first… would anyone notice?

If I stopped carrying so much… would anyone pick something up?

If I got quiet… would the silence be louder for anyone besides me?

That’s the part nobody really talks about. Not loneliness exactly. Something closer to invisibility.

Being surrounded by people and still wondering if your presence changes anything at all.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I found myself asking God a question I’ve asked more than once in my life:

Why does it always have to be so hard?

Why are we constantly told that suffering draws us closer to the Lord? Why does growth always seem to come wrapped in heartbreak, disappointment, loneliness, or some fresh new nonsense I definitely did not order?

Can’t I have an amazing life, good relationships, peace, insane happiness, and still be deeply rooted in my faith? Why does spiritual growth so often feel like God handing me another character-building exercise when I would really prefer a long nap and a big financial blessing?

Now, before this turns into a full-blown “woe is me” production, let me be clear: I know my life is good. Really good.

I have a home. A family. A job. A truck that I love (and pay too much for). People who love me. A life I am genuinely grateful for.

There are people carrying burdens far heavier than mine. I know that. I am not special in my sorrow, my stress, my frustration, or my occasional emotional spiral in a Circle K parking lot.

We are all carrying something.

This is not me trying to compare pain or audition for sympathy. Sometimes life just feels heavy, even when it’s beautiful. Sometimes gratitude and frustration live in the same room.

And honestly, I think we’re all entitled to a Diet Coke, a plate of fries, and a good bitch-fest every once in a while.

I always say God likes me best, and I joked at dinner tonight that it must be because my life is in a constant state of, “Well… this is unfortunate.”

And Gina, in all her wisdom, said, “But would we?” Would we stay close to Him if life were easy? Or would we get comfortable? Would we stop reaching because we no longer felt the need to?

And honestly… I hate how good that question is.

Because she’s probably right.

But I’d sure like to give it the ol’ college try just to see for myself if I could!

I know scripture says He is a jealous God. I know dependence often grows deepest in the hard seasons. I know some of my closest moments with Him came when life felt like it was falling apart.

But also… respectfully, Lord…

I could use a break.

Or better yet, a season of great abundance, bounty, and health.

Amen.

Maybe that’s really what all of this has been about.

Not volleyball. Not job interviews. Not unanswered texts or awkward Swig runs or sitting on bleachers wondering if your kid even noticed you showed up.

Maybe it’s the quieter question underneath all of it:

Do I matter here?

Am I wanted?
Am I seen?
Does my presence change anything at all?

I think more people are asking that than we realize.

I think a lot of us are walking around carrying invisible things—disappointment, insecurity, exhaustion, hurt—and smiling like we’re fine because adulthood is basically just emotional improv with bills.

Maybe the truth is that being needed and being wanted are not the same thing. Maybe productivity and worth are not the same thing either.

Because our worth was never supposed to be measured by how useful we are.

God settled that a long time ago.

Throughout scripture, over and over again, He reminds us that His love is not transactional. It is not based on achievement, performance, status, or how well we hold everything together. It is constant. Unconditional. Unwavering.

We matter because He says we do.

Not because we got the job.
Not because our kids text back.
Not because people notice how much we carry.

Because we are loved.

And that kind of love is supposed to change the way we move through the world. It should make us better at reminding people around us that they matter, too.

I think about Casey literally running through the streets of New York just to hug me before I left. As my cab pulled away, I texted him, “Thank you for running through the city for me. That made me feel important.” His response came back in all caps:

“YOU ARE. I’m sorry I didn’t get more time with you.”

And maybe that’s it.

Maybe that’s the whole thing.

People need to know they matter.

Not someday. Not eventually. Not after they earn it.

Now.

Maybe love looks less like grand gestures and more like making sure the people in your life never have to wonder where they stand.

I don’t have some grand answer tonight.

But I do know this:

I’m still here.
Still showing up.
Still reaching.

And maybe, for now, that counts.