Rebel Talk: The Cost of Tomorrow

Football season wrapped up for the boys, and just like that, another chapter of the year is in the books. The helmets get put away, the cleats get tossed in the closet, and those evenings spent running from work to practice to games become something we'll look back on instead of something we're rushing to get to. Funny how that works. During the season, you're juggling schedules and trying to keep up with everything. Then it's over, and you almost wish you could have a few of those chaotic evenings back.

That's October in Minnesota, I suppose. One season ends, another one is knocking on the door. The leaves are falling, the mornings are getting colder, and there's that familiar sense of urgency to get everything done before winter decides to show up uninvited. The cabin needs to be closed down, the boats and summer toys need to be winterized, things need to be put away, and the long list of things I swore I'd get done this summer is staring back at me. Apparently, summer didn't get the memo that I needed another month.

But lately, I've been thinking about a different kind of transition. One that doesn't follow the calendar quite so predictably.

It's been seven years since my divorce. Seven years. That's a strange number to type because, in some ways, it feels like yesterday, and in others, it feels like an entirely different lifetime. When I went through that chapter, I moved into what I called my transition house. A smaller place that would serve its purpose while I figured out what came next. It wasn't meant to be forever. Just somewhere to land, get my feet underneath me, and start building the next version of life.

Well, here we are. Seven years later, and I'm still in my transition house.

Life has a funny way of doing that, doesn't it? What starts as temporary slowly becomes familiar. You get comfortable enough to make it work, but never quite comfortable enough to stop thinking about what comes next. You keep telling yourself you're working toward something, and you are, but somewhere along the way, the years keep passing whether you're ready for them to or not.

I've been working toward building a new home. Not just a bigger house, but a place that better fits the life I live and the life I want to create for my boys. A place with room to spread out, room for friends, room for memories, and room for the chaos that comes with raising two growing boys. A place where they want to be, where their buddies want to hang out, and where someday, long after they've grown up, they might still think of it as home.

Sounds simple enough when I write it down.

Turns out, it's anything but.

The costs of everything have become almost ridiculous. Building a home today feels like trying to hit a moving target while somebody keeps moving the target farther away. Every decision seems to come with another decision, another delay, another expense, and another question about whether you're making the right move. You start wondering where the line is between pursuing something important and chasing something that might never feel quite finished.

And then there's the pressure.

Not pressure from anyone else, really. Mostly pressure I've put on myself.

My boys are growing up. Faster than I care to admit. One minute you're teaching them to ride a bike, and the next you're watching them walk off a football field looking more like young men than little boys. Before long, they'll be driving, making plans that don't involve Dad, heading off to college, and building lives of their own.

And I'm sitting here thinking, I'd really like to get this next chapter started while they're still here to enjoy it.

That's the part that weighs on me.

Because I know, deep down, that my boys probably don't care nearly as much about the house as I do. They don't sit around thinking about square footage, floor plans, garages, or whether the kitchen is big enough. They're thinking about their friends, what they're doing this weekend, and probably what's for dinner. And maybe that's exactly how it should be.

But to me, it matters.

Not because I need a bigger house to prove anything. Not because I think a new home is going to magically make life better. It matters because I have a picture in my head of what I want these years to look like. The gatherings, the holidays, the late nights with their friends over, the memories that happen when nobody's really trying to make a memory at all.

And I want to give us that.

Maybe that's selfish in its own way. Maybe I'm putting too much importance on something that, twenty years from now, won't matter nearly as much as I think it does today. I can acknowledge that possibility and still feel the urgency to make it happen.

I think a lot of us live with some version of that same struggle. We have an idea of where we thought we'd be by now. What we'd have accomplished. What our families would look like. What we'd have built. And when reality doesn't quite match the picture, we start putting pressure on ourselves to close the gap.

We tell ourselves we'll relax when the house is finished. When the business is running better. When the bills are paid down. When the next big decision is behind us. When life finally gets to that place we've been working toward.

But what if that place keeps moving?

What if we spend so much time trying to get to the next chapter that we forget we're already living one?

That's a hard question for someone like me, because I've never been particularly good at sitting still. I've always believed in working hard, pushing forward, and refusing to settle for less than what I know is possible. That mindset has served me well in a lot of ways. It's also probably responsible for more than a few sleepless nights.

And I don't think the answer is to stop wanting more. I don't believe ambition is something we need to apologize for. Wanting to build a better life for yourself and your family is a good thing. Having goals that stretch you, challenge you, and occasionally scare the hell out of you is a good thing, too.

But there's a difference between building a future and allowing that future to hold the present hostage.

I'm trying to figure out where that line is.

Because the truth is, these past seven years haven't been wasted. Not even close. There's been growth, adventure, laughter, mistakes, lessons, and more memories than I could possibly count. My boys and I have lived a lot of life in that little transition house. And while I've spent plenty of time thinking about the home I want to build, they've been busy growing up in the one we already have.

That deserves some recognition.

The irony isn't lost on me that I've been calling this place temporary for seven years, while some of the most permanent memories of my life have been made inside it.

Maybe that's the lesson I'm supposed to be learning right now.

I can keep working toward the next chapter without treating this one like a waiting room. I can want more for my boys without convincing myself that what we've had hasn't been enough. And I can put everything I've got into building the future while still appreciating the life that's happening right in front of me.

None of that means the decisions get easier. The costs aren't going down, the calendar isn't slowing down, and the list of things to figure out isn't getting any shorter.

But maybe I don't need every answer today.

As I put another summer away, watch another football season come to an end, and get ready for another Minnesota winter, I'm reminded that life doesn't wait for us to finish our plans.

The seasons keep changing. The kids keep growing. The years keep moving.

And somewhere in all that movement, life is happening.

So I'll keep pushing. I'll keep building. I'll keep chasing the things that matter to me. That's who I am, and I don't see that changing anytime soon.

But I'm also going to try a little harder to appreciate the in-between.

Because someday, when the boys are grown and the house is quiet, I have a feeling I won't be wishing I'd spent more time worrying about construction costs or floor plans.

I'll probably be wishing for one more chaotic football evening, one more messy kitchen, one more weekend with both boys under the same roof.

And the funny thing is, those are the things I already have.

Don't get so caught up building the life you want that you miss the life you're living. (Easier said than done)

Stay Relentless,

Ryan