The plan was to camp along the river with my daughter on my buddy’s property. That was the real goal. Time outside. Sleeping in the tent under the stars. Slowing down for a few days. We had been talking about catching a Jason Isbell show too, meeting up at Beech Mountain, but the tickets had sold out before I got around to buying them.
Then, driving up, I checked again.
Two tickets had just popped up.
I bought them on the spot. We rerouted and headed that way. That’s how my daughter ended up at her first ever live concert, tucked in beside me as the sky darkened over Beech Mountain.
The show got postponed because of rain. But somehow it all worked out better that way. We didn't miss the opening act and got to ease into it. She was nervous at first, didn’t want to be around the crowd, clung to me like a shadow. But I didn’t push. I just stayed calm, stayed near. By the end of the night, she was clapping along on my shoulders, singing, smiling like she belonged there. And she did.
The next morning we tubed the river. She was scared again, this time in the rapids. I could see it in her face, feel it in how she gripped onto me. But I stayed relaxed, showed her how to move through it. How to face fear without letting it own you. That’s what she needed. Not a lecture. Not a pep talk. Just a steady hand in the current.
Then came the part that challenged me.
That afternoon, we went fishing. Or at least, I wanted to go fishing. She wanted to play in the mud. Wanted to sit in the kayak, drift around, splash the bank. Anything but hold a rod.
And I lost my cool.
Not in some explosive, ugly way, but I let frustration creep in. I told her she was wasting time. That she had this brand new rod from one of our sponsors. That she should at least try.
But the truth hit me hard. It wasn’t her who wanted to fish in that moment. It was me.
Especially now, as she gets older, she’s finding her own rhythm. And my job isn’t to force her into mine. I’ve spent years laying the groundwork, teaching her to cast, to watch the water, to love the quiet. But I can’t make her choose it. And I shouldn’t try.
Because I remember what it feels like to be pushed.
My dad meant well. He really did. But by the time I hit junior year, I wanted nothing to do with organized sports. The pressure, the expectations, the constant performance. It drained the joy out of it.
I don’t want to do that to her.
There’s a line between guiding and controlling. Between leading by example and forcing your agenda. And as a father, it’s easy to blur that line without even knowing it. Especially when the outdoors becomes part of your identity.
But she’s not here to live out my identity. She’s here to find her own.
So this trip reminded me of something simple and hard. You can’t force your kids to love what you love. You can only invite them in. Show them what it looks like to face fear with courage. To enjoy music in the rain. To handle the current. And if they decide to play in the mud instead of fishing? That’s okay too.
Just make sure you’re not trying to heal your own past through their present.
FIELD TIP
Grab a length of thin-wall PVC, cap one end, and use a rubber plumbing test cap on the other. Add some foam inside if you want extra protection. It’s bombproof, cheap, and easy to strap to a roof rack or backpack. Beats any overpriced fishing rod case on the market.
MINDSET
Fatherhood isn’t just about raising a child, it’s about confronting yourself. Your fears. Your ego. Your unresolved past. The moments that trigger you the most are usually the ones that reveal where you still have work to do. That’s the work. Not perfection. Not control. But awareness. Growth. And the willingness to break cycles instead of passing them on.
“The child will not remember what you tried to teach them. They will remember what you are.”
— Jim Henson
QUESTION
Where in your parenting (or life) are you mistaking pressure for guidance? Are you asking too much, too fast, too often? Would your child say the same?
