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The Becoming Code, 5900 Balcones Drive, Suite 100, Austin, TX (2026)

10/19/2026

**He'd already said it was fine.**

I was still explaining.

I'd been late getting something back to someone.

Nothing catastrophic.

Just one of those things that should have been done earlier.

He followed up.

I apologized, explained what had happened, and sent it over.

He replied:

"No worries. Thanks."

Lovely.

Sorted.

Except apparently not.

Because about five minutes later, I found myself composing another message.

I wanted to make sure he understood that I hadn't forgotten.

I'd been dealing with something else.

There were a few things happening.

I'd actually intended to get it done earlier.

And...

Hang on.

What was I doing?

He'd already said it was fine.

He wasn't asking for an explanation.

He wasn't complaining.

He wasn't sitting somewhere waiting for the complete history of my afternoon.

He'd thanked me.

And moved on.

I was the one still building my case.

It reminded me of something I've done for years.

When I think someone might have misunderstood me, I feel this urge to correct the record.

Not necessarily because they've said anything.

Sometimes I just imagine what they might be thinking.

And then I start responding to that.

Which is a rather exhausting way to have a conversation.

Especially when the other person isn't actually participating.

I realized I wasn't trying to explain the delay anymore.

I was trying to protect an image of myself.

The reliable one.

The organized one.

The person who doesn't need chasing.

And perhaps I was uncomfortable with the possibility that, for one small moment, I hadn't been all of those things.

He was fine.

The work was done.

The second message was unnecessary.

So I deleted it.

Then spent another minute wondering whether I should send it anyway.

Apparently this particular habit isn't retiring without a little resistance.

Still becoming.

10/17/2026

I asked a friend what he thought.

A dangerous decision, apparently.

I’d been talking through something I was considering.

Nothing catastrophic.

Just a decision that mattered to me.

I explained what I was thinking.

Why it made sense.

What I’d already considered.

He listened.

Then said:

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

Right.

Interesting.

Not quite the response I had in mind.

So I explained a little more.

Perhaps I’d missed something.

Perhaps he didn’t have all the information.

I gave him the additional context.

He listened.

And still didn’t agree.

At this point, I was beginning to suspect the problem wasn’t his understanding.

It was his refusal to arrive at my conclusion.

Which is quite inconvenient when you’ve asked someone for their opinion.

I could feel myself getting slightly disappointed.

He wasn’t being unkind.

Wasn’t dismissing me.

Wasn’t telling me what to do.

He was simply offering a different perspective.

Exactly what I’d asked for.

And then I caught myself.

I’d already imagined how the conversation would go.

He’d listen.

Nod.

Say something like:

“Yes, I can see that.”

Maybe add a little encouragement.

And I’d leave feeling reassured.

Instead, he’d introduced doubt.

Uninvited doubt.

Except, of course, I’d invited it.

I’d literally asked what he thought.

I’ve always said I value people who tell me the truth.

And I do.

But occasionally I’ve discovered I want them to tell me the truth…

provided it sounds reasonably similar to the version I’ve already prepared.

Not my finest quality.

He didn’t owe me agreement.

And I didn’t owe him a change of mind.

We could have different opinions and still finish our conversation as friends.

Which is exactly what happened.

Although I did briefly consider finding someone else to ask.

Someone with a more promising answer.

Apparently, we’re still becoming.

10/07/2026

He loved it.

And somehow I was still slightly disappointed.

I’d arranged something for someone I love.

Nothing extravagant.

But behind the scenes there had been more involved than he knew.

Changed something.

Made a couple of calls.

Drove somewhere.

Fixed one small problem.

Moved something else around.

Normal parent stuff.

Then it happened.

He had a brilliant time.

Exactly what I’d wanted.

Afterward he thanked me.

And I noticed myself waiting for something more specific.

Maybe:

“How did you pull that off?”

Or:

“I know that must have taken a lot.”

Something that told me he understood the effort behind the thing.

He didn’t say it.

And for a moment, I felt strangely underappreciated.

Then the obvious arrived.

How was he supposed to know?

I’d intentionally hidden most of it.

That was part of what I’d done for him.

He didn’t need to know about the changed plan.

The phone calls.

The extra drive.

The thing that nearly didn’t work.

I’d taken care of those things precisely so he could simply enjoy himself.

Then apparently I wanted him to somehow detect them afterward.

There’s a particular kind of scorekeeping available to capable people.

We make things look easy.

Then feel unseen because they looked easy.

We say:

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.”

And then privately hope somebody appreciates exactly how much it there was to get.

I’ve done this at work.

I’ve done it in relationships.

I’ve definitely done it as a father.

Sometimes appreciation really is missing.

That’s real too.

But yesterday it wasn’t.

He appreciated what I’d given him.

He just didn’t appreciate the invisible difficulty…

because I’d done an excellent job making it invisible.

There may have been a tiny invoice attached to my generosity.

He never received it.

Probably because I never sent it.

Have you ever made something look easy, then wished someone noticed that it wasn’t?

10/06/2026

I was annoyed with someone yesterday.

Quietly.

The most sophisticated kind.

Nothing visible.

Completely professional.

Just a small internal file being assembled.

I had a lot going on.

More than usual.

Several things had landed at once.

Nothing I couldn’t handle.

But enough that I thought:

Surely he’ll ask if I need help.

He didn’t.

Another thing landed.

Still nothing.

And gradually my thoughts became more persuasive.

He knows what I’ve got going on.

He can see this.

I shouldn’t have to ask.

That last one is excellent.

Because once you’ve said “I shouldn’t have to ask,” the other person can now fail without ever knowing there was an exam.

Yesterday he came into my office.

Asked me something unrelated.

We talked for a few minutes.

And I could feel that tiny bit of irritation sitting underneath an otherwise completely normal conversation.

Then something occurred to me.

He hadn’t refused to help.

I hadn’t asked.

He hadn’t ignored my request.

There wasn’t one.

I’d created an expectation.

Kept it private.

Then started judging him against it.

Which is an impressively efficient system if your objective is disappointment.

So I said:

“I’ve got a lot landing this week. Can you take this one?”

“Yep.”

No hesitation.

No awkwardness.

He took it.

Apparently my week-long interpersonal problem required approximately nine seconds of conversation.

I’ve been thinking about “I shouldn’t have to ask.”

Because sometimes I believe it.

There are things good leaders should notice.

Things partners should notice.

Things friends should notice.

Having to explain every need would be its own kind of loneliness.

But I’ve also used that sentence when what I really meant was:

“I want you to know something I haven’t told you.”

Those are different.

Yesterday he wasn’t failing to help me.

He simply couldn’t hear the conversation I’d been having with him in my head.

Slight design flaw.

09/28/2026

Someone I care about was quiet yesterday.

Not dramatically quiet.

No slammed doors.

No crossed arms.

No:

“Nothing.”

followed by a clearly-not-nothing exit from the room.

Just quieter than usual.

Shorter answers.

Looking at their phone.

A little elsewhere.

I noticed.

And within approximately fifteen minutes my internal writers’ room had reconvened.

Maybe something was wrong.

Maybe it was me.

Had I said something earlier?

Actually…

there was that one thing I’d said.

Could that have sounded dismissive?

I replayed it.

Changed my tone slightly.

Much worse now.

So I prepared an explanation for something nobody had mentioned.

Then considered whether bringing it up would make things worse.

Then decided perhaps I should give them space.

At this point, the other person was sitting about six feet away…

completely unaware that we were navigating a significant relationship event.

Eventually I asked:

“Are we okay?”

They looked at me.

“Yeah. Why?”

“You seem quiet.”

“I’m tired.”

Oh.

That’s considerably shorter than my version.

Apparently they’d slept badly.

Long day.

Nothing was wrong.

No hidden meaning.

No emotional subplot.

They were tired.

And I laughed because I’ve spent the last week noticing myself do versions of this everywhere.

An email.

A face in a meeting.

A tone I heard in words someone typed.

A delayed response.

And now…

someone being quiet on a Sunday.

I don’t think the answer is to stop noticing people.

I hope I never do.

Attention is part of love.

It’s part of leadership too.

But perhaps there’s a difference between noticing carefully…

and believing my explanation deserves the same confidence as the thing I noticed.

Yesterday I had almost an hour of evidence.

They were quiet.

That part was true.

I had almost an hour of explanation.

That part was mine.

Then I asked one question.

Turns out they were tired.

Honestly, my version had better character development.

09/21/2026

“Can we talk tomorrow?”

That was the email.

Six words.

I read it once.

Fine.

Then again.

Slightly less fine.

Third time?

We now apparently had an issue.

It was shorter than this person normally writes.

There was no:

“Nothing bad!”

No smiley face.

No helpful explanation.

Not even a “thanks.”

Just:

“Can we talk tomorrow?”

So naturally, with absolutely no additional evidence, my brain got to work.

Had I missed something?

Were they unhappy about a decision?

Had someone said something?

Was there another conversation happening somewhere?

By this point I wasn’t reading the email anymore.

I was reading my explanation of the email.

That’s different.

Eventually I went back and looked at what was actually there.

Six words.

No accusation.

No anger.

No evidence of a problem.

Just a request to talk tomorrow.

So I left it.

Mostly.

Let’s not exaggerate my personal growth.

The next morning we talked.

They wanted my thoughts on something.

That was it.

My version had subplots.

Their version barely had a plot.

And I’ve been thinking about how quickly we do this when information is incomplete.

A short text.

A delayed reply.

Someone’s tone in a meeting.

A closed office door.

“No.”

“Okay.”

“Call me.”

We receive the fact.

Then apparently open an internal writers’ room.

Sometimes we’re right.

Experience exists for a reason.

But sometimes the story becomes so convincing that we begin responding to something that hasn’t actually happened.

Yesterday the email didn’t change once.

The person who read it did.

Which message gets you?

“Can we talk?”

“Call me.”

“K.”

Or is there another one?

09/16/2026

Someone apologized to me yesterday.

I nearly replied:

“No problem.”

There was, technically, a problem.

They’d changed something.

It affected my afternoon.

I’d have to move something I’d already planned and do a little more work.

Nothing catastrophic.

But definitely more than no problem.

Still, the words were already on their way out.

I use them constantly.

“No problem.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“All good.”

They’re useful little sentences.

They tell the other person:

You’re safe.

I’m not angry.

We’ll figure this out.

I like being that person.

But yesterday I noticed how quickly reassurance can become inaccurate.

So instead I said:

“It’s okay. I’ll need to move a couple of things, but we’ll work it out.”

Then waited for the enormous interpersonal crisis I’d apparently been preventing all these years.

It didn’t arrive.

They said:

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

We changed the plan.

End of story.

Except I’ve thought about it since.

Because there’s a difference between making someone feel bad about inconveniencing you…

and refusing to let them know they inconvenienced you at all.

I’ve probably confused those occasionally.

I don’t want to become someone who announces every sacrifice.

Nobody needs a detailed invoice for the emotional cost of moving a meeting twenty minutes.

But I also don’t think generosity requires editing reality.

Sometimes there was a problem.

Sometimes it cost something.

Sometimes you’re still willing to do it.

All three can apparently be true at once.

Here’s the one I’m curious about:

Which do you say automatically?

“No problem.”

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Whatever works.”

Or something else?

09/13/2026

I had nothing to do yesterday.

Not nothing to do in the Sunday-afternoon sense.

I mean there were people I love in the room…

and none of them needed anything from me.

Two of them were sitting at the table doing something together.

There were rules.

Apparently several of them were open to interpretation.

Something fell on the floor.

They dealt with it.

One asked a question.

The other answered.

There was a minor disagreement.

For a moment, I could feel myself preparing to become the Supreme Court.

Then they sorted it out themselves.

So I made tea.

I stood at the counter for a while.

Sat down nearby.

Listened to half the conversation.

Didn’t understand most of it.

And eventually I noticed something slightly uncomfortable.

I was looking for somewhere to be useful.

Did they want a drink?

No.

Need help?

No.

Hungry?

Apparently not.

There was no role available.

Which shouldn’t matter.

Except I have spent years being very good at roles.

Leader.

Problem solver.

Dad.

Organizer.

The person who knows what happens next.

Those roles matter enormously to me.

But yesterday afternoon, none of them were particularly required.

I was just in the room.

And nobody seemed disappointed by the reduced service offering.

We stayed like that for about forty minutes.

They did their thing.

I drank my tea.

Every so often one of them said something to me.

Then went back to what they were doing.

Nothing needed fixing.

Nothing needed leading.

Nobody needed me.

They just seemed to want me there.

I’m noticing that’s different.

09/12/2026

I realized yesterday that I sometimes ask questions I already have the answer to.

“Everything go okay?”

I could see that it had.

Someone I trust had spent several hours with someone I love.

When I saw them afterward, they were laughing about something that had happened.

There was food involved.

Possibly an argument about something completely inconsequential.

I caught enough to know they’d had a good time.

And I nearly started doing what I normally do.

What did you guys do?

Where did you go?

What did you eat?

What time did you…?

Nothing unreasonable.

They’re normal questions.

But I noticed something underneath them.

I wanted the missing hours back.

Not literally.

I wanted the story complete.

I hadn’t been there, so I wanted enough information to build the part I’d missed.

Yesterday I didn’t.

I asked one question about the story already being told.

Then we moved on.

Later, I realized I still didn’t know exactly what they’d done for most of the afternoon.

And nothing in me needed to fix that.

Well.

Almost nothing.

There was definitely a small internal compliance department requesting documentation.

It was denied.

I’ve been thinking about how responsibility changes your relationship with information.

When you’re responsible, knowing matters.

You check.

Follow up.

Close the loop.

At work, those instincts have served me extremely well.

But people aren’t open tasks.

And time that happens without me isn’t missing information.

Sometimes it’s simply someone else’s afternoon.

09/11/2026

I nearly “helped” someone yesterday.

He hadn’t asked.

Nothing was going wrong.

Those details feel relevant.

I’d asked him to take care of something.

Later, I happened to walk past while he was working on it.

And immediately I noticed he wasn’t doing it the way I would have.

He’d started somewhere else.

Organized something differently.

Had a conversation earlier than I would have.

I stopped.

My brain very generously produced three improvements.

Maybe four.

All available at no additional charge.

Then I had a question:

Is there actually a problem?

There wasn’t.

He knew what the outcome needed to be.

Nothing important was being missed.

He simply wasn’t following the invisible instructions that apparently existed only in my head.

So I kept walking.

I won’t pretend this was some enormous act of restraint.

I made it about fifteen feet before looking back once.

Still becoming.

Later he brought me what he’d finished.

It worked.

One part was different from how I’d imagined it.

Better, actually.

And I realized how easy it is to confuse:

I know how to do this

with

therefore this is how it should be done.

Experience gives you shortcuts.

Patterns.

Standards.

Things worth teaching.

But apparently it can also give you a very detailed opinion about things that aren’t actually problems.

Yesterday I asked someone to own something.

For once, I noticed the moment I nearly took a small piece of it back.

The Becoming Code

10/19/2026

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09/28/2026

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