I Can’t Lose Another Family, So Weekends are Sacred

Because weekends are where the real stuff happens, if we let it — where connection lives, where family breathes, where life, not ambition, gets to speak the loudest.

My reason for everything

I’ve been chasing my dreams so hard, I forgot the people I’m doing it for

The truth is, I haven’t been doing a great job at weekends. And that feels like a weird sentence to write.

Like failing at something that shouldn’t take effort.

But for me, it does.

We don’t talk about weekends like we talk about productivity or hustle.

They’re not covered in productivity hacks or entrepreneurial playbooks. But maybe they should be.

Because weekends are where the real stuff happens, if we let it — where connection lives, where family breathes, where life, not ambition, gets to speak the loudest.

Most weekends, though, I’m too tired to hear it. The kind of tired that seeps into your bones, not just from lack of sleep, but from the constant switching between day job and dream job, between being present and being productive.

A full week of overnight shifts. Writing blog posts before sunrise. Sneaking in creative work between naps. Running errands in a sleep-deprived haze.

It takes its toll.

I’m 56. My body knows it. My brain feels it. And the people closest to me see it, even when I try to pretend they don’t.

What Weekends Were Supposed to Be

For most people, weekends are sacred space. Time to reset, to unwind, to catch up on what got missed during the chaos of the week.

For me, weekends were supposed to be my window to finally get ahead: to write the post I’ve been thinking about all week, to finally debug that piece of code, to launch the thing I keep pushing back.

I usually publish my newsletter on the weekend.

But weekends were also supposed to be something else: time for family.

And that’s where I’ve been falling short. Not catastrophically. Not dramatically. But gradually, quietly, in that way you don’t always notice until someone says, “We miss you.”

I’ve already lost one family. To say it sucked is an understatement.

I know the price of unchecked ambition. I know how it is to lose people because you are too depressed or sleep too much. I know what it feels like to look around and realize that the people who matter most have emotionally drifted while you were too busy trying to build something that may never love you back.

My wife and kids don’t want much. They don’t want my schedule to be perfect. They just want me. Not the shell of me that’s glued to a laptop. Not the burnt-out, hyper-focused version scrolling through analytics.

Just me. The man who listens, who laughs, who remembers how to be present.

The Battle in My Brain

Saturday mornings are a war zone inside my head. One voice says, “You’ve got so much to catch up on. You’re behind.” The other says, “Please slow down. You need rest.” And somewhere in the background, another quiet voice pleads, “We just want to spend time with you.”

After that long week, I usually sleep a little longer on Saturday.

But when I wake, that’s when I freeze, paralyzed by competing priorities, and often ending up doing none of it well.

I scroll instead of writing. I zone out instead of playing. I feel guilty for not building and ashamed for not being fully present. It’s not that I don’t care, it’s that I care about everything too much, and haven’t figured out how to carry it all at once.

The Lie of the Hustle

We’ve all heard it: grind now, rest later. Sacrifice everything for the dream. That if you just push hard enough, long enough, something will finally give and you’ll arrive at some magical place called success.

But no one talks about what gets lost on the way there and what breaks when you’re not looking.

I don’t want to trade my relationships for a product. I don’t want my family to remember me as the guy always working on something.

I want them to remember me as the guy who made time, who chose presence over performance.

Because here’s the reality: the blog post can wait. The startup might fail. The audience might disappear. But these people — my people — they’re not replaceable.

I’m Not Proud of This

I’ve missed things. Little moments. Important ones. I’ve sat next to my kids while worrying about a headline. I’ve nodded through conversations while rehearsing a pitch in my head. I’ve said “in a minute” too many times and then wondered why those minutes hurt so much later.

I’m not proud of that. But I’m being honest about it, because awareness is the first step toward doing better. And I want to do better.

What I’m Committing To

So here’s what I’m committing to: I’m making weekends sacred again. Not sacred in the sense of ritual or perfection. Sacred as in protected. As in intentionally spent. As in present.

I’m putting down the laptop. I’m closing the apps. I’m saying yes to slow mornings and spontaneous ice cream trips. I’m leaning into laughter, into Netflix marathons, into phone-free conversations.

Because family isn’t the thing that gets in the way of the dream, it’s the reason for it. It’s the context. The grounding. The reminder that love isn’t earned through output, but through presence.

The Projects Can Wait

I’m not stepping away from the things I’m building. I love them. They matter. But they’ll still be there on Monday. They don’t need me more than my people do.

I don’t want to wake up one day with the perfect app but no one to show it to. I don’t want to go viral online but vanish in the lives of those I love.

So the code can wait. The post can wait. What can’t wait is dinner with my family. What can’t wait is joy. What can’t wait is the kind of time you don’t get back.

A Word for Other Builders

To anyone building a second act, a startup, a solopreneur dream — I see you. I know what it takes. I know what you’re risking. I know the guilt that lives in the gaps.

But I also know this: your people matter more than your metrics.

They’re not waiting for you to win. They’re waiting for you to show up.

So this weekend, take the time. Even if it’s just an hour. Close the tab. Sit down and be with the ones who matter. Not half-there. Not preoccupied.

There.

Because one day they won’t remember what you were building. But they’ll remember how you made them feel.

Because This Is the Truth:

I want my family to feel loved. Not just supported. Not just seen.

Loved.

And I’m finally learning that’s not a distraction from my purpose, it is my purpose. And it’s time I started acting like it.