I Screwed Up

A backyard mistake, a lost quail, and why owning our failures matters more than ever.

Less than two months ago, I wrote about slowing down. About being intentional. About not rushing through life like it’s one long checklist.

And then I didn’t. And it ended in tragedy.

Texas has this cultural undercurrent I’ve come to admire and wrestle with at the same time. Rugged individualism. Texas tough. Handle your business. Don’t complain. Take care of what’s yours. There’s something admirable in that mindset: responsibility, grit, accountability.

It also happens to be the perfect place for a kid who loves critters.

Our daughter, Valentina (aka Teeny), was born the day after Valentine’s Day, and she’s always had a big heart for animals. For years she’s been in the backyard hunting lizards and snakes, attempting to trap possums and squirrels, forever in pursuit of trapping birds, and climbing trees to check on bird nests. It’s curiosity mixed with compassion. It’s relentless and joyful.

It’s also what led us into becoming quail farmers.

In the spring of 2025 and then again in the fall, we ordered eggs. We hatched chicks (yes, they are very cute). I built out a backyard hutch (more rabbit setup than traditional coop) and the “farm-garden,” and we learned as we went. The quail became part farming project, part responsibility lesson, part family story unfolding in real time.

Two weekends ago, that same passion-for-critters energy spilled into birthday mode for Teeny.

Last year, Teeny had a rat-themed birthday party. This year, we leaned into her current obsession: squirrels.

The official agenda read something like this:

• Indoor games. “Squirrel Flinging” and “Pin the Squirrel on the Teeny.”

• TV and popcorn while watching Mark Rober’s squirrel obstacle course. (A must watch!)

• Parents hiding nuts outside.

• A nut scavenger hunt (with special golden walnuts)

• “Smash the Squirrel.” (aka pinata)

• Finishing with the cake.

The Nut Hunt Golden Walnut the was left unfound - Feb 2026

It was chaotic and loud and sweet in all the right ways.

But between work picking up, evenings consumed with trying to help save democracy through the Texas Forward Party, and preparing for this squirrel-palooza birthday weekend, I was running miles a minute. And if I’m honest, I was worn down.

A couple days after the party, I was informed that the quail hutch was… extra stinky.

Underneath the enclosure are trays, repurposed baking sheets from a local restaurant meant to collect droppings. But the automatic water feeder was leaking. Water mixing with droppings had created what I can only describe as a slow trickle of sewage cascading down the cage.

I put off checking it for a couple days. There was always something else to get to first.

Finally, after dinner one night, I went outside to deal with it. It was worse than expected. And instead of going inside to change clothes and do the job properly, I rushed it. I just wanted it handled.

It was messy. It was unpleasant. It was a hurry-up-and-get-it-done kind of job. And in that haste, I made a fatal mistake.

The one rule we constantly repeat to the kids is simple: always close and lock the hutch doors.

Backyard quails in Teeny's farm-garden

That night, I left the lower hutch open. The one housing four of our fall hatch quail. I didn’t double check before walking back inside.

So let me tell you about Pumpkin.

Pumpkin, a ginger coturnix quail quickly became a family favorite. One week after hatching, my son accidentally “smooshed” her. She lay motionless for a couple hours, and we were certain she was gone. But she bounced back.

A couple months later, when the male quail started getting aggressive, Pumpkin was attacked and scalped. I’ll spare the details, but it required me crafting a tiny medical-tape helmet so she could heal. For three weeks she looked like a miniature Frankenstein’s monster. She bounced back again.

Pumpkin was a fighter. (Yes, “was”... foreshadowing)

So fast forward to the day after I rushed through the cleanup job, Teeny went outside before the rest of us. She came back in quietly and said the door was open.

Pumpkin was gone.

Based on the feathers scattered around the hutch, I’m fairly certain an owl took her during the night.

I screwed up.

And I felt terrible. Not just because we lost a bird, but because it was preventable. It wasn’t bad luck. It wasn’t a broken latch. It was haste. It was distraction. It was me choosing speed over care.

I could feel the excuses lining up in my head. But as I started to talk through it with my wife and the kids, I realized something.

Owning it would go further.

If I admitted that I rushed. If I admitted I didn’t double check. If I talked about not being present and focused. If I shared what happens when you juggle too many things. If I named the mistake plainly and clearly, maybe it would stick. Maybe it would reinforce the very lesson we’re constantly trying to teach them.

So I told them. I screwed up. I didn’t slow down.

I’m sorry.

It doesn’t bring Pumpkin back. But it mattered.

Later that week, as I watched the State of the Union and scrolled through reactions online, I found myself thinking about that same concept… admitting mistakes.

Admitting that things don’t always go as planned. Admitting that new information changes your perspective. Admitting that a promise made confidently last year didn’t unfold the way you said it would.

That kind of leadership exists. I’ve worked for senior leaders who model it well. I admire it deeply. Emotional intelligence. Course correction. Humility. Authentic messaging.

But it feels increasingly rare in public life.

And this isn’t about one administration or one party. It’s been happening across the aisle for years. Promises made. Commitments hyped. Plans that quietly shift or fail. And almost never do we hear, “I was wrong.” Or “We learned.” Or “We need to adjust.”

Regardless of where you land politically, left, right, or independent like me, it’s not hard for any of us to go back a year earlier and to hear what was said during a campaign cycle and compare it to reality.

What strikes me most is that we normalize in public life the very behavior we work so hard to correct in our children.

Own your mistakes. Learn from them. Say you’re sorry. Do better next time.

It actually makes things better and stronger in the long run.

Pumpkin didn’t deserve my haste. But her loss reminded me that the world I want to help build, whether through civic engagement, community leadership, or raising thoughtful kids starts much closer to home.

It starts in the backyard. It starts with following through on commitments.

I can’t single-handedly fix national politics. I can’t force humility into public discourse. But I can model the behavior I hope to see. I can surround myself with leaders, friends, families, and community members who value integrity over ego and accountability over image.

Texas tough doesn’t have to mean pretending you never mess up.

Sometimes it means saying:

I screwed up. And I’m going to do better.

Family first. Neighbors first. Humanity first.
Rooted in Wisconsin. Growing forward in Texas.

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Everyone Is From Somewhere

 German roots, Texas towns, Bad Bunny, and why culture should build bridges... not walls.

Growing up in Wisconsin, I never really questioned where our traditions came from. They were just… there. The family farm sat next to the village of Germantown. Summer festivals meant polka bands and beer gardens. Oktoberfest season brought accordion-heavy songs I sometimes couldn’t understand but somehow knew by heart. German last names were everywhere. Sauerkraut and brats showed up at community picnics like they’d always belonged.

Only later did I realize how much of that was inherited. Chosen. Carried forward.

My great grandparents and their parents before them moved to Wisconsin for land and opportunity. They brought pieces of home with them. The music. The food. The dances. The way you gather. The way you celebrate. Those traditions weren’t relics. They were anchors. Ways to build community in a new place without losing yourself in the process.

When I moved to Austin years later, I didn’t expect that same feeling to resurface. But it did.

Out in the Hill Country, I started to recognize familiar rhythms. The beer gardens in Fredericksburg. The beer halls in New Braunfels. Places like Naeglin’s Bakery, the oldest bakery in Texas, still turning out recipes rooted in German tradition. Gathering spots like Krause’s Beer Hall, where music, food, and long communal tables invite you to stay a little longer than originally planned.

There’s comfort in that familiarity. A small echo of Wisconsin showing up in Texas. And it made sense. These towns were settled by German immigrants who did exactly what my ancestors had done further north: they built community, and they held onto what mattered.

Even though I took a couple years of German in high school, have almost a half-century of polka band and Oktoberfest listening under my belt, I still know less than five percent of the words in most of those Oktoberfest songs.

But the music still lands.

Because music doesn’t require fluency. It carries feeling. Pride. Memory.

Maybe it runs deeper than I realized. Both of my kids’ grandpas are musicians. I used to play a pretty mean tuba. My wife and I had a legit Oktoberfest band, Die Freistadt Alte Kameraden Band, play at our wedding reception in Wisconsin. The sound wasn’t just entertainment. It was a connection to something special.

Die Freistadt Alte Kameraden Band at reception in Port Washington, WI -  2014

So when I drive through small towns outside Austin and stumble onto an outdoor beer garden with a polka band tucked into the corner, something in me relaxes. The music. The culture. The traditions. They connect me to a sense of home, even when home has shifted.

All of that sat with me this week as I scrolled through the wide range of reactions to the Super Bowl halftime show.

The frustration. The disappointment. The anger from some who couldn’t understand a single word because it wasn’t in English. And beneath that, in too many cases, frustration rooted in something deeper and uglier, amplified by the current political climate.

I’ll admit, I felt moments of cluelessness too. Not only because of the language barrier, but because I’m not exactly hip to the latest pop stars. And sadly, I’ve also been unsuccessfully trying to learn Spanish on Duolingo for over three years now.

But to be clear, I thought the halftime performance was incredible.

Bad Bunny captivated me. The production. The energy. The pride. It felt like a window into the love someone with roots in Puerto Rico feels for their culture, and the connection people still living there hold just as tightly. I could feel the intention behind it. The care and the joy.

I couldn’t help but think about friends and neighbors of ours with Puerto Rican roots, and how proud they must have felt watching that moment unfold. I especially thought of my sister in law who holds Puerto Rico so close to her heart. I even felt a little bummed this was the year we didn’t have friends over for the Super Bowl, since our one friend that comes over is from Puerto Rico.

This year especially, the halftime show has become more than entertainment. It’s a cultural moment that has drawn enormous attention to the NFL. And this year, it also revealed something uncomfortable.

Something that should have been a celebration of yet another thread in the American fabric became another point of division.

That breaks my heart.

Because music is one of the few things humans have that’s supposed to transcend language. It’s meant to communicate feeling when words fall short. Dance, rhythm, melody, they connect us before we ever understand lyrics. And yet here we were again, taking something uniquely human and using it to separate neighbors instead of bring them together.

We forget this sometimes, but almost all of our musical traditions in the U.S. are rooted somewhere else. Different languages. Different histories. Different struggles. Different celebrations.

Everyone is from somewhere.

Some of my neighbors here in Austin have roots that run deep in Texas. Others have only lived here a couple of years. Some trace their family history back centuries on this land. Others arrived recently, carrying pieces of home they’re still figuring out how to plant.

That sense of community and respect for others is why I’ve felt such a strong connection to the Texas Forward Party and its values-driven approach, and why I decided to get more involved last year. The more I listen to friends and neighbors talk about what feels missing right now, the more I hear the same refrain: love your neighbor. It’s an old idea for a reason. Respect, grace, and tolerance are still some of the most powerful tools we have for bringing people together.

My first yard sign I created for TXFWD - Love Your Neighbor - 2025

Culture, history, and tradition shouldn’t be weapons. They should be bridges. They should work the way music and food always have, inviting people in, not pushing them away.

To be honest, I doubt I’ll ever be a die hard Bad Bunny fan. It’s not going to be my everyday jam. But then again, not so long ago, the youth of another generation were told their music was the devil’s music. The dancing too suggestive. The artists immoral. The language improper.

The kids revolted anyway. They kept dancing. They kept singing.

And to this day, the one artist, the one who was once considered the worst, the king of hip swinging scandal, is adored by millions and still the King of Rock and Roll to my dad.

As a parent, I want my kids to inherit more than just traditions. I want them to inherit perspective. To know where they come from, and to be curious about where others come from too.

Because everyone is from somewhere. And if my kids can grow up grounded in their roots while staying open to new rhythms, languages, and stories, then they’ll carry forward the kind of community spirit that makes places feel like home.

Family first. Neighbors first. Humanity first.
Rooted in Wisconsin. Growing forward in Texas.

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Walking Slower in Texas

 A parenting story about slowing down, affordability, and time.

A few weeks ago, I was talking with someone who had moved to Texas decades ago from the East Coast.

“You learn to walk slower here; otherwise you’re drenched in sweat in the first five minutes.”

But the more I thought about it, the more it felt like quiet wisdom. Texas has a way of teaching you to slow down whether you want to or not. You don’t rush from place to place in the heat. You don’t sprint across parking lots at noon in August. You learn to pace yourself. You conserve energy, water, breath. You learn patience the hard way.

That does not come naturally to me.

I am wired to move quickly. To finish things. To optimize. To treat life like a race or project plan with dependencies and milestones. Even my downtime sometimes feels calculated. Slowing down can feel uncomfortable, like I’m wasting time or falling behind.

Which is probably why my kids keep finding ways to remind me that speed isn’t always the goal.

Slow down. School Crossing.

That reminder showed up recently during STEAM night at my son’s school. There were various science, tech, and arts related activity stations set up across the school for the night. And who doesn’t love a good punch card challenge. The kids were challenged to complete all the stations for the chance to win a big prize. We were moving from station to station, figuring out where to go next, and I was very much in logistics mode. Keep things moving. Stay on schedule. Don’t linger too long.

At one point, my six-year-old looked up at me and asked, “Dad, how do you spell my full name?”

He already can spell his first name. He repeated it back, proud. Then he moved on to his last name, sounding it out carefully. Thoughtfully. He got it right.

Then he paused and asked, “Is that my full name?”

In my head, the answer was easy. Yes. Close enough. Let’s keep moving.

But instead, I stopped myself.

“Well,” I said, “your full name also has your middle name.”

And just like that, everything slowed down.

We stood there together while he worked through it - likely for the first time. Sound by sound. Letter by letter. No rushing. No correcting. Just waiting. It took longer than I wanted it to. And it mattered more than I expected. He did miss one letter, but he was too proud for me to dampen the moment.

Patience is one of those values we all say we admire, until it costs us something. Time. Momentum. Comfort. Control. As a parent, patience rarely shows up in grand gestures. It lives in small moments like this, when you choose not to hurry someone along, when you let them struggle just enough to grow, when you resist the urge to optimize the experience for your own convenience.

That moment stayed with me because it connected to something older, something deeper.

Growing up, I heard stories about my German great-grandmother. Stories about thrift that went far beyond money. Food wasn’t wasted. Nothing was taken for granted. You didn’t rush through meals or throw things away just because you could replace them. Affordability, in her world, wasn’t just about cost. It was about respect. Respect for resources. For labor. For time. Very likely molded by the times she lived in (Depression-era hardship, war, and farm culture).

Nothing was infinite. Everything mattered.

Now it seems like affordability is more narrowed down to dollars and cents. Prices on shelves. Numbers on a spreadsheet. And those things matter, deeply. But real affordability is bigger than that. It’s whether families can afford time together. Whether parents can afford patience. Whether kids can afford to learn slowly without being rushed through childhood.

Texas has taught me this in its own way. You conserve water because it’s scarce and precious. You slow your pace because the heat demands it. You plan differently, not to squeeze more in, but to endure longer. Patience can also be a form of sustainability.

Parenting, I’m learning, works the same way.

If I rush my kids through everything, I might get through the evening faster. But I’m borrowing against something more valuable. Their confidence. Their curiosity. Their sense that they’re allowed to take up time and space in the world.

That’s not a trade I want to make.

We talk a lot about affordability in public life. Rent. Groceries. Gas. And we should. But there’s another layer that doesn’t get as much attention. Can families afford to slow down? Can kids afford adults who wait? Can communities afford patience instead of constant urgency?

Because when everything feels rushed, people get sharper. Less generous. More reactive.

Patience, it turns out, is a resource too.

That night at STEAM night, nothing monumental happened. We didn’t win anything. We didn’t check off more stations than the other kids. But my son walked away with the pride of knowing his full name. And I walked away reminded that sometimes the most valuable thing you can give a child isn’t an answer.

It’s the time to arrive at it themselves. And something I’ll likely be working on for the rest of my life.

As I think about thriftiness, affordability, and the values we pass down, I keep coming back to this idea. Real wealth isn’t speed. It isn’t optimization. It isn’t how quickly you can move on to the next thing.

Sometimes it’s learning to walk slower. To wait longer. To sit in the heat a bit. To let a six-year-old figure it out.

Because those moments don’t cost money.

But they are priceless.

Family first. Neighbors first. Humanity first.

Rooted in Wisconsin. Growing forward in Texas.

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Taking the First Step Into the New Year

Why getting outside and unplugging may matter more than ever

The space between Christmas and the New Year has always felt a little different to me. The rush slows, the decorations stay up a bit longer than planned, and time stretches just enough to breathe. This year, with cousins in town, unseasonably warm Texas weather, and nowhere urgent to be, that in-between space became a reminder of how much we need moments that aren’t optimized, scheduled, or filtered through a screen.

This past week, I found myself thinking a lot about a phrase I heard constantly growing up:

“Go outside and play.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t framed as a wellness strategy or a developmental best practice. It was just what you did. When the house got loud, when energy bubbled over, when boredom crept in, the answer was simple: go outside.

That phrase came back to me over the holiday break as we wrapped up Christmas and rolled straight into the New Year with a house full of cousins who had traveled down from Wisconsin to spend their winter break in Texas. Unseasonably warm days, blue skies, and weather that they wouldn’t see again for months felt like a gift to the crew from Wisconsin.

On New Year’s Eve, we headed “north” four hours, east of Dallas, to Lake Fork for the final few days of the trip. The goal was simple: slow down, fish, be together, let the kids run around. And yet, even with all that space and sunshine, the pull of screens showed up immediately.

View from the top of the boat house at Lake Fork - NYE Wknd 2026.

As soon as the kids got settled, they headed straight for the game room to play the Pac-Man arcade game. And even though my nephew and son were motivated to head down to the boathouse to fish, as they waited for us adults to get ready they passed the time watching one kid playing arcade games from the ’90s (nostalgic, yes) or watching some creator content on YouTube.

Even after we shut down the arcade games, when we told them to go outside and enjoy the weather, you would’ve thought we were punishing them. They wanted to watch TV or chill inside, mind you, these are kids ages six to ten.

And yet, every single time we nudged them outside, something predictable happened. They swung. They climbed. They laughed. The girls would hold “girls team meetings,” which mostly involved whispering, giggling, and occasionally getting into trouble. Time slowed. Energy shifted. For the most part, the kids who resisted the most ended up staying out the longest.

What struck me was this: even the Wisconsin cousins, kids who are used to being outdoors, needed reminding. Not because they don’t like being outside, but because screens make not starting so easy.
That pattern felt familiar.

There were a couple of decades when I ran regularly, and mornings when I’d spend far too much time debating whether I had enough time for a “real” run, whether the weather would be better later, whether I should relax and catch up on our “recorded shows” or whether I had the energy. Eventually I learned a trick: don’t commit to the hour. Just go out for five or ten minutes. If you feel good, keep going.
Almost every time, five minutes turned into a mile. A mile turned into three. Sometimes it turned into an hour. And when I finished, I was happier, more energized, and proud that I’d just started.

Getting outside works the same way. So does unplugging. So does tackling big things that feel overwhelming. Sometimes the hardest part for me isn’t the effort. It’s making the first step.
That idea showed up again in an unexpected way on New Year’s Eve.

Back at Thanksgiving, the Texas cousins had brought a piñata (that we won at a “Día de la Murta” festival) up to Wisconsin. Somewhere between then and the holiday break, my sister and I decided we’d do a piñata for New Year’s Eve too. Maybe we were trying to limit sugar intake. Maybe my sister was inspired by a story she’d heard about a broccoli-themed birthday party, (Eddie’s Fourth Birthday Party - well worth the listen to hear about the broccoli filled pinata). Either way, we decided to fill the piñata with glow sticks and the pieces from a 1,000-piece cowboy-themed puzzle.

The kids were not impressed. At all.

The mood did change slightly when I offered a two-dollar reward to whoever picked up the most puzzle pieces after the piñata exploded. But once the kids went to bed, the adults were left staring at the table with a real question: were we actually going to finish this thing in three days?

By the end of New Year’s Eve, we had only the border done. It didn’t look promising. The next morning, when I zoomed out, the puzzle felt impossible. But piece by piece, we chipped away. Later that day, confidence dipped again (I believe this time, my sister was ready to throw in the towel). By the end of the second night, four adults sat around a small table, skeptical that all one thousand pieces had even survived the piñata frenzy.

New Year’s Eve pinata puzzle after first night - NYE Wknd 2026

Late Thursday night, as we placed the final pieces… one was missing.

So we shifted from puzzlers to search and rescue, crawling under furniture, digging through bags, retracing steps. Ten minutes later, my sister took another look at the empty space to remind herself what she was searching for: a very nondescript, matches-everything brown piece.

And there it was.

Sitting on top of a finished section of the puzzle, where someone, definitely me, had been placing loose pieces to help “organize” our efforts.

We were done.

It felt silly to celebrate finishing a puzzle. But it also felt meaningful. We’d spent time together. We’d laughed. We’d stuck with something that looked impossible at first in the limited “adult free time we had”. And we’d been reminded that big things get done the same way we got the kids outside or as a runner I’d start moving: one small step at a time. And we had a new New Year’s Eve tradition, a piñata filled with puzzle pieces.

Throughout the trip, and in thinking about New Year resolutions, I was reminded of something I learned years ago during Stagen Leadership training at Whole Foods: the idea of attention zones. The Attention Zones Framework is simple, but it has stuck with me because it explains where our time and energy actually go.

There’s the Reactive Zone, where you’re constantly responding to what feels urgent. The Proactive Zone, where you’re intentional and focused on what really matters. The Distraction Zone, where attention gets pulled without purpose. And the Waste Zone, where time disappears and nothing meaningful comes back.

Technology and AI can help us move faster, learn more, and save time. But without boundaries, they quietly pull us into distraction and waste. The goal doesn’t have to be to eliminate technology. The goal should be to notice where technology and bad habits pull our attention, and then claim back some of that time and invest it to save for something better. Into the Proactive Zone, to get ahead of things and make life easier. To invest more time into people, presence, and progress.

That’s what the puzzle reminded me of. We didn’t solve it by staring at the whole thing. We solved it by picking up one piece, then another. The same is true for parenting in a digital age. The first step matters. Getting outside. Turning off the screen. Starting small. Because once you take that first step, momentum has a way of finding you.

Starting “small” with a big catch at Lake Fork - NYE Wknd 2026

That feels especially relevant as we head into 2026, with AI advancing faster than most of us can fully process. The question isn’t whether our kids will grow up with screens. They already are. The real question is whether they’ll grow up knowing how to step away from them.

Watching my kids and their cousins this holiday reminded me that grounding doesn’t come from grand speeches or strict rules. It comes from repetition. From nudging. From modeling. From saying, “Go outside and play,” even when it’s met with resistance.

Because once they’re out there, they remember who they are.

As a parent, I don’t want to raise kids who fear technology. I want to raise kids who can use it wisely. Kids who know how to unplug. Kids who can focus on the small piece in front of them instead of being overwhelmed by the whole picture. Kids who know that joy, accomplishment, and connection don’t live on screens.

Wrapping up 2025 this way felt right. Slower. More human. More hopeful.

As we step into a new year that will undoubtedly bring more innovation, more noise, and more reasons to stay inside, I’m holding onto this reminder: getting started matters more than getting it perfect.
That’s the invitation I’m carrying into 2026: take one step. Get outside. Unplug a little. Trust that small beginnings, especially when shared with others, still have the power to ground us, steady us, and remind us what being human feels like.

Mom of four enjoying some quite time at the Lily Pad - NYE Wknd 2026

Sometimes the best thing you can say to a child, or to yourself, is still the simplest:

Go outside and play.

Family first. Neighbors first. Humanity first.

Rooted in Wisconsin. Growing forward in Texas.

If you’d like these reflections delivered to your inbox, you can also follow this blog on Substack: wiguyintx.substack.com