Last month, I found myself digging through boxes that had somehow survived two moves without ever being opened. I came across a folder that made me stop cold. Professional headshots from my modeling days in my twenties. Yes, modeling. I had gotten into really good shape and thought, “Why not?”
Spoiler alert: I found out why not.
But tucked behind those overly confident glamour shots was something even more jarring. A VHS tape labeled “A Chorus Line – High School Musical.” I’d joined the drama club after sports injuries sidelined me, wanting to still be part of something. I remembered enjoying it. I even remembered thinking I wasn’t half bad at singing.
I was wrong. So very wrong.
Listening to myself belt out show tunes twenty-plus years later was like hearing a stranger murder a song I used to love. That’s when Matthew McConaughey’s voice echoed in my head:
“Knowing who we are is hard. Give yourself a break. Eliminate who you are not first, and you’ll find yourself where you need to be.”
The man wasn’t talking about failed entertainment careers, but he might as well have been.
The Backwards Path Forward
Here’s what nobody tells you about self-improvement: addition is easier than subtraction, but subtraction is more powerful.
We love adding things. New habits, new goals, new identities we want to try on like those ill-fitting headshots.
I’m going to be a model. A performer. The dad who never loses his patience.
But McConaughey’s onto something deeper. What if the path to becoming who we’re meant to be isn’t about adding more, but peeling away what doesn’t belong?
I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, especially as a dad to four kids aged 6, 8, 10, and 13. I might not know exactly who I am in all areas of life, but I’m getting crystal clear on who I’m not.
The Liberation of Elimination
I’m not the guy who looks good on camera, despite what my twenty-something self believed. Those modeling photos are evidence that confidence and reality don’t always align, and that’s okay.
I’m not the parent who maintains endless patience after long days when kids just won’t listen. I used to think good dads never got frustrated, that I should handle bedtime routines like some zen master. Instead, I discovered that after a full day, my patience tank runs dry. And expecting my kids to be obedient robots was making everyone miserable.
I’m not the coach who loves working with every kid on the team. I thought youth sports coaching would unlock some dormant mentoring gene. Turns out, I love coaching my own kids. Watching their joy, their growth, their quirky approach to sports. But the kids who don’t want to be there, who aren’t trying or having fun? They drive me nuts. That distraction takes away from the kids who do want to be there.
I’m not the social butterfly I used to be. In my twenties, I thought bar nights and constant plans were the key to staying connected. I assumed that’s what a full life looked like.
Each “not” felt like failure at first.
But here’s the plot twist. Every elimination cleared space for something real to emerge.
The Courage to Subtract
The scary part about elimination isn’t the losing. It’s the space that gets created afterward.
When I stopped trying to be the endlessly patient dad and accepted that I’m human, I could finally work with my limits instead of against them. I started reminding myself that my kids aren’t robots. They’re their own little people, figuring out life just like I am.
This shift changed everything about bedtime routines. Instead of seeing them as something to get through, I started looking forward to that time. I remind myself to enjoy my kids and the time I get to spend with them. Because here’s what hits me regularly:
I’m smack in the middle of my dream life.
All I ever wanted was to be a dad and a husband, and I’m painfully aware that this season won’t last forever. My kids will grow up. The house will get quieter.
When I stopped forcing myself to be social in ways that didn’t fit, I discovered what I actually craved. Meaningful relationships and real conversations, not just noise. A random get-together doesn’t excite me. But plans with people I love talking deeply with? That’s gold.
The Practice of Not
So how do we get better at elimination?
I’m still figuring it out. But here’s what’s working for me.
I started paying attention to what drains my energy versus what fills it.
Those old social obligations? Draining.
Movie nights on the couch with all four kids and my wife? Filling.
Board games, charades, exploring new towns together, eating good food? Filling.
I’ve also started trusting my instincts, even when they go against what I’m supposed to want.
When I met my wife, the shift away from constant socializing wasn’t something I forced. It just happened. She became my person. Other people started to feel like interference rather than enhancement.
Four years ago, I stopped drinking. It might be one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.
Another elimination. Another space created.
The Messy Middle
Don’t get me wrong. This elimination process is messy.
I still lose patience with the kids and have to reset. I still feel guilty sometimes for choosing family time over social invites. But the difference now?
I’ve stopped apologizing for who I’m not.
I’ve stopped worrying what others think about me not wanting to go out.
I’ve stopped pretending that coaching disinterested kids doesn’t frustrate me.
I’ve stopped forcing myself into roles I never actually wanted.
The process isn’t about becoming less.
It’s about becoming more precisely who you already are.
Finding Yourself by Losing Yourself
McConaughey talks about elimination leading to discovery, and I think he’s right. But it’s not the dramatic, Hollywood-montage kind of discovery.
It’s quieter than that.
It’s realizing that when you stop trying to be the dad who never gets frustrated, you become the dad who acknowledges his limits and works within them.
When you quit forcing yourself to enjoy coaching kids who don’t want to be there, you can finally pour your energy into the ones who do.
My kids don’t need me to be every kind of dad.
They need me to be their dad.
The one who’s present at bedtime instead of rushing through it.
Who admits when he’s out of gas instead of pretending to be superhuman.
Who picks game night over going out, without apology.
The Space Between
Here’s what I’m learning in this weird space between who I thought I should be and who I actually am.
There’s room to breathe here.
Room to fail at things without feeling like I’m failing as a person.
Room to discover that some of my limitations are actually features, not bugs.
I’m not the dad with infinite patience.
I’m not the husband who thrives on constant stimulation.
I’m not the guy who can sing on key or rock a modeling portfolio.
But I’m getting clearer on who I am by getting honest about who I’m not.
And in that clarity, something real is emerging.
Something that doesn’t need to be performed or proven or polished.
Something that just needs to be lived, right here, in the middle of my dream life, while I still have it.
What’s one thing you’re trying to be that doesn’t quite fit?
What would happen if you gave yourself permission to not be that thing?
Hit reply and let me know. I read every response. Your honesty helps me figure out this whole being-human thing too.
The Focused Fool Newsletter – Growing As Men. Leading as Fathers.
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