Basketball Lessons

Hey guys, it’s me again.

I learned another valuable parenting lesson this week. I believe it's one worth sharing, so I figured I’d pass it along.

It’s about basketball. But it’s also not.

My daughter, Lila Blue, is an incredible basketball player (says her obviously biased dad).

But even objectively speaking—she’s 12 years old, led her 14U homeschool team to a state championship, was named All-Regional First Team, and helped her squad finish 5th in the nation—the best result in her program’s history. As a 7th grader, she even saw varsity minutes, holding her own against girls six years older than her.

These are impressive accolades for anyone, let alone a 12-year-old going up against players with more size, age, and experience.

If you can’t tell, I’m proud of her.

For the past five years, Lila has played with an incredible group of girls from our hometown of Nixa, Missouri—families we love, teammates who have become like sisters. Because of that, we knew a tough decision was looming.

See, we homeschool our kids. That’s an intentional choice. Education is important to us, but even more important are the people we allow to shape and influence our kids.

In order for Lila to continue playing for Nixa, we’d have to enroll her in two public school courses—per Missouri law. But every attempt to get clarity on how to do this has led to more confusion. (Which, ironically, is another reason why we homeschool.)

Now, here’s where it gets personal.

I played basketball for Nixa 20+ years ago. My name is on a banner in the rafters. And the thought of my daughter playing for the same school, on the same court where I once played? That meant something to me.

I wanted that story to come full circle.

I convinced myself that playing for Nixa was the goal—that anything else was a detour.

And then, I had an embarrassing epiphany.

This isn’t about me.

I’ll say that again, because I think a lot of parents need to hear it.

Youth sports aren’t about you.

At the start of this season, I saw Lila’s new team as nothing more than a stopgap—a temporary solution until we could “figure out” how to get her on the Nixa roster.

And because of that? I had a bad attitude.

As always, it was my wife (the one with far more patience and wisdom) who helped me soften my heart. She nudged me toward the truth: Lila was thriving.

She was improving. She was leading from the front. Most importantly, she was having fun.

And the Lighthouse Chargers community? Unbelievable. The coaches and parents were supportive and kind, creating a culture where competition and character go hand in hand. Older players showed up to cheer on the younger teams—not out of obligation, but because they genuinely wanted to be there.

It was something different. It was something beautiful.

It was not at all what I had planned—but I think that was by design.

The more I learn, the more I realize how little I actually know.

And honestly? That’s freeing.

I firmly believe God has a unique plan for each of my kids. My job as their dad isn’t to force my own vision on them.

It’s to help them discover who they were created to be.

And sometimes, that means taking a step back.

Sometimes, it means adjusting my attitude.

I don’t know what the future holds for Lila Blue. Maybe she plays for Nixa someday. Maybe she doesn’t.

But I do know this:

The goal is not for Lila Blue to be the world’s greatest basketball player.

The goal is for her to be a woman of integrity. A leader. A light in the world.

And if basketball is part of that story, I’m all for it.

But if it’s not, that’s okay too.

This season didn’t go the way I planned.

Turns out, it went exactly the way it needed to.

That’s all for today.

Godspeed.

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Less Noise. More Action.

I love the enthusiasm a lot of you are bringing to Facebook as of late. The energy almost feels palpable.

And because we’ve got a good thing going, I feel like today might be the day for a little tough love.

You good with that?

Ok, cool.

Here's my question: What if we took that same energy we're all bringing and channeled it into productivity?

Like, what if we actually *did* something instead of yelling at each other through typing?

It’s a wild idea, I know. But I feel like it’s at least worth considering.

Said another way (in my most humble yet firm voice):

→ Some of us are complaining about government corruption while neglecting to lead our own families with integrity.

→ Some of us are complaining about the cost of living while refusing to develop new skills or pursue better opportunities.

→ Some of us are complaining about a broken healthcare system while fueling our bodies with junk and avoiding exercise.

Hard truth? Sure.

But guess what? Sometimes the truth is hard.

I know this is a radical idea in our current culture, but I don’t believe that truth is subjective. In my (humble) opinion, the truth is not something we get to bend to our preferences or emotions. Truth is singular. Truth is absolute. And that’s exactly why it’s worth seeking out.

At the Stewart home, we have a simple rule: general whining isn’t welcome—but thoughtful frustrations accompanied by solutions? Those, we’ll listen to.

It’s not that we ignore problems. We don’t. But venting—without action—doesn’t fix anything. And if you spend enough time online, you start to see a pattern: people aren’t always looking for solutions; they’re often looking for validation.

Every time you complain on Facebook, your brain gets a tiny dopamine hit from every like, comment, or reaction. It *feels* productive—like you’re rallying the troops or exposing an issue that needs fixing. But more often than not, it’s just noise. No solutions. No movement. Just an endless loop of frustration disguised as action.

And listen, I’m not immune to it. I’ve caught myself wanting to post something just to let off steam. But if I’m not careful, I’ll mistake attention for progress. And those two things are not the same.

If you're buying what I'm selling, here’s the simple 3-step filter I created for myself a few years back. Before I share something on social media, I ask myself three simple questions:

Does this contribute to meaningful conversation?

→ Am I adding depth, wisdom, or clarity to a topic, or just adding to the noise?

Does this inspire action or reflection?

→ Will this challenge people to think differently, live better, or take a step toward growth?

Does this align with the person I want to become?

→ If my kids, my spouse, or my future self looked back on this post, would they see a man of integrity, wisdom, and purpose—or just another voice in the crowd?

If the answer to all three is no—then maybe it doesn’t need to be said.

The attached photo was taken during mile 25 of me and Jude's last marathon. To me, running a marathon is a lot like life. The physical challenge is real, but it’s the mental battle that takes most people out.

In this moment, every muscle in my body is screaming, but I’m locked in—focused on finishing strong (and, unlike Jude, I noticed the photographer in the distance).

Life, much like a marathon, isn’t about how fast you start. And as it turns out, complaining mid-race doesn’t do much good either. Progress comes from pushing forward, doing the work, and finishing well.

Because here’s the truth: what we say shapes what we build, and what we build shapes who we become.

I don’t always get this right. But I do know that how we handle our frustrations says a lot about us.

So, here’s my challenge to you (and to myself): Stop wasting energy on complaints that don’t lead to action. If something is broken, fix it. If something isn’t right, work to make it better. If you’re not willing to be part of the solution, at least stop adding to the noise.

Because at the end of the day, venting might make you feel better—but it won’t change a damn thing.

Godspeed.

PS — Sorry I said damn.

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Tell Me Sumpin’

Hey guys, it’s me, Josh—your friendly neighborhood Dad Philosopher™.

I have very exciting news to share: somewhere between debating the merits of wearing pants and explaining why we can’t have another pet, my 3-year-old daughter, Ruby Jane, suddenly decided I’m cool.

For the first two years of her life, she wasn’t my biggest fan. She’s always been a Momma’s girl, and while I never took it personally, I won’t lie—it stung a little. But something shifted recently. Maybe it’s a phase. Maybe I finally wore her down with Starbucks cake pops. Either way, I’m not questioning it. I’m just grateful.

Lately, she’s been asking me to play dolls, to chase her around the house, to wrestle. But my favorite? She asks me to tell her stories.

It started a few weeks ago. She curled up next to me on the couch, looked up, and said, “Tell me sumpin’.”

At first, I asked, “What do you want me to tell you?”

She thought for a second, then shrugged. “Just think about sumpin’ and tell me sumpin’.”

And so I did.

I told her stories about her siblings. Stories from my childhood. I made up adventures on the fly, pulling details out of thin air, watching her eyes widen as she hung on every word.

And something hit me.

One day, she won’t ask me to tell her stories. She won’t curl up next to me on the couch, hanging on every word. The dolls will be packed away, the bedtime giggles will fade, and before I know it, I’ll be looking back—wishing for just one more night of “Tell me sumpin’.”

See, I think there’s a version of me—maybe it’s the ambitious side, or maybe it’s just the guy who gets sucked into Instagram sometimes—that still thinks the good life is out there somewhere. You know, when the house is perfectly clean, the goals are met, and there’s just… more of everything. More money, more freedom, more ease.

But the older I get, the more I’m realizing that more doesn’t always mean better. Because when I stop and really pay attention, the moments that make me feel richest aren’t flashy or impressive.

It’s my kids breaking into laughter at the dinner table because Ruby decided to shove way too much food into her mouth. It’s Gwyn insisting I play the same song on repeat during the drive to school. It’s Lila asking me to rebound for her in the driveway, determined to get just one more perfect shot. It’s Jude dragging me out for an early morning run, even when I’d rather stay in bed.

It’s the late-night conversations with my wife—when we’re too tired to move but somehow still find the energy to talk about everything and nothing.

Here’s the funny thing: when I was younger, I would’ve rolled my eyes at someone saying all this. I thought rich meant luxury vacations, dream jobs, or never having to think about money. But now? Now I think it’s the stuff we forget to notice when we’re too busy chasing something else.

These aren’t the kinds of things that make headlines or social media feeds. But maybe that’s the point.

Life doesn’t wait for us to figure it all out—it hands us these little pockets of joy, right in the middle of the noise and the mess, and says, “Here. This is what matters.”

It’s easy to think we have endless time for these little moments, but we don’t. They slip through our fingers while we’re busy, distracted, or waiting for the “big” stuff. But the big stuff? It’s already happening. Right here. Right now.

So, yeah, I still have big dreams. I want to do great work, provide for my family, and leave a legacy that matters. But I refuse to overlook the beauty right in front of me in the pursuit.

If you’re lucky enough to have a little hand reaching for yours, a voice calling your name, a tiny person who just wants your time—give it freely. Because one day, you’ll wish you had.

That's all for today.

Godspeed.

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What Matters Most

What we build is important, but who we become matters most.

Just last week, someone asked me what it takes to balance being an entrepreneur, a husband, and a father. It was a good question—one that caught me off guard because, truthfully, I’m still figuring it out.

In that moment, I gave the answer I’ve leaned on for years: “It’s all about balance.” It sounded right, maybe even a little wise. But a few nights later, at exactly 2:34 a.m., I woke up out of a dead sleep thinking about that conversation.

I had an epiphany and have since changed my answer (something I reserve the right to do).

The goal isn’t balance.

The goal is alignment.

Allow me to explain.

Each of these roles—entrepreneur, husband, father—demands something different from me. But at their core, they’re all asking the same question: Who are you becoming in the process?

And let me tell you, if you’re not intentional about answering that question, life has a way of answering it for you.

In entrepreneurship, it’s easy to get caught up in metrics, growth, and validation. Ego thrives on those things. It loves the spotlight and whispers, “You’re doing great—just keep proving it.”

But the work that really shapes you doesn’t happen in the metrics. It happens in the moments.

• When you lose a deal you thought was a sure thing and choose to handle it with grace instead of bitterness.

• When a team member shines, and you celebrate their success louder than your own.

• When the plans fall apart, and you press forward anyway, knowing persistence matters more than perfection.

These moments don’t show up in quarterly reports, but they’re the real measure of success. They’re where character is built.

At home, the same principle applies. If ego loves the hustle of business, love thrives in the stillness of family life.

It’s not the big gestures that make you a great dad. It’s the small, consistent choices—telling bedtime stories, showing up at practices, and sitting on the couch when they want to talk about their day. These moments don’t make headlines, but they’re where the deepest connections are formed.

I’ll be honest: I’ve had seasons where I got this backward. Times when I poured so much into my work that my family got what was left of me (instead of the best of me). It wasn’t intentional, but the result was the same—missed moments I can’t get back.

That’s where margin comes in.

Margin has been one of the hardest lessons for me to learn, but it’s also been one of the most important.

Margin is the space between your limit and your load. I've said it before and I'll say it again: if your schedule has zero margin, your life will fall apart. Without margin, you’re constantly running on empty—snapping at your kids, zoning out during dinner, or skipping that date night you promised your spouse.

Hurry kills everything we hold dear.

The problem is, ego loves a packed schedule. It tells us that being busy means being important. That every email, project, or opportunity is a step closer to success.

But love doesn’t work that way. Love requires time, presence, and focus—all things that get squeezed out when we’re running too fast.

I used to believe the hustle was just part of life. But the older I get, the more I realize that the best things—marriage, fatherhood, meaningful work—can’t thrive without breathing room.

Here’s the truth: entrepreneurship, fatherhood, and marriage aren’t competing priorities. They’re interconnected. Each one shapes the others, and the person you are in one area inevitably impacts the others.

If I’m short-tempered at home, it’s usually because I’ve been running too hard at work. If I’m patient and present with my team, it’s because I’ve learned to be patient and present with my kids.

The question isn’t whether you can balance it all. It’s whether you’re becoming someone who can align these roles in a way that reflects your values.

For me, that alignment comes back to a few simple choices:

• Choosing presence over productivity. Work can wait; your family shouldn’t have to.

• Choosing humility over ego. Your business doesn’t need a hero; it needs a leader who empowers others.

• Choosing margin over hustle. Burnout helps no one. The people you love need you at your best.

When I think about my life 20 years from now, I don’t want to be remembered for how many clients I landed or how much revenue I generated. I want my wife to say I made her feel cherished. I want my kids to remember that I was there—fully present—for the big moments and the small ones.

Entrepreneurship, fatherhood, and marriage aren’t just things I do; they’re who I am. They’ve forced me to grow, challenged my priorities, and taught me what matters most.

The work we do is important, but who we become will always matter more.

If you made it this far, thanks for reading my ramblings.

The process of putting thoughts into words is a form of accountability for me. It reminds me of who I want to be when my actions don’t line up with my values. It forces me to pause, reflect, and recalibrate when I fall short—because I do, often.

If anything, writing this isn’t about offering answers—it’s about reminding myself of the lessons I’ve learned and the kind of man I want to become. This process keeps me accountable, especially on the days when my priorities slip or my ego gets too loud.

So, if these words feel like they were written for you, know they were also written for me. And if you’re wrestling with the same tensions of work, family, and self, know that you’re not alone. We’re all figuring it out as we go, one small, intentional choice at a time.

That’s all for today.

Godspeed.

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PS — The photo attached to this post is of me with my (almost) 13-year-old daughter, Lila Blue. This week, a boy asked for her phone number after her basketball game. I wasn’t there (lucky for him), but just so we’re clear: if you want to talk to her, you’ll have to talk to me first.

Also worth noting: I bench-pressed 285 lbs last week (100 lbs more than I weigh), I’ve got a solid right hook, I can run a marathon on a moment's notice, and I proudly exercise my 2nd amendment rights. I’ve known this day was coming for a while, and I've prepared accordingly.

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