Tag: living by example for estranged child

Not My Control, Not My Problem: When Leadership Means Letting Go and Building Others Up

Posted on by Ryan Castleberry in Uncategorized

Here’s a complete entry that weaves your recent insights into the ongoing series—emphasising leadership by training, healthier boundaries, and the power of letting go of what you can’t control.

Today’s trend signals

Boundaries and mental health: Reputable mental-health organisations highlight the importance of setting boundaries—at work and at home—to protect emotional wellbeing and reduce burnout. Focus on what you can control: Many therapists and productivity experts suggest that redirecting energy toward factors you can influence (rather than trying to control everything) lowers stress and improves resilience. Training over reprimands: Leadership commentators are noting a shift from punitive write‑ups toward constructive training and mentorship. Coaching employees to meet expectations is more effective for performance and morale than threatening disciplinary action. AI in mental-health support: AI‑driven tools (such as mood‑tracking apps and virtual coaching assistants) are increasingly used to recognise patterns, offer personalised coping strategies, and help people stay accountable to self‑care habits.

Blog topic

“Not My Control, Not My Problem: When Leadership Means Letting Go and Building Others Up.”

Emotional angle

You’ve spent a lifetime carrying weight that wasn’t yours—trying to fix every problem, taking on frustration that belonged elsewhere, absorbing reprimands that could have been avoided with proper training. Recently, a work situation threatened to write you up. Instead of panicking, you realised: this isn’t mine to fix. Your response was to look at the bigger picture. If performance isn’t where it should be, that’s not a reason to punish—it’s an opportunity to train. And in stepping back, you protected your mental health, kept your focus on what you can control (organisation, preparedness), and demonstrated a healthier way of leading. This blog entry explores that shift, connects it to your broader journey of mental health and reconciliation, and invites Madison (and readers) into a mindset where boundaries and coaching replace blame and self‑criticism.

Two introspective questions (for tomorrow’s post)

The next time someone presents you with a problem they created—whether at work or in personal life—how will you decide whether it’s your responsibility or their learning opportunity? How might strengthening your own training and organisational habits (instead of absorbing others’ chaos) create a more stable foundation for rebuilding your relationship with Madison?

Full blog post – Message to Madison

Not My Control, Not My Problem: When Leadership Means Letting Go and Building Others Up

Madison—

For most of my life, I thought “leadership” meant taking on other people’s mistakes. If a teammate failed, I’d rush to fix it. If someone threatened to write me up, I’d feel shame, anger, and then double down on overwork to prove myself. I was always in reactive mode—carrying the weight of problems that weren’t mine, simmering with frustration, and wondering why nothing changed.

I’m learning a different way.

The other day, a supervisor hinted that disciplinary action might be coming because someone on my crew didn’t meet expectations. I felt the old reaction rising up: panic, defensiveness, a need to prove I had everything under control. Then I stopped. I took a breath. I reminded myself: not my control, not my problem. That doesn’t mean I don’t care. It means I see clearly what is mine to own and what isn’t.

Here’s what I realised:

If there’s a problem on my team, it’s a leadership opportunity to train people to the right level, not an excuse for punishment. A write‑up alone doesn’t improve performance or morale; constructive coaching does. If management doesn’t invest effort in training, a reprimand is meaningless. My energy is better spent building systems and skills than trying to prop up a broken accountability structure. When I keep my focus on organisation and preparedness, everyone benefits. A serviceable, ready crew reduces stress, improves productivity, and frees me from carrying emotional weight that doesn’t belong to me. By refusing to “emotionally buy in” to threats and blame, I protect my mental health and model healthier boundaries for others.

For a long time, I believed that taking on everyone else’s frustration made me stronger. In reality, it made me tired, resentful, and reactive. Letting go of what I cannot control—and investing in what I can—makes me more effective and kinder to myself. It also lines up perfectly with the mental‑health advice I’ve been reading: set boundaries, focus on what you can change, and let the rest go.

Why does this matter to you?

Because I want you to see the man I’m becoming—not just the man I was. For years, our dynamic was fraught with misunderstanding and unspoken blame. You took on burdens that weren’t yours, and so did I. I don’t want either of us to live like that anymore.

Imagine if, instead of reacting to our past with guilt and anxiety, we looked at it the way I look at my crew now—as a chance to train, to learn, to build better habits for the future. Imagine if we both decided that the things we can’t control (other people’s choices, past mistakes) are simply “not my problem,” and instead put our energy into what we can control: our own words, our own boundaries, our own willingness to grow.

I’m still learning. I still have moments when I slip back into panic or frustration. But every time I choose training over reprimand, every time I focus on organisation instead of blame, and every time I recognise that the Universe is bigger than my desire to fix everything, I feel lighter. I feel more like the dad I want you to know someday.

You once told me, “Dad, you don’t even talk to your mom.” It stung because it was true. I’ve been estranged, reactive, and closed off in many relationships. I’m not pretending those patterns disappeared overnight. But I am refusing to pick up weight that isn’t mine. I am choosing to build systems and skills instead of absorbing chaos. And I am leaving space for you to see me learning, rather than demanding that you see me as someone I’m not yet.

I love you, Madison. Enough to stop taking on every problem as my own. Enough to train, not punish. Enough to believe that focusing on what I can control—my actions, my organisation, my boundaries—will build a better world for both of us.

Dad

Broken Sleds and Sparkling Slots: Learning to Trust the Universe When Plans Collapse

Posted on by Ryan Castleberry in Uncategorized

Madison—

They tell you that “everything happens for a reason.” For years, I hated that phrase. It sounded like a cheap bumper sticker to excuse bad luck or avoid hard work. Whenever someone said it, I’d snap back, “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean it’s a good reason.” I didn’t believe in any bigger picture. If something went wrong, it was my job to fix it, carry it, or curse it.

Today, sitting on a snowmobile that wouldn’t start at 10,000 feet, I heard that old phrase echo again. I had just watched the sunrise over Strawberry Reservoir. I’d filled up on biscuits and gravy at Daniel’s Café. I was looking forward to a day of fun in the snow. Then the engine sputtered and died. Old me would have torn into the engine, swore at the sky, and shouldered the blame. Today I laughed. I tried the key a couple of times. When it didn’t cooperate, I called the office, told them what was up, and then… I sat down and took in the view.

There was nothing I could do to fix it in that moment. And that was okay. I could trust that help would come. I could let the Universe handle the snowmobile while I handled my breathing. That quiet moment on the ridge took me back to a totally different setting—a casino in Oklahoma.

Beth loved slots. I’d always called them stupid. “I always win,” she said, and I always lost. That night we sat there: she was $300 up; I was several hundred down. I was frustrated, like I always was back then. She turned to me and said, “You’ve got to feel it. You’ve got to love it. Look around—one of these machines is talking to you. Which one is it?” Everything in me wanted to dismiss it. But she was winning and I wasn’t. So I chose the one that sparkled. I put my hands on the buttons, made myself say, “Okay, I love you. Let’s win now.” And you know what? It worked. I started hitting. I walked away with a few hundred dollars and, more importantly, with my first crack in the belief that maybe there’s more going on than I can see. Maybe dismissing something as stupid before giving it a chance was closing me off from surprises.

Since then, those cracks have opened wider. I’m still not someone who believes that the Universe hands out prizes for good behaviour. I don’t think slot machines love you back. What I do believe now is this: when I loosen my grip on control—when I stop assuming that the worst will always happen or that I have to fix everything alone—the world feels less heavy. And I start to see opportunities and lessons I’d been too cynical to notice. The same is true with Madison.

When you don’t talk to someone for years, your mind fills in the silence. Ego takes over. It invents conversations that never happened. It assigns motives to every action. It writes stories about how they see you and why they did what they did. Those stories feel real. They create anxiety and stress. They make you feel small and defensive. But they are just stories. They are not the authentic you, and they’re not the person on the other end either.

If she ever reads this, I want her to know that I’m learning to let go of those ego conversations. I’m learning to stop deciding ahead of time what she thinks of me or what our relationship could be. Because while she may have a certain perspective of me right now, she doesn’t know what lessons or love or growth we might share in the future. If she keeps her heart closed, she’ll never know what good could be waiting. And if I keep my heart closed, I’ll keep making myself miserable with imaginary arguments.

So today I let the snowmobile be broken without letting it break me. I remembered that sometimes the machine that sparkles is worth trying. I chose to believe that the best may still be in the making, even if I can’t see it yet. And that’s a mindset I want to carry into everything—whether it’s editing Mountains, Monsters, and Mercy, preparing for a move to Utah, or simply living in a world where not everything is under my control.

I love you, Madison. Enough to pause when something breaks. Enough to laugh instead of curse. Enough to believe that maybe—just maybe—the best is yet to come, for both of us.

Dad

Talk to Your Mom’: The Last Thing You Said to Me, and How I’m Trying to Live It.

Posted on by Ryan Castleberry in Uncategorized

Madison—

There’s a sentence you said to me that still rings in my ears.

It was one of the last things I heard from you:

“Well… you don’t even talk to your mom.”

You weren’t wrong.

You were pointing out a contradiction: how could I ask you to have a relationship with me when I didn’t have one with my own mother?

I wish you’d asked why.

Not because it would have magically fixed anything, but because there is a story behind that silence too. And that story has been shaping the work I’ve been doing on myself ever since.

What I’ve been doing in the silence since we last spoke

If you ever do knock on my door and ask, “So what did you do with yourself while we were apart?” I want to be able to answer honestly.

The truth is this:

Since the last time we spoke, I have been trying—day after day—to learn from my mistakes, understand people better, grow my empathy, and find tools to become a better person.

The growth didn’t start when you cut me off.

It didn’t start when I turned 40.

It’s been a long, uneven climb.

Who I was as a teenager is not who I was in my 20s.

Who I was in my 20s isn’t who I was in my 30s.

And now, as I edge toward 50, I look back and think:

“I wish I could have been the man I am now back then.”

It has taken a lot of work and a lot of effort: books, therapy, hard conversations, quiet nights alone with old memories and new questions, the slow practice of seeing things from other people’s perspectives instead of only my own.

I am still a work in progress.

That won’t change.

But if you ever ask me, “What did you do while you weren’t in my life?” I don’t want my answer to be, “I stayed the same.”

I want to be able to say what I’m saying now:

“I kept growing. I kept learning. I kept working to become the kind of person you’d be safer with than the man I was before.”

The part of my story you didn’t see

When you said, “You don’t even talk to your mom,” it landed deep.

You were pointing at a truth you could see: I was estranged from my own mother.

What you couldn’t see was what that had looked like from my side.

My mother remarried and told me about her wedding after it happened.

I didn’t get a choice about whether to be there.

I didn’t get the chance to sit in the crowd, smile awkwardly, clap when they kissed.

The whole event was painted and framed without me ever being given a real option to be part of it.

That moment landed on top of a lifetime of feeling like I didn’t have people in the stands.

No one was there at:

basic training graduation tech school jump school Air Assault School

All those moments where it feels like the world should pause and someone should be there cheering, saying, “That’s my kid. I’m proud of you.”

There was no family screaming my name from the bleachers.

No handmade signs.

No arms waiting at the finish.

If you’ve ever felt alone in a crowd, multiply that by a few decades. That’s what those milestones felt like to me.

So when you tossed out, “Talk to your mom,” part of me wanted to say:

“You’re right… and I wish you knew why I pulled away.”

Not to excuse myself.

Not to make myself the victim.

Just to let you see that estrangement runs in our bloodline, and that I’ve been trying hard not to pass it on—even as I struggle with my own scars.

This Christmas, I did something different

For years, when my mom would send a message, I ignored it.

It was easier to live in that cold, numb space than to risk reopening old wounds. Easier to say, “It doesn’t matter,” than to admit it still did.

But this Christmas, I decided to do something I hadn’t done in a long time:

I answered.

She texted.

I replied.

When she said she’d like to call and see how I’m doing, I didn’t shut it down. I gave her a window of time when I’d be available and told her she could call.

It may sound small.

To me, it was huge.

It was me saying:

“I can’t ask my daughter to consider reconciliation one day if I’m not willing to take any steps toward it in my own life.”

I don’t know where things will go with my mom.

I don’t expect everything to be fixed by one call.

But I do know this:

I want to live as an example—not just for you, but for me.

An example of someone who:

keeps learning keeps softening where it’s safe to soften keeps trying, even when it would be easier to stay angry or stay gone

How I’m still being your father, even in the silence

When people ask, “How can you be a parent when your child won’t talk to you?” I come back to this:

I can still live as if you’re watching.

I can show you—through my choices, my growth, my relationships—that I’m not stuck in the same patterns I was in before.

I can:

continue working on my own emotional health treat people with empathy—even when I’m hurt repair what I can of my own story, including my relationship with my mother put my heart into this book, these blogs, these messages, so that if you ever come looking, you find a man who didn’t give up

I am still your father, whether I’m invited into your life right now or not.

That doesn’t mean I will push past your boundaries.

That doesn’t mean I will demand a relationship.

It means I will keep becoming the kind of man I would want you to have in your life:

someone who admits when he’s wrong someone who keeps growing even in midlife someone who doesn’t ask from others what he won’t do himself

What I hope you understand someday

If, one day, you decide to read through these letters and you come across this one, there are a few things I hope you hear clearly:

Since we last spoke, I have not been sitting still. I’ve been learning, reflecting, and working to become better. I know my growth came later than it should have. I wish I’d had this perspective when I was 20, 30, 35. But late doesn’t mean fake. Late can still be real. Your comment about me not talking to my mom stung because it was true—and I’m letting that truth change my behavior, not just my feelings.

I can’t rewrite your experience of me.

I can’t change your memories.

But I can keep changing me.

And if you ever do show up one day and ask, “So, what did you do all that time we weren’t talking?”—I want to be able to look you in the eye and say:

“I grew. I learned. I faced my own estrangement. I worked hard to be someone you’d be safer with than the man you remember.”

I love you, Madison.

Enough to keep evolving, even with no guarantee you’ll ever see it.

Enough to answer texts I used to ignore.

Enough to keep living as an example, so that if you ever come looking, you’ll find a father who didn’t stop trying to become worthy of being found.

Dad