This is a story about my father, parenting, and my rule for the strongest relationships in life… When I was 12 years old, I tried out for a baseball all-star team in our area. I really wanted to make this team. The tryouts were my first adventure beyond the confines of my small town. An opportunity to see how I stacked up against kids from all around the state. When the results came out, the coaches called my house. They were taking 16 players for the team...and I was the 17th on the list. I was devastated. It was my first real experience with failure. Something I wanted, worked towards, and came up short. I went into my room, sat on my bed, and cried. A few minutes later, my dad walked in. He sat down on the bed next to me. After a few minutes of silence, he offered a few words: “I know you’re upset. I understand. It sucks. But here are the three things the coaches said you needed to work on. Let’s go out every day this summer and work on them. Together.” And we did. I’d patiently wait for him to get home from work, holding our gloves, a bucket of balls, and a bat. He took me to the local field damn near every single day that summer. I’m sure there were days when he didn’t want to. When he was exhausted from work or travel, but it never showed. And I came back the next year a completely different player. Years later, when I got a scholarship to play baseball at Stanford, I still thought back to that one summer as the turning point. But it was more than the practice that was the real turning point. It was what my dad said in those moments as we sat on my bed, with tears streaming down my face—and how he followed through on it every day that followed. He had two options when he walked into my room and sat next to me. Option 1: Tell me the coaches were idiots. I was the best player. They had made a mistake. They didn’t know what they were doing. Option 2: Acknowledge the pain. Tell the truth about the opportunity in the failure. And be there to support the work to meet that opportunity. Honestly, in that moment, I probably wanted Option 1. It would have made me feel better. It would have told me that the world was the problem. That an external thing was to blame. That I was great. Option 2 was the tough pill to swallow. But also the right one. I believe that the strongest relationships in life stand on two pillars: The first is high expectations. The belief that the other person is capable of excellence. That their potential is only limited by their own views. The willingness to tell the truth about that opportunity and the work required to meet it. The second is high support. The ability and willingness to provide the love, support, and engagement to help the other person meet those high expectations. A lot of relationships fall short of this standard. They hit one pillar, but miss the other. Low expectations and high support will provide comfort, but no growth. High expectations and low support may spark short-term growth, but breed long-term resentment. Sir Isaac Newton famously said: “If I have seen further than others, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.” It’s a beautiful line, but I think it leaves out the part that matters most. The giants had to bend down. They had to choose to provide energy to lift him. That’s exactly what my dad did the night I didn’t make that all-star team. He didn’t lower his shoulders to the level of my disappointment. He didn’t tell me the high heights didn’t matter. He told me that I was capable of the climb—and then he gifted me with his attention and energy to help complete it. I think about this constantly now. This, to me, is the highest calling in our relationships: To create an environment of high expectations with those we love and show up to support them to meet (and exceed) those expectations we’ve set. This is something I’ve been thinking about a lot as a father. I hope it resonated with you.