I recently sat down with Jeff Wickersham, founder of The Warrior Dad. He’s a husband, a father of two teenage boys, and a former corporate executive who left to start a gym before eventually building his coaching practice.

I found Jeff’s story so interesting that more than once I had trouble forming my next question because I was genuinely engrossed in what he was saying.

Jeff’s energy is palpable. But what stood out most in our conversation wasn’t the drive—it was how honest he was about the mess in the middle. Life isn’t linear, and neither is Jeff’s story.

He didn’t become disciplined overnight.
He didn’t flip a switch and suddenly level up.
His growth came in sparks—loss, failure, embarrassment, rebuilding, and eventually a commitment he refused to walk back.

I’ve talked to a lot of dads over the past year. Most of them aren’t lacking ambition. They’re lacking brutal honesty about where they actually are.

Jeff received some of that honesty from his wife when he thought it would be a good idea to teach a fitness class while still reeking of booze.

That theme of honesty surfaced again and again.

Jeff’s journey began when his mom was dying.

On the way to one of her final treatments for cancer, she told him she was scared she’d be forgotten.

That sentence stayed with him.

Later, he heard an idea in a documentary about the 1980 U.S. hockey team: when someone dies, they pass their power to someone else.

Jeff believes his mom passed her power to him.

Her mindset.
Her resilience.
Her belief that life is a gift.

That shift reframed legacy for him.

Legacy isn’t about being remembered by the world.
It’s about what gets transferred through you.

That idea stuck with me. Most of us won’t be remembered widely. But we will be remembered deeply—by the people sitting at our kitchen table.

At one point, Jeff shared a story he carries with him—his version of hell.

You’re on your deathbed.
A man walks into the room.
You don’t recognize him.

He leans down and whispers,
“I’m who you should have been.”

It’s uncomfortable.

And if you’re honest, you probably already know what that man looks like.

It forces a question most men avoid:

Am I emptying the tank—or living half-in?

Jeff admitted that for years, he numbed the “itch” that he could do more. But alcohol, gambling, and other distractions kept holding him back. He calls them “kryptonite dust.”

They don’t destroy you instantly.
They just weaken you slowly.

Half-in effort produces half-in results.

One of the most revealing parts of our conversation traced back to when Jeff was six years old.

When his younger sister was born, attention shifted in the household. His six-year-old brain interpreted that shift as loss.

The belief formed quietly:

“I’m not worthy of my mom’s love.”

He carried that belief into adulthood, and it affected how he showed up in his marriage.

He describes it as a hidden brake on the race car of life—pressing the gas while something invisible keeps slowing you down.

Most limiting beliefs form between ages four and seven.

Which means many of us are still being quietly directed by a six-year-old version of ourselves.

That’s a sobering thought as a father.

Our kids are forming stories right now.
About love.
About worth.
About whether they matter.

And as grown men, many of us are still living out stories we never consciously chose:

“You can’t have it all.”
“Just wait until they’re teenagers.”
“This is just how life is.”

Those aren’t truths.

They’re inherited scripts.

And if you don’t question them, they quietly keep you from becoming the man you’re capable of being.

Jeff left corporate America to open a gym.

It failed.

He tried to gamble his way out of the hole.
Pulled $100,000 from retirement.
Came close to bankruptcy.
Spent nights in the guest room wondering if his marriage would survive.

Eventually, he sat his teenage sons down and told them the raw, honest truth.

What struck me wasn’t the mistake.

It was the modeling.

He didn’t hide it.
He didn’t spin it.
He owned it.

Transformation wasn’t a single turning point.

It was loss. Then failure. Then more failure. Then recommitment.

Most men don’t need a dramatic breakthrough.

They need permission to rebuild.

Especially the ones who quietly believe they’ve already blown it.

Jeff said something that stuck with me:

“We’re librarians of the mind, not warriors of the mind.”

We collect podcasts.
We read books.
We absorb frameworks.

But we don’t execute—because it always feels safer to say, “Not yet. I still need more information.”

Instead, we mistake knowledge for change.

Jeff simplifies it to a daily question:

Plus one or minus one?

You’re either getting better—or drifting.

There is no neutral.

That’s not a hustle mantra.

It’s just reality.

Of all the practical advice he shared, this one may be the most powerful:

When your child asks you to do something, they’re asking for your attention.

Answer every bid.

Especially when you don’t feel like it.

Emails can wait.
The phone can wait.
The project can wait.

This one hits close to home for me. The moment almost never matters.

The attention does.

Afterward, Jeff adds something even more important:

Tell them,
“I loved doing that with you. Thank you for asking.”

That’s how deposits are made.

Not with grand gestures.

With daily presence.

After years of coaching dads, Jeff sees one pattern clearly:

Men think they’re alone.

In debt.
In shame.
In doubt.
In not knowing what they’re doing.

They’re not.

When Jeff shared his gambling story publicly—including having tens of thousands of dollars on games—men he’d known for years came forward and said, “I did the same thing.”

We don’t lack information.

We lack honest rooms.

Growth doesn’t happen in isolation.

It happens in community.

And most men are starving for that kind of room.

Fatherhood doesn’t demand perfection.

It demands participation.
It demands that you pay attention to the stories you’re living out.
It demands small, daily decisions that nobody else sees.

Jeff’s story isn’t about becoming a superhero.

It’s about becoming honest enough to grow.

And maybe living in a way where, if that man ever walks into the room at the end of your life…

you recognize him.

👉 Connect with Jeff at his website, TheWarriorDad.com check him out on Instagram and LinkedIn, and order his book from Amazon here.

Until next time—
keep the fires burning.
– Clay

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