It happened in the garage. I’d been trying to fix the lawn mower — you know, typical Saturday Dad stuff. My son was watching me with that look: admiration, curiosity, the silent belief that I could solve anything with a wrench and a scowl. And then I snapped a bolt. Not just messed it up — broke it. Stripped the thread, cursed under my breath, tossed the wrench across the floor like a frustrated teenager. He froze. And I realized: I had just let him see me lose.

For a second, I felt ashamed. Not because of the bolt — because he saw me out of control. No wise words. No composed “Dad Mode.” Just a grown man screwing up. I mumbled something and walked away to cool down. He didn’t follow. The silence stung more than the failure itself. I thought: “Did I just ruin something?” But later that evening, he came to me. Not with judgment — with questions. “Why were you so mad?” “Did you feel dumb?” We talked. And I told him the truth: “Yeah. I felt stupid. And that’s okay.”

Something shifted after that. He stopped expecting me to be bulletproof. He started asking me for help with his own frustrations — like I’d given him permission to have them. Not just to feel angry or embarrassed, but to not hide it. That failure in the garage became a kind of bridge. A messy, squeaky, human bridge between us.

We talk about “teaching by example,” but we forget that failure is part of the example. I want my kids to know success isn’t just about getting it right. It’s about how you respond when you don’t. About trying again — or sometimes, admitting defeat and laughing at it. When I let them see me drop the ball, I’m teaching them how to pick it up.

Nowadays, I still mess up. In repairs. In parenting. In conversations I overthink. But I don’t hide it anymore. Because now I know — when your kid sees you fail, they also see you human. And nothing connects people more than that.