Phil Dunphy is a loving TV dad and dedicated husband.

Phil is always there for his sitcom family. He is selfless, a hopeless romantic, thoughtful, a unique blend of dorky yet funny, and deeply passionate. I wish I were more like him.

When my kids were young, I was the fun dad. We’d go on spontaneous excursions, play games, and just enjoy being together. They said I was the funny parent too, which I ate up. That all changed when I opened my businesses.

For those who have not followed along on this journey, I opened up an Italian specialties market to honor the matriarchs in my family after both my mother and Nonna died. I saw it both as a way to keep their memories alive through food — and to build something for my children.

I thought I could create a stable business with steady income, something that could grow into multiple locations with strong wholesale revenue. I wanted it to provide real opportunities for my kids when they got older: built-in security, or something they could benefit from even if they chose a different path.

I brought them to farmers markets to help run our stand. They worked at the shop here and there. I told myself we were bonding and building memories they would cherish. I thought I could build a legacy that lasted long beyond my shortened life expectancy.

Reality got in the way.

The created memories weren’t warm. They ranged between bitter and bittersweet. My legacy became one of financial strain, missed soccer games, and a constant absence from daily family life.

I became the bad parent, the antithesis to Phil Dunphy.

Where he bonded with his son, mine grew to resent me. Where he created a safe and supportive environment for his daughters, I created one of chaos and increased anxiety. Where he supported his wife, and I disproportionately leaned on mine.

I’m not the fun dad anymore. Nobody laughs at my jokes. When I enter a room, my kids leave it. They used to enjoy my company. Now, it feels like they avoid me. It doesn’t help that I can’t offer them much anymore — no trips, games, or even meaningful college assistance.

I’m embarrassed. Remorseful. Depressed.

I tried to do the right things, but failed every step of the way. At best, I’ve become a cautionary tale that might prevent my kids from taking risks in their own lives. Fear is not the lesson they should carry with them.

I don’t know how to fix this.

In short order, my daughter goes on vacation, graduates, studies abroad, and leaves for college. My son follows suit next year. I’m running out of time and don’t know if there’s a way to turn this around.

Maybe I’m being selfish, but I wonder how they will remember me. Will they feel anything when I’m gone? Will they remember the good times, or just the fallout from everything that went wrong?

That is not my primary concern, but I do think about it.

More importantly, I worry they will distance themselves from me while I’m still here. I worry I won’t see them, and that they won’t want to see me. That they’ll come back to town under the cover of night, in hopes of going unnnoticed. That they’ll reach out to their mom and leave me in the proverbial dark.

What would Phil Dunphy do?

He wouldn’t let it get this far. If he did, he’d keep showing up. He’d love his kids unconditionally and provide both levity and sincerity. He’d keep the connection alive. I try to do the same.

That might work in a sitcom in which each episode is wrapped in a neat bow. I’m not sure there is a real-world fix for this, though.

My hands were folded, my eyes locked on my rapidly tapping toes. I exhaled.

"This is where we’re at now,” my doctor said. “We’ll do the best that we can.”

Though I had no new fatal diagnosis, my existing condition suddenly felt terminal. I lifted my head and took a sip of my water. For the first time in years, I wanted something stronger. It didn’t matter that it was morning or that I had to go to work. I just needed something to distract me. I couldn’t think about this, but there it was in front of my face, likely to follow me along until the end.

I’ve known for a long time that the life expectancy of someone with my condition (Peutz-Jeghers Syndrome) is 57, but doctors and therapists spent years convincing me that modern medicine changed the game. They told me I had nothing to worry about and that I had no need to think of this as a cancerous death sentence. As it turns out, they were wrong or simply placating me.

“What does that mean?” I asked my doctor.

She told me that my options become more limited with time. The treatments become less effective with each procedure or surgery. Some options have already been ruled out and the existing ones may be of little benefit. In what is barely a metaphor, they can still offer me bandages but not stitches.

“Bummer.”

She continued on, but I do not remember what else she said. I imagine that was due to both an inability to focus and an effort to block it out. White noise turned on in my head and one word pulsated in my brain: cancer.

My mom had the same hereditary condition as I do. She battled cancer for the better part of a decade before succumbing to the disease at 57. That’s how the condition finally does you in.

Given that I’m now in the race towards 57, it feels like the C word is in my near future. PJS offers a wonderful buffet of elevated cancer risks: stomach, small bowel, pancreatic, and lung are just some of the options. I’d tell cancer to eat me, but that may already be its plan.

In the past, I focused on the pain and suffering associated with cancer. I worried I would not be strong enough to fight it. Today, I have a different perspective. I think of my kids.

I have a hard time remembering what my mom was like before cancer turned her into a walking ghost with little more than some skin and bones. My dad, however, passed suddenly. Though he was in poor health, I can think of him as he was when he died and when I was young.

So, what is better for my kids? Would wasting away weigh heavily on them? Would I be a financially and psychologically expensive burden to them? (For the record, I’m not saying that’s how I viewed my mom.) What if I get to a point where I’m completely dependent on their help, along with the help of hospice care? What if all they remember me by is how I will be at the very end?

Conversely, what if I just go as is? Will it take less of a toll on them? The associated expenses of prolonged cancer care wouldn’t be there. They won’t have to think of important moments in their life in which I need to be wheeled out, my head bobbing and eyes vacant. I just wouldn’t be there.

Which is the lesser of two evils?

I never planned on making it to adulthood. When I did, I never planned on going through cancer treatments. In both instances, a bullet through the head seemed like a better option. Now, I have reasons to live that I never thought I would be lucky enough to have.

If the day comes when I am diagnosed with cancer — and that feels inevitable at the moment — what do I do? How do I know what’s best? Could my family move on more quickly if it all ended quickly? Or, would they prefer if I was an empty vessel trotted out for special occasions?

If you plan to stick around as long as you can, there’s still no telling when it will all end. Although my mom suffered for a long time, she was still gone way too soon. She missed all the big events in her children’s lives like marriage and grandchildren. That was the one of the worst scenarios: long-term suffering without the payoff of being there for the special moments. I really don’t want that scenario for anyone.

I’m tired. My brain hurts, my eyes feel glazed over. Nothing is wrong, nor is anything bad. I’m good at work. I’m good at home. Things are okay, which I haven’t always been able to say. I could use a nap and a quiet day to myself.

I’m an introvert who isn’t much for talking or socializing. School, training, and meetings have drained my social battery. Moreover, I’ve gained some weight back since my dad passed. I’m probably not getting quality sleep. I don’t think I’m back at a point where I’m snoring, but maybe my airway is a little bit restricted.

Wah, wah, wah.

So much whining with so few real problems. I think these are more statements of fact and a way to begin processing this information. This is about taking proactive measures. Trends are forming and, if they are not addressed, things will head in the wrong direction. Writing this out is the first step in the journey towards resolution.

Depression and anxiety are hard to predict or control. They can take hold without warning — but not always. In time, you can learn some early warning signs. Taking action can help reduce the impact of depression, or you can take steps to change what is within your control.

It’s important to remember you cannot control others. You cannot always even change your environment. There are some things you can control, though, and those must be your focus.

Your mental state weighs heavily on your friends, family, and coworkers. A dour mood at work, a snippy comment to your spouse, or a curt reaction to your neighbor can impact their moods. In turn, those actions can have a ripple effect. Maybe those people end up reacting poorly to others, or turn inwards and fester. They might come to resent you for it.

You owe it to others to proactively take care of yourself when you can. This way, when you really need someone to be there for you, or to be understanding and give you space, they are more likely to do so.

My dad didn’t call me on New Year’s Eve. Whether it was your birthday or a holiday, he always celebrated you with a song. He had a beautiful voice and loved to sing.

When he was young, he sang on the streets of South Philly with his doo-wop group. I wish he had access to recording equipment, because I’d love to hear the sound of his voice right now.

As a kid, some of my favorite memories were from car rides. He’d sing along to his Hall and Oates and Chicago tapes. I’d sit in the back seat behind him and try to add in harmonies.

I was a terrible singer, but that didn’t stop me in these instances. I felt like I bonded with him during these moments. Although I was off key, we were on the same wavelength. I think he could hear me. I think he enjoyed it too.

I wish I had told him how much I loved this. There’s a lot I wish I told him before he passed away. I’m sure anyone who lost a loved one understands this feeling and knows the hollowness of the hole it left inside you. I’m sorry you’ve had to go through that.

I’m also sorry I wasn’t there for your last big birthday. My family through a party for him. I was pretty sick, but also a little mad at him. I do not remember why I was mad, but maybe I would have made more of an effort if I wasn’t. So selfish, so dumb.

I also missed my last opportunity to see you. You came to drop something off but weren’t feeling well enough to make it into our house. I was in the garage and said I’d be out in a minute. By the time I made it out, you had left. I should not have hesitated. I never really did before. Not sure why I let something get in the way this last time.

This week, the opportunities did not exist. You were gone before New Year’s and gone before the fifth, for what should have been your 77th birthday. No calls could be made; no songs could be sung.

It’s times like this that I really hope there is an afterlife. I hope you and mom are together again in the good place and are looking down on us. I hope you are there with your parents and all those who have passed.

I plead there is a multiverse where another version of me took advantage of the opportunities I missed. At a minimum, I plead there is an eternal return, so we can do it all again. I’d love nothing more than the chance to sing “Sara Smile” alongside you once again.

The holiday season is as beautiful as it is treacherous. We surprise one another with thoughtful gifts. We also fight over politics and vow never to speak to the other again. Then, there are the outcasts and the black sheep, the people who never quite fit in and probably wouldn’t be missed or noticed. I’m pretty sure that’s where I fall.

Every family has one and, if you're depressed, you’re all too self-aware that it’s you. Isn’t that just wonderful? If you’re neurotypical, you may not know. There are signs, but you may not recognize them. So, how about a field guide to proverbially smashing your face in eggnog’s dregs?

People don’t seek you out for conversation. Outside of general politeness, nobody comes up to you to see how you’re doing. Nobody attempts to spark meaningful dialogue. Nobody says they were thinking of you. There are no special, shared memories with anyone. Not recently, anyway.

People don’t invite you to do anything with them. As a fly on the wall, you learn that other people hang out and have good times. They go to special places and do special things. Maybe they’ve all been to a party at a relative’s house, and you weren’t invited.

People have escape plans. You’ve engaged someone in conversation and that person is looking around the room. They’re looking for the nearest conversational exit. Then, when another person is nearby, they abruptly end your chat to strike up a conversation with someone else.

People sit you at the kids’ table. You’re the oldest in your generation of relatives but that hasn’t earned you the right to sit with the adults. Instead, you’re sitting at a folding card table with kids using sippy cups and are in their onesies.

People don’t notice that you’ve disappeared. Everything adds up and overwhelms you. You feel worthless, impotent. You go to a different room because you can’t hide your emotions and crying in front of your family won’t exactly improve your standing.

For all intents and purposes, I hope this doesn’t ring true for you. But if it does, I’ve got bad news: you’re the black sheep. We should form a support group.

How do you define yourself? By your job? Your money? Social status?

What if you’ve never actually defined yourself before?

I’ve always felt as if I was an outcast, someone on the fringes who couldn’t — or shouldn’t — make it into the inner circle. I’m sure my awkwardness, anxiety, and self-confidence always played fac…

Read more

My wife always worked crazy schedules. For the majority of our relationship, she worked overnights. She’s incredibly dedicated, hard working, and amazing at what she does. I’ve always admired that about her.

All of that took a toll on her, though. She was always tired and had low energy. Honestly, it probably took years of…

Read more

When I was in high school, my parents told me that I could do anything I put my mind to, except sing. They were right, but that didn’t stop me from singing and recording music.

I joined bands and eventually started one a few years after college. We called ourselves Parkour, an ill-timed choice as the sport was on the verge of entering the mainstream. It…

Read more

The first face I saw when waking up from post-surgery anesthesia was always my dad’s face. If I needed a ride, a shoulder to cry on, or even some money, he was there for me. He even took me on secret runs to McDonald’s to sneak in French fries, sponsored all of my sports teams, and had me help him with his business.

Wh…

Read more

If we’re being honest, my sense of self-worth comes from the reactions of others. The way people respond to a joke I make, something I write, or a dish I make can determine my mental and emotional states for an indeterminate amount of time. It’s the worst kind of codependent relationship, one that pits me vs. me.

I hav…

Read more

Traversing the digital landscape is treacherous. Nobody is safe. Right?

I guess it depends on your definition of safety. Or, where you fall within varying spectra.

• You’re safe in your right to own guns, but not from them.

• You’re safe to speak your mind, until you’re targeted by bullies’ words.

• You’re safe to hide discrimination…

Read more

I hate my birthday. Womp, womp.

My parents always tried to give me a nice little gathering when I was young, but it was tough. When your birthday coincides with the beginning of the school year, nobody is really around. Plus, I didn’t have friends. So, my parties were mostly with my dad’s aunts and uncles.

The only party I re…

Read more

They say it’s rude not to make eye contact. So, you try. You were raised to be polite, but know that this action has consequences. If the eyes truly are the gateway to the soul, then they reveal that which we hope to keep hidden. Like being a fraud.

Even after the slightest glance, some people can see deep into your so…

Read more

Though I’m not handy, I have a reason to be.
Though I’m not handy, someone may need me.
Though I’m not handy, I want no dependence.
Though I’m not handy, I built a workbench.

Read more

A quarter century ago, I met a girl.

She spoke her mind with great conviction and intensity. It was captivating, my eyes narrowing to a shallow depth of field with her as the sole focus. It grabbed my attention in a way that immediately led me to believe there was something truly remarkable about her. Sh…

Read more

I’m a pretty good cook. It’s true. It didn’t feel like that at my restaurant, though.

To be honest, it might have been a mistake to open a business. One could question if I was ready. I knew how to cook and how to lead. Understanding the nuances of business is an entirely different animal.

How do you price an item? Where do you find sources? Are they rep…

Read more

My first real cook title was Garde Manger, or Pantry Chef.

I handled all cold items, from salads to desserts at a small Italian restaurant. It was the ‘90s, so garnishing mostly meant a useless kale leaf on the plate and a sprig of mint on whipped cream.

Strawberries were sliced down to the stem and splayed like a deck…

Read more

There I am, hand on head. I’m angry. Or sad. I’m focusing my energy in the empty space between my sister and whoever belongs to that right hand.

Let’s look at my hand, clenched into a fist. There are creases in the skin, nails at the ends of my fingers, knuckles in the middle. It’s attached to my arm, which connects to my body.

Classical physics explains…

Read more

Experience can be transformative, whether it’s born out of ignorance or naiveté. It’s how you respond that matters. As a teenager, I often responded poorly. It’s time I addressed that.

In a previous piece, I discussed a manipulative friend from my youth (Ronnie). He provoked others to fight me. He engineered the constant ridicule of someone in my first f…

Read more

I’ve always worn my emotions on my sleeve, but never as a cry for attention or a plea for help. In the throes of depression, everything is heightened. Swallowing your feelings to hide them from the world is too cumbersome and I have a very low tolerance for masquerades.

Some people are really good at this. They compartmentalize their inner and outer selv…

Read more