Would you ever spend so much on a house that you had no money left to furnish it?

It sounds absurd to me, as I imagine it does to you. But apparently, it's fairly common these days. I don't personally know anyone like this, but I do know enough people who are house poor that the extreme version seems at least plausible.

Financial overextension is, in one sense, a numbers problem. But it’s also something deeper.

Especially since we don’t see inside most homes. We drive by a place with six bedrooms, seven bathrooms, and a five-car garage and assume wealth. We assume comfort. We assume it’s all filled in.

Chairs optional

That assumption is increasingly outdated. A big house doesn’t necessarily mean someone can afford it. It just means they’re willing — or able — to make the monthly payment. Everything else is optional.

That’s not entirely new. Mortgages have been around forever. But the willingness to stretch to the absolute limit — and beyond — does feel more common now than it used to.

You could point to low interest rates or lending practices. That’s part of the story. But I’m less interested in the financial mechanics than the cultural impulse behind it. Why do people feel the need to live this way?

Here comes the neighborhood

The obvious answer is keeping up with the Joneses. But even that has changed. It used to mean keeping pace with your neighbors, the people down the street. And even then, there was only so much of their lives you could see. There were natural limits.

Social media has erased those limits; now we all share one big neighborhood, in which everyone is empowered and encouraged to exaggerate their affluence. And that makes it much harder to remember what normal actually looks like.

Realism isn’t what’s rewarded on Instagram, TikTok, or X. Performative realism, maybe. But not the real thing. Spend enough time scrolling and you start to believe that everyone has the renovated kitchen, the extra cars, the perfect bathrooms. You start to feel like you’re behind.

So people stretch. They buy the house. They take on the payment. They tell themselves they’ll figure out the rest later. And in doing so, they become the next set of Joneses for someone else to chase.

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Empty rooms, empty souls

Once you’re on that treadmill, it’s hard to get off. You work more to afford more. You feel stressed because you’re always one setback away from trouble. You justify new purchases because you’ve “earned” them. And any attempt to scale back feels like failure — like slipping backward.

Keep that up long enough and you can end up in a strange place: the proud owner of a house you can’t really afford, with rooms you can’t afford to fill.

But from the outside, it looks great.

At bottom, this is materialism run wild — an inversion of priorities. Things elevated beyond their proper place. Consumption standing in for meaning. And it’s widespread enough that it’s hard to single anyone out for it.

There’s no simple fix at a societal level. But on a personal level, the starting point is obvious: Take an honest look at what you’re spending, why you’re spending it, and whether it’s actually making your life better — or just making it look better.

That’s not new wisdom. Most of our grandparents understood it.

Financial overextension is, in one sense, a numbers problem. But it’s also something deeper. A sign that our values are out of order. That we’ve lost track of what actually matters.

The empty, oversized house is a fitting image for the culture that produces it.

Big and impressive on the surface. Empty inside.

Ode to a 1984 Buick Skylark — and to all the other cars of my life

America is a nation of cars.

Those hunks of metal on four rubber tires are our lifelines. They are how we go to work, go home, go out to eat, go on vacation, and go just about everywhere and anywhere. When we are just a few days old, we come home from the hospital in one, and on our way out, we head to the grave in a hearse.

I bought it for $450 from a friend who was moving to New York City. It was cream with a plush, brown interior.

From birth to death; we live in cars.

We love our cars when they work for us, and we hate them when they don’t. We curse them when they break down, when they don’t start, and when they demand $2,750 for a new computer chip just to get running again.

We even mourn them when they break down once and for all — no matter how much grief they've caused us. We become attached to our cars because of course we do. For Americans, they are an inextricable part of life.

1978 Oldsmobile Starfire

And of our history. Cars transport us through space, but also through time — to certain chapters in our lives. A car is a physical reminder of who we were behind that particular wheel.

I remember my first car like we all remember our first car. It’s the first time you are free like an adult even though you are not an adult. You are still very much a stupid kid, but you don’t feel like one in the driver's seat.

Mine was a 1978 Oldsmobile Starfire. It was light blue, and it was my grandpa’s before it was mine. He “sold” it to me for $1. I loved that car. I felt like I was in an old movie when I was driving down the road. I loved looking at it parked. I loved thinking about the fact it was mine. It was so cool, so retro, so rear-wheel drive, so bad in the rain. One morning on the way to school, I drove it off the road and into a ditch, and that was the end of the Starfire.

1993 Plymouth Voyager

My next car was really my parents’ car, and it wasn’t a car; it was a van. They let me use it pretty much whenever I wanted to. It was a white 1993 Plymouth Voyager. The sliding door was full of sand and barely moved. The crank windows weren’t working so great. There was an MP3 player plugged into a tape adapter shoved into the tape deck on the dashboard.

That van is my senior year of high school. I remember driving with my girlfriend to a crappy Chinese restaurant about 40 miles south just for something to do with a pretty girl I liked. We did that a lot. I got two tickets speeding back from her house late at night in that van.

1984 Buick Skylark

After the Voyager, I drove a 1984 Buick Skylark. I bought it for $450 from a friend who was moving to New York City. It was cream with a plush, brown interior. I don’t even know how many miles it had on it, I just knew that it ran, and it ran good.

I drove that thing all over. Up north, over to Detroit, down to Chicago, out to Wisconsin. It had a cigarette lighter and ashtrays. I remember smoking American Spirits in a yellow pack in that car. Driving with the windows down in the summer and slipping around the road in the winter.

The Skylark was my college car. It was an "old" car then, but now it's ancient: 1984 was 42 years ago. I suppose that makes me ancient too.

Four years after I bought the Skylark, I sold her to my brother for $300 and moved to Chicago. I didn’t have a car for almost a decade. I didn’t need one there, and I didn’t need one when I was overseas.

2007 Volvo XC90

The next car I bought was with that old high school girlfriend, now my wife. Right after we got married, we left the city, and so we bought a 2007 Volvo XC90 with about 120,000 miles on it. It cost us $3,600, which we borrowed from my wife’s grandparents. We paid them back over the next year.

We didn’t have the Volvo for too long; it broke down a couple years later. But it was a beast of a car and the first thing we owned together. Thinking about it now, the XC90 was kind of a symbolic introduction to married life. It wasn’t my car; it was our car.

RELATED: My grandpa’s old desk

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2009 Volvo S70

After the XC90 was a 2009 Volvo S70. It was a fine car, and it was the car in which our son came home from the hospital. That car was us three. First-time parents, firstborn son. That first year with your first kid is special, and that car was where it happened.

The S70 was a little weird. It wouldn’t start if it was colder than 20 degrees Fahrenheit outside. You would think a car from Sweden would be able to handle the cold, but it couldn't. I had to hook it up to a starter that plugged into the wall and juice the battery for 30 minutes if we needed to start it when it was cold.

Our last trip in that car was our trip to the hospital when my wife was in labor and about to give birth to our daughter. In the middle of the night, I drove my wife and our son through a snowstorm to the hospital. We hit a massive piece of ice flying off a plow, the car eventually overheated, and the S70 died on the side of the road somewhere in Northern Michigan at about 4:30 a.m.

My wife took an ambulance to the hospital, my son and I took a cop car behind her, and the Volvo took a tow truck to the scrapyard.

2017 Honda HR-V

A few days later, we got a Honda HR-V from my wife’s then-92-year-old grandmother. She never drove it, and she didn’t need it, so she gave it to us, and it’s been our car ever since. I don’t know how much longer we will have the HR-V. Maybe 10 years, maybe one year. We’ve got three kids in there now, and it can’t take any more. One day, maybe we will be lucky enough to upgrade to an SUV with another row. We’ll see.

I can already tell how we will remember the HR-V. I already know the chapter it will define for us. We will say it was our first real family car, our car when we added two kids and grew a lot in quite a few ways. Our lives have become much better in that car. We’ve experienced some bad stuff in it but much more good on the whole. We grew, that’s for sure. It’s a good car now, and someday we hope to remember it as a great car.

It sounds funny to mark our time by our cars. But the more I think about it, the more I think it’s as good a way as any to divide up our time here.

Cars: the things that take us wherever we go.

Why 3 kids are easier than 1

Two of our kids went to visit my parents a couple days ago, so my wife and I are home with just our youngest for a few nights. It’s strange. It kind of feels like it felt when we only had our first. It’s so quiet, so insanely quiet.

In fact, I’m laughing as I write this thinking about just how quiet it is compared to normal (read as: insane) daily life. Babies cry and all, but the truth is once you have older ones, you realize that those little cries and protests are really just cute and kind of pitiful, even if they seem furious.

There is something vital in us that seeks out friction and new horizons, physical and mental.

But of course, they don’t feel like that at the time when you are new to everything with your first kid.

Cry babies

I remember one time, probably two or three days after we left the hospital with our son, we called the 24-hour nurse line because we were concerned he might hurt himself from crying so much. She very kindly assured us that everything was fine and that we shouldn’t worry about him hurting himself due to crying.

My wife and I think about that story probably every six months or so. We laugh so hard about how little we knew, how nervous we were, and how loud those weak, little screams from a 5-day-old mouth must have felt to our uninitiated ears. We weren’t used to crying, we weren’t used to holding a little human screaming his hardest. We genuinely thought he might blow a blood vessel or something.

Now it’s different. When our 5-month-old cries, we aren’t particularly disturbed or shocked. It’s just what they do. We know the kinds of cries (my wife better than I), and it’s just not a big deal. They aren’t even loud, or at least not compared to the cries from a 2-year-old in the throes of an illogical tantrum.

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0 to 1

It felt so hard when we only had our son six years ago. That leap from zero to one is a big one. Up until that point, you have basically spent your life being selfish. In your quiet, organized, little apartment where nothing is moved unless you move it, where no one screams for no reason, and where you actually have time to relax, life is very easy. So that leap with your first is big, and the chaos feels like a lot.

But now? This brief return to life as a family of three feels like a vacation. There are no messes unless my wife or I make them. I don’t have to admonish someone every 10 minutes for not doing what they should be doing. I can get so much done, we have so much extra time, and everything is so quiet.

It’s funny how easy that thing that seemed so hard feels now. As we have more kids, we adapt to more chaotic circumstances. We are able to take on more stuff. We are able to manage more people. Our love expands, and so does our bandwidth.

The thing is, we don’t feel it happening when it’s happening. The stress keeps right up, following a straight line so we don’t realize we are becoming more competent, and it isn’t until we are able to visit ourselves in our prior situation for a few days that we are able to really see how far we have come.

Sink or swim

This phenomenon doesn’t only apply to raising a family. It applies to our work, our adventures, and all of everything we do. We adapt to our environment, rise to the occasion, and our capacities expand when needed. If we stop, look back at our lives, and really think about how we have grown, we see that often we’ve grown the most when we have been forced to.

We grow when we take on things we don’t think we can handle. We don’t know how we are going to do it — whatever it is — but we jump in, do it, and two years later, it’s just what we consider to be normal, and we are ready again for a new challenge. There is something vital in us that seeks out friction and new horizons, physical and mental. And so we keep doing that over and over again throughout our lives, and we keep getting stronger and more capable as the years pass, even if we still feel kind of like we don’t know anything at all.

It’s possible to try to avoid struggle and the growth that comes with it. It’s possible to try to take the easy way out. But life finds a way of demanding more of us. Whether we like it or not, we are thrown overboard and told to swim, and more often than not, we find that we can swim quite well.

Why we're saying no to the cult of travel sports

On any given Tuesday afternoon, there are thousands of parents rushing out the door in a panic, corralling their kids into the car, frantically battling their way through traffic, picking up something cheap to eat because there’s no time for anything else, nearly crashing as they try to shave a few minutes off because you can’t be late, for God’s sake, and then finally dropping their kid off at the sports center for travel soccer practice.

On the weekends, they are driving four hours for tournaments, staying in hotels every Saturday night, and spending thousands of dollars every year devoting their lives to the wide and ever-expanding world of travel sports.

What does it do to your family if you aren’t ever eating dinner together?

Have you noticed any of this? Have you heard of any of this? Well, I hope you haven’t, but you probably have. Travel sports are a big thing these days, and they seem to get bigger every year. Soccer, baseball, hockey, volleyball: Whatever the game, the phenomenon is the same.

Soccer monster

When I was young, travel sports weren’t such a big thing. I know they existed somewhere, but I don’t think I knew anyone personally who did them. My wife knew someone who did travel hockey, but that was it. Back in those days, travel sports were rare, and it seemed that the only people who did them were people who were extraordinarily “into” sports. Now travel sports are everywhere, more kids are in them, and they are more consuming than ever before.

I know a woman who admits that the only reason she works is to fund her son’s travel soccer habit. She’s joking a little, but only a little. Every week she is buying new gear, shopping for more accoutrements, booking hotels for the whole weekend, exploring other travel leagues that might be better, and generally devoting a large portion of her life to travel sports.

The travel soccer her son is in runs all year and costs around $10,000. That doesn’t include any of the travel expenses or hotels. At the end of any given year, their travel soccer bill could easily be a tidy $25,000. She says they almost never eat at home, which makes sense. On the weekdays she is carting her son to travel soccer; on the weekends they are staying in hotels.

Minnesota Historical Society/Getty Images

Fare play

Sure, it’s not for everybody, but what’s the big deal about spending a couple of hours on the freeway every weekend? That’s what I used to think. Then I learned that it’s not uncommon for parents to fly with their kids to various tournaments around the country. That’s how deep the travel sports addiction can get. I was shocked.

It would be one thing, I suppose, if only the truly exceptional young athletes were caught up in this — the 0.000000001% destined to become pros or compete in the Olympics. But these are average kids we’re talking about, kids who will most likely never play their chosen sport beyond high school.

I’m not a sports hater. Sports are good for kids. I grew up doing sports in the summer and after school in the spring and fall. My kids do baseball, soccer, and tennis. But they aren’t traveling anywhere to play these sports, nor will they be. And we have more important things to spend money on than a $25,000 travel soccer bill.

The problem with travel sports isn’t the sports. It’s the travel. And it’s the travel that’s such a problem because it’s that which results in life being completely subsumed by practices, tournaments, and all things travel sports. And the problem with all things being subsumed by travel sports is that you don’t have time for anything else, and you lose track of what actually matters.

Time out

What does it do to your family if you aren’t ever eating dinner together? What does it do to your kid — their sense of purpose and their perception of their role as a child — if all you do is cart them around like a dutiful chauffeur? And what about their spiritual development? If you are traveling every weekend for travel sports, you certainly won’t be attending synagogue on Saturday or church on Sunday. How do you teach your kids about values or faith if you never make time for them? Well, you can’t.

Lastly, what about culture? What do travel sports say about the state of our society and what we value? Sure, without question, travel sports are a lot better than smoking weed, being a general menace, or sitting on your butt all day doing nothing. But are those really the only options?

They can’t be.

How do families remain families — close families — in an era of over-scheduled kids, over-worked parents, and in a world that seems intent on drawing us apart and off into things that don’t really matter? It’s a big question, and each family has their own answer. But whatever the answer is for whoever you are, travel sports are probably not it.

What 2 days of 'bed-rotting' taught me about human nature

I’ve been sick the past couple days. In the last 48 hours, I’ve probably spent more time in bed during the day than I have in the past three years combined. It’s been miserable. But more than that, it’s been terrible feeling so useless.

I tried to work as much as I could, but with a fever, my brain turns to mush. Even doing my best, my productivity wasn’t much to write home about. I couldn’t really sleep, so I spent most of the days in a groggy state — lying in bed, looking at my phone.

Maybe friction is essential to life. We imagine wanting a life with no demands, no stress, no deadlines — but maybe we go soft without them.

Really, I was doomscrolling and “bed-rotting,” as our Zoomer friends call it.

I only did it for a couple days, but it was brutal on my mind and spirit. I can only imagine what it does to capable young adults who live like this. No wonder so many Zoomers feel listless, nihilistic — just sort of blah.

Pajama punditry

Feeling useless is bad enough on its own. It’s worse when you’re a spectator, scrolling through short-form videos of other people doing more interesting things. It’s like being kicked when you’re down. Psychological masochism.

There’s something especially bleak about the “bed” in bed-rotting. I’m someone who gets up and gets dressed, who puts on shoes in the morning and takes them off at night. Spending the middle of the day in bed feels wrong in a deeper way. It makes me feel lazy. For some reason, scrolling on the couch at 1 p.m. doesn’t feel as bad as doing it in bed at 1 p.m. Same behavior — but the setting seals the degradation.

“I can’t even rouse myself from bed. I can’t even pretend to engage with the world. I’m just waiting for it to get dark again so I can sleep.”

That’s the feeling. It’s deeply depressing.

Reflecting on a few days of this has clarified something — not just about younger generations, but something more universal: The problem isn’t just distraction. It’s uselessness.

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Needless to say

We need to be needed. That’s the core of it. From love to work to everything in between, being needed gives shape to our lives. When we aren’t needed, we feel it. Even when we say we want a break, want to get away, want to escape the demands — after a while, the absence of need starts to itch. We want it back.

This is why people without children get dogs. They need to be needed. Simple.

It’s also why the looming threat of AI-induced uselessness is so unsettling. If you follow discussions about AI and the future of work, the forecasts can look bleak. Whether or not the worst predictions come true, it’s worth asking what happens if they do.

Give me friction

If large swaths of the workforce are replaced or managed by AI, millions of people could find themselves both unemployed and unneeded. The optimistic view says we’ll have universal basic income — and everyone will be free, comfortable, and happier than ever.

You can only believe that if you misunderstand human nature. We need to work. We need to be rewarded for what we do. We don’t actually want everything handed to us. Five-year-olds might — but not 45-year-olds. And even if we think we do, that feeling dulls quickly. The need to be needed comes back.

Maybe friction is essential to life. We imagine wanting a life with no demands, no stress, no deadlines — but maybe we go soft without them. Maybe we lose something vital when nothing is required of us.

Being needed might be one of the most precious conditions we have, especially in a world moving toward automation and away from human necessity. Preserving that — ensuring people are needed — may be one of the most important challenges of the next decade.

Because it doesn’t matter if we have everything we want — if we’re well-fed and comfortable. If we aren’t needed, we aren’t fulfilled.

My son and daughter are fundamentally different — and it's a beautiful thing

Boys and girls are different.

It’s one of the most self-evident truths there is. Entire libraries of jokes, novels, films, and essays exist because of it, all orbiting the same basic observation: Boys and girls — and later, men and women — are not interchangeable.

The things I have learned about how the female mind works could have been very helpful when I was dating but are now no use to me. That’s funny. God is a poet.

Of course, society doesn’t really like to talk about this basic fact of life these days. I'm far from the first person to point this out, so I'll spare you another screed calling for a return to common sense. If you're reading this, I suspect we're on the same page anyway.

Gender reveal

As a normal, thinking person with functional brain, I have always known boys and girls are different. I had a sister growing up, dated girls when I was younger, met my wife and somehow convinced her to marry me and even have children with me. So I understood that there was something about women I just couldn’t quite get, some different way of thinking and feeling that I couldn’t really understand.

But it’s funny: I didn’t realize just how immovably different boys and girls are — and how beautiful this difference is — until I became a father to both.

Looking back, I realize I carried an unconscious assumption that the differences between men and women were learned somewhere along the way — socially instilled rather than baked in at the deepest level imaginable.

This wasn’t because I was a liberal before having kids; I’ve been a conservative for essentially my entire adult life. It was because I was raised in the aftermath of an idea that insisted men and women are basically the same. We are all modern now, and even those of us who resist that worldview absorb its signals over time. They work their way quietly into how we see the world, and the only way to fully dislodge them is an encounter with reality.

Snips and snails

Our son is such a boy.

I don’t know how else to put it. My wife and I say it to one another all the time. He checks all the boxes. He was obsessed with construction equipment when he was really little, then dinosaurs and dragons, and then tools. He loves building things, and he loves destroying things. He loves swords and shields and Nerf guns too. And frantically wrestling with me when he should be falling asleep soundly.

He’s more focused on things than people; he is blunt and too smart for his own good; he loves to argue and litigate. He hates “Let It Go” from "Frozen," and when my daughter asks my wife to play it, he covers his ears and walks away. He doesn’t want to describe an emotional part in a story to us and pretended not to cry when Mufasa died in "The Lion King." He is such a boy.

Sugar and spice

Our daughter is such a girl.

She is emotional. So emotional. She cries during movies, and she isn’t embarrassed about it. If she had her way, she would change her clothes ten times over the course of any given Tuesday. She loves carrying a little purse around. She wants to get her ears pierced like Mom. She loves our new baby and always wants to hold her. She pretends her stuffed dog is her baby and that she is a mom too.

She is so sweet, just so sweet. So much sweeter than our son. He is a callous grump compared to her. She wants to help us; she tries to help him; she says after sharing some of her dessert with him that she wants him to be happy. She is so pretty, so sweet, and so emotional. She is such a girl.

Javier Zayaz via iStock/Getty Images

Default settings

Nobody taught them these things. Yeah, we run a traditional household, but they started acting the way they act long before we ever told them anything, and it’s so obvious that the way they are is such a part of their very essence that we know for a fact nothing we ever did made them the way they are deep down. They just are that way. They are boys and girls.

I’ve learned so many things from them. I’ve learned that guys really are just naturally blunt. It isn’t just a lack of manners; it’s our default setting. The things I've learned about how the female mind works could have been very helpful when I was dating but are now no use to me. That’s funny. God is a poet.

I’ve also learned, in a deeper sense, that we cannot be all things. Boys are boys, and that means all the good things and all the bad. Girls are girls, and that means all the good things and all the bad.

That can’t be changed. It’s the nature of the world. It’s how it’s supposed to be. Women and their ways can be frustrating to men, and men and their ways can be frustrating to women. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them, as the old saying goes. But seeing how pure and true it all is, how deeply embedded in their spirits these predilections are, I have begun to just sit back and marvel at the incredible balance God struck when he made man and woman.

Indeed, boys and girls are different.

The past is a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there

Recently, my wife and I spent a night in Milwaukee. I was there for work, and she came along just for the fun of it. We left the kids with our parents and had 30 peaceful hours all to ourselves.

When you are in the thick of raising young kids, getting away for just one night feels like a hard reset or some kind of meditative retreat that leaves you clear in both mind and spirit. It was a good trip, it was a fun trip, it was a reflective trip.

We sat outside on the roof at Benelux in the Third Ward imagining life if we never left. If we never had kids. If we never changed. If we just ... stayed.

We lived in Milwaukee for a few years before we had kids. We rented a big loft with concrete floors and high ceilings. It was just one big, barren, concrete room. The only walls were the ones separating the bathroom from the rest of the place. It was up on the eighth floor; we had a great view of downtown.

We used old shipping pallets to divide the room. We didn’t have any money back then. We still don’t, but we have more than we did. When we moved to Milwaukee, we didn’t have jobs. I convinced the landlord to rent us the apartment without proof of income or proof of employment. I don’t know if it was possible because things were just really different before, because she was just really nice, or because I was just really convincing. It was probably a mix of all three.

Cart blanche

A few weeks after we moved, we found a shopping cart abandoned by a bus stop. We took it home and used it every week at the grocery store. We would push it to store empty, buy our groceries, and then push it, now completely full, back to the apartment again, stowing it next to the front door until next week’s trip. It was efficient and worked well, and I am sure we looked absolutely absurd.

We had a great time there. Those few years in the concrete loft before we had kids gave us a lot of great memories and a great start to our lives together. But going back and visiting was odd. We hadn’t been back since we left years ago, and finding ourselves in the same places completely unchanged as people who have very much changed felt somehow wrong.

Don't look back

It felt like some strange corruption of memories or maybe like we were somewhere we weren’t supposed to be. Almost like someone might come up to us and ask, “What are you doing here?” It felt like we were taking a detour down some road that’s been blocked off and just looking around for a bit before getting back on the highway again. It was strange and surreal.

Tamer Soliman via iStock/Getty Images

Maybe it’s because life only goes one way. We can’t go back in time. We can’t change the past. We can’t revisit who we were. Maybe in some way, going back to where we lived before feels like attempting to do something we cannot do. It’s like building a replica of some old world city here in the new one. It’s just not right. It’s not as it should be. We can’t go back, and why would we want to anyway?

The path not taken

Well, I don’t want to go back and live life as it was. Walking around there, just us two, talking about how we were then and how we are now, all we could really say was that while we loved being there when we were there and that those memories are ones we treasure still, we are glad we are no longer there. I don’t just mean physically there, either. I mean mentally, spiritually, and situationally there. We very much like where we are now and wouldn’t change it for anything.

We sat outside on the roof at Benelux in the Third Ward imagining life if we never left. If we never had kids. If we never changed. If we just ... stayed. We could have very easily done all that. That kind of life could have happened to us if we let it. The years would have passed at the same rate, we would be the same age, but we wouldn’t be the same. And we both sat there together, slightly nostalgic for who we were — and grateful for who we are today.

Part of the plan

I think that’s how we are supposed to feel. All of it. We’re supposed to love those memories of youth, but we’re also supposed to cringe a little bit at our past feelings or opinions. We’re supposed to not quite respect our past selves. We’re supposed to laugh at how naive we were. It means we’ve grown and that’s a good thing. And we’re supposed to feel kind of weird going back to where we once lived. We’re supposed to feel a little out of step there in that foreign world of the past. We are no longer who we were, that’s the truth, and that’s OK.

The next morning, we left on the ferry to take us back. Watching Milwaukee disappear into the distance as we headed east across Lake Michigan, we were glad we had a day away, thankful for the lives we lived years ago, and happy we were going home to who we are today

The first disembodied generation

Our lives revolve around technology these days, whether we like it or not. Even if we don’t work in a tech-y field or care much at all about the latest technological developments coming out of Silicon Valley, our lives are shaped by digital advancement.

Take the way we communicate. It’s so different from when I was a kid. Video calling? That was something futuristic. Unheard of. Now my kids talk to their grandparents on FaceTime every day.

If the internet was a one-way street, the Zoomers wouldn’t be much different from us. If it was basically super-TV, their emotional calibration would be recognizable.

Email. I didn’t have one until a couple of years into high school. I remember when we had dial-up. No, I remember when we got dial-up! My parents had one email address, and they checked it every week or so.

Of course, we can’t forget texting. We carry on conversations with 10 different people all over the country. Or maybe all over the world! We also have social media. What is that? Imagine telling yourself about X and Instagram in 1992. What a world this is.

Zooming ahead

The profound impacts of technology are so great, and we are constantly in the midst of it. I’m not sure there’s enough time to stop and really realize how it’s changed both our world and us. It’s changed us all, not exactly for the better. But I think it’s changed some more than others, and I think it’s changed Generation Z (the Zoomers) the most.

It’s hard to get my head around the Zoomers. I know them, I see them, I hear them, but I can’t quite understand them. There's something profoundly different about them, beyond the usual generational gaps: the music, the language, the clothing, the general aesthetic sensibilities. It’s something deeper in the way they think and, most importantly, feel.

All generations have a spirit that isn’t so easily understood from the outside. It’s the logic of the time in which they were brought up, the essence of the world at that moment in history. Sometimes it’s easy to pinpoint direct connections between economic realities, global conflicts, collective anxieties, broad societal changes, and how a generation is, for lack of a better word.

The Zoomers have that too, of course. It explains some of who they are, but not all. At a deeper level, the real difference between the Zoomers and the rest of us is technology — and how they and their feelings were shaped by technology.

Emotional calibration

The emotional calibration of the Zoomers is different from ours. All of us — Boomers, Millennials, Gen X’ers, and any of the Greatest Generation that are still alive — were emotionally calibrated offline. Even if we have since embraced the technological world with open arms, even if we are just as plugged in as the Zoomers are today, the way we emotionally relate to others and the world as a whole was shaped offline.

If the internet was a one-way street, the Zoomers wouldn’t be much different from us. If it was basically super-TV, their emotional calibration would be recognizable. They might have 50,000 channels to watch instead of 35; they might have digital access to every book in the world rather than going down to the library just to brow a few thousand old titles; but our difference would be merely a matter of degree.

8 billion ways to cry

But the internet is not super-TV. It isn’t a one-way street. It’s not even a two-way street; it’s an 8-billion-way street. It’s another world, and it’s the world they grew up in. The real thing that altered the emotional calibration of the Zoomers was extremely early exposure to social media, comment sections, algorithms, and pervasive anonymous interaction.

It’s profound, fascinating, and sad. I don’t think I can begin to accurately explore what all the implications are. I don’t think I can actually explain it, really. I don’t think any of us can. Only Zoomers can do it, but they would also need to be self-aware of all these facts, historically literate, emotionally robust, psychologically fearless, and with a real, strong sense of the worlds before them and what they actually were. That’s a tall order for any generation.

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Blaze News Illustratiion

Different cement

I don’t know how to explain all the ways the Zoomer’s emotional calibration is different. But I can feel it, and you can too. And I know the reason. It’s the technology. The social aspect of the internet shaped a different of kind of emotional base for them.

Can it be reversed? I don’t think so. I think they will forever be different from us. Even when they get older and enter more mature seasons of life, they will remain different. The foundation was poured with different cement.

This is why they are, somewhere deep down, something of an enigma to the rest of us. We were raised in an embodied world. The Zoomers were raised in a disembodied one.

I went to a restaurant run by feminists, and it was terrible

I went to a restaurant run by feminists, and it was terrible.

You probably have a lot of questions. I would too if I were the one reading that sentence rather than the one writing it.

These people — the people most obsessed with 'acceptance' as a political virtue — are generally miserable to be around.

How exactly do I know it was run by rabid feminists? Why exactly was it terrible because it was run by such feminists? I will explain.

My wife, children, and I were on vacation. We were off in the deep north of the Middle West. After driving for a few hours, we were ready for a bite to eat. There aren’t too many options that far out in the northern wilderness.

We were thankful to find a place — any place! — about 15 minutes away, right on a lake. A small restaurant on a lake up north, that’s got to be an easy-going, relaxing place to have lunch, right?

Wrong.

Service with a sneer

The atmosphere was rank from the moment we opened the door. The woman at the front greeted my wife with a cold and sour, “May I help you?” We sat down and things descended farther. They didn’t have a children’s menu. Who doesn’t have a children’s menu? They didn’t have booster seats. Who doesn’t have booster seats?

Often, when we go out with our kids, we order a side salad for them to split. Basically every restaurant has one or will make one.

But not this one.

My wife politely asked, “Could we get a side salad for the kids to share?”

Our frigid, tight-lipped waitress curtly answered, “No.”

They had a tiny menu, obviously excluding simple fare to signal some kind of “finer taste.” Remember, this is in the middle of nowhere, no cellphone service. Who are they kidding?

Whine list

There was a small bar with a single bartender. She was the type of gender-confused leftist who dyes her hair black, then chops it off into some kind of faux mullet.

Adorned with doodle tattoos, no makeup, and tasteless piercings, she stood behind the bar seething. Her default facial setting was one of bubbling rage. It looked like she wanted to kill. It may sound like I am exaggerating, and maybe I am, but only barely. This is how she looked, this is how she acted, and this is how it felt.

The general vibe was more reminiscent of a hostage situation than a dining establishment. The tables were full, but barely anyone spoke. It felt like everyone was afraid to say anything. They were scared for their lives.

There was a tense hum of silence over the tables. An older couple came in to ask if they could get a table, and the woman at the front made it seem like they were asking if she could split the atom for them. It was bizarre.

Malice's Restaurant

Different places have different feelings. It doesn’t come down to just one element. It’s the sum of the parts. The way people speak to you, the way they look at you, the way the decor is arranged, the music, the signs on the wall, the kind of people working. Some places are warm, inviting, and comfortable. Others are not, and this place was not.

Everyone working was a woman. At the front, behind the bar, waiting the tables.

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Bettman/Getty Images

It’s hard to describe why, but I got the sense that they were all owners, like they all pitched in together. They weren’t just workers with paychecks. There was something else there. They weren’t moms, young college students, or anyone else you might expect to be working at a restaurant. Something was off.

They all looked, and acted like, a different archetype of unhappy, unfulfilled feminist. They all had the same kind of unpleasant, tightly wound, ready to snap, judgmental demeanor. They all looked down on my wife and kids with a patronizing and adversarial predisposition.

Of course, they weren’t exactly friendly to me either.

Appetite for destruction

There is a certain way bitter feminists, angry lesbians, and gender destroyers look at me, my wife, and kids. My wife is beautiful; she wears dresses every day. My daughter too. I dress in a classic American style, and so does my son.

For these types of people, our family is an aesthetic refutation of their broken and disordered ideology. They don’t like us (or people like us), and it’s very obvious.

And that’s why their restaurant is so miserable. These kinds of people are not happy people, they are not welcoming people, they are not warm people. They don’t like kids, they don’t like families, they don’t like happy men or beautiful women. They only like bitter, broken, and disordered individuals.

They might make fine food — and the food was just fine — but their obvious disdain for us left a bad taste all the same.

Signal du jour

There were signals of their political orientation on the walls. There were two restrooms. Both had signs that read “All Gender Restroom” in the middle of the door.

These signs, if you haven’t seen them, include three figures. A man, a woman in a dress, and then a figure that is half-man and half-woman. Half pants, half dress. A perfect example of the laziest, most pathetic kind of leftist virtue-signaling.

Again, this restaurant is in the middle of nowhere. The restroom signs are a political act, an intentional provocation, and an obvious indication of who they are.

It was the type of place that hangs a sign in the window that reads “ALL ARE WELCOME” in a variety of colors, despite the actual atmosphere inside being one that is completely acidic and 0% welcoming.

Check, please!

It’s a fascinating thing. You see this a lot. Crunchy grocery stores, vegan restaurants, and other lefty-type places. These people — the people most obsessed with “acceptance” as a political virtue — are generally miserable to be around. They are devoted to acceptance on paper, but their aura is like that of an electric fence.

Women are warm, welcoming, and kind. It’s their nature. That’s why they are called the fairer sex. God made them best with kids and things more sensitive.

Extreme feminists of 2025 are none of those things and possess none of those wonderful attributes. They have, in general, made their identity into one based on opposing any natural female traits, virtues, or sensibilities.

They have instead set their sights on trying, and failing, to be men. They have decided to resist, reject, and make war on all the wonderful things of women. That’s why they are so unhappy, and that’s why their restaurant was so miserable. It was clean, the food was fine, the location was great, but the women were dreadful, dour, sad, and bitter.

Walking out of the restaurant, our kids stumbling over each other, our family gleefully disturbing the morgue-like pall of the dining room, we laughed to one another. Thankful we are who we are and aren’t who we aren’t. It must be a miserable life being an angry feminist.

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