June 30, 2026
I recently took my granddaughter to Disneyland, and honestly, it was the best day I’ve ever had there. I’ve visited my kids many times, but this experience felt different. Back then, I was building companies and managing thousands of employees. Physically, I was at Disneyland with my kids, but mentally I was somewhere else: solving problems, fielding calls, handling budgets, payrolls and performance. This time, with my granddaughter, I was just there. Fully present. And it made me wonder how many times, while I was physically present in my children’s lives, I may have been emotionally absent because of the pressure I felt to perform, protect, and provide for my family. When I lost my son, Ryan, in 2018, he was just 14 years old. In the aftermath, the questions that consumed me were: Why didn’t I see the signs? Why didn’t he tell me? Looking back now, I find myself wondering what we, as parents who are also executives, corporate leaders, and CEOs, may be missing when it comes to our children; because we are so focused on providing for them and making sure their needs are met. Trying to make sense of the questions I had surrounding Ryan’s passing, and to help more parents better understand their children’s mental health, I created What I Wish My Parents Knew , a documentary about youth mental health. What these young people in the film said to me, stopped me in my tracks: “I didn’t tell my parents about my struggles with mental health, because I didn’t want to be a burden. They have enough going on as it is; I didn’t want to add to it.” What I have come to understand, both an executive and a father, is that the skills that make us effective leaders can quietly work against us as parents. We are fixers. We are decisive. We walk into a room, solve the problem, and move on. That’s what we’re paid to do, and that’s how many of us built our careers. But when a child is struggling with their mental health, they don’t usually need us to fix it right away. When we jump straight to problem-solving, we can unintentionally signal that their feelings are something to solve instead of something worth talking through. What our children need most is someone who listens to. Someone willing to sit with them in anxiety and the unknown, and who allows them to process what they’re going through without judgement or immediate solutions. That requires a very different muscle than the one many of us spent decades training. Another thing I’ve learned, and this one is harder to hear, is that our children may not always experience us as safe to talk to. Not because they doubt our love, but because of how we show up. They may see us in one of two ways: either bulletproof — strong, composed, never cracking or struggling — or overwhelmed, distracted, and carrying the stress of business and life. In both cases, they may choose silence. Not because they don’t trust us, but because they don’t want to disappoint us or add to the weight we’re already carrying.