From Entitlement to Intentionality

1. When One Small Prayer Opens Everything

It began quietly, as most meaningful moments do. My son, Eann, was struggling with his math again. He didn’t say much, but I could see it in his eyes—hesitation, doubt, maybe even fear that he wasn’t good enough.

So I called the family together—not to lecture, but to pray.

We laid hands over him. His brother, my wife, and I each whispered a simple prayer that wisdom would come, that fear would ease. We weren’t asking for top marks. We were asking for peace, for confidence, for courage.

It wasn’t dramatic, but it was holy. The atmosphere changed. He stood taller after that.

That was how our Sunday started. Not with rushing or routine, but with presence. And maybe that’s what opened everything else.

Looking back, I realized that moment was more than just a prayer over a math problem. It was a declaration of how we intend to live as a family—not reacting to fear, but responding with faith. Not protecting comfort, but pursuing courage. It became the spiritual tone setter for the day that followed.

2. A Better Addiction

Later that morning, Eann surprised me with a prayer request.

“Lord,” he said, “I want to get rid of my addiction.”

We had talked earlier—gently—about how he and his brother seemed unable to pull themselves away from gaming. It wasn’t a punishment talk. It was a pattern-awareness talk.

So when he said that prayer, I didn’t shut it down with adult logic. I told him, “You can’t just get rid of a bad addiction. You need to inject a better one.”

That moment wasn’t about rules. It was about redirection.

I shared my own better addictions:

• Walking 2km daily with our dog and with them.
• Reflecting while moving.
• Working out to stay strong for the long haul.
• Writing to pass on meaning.
• Loving God because He loved me first.

He listened—not with wide eyes, but with steady belief. That’s the quiet miracle of parenting: when a child doesn’t just hear you, they trust you.

Later that day, as we walked together, he asked about my writing. I told him how my reflections become articles to inspire others—not because I have all the answers, but because I want to record the process of learning, wrestling, and loving.

Behavioral science affirms this. We can’t erase habits—we replace them. The most effective way to overcome a destructive pattern isn’t through resistance, but redirection.

Maybe parenting isn’t about force. Maybe it’s just about going first. And being seen doing so.

3. The Trade We Didn’t Regret

That Sunday, we skipped movie time. That’s usually the highlight—our Sunday tradition. But because we’d been out most of the day, I asked the kids, “Do you feel like we missed out?”

They looked at each other, then back at me.

“No,” they said. “Today was fun.”

I smiled.

The real danger isn’t in losing routines. It’s in keeping them without questioning why.

It’s easy to assume that breaking rhythm means breaking joy. But this time, we didn’t lose anything. We traded something—and it turned out to be the better deal.

In that small trade—movie for movement, expectation for experience—we redefined joy. We remembered how easy it is to confuse entertainment with connection.

The more I thought about it, the clearer it became: some of the most joyful days don’t come from what we planned, but from what we allowed. When the structure loosens, something sacred can slip in.

Sometimes love is choosing depth over dopamine. Sometimes leadership is learning to trade ‘nice’ for ‘necessary.’

4. A Conversation About Entitlement

Even in the joy, a small question lingered.

If we had done this three Sundays in a row—skipping the movie, disrupting the norm—would the kids grumble? Would they begin to feel entitled to a particular rhythm of reward?

Maybe. Maybe not.

That’s when I realized: entitlement doesn’t always show up loudly. It creeps in quietly—through unspoken expectations, inherited patterns, and unexamined comfort.

As a father, that’s what I fear—not the occasional tantrum, but the slow shaping of a belief that good things are owed.

Routines are like comfort zones. They’re useful—until they become invisible cages.

That’s when I began asking deeper questions:

• Have I been teaching rhythms or reinforcing entitlements?
• Are we raising resilient children, or comfort-chasers?
• What will they remember: the consistency or the character?

So I reflected not out of guilt, but out of love. How do we raise kids who expect nothing—but are grateful for everything?

How do I become that kind of son too? The kind that doesn’t feel owed by God, but is astonished by grace?

5. Escape Without Escape

That same day, we went to Escape at Paradigm Mall.

There was a flying fox activity. It looked high, even to me. I tried it first. Then again. Then again.

After the third time, Eann came to me. “Dad, were you scared?” “Were you brave?”

He was reading me. Not just for answers, but for truth.

I told him, “The first time, yes. But after that, I did it again. And again. That’s what bravery looks like.”

He nodded. Then he walked up to the staff and said, “I want to try.”

He did. Once. Then again. Then again.

He didn’t just follow. He multiplied courage.

As I watched him, I thought: this was the fruit of earlier prayer. The seed of connection now blooming into confidence. He wasn’t just overcoming fear. He was forming identity.

And I thought to myself—This was the real movie. The kind that doesn’t end in 90 minutes, but gets replayed for decades in memory.

6. Glass House Leadership

I go to the gym on daily basis. It’s near our school, so students sometimes pass by. The glass wall makes it feel like I’m living in an aquarium.

I used to hate that. Always being watched.

At work, too—I’m the founder, the leader, the father. People notice everything:

• Am I late?
• Do I walk the talk?
• Do I snap under pressure?
• Do I lead like I parent?

But somewhere along the way, I stopped fighting it.

You can’t escape the aquarium. But you can choose what people see.

That’s when it hit me: public visibility demands private clarity. You don’t need to perform—but you do need to be anchored.

I want people to see wholeness. Not flawlessness. Not charisma. Not performance. Just real, lived-out alignment.

Contain or Spill. That’s the framework. Either I contain my energy and refill wisely—or I spill and wound others.

I choose containment. Because when you’re always visible, the best thing you can be is whole.

And because one day, they won’t just copy what I said. They’ll become what I lived.

7. Physiology of Growth

At the gym, I thought of this: muscles don’t grow from lifting. They grow from recovery.

Break. Rest. Rebuild. Repeat.

Too much rest? You weaken. Too little rest? You burn out. Just enough? You grow stronger than yesterday.

That’s leadership. That’s parenting. That’s life.

Even Sunday routines—like naps and movies and tank cleaning—must be evaluated. Are they comfort, or are they strength?

Let’s not confuse momentum with meaning.
Let’s not confuse repetition with growth.

Leadership isn’t about doing more. It’s about doing what matters—and recovering from what costs. Without strategic recovery, even the most well-intentioned parents become irritable leaders.

And that’s what our children remember—not what we did, but how we were.

8. Romans 8:28, Lived Out

“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” —Romans 8:28 (NIV)

We started the day in prayer. We ended it with reflection. In between? There was joy, courage, sweat, and connection.

Was it the day we planned? Not at all.

Was it the day we needed? Absolutely.

Somehow, without trying to orchestrate everything, God worked it all together.

Even missed movies.
Even skipped naps.
Even parenting uncertainties.

All of it had purpose.

And that’s the beauty of Romans 8:28—it doesn’t say only the planned things work together. It says all things. Even the unplanned. Especially the unplanned.

9. What Must Be Multiplied

At the end of the day, I asked the kids: “Are you glad I’m your dad?” They smiled. “Yeah.”

I told them, “You don’t get to choose your parents or siblings. But you do get to learn how to love them. And one day, you will choose your wife. Choose well.”

They laughed. But I think they heard me.

Today wasn’t about a flying fox or a mall or a schedule.

It was about a trade. A better one.

From comfort to courage.
From routine to reflection.
From default to design.

Are you trading comfort for connection… or connection for comfort?

That’s what I hope they’ll remember—not the entitlement they didn’t feel, but the intentionality they saw lived out.

And I hope one day, when they’re dads themselves, they’ll trade well too.