Every 'Rule of Life' is worthless if you don't master this one
Or, a story about a man and a train
“We gotta get moving!”
I woke up to find my dad standing over me. My bedroom was dark. 6 AM. My groggy eyes could barely make out his silhouette. But it was clear he was ready to go. His backpack hanging off his left shoulder.
“Give me five minutes,” I grumbled before slowly making my way to the shower. “Can you make me a quick coffee?”
Eleven years have passed since this interaction.
Despite my fading memory, I can still see every detail of our subsequent steps.
This is because what I witnessed that morning forever changed my life and my definition of how to live a good one.
My dad had just retired.
From his job at least. Being that he spent thirty years traversing the globe in the Air Force and another twenty teaching military strategy, rather than kick back in a Lazy-Boy and enjoy his spoils, he wanted to spend his second act much like his first one — immersed in adventure.
For two years leading up to his retirement, he became a hiking machine. Every morning before work he kicked the Central Pennsylvania dirt, logging a dozen miles before breakfast.
The reason? The moment he was awarded a fancy watch and thanked for his service, he’d hop on a plane to visit me and my wife in Barcelona before heading North to spend a month walking the Camino de Santigo.
I love hearing the stories he collected on his walk. Asking police officers for directions to his hostel after one too many glasses of wine only for them to point to the sign above their heads that read “Hostel.” Getting lost and then found by an ex-bullfighter a few miles outside of Leon who treated him like royalty complete with a full-stack breakfast. The pictures he’d send once a week of him camping alone in the rain. The food he ate. The people he met. Especially a Scandinavian couple who has one of the greatest love stories ever known.
But out of all the tales he told once his walk was done, the one that hit me the hardest took place before his adventure had truly begun.
My dad’s a quiet guy.
Intense. I could tell he was nervous as we made our way to catch his first of many trains toward Saint Jean Pied de Port, a town just across the French border that many say marks the true beginning of the Camino. Unlike me who babbles in the face of uncertainty, my dad does the opposite. Soldier mode. He holds it in.
But as the train stopped and the doors opened, my dad did something surprising. He grabbed my shoulder, looked me dead in the eyes, and said—“This is the most scared I’ve ever been” — then without hesitation, he picked up his bag and got on the train.
I stood there paralyzed as early morning commuters rushed past me. “The most scared I’ve ever been?” I said to myself. “How could this be?”
My dad’s the kind of guy who’s six-foot-five when you close your eyes but five-eleven when you open them. Vietnam. Pakistan. Eastern Europe during the Cold War. Throughout his career, he learned to make brave his baseline. Navigating hot zones during some of the world’s most trying times. Between his work, surviving cancer at an early age, and all the other twists and turns and love and loss life brought his way, I struggled to make sense of what was so scary about Spain.
But the longer I stood on the platform, the more I began to get it.
Retiring on its own has to be terrifying. Some people look forward to it. People like my dad though, have zero interest in moving to Florida. He was starting a new chapter. No friends were waiting. He didn’t speak the language. Nor did he have any reservations. A 73-year-old American making his way through two foreign countries with a backpack and a tent.
I love the idea that to confidently take his next life steps, he chose to get lost.
I love the idea that no matter how scared he was he never once doubted his decision.
I love the fact that choosing to come to Spain and get on that train was his quiet way of shouting — “I’m just getting started!”
Life is short for some.
While it’s long for others. To buck the former and be a latter, save your words and speak with your actions. At that moment, my dad taught me that no matter how scared we are, it’s up to us to make our own green lights in life.
His time on the Camino was far from perfect. It rained for days on end. He twisted his ankle alone while climbing a foreign mountain. He made wrong turns that led to places that didn’t show up on the map.
All of those imperfections he experienced are his favorite stories today.
That’s what happens when you develop the “get on the damn train” mindset. You learn to smile at trouble. You learn that the best way to laugh tomorrow is by facing your fears today.
Steal a line from my dad and be bold in the moments that matter.
All the other ‘rules for life,’ are worthless without it.
As my dad might say — “Our lives are defined by the times we put our fears aside and get on the damn train anyway!”
If you like this story and struggle to bet on yourself, you may enjoy my book. Part III — Quiet Courage — is full of short stories and actionable insights to go after what you want, even when feeling shaky.
In a world that lionizes loudness, it's actually the quiet and shy among us who are best set up to thrive. Michael Thompson provides an important new way of understanding what it really takes to stand out!
—Cal Newport, New York Times bestselling author of Deep Work and Slow Productivity
You can grab your copy or gift it to a friend whose shyness is holding them from going after their goals by clicking the link below.
Shy by Design: 12 Timeless Principles to Quietly Stand Out.
Thank you for reading.
My best to you and yours.
— Michael
My dad was forced into retirement before he was ready. His company knew that they could hire a youngun to do his job for half the cost, so they found a reason to let him go. They didn't fire him, they "reorganized". He tried to find new work, but. . . ageism is a thing.
I didn't realize until I read this story of yours that I was forced to "retire" in a similar way. My school principal knew she could hire a youngun to do my job for a lot less money, and she didn't renew my contract at my tenure year. I did what your dad did. Unlike my dad, I could've gotten another teaching job. But I didn't. I faced my fear of the scariest moment of my life. I got on the train and opened my own yoga studio, and my trek was much like your dad's adventure in Spain. I don't regret it.
When my dad finally accepted retirement, he told me he'd finally have time to write all his stories. It took him 15 years, but now, this month he finally started publishing those stories here on Substack. As I read them, I realize I get some of my writing passion from him.
Thank you Michael. I am planning on writing about fear and anxiety through the whole month of October, just mapped out my plan yesterday. And your story has inspired me to take the lessons deeper into the storytelling. I needed this.
“make brave your baseline”!! 😋