Posted by Eric Wilson
Recap from Parts 1 & 2: When asked about my perfect day, I drew a complete blank after fifteen years of survival mode. Using the Attention Compass, I discovered a dusty door labeled “Potential” that I’d closed when crisis hit. Our attention gets systematically pulled away from personal dreams through four predictable patterns, making this loss feel noble when it’s actually hollowing us out.
The hardest part wasn’t opening that dusty door. It was what I found inside.
The Room I’d Forgotten
Standing in that visualization, turning the handle of a door I hadn’t opened in fifteen years, I wasn’t prepared for what hit me. It wasn’t just seeing forgotten dreams—it was mourning the life I’d never lived.
There, covered in fifteen years of dust, sat a baseball glove. Not just any glove—the one I’d bought when Aidan was three, imagining myself as his coach. I could see it so clearly: Saturday mornings at the ballpark, teaching him to catch, cheering from the dugout. Meeting other dads, building those easy friendships that form around shared Saturday rituals.
That glove had never been used.
Next to it lay camping gear I’d accumulated before his diagnosis, back when I pictured family adventures in national parks. I saw hiking boots that had never touched a trail, a tent that had never sheltered us under stars, fishing rods that had never taught my son the patience of waiting for something beautiful to happen.
In the corner stood golf clubs I’d abandoned not because I stopped loving golf, but because loving golf felt selfish when your child needs therapy. I grieved not just the game, but the friendships that die when you stop showing up. The men who used to call about weekend rounds, who eventually stopped calling. The version of myself who used to come home energized from four hours of focus and fresh air and friendship.
I had to sit down in that dusty room and cry. Not just for what I’d lost, but for the father I’d never become, the friendships I’d never built, the joy I’d never shared with my son.
The Mourning Process
Here’s what no one tells you about reclaiming dreams: first, you have to grieve the years they were buried.
I mourned the baseball coach I never became. Aidan is twenty now—that window had closed forever. I would never teach him to slide into second base or celebrate his first home run. Other fathers had lived that dream while mine sat collecting dust.
I mourned the outdoor adventures we’d never shared. Those early camping trips when kids are small enough to think their dad is magic, when a tent feels like a castle and a campfire seems like the most important thing in the world.
I mourned the friendships that had withered. The golf buddies who’d given up on me, the neighborhood dads I’d never really known because I was always rushing to the next therapy appointment or working late to pay for the next intervention.
Most painfully, I mourned the version of Aidan’s childhood where his dad was fully alive. He’d grown up with a father who was present but not joyful, responsible but not adventurous, devoted but not playful. What had my survival mode cost him?
Sitting in that dusty room, I realized this wasn’t just about me. Every parent reading this has their own version of that unused baseball glove, their own camping gear gathering dust, their own friendships sacrificed on the altar of “good parenting.”
The Surprising Discovery
But here’s what shocked me: not everything in that room was dead.
Yes, some dreams had expiration dates. I would never coach Aidan’s Little League team—that ship had sailed. But underneath the grief, I found something unexpected: most of my dreams weren’t about specific activities. They were about qualities I’d abandoned.
The baseball glove wasn’t really about baseball. It was about playfulness, about sharing something I loved with my son, about being part of a community of families. Those things weren’t gone forever—they just needed new expressions.
The camping gear wasn’t really about camping. It was about adventure, about teaching Aidan to appreciate nature, about creating memories away from screens and schedules. At twenty, he is actually at a better age for that than three.
The golf clubs weren’t really about golf. They were about friendship, about time in nature, about the meditation of focus and the humility of a game that keeps you honest. All of that was still possible.
Standing there among my dusty dreams, I realized something revolutionary: it wasn’t too late. It was just different.
Starting Small, Starting Real
I didn’t immediately sign up for golf lessons or plan elaborate camping trips. I started with something so simple it felt almost silly: I watched golf on TV without guilt.
For fifteen years, if golf came on television, I’d change the channel because it felt like salt in a wound. Now I let myself watch. I remembered why I’d loved the game—not just the technical challenge, but the beauty of perfect courses, the drama of competition, the meditation of repetitive motion.
Aidan noticed. “You used to play golf, didn’t you Dad?”
“I did. I loved it.”
“Why did you stop?”
I almost gave him the usual story about time and money and priorities. Instead, I told him the truth: “I thought loving it was selfish when you needed so much from me. I was wrong about that.”
That conversation opened something between us I hadn’t expected. Aidan, with his autism, thinks very concretely about cause and effect. “If you loved it and stopped because of me, that seems like it would make you sad. Sad dads aren’t helpful.”
From the mouths of babes-no matter how old they are.
The Ripple Effect of Small Returns
Within a month of watching golf without guilt, three things happened that I never could have planned:
First, an old golf buddy called out of the blue. We’d lost touch years ago, but he’d thought of me and decided to reach out. When I told him I was thinking about playing again, he invited me to join a very casual group that played Saturday mornings. No pressure, no commitment, just the possibility of returning.
Second, Aidan started asking questions about other activities. His became curious about editing videos—the specific steps, the equipment, the patience required. “Could you teach me that?” he asked. Not because he was desperate to edit, but because he was curious about something his dad had once enjoyed.
Third, I realized I’d been more present for the past month than I’d been in years. Having something to look forward to—even something as simple as weekend golf—gave me energy for everything else. I was more patient with Aidan’s challenges, more engaged with Michelle’s conversation, more creative in my work.
The unused baseball glove was still unused. But the father energy that glove represented was awakening.
What’s Really Behind Your Dusty Door
I’m sharing this not because you should take up golf or camping, but because I want you to understand something crucial: your dusty door isn’t really about the specific activities you’ve abandoned. It’s about the qualities of aliveness you’ve sacrificed in the name of being responsible.
Maybe your unused baseball glove is actually an art supply kit. Maybe your dusty camping gear is really a piano that’s been silent for years. Maybe your abandoned golf clubs are actually running shoes or gardening tools or cooking equipment that once brought you joy.
The question isn’t whether you can reclaim exactly what you lost. The question is whether you can reclaim the aliveness those activities represented.
What qualities did you abandon when you closed your dusty door? Playfulness? Creativity? Adventure? Community? Competition? Beauty? Challenge? Peace?
Those qualities are still available to you. They’re just waiting for new expressions that fit who you are now, not who you were before crisis changed everything.
The Permission I Needed to Give Myself
The breakthrough came when I finally understood something I want you to hear clearly: Aidan needed a dad who was alive, not one who was martyred.
All those years I thought I was serving him by abandoning my own interests. I thought good fathers sacrifice everything for their children’s needs. I was wrong.
What Aidan actually needed was a father who modeled how to live a full life while caring for the people you love. He needed to see that adulthood doesn’t require complete self-abandonment. He needed a dad who showed him that taking care of yourself isn’t selfish—it’s sustainable.
Your children, your partner, your community—they don’t need your sacrifice. They need your aliveness.
Where I Am Now
The dusty room behind my door isn’t fully cleared yet. Some dreams are still being examined, some are being reimagined, some are being gently laid to rest. But the door is open now, and light is streaming in. The room smells of potential again, and that feeling comes from within. It reminds me of when Michelle and I first brought Aidan home, as first time parents with nothing but full potential in everything we would see.
Most importantly, I’ve stopped being a father who survives and started being one who lives.
And Aidan notices the difference. He’s been very active in planning this year’s summer vacation (Road Trip!).
Your Turn to Turn the Handle
I know some of you reading this have been in survival mode so long you’ve forgotten what your perfect day might look like. I know some of you have dusty doors you haven’t opened in years, maybe decades.
I know you think opening that door means abandoning your responsibilities or being selfish or admitting that your sacrifices were meaningless.
You’re wrong about all of that.
The people who love you don’t need your martyrdom. They need your aliveness. Your children don’t need a parent who’s grimly dedicated to their success. They need one who shows them what a life worth living looks like.
Your dusty door isn’t locked. You just forgot you were allowed to open it.
The room behind that door isn’t empty. Your dreams are there, waiting. Some might need to be mourned and released. Others might need to be reimagined for who you are now. But many are just waiting for you to remember they exist.
What’s behind your dusty door of potential? What’s waiting in the room you haven’t visited in years?
There’s only one way to find out.
Turn the handle.
What did you find behind your dusty door? I’d love to hear your story. Email me at eric@theattentioncompass.com or share in the comments below. Sometimes the most powerful step is simply telling someone else what you discovered in that room you’d forgotten existed.
Eric Wilson helps people transition from survival mode to thriving through the rediscovery of dreams they thought they’d lost forever. His work is based on his own journey from fifteen years of survival mode to reclaiming the aliveness that serves both personal fulfillment and family wellbeing.