I have a confession, in two parts.

Part One: I’m not the man that I want to be.

Neither am I the man that I can be, nor am I yet the man that I am becoming.

This notion, which has been bouncing around my head for some time, is difficult to put into words.

It’s not as though I’m disappointed in myself.

Of course, I’ve made plenty of mistakes in my life. On the sliding scale between sinner and saint, I’ve certainly spent my fair share of time with the sinners.

I’ve wronged people, offended people, hurt people.

I’ve not always been the best friend, the best father, or the best husband. I have squandered opportunities, wasted time, and just plain given up more often than I like to admit.

Still, without enumerating my virtues, I’m confident that in my 44 years on this big blue ball, I’ve done some good.

So when I try to explain that I’m not content simply being the man I am today, that I’m working on becoming a better man, people misunderstand.

“OMG, you’re such a nice person,” they’ll say.

“Look at what you did for such-and-such person or for so-and-so foundation.”

“You’re doing a fine job with your kids - look how The Teenager has turned out!”

Perhaps.

Still, I’m not content.

At the risk of sounding callous, I don’t much care what other people think of me.

Of course, I want to be liked.

The human need for acceptance and love is just that - a need - and I seek it out the same as anyone else.

Like most, I desire respect, admiration, and trust.

In saying that I’m discontent, I think what I mean is that I judge myself somewhat differently than the general population appears to judge itself.

Most people are content to simply exist.

That is, the sum total of their lives is spent working to meet basic needs.

Wake up, go to work, come home, sleep.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

For 70 or 80 or 90 years.

This is a very low bar, and yet this is what I have done for most of my life.

What I find so shocking is that I’ve only recently come to this realization.

The fact is that I have lived only a very typical life, and this leads me to the second part of my confession.

Part Two: I’ve discovered within myself a desire to live a remarkable life.

In recent years I’ve begun to consider my legacy.

I wonder what people, especially my children, will say about me when I pass from this earth.

If I die today, what might Sam, Lily, Lu, Jack, and Walt say about me in ten years?

Will they say their father was a man who doggedly chased his dreams? Will they say he was a man who did everything he was capable of to help those in need? Will they say he used his every ability and took his every opportunity to better himself, his family, and his friends?

Or will they say only that their father was a decent man who got up and went to the office every day?

I fear it would be the latter, and this is the source of my discontentment.

Upon hearing this, people often rush to console me, to remind me of my good deeds, to tell me I’m a good person.

While I’m grateful, I’m fishing neither for compliments nor reassurances.

I’m just sharing my discovery.

My bar is mine. I and I alone set the height.

And like the Jeffersons, it’s moving on up.